Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "Peg will take care of that. As far as your personal service to me"—he dropped the chain—"you'll present yourself at my door each night. If I see fit to answer your knock, you'll enter and be prepared to bed me. That means you'll be clean and in a civil temper. If I'm otherwise occupied, return to your own quarters."

  Catherine listened with rekindling rage. "If you expect me to play whore to your grand seigneur, you're much mistaken! It will be a cold day in hell before I come to service you!"

  Culhane's eyes narrowed. "Service me or service my men, but take your choice here and now. I've no taste for overused women."

  She paled. "But last night you threatened to hang a man if he. . ."

  "Trespassed on my preserve. Off it, you're fair game. I'll not lift a finger if Rouge Flannery spreads you at my table with your toes twirled about my wine goblet." He watched her slim shoulders sag, and read defeat in lusterless eyes. "What's your decision?"

  "There's nothing to decide. Whore to one or many, it makes no real difference, does it?" Her voice grew bitter. "I choose you. Better to have the loathesome act done with as quickly as possible. Shall I be permitted to return to my cell after you've spent your filth in my body?"

  Culhane whitened and, catching the chain, wrenched her face up to his. "Be careful, Countess. If you don't please me, the barracks is a short walk."

  Her eyes were black with hate. "If I die, it's no walk at all, neither to your lecherous bed nor their flea-ridden cots, so perhaps you do leave me a choice!"

  His teeth bared an inch from hers as his fingers caught painfully in her hair. "Hear me, girl. Do anything so foolish as to die without my permission and I'll have your father's head within the day!"

  Her resolution faltered. "If. . . if I please you, will you spare him?"

  Loosening his grip on the chain, he shook his head. "You can but delay the time." Her eyes went dead. "The prospect may seem less bleak by and by." He disliked the turn of the conversation. Her compliance was too much like that of a sacrificial maiden bravely offering herself to a troll. Her body, yet unawakened, might too easily become frigid. Still, did it matter what she became once he had had his fill of her? Why not take a revenge that would prove endless? Why did he want only to kiss that vulnerable mouth and brush away her cobweb terrors?

  Abruptly he scooped up his shirt and pulled it on. Not until he had dressed completely did he look at her again. The rain-hazed light bathed her nude body in a weird, cold glow that limned her features like those of a da Vinci Magdalene, both pure and profane. The mothwing lashes were shuttered, the iron collar harsh against the shadowed hollow of her throat. Her fingers, caught in the chain, gave it intermittent little tugs. Deriving scant victory from her hopelessness, Sean left her.

  When Peg came into the bedroom, Catherine, clutching her torn clothing together, stood on the balcony. She neither turned nor spoke, but gazed fixedly downward at the terrace below.

  " 'Twould be twice a messy end, lass. Sean can hardly have perfumed the flaggin' with his upheaval."

  Catherine turned, her eyes dark with desperation. "He means to make me his whore!"

  Peg's eyes softened. "Ah. The young ruffian's told you it's either him or the dogs, eh?" At Catherine's bleak nod, the Irishwoman patted her hand. "Most of his black rage is spent on himself. I truly don't think he would hurt ye."

  "It's not that I most fear! I cannot bear him. I cannot bear his touch. But he swears to kill my father if I. . ."

  "You don't want to die. Terrifyin' as he seems, he's not Rouge Flannery. He's young and strong and clean as a whistle, not to mention he looks more than passable. It could be worse, lass." Peg patted her shoulder. "If ye meet him halfway, who knows . . ."

  "I'll not be his whore!"

  "Then hold strong. Don't let him best ye. 'Twill take more than an ordinary woman's wiles to tame him, I'll warrant ye."

  "You're surely not suggesting I learn to love that brute!"

  Peg began bustling about the room picking up bedding. "That's strictly yer affair, lass. Likely he's too hard and too much a man for a soft, gentlebred thing to handle. Ye'd want a manageable sort that never throws up in the peonies, who never wants ye so bad he tears yer clothes off—she looked pointedly at Catherine's torn blouse—"but says please afore he tops ye without darin' to lift more than the hem of yer nightgown." She began to make up the bed. "Love Sean Culhane?" Peg looked at Catherine appraisingly. "Ye couldn't, lews. Ye could never love him enough. Ye're too stubborn, too stiff-necked, maybe too cold." She whacked a pillow into place. "That man's heart has an achin' empty hole all the love ye're capable of couldn't heal. He's near wild with the pain of it, lashin' at anyone who comes too close. Even Brendan—"

  "Brendan?" Catherine interrupted, eager to take up any topic in order to leave the uncomfortable subject.

  "His father," Peg said briefly,

  "What of his mother?" Catherine persisted.

  "Dead when he was a boy. Megan O'Neill Culhane, she was. Proud as Lucifer of the O'Neill," the housekeeper added pointedly.

  "What was she like? She must have been beautiful."

  "Beauty is as beauty does." Peg bustled around the end of the bed. "Sit here, lass, and let me sew that up. No need givin' the lads a view."

  Now genuinely curious, Catherine was not diverted. "You mean to say Megan Culhane was less than she ought to have been?"

  Peg jabbed the needle into the cloth as if it were her former mistress. "She took Sean off up the coast while Brendan was in Dublin's Newgate Prison. And she never came back, even after he was home."

  "Is that why Sean Culhane is so bitter? Because of his parents?"

  "The rift hurt him enough; Liam, too. But Liam grew up with a home and inheritance while Sean wasn't acknowledged as Brendan's legal son until he showed up here when he was ten."

  "But Megan was his wife! How could he let his son be viewed as a bastard?" Catherine blurted, shocked. "What a horrible man!"

  "No, not horrible. Hurt. He loved the lad better than his life, better than Liam, and in that he was wrong. In his eyes, Megan stole the son he should have had by his side."

  "I still don't understand why he waited to recognize his son unless . . . Sean Culhane is not his son."

  "A good many folk hold that notion, but none can say a thing against Megan. She was wild, but an open affair she never had. If ye could have seen Brendan and Sean together, ye'd know it an't likely. They were a like height, black Irish with an easy way of movin'. Brendan didn't have Sean's sinful good looks, but I an't never seen another man who did. Sean gets his moods from his mother. And his eyes. Those green eyes are Megan's."

  Peg bit off the thread at the knot, then drifted on. "Maybe the lad was still too much Megan's or perhaps 'twas his coldness, but in all those years, he was never more than polite to his da. Megan deliberately filled Sean's life, leavin' no room for anyone else. When she died, 'twas like she tore out his heart and took it to the grave."

  "You still hate her, don't you?"

  Peg's chin lifted and she stared into Catherine's eyes. "Aye, I hate her. She's like an evil dream that comes back night after night, bringin' no good and no peace. In life, she was no better." Peg looked abstractedly past Catherine's shoulder, as if someone were there, then shook herself and glanced out the window. High overhead, the sun edged from behind rain clouds. "For pity's sake, we've wasted the mornin' entirely! Come along, girl. There's work to do."

  Shortly, the countess de Vigny was in the kitchen courtyard, up to her elbows in a .steaming vat of water so hot it reddened her skin. Rebellious tendrils of hair were plastered to her perspiring face as she shifted heavy, wet clothing with a long paddle, then wielded a washboard in gray water scummy with oil from the woolens. The first hour was the worst; after that the body achieved a monotonous, indefinitely sustainable rhythm. The two sturdy, ruddy- faced laundresses said nothing to her or each other.

  Now I'm to be a mindless, hopeless drudge, she thought. The other women, who sneered at her efforts
to wring out bulky woolens, put her to filling lines with dripping, wind- whipped wash that buffeted her. Her bare feet, bruised by loose flagging pebbles and the dragging weight, grew mercifully numb. The morning drizzle eased long enough to make line drying barely possible, but Catherine was too tired to be thankful, and as the sun sank, she dropped her laundry basket with the others in a storage room. Her whole body protested when she straightened, yet she still had to perform another duty that weighted her soul far more than chains.

  In a daze of exhaustion, Catherine bathed in a water bucket in her cell. Without bothering with supper, she slowly mounted the stairs to. Sean Culhane's bedroom. On his way down to dinner, Liam met her there. His face filled with startled dismay as she dully stood aside. She was white about the cheeks and lips. Damp hair stuck to her face, and the mended, liquor-stained blouse clung to her barely dried skin. "Catherine . . . Lady Enderly, are you well?"

  "Yes." Swaying with fatigue, she wished he would be on his way.

  "I. . .I wanted to tell you how sorry . . . I lost you in the crowd last night."

  "You needn't apologize." She took another step up the stairs.

  He caught her arm. "Are you going to Sean?"

  "Yes."

  His lips curled bitterly. "I can imagine what sort of choice he gave you."

  "You mustn't interfere. I believe your brother might harm even you if you attempt to thwart him."

  His eyes narrowed. "Are you so sure I'd lose a fight with him?"

  "Peg tells me you've been taught to create beauty. I'll not see you mangle that calling by quarreling with him on my account. I ask your promise to keep peace with him."

  "But his behavior is despicable!"

  "It's all I ask," she said firmly. "Please don't make my existence here more difficult."

  "Very well, I promise. Until the day I can meet him on my own terms." Seeing her start to protest, he cut her off. "That's all I can promise." His voice had a hard, determined note that was new.

  "Very well," she replied softly. "I must go now. Good night, Liam Culhane."

  "Good night, my lady." Wretehedly, he watched her ascend the stair and disappear.

  Catherine stood before Culhane's door for a long moment, her thoughts bleak. Then, berating herself for groveling, she knocked sharply. Moora opened the door and Catherine started in shock. Was Peg's own daughter Culhane's mistress as well? As the Irish girl stepped back, Catherine tensely surveyed the room. The only light besides the banked fire was Moora's candle. Culhane was nowhere to be seen.

  "He said ye're to wait." Moora's voice was cold, impersonal.

  "I don't understand. Is he still at dinner?"

  Moora ignored the question. "Ye're to be locked. Come over to the bed." Slowly, Catherine obeyed, and Moora clipped the chain into the hasp, snapped a padlock on it, then headed for the door.

  Catherine clutched the bedpost. "Moora, please! At least tell me whether he's coming tonight."

  Moora smiled caustically. "Ye'll have to wait yer turn. He's ruttin' across the bay."

  Catherine sank to the floor as the door locked, and she leaned against the side of the bed, where she stared dully at the intricate carpet pattern. Slowly the tears seeped from her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. The fire had gone nearly cold by the time she slept.

  Near dawn, Culhane knelt beside. Catherine. She was pale and cold to the touch; he silently cursed her for stubbornly refusing his bed. Careful not to awaken her, he scooped her up. Her head slipped back over his arm, exposing her throat where he saw the collar had chafed the delicate skin with angry welts. Hadn't the little idiot thought to pad it? Or was she too damned proud?

  He lowered her slight weight onto the bed and checked her ankle; it was raw and likely to fester if not eased. The feet were bruised and icy as his hands enclosed them. Lightly, he chafed them, then undressed and covered her before shedding his own garments. He slipped in beside her and tucked her small body against his own to warm her.

  Much later, he awoke to find his captive tangled under him like a kitten fallen asleep in the midst of its play, her courtesan's lashes and sultry mouth incongruous on her young face. Her hair tumbled from the frayed bit of rag that caught it from her face. Carefully, he loosened the knot and, as he let down her hair, slipped his fingers through its long, silky weight. Jie lightly stroked an experimental finger between her breasts and down her belly. Deeply asleep, she stirred slightly with a faint sigh. He parted her thighs, then entered her warmth to find her sleepily yielding. When her lips parted in a moan, he covered them with his own.

  Dazedly aware of a pulsing pleasure welling and ebbing like foaming, heavy surf through her body, Catherine opened to its throbbing source. With a gasp, Sean plummeted into the heart of her, felt for one brief moment of sweet torture what it would be like if she wanted him, loved him.

  Suddenly Catherine became aware of the long brown body, the smooth, powerful muscles that coiled and uncoiled in the flat, hard belly moving against hers, eyes that burned like jade fire in the darkness. She arched wildly against him, digging her nails into his back in an effort to destroy his compelling rhythm, but not before his explosion inside her turned molten, sending streams of sweet agony flooding toward her soul. Slowly, the intense pleasure seeped elusively away, leaving her a fragile, empty shell.

  The man's gaze was as wondering as the girl's when her lashes fluttered open and their eyes met. As if she were some lovely, precious idol, he slowly traced the small Nefertiti face down to the tempting underlip, swollen from his kisses. "Catherine?" he whispered huskily. "Yield to me. Yield. . ." His lips lowered to seal her surrender. As if eluding a cobra's hypnotic sway, she turned her head away and his lips found only the delicate curve of her jaw, just beneath her ear.

  Sean hid his disappointment in the curve of her neck. Nibbling the tender flesh, he searched out the hollows of her throat at his leisure and maddened her with the traitorous excitement of her body, still helplessly sprawled under his. Lazily, his mouth moved lower, teased aroused nipples into aching, swollen buds that strained to burst into bloom. She whimpered, lashing her head from side to side, sending the lustrous mass of her hair spilling across the pillows in rivulets. With a soft laugh, he rubbed his cropped head across her breasts and belly, forcing a groan of frustrated fury from her. Lifting his head, he grinned mischievously into angry sapphire eyes, caught a tendril of her hair, and twined it about an impudently thrusting nipple.

  As she stared at him in a confusion of rage and longing, Sean sighed with a wistfulness more mocking than he felt. "Thou Diana, with eyes of starfire and hair like the midnight tempest, flung recumbent in the heavens amidst glittering, wheeling nebulae, you make the blood of man run hot in him like the tides, tempt him to reach for the moon, howling, with useless fingers of foam. Thou remote goddess of the heart, who doth dash him earthward at the very pinnacle of his longing. Thou daemon temptress."

  With a sagging jaw, Catherine listened incredulously to the Irishman's uncharacteristic lyricism. Would the villain's surprises never cease? He had sneaked across her sleeping defenses like a spy and forsworn frontal attack.

  And undoubtedly he had conquered another as easily mere hours ago, with his glib tongue and lecherous skill. She did not mince words. "Get off me, you rutting brute! Your howls are more the stuff of satiety than longing. And your fingers have been dabbling in another's porridge pot, not groping for the moon!"

  Culhane looked slightly startled, but not in the least guilty. His eyes narrowed. "Methinks, Celestial Diana, you have the instincts of a fishwife. Pray tell, who has been whetting your tongue?"

  Unwilling to give Moora away, Catherine countered warily, "Who has been whetting your appetites, milord? Methinks it was yet another fjshwife. Verily, her stink is still about you."

  Abruptly, he shifted his weight off her. "Now, girl, we'll have it straight," he 9aid coldly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and jerking the bellpull. "I keep no shrews." Rubbing her posterior, she glared up at
him from the rug. He leaned down and lifted her mutinous chin. "If I'm inclined to bed six women a night, you'll not make a peep even if you're on the bottom of the pile."

  "You exaggerate your capabilities, Milord Cockerel! And in any case, it's hardly likely I should attempt to attract your perverted attentions!"

  He lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "Perverted?"

  "If you propose that rape is normal, then so is every flying pig under heaven!" Caught up in righteous fury, Catherine scrambled to her knees. "And this morning, you ignoble sneak, you crept up on me!"

  "Strange, your reception seemed so eager."

  "If you think that feeble effort fired my blood, you've much to learn!"

  "And you, little innocent, have even more to learn, especially about my capabilities." He gave her an evil grin. "You'll find my tutelage less tedious than the academy's." He got off the bed. "But your shrewish tongue is beginning to bore me."

  "Surely you don't begrudge me the last of my weapons?"

  His green eyes raked her as he shrugged into his robe and she was once more uncomfortably aware of her nakedness. "Not the last weapon nor the most dangerous, p'tite, although you've not yet learned to use it. Put on your clothes."

  When Peg arrived in answer to his summons, Culhane told her abruptly, "Our Miss Enderly has displayed a special talent for nosing out fish; therefore, she'll assist at the pond. When the catch is cleaned, she's to rejoin the laundrywomen until the next fleet is in."

  Catherine slowly tied her sash with a sinking heart. Cleaning fish could only be more unpleasant than laundry, knowing Culhane. Grimly, she tightened the knot, wishing it were about the Irishman's throat.

  "Are you due free time?" he asked her casually.

  "Yes," she answered sullenly. Sunday would be her first day of leisure in well over a month; she had been keenly looking forward to it, if only to sleep.

  "You wasted a working day on an escape attempt and you left the foyer unfinished, so you've that yet to do over completely, of course."

  "Of course," she echoed nastily.