It was one of many such contrivances they used to give each other privacy for washing and changing clothing. He went to the bedroom and lit the lamps, then slit the oilcloth. Inside were several letters and a note from Lucien.

Michael-

Your brother sent a message that seemed to require forwarding. I'm including the other letters that have come for you. Hope the dragon slaying is going well.

Luce


Underneath was a letter franked "Ashburton." Michael held it in both hands, studying his name and the underscored word "Urgent." Though this Ashburton was his half-brother, not the man he had thought his father, the sight of the brusque signature aroused reflexive anxiety. The old duke had never written except to criticize or condemn. It was doubtful this letter would be any different. He tried to imagine what the new duke might have to say that Michael would want to hear, but he could think of nothing. Probably the letter concerned some legal business that he didn't give a damn about.

As in London, he held the corner of the letter in the candle flame and set it alight. That time he had been despairingly angry. Now he felt coolly determined to end the connection. After this, the new duke was unlikely to write again.

He tossed the burning letter into the fireplace and leafed through the other messages. As Catherine had guessed, most were business, but two were from Kenneth Wilding in France. In the one with the earlier date, Kenneth recounted news of the regiment and several amusing anecdotes about life with the army of occupation. The best bits were the tiny, wickedly satirical sketches that illustrated his stories.

Michael grinned at the end and set it aside. Wondering why Kenneth had written two letters so close together, he opened the second. It was a single scrawled page with no drawings.


Michael-

Forgive me if I'm going beyond the line of friendship, but it seemed in Brusseb that your feelings for Catherine Melbourne were a good deal more than those of a friend. For that reason, I thought you would be interested to learn that several weeks ago Colin Melbourne was murdered on the street, apparently by a Bonapartist. A wretched business; they've still not found the killer. The incident has been hushed up for fear of political repercussions. I only learned of it by accident, from a drunken officer of Colin's regiment. He said that after the funeral, Catherine took Amy back to England. I imagine Anne and Charles Mowbry would know her current location.

Of course it's bad form to pursue a widow when her husband is hardly cold in his grave, but Catherine is worth breaking a few rules for. Even if you have no romantic interest, you might want to see if she is in need of help. To no one's surprise, Melbourne died with his affairs in a shambles.

If you find Catherine and there is anything I can do for her, please notify me immediately.

Yours in haste, Kenneth


Michael stared at the page, feeling as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He read it again. Could Kenneth be wrong? Not likely. But why would Catherine lie to him? He had thought there was honesty and friendship between them.

It wouldn't be the first time a woman had made a fool of him.

He was staring numbly at Kenneth's letter when Catherine entered the bedchamber. As she closed the door, she said cheerfully, "The laird was tired, but he still had the energy to explain how the islanders pay an annual tax in capons on each chimney. Fascinating customs." She started to say more, then frowned. "What's wrong?"

"A letter came from Kenneth Wilding," he said tightly. "Is it true that Colin is dead?"

The blood drained from her face, leaving the perfect features as pale as marble. She caught the back of a chair to steady herself. "It's… it's true."

"Jesus bloody Christl" He crushed the letter in his hand, feeling a shattering sense of betrayal. His beautiful, honest Saint Catherine was a liar. "Why the devil didn't you tell me?"

She brushed at her hair with a trembling hand. "Because I didn't want you to know, of course. I thought you might feel honor-bound to offer for me because I nursed you after Waterloo. It was simpler to let you think Colin was alive."

It was another blow, almost as hurtful as the first. "Is the idea of being my wife so horrific that you had to hide behind a dead husband?" he bit out. "If you didn't want that, you could always have said no."

She dropped into the chair, her shoulders hunched and her gaze on her locked hands. "It… it wasn't horrific. It was appealing enough that I would be tempted to accept, so it was better if the question was never asked."

"Forgive my stupidity," he said icily. "If you thought I might propose, and you didn't dislike the idea, why the lies?"

"Because it's impossible! I will never-never-marry again. If I was fool enough to accept you, I'd make us both miserable," she said unevenly. "I can't be your wife, Michael. I have nothing left to give."

His anger vanished, displaced by despair. "So you loved Colin that much, in spite of his infidelities and neglect."

Her mouth twisted. "One can't spend twelve years married to a man without caring, but I didn't love him."

Michael could think of only one reason for her attitude. "Your husband abused you, so you've sworn off marriage," he said flatly. "If he weren't already dead, I'd kill him myself."

"It wasn't like that! Colin never abused me." Her hands clenched. "I wronged him far worse than he ever did me."

He studied her haunted expression. "That's hard to believe. Impossible, in fact."

"I know everyone blamed Colin and pitied me because of his womanizing, but I was the one who made a farce of our marriage," she said in a low voice. "He behaved with great forbearance."

"I'm very slow, apparently. Explain to me what you mean."

"I… I can't." She looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

Exasperated, he stalked across the room and put his hand under her chin to raise her face. "For God's sake, Catherine, look at me. Don't you think I deserve an explanation?"

"Yes," she whispered, "but… but I can't bear to talk about my marriage, not even to you."

Getting information from Catherine was like trying to drag oak roots from the ground. It was time for another approach. He curved his hand around her neck and bent to kiss her, hoping that desire might do what words couldn't.

For a moment she responded with desperate yearning.

Then she wrenched away, tears running down her face. "I can't be what you want me to be! Can't you simply accept that?"

In a distant corner of his mind, he began to have an inkling what this might be about. "No, I'm afraid I can't 'simply accept that,' Catherine. I've wanted you ever since we first met. God knows, I've tried to deny it and find someone else. But I can't. If I'm going to spend the rest of my life miserable because I can't have you, it will be easier if at least I understand why."

The starkness in her eyes showed how much she was affected by his words. Guessing that her resistance was breaking down, he said, "The problem was sex, wasn't it?"

Her eyes widened in shock. "How did you know?"

"There were hints in what you said." He knelt before the chair so he wasn't looming over her, and took one of her hands between both of us. Her fingers were cold and shaking. "And it would explain why you feel too humiliated to talk about it. Tell me why you consider marriage unthinkable. I doubt you can say anything that will shock me."

She crumpled into a ball in the corner of the chair, fragile as a child, her hands pressed to her midriff. "Marital intimacy is… is horribly painful for me," she said in a raw whisper. "It's damnably unfair. I find men attractive, I feel desire like any normal woman. Yet consummation is excruciating."

And feeling that she was abnormal must be even worse than the physical pain. He asked, "Did you ever consult a physician?"

She smiled bitterly. "I thought of it, but what do doctors know about how women are made? I couldn't bear the thought of being mauled by a stranger in return for the dubious pleasure of being told what I already know, that I'm hopelessly deformed."

"Yet you bore a child, so you can't be entirely abnormal," he said thoughtfully. "Did the pain lessen after Amy was born?"

She looked away. "I became pregnant very soon after we married, and I used that as an excuse to forbid Colin my bed. I… I was never a wife to him again."

"For twelve years you lived together without marital relations?" Michael exclaimed, unable to conceal his surprise.

She rubbed her temple wearily. "Colin deserved to be called a saint far more than I. We met when I was sixteen and he was twenty-one. It was a case of mutual calf's love, wildly romantic and not very deeply rooted. Ordinarily the affair would have burned itself out quickly. Colin would have become entranced with another pretty face, and I would have wept for a few weeks, then gone on with my life a little wiser."

She took a ragged breath. "But my parents died in the fire, leaving me alone in the world. Colin gallantly offered for me, and I accepted with never a second thought. I had assumed I would enjoy the… the physical side of marriage. Certainly I had enjoyed the stolen kisses that I had experienced. Instead…"

She thought of her wedding, and shuddered. After the usual drinking and ribaldry, Colin had come to bed hotly impatient to claim his husbandly rights. Though nervous, she had been willing enough. She had not expected such vicious, tearing pain, or the ghastly sense of violation. Nor had she thought she would cry herself to sleep while her new husband snored contentedly beside her. "The best that could be said for my wedding night was that it was over quickly."