Jack and Ned bowed politely when they were introduced to Catherine, but their real interest was in Michael. Jack, about eight years old with vivid island eyes, said, "You were at Waterloo, Captain Melbourne?"

Michael affirmed that he was, and was instantly besieged with questions. Ned, two or three years younger and with blue eyes like his mother, favored the cavalry, while Jack hero-worshiped the Rifles. Obviously a child of outstanding intelligence.

As Michael answered the barrage of questions, Catherine said, "Who is the youngest member of the family?"

"This is Emily." Glynis lifted the baby from the sling. "Would you like to hold her?"

"Oh, yes." Catherine accepted the infant with enthusiasm. "What a pretty poppet. I'm your cousin Catherine. Are you your mama's favorite girl?" She rubbed noses with the child. "Your papa's little sweetheart?"

Emily squealed with delight and waved her plump arms. Soon the two were conversing in the nonsense sounds of baby talk.

The sight of Catherine's radiant face made Michael's throat tighten. She was everything he had ever idealized in a woman. The loving mother every child deserved, and few had. The irresistible woman who had captured his heart. The fiercely caring nurse who had risked her life to save his.

The wife who was not his own.

Yet he could not stop himself from wanting her. In a moment of bittersweet clarity, he recognized that he did not regret his desire, even though it made this mission so difficult. Simply being with Catherine was worth almost any price.

"What a darling," Catherine said as she handed the chortling baby back to her mother. "It's interesting-I've noticed that most islanders either have dark hair, like me and Davin and Jack, or blond hair, like you and Ned and Emily. Almost no one seems to be in the middle, with brown hair." She glanced at Michael with a smile. "Like you, who haven't a drop of Skoalan blood."

Actually, he had gotten more than a drop from her, but he supposed that it didn't count in this context.

"You're right," Glynis said thoughtfully. "I suppose our ancestors were mostly blond Scandinavians or black-haired Celts."

Her husband added, "There's an old legend that the island eyes came from a selkie-a magical creature that's a seal in the sea and a man on the land."

"It's a grand tale," Glynis said. "The selkie loved a lass with raven hair and an angel's smile. But he could only come to land on the full moon, and she could not join him in the sea. They became lovers and she bore him a child. But she was wed, and when her husband saw the sea in the baby's eyes, he took his longbow to Seal Rock and slew his rival. They say the selkie's ghost still calls for his love when the moon is full."

"The moral seems to be that adulterers come to a bad end," Michael said dryly.

Glynis gave him a glance of amused exasperation. "Anglo-Saxons have no romance in their bones."

"I'm afraid not," he agreed. And he was definitely against adultery.

The constable checked the time on his pocket watch. "Since Lord Haldoran invited you for tea, we should be getting on." He gave his wife a private smile. "I'll be home for dinner."

The touring party mounted and waved good-bye to Glynis and the boys. They followed the track along the cliff for half a mile. The fertile fields ended, replaced by tough, wind-scoured shrubbery. The path turned sharply and Davin pulled to a halt. "Lord Haldoran lives on Little Skoal, This is the Neck, the natural causeway that connects the two parts of the island."

Michael's brows went up as he surveyed the perilous ribbon of stone and the waves crashing on jagged rocks far below. "The guidebook mentioned that the Neck is only ten feet wide and hundreds of feet above the sea, but words don't do it justice."

"The writer exaggerated. The Neck is a good twelve feet across in some places," Davin said with dry humor. "But beasts get nervous here, so it's better to walk across."

They all dismounted and set off across the Neck, leading their horses. In the middle, Catherine paused and peered over the edge. The fierce wind whipped at her clothing and the sound of the waves was so loud she had to raise her voice. "Shouldn't there be railings?"

"It's not necessary," Davin replied. "Only one man has ever fallen, and he was drunk. Islanders know to be careful here."

She glanced at the rocks below doubtfully. If she became the Lady, railings would go up soon.

The constable added, "By the way, that islet there is Seal Rock, where legend says the selkie was slain."

Sure enough, one of the barren rocks in the distance was draped with the bodies of sunning seals. Catherine had a mental image of a seal emerging onto land under the silvery light of the full moon and turning into a man. If he were tall and lithe and strong, like Michael, and with equally mesmerizing eyes, it was understandable how a girl would forget honor and wisdom…

With a sigh, she resumed her passage across the Neck. Her problem was not adultery, for she no longer had a husband. The insoluble dilemma lay within her.

Ragnarok was only a few minutes' ride beyond the Neck. It stood near the edge of the cliffs. Though the name was ancient, the house itself was relatively new. Its calm Palladian lines seemed almost incongruous in this wild, windswept setting.

Davin did not dismount when they reached the head of the driveway. "If you don't mind, I'll leave you here. I've work to do. Can you find your way back to the castle?"

"Don't worry," Michael said as he helped Catherine from her sidesaddle. "Skoal isn't large enough to get seriously lost."

The constable touched his hat brim, then trotted down the driveway again. Catherine watched him go. "I get the feeling he would rather not be Lord Haldoran's guest."

Before Michael could respond, a broad, muscular man with a scarred face emerged from the house. "I'm Doyle," he said laconically. "I'll take your horses to the stables."

Catherine studied Doyle curiously as she handed over her reins. He looked familiar. She guessed that she had seen him in Brussels, when he had been one of the brawny servants who had helped Haldoran convey Amy and the Mowbrys to Antwerp. Doyle's London accent marked him as a non-Skoalan, and his battered face made him seem like a ruffian. Like the house itself, he was an odd sight in this remote place.

They ascended the steps and were admitted to a gleaming marble foyer by the butler, another tough-looking Londoner. Apparently Haldoran liked servants who could double as guards.

Haldoran himself was descending the stairs. "Hello, Cousin Catherine, Captain Melbourne. What do you think of our island?"

"Unique and very beautiful." Catherine gave her hat and riding crop to the butler. "Not rich, perhaps, but well cared for. I saw no signs of want among the people."

"Everyone has a roof over his head, food in his belly, and shoes on his feet. That's more than can be said about most places on the mainland." He took her hand, holding it a moment longer than she liked, then ushered them into the morning room.

Conversation over tea and cakes was as bland as talk could be, with Haldoran encouraging Catherine to discuss what she had seen. Michael spoke little. Strange, she thought, how he could dominate a room without saying a word.

When they had finished eating, her cousin said, "Would you like a tour of Ragnarok? The views are exceptional."

Deciding she really should use his name, she said, "I'd love to see it, Clive."

Haldoran took them through the ground floor, talking amusingly about the house's history. Catherine enjoyed it more than she expected. Her cousin had excellent taste and a passion for collecting beautiful objects. The result was a treasure trove of polished furniture, Oriental carpeting, and fine art.

The tour ended upstairs in the back corner of the house.

As Haldoran swung the last door open, he said, "I think you'll find this interesting, Captain."

Inside was a gallery with wide windows overlooking the sea. Catherine thought it merely another handsome chamber until she realized it was a weapons room. The walls were covered with elaborate displays of ancient swords, halberds, and dirks, with glass-fronted cabinets for favored items.

Her mouth tightened as she looked around. Growing up with the army had given her no fondness for weapons. Quite the contrary. There was a strange dissonance between the brilliant sunshine washing through the windows and the metallic gleam of death on all sides.

"I've never seen such a collection outside a Highland castle," Michael remarked. "You have weapons unlike any I've ever seen."

Haldoran opened a cabinet and took out an unusual long pistol. There was sensuality in the way he stroked the brass barrel. "This has six chambers and is one of the first multishot guns ever made, almost two hundred years ago. Hard to load, terribly inaccurate, and prone to misfire, but interesting."

Michael examined the pistol with professional thoroughness and made appropriate comments before handing it back.

Haldoran returned the pistol to its cabinet. "I also have several superb swords. Are you familiar with Damascus steel?"

"If I recall rightly, it's beaten and folded on itself many times, like French pastry," Michael replied. "They say that Damascene blades take a sharper edge than any European weapon."

"They do." Haldoran pulled out a tinder box and lit a candle that stood on a cabinet. "Watch this."

He removed an elegant curved sword from a case of similar weapons. Grasping the handle with both hands, he snapped his wrists and the blade sliced through the candle with wicked speed.