"Yes, but it's also safe and comfortable. If it's offered, I can't afford to turn it down." She shrugged. "I don't know about happiness, but I can be content. That will be enough."
Giving in to impulse, he asked the question that had been haunting him since she asked for his help. "What about Colin?"
Her jaw tensed. "With Davin's help, I can run Skoal myself."
Michael caught his breath, wondering if her words meant that she and her husband might separate permanently. If they were already estranged, it would explain why she was not worried about how to bring Colin here later. His heartbeat accelerated as he thought of the implications. Would it be dishonorable to court a woman whose marriage was over, even if the legal bonds had not been dissolved? In fact, he realized with another jolt, it was possible that the bonds could be severed. Divorce was very rare, and it took money and influential friends to obtain one. However, Michael had both, and he would spend every penny he had to free Catherine if that was what she wanted.
The thought was stunning. Wondering if he was reading far too much into her words, Michael asked hesitantly, "Several times you've implied that Colin might not be part of your future. Are you considering leaving him?"
Her eyes squeezed shut. "Don't ask me about Colin," she whispered. "Please don't."
The wall of control he had erected with such painstaking care cracked. "Catherine." He laid his hand on her shoulder. Her skin was warm under the sun-baked muslin. "Catherine."
She drew an uneven breath, her lips trembling. Unable to bear the sight of her unhappiness, he slid his arm around her shoulders. With his other hand, he stroked her hair. Tears glimmered between her closed lids. Tenderly he kissed the fragile skin, tasting salt amid the prickliness of her lashes.
She made a choked sound in her throat and twisted, not away, but toward him. Her breasts compressed against his ribs and her arms circled his waist. He brushed back dark, gossamer strands of windblown hair and traced the delicate whorls of her ear with his tongue. She exhaled roughly, her full lips parting. She was unbearably alluring, a vulnerable Siren. He bent his head and covered her mouth with his.
She tasted of apples and ale, tangy and luscious. Her eyes remained closed, as if to deny the impropriety of this embrace, but her mouth answered his, hot and needy.
His heart began hammering, the clamor in his blood drowning reason. He pressed her back, the coarse sand crunching underneath the blanket. He had dreamed of her like this, her yielding body beneath his, the hard beat of her pulse visible under the pale skin of her throat. His hand shook as he cupped her breast. Soft, voluptuous, womanly.
Her dress was secured with a button on each shoulder. He unfastened them with clumsy fingers. Then he pulled down her bodice and the petticoat beneath, baring her breasts. Hoarsely he murmured, "You are beautiful, so beautiful."
He drew a velvet nub of nipple into his mouth. It hardened instantly, wickedly sweet. He wanted to suckle her essence into himself, to absorb the warmth and femaleness that he had craved all of his life.
She moaned and arched against him. He cradled her breasts and held them together, then rubbed his face between the warm, satiny curves, feeling the pounding of her heart. Her fingers slid into his hair, stroking through again and again.
He no longer gave a damn about marriage, husbands, wives. This was mating, savage and impossible to deny. In a just world, she would be his, protected by his strength and caring.
When had justice been part of his life? He would make her his own, now and forever.
His palm moved downward over the lithe curves of her torso, coming to rest on the mound at the junction of her thighs. Beneath the flimsy fabric was heat and the promise of musky welcome. As he caressed her, she became utterly still.
Her eyes snapped open and she cried out, "Oh, God, what am I doing?" Frantically she scrambled away from him, one hand holding her loose bodice over her breasts.
Taut and aching, he reached out to draw her back. "Catherine…?"
She jerked away from his hand as if it were a serpent.
The stark fear in her sea-colored eyes shocked him back to sanity with the abruptness of ice water. Bloody hell, what had he been doing?
Breaking the most solemn vow he had ever made to himself.
"Christ, I'm sorry. So damned sorry." He buried his face in his hands. His whole body trembled, and not only from the frustration that burned viciously through his veins. "I didn't mean that to happen. I swear it."
Voice shaking, she said, "Neither did I. I'm sorry, Michael. The fault was mine."
It was true that she had not resisted. Quite the contrary. But he had taken advantage of her misery, the grief she felt about her marriage. Though he had not done so deliberately, it was still wrong. Sweet Jesus, would he never learn? He thought he had learned from past mistakes, but obviously not.
Escape from the island would be the wisest course. However, that would leave Catherine with difficult explanations and might endanger her future security. They must find a way to cobble up the ragged tears in their relationship.
He raised his head. She had refastened her dress and seemed poised to flee. An incoming wave slapped over his bare feet. He stood and rolled his trousers to his knees, then extended his hand to her. "Walk with me. Splashing along the beach should help clear our scrambled wits."
His matter-of-fact tone had the desired effect. Catherine stood and shyly gave him one hand, using the other to catch up her skirts. Her ankles were slim and shapely. He looked away and led her along the beach. Low waves broke on the sand and ran hissing forward to drench their feet, then retreated.
"Something like this was bound to happen," Michael said in a conversational tone. "It's not for nothing that society says men and women should not be alone together unless they're married. The way we've been living in each other's pockets is enough to strain even the best of intentions." He gave her a slanting glance. "It doesn't help that I think you're the most attractive woman I've ever known."
"Oh, Lord." Catherine stopped, paralyzed by dismay. "If I had known how you felt, I never would have asked for your aid. I've put you in an intolerable position."
"How were you to know? I did my damnedest to behave myself in Belgium." He tugged on her hand and got her walking again. "Even though our little charade has played holy hell with my self-control, I'm glad you came to me for help. Though I'll understand if your trust is gone. I deserve to be horsewhipped."
"Please, don't blame yourself," she begged. "This whole convoluted mess is my fault."
The knowledge that he was behaving honorably while she was deceiving him sickened her. For a moment, she teetered on the verge of telling him the whole truth: about Colin's death, and her own secret love. But the reasons for silence were as strong as ever. Stronger, if anything. "We must leave the island immediately. I'll tell my grandfather that I can't bear to be separated from Amy any longer."
"He'll tell you to send for her. He doesn't want you to leave, and I can hardly blame him. The least we can do is stay the full fortnight. I'll sleep up on the battlements. That will remove the worst of the temptation."
"You can't do that," she exclaimed.
"Of course I can," he said mildly. "I've slept beneath the stars many times before. I rather enjoy it."
She bit her lip. "I'm causing you so much trouble. I'm the one who deserves to be horsewhipped, not you."
His mouth curved ruefully. "Beautiful women are for kissing, not whipping. Which is why I'll sleep on the roof. We'll manage."
No doubt they would. Yet as she remembered the fierce pleasure of his lovemaking, she knew that what was preserving her virtue was not honor, but fear.