Shattered Rainbows (6 page)

Not looking at him, she said, "I'll send a maid with a house key later." Then she vanished into the hall.

He carefully closed the door behind her, then dropped into the armchair and rubbed his temples. After the disaster of Caroline, he had sworn that never, under any circumstances, would he touch another married woman. It was a vow he was determined to keep at any price. Yet Catherine Melbourne might have been designed by the devil to tempt him.

The sheer egotism of the remark brought a reluctant smile to his lips. If there was a lesson in his meeting Catherine, it was a reproach for his own smugness. He had been so sure that age and experience would protect him from the follies of infatuation. Not for him the idiocy of becoming entranced by a lovely face.

Obviously, he'd been a damned fool to think himself immune. Yet while it might not be possible to control his reaction to Catherine Melbourne, he could, and would, control his behavior. He would say no word, make no gesture, that could be interpreted as improper. He would behave toward her as he did toward Clare.

No, not like that—there could be no casually affectionate kisses or hugs between him and Catherine. This billet was unlikely to last more than a few weeks, and certainly he could control himself that long. After all, by tomorrow afternoon he would be too busy for infatuation.

Yet a sense of disquiet lingered. He rose and went to stare out the window. All soldiers had a streak of superstition, a belief in the unseen. Perhaps the lovely Catherine really was a test. He had thought he'd come to terms with the past, but maybe some divine judge had decreed that he must confront the same situation in which he had come to grief before, and this time master his dishonorable impulses.

On one thing he was grimly determined: he would not make the same mistake he had made before.

Catherine walked slowly down the hall, not noticing her surroundings. After all her years among soldiers, she should be used to the fact that almost every man was handsome in a uniform. When Colin was in full dress regimentals, susceptible young girls had been known to swoon in admiration.

Even so, there was something particularly attractive about Major Kenyon. The dark green Rifleman's uniform was more austere than the garb of other regiments; however, it did wonderful things for his eyes, which were a rare, striking shade of true green. The uniform was equally complimentary to his broad shoulders, chestnut hair, and lean, powerful body…

But he was more than merely good-looking; like Wellington, he had the kind of compelling presence that enabled him to dominate a room without saying a word. She suspected that quality came from bone-deep confidence.

Though she had enjoyed talking to him, he was unsettlingly perceptive. She must take care that Major Kenyon did not get a chance to see below the polished surface she had worked so hard to perfect.

Odd that she was thinking of him so formally. Usually she preferred being on first-name terms with the officers around her. Her instincts must be saying that she should lot let him get too close. Luckily she was an expert at
keeping men at a safe distance.

Shaking her head, she went to her bedroom to work on a basketful of mending. There was nothing like darning to
bring one down to earth.

Catherine was about to go downstairs to check on the progress of dinner when her husband came in. "There are several new horses in the stables."

Colin took off his black leather helmet and tossed it onto the bed. "Good ones, too. Have we acquired a new billet mate?"

She nodded and made a small, precise stitch. "Major Lord Michael Kenyon of the Rifles. He sold out last year, but Napoleon's escape persuaded him to return. He's on the duke's staff, at least for now."

Colin's brows rose. "One of the high-born officers that Old Hookey likes
because they can dance as well as they fight." He took off his jacket and shirt.
"Could be a useful man to know. Did he act like he might go all soft over you?"

She looked down and bit off a knot, wishing Colin wasn't quite so blatant in his self-interest. It was true that an attractive wife was an asset to an officer, but she hated it when he urged her to flirt with his superiors. The first time he had done that, she had balked. He had been quick to point out that it was a wife's duty to promote her husband's -career. The unspoken implication was that she was an unsatisfactory wife in other ways. After that, she had done as he wished.

Though Lord Michael had obviously admired her looks, she was reluctant to expose him to Colin's speculations. Casually she said, "Major Kenyon showed no sign of being smitten by my infamous charms, I don't know about his dancing skills, but he fought in
most of the major Peninsular campaigns."

"Sounds like a good addition to the house. Be extra charming—I'm overdue for promotion to major, and Kenyon must have influence with the duke."

"You'll get your promotion soon." She sighed. "There "should be ample opportunities for glory in the next few months."

"I certainly hope so." As Colin began changing into his dress uniform, his brow furrowed. "Kenyon… The name is familiar." He snapped his fingers. "Now I recall. After the Battle of Barossa, he had a commemorative medal struck for the men he commanded. Said they had done such an outstanding job that they deserved to be honored." Colin laughed. "Can you imagine doing such a thing for a company of drunken soldiers?"

Catherine gave him a cool glance. "I think he's right— exceptional bravery should be celebrated. The Rifles are some of the finest troops in the army, and part of the reason is because officers are encouraged to know and respect their men."

"Common soldiers aren't like us. His precious troops probably sold the medals for drink." Her husband ran a comb through his light brown hair. "I'm going to dine with friends. It will probably run late, so I won't be back tonight."

She wondered with detachment who the woman was. The ladies of Brussels were most hospitable to the allied officers who had come to save them from having to endure the emperor's yoke again.

She rose and collected his crumpled shirt and linen for the laundry basket. "Have a pleasant evening."

"I will," he said cheerfully.

She didn't doubt it.

Michael dined with army friends who were posted in the area. It was good to see them, though he took considerable ribbing over the fact that he couldn't seem to stay away from the army.

Predictably, conversation centered around the military situation. While officially there was still peace, no one doubted that as soon as Bonaparte had consolidated his position in Paris, he would march against the allies.

Michael returned to his new billet late and let himself in quietly. Candles had been left in the foyer and the upstairs hall. Catherine and Anne definitely ran a fine boarding-house.

A crack of light showed below the door opposite his, so he knocked there instead of entering his own room. Kenneth Wilding's familiar baritone told him to enter.

Michael did, and found his friend busy with a sketch pad. Kenneth was a first-rate caricaturist and draftsman, a skill which had aided his work as a reconnaissance officer in Spain.

Kenneth's eyes widened when he looked up from his drawing. "Good God, where did you spring from?"

Michael chuckled. "Didn't our lovely landladies tell you that I'm now occupying the room opposite yours?"

"No, I only got home a short time ago and everyone had already gone to bed." Kenneth rose and took Michael's hand. "Damn, but it's good to see you."

Dark, broadly built, and craggy, Kenneth Wilding looked more like a laborer than an officer and gentleman. He was one of .the rare officers who had been promoted from the ranks, an honor generally reserved for acts of suicidal bravery. While still a sergeant, he had kept Michael out of trouble when Michael had been a very green subaltern with his first command. Friendship had grown from mutual respect.

Michael studied his friend's face as they shook hands, glad to see that some of the terrible tension left by the Peninsular campaign had faded. "I've some whiskey across the hall. Shall I bring it over?"

"I haven't had any of that rotgot since you left Spain," Kenneth said, humor lurking in his gray eyes. "I've rather missed it. Whiskey makes brandy seem overcivilized."

Michael went for the bottle, almost tripping over Louis the Lazy, who was sprawled in front of his door. When he returned to Kenneth's room, the dog followed, flopping so that his jaw rested on Michael's boot. He studied Louis with amusement. "Does this beast welcome all newcomers this way, or am I just unlucky?"

Kenneth produced two glasses and poured each of them a drink. "Consider yourself blessed. With Louis on guard, any potential assailant will die laughing."

After they had exchanged news, Michael said, "Are Catherine and Anne real, or products of my fevered imagination?" '

"Aren't they amazing? I had the luck to share a chateau with them in Toulouse. When I found they were in Brussels, I came on bended knee to ask if there was room for a Rifleman. They are experts in the art of keeping men warm, well fed, and happy."

Knowing he shouldn't be so interested, Michael asked, "What are their fortunate husbands like?"

Kenneth swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. "You'll like Charles Mowbry. Quiet, but very capable and with a droll sense of humor."

"What about Melbourne?"

Kenneth hesitated until Michael remarked, "There is something ominous in your silence."

His friend studied his whiskey glass. "I don't know Melbourne well. He's a bluff cavalryman to the core. You know the sort—not unintelligent, but sees no reason to use his mind. Still, he's a good officer, from what I hear. Quite fearless."

"In the cavalry, courage is common. It's judgment that's rare. Is he worthy of the admirable Catherine?"

"I'm not in a position to say." Kenneth leaned over-and scratched behind Louis's floppy ears.She obviously thinks so. In Spain, she acquired the nickname Saint Catherine as much because of her virtue as for the nursing work she did. Half the men she meets fall in love with her, but she's never so much as looked at anyone other than her husband."

That put Michael in his place; he was merely one of a large crowd. Still, he was glad to hear that she was as good as she was beautiful. Once he had not believed such women existed.

He wondered what Kenneth wasn't saying, but enough questions had been asked. He lifted his friend's sketchbook from the desk. "May I?"

"If you like."

Michael smiled at the caricature Kenneth had been working on. "Clever the way you drew Bonaparte as a leering gargoyle. You should sell this to a print shop so it can be reproduced."

Kenneth shrugged off the suggestion. He invariably dismissed compliments by saying that his talent was no more than a minor knack for drawing.

Michael flipped through the pages of the sketchbook. After several architectural studies of a richly baroque guild hall, he found a drawing of Amy Melbourne and the Mowbry children playing. With a few swift lines, Kenneth had caught the fluid motions of a running game, plus the character of each child. It never ceased to amaze Michael that his friend's large hands could draw with such subtlety and grace.