"Oh, no, he hasn't left the island in years. As I said, his health is failing." Harwell looked troubled. "That is an understatement. He is bedridden, and his physician believes that he will not last out the summer. Though his will is strong, his body is very frail. That is why he wants you to travel to Skoal with your husband immediately."

"What if he doesn't like what he sees?"

"He needn't leave you a penny." The solicitor smiled. "But there is no reason to suppose he will disapprove of his granddaughter. He has heard of Saint Catherine and her work on the battlefields of Spain. He is anxious to meet you."

"The feeling is not mutual," she said tartly. "What kind of man would disinherit his son for marrying a woman as fine as my mother?"

"A stubborn man," Harwell said quietly. "And a lonely one. I can appreciate your doubts, but please, consider carefully. The laird is your blood kin. If you walk away from him, you disinherit not only yourself, but your daughter, and any other children you might bear. More than that, you cut yourself off from your own unique heritage."

Hearing a yearning note in the solicitor's voice, she asked, "Do you know the island well?"

"My father was born there. He was the laird's London agent before me. I've visited the island often over the years. It's a wild, beautiful place." The solicitor gave a faintly embarrassed smile. "One might almost say magical."

Once more Catherine heard her mother's voice, this time saying, "The daffodils will be out now on the island." There had been a pause before her father replied, "Soon they will be out here." She had been too young to recognize the wistfulness in the mundane comments. Suddenly she wanted to see the island that shaped her parents. And, if possible, she wanted to win the inheritance that would give her and Amy financial freedom.

She rose to her feet. "You've given me much to think about. I will let you know my decision tomorrow."

"Excellent." The solicitor also stood. "Bring your husband as well, since he is intimately involved in your decision."

Blindly she went out into the sun. Such a legacy would solve all her problems. But one thought was blazingly clear. She needed a husband, and she needed one fast.

Chapter 18

It had been years since Michael had set foot in Ashburton House, but it hadn't changed. It was still enormous, grand, stifling. The butler, Riggs, had acquired a few more gray hairs, but his face was still supercilious.

Michael handed over his hat. "I presume the death watch is in the duke's suite?"

"Yes, Lord Michael."

He turned and went to the majestic staircase. As he climbed the polished marble steps, he remembered sliding down the sweeping banisters. He had gotten into trouble every time he was caught, but that had never stopped him.

Though the mansion had not changed outwardly, he felt a subtle difference in the atmosphere. It was charged with the hush of a household waiting for death. A footman in powdered wig and knee breeches stood outside the duke's chambers. Recognizing a Kenyon, he opened the door with a bow.

Michael took a deep breath, then entered, crossing the sitting room to his father's bedchamber. He tried to remember if he had ever set foot in it before; he didn't think so. He and his father had never been on intimate terms.

The bedroom was claustrophobically dark and heavy with the scents of medicine and decay. It was a shock to see his father's wasted body lying in the bed, dwarfed by the velvet hangings and massive carved posts. Abruptly it hit home that the ogre of his childhood was dying. As a soldier, he respected the power and finality of death, and he found himself feeling some compassion. The fourth Duke of Ashburton had finally found an enemy he could not bully into submission.

A dozen people were clustered uneasily around the room: his brother and sister and their respective spouses, the duke's valet and secretary, several physicians. His sister,the Countess of Herrington, scowled at Michael. "I'm surprised to see you here."

His mouth tightened. "If my presence is unwelcome, Claudia, that can be remedied."

His brother frowned at the byplay. "This is not the place for squabbling. I invited Michael because Father wants to see him." Though all of the Kenyons were tall, with dark chestnut hair and chiseled features, the Marquess of Benfield had the cold eyes and flinty authority of a man who had been raised to be a duke. There were times in their childhood when the brothers had gotten on fairly well. There were only two years between them, and as a child Michael had called his brother Stephen.

It had been decades since he had used any name but Benfield.

"Is that Michael?"

The hoarse whisper caused everyone to turn to the bed.

"Yes, sir. I've come." Michael stepped close and looked down at his father.

The duke was a shadow of his former self, all strained bones and will, but in his eyes, anger still smoldered. "Everyone leave. Except for Michael and Benfield."

Claudia started to protest. "But Father-"

The duke cut her off. "Out!"

There was a shuffling as people left the room. Though Claudia's face was stiff with anger, she dared not disobey.

Michael glanced at Benfield, but his brother gave a slight shake of the head, as much in the dark as Michael.

The duke said in a thin, rasping voice, "You want to know why I called you here."

It was a statement, not a question. Michael braced himself; he'd been a damned fool to think there was a chance of an eleventh-hour rapprochement. There could be no reconciliation where there had never once been harmony. Wondering what parting shot his father had in store, he said, "It isn't unreasonable for a father to wish to see all of his children at such a time."

The duke's face twisted. "You are not my son."

Every nerve in Michael's body went taut. "As you wish, sir," he said coolly. "It doesn't surprise me to be disinherited, though I'll be damned if I know what great crime I've committed. I've never understood."

The age-paled blue eyes blazed, "You are not my son!Can I say it any more clearly than that? Your whore of a mother admitted it freely."

Michael felt his lungs constrict until he could scarcely breathe. As he struggled for control, he looked from the duke to Benfield, seeing the same bones and coloring that faced him in the mirror every morning. "With all due respect, I look very much like a Kenyon. Perhaps she lied in order to anger you." God knew that the duke and duchess had fought like pit vipers.

The duke's face reddened with a fury that had festered for decades. "She spoke the truth. You were fathered by my younger brother, Roderick. I found them together myself."

Benfield sucked his breath in, his face showing the same shock that must be on Michael's.

"She didn't like my affairs, so she decided to pay me back in kind," the duke continued. "Said she'd always fancied Roderick-that he was better looking and better in bed. That I should be grateful to her, because if anything happened to Benfield and you inherited, the duke would still be a Kenyon. Grateful! The bitch-the treacherous, bloody-minded bitch. She knew I had no choice but to accept you, and she reveled in it."

He went into a fit of coughing. Hastily Benfield offered him a glass of water, but the old man waved it away. "Roderick had always resented me for being the elder. Georgiana gave him not only the chance to cuckold me, but the possibility that Roderick's son would inherit. Vicious, the pair of them."

Michael felt numb from head to toe, and his lungs were barely capable of expanding. Strange to think that he had been brought into existence to serve as a pawn between a man and a woman who despised each other. No wonder his childhood had been saturated with hatred. "Why did you choose to tell me now?"

"A man has a right to know who his father is." The duke's mouth twisted. "And since Benfield will be head of the family, he should know the truth. Maybe now he'll get busy and sire a son. Besides, he's soft and might treat you like a member of the family if he doesn't know better."

"You needn't worry," Michael said, unable to conceal his bitterness. "He's never been very brotherly in the past."

"You're just like Roderick," the duke snarled, ancient fury vivid in his expression. "The same damned green eyes. Smart, strong, arrogant, better at everything than my own son." Ignoring a choked exclamation from Benfield, he finished, "I should have exiled you to the Indies, as I did Roderick."

Michael wanted to lash out, to wound the man who had tormented him all his life, but what was the point? The duke was dying, and the hatred he had nurtured had been its own punishment. "I suppose I must thank you for finally being honest with me. Good day, sir. I wish you a peaceful death."

The duke's bony fingers bit into the coverlet. "I despise the fact of your existence, yet I… I couldn't help but respect you. You served with honor in the army, and you built a fortune from no more than a younger son's portion. I would have liked an heir like you." He gave Benfield a contemptuous glance, then looked back at Michael. "I wanted another son. Instead, I got you."

"I would have been your son if you had wanted me to be," Michael said tightly. Feeling on the verge of dissolution, he turned and walked toward the door.

An ashen Benfield intercepted him, catching his arm. "Michael, wait!"

"For what? The duke has said everything worth saying." Michael jerked his arm away. "Don't worry, I'll never darken any of your doors again. I wish you much joy of your inheritance."