Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  As he regretfully watched her hurry along the path to the house, Liam remembered he had once pressed his lips and body intimately against hers for a brief moment foolishly wasted. He would not waste a second opportunity! His hopes soared. Had it been his imagination or had she actually looked up at him in admiration, as if seeing him in a new light? With a high heart, he loaded his horse and rode off at a gallop toward the bay that gleamed like a mirage beyond Malinbeg Head.

  CHAPTER 5

  Nemesis

  Three nights later, at midnight, flames snaked slowly over wood stacks scattered through Holden Woods, hissing when encountering damp timber. By half past, a small band of Irishmen had mounted horses as reddening piles tossed sparks skyward while trails of flame spread through the underbrush. Like riders from hell, the Irish sat, glowing effigies about the pyre. At a signal from their leader, they wheeled and galloped southwest in a wide circle to evade the house, which blazed with its own frantic light during an Enderly ball.

  News of the blaze was not long in reaching the master of Windemere. With his back to his butler, John, and a pair of sooty, bruised timbermen, Enderly, his expression hidden by a bizarre peacock mask, stood looking at a handful of shivering merrymakers laughing on the terrace outside his study. Over their heads, paper lanterns swung in the brisk northwesterly breeze. "Holden Woods has been torched, John. See to the damage quickly and report to me. There's no need to alarm the guests."

  When he was alone, Enderly went to his desk and unlocked a drawer. Stuffed into it were the packaged remnants of a bloodstained undergarment. He reclosed the drawer with deadly resolution.

  Culhane corrected course a half point and gave the wheel to Sammy, ignoring the other's glum face. The Mary D. was beginning to round the sweep of Antrim, her sails swelled under the late-afternoon sun that splintered off the water. They had been lucky, he reflected as he wearily stretched and walked to the rail. The wind might have given them difficulty had it shifted earlier; if it held this gauge, the Mary D. would make Shelan by nine o'clock the following night. Bracing at the rail, he rubbed his neck. Restless, he had taken two turns at the helm. His body yearned for sleep, but hie mind refused to permit rest.

  Jimmy's late departure and separation from the rest of the band worried him more than he let the others see. Too, despite their care, a woodsman might have spotted a clue to their identities. He wiped spray from the rail and rubbed it across his face. Leaving the foresters alive had been a mistake, yet the girl had a point; he would be no less a butcher than Enderly if he had allowed them to roast. As for the wildlife, a veritable stampede had scattered through the surrounding meadows; deer were probably waltzing with Enderly's guests. At the thought, a mischievous grin made its rare way across his lips.

  He had assumed his hatred of the English had erased his ethics, yet the girl, spawn of the man he hated most, had recalled a code of justice that did not simply reflect his own and his people's wrongs. Was it that she asked no mercy for herself? God knows he had shown her little, and the mercy that he had shown her was dragged unwillingly from those depths of humanity he had long thought dead. Was it her moments of strange, soft, faerie beauty that often caught him unaware? At times, in her fatigue, she was almost plain, but then those incredible eyes would lift to him in hot defiance or mute wonder, catching his heart and sending it thudding after his racing pulse. Eyes like this burning sea of light and as unfathomable as the cool, eddying depths of her homeland lakes. The quickening breeze ruffled his hair, tickling his lean face and temples. He wondered whether he welcomed the fresh winds because they put Windemere's smoke behind him or because they hastened him onward to the black-haired girl who would be waiting in his bed, moonlight in her eyes.

  As the longboat keel grated on the pebbled beach at Shelan, Flannery was waiting, his red mane lifting in the night wind. Culhane left the men to pull the boat up the beach out of reach of the incoming tide and walked to the tall, monolithic figure standing silent and apart. "Any word from England?" he asked briefly.

  The redhead tersely related the signalman's news. Jimmy was dead. He had been fingered as a pickpocket by a tart he had annoyed in a waterfront inn. He had tried to board the Sylvie with a marine patrol at his heels, and the watch had been forced to shoot him.

  In a black mood, Culhane went to his chamber, then sent Moora to fetch the English girl. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, his brain from misgivings and regrets. Privately, he would miss Jimmy's freckled, clownish face and impish wit. As he paced before the fire, he railed against the enemy that had taken the man's life, all the while with a bitter knowledge death was ever at all their shoulders. He had need of the girl's warmth this night to ease the chill of his soul.

  Catherine finished another row of her shawl, then set the loom aside with a real sense of peace and accomplishment, the first she had known since her abduction. She decided to dye the wool a heather shade to recall the delicate tint of that dawn when she had first seen the dipping, wheeling gulls off the cliffs; the color would always remind her of freedom. As she rose to turn down the bed, a light tap sounded at the door. Her peace fled. She froze, heart beginning to pound. The door opened and Moora poked in her head. "The master's home. Ye're to go to him at once."

  "Thank you."

  Leaving the door open, Moora returned to bed while Catherine numbly sank to her cot. Even if it meant being condemned to the barracks, she could not go to a murderer's bed, even for her father's sake. She rose from the cot and locked the door from the inside, then disrobed. Keeping the long shirt on to hold off the chill, she brushed her hair with short, tense strokes, using a brush Peg had given her. Despite the shirt, she shivered.

  Sean Culhane's reaction was not long in coming. Catherine was lying awake in the darkness, the cold moonlight streaming from the high window slit in. a narrow wedge across the cot, when she heard a booted foot crash against the door. "Catherine!" The angry cry held a note of desperation.

  Clutching the covers, she bolted upright and raised her voice clearly, praying only the anger and not the tremble in it would carry through the door. "I prefer the pawing of your men to your bloody hands. Find another whore, murderer!"

  Suddenly the door reverberated twice, then exploded inward as a man's body splintered its moorings. Catherine rolled out of bed in one swift, desperate movement and backed away from the tall figure. His shirt undone, he stood, long legs thrust apart, his panting breath the only sound in the silence after the door's shattering crash. No light shone in tho corridor behind him and she thought his eyes must truly be a cat's for he seemed to see her all too clearly in the dim cell, her shirt showing like his, a ghostly blue white in the moonlight.

  "Murderer, am I?" he snarled. "Many an Irishman would sleep safer tonight if that were so!" Kicking a stool out of his path, he advanced toward the retreating girl. "So you prefer the barracks? Perhaps you need a taste of them."

  Catherine stumbled back and abruptly felt cold stone, rough against her palms. "Get away from me!" she challenged, almost choking with the effort to conceal her terror. In one harsh movement he tore open his breeches and thrust himself full length against her, pressing her struggling body to the wall. Ignoring clawing nails that raked his shoulders and back, he roughly pushed the shirt above her breasts and trapped them against the fur of his bare chest. The Irishman lifted her, then inexorably moved her downward onto his erection. He tore into her, ravaging the warmth he had sought earlier as a haven. Her gasping pain tormented him, made mockery of his bewildering, angry need.

  His rough entry into Catherine's unprepared body hurt him as much as it did her, but once inside her he could not stop, although he had not wanted her frantic with pain and fear. Looking into her face, he dimly realized her teeth were clenched to keep from crying out, her eyes glazed with pain and hate. With a shudder, he blindly buried his face in the side of her neck as he emptied in a kind of agony inside her. Spent, he released her and staggered back, chest heaving.

  Like a discarded pup
pet, she slipped to the floor, her shirt and hair falling to shield her abused body from his eyes as he fumbled at his clothing. Her head hung between her shoulders as if her neck were broken. "Catherine?" he muttered hoarsely, moving to touch her shoulder.

  Before his fingers reached her, she lifted her tear- streaked face and looked at him with such loathing and contempt it stunned him. Her breasts heaving under the thin shirt, she fought for breath. When she finally spoke, her voice was ragged but hard as a diamond cutting glass. "If you ever . . . touch me again . . . I swear I'll kill you, somehow, someday . . . horribly."

  His smile was twisted. "I wonder . . . your father, of course, is a consummate killer. You may have inherited his inclination, if not his skill. In his prime, he dispatched masses at a stroke. I'll be curious to see if you can manage a single murder."

  She lunged at him, hitting at his face and head, raging as he thwarted her with a shielding forearm He shoved her back against the wall so hard it knocked the breath from her lungs. "It won't be murder," she gasped fiercely. "I'll merely give the hangman a holiday!"

  He looked at her quizzically. "Perhaps you'll be giving me one as well." He left the room, his tall frame filling the door as he passed through it into the corridor toward the Raffertys' room, leaving Catherine to wonder at his ironic parting words. But curiosity was faint in comparison to overwhelming despair. Long after an embarrassed Rafferty came to guard her door, she sat dully on the floor where she had slid after Culhane had gone.

  Finally Rafferty became disturbed and went for Peg. She bustled in and, clucking angrily, bundled the unresisting girl into bed. "Now, lass, there's no need makin' matters worse by takin' a chill. Sean Culhane may not have the rattled wits of a bedbug in a whore's mattress, but I hope I'll not have to say the same of you." She patted Catherine's shoulder. "Now, go to sleep. If ye're goin' to fight that bucko, ye'll need yer rest. . . and a small dose of advice. Keep that chin up. You won a battle tonight, even if the other side doesn't know it yet."

  Turning her head to the wall, Catherine said nothing.

  Through his bushy eyebrows, Rafferty looked up grimly from his stool at his wife as she came out of the cell. "She don't seem to be listenin' to your advice, Pego."

  Peg shrugged. "She's doubtless wonderin* how many victories she'll survive."

  Rafferty grunted. "Hmph. Not many at this rate. What do ye think of yer precious pet now?"

  Lowering her voice so the girl could not hear, Peg confided, "I think he's half in love with her."

  "What!" roared Rafferty. "Ye call bustin' in an oak door and"—seeing his wife's warning frown, he abruptly lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper—"brutalizing the lass love? Jaysus, woman, God help her the day he proposes!"

  Culhane turned an ill-humored eye on breakfast the next morning. To his right, Captain Walter Ennis of the Mary D. noticed his host's frown and nervously picked at his eggs, thankful his own part in the raid had gone without a hitch. Having to shoot one of your own people was always a nasty business, and morale was uneaay for a long time afterward. The group at breakfast included the officers of the Mary D. They were as cheery as if the porridge had been served up in a coffin; even Flannery had nothing to say.

  Peg prowled at Sean's elbow. "Eat somethin'," she muttered. "Black coffee works on an empty stomach like the grippe." He slumped in the chair and ignored her. "Humph. Yer troubles be comin' in fits and starts. Try runriin' a house; mine go on forever."

  "Like your tongue," returned her target blackly.

  "Mind yer own!"

  "Leave off, Peg! I'm in no mood for badgering."

  "I dare say." Peg raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "A bit of sleep would have eased us'all!" Huffily, she stalked off to the sideboard for more cream.

  Flannery stared grimly into his tea. Having been summoned at dawn to rehang the shattered door, he knew exactly what Peg implied; fortunately, Liam, who had been ticking like a bomb since his brother's return, did not. Flannery looked down the table. Liam, like Sean, was drinking only coffee. His fair coloring and fine features, which accentuated the tension in his neck and jaw, vividly contrasted with his volatile brother's pantherish good looks and sullen stillness. Flannery knew how deceptive Sean's attitude could be, with what deadly swiftness he could unleash ominous power. But, watching the brothers together now, seeing Liam's hooded eyes and long, pale fingers wind through the fragile handle of his cup, Flannery was reminded of a serpent's gleaming coil. A poisonous snake could bring down anything under heaven. For the first time, he wondered if Liam was the more dangerous of the two.

  "Captain Ennis," Sean's voice cut across the scraping tableware. "Remain after breakfast. I have new orders for you."

  The startled captain cleared his throat. "Yes, sir."

  Sean stared pointedly at the group as if they were dawdling. "Peg," he ordered abruptly, "serve the custard."

  "Now?" she asked, frowning.

  "Now."

  Custard was served and wolfed. Chairs scraped back as all but Flannery, Liam, and the captain made their excuses and hastily departed.

  "There's a bit of household accountin'. If ye're to be busy this mornin', I'll be needin' a say-so on certain matters now," Peg stated stubbornly after the room had emptied.

  Sean smacked his cup into its saucer and impatiently folded his arms across his chest. "Spew. You've been leaking all morning."

  Stoically, Peg began, "Moora's lookin' runty. She asks to be let off fish."

  "No."

  Without expression, the housekeeper went on, "An extra sixty bushels of feed are needed for the household stock."

  "Why?"

  "Rouge didn't repair all the mortar in the north silo because some leaks was buried under grain. A good bit of feed is rotten."

  Sean swore. "Replace the wheat after Rouge shovels out the silo and repairs the mortar. The cost of the feed will be deducted from his pay. Flannery, inform your idiot son that any more mistakes like this will drop him from the roster."

  "I'll tell him," said Flannery briefly.

  "Next," snapped Sean.

  "Doctor Flynn requests three medical books from Edinburgh."

  "He gets them. Anything else?"

  "Maude went after yer lass with a carvin' knife."

  Liam, holding his cup with both hands, burst its frail handle. The bit of porcelain clinked into his empty plate.

  Culhane's eyes bored into Peg's. "When, and for what cause?"

  "The day ye left. No cause but the old one. Ye know Maude's daft."

  Sean's mind raced with an anxiety only Peg guessed was there; he had seen no cuts or bandages on the girl. "Who stopped the old witch?"

  "Hmph. There was nobody to stop her. She'd have cut the girl to ribbons if the lass hadn't laid the discouragin' point of a broomstick into her hulkin' middle."

  "Christ, a broomstick!" he muttered.

  "She could have planted a knife in Maude's belly instead; enough were handy."

  "Then why in hell didn't she?" demanded the dark Irishman.

  "Because she's no killer," put in Flannery.

  Sean's green eyes narrowed. "And how would you know that, Master Blacksmith?"

  "I just don't think she has the knack," the giant said simply.

  "Ha!"

  "You won't be satisfied until she's murdered by some hothead with a score to settle, will you, brother?" said Liam, coming out of his chair with a snarl. "You parade her like a trophy of war. You deliberately make her a target, raising up the sins of her father!" He kicked back his chair. "What if no defense had been at hand, not even that pathetic broom? Where would you bury your prisoner, Sean? Under rotted feed?" Almost choking with fury, he missed Flannery's sharp frown and Ennis's look of sly interest. "But she'll be already dead, won't she? Where's the fun in that?"

  "Shut up!" roared Sean.

  Liam walked coolly toward him. "Make me."

  Flannery pushed his own chair back. "Don't be stupid, Liam. He can take you apart."

  "Not without some e
ffort."

  "Well, I'll be damned," breathed Sean, "if older brother isn't the errant knight to the damsel's rescue. I trust you're prepared to keep your visor lowered in the lady's presence, Galahad; few women have a taste for missing teeth."

  His brother whitened with rage and drew back his fist while Sean merely looked at him, smiling grimly. Liam wavered, belatedly remembering his promise to Catherine not to initiate violence. "Come for me," he invited hoarsely.

  "The hell you say," scoffed Sean. "You began this farce."

  "Damn you," whispered Liam. "Come for me, bastard!"

  Sean tensed and for a moment the others thought Liam's time had come. Even Ennis knew his accusation was an unpleasant possibility, that Megan had had provocation for taking lovers. Brendan had enjoyed occasional mistresses over the years; the portrait of one brunette beauty had hung in his room until removed after his death.

  "Gentlemen don't brawl with bastards," Sean finally returned with icy sarcasm. "Have you forgotten your inane aristocratic code? Painting with shattered hands is trying, bully boy. Put steel in your fist, or better yet, a pistol.

  "Now, as for the rumors of my questionable lineage. . ." He bit out each word. "I've killed for less public mention. For all purposes you are my brother, but when you call me bastard, you call our mother whore. Repeat that insult and you'll have your fight."

  Knowing he owed his brother an apology his injured pride would not permit, Liam said stiffly, "So long as I know what your honor requires," and walked quickly from the room.

  Wisely deciding this was a poor moment to continue discussion of Maude, Peg shook her head and returned to the kitchen.

  "Now, Captain Ennis," said Sean coolly, relaxing again into his chair as if nothing had happened, "I'd like you and the Mary D. to take over the Sylvie's sea routes for the next several months."

  "You mean, the Mary D. is to make the munitions runs out of Normandy, sir?"