Mary Putney - Shattered Rainbows

The gilded French regimental standards called eagles were patterned after those of imperial Rome, and capturing two was a stunning feat. "I heard," Catherine replied. "Our men were magnificent." And she had spent the night tending the price of victory.

Having stripped the meat from the drumstick, Colin tossed the bone out the tent flap. "We went after the Frenchies, but no luck. One of those damned Spanish generals disobeyed Old Hookey's order to set a garrison at the river, then didn't have the courage to admit his error."

Catherine ignored the profanity; it was impossible to shield a child who lived in the midst of an army from strong language. "One can see the general's point. I shouldn't like to confess a mistake like that to Lord Wellington."

"Very true." Colin peeled off his dusty jacket. "What else is there to eat? I could down one of the dead French horses if it were roasted properly."

Amy gave him a reproachful look. "Mama needs to rest. She was at the hospital almost all night."

"And your father fought a battle yesterday," Catherine said mildly. "I'll go make breakfast."

She moved past her husband to go outside. Under the odors of horse and mud was the musky scent of perfume. After the pursuit of the French was called off, Colin must have visited his current lady friend, a lusty widow in Salamanca.

Her maid-of-all-work was the wife of a sergeant in Colin's company and would not arrive for at least an hour, so Catherine knelt by the fire herself. She laid twigs on the embers, wearily thinking how her life had turned out so differently from her dreams. When she'd married Colin at the age of sixteen, she'd believed in romantic love and high adventure. Instead she had found loneliness and dying boys like Jem.

Impatiently she got to her feet and hung the kettle over the fire. There was no place in her life for self-pity. If there was sorrow in her nursing work, there was also the satisfaction of knowing she was doing something that truly mattered. Though she didn't have the marriage she had hoped for, she and Colin had learned to rub along tolerably well. As for love-well, she had Amy. A pity she would never have any other children.

Mouth tight, she told herself what a lucky woman she was.

Penreith, Wales

March 1815

Michael Kenyon neatly ticked off the last item on his list. The new mining machinery was working well, his recently hired estate manager was doing an excellent job, and his other businesses were running smoothly.

Since he had accomplished his other goals, it was time to look for a wife.

He rose from his desk and went to gaze at the mist-shrouded landscape. He had loved this dramatically beautiful valley and weathered stone manor from the moment he had seen them. Still, there was no denying that Wales in winter could be a lonely place, even for a man who was finally at peace with himself.

It had been more than five years since he had been involved with a woman. Five long, difficult years since the sick obsession that had destroyed every claim he had to honor and dignity. The madness had been useful during his warrior years, but it had warped his soul. Sanity had returned only after he had come perilously close to committing a deed that would have been truly unforgivable.

His mind sheered away, for it was painful to remember how he had betrayed his deepest beliefs. But the people he had wronged had forgiven him freely. It was time to stop flagellating himself and look to the future.

Which brought him back to the subject of a wife. His expectations were not unrealistic. While he was no paragon, he was presentable, well-born, and had a more than adequate fortune. He also had enough shortcomings that any self-respecting female would itch to improve him.

He wasn't looking for a grand passion. Christ, that was the last thing he wanted. He was incapable of that kind of love; what he had thought was a grand passion had been a warped, pathetic obsession. Instead of seeking romance, he would look for a woman of warmth and intelligence who would be a good companion. Someone with experience of life. Though she must be attractive enough to be beddable, great beauty was not necessary. In fact, based on his experience, stunning looks were a liability. Thank God he was past first youth and the idiotic susceptibility that went with it.

Personality and appearance were easy to assess. More difficult, but more vital, she must be honest and unflinchingly loyal. He had learned the hard way that without honesty, there was nothing.

Since this corner of Wales had few eligible females, he must go to London for the Season. It would be pleasant to spend a few months with no goal but pleasure. With luck, he would find a comfortable woman to share his life. If not, there would be other Seasons.

His reverie was interrupted by a knock. When he called permission to enter, his butler entered with a travel-stained pouch. "A message has arrived for you from London, my lord."

Michael opened the pouch to find a letter sealed with the signet of the Earl of Strathmore. He broke the wax with anticipation. The last time Lucien had sent such an urgent message, it had been a summons to join an intriguing rescue mission. Perhaps Luce had come up with something equally amusing to liven the late winter months.

Levity vanished when he scanned the terse lines of the message. He read it twice, then got to his feet. "Make sure Strathmore's messenger is properly taken care of, and tell the cook I might not be back for dinner. I'm going to Aberdare."

"Yes, my lord." Unable to restrain his curiosity, the butler asked, "Is there bad news?"

Michael smiled without humor. "Europe's worst nightmare has just come true."

His mind was so full of the news that Michael scarcely noticed the chilly mist as he rode across the valley to the grand mansion that housed the Earls of Aberdare. When he reached his destination, he dismounted and tossed his reins to a groom, then entered the house two steps at a time. As always when he visited Aberdare, he felt a sense of wonder that once again he could breeze into Nicholas's home as casually as when they had been schoolboys at Eton. Three or four years earlier, such ease had been as unthinkable as the sun rising in the west.

Since Michael was virtually a member of the family, the butler sent him directly to the morning room. He entered to find Lady Aberdare sitting beside a magnificently carved crib that held her infant son, Kenrick.

Michael smiled at the countess. "Good day, Clare. I gather that you can't bear to let Viscount Tregar out of your sight."

"Hello, Michael." Her eyes twinkled as she extended her hand. "It's very lowering-I feel exactly like a mother cat standing guard over her kittens. My friend Marged assures me that in another month or two, I shall become more sensible."

"You're always sensible." He kissed her cheek with deep affection. By her mere existence, Clare was an example of all that was good and true about womankind. Releasing her hand, he glanced into the crib. "Incredible how tiny fingers can be."

"Yet he has an amazing grip," she said proudly. "Give him a chance to demonstrate it."

Michael leaned over the crib and gingerly touched the baby's hand. Kenrick gurgled and locked his miniature fist forcefully around Michael's fingertip. Michael found himself unexpectedly moved. This minute scrap of humanity was living proof of Clare and Nicholas's love, with his father's wickedly charming smile and his mother's vivid blue eyes. Named for his paternal grandfather, Kenrick was a bridge from past to future.

There might have been a child of Michael's, who would have been almost five now…

Unable to bear the thought, he gently disengaged his finger and straightened. "Is Nicholas home?"