A shadow among shadows, he circled the castle. Though he hadn't done any housebreaking since that amusing little episode with Lucien, he didn't think the castle would be difficult to enter. The real question was where to find Catherine. She could be in their old room, or-stomach-turning thought-she might be sharing a bed with Haldoran in Ragnarok. But if her grandfather was still critically ill, she was probably with the old man.
Michael reached the back wall of the castle and studied the windows of the laird's rooms. A light glowed in the bedchamber. Hoping Catherine was there, he decided to enter by the sitting room so he could approach her without warning.
A cherry tree grew near the balcony. The upper limbs would put him within jumping distance. He leaped and aught the lowest limb, the bark rough against his palms. Then he began to climb.
Chapter 32
Catherine always slept lightly when she was staying with a patient. A faint sound brought her awake quickly. She glanced toward her grandfather. The light of the night candle showed that he was making feeble, restless movements, so she rose from her pallet and went to his bedside.
A physician had come from the mainland, examined the laird, and agreed that the problem seemed to be apoplexy. Impressed with Catherine's nursing experience, he had bled the patient again and returned to the mainland, leaving the sickroom in her charge. She had been grateful, both for the chance to care for her grandfather and because the task separated her from Haldoran.
She checked her patient's pulse. A little faster than it had been. "I have the feeling that you're very close to waking, Grandfather," she murmured. "Can you hear me?"
His fingers twitched, then went still. She found it encouraging that both sides of his body seemed to be working. That meant that the apoplexy might not have caused massive damage. She uttered a brief prayer that he would wake soon, and in reasonable control of his faculties.
A barely audible creaking, like a floorboard, came from the sitting room. Her stomach knotted. Perhaps Clive was coming to check on her; he had moved into a room across the hall. Or maybe it was one of his horrible men. Day and night, one of them waited outside the laird's door. Since the laird's valet was ancient and infirm, Haldoran was in theory lending his servants to help in the sickroom. In practice, she was as much a prisoner as if she were locked in a dungeon.
Another faint sound. She composed her features, glad she had lain down fully dressed instead of donning a nightgown.
She opened the door to the sitting room. At first glance all was normal. Then a dark figure emerged from the shadows. Tall and powerful, it moved toward her with the supernatural silence of death. And most frightening of all, the creature had no face. She gave a soft, involuntary cry.
A hard hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her voice. She shoved wildly at her assailant, feeling the solid weight of reality, not the chill of a phantom.
With one lithe movement, he pinned her against the wall, immobilizing her with his weight. "Quiet!"
She recognized the feel of his body even before she saw the green eyes blazing in the blackened face. Michael had returned.
"I'll take my hand away if you promise not to scream," he whispered. "Nod if you agree."
She nodded. He wore his menacing warrior's face, and she was not sure whether she was more afraid of him or for him. Nonetheless, her heart surged with involuntary pleasure in his presence.
"Given your record, I'm a fool to take your word," he said in an iron voice as he released her. "Remember that I can silence you quickly enough if necessary."
Wondering whether she dared tell him the truth or if she should try to send him away for his own safety, she asked warily, "Why are you here?"
His icy gaze bored into hers. "To learn what's really going on. When I thought things through, I realized your behavior didn't make much sense. Was Haldoran threatening you?"
If he had deduced that much, she would never be able to deceive him again. "Worse," she said with searing relief. "He has Amy."
"Damnation!" He closed his eyes for an instant, his expression rigid. "How?"
"On his trip to London, he called on the Mowbrys and told Anne I'd sent him to bring Amy to Skoal. Since he'd escorted them in Belgium, she saw no reason to doubt him." The defenses that had sustained her crumbled, leaving desolation. "Michael, I'm sorry, so sorry for what I did. I had no choice."
Desperate for his support, she reached out to him. After a moment of hesitation, he took her into his arms. She was shaking all over. His wool jersey was warm and softly scratchy against her cheek, as comforting as he was. Yet even in the midst of her grief, she recognized that he was different, more guarded than he had been before. That was not surprising. Though his mind might accept that she had acted under coercion, his emotions had taken a battering that would not easily heal. But for a few moments, she basked in the illusion of safety.
When she regained a measure of control, she said starkly, "It was Haldoran who killed Colin, not the Bonapartists."
"The bastard." Michael released her, his expression deadly. "So he's been planning this for some time."
"He said that if I didn't obey, he would kill you. And… and he made a point of saying that the island's legal marriage age is twelve, and Amy will be twelve next year."
Michael swore again. "Killing is too good for him. We must get Amy away immediately. Is she in the castle?"
"She's at Ragnarok. We haven't been able to talk, but Haldoran took me there yesterday and let me watch her walk in the garden. She's guarded whenever she leaves her room."
"Is she unharmed?"
"Yes. She doesn't know anything is wrong yet. He told her I was too busy nursing the laird to see her, and that she must be a good soldier and follow orders. But soon she'll start to become suspicious." Catherine swallowed. "I'm terrified that when she realizes she's a captive, she might do something reckless. She's like her father-utterly without fear."
"We'll have her before that happens," Michael promised.
Catherine rubbed her forehead, trying to think amid the tempest of her emotions. "Haldoran is sleeping in a room across the hall. He has four convicts working for him. I think two are here in the castle, one just outside the door. Thank heaven he didn't hear me cry out."
Michael glanced at the bed. "How is the laird?"
"A little better, I think, but still unconscious."
"No help there." He frowned. "If you leave him, will he be in any danger from Haldoran?"
It had occurred to Catherine how easily her grandfather could be smothered with a pillow. "I don't think so," she said, her voice troubled. "There's no advantage to killing him while I'm alive and the heir-but I don't know what Clive will do. I think he's half mad."
"Not mad. Evil." Michael ushered her toward the balcony. "It's time we were away."
The hall door opened and Haldoran swaggered into the room with a wolfish smile. Behind him were Doyle and another convict, both carrying shotguns. "Neither of you is going anywhere," Haldoran said curtly. "You shouldn't have given that charming little squeal of surprise when your lover arrived, Catherine, and the two of you shouldn't have wasted time talking."
Before Haldoran could say more, Michael sprang into action, hurling himself toward the intruders. At the same time, he shoved Catherine to one side so that she fell behind the sofa.
She was knocked breathless. For an instant she lay gasping, braced for the blast of a gun. It didn't come. Instead, there were sounds of smashing furniture.
Guessing that Haldoran didn't want to shoot for fear of waking the sleeping servants, she peered around the end of the sofa. Michael's swift assault had been effective, and Haldoran and Doyle lay stunned on the floor. Michael was now engaged in a ferocious struggle with the other convict. As she watched, he wrested the gun away and swung the stock in an arc. It smashed into the man's jaw with an ugly sound of breaking bone.