Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  He hooked his hand in her neckline. "I'm havin' mine now." He jerked down and she screamed.

  An ominously quiet voice-sounded behind him. "I said you could look, Rouge. Not touch. . .not ever touch." Long brown fingers appeared on Rouge's shoulder, jerked him bodily away from the girl, then held him for that fraction of a second the sodden giant had left before a hard- clenched fist stretched his length across a table, smashing crockery and glassware, sending women shrieking. "Remember," Sean Culhane warned coldly, towering with bloody knuckles over the dazed brute, "because if you ever forget, I'll hang you!" He caught up the ball by its chain, grasped Catherine's wrist, and dragged her out of the room after him, leaving her to manage the torn blouse with one hand. She had scant time to rejoice over her rescue for he headed straight to the stair.

  Guessing his intention, Catherine tried to tear free. "No! Let me go!" He turned so suddenly in midstride that she ran into him. With a muffled curse, he bent and, upending her over his shoulder, carried her like a sack of feed. He kicked open the door to his room and unceremoniously dumped her on his bed.

  Instantly, she rolled off. She landed on the carpet at his feet with a bare leg suspended upward by the chain her tormentor held, giving him a fetching view of her naked lower body. Despite her furious grab at her slipping blouse, he glimpsed soft, rose-tipped breasts. With increasing panic, Catherine saw his eyes go hot and clouded, and, cheeks flaming, she tried to cover herself, but her efforts brought the skirts nearly up to her waist. Swaying slightly, he began to reel her in, and she realized with horror he was drunk.

  Culhane jerked open his clothing, then crouched and thrust a knee between her thighs. He dragged her wrists over her head, his voice roughened with desire. "You rode my nag until he nearly dropped. Now I'm going to ride you . . ." Gasping at his swift, spearing invasion as his body covered hers, Catherine involuntarily arched against him, a movement that only drew his sex deeper into hers and a choked sound from his lips. He began to thud his lean, powerful body into hers with harsh urgency, as if with his release he could exorcise her, but the yielding caress of her warm, tight gloving lured him deeper. She was wild under him, fighting him, but her breasts were soft under his chest and her hair was a silken fan. His desire built into an unbearable tension at the base of his groin, then burst with a flooding warmth.

  Slowly his breathing evened and he eased ento his elbows, looking at her with a hint of puzzlement in his eyes.

  Catherine, who had experienced nothing but fear and revulsion, found her own satisfaction in an outpouring of contempt. "You're nothing but a disgusting, drunken animal! Less!"

  His eyes narrowed coldly. "Despise me all you like, but if you know what's good for you, keep your legs open and your mouth shut!"

  Her eyes dilated into a slanting, wicked stare, she slashed at his face. She whitened when his fingers caught and dug cruelly into her wrists, but continued her attempt to throw him off.

  "You stubborn little bitch! I'll break you if it's the last thing fever do!" Jamming an arm across her throat, he yanked down the blouse, then tore at the band of her shirt. Grabbing a fistful of both garments, he dragged them off her thrashing body. Only added pressure on her windpipe quieted her. She lay pinned, breasts heaving in a struggle to breath. Suddenly his weight left her, but as she whipped to a defensive crouch, he slipped the chain through an iron qlip bolted to the bed and snapped its padlock shut.

  Glaring at the clip, Catherine hissed, "Flannery had a busy day! You even deny me the privacy of my own kennel!"

  Culhane began to strip off his shirt. "I've neglected your education," he said coldly. "You're my cumal, female chattel no better than a slave." He dragged off his boots. "As for privacy, you lost that when you tried to escape."

  "I'll never be your slave . . . your anything!" she spat.

  Ignoring her, he poured himself a brandy from a desk decanter, then smiled sardonically as he lifted the glass to his lips.

  To her discomfiture, he slowly discarded his breeches. Eyes shying from his crotch, she focused on his chest, where she noticed a scar along his left side. Observing the direction of her attention, he said, "Knife. The other was from a bayonet." Her gaze roved his chest until he grinned faintly. "Lower."

  And there, next to where she did not want to look, was the faded scar. She grimaced. "A pity your assailant wasn't more to the point."

  Culhane's grin grew wicked. "Had he been, you'd shortly be a frustrated young lady." He assessed her body. Defiantly, she eyed him back, but gradually she flushed under his maddeningly minute inspection.

  Sean's gaze lingered on small, upthrust breasts, tiny waist and flat belly, along slim, long legs, then returned at last to the curly pelt between his captive's thighs. The girl was fetching enough to tempt a saint, he considered critically, but what was there about her that attracted him? Women were merely an accustomed diversion, but this one was a paradox: innocent, yet seductive; appealing, yet defiant.

  Catherine's eyes widened nervously as he knelt over her, his hands on either side of her head. "You've spent your rotten lust. What more do you want?"

  "Everything," he murmured. Then, his hands never touching her, his cropped black head lowered. His lips found the delicate curve of a collarbone and lightly moved along her neck to the hollow of her throat. His lips were warm, brushing her flesh as lightly as a butterfly's wings, and Catherine's hands strained against his shoulders, fighting the strange sensation that flushed her skin. She had already learned to her rue that he would and could do as he liked, but her helplessness was galling. His kisses explored the shadowed hollows under her pinioned arms and lingered along the swelling undercurves of her breasts, making her twist in unbearable anticipation. She gasped as his tongue flicked her nipples. Teasing them into hard little points, he lashed them into aching fullness, then took them into his mouth, suckled and nipped them softly. Heat pulsed into her groin. "Stop it," she whimpered. "Damn you, stop it. . . oh, stop."

  When it suited him, Culhane left her breasts and teasingly licked her ribs, moved down to her belly, then nuzzled the flesh along the inside of her thighs. As she lay weak and innocent, without warning the soft roughness of his tongue slipped into her. She arched and cried out, tears of humiliation spangling her lashes. "Oh, God, no!" Sobbing, she wrenched at his hair as she tried desperately to evade tremors of pleasure that swiftly mounted in intensity. She moaned, hating the sound, believing she would die if his torturing caresses did not stop, yet not wanting them to stop. With a soft laugh, he lifted himself from her and tugged her hands away. Vaguely disappointed, she lay slack. Sprawled. And open. She shuddered weakly as he entered her. There was no pain now, only ease and the powerful rhythm of his body, until finally he buried himself in the heart of her and from a long way off she heard his muted groan. Then, after a moment, she felt empty and strangely melancholy. A cover lightly settled over her. Hazily she knew she did not want to stay in Sean Culhane's bed, but she was drifting into sleep even as he extinguished the candle.

  The moon was high when the Irishman was startled awake by Catherine's cry. She was sleeping on her back with a hand outflung, the other curled beside her head. In sleep, she was childlike, vulnerable. Her lips were parted slightly, the tender underlip begging for kisses, but as he started to answer their invitation, her face contorted as if in agony, her hands closed into fists, and her body convulsed. "No, please." The cry ended in a whimper. "Non, Maman . . . je ne peux pas. Je t'en pris . . ." Perspiration broke out on her brow as she went rigid, then just as mysteriously relaxed. He thought she had fallen into deep sleep again, when she crooned sadly, "Lh. . . lit C'est tout Qa va ma.intena.nL" Brokenly, she began to sing a disjointed French lullaby.

  Careful not to awaken her, Sean smoothed back Catherine's damp hair and wiped the perspiration from her face with a corner of the bedsheet. All the while, he considered her speculatively. So the gibberish Peg mentioned is French and I'm not the girl's only ogre, he mused. Perhaps the key to these nightmares is also t
he key to her resistance. And if you use the key? another part of him asked. What will she be then? Nothing, he answered coldly. She'll be nothing to me. But the strange lullaby haunted him into sleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  Silken Irons

  Awakened the next morning by a sullen downpour, Culhane opened his bloodshot eyes. His head pounded as if Mephisto had kicked it. Irritable and fur-mouthed, he sourly eyed his split knuckles inches from his face. He flexed them; they were stiff and sore. Yawning, he started to stretch, then felt something warm against his back. Turning gingerly, he found Catherine snuggled against him, soft hair tickling his shoulder. With a sigh, she burrowed closer and he scowled. The little wench hadn't the sense of a lamb sidling up to a wolf. Suddenly, as if she were aware of danger, her eyes opened, startling him with their blue, starlike intensity. They widened when her proximity to his naked body seeped into her consciousness. "Don't worry," he assured her grimly. "You wouldn't make more than a mouthful. And nothing appeals to me less than food at the moment." Taking no chances, she wriggled away. The smoothness of her body against his triggered an even less welcome reaction in his groin. He sat up abruptly, then grunted as his hangover detonated. He shot her a scowl. "Damn it, cover yourself if you don't want to spend the day on your backside!" Hastily she snatched up the bedclothes. Taunted by her breasts still impudently prodding at the sheets, Sean swore and hauled himself out of bed.

  A cool voice came from behind him. "If I cure that headache, will you leave me alone?"

  "Bargains, baggage? I thought you understood we were beyond that." Cheeky little witch, he thought sardonically. Hot as flame last night; an icicle in the morning. He knew she had not reached complete fulfillment the night before, but he doubted if she realized that.

  Catherine watched the Irishman warily, disliking his calculating smile. Was he thinking how easily he could cheat on any agreement? He was nothing if not unpredictable.

  By hard daylight, it was less difficult to understand how her body had turned traitor. Sean Culhane was physically magnificent and beautifully proportioned. As he paced, the symmetry of hard muscle moving under his smooth brown hide hinted at dangerous strength her frail power had not even tested. Certainly he was an expert lover; otherwise he could not have aroused an unwilling partner- literally, she thought disgustedly, without lifting a finger. She must find a way to hold him at bay!

  "Would you be thinking of hemlock for the headache, minx?" .

  She started with a guilty flush, then retorted sarcastically, "My mother had effective remedies for drunkards. I'll give directions to Peg, so you should be utterly safe unless you've also given her a reason to poison you."

  "Your viper tongue serves well enough. What a fang in your father's heel you must be!" From her gasp of pain and rage, he knew he had inadvertently scored a hit.

  "Ohh, I'd like to remedy that headache of yours with a hangrope! Poison's too quick for you, too decent. . . too . . ."

  "Quiet?" he suggested ominously, grabbing his head. "Call Peg before I sail you out of the window like the harpy you are!"

  Catherine scrambled across the bed for the bell rope, inadvertently treating the Irishman to a view of thigh and hip. As she tugged the pull, he sighed and grabbed for his robe.

  "Well, and how are we this fine mornin'," bubbled Peg minutes later.

  "Bloodthirsty," snarled Culhane, jerking his head at Catherine.

  She ignored him. "Come closer, Peg. I've a recipe for you." When the woman curiously obeyed, Catherine began to whisper in her ear.

  "What's she telling you?" demaiided Sean suspiciously.

  Peg looked over her shoulder. "If ye knew, ye'd never hold it down."

  Culhane gave her a black look, but in all his life he had never looked as forbidding as the brew that arrived. The color of long-spoiled milk, its stench brought sweat to his forehead. "This has more the look of revenge than remedy."

  "You don't have to drink it," Catherine said sweetly. "Splitting headaches cure themselves . . . eventually."

  "Bitch," he said shortly, and raised the mug.

  "Drink it all at once," she prompted. Faintly green, he upended the mug and gulped. Turning a deeper shade of green, the Irishman expelled his breath. He gave them an anguished look and bolted for the terrace. Throwing himself half over the stone balustrade, he retched violently. Sometime later he reappeared. Though pale and wet with sweat and rain, his face lacked its sickly tinge. "Mary and Saint Michael, what deadly brew was that?" Suddenly, he frowned suspiciously at Catherine, then furiously at Peg. "That devil's apprentice has been helping in the kitchen. God knows what rot she's been slipping in the food with both grimy fists."

  Remembering the dirty bread, Catherine could not suppress a wicked smile.

  He glared at her as he poured a glass of water. "Smirk, will you? I'll wager you've never had a well-administered thrashing in your life, have you, brat?"

  Hastily rearranging her expression, she backed away across the bed. "You promised you wouldn't touch me if I cured your headache! Well, you haven't a single twinge now!"

  Culhane gargled and spat into a basin, then gulped the rest of the water. His glare over the rim of the glass became evil. "Oh, don't I though? Women create more headaches than liquor any day, and you're th6 prize pain of the lot!"

  Slapping the glass down, he advanced determinedly on the bed. Bombarding him with pillows and bedding, Catherine hissed in panic, "You promised! Cheater. Villain. Liar!"

  Through the hail of linen, he ordered, "Out, Peg!"

  "Stay!" the assailed one pleaded.

  "Out!"

  As Peg vanished, so did Catherine's ammunition. Culhane's long reach grabbed her by the scruff and dragged her flailing body across his lap as his hand firmly descended on her buttocks.

  Tears of rage and pain sprang to her eyes. In all her short life, no one had ever beaten her. Relentlessly, his hand came down harder. "Liar!" she shrieked. Every time he smacked her bottom she screamed, "Liar!" until her voice was stifled and filled with. sobs. Suddenly she was stretched on the bed, the sheets cool against her stinging backside. Through her tears she saw thick-lashed, storm green eyes close to hers.

  "No," he said huskily, "no liar. I said I wouldn't touch you like this." And his mouth covered hers softly, warmly seeking, rousing a shimmering heat in her. Her lips parted helplessly and his tongue slipped between them, probing, teasing, then hungrily, fiercely, until she moaned. Then mercifully, he was no longer kissing her, though his eyes were dark and his breath ragged. "No more bargains, imp." His lips brushed hers in a whisper. "Remember."

  Then his weight was gone and Catherine felt the same strange sense of loss as the night before when he had withdrawn from her body. Covertly watching him from under wet lashes, she was astonished when he turned his back and quickly pulled on his breeches. How could the brute extinguish his ardor at will and turn prudish when she knew perfectly well he had not the modesty of a savage? She sat bolt upright and, after a wince at the resulting pain, wiped harshly at her damp, cheeks. "Do you intend to molest me or not?"

  His back still to her to shield the bulge at his crotch, Culhane dunked a brush in his shaving mug and grinned into the mirror. "Disappointed?"

  Flushing, she snapped, "Hardly! I'd simply like to know whether I may dress without fear of having my only clothing shredded during one of your . . . fits."

  "Any wretch would be driven to a fit of frenzy in the chill of your welcoming arma." He calmly began to lather his face. "Still, you'd do well to acquire a decent regard for my property, although if you begin a brawl each time I utilize the rest of it"—his eyes raked her deliberately—"you can blame no one but yourself when you end up without a scrap to your back, a state which will no doubt provide fascination for my men, and inconvenience to yourself. I'll not have Peg's meager coffer depleted to indulge your foolishness."

  Catherine was momentarily dumbstruck, unable to find a sufficiently scathing remark to put the monster in his place. "What you call fool
ishness, I call honor; although you're too coarse to recognize it. If my arms ever open to you in welcome, it will be from the grave."

  Culhane's reply was heavily tinged with sarcasm. "I wondered when you'd get around to speechmaking. You were meek enough the night I divested you of your possibly technical virginity, which would have gone at auction at any rate. Why no noble oratory then?"

  Her assurance slipped a notch. "I. . . I don't remember that night. The actual—"

  "Ha!" Culhane's tone was scathing, but he watched her keenly. "There's the flimsiest excuse in history! Half of creation's females missing a maidenhead have had convenient lapses of memory." Wiping his face, the Irishman turned and his tone became lightly threatening. "Were my efforts so tame that they left no impression on your mind?"

  Catherine's fingers locked into the chain links, her eyes the dark pools of desperation he remembered from the night he had first taken her. "I. . . you . . . I don't remember! I don't know!" The last was a defensive cry.

  Relentlessly he goaded, "Come, girl, you must remember. Was it rainbows and roses?"

  Eyes widening, she began to tear hysterically at the collar. "Take it off! It's choking me! I don't remember anything!"

  Culhane swiftly crossed the room, took her by the shoulders, and shook her roughly until he dislodged her hold on the irons. She sagged away from him, dazed. "All right, Catherine. Well let it go . . . for now. Be still." Noticing she had already badly bruised her neck, he released her abruptly and unlocked the manacle from the bed clip. She watched, unable to suppress the hope in her eyes, but it quickly died as he made no further move to free her.

  "Peg will give you new duties, less pleasant than your current ones, although many of them will be outside the house."

  Catherine felt a faint surge of relief and bewilderment. Nothing could be more unpleasant than monotonous confinement, but to let her range abroad after an escape attempt? Another thought struck her. "I . . . have no shawl."