"She might have said that out of sheer contrariness. She was probably sleeping with both of them and wasn't sure who had fathered you," Ashburton said with iron detachment.

Both fascinated and repelled by the conversations, Michael asked, "What makes you say that?"

His brother smiled cynically. "Father couldn't resist her. Even when they were fighting in public, they still slept together. That's why he resented her so much. He hated anyone having such power over him."

"But the old duke said I have Roderick's green eyes."

"That means nothing," Ashburton retorted. "Claudia's daughter has the same green eyes even though Claudia doesn't. There is no way to be sure who your father was, nor does it really matter. If you're not my full brother, you're my half-brother and first cousin. Either way, we have the same four grandparents, and you are my heir. No one else can ever fully understand what it was like to grow up in that house." He stopped, a muscle jerking in his cheek. "Though it may be too late for us to become real friends, at least we can stop being enemies."

There was a knock at the door, which was fortunate because Michael didn't have the remotest idea what to say. Ashburton admitted Barlow and two servants bearing savory-scented trays.

As they laid out the food, Michael realized to his surprise that he was hungry, though he was still so debilitated that it took all his strength to rise and walk to the table. The Red Lion's best sliced beef, ham, and trimmings, washed down by good red wine, went a long way toward restoring him. Ashburton ate little, preferring to drink coffee.

When Michael finished eating, he pushed back his chair and regarded his brother quizzically. "I really don't know you at all. Were you always reasonable?"

"I don't know what I am myself," Ashburton said slowly. "Since Father's death, I've felt like a plant that's been put in the sun after a lifetime of trying to grow under a basket. I don't want to be like him, bullying everyone in sight simply because I'm a duke. It may sound sanctimonious, but I want to live a just life. That includes making amends for having treated you unfairly."

Michael glanced away, moved but too accustomed to concealing his feelings around his family to reveal it. "It occurs to me that one reason we fought so much as boys was because we're alike in many ways. I hadn't realized how alike."

"True. But we didn't always fight. Remember the time we slipped away from our tutor and went to the Ashburton fair?"

"I remember." Michael smiled at the memory. They had played games with the villagers, eaten too much, and been children together rather than the Duke of Ashburton's antagonistic sons. They'd been flogged together when they went home, too.

There had been other happy times as well. By turning his back on his childhood, Michael had buried the good as well as the bad. Stephen was right: the past was part of the present, and it was time to reclaim those lost years. The true source of poison had been the old duke. His uncle? His father? No matter; the man was dead. But his brother and sister were still alive. They had not been his friends, but neither had they been the enemy.

He gazed into his wineglass. Most of his friends were quite different from himself. It might be pleasant to have a friend with a more similar temperament. He and Stephen should be old enough to control the infamous Kenyon temper. And if his brother had the courage to try to build a bridge between them, Michael could do no less. Softly he said, "Several weeks ago, I met a charming young American lady in London. She described an Indian custom that involved the chiefs of warring tribes burying their stone hatchets as a treaty of peace. Shall we do the same?"

"I trust you mean that figuratively." Ashburton gave a wry smile. "As a soldier, you've probably acquired all sorts of weapons, but I only have my Manton pistols. I'd hate to bury those."

"Figuratively will do very well." Hesitantly Michael extended his hand. "I've had enough of fighting, Stephen."

His brother took his hand in a warm, hard clasp, the long Kenyon fingers a mirror of Michael's own. Though the handshake ended quickly, it gave Michael a sense of peace. In one of the blackest nights of his life, a flower of hope had bloomed.

"It's a long way off, but consider spending Christmas at the Abbey," Stephen said, sounding almost shy. "I'd like to have you. And since you're the heir, it would be good if you made an appearance now and then."

"Thank you for asking. I'll think about it-I'm not sure I could face the entire clan at once." Michael shrugged. "As for being heir, that's only until you have a son."

His brother sighed. "That may never happen. Louisa and I have been married eight years, and there's no sign of offspring yet. Which makes it all the more important that you marry. You mentioned woman trouble. Nothing too serious, I hope?"

Michael's temporary calm vanished. "Not serious-catastrophic. Becoming obsessed by destructive women may be another family trait. I had thought the lady in question and I were going to marry, but I… I misunderstood her intentions."

"Care to talk about it?"

"It's a long story."

"I have as much time as you need," Stephen said softly.

Michael realized that he had a powerful desire to tell somebody what had happened. And-strange thought-his brother was the right person to tell.

He poured more burgundy, then sprawled on the bed, piling pillows to prop himself against the headboard. Not looking at his brother, he said, "I didn't really meet Catherine until Brussels, but I had first seen her in Spain, in a field hospital…"

Chapter 31

After describing how Catherine had held a dying youth through the night, Michael moved to Belgium. The universal esteem in which she was held; the frustrations of honorable behavior when living under the same roof; how she had saved his life. Though he didn't speak of his feelings, it was impossible to keep emotion from his voice. More than once he had to stop, covering his weakness by sipping wine. His brother listened intently, without interruptions.

Then he explained how Catherine had asked him to impersonate her husband, and his shock at discovering her deceit. He sketched in everything, in fact, except her fear of sexual intimacy and the brief, passionate interlude when it had seemed that everything was going to be all right. That he could not speak of. He ended by saying expressionlessly, "I thought we had an understanding, but obviously I misjudged her feelings. I should have stuck with war. Much simpler and less painful than women."

After a long moment of silence, Stephen said, "Perhaps."

Hearing the reservation in his brother's voice, Michael asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I probably shouldn't comment. I don't want you to dig up that war hatchet and bury it between my shoulder blades."

"Comment away." Michael ran restless fingers through his hair. "I still don't understand how I could have been so wrong."

"Actually, that's what struck me," his brother said slowly. "Being heir to a dukedom makes one a good judge of character, since so many people flatter to gain favor. One thing I learned is that basic character doesn't change. I have trouble believing that a woman who was so giving could become a greedy harpy in a matter of hours. Either the warmth was false, or the greed."

"Not the warmth. There were too many instances over too much time for it to be pretense." A haunting voice filled his mind-Catherine singing lullabies to a dying boy, or perhaps to himself. He swallowed hard. "Unfortunately, the talent for deceit was also quite genuine, as was the greed."

"Perhaps some other factor came into play, one you're unaware of." Stephen rubbed his chin as he thought. "For example, perhaps the illness of Lord Skoal triggered an attack of conscience and Catherine confessed that she'd lied about her husband. I've met the laird, and he's a crusty old devil. He might have said he'd forgive her if she would marry her cousin, and she agreed from guilt."

"Would a woman marry a man she disliked because of guilt?" Michael said doubtfully. And would she say so many vile things?

"As I said, that was only an example. There could be a thousand reasons. I've usually found that if behavior seems inexplicable, it's because I don't understand the other person's motives." Stephen sighed. "Or maybe she really is a harpy. I shouldn't have spoken. Never having met the woman, I'm in no position to have an opinion." He got to his feet. "Time to go. Do you want to come back to the Abbey? I'd like to have you."

"Not tonight. I'm too tired. Perhaps tomorrow." Michael rubbed his aching eyes. "Ask Barlow to send up some hot water. I'll sleep better if I wash off the travel dirt."

"A good idea. If I were a French soldier who saw you in your present state, I'd surrender on the spot."

"A number of them did." After they both laughed, Michael added quietly, "Thank you for making the effort to bury the hatchet. I never would have thought to try."

"I know. That's why I had to." Stephen's hand dropped briefly on his younger brother's shoulder. Then he left.

Michael lay unmoving on the bed, his mind a jumble of confused thoughts, until the hot water was delivered. Washing and shaving were an effort, but did make him feel more human. He was returning his razor to his saddlebags when he came across the kaleidoscope. He lifted the silver tube to one eye. A crystalline star sparkled inside. Shattered rainbows. Splintered hopes. Broken dreams. He turned the tube and the colored glass shifted with a soft rattle to form a new design.