Her face paled. "I never belonged on that pedestal you built for me, Michael. I wish we could part friends, but I suppose that's impossible."

"Friends," he said incredulously. "Not bloody likely, Catherine."

Her eyes narrowed to feline slits. "Since I didn't think you would want to linger, I had your belongings packed and loaded in a cart. A boat is waiting to take you to Pen ward."

If he didn't leave this room instantly, he would do something he would regret. Not sure whether it would be tears or murder, Michael spun on his heel and left.

Halfway down the stairs, he had to catch at the banister while he fought for breath. Slowly in and out. Think only of the air moving into his lungs.

When he could breathe again, he let go of the banister and continued down to the courtyard. He had survived Caroline and Waterloo, and he supposed he would survive this.

But he wished to God Catherine had let him die in Belgium.

Knees shaking, Catherine folded into a chair as soon as the door closed.

"Well done, my darling, but 1 didn't like what you said about wanting to spread your legs for the multitudes," Haldoran drawled. "My wife must be mine alone. You will be very sorry if you forget that."

She swallowed. "I said what I did to give Lord Michael a disgust of me. You needn't worry about my fidelity when we are wed. Monogamy with you will suit me very well."

Haldoran smiled complacently as he crossed the room to the door. "I'll go make sure that Kenyon really leaves."

"He will. He won't ever want to see me again." After her cousin left, Catherine leaned back in the chair, her heart hammering so violently that she wondered if she was on the verge of an apoplexy like her grandfather's.

If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the expression on Michael's face when he left.

She closed her eyes. Twice on the Peninsula she had killed men who were dying in such excruciating pain that they had begged her for the coup de grace. It had been hard, terribly hard, to go against her healing instincts, but she had done it.

She drew a shuddering breath. Someday, when the opportunity came, she would kill Haldoran. And that would not be hard at all.

Chapter 30

Instinct and a violent need to escape took over after the taciturn boatman set Michael down in Penward. At the small inn, he bought the best horse available, along with saddle, bridle, and saddlebags. Since he couldn't carry all his baggage on horseback, he arranged for most of it to be shipped to London.

His small portmanteau held a few basic necessities, so he dumped the contents into his saddlebags. As the items fell, he saw the silver gleam of the kaleidoscope Lucien had sent after Waterloo. Obviously it wasn't as lucky as the first one had been. He shoved a shirt on top of it. Then he loaded the horse, swung into the saddle, and set off. It would have been more civilized to hire a chaise, but he craved the physical exertion of riding. Perhaps it would tire him to numbness.

He rode through the rest of the day and into the night, thinking compulsively about how he had made such a disastrous misjudgment. After learning the truth about Caro, he had been able to look back and recognize the signs of dishonesty and malice that had always been visible under her beauty and sparkling charm. He had simply been too in love-and too obsessed by her avid sexuality-to pay attention.

It was equally possible to identify signs of Catherine's selfishness and deceit. In London, when he had questioned her ability to carry off an elaborate deception, she had smiled and called him Colin with chilling authenticity. She had been masterly in her charade on the island. When Kenneth's letter exposed her lies, she had explained her actions with touching earnestness. It had been easy to believe she had acted from desperation, and to forgive.

Easy, and profoundly rewarding. He remembered how she had looked in his arms when she had discovered passion. Or had that been a lie also? Had she really been terrified by sex, or had it been a brilliant act designed to make him feel splendid and manly? He had no idea. Perhaps she had always been a wanton, and she had acted that elaborate scene of tears and fears because it gave her perverse amusement to deceive him. Yet even now, after all she had said, she was like a fever in his blood.

Blood again. Ah, God, Catherine…

No matter what else she had done, she had surely saved his life. From generosity? Or had she thought it would be useful to have the son of a duke indebted to her? The so-called son of a duke. Though she had claimed otherwise, perhaps the revelation of his bastardy had mattered to her. Her final speech had hinted as much. All of his life he had struggled to be the best he could be, and it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

In the dark hours after midnight, he made the bitter discovery that he was not really surprised at what had happened. Shocked, yes, and hurt beyond words, but not surprised. He had known Catherine was too good to be true. The drumming of his horse's hooves matched the words pounding in his brain. She is not for you. Love will never be for you.

Saint Michael, trying to slay all the wrong dragons.

He traveled all through the moonlit night. Though he automatically put his mount through the changes of pace that kept it moving steadily, by dawn the exhausted beast was foundering. He stopped at a coaching inn and traded the horse and a handful of gold for another mount, then set out again. But no matter how hard he pushed himself, he could not outrun the pain, or the anguished self-reproach for his own stupidity.

His belief that he was part of a family, albeit an unpleasant one, had been false. The great love affairs of his life were worse than lies-they were pathetic travesties. The only genuine, enduring relationships of his life were his friendships. In the future, he would confine himself to friendship and forget all hope of love.

In the late afternoon, after twenty-four hours of virtually nonstop riding, he realized the scenery was familiar. He was nearing the town of Great Ashburton. The Kenyon family seat was less than three miles away.

He wondered what would happen if he stopped at the Abbey. Had the servants been told to bar his entrance, or would he be permitted to stay, a beneficiary once more of the family passion for maintaining appearances? It didn't matter, because he would burn in hell before he would ask for shelter under a Kenyon roof.

He was already burning in hell.

It was time to decide whether to swing north and return to his home in Wales, or continue east to London. The effort of choosing a destination was beyond him. A glance at his lathered mount showed that it was also time to get a new horse. The current one was on the verge of collapse.

For that matter, so was he. He would have to stop for the night. Even though the town was an oppressive reminder of his bastardy, at the same time there was a strange comfort in its familiarity. He stopped at the Red Lion, the best coaching inn. After leaving his horse with an ostler who glared at him for abusing the beast, he went inside with his saddlebags.

Most inns would have condemned such a filthy, unshaven traveler to the attic rooms, but Barlow, the landlord of the Red Lion, recognized him. "Lord Michael, what an honor. Are you on your way to the Abbey?"

"No," he said tersely. "I want a room for tonight."

Barlow surveyed him curiously, but said only, "Very good, my lord. Do you want a bath or a private parlor?"

"Just a bed."

The landlord took him up to the inn's best bedchamber, urging him to ring if there was anything he wanted. As soon as Barlow was gone, Michael dropped his saddlebags, turned the key in the lock, and drank a glass of water from the pitcher on the washstand. Then he sprawled facedown on the bed without removing his boots or clothing.

Unconsciousness came with merciful swiftness.

Thunder. Guns. Instinct dragged Michael up from the depths of sleep. He blinked groggily, not recognizing the darkened room.

The racket continued. Not guns or storm, but pounding at the door.

"Michael, it's Stephen," a voice barked. "Let me in."

Christ, the new Duke of Ashburton. The man whom he had called brother. "Go away," he called brusquely. "I'm trying to sleep."

The pounding stopped. He rolled onto his back. The last of the long summer twilight showed in the sky outside, so he had slept only a couple of hours. Every muscle ached from the long ride. He was also thirsty, but getting up was too much effort. He closed his eyes and hoped he would be able to sleep again.

A key grated in the lock. Then the door swung open and a tall man entered with a branch of candles. Michael closed his eyes and threw his arm across his face to block the sudden light.

Ashburton's clipped voice said, "Michael, are you ill?"

The last thing he wanted was an ugly scene with his brother, but apparently it couldn't be avoided. Dryly he said, "I should have known that in the Duke of Ashburton's own town, there is no such thing as privacy."

"Barlow sent a message to the Abbey saying you had arrived here looking like death and behaving strangely," his brother said with equal dryness. "Of course I was concerned."

"Why?" Michael smiled mirthlessly. "I always behave strangely. The old duke pointed that out often."

Ashburton muttered an exasperated curse under his breath. "Why the devil can't we have a civil conversation for a change? I've written you several times, and you've never replied."