She raised her brows. "The new duke? I thought you were barely on speaking terms."

"We weren't." Not raising his gaze from the fire, Michael described a long, exhausting ride, and how his brother had come to the inn at Great Ashburton to bridge a lifetime of conflict. The terse words said perhaps more than he had intended about his despairing state of mind when he had left the island.

He finished by saying, "Stephen seems to think I was as likely fathered by the old duke as by brother Roderick, so that the whole issue of my legitimacy should be ignored. After all, we'll never know for sure, and it makes no real difference."

"Your brother sounds like a wise man," she said quietly. "And a generous one. I'm so glad."

"It was like meeting a stranger whom I had known all my life." Michael shook his head, then got to his feet. "I want to explore the cave further. When I was fishing, I noticed a branch cave over there. The way the light falls makes it almost invisible unless it's seen from the right angle."

"Sounds interesting. I'll go with you."

Both of them carrying crude torches, they went to investigate. The tide was at its crest, almost filling the narrow branch with water. However, by bending almost double they could wade along the shallow edge instead of having to swim.

When the tunnel enlarged, Michael straightened and raised his torch. The chamber was much smaller than the main cave. He looked around. "Good God, we've found a smuggler's storehouse."

Catherine's eyes widened when she came forward to stand beside him. Dozens of small kegs were stacked on the higher ground. "Grandfather mentioned that the islands were a hotbed of smuggling during the war, but I'm surprised that these kegs were left in a cave which is a local landmark."

"This section would be easy to overlook. Besides, it's doubtful if any islanders who discovered this would tell the authorities. Most communities protect their free traders." Michael examined the nearest kegs. "Usually smuggled goods would be transferred fairly quickly, but these appear to have been here for months, even years. Perhaps the smugglers' boat went down and this cargo has been waiting unclaimed."

"I suppose it's French brandy?"

"A small fortune's worth." He scanned the rest of the chamber, then caught his breath. "Look. Here's something far more valuable."

Hearing the excitement in his voice, Catherine turned to see. Her heart jumped. Pulled up on the sand and half-hidden in the shadows was a medium-sized rowboat. "Merciful heaven! Do you suppose this could take us to Skoal?"

"I certainly hope so." He circled the tidal pool for a closer look, Catherine right behind him. "The oars are here, there's a tin bucket for bailing, and the hull seems sound. Help me haul it down to the tidal pool."

She shoved the end of her torch into the sand, then dragged on the gunwale opposite from Michael. The boat slid into the water with a splash.

He waded in beside it. "There don't seem to be any major leaks. We've just found our way to escape."

Wanting to believe but doubtful, she asked, "Can a little boat like this manage the rocks and currents?"

"In some ways, it will be easier than in a larger vessel. Certainly our chances will be better than if we tried to swim." He studied the entrance tunnel. "The storm will have passed by the time the tide drops enough to get this out of the cave. It will be dark then. Even if Haldoran is waiting in the bay, which I doubt, we'll have a good chance to evade him."

Hoping he was right, she asked, "When do you think the storm will hit?"

"It already has. It's raging outside now."

She stared at him. "How do you know that?"

He shrugged. "It's only a feeling. A kind of inner restlessness, for lack of a better word. The storm struck about an hour ago. Though it's very intense, it will pass quickly."

She still didn't understand, but was willing to take his word on it. "What's underneath the oar on your side?"

He moved the oar, then inhaled sharply. "A sword." Reverently he lifted it from the bottom of the skiff. Light from the torch flashed along the blade. "It was greased to protect it from damp." He made an experimental cut. As weapon met warrior, the sword came alive with glittering, lethal life.

Once more thinking of gods of war and the archangel who led the hosts of heaven, Catherine uttered a fervent mental thanks. The voyage between the two islands would be dangerous, but now they had a chance. If anyone could turn a chance into a victory, it was Michael.

Amy had gone to the library to read, but when the storm hit she curled up in the window seat to watch. Ferocious wind and rain rattled the windowpanes. Far below her, waves smashed into the cliff, the spray flying upward to mingle with the raindrops.

Though it would be more ladylike to fear the storm, she found a certain satisfaction in the violence. For days she had been chafing in the ridiculously named Ragnarok. Lord Haldoran kept saying Mama was too busy nursing the laird to see her daughter, but Amy was increasingly impatient. She had been helping her mother in the sickroom for years. She would be a help, not a hindrance.

The next time she saw Lord Haldoran, she would insist on being taken to her mother. Or maybe she wouldn't wait He wasn't home much; she hadn't seen him since early the day before. Tomorrow morning, after the storm had passed, she would slip out on her own. The island wasn't very large. Surely she could find her way to the laird's residence.

Not long after she made her resolution, the door to the library opened and Lord Haldoran entered. She swung her feet to the floor and went to him. "Good day, my lord." She bobbed a curtsy. "Can I go visit my mother now? If she is working so hard, she'll be glad to have my help."

He shook his head, his expression grave. "I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Amy. Please sit down." He ushered her toward the sofa. "You're going to have to be brave, my dear."

She jerked her elbow from his grasp and stared at him, paralyzed with fear. Those were almost the same words the colonel of the regiment had used when he came to break the news of Papa's death. "No," she whispered. "No."

Pity in his voice, he said, "We don't know for sure, but probably last night your mother decided she needed a break from the sickroom. She must have gone for a walk on the cliffs, and… she didn't come back. We've searched the island, but she isn't here. None of the boatmen took her to the mainland. There were marks on the cliff top as if someone fell and tried to catch a hold to stop from going, over the edge. This was found washed up in the bay below." He handed a sodden shawl to Amy.

She gave a whimper of anguish. Her mother had bought the shawl in Brussels. The prices had been so reasonable there, though Mama had to be persuaded to buy something for herself… "Mama can't be dead! She followed the drum her whole life. How could she fall off a silly cliff?"

"It was misty and she was very tired," Haldoran said gently. "A slip on damp grass, a gust of wind… the island can be very dangerous to newcomers." He laid a hand on her shoulder.

Amy froze. There was something wrong with the way he touched her. His hand was heavy, possessive. And in spite of what he said, she couldn't believe her mother could be so stupid as to fall off a cliff. She looked up at Lord Haldoran, wanting to protest further, then bit back the words. If there was something wrong, his lordship was part of it.

"There, there, my dear." He tried to put his arms around her. "You mustn't worry, Amy. You're family. I promise that you will always be provided for."

She shoved him away. "I'm going to my room. I… I need to be alone." She allowed her agonized tears to spill out.

"Of course," he said in that same soft, solicitous, false voice. "Such a tragedy. Your mother was a wonderful woman. Just remember that I'll always take care of you."

She bolted from the room, deliberately acting more like seven than eleven, and didn't stop until she reached her room two floors above. As she ran, she noticed one of his lordship's men following her. There were several of them, all tough and sullen and so similar that she called them the trolls. Unlike the common soldiers she'd known in the army, the trolls were silent and unfriendly. For the first time, she realized that one was always nearby. Guarding her?

She slammed the door to the room and turned the key, locking out the world. Then she threw herself onto the bed and buried her face in her hands as she tried to stifle her sobs. After she succeeded, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

She had never questioned Lord Haldoran's honesty. After all, he was a friend and cousin of her mother's. But he hadn't really been that close a friend, not like Colonel Kenyon or Captain Wilding. What if his lordship had lied about being sent by Mama? Aunt Anne had almost refused to let her go because his lordship didn't have a note.

But why would Lord Haldoran bother to kidnap her? He didn't even like children.

She thought hard. Maybe he wanted to force Mama into marriage, like in a Gothic romance. Real life wasn't supposed to be like that, but Mama was the most beautiful woman in the world. Men often became strange around her.

Whatever the reason, one thing was clear. She must get away from that man and this house, and she must do it soon.

Amy rose and went to the window. Gusts of wind and rain were rattling the panes, and it was a long way to the ground. However, she could make a rope from her bed-sheets. Luckily, the house was built in a style that included lots of ledges where she could rest if necessary. She would escape when the storm died down. Then she would find her way to the laird's house. Maybe her mother would be there.