The man turned, his gaze passing over Michael and coming to rest on Catherine. "You'd be the laird's granddaughter."

She bunked in surprise. "How did you know that?"

"Island eyes," he said succinctly. "Word came from London this morning that you would be here soon. The laird sent me over to wait for you. You made good time." He got to his feet. "I'm George Fitzwilliam. I'll take you across."

Catherine and Michael exchanged a glance. The solicitor had wasted no time in notifying the laird. From now on, they would be under constant observation.

The baggage was transferred to Fitzwilliam's boat and the chaise dismissed. They set out across the choppy water. Shortly after the mainland disappeared behind them, the captain said, "Skoal," and gestured to the southwest.

Catherine studied the dark, jagged shape on the horizon. The sun was low in the sky, making it hard to see details. Slowly the island resolved into cliffs and hills. Seabirds wheeled above with slowly beating wings, their cries mournful in the empty sky. Occasionally one plunged arrow-straight into the sea after its prey.

They sailed partway around the island, close enough to see waves crashing against the base of the cliffs. The guidebook had been right about the spectacular scenery, but Skoal's first impression was forbidding. Catherine found it strange to think that this remote spot might become her home.

Michael's arm went around her. She didn't know if he was responding to the temperature or her nerves. Either way, she was grateful.

A break showed in the cliffs and the boat turned into it. She held her breath as they sailed between jagged pillars of rock. At night or in a storm, this would be a dangerous passage.

Inside was a small bay with three docks and several moored boats. As they approached the shore, an odd, low carriage pulled by a team of ponies rattled into view from behind two sheds. It halted and the door swung open. A tall, lean man with a weathered face climbed out and walked without haste to the dock where Fitzwilliam was mooring his boat.

Michael jumped to the dock, then turned and took Catherine's hand to help her from the bobbing boat. Releasing his clasp with reluctance, she turned to the newcomer. He was in his mid-thirties and dressed casually, more like a clerk than a gentleman, but he had a quiet air of authority.

He inclined his head. "Mrs. Melbourne, I presume."

She opened her mouth to reply, then paused, struck by his clear, blue-green eyes. They were the brilliant shade she had seen only in her parents and daughter. She offered her hand. "Yes. Seeing your eyes makes me understand why I was identified so easily by the solicitor in London and Captain Fitzwilliam."

He smiled as he took her hand. "You'll grow accustomed to it. Half the people here have the island eyes. I'm Davin Penrose, constable of Skoal. I'll take you to the laird's home." He had a soft, rolling accent unlike any she'd ever heard.

"Penrose," she said with interest. "Are you and I related?"

"Almost everyone on Skoal is-there are only five family names in common usage. Penrose, Fitzwilliam, Tregaron, De Salle, and Olson."

Names as diverse as the island's heritage, she noted. Taking Michael's elbow to bring him forward, she said, "Mr. Penrose, this is my husband, Captain Melbourne."

It was the first time she had introduced Michael with Colin's name. It felt very strange.

Unperturbed, Michael said, "A pleasure, Mr. Penrose. What does it mean to be constable?"

"That's the Skoalan name for the laird's steward, though I have other duties as well." Davin shook hands, then gave orders for the luggage to be loaded. A few minutes later they were rumbling toward the sheer cliffs that surrounded the bay.

Michael said, "There's a tunnel?"

Davin nodded. "It was cut through the cliffs about fifty years ago by miners from Cornwall. This is the best bay on the island, but it was useless before the tunnel."

Catherine glanced out and saw that the road climbed steeply until it disappeared into a dark opening in the cliff. The light diminished sharply when they entered the crudely cut tunnel. The shaft was barely large enough for the carriage. "The ponies are strong to pull us uphill at such an angle."

"They have to be," the constable replied. "The only horses belong to the laird. Everyone else uses oxen and ponies."

They emerged into the light and the road leveled out. The few trees visible were stunted and twisted by the wind, but masses of gorse surrounded them. The yellow blossoms glowed golden in the setting sun.

As they drove toward the center of the island, they passed scattered farms of rugged gray stone and carefully tended fields. Once they descended into a small valley lush with taller trees and a blue haze of wild hyacinths. Catherine's heart lifted. It would not be hard to love a place that looked like this.

The sun had dropped below the horizon by the time they reached the laird's residence. The massive building was crowned with battlements and clearly had begun as a castle, though additions had been added later. Davin climbed from the carriage first and helped Catherine out.

As she straightened her skirts, a middle-aged woman emerged from the house. "Hello, Mrs. Melbourne, Captain Melbourne. I'm the housekeeper, Mrs. Tregaron. Your baggage will be taken to your room, but the laird will see you right now."

Michael said, "We've had a very long journey. My wife might prefer to refresh herself before meeting her grandfather."

The housekeeper's brows drew together worriedly. "The laird was most particular that you come up right away."

"It's all right." Catherine bit back Michael's name, which she had almost said aloud. "No doubt he's as curious about me as I am about him."

He studied her face, then nodded. "As you wish."

His concern for her was warming. She took his arm and they set off after Mrs. Tregaron. The house was a warren, with the jumble of furnishings characteristic of very old houses. Sheraton chairs sat next to carved Jacobean oak chests, and shabby tapestries hung next to paintings of stiff Elizabethans. Catherine glanced at one of the portraits and saw aqua eyes staring out at her.

The route twisted and turned, but stayed on the ground floor. Finally they came to a heavy oak door. Mrs. Tregaron knocked, then swung the door open. "They're here, my lord."

A deep voice said gruffly, "Send them in." Catherine raised her chin. The main act of the masquerade was about to begin.

Chapter 21

Intensely grateful that Michael was with her, Catherine entered her grandfather's bedchamber. A pair of lamps illuminated the stern features of the man propped against the pillows of the massive four-poster bed. She caught her breath, startled by the familiarity of the long, lined face under the thick silver hair. If her father had lived to such an age, he would have looked very like the laird.

Her appearance appeared to be equally surprising. The old man's veined hands curled into the counterpane as he stared at her. "You've a look of your grandmother about you."

"I'm sorry I never knew her, but I'm glad to be meeting you." She moved to the side of the bed and took his hand. The bones felt brittle under the thin skin, but his eyes still burned with will. His aqua island eyes. She squeezed his hand, then released it. "Grandfather, this is my husband, Colin Melbourne."

Michael bowed respectfully. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."

The laird's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure that's mutual. From what I've learned, you're an irresponsible rascal."

"There's some truth to that," Michael said mildly. "A really responsible man would not have allowed his wife and child to campaign through Spain." He smiled at Catherine. "But I defy any man to resist my wife when she has made up her mind."

The warmth in his voice when he said "my wife" made her throat ache. If only she were different…

The laird asked, "Where is my great-granddaughter?"

"Amy is with friends in London," Catherine replied.

He scowled as he waved them to chairs near the bed. "You should have brought her."

"The trip is long and tiring, and I didn't know what Skoal would be like."

"It didn't have to be so tiring," he said acidly. "You came quick enough when you learned there was a legacy in the offing."

His tone made her feel like a greedy fortune hunter. Well, she was one. "I'll admit that the possibility is welcome, but I was also interested in meeting you. Since Mr. Harwell said your health was poor, it seemed best to come quickly."

His heavy brows drew together threateningly. "Don't think that I'll automatically leave everything to you just because you have a pretty face. Your cousin Chve was born on the island, and he knows it well. Far better than you."

She guessed that her grandfather was deliberately baiting her. "The decision must be yours, of course. The responsibility for so many lives should not be given lightly."

"It won't be." His gaze went to Michael. "Much depends on you. I don't know if I'd trust my island to a soldier. My son William was mad to go into the army. He was selfish and disobedient. Unfit to rule a henhouse."

Catherine's face tightened. "I wish you would not refer to my father like that. He and my mother were brave and generous and the best of parents."

"I'll speak of them any way I please," the laird said harshly. "He was my son, until he ran off with that round-heeled farmer's daughter. Your mother set out to trap him and succeeded. Wrecked both of their lives."