She rested her chin on her hand and admired the dramatic shadows that candlelight cast on Michael's face. 'What does that mean in practical terms?"
"I hope you like pigeon pie. The laird is the only one allowed to have a dovecote."
Catherine laughed. "That is the extent of feudal privilege? I'm disappointed."
He consulted the book. "Well, the laird pays feudal homage to the King of England, which is rare in these boring modern days." He scanned the next pages. "No doubt here's more, but the author prefers to wax enthusiastic over the spectacular cliffs and sea caves. I'll let you read the details yourself."
"Thank you." His fingertips brushed hers as he passed he volume over. Her skin prickled with aliveness. The intimacy of this meal was exactly what she had feared when she decided to ask him to help her. Too much closeness. Too much yearning.
She finished her wine in a swallow and got to her feet. "I'll retire now. It's been a long day."
He emptied his own glass. "Tomorrow will be even longer."
As they went upstairs, he held her arm in an easy, husbandly way. But if they were really wed, she would be used o his quiet courtesy and intense masculinity. She would not feel a giddiness more suitable to a girl of sixteen than a widow of twenty-eight.
They reached her bedchamber, and Michael unlocked the door. When he stepped back so she could enter, she looked into his eyes and knew she should not have had a second, glass of wine. Not that she was tipsy; merely relaxed. It would be simple, and friendly, to raise her face for a goodnight kiss. And, oh, how good it would be to have his arms around her.
Unhappily she recognized that desire was flowing through her like warm syrup, sweet and melting. Desire, her treacherous enemy. She swallowed hard. "By the way, I forgot to mention that Elspeth McLeod and Will Ferris have married. They're living in Lincolnshire and expecting their first child."
"I'm glad. They seemed well suited." Michael smiled down at her. "Elspeth was almost as intrepid as you."
The warmth of his admiration almost destroyed what sense she had left. Hastily she said, "Good night, Michael."
He touched a warning finger to her lips. "Don't use my real name," he said quietly. "I know it will be difficult, but you must think of me as Colin."
Hesitating, she said, "It will be easier to call you by some endearment." And such a term would safely express her secret longings. "Sleep well, my dear."
He put the room key in her hand. This time his touch did not tingle. It burned.
She swung the door shut and locked it, then sank onto; the bed. Her tongue touched her lips where his finger had made that feather light contact. Though she could conceal her love, it was far harder to suppress her sensual responses.
She clenched her hands and thought of the reasons why desire must be resisted.
Because Michael thought her an honorable married woman.
Because of that lovely girl in the park, who had made Michael laugh.
Most of all, because she herself could not endure the inevitable consequences of passion.
Such good reasons. Why couldn't they cool the fever in her blood as she tossed and turned throughout the night?
The small port of Penward was the gateway to Skoal. They drove directly to the waterfront, where half a dozen fishing boats were moored in the bay. Catherine climbed from the chaise gratefully, sore from two days of being jostled at high speed.
Together they approached the only person in sight, a sturdily built man who sat on a stone wall and puffed a clay pipe as he gazed out to sea. Michael said, "Excuse me, sir. We wish to go to Skoal. Do you know someone who could take us there?"
The man turned, his gaze passing over Michael and coming to rest on Catherine. "You'd be the laird's granddaughter."
She bunked in surprise. "How did you know that?"
"Island eyes," he said succinctly. "Word came from London this morning that you would be here soon. The laird sent me over to wait for you. You made good time." He got to his feet. "I'm George Fitzwilliam. I'll take you across."
Catherine and Michael exchanged a glance. The solicitor had wasted no time in notifying the laird. From now on, they would be under constant observation.
The baggage was transferred to Fitzwilliam's boat and the chaise dismissed. They set out across the choppy water. Shortly after the mainland disappeared behind them, the captain said, "Skoal," and gestured to the southwest.
Catherine studied the dark, jagged shape on the horizon. The sun was low in the sky, making it hard to see details. Slowly the island resolved into cliffs and hills. Seabirds wheeled above with slowly beating wings, their cries mournful in the empty sky. Occasionally one plunged arrow-straight into the sea after its prey.
They sailed partway around the island, close enough to see waves crashing against the base of the cliffs. The guidebook had been right about the spectacular scenery, but Skoal's first impression was forbidding. Catherine found it strange to think that this remote spot might become her home.
Michael's arm went around her. She didn't know if he was responding to the temperature or her nerves. Either way, she was grateful.
A break showed in the cliffs and the boat turned into it. She held her breath as they sailed between jagged pillars of rock. At night or in a storm, this would be a dangerous passage.
Inside was a small bay with three docks and several moored boats. As they approached the shore, an odd, low carriage pulled by a team of ponies rattled into view from behind two sheds. It halted and the door swung open. A tall, lean man with a weathered face climbed out and walked without haste to the dock where Fitzwilliam was mooring his boat.
Michael jumped to the dock, then turned and took Catherine's hand to help her from the bobbing boat. Releasing his clasp with reluctance, she turned to the newcomer. He was in his mid-thirties and dressed casually, more like a clerk than a gentleman, but he had a quiet air of authority.
He inclined his head. "Mrs. Melbourne, I presume."
She opened her mouth to reply, then paused, struck by his clear, blue-green eyes. They were the brilliant shade she had seen only in her parents and daughter. She offered her hand. "Yes. Seeing your eyes makes me understand why I was identified so easily by the solicitor in London and Captain Fitzwilliam."
He smiled as he took her hand. "You'll grow accustomed to it. Half the people here have the island eyes. I'm Davin Penrose, constable of Skoal. I'll take you to the laird's home." He had a soft, rolling accent unlike any she'd ever heard.
"Penrose," she said with interest. "Are you and I related?"
"Almost everyone on Skoal is-there are only five family names in common usage. Penrose, Fitzwilliam, Tregaron, De Salle, and Olson."
Names as diverse as the island's heritage, she noted. Taking Michael's elbow to bring him forward, she said, "Mr. Penrose, this is my husband, Captain Melbourne."
It was the first time she had introduced Michael with Colin's name. It felt very strange.
Unperturbed, Michael said, "A pleasure, Mr. Penrose. What does it mean to be constable?"
"That's the Skoalan name for the laird's steward, though I have other duties as well." Davin shook hands, then gave orders for the luggage to be loaded. A few minutes later they were rumbling toward the sheer cliffs that surrounded the bay.
Michael said, "There's a tunnel?"
Davin nodded. "It was cut through the cliffs about fifty years ago by miners from Cornwall. This is the best bay on the island, but it was useless before the tunnel."
Catherine glanced out and saw that the road climbed steeply until it disappeared into a dark opening in the cliff. The light diminished sharply when they entered the crudely cut tunnel. The shaft was barely large enough for the carriage. "The ponies are strong to pull us uphill at such an angle."