Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "You think a man would want you only for your money?" he murmured, absently popping a grape into his mouth.

  She took another sip of champagne to cool her cheeks. "No, not entirely. There's a title to consider, and of late . . . just before I left England . . ."

  "Before you left?" Sean pursued intently.

  "Men seemed to find me appealing for other, ah, more basic reasons," she finished lamely.

  "I can imagine," Sean commented a trifle sourly. "And how did you react?"

  "I . . ." Suddenly weary of his prying, she snapped, "That's really none of your affair. Besides, what difference does it make now why they wanted me? I should have lost my freedom in any circumstance. Marriage for a woman is a prison, the prisoner only more or less willing to endure her confinement. Whether a man wants to delve into her bank account or her bodice, it's all the same."

  Sean's eyes fell to the cleft of her breasts as her gestures loosened her shirt from its makeshift belt. Unaware of his warming gaze, Catherine waved her glass and unexpectedly giggled. "I'm no longer a candidate for any man's marriage bed, thanks to you. Used goods is what I am." She grinned wickedly, leaning forward, not noticing his restlessness. "But a mistress can play her own game. Why shouldn't I be wanton, since I cannot be wed?"

  She hopped out of her chair, snatched the bottle before he could stop her, and, oddly graceful despite her tipsiness and floppy stockings, postured lightly about the room. "To think, I'm free after all. I've just been too sour to realize it." She took a swig from the bottle and beamed at him. "All because of you, Eros Tyrannus." A thought struck her and she managed a more or less straight line to his lap. As she snuggled up to him confidingly, Culhane firmly removed the champagne bottle from her fingers. "What do you think I should do? Should I take a great many lovers or just one rich, dotty old man?" Not waiting for an answer, she pondered, frowning, "Young lovers must be like puppies: a great deal of trouble. One sweet old man would probably do nicely." She brightened. "Perhaps he'll only want to stroke me once in a while." She leaned back in his arms and peered at him from under long lashes. "Would you like to stroke me?"

  "Very much."

  She giggled, and growled throatily, "I'll wager you would. Peg says you're a real tomcat."

  He grimaced, then tapped her on the nose. "You might fall in love, little cynic. Then what?"

  Vigorously, she shook her head, sending her hair swinging. "Oh, no. Never. To be in love is to be a cat's-paw. You and I are too wise for that." Her owlish expression gave way to a frown, and she tugged at her shirtfront with puzzled irritation. "I'm hot. Why does cold champagne make one hot?"

  "I don't know, little one."

  She dabbled her fingers in his champagne glass and trailed them wetly down her body from throat to waist. "That's nice." She dabbled them again and ran them across his chest. "See, it's marvelously cool." Sean swiftly caught her fingers. "Don't you like it?" she asked in a small, dazed voice.

  "It's time you were in bed."

  "Oh!" She looked at him sagely. "You want to take my clothes off." Slipping out of his arms, she glided over to the fire, hips swaying provocatively albeit with a slight lurch. Abruptly, she sat on the floor and began pulling off the stockings.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Undressing. I've been quite obedient lately. Haven't you noticed?" She stood up and clumsily unknotted the scarf. A second later the breeches dropped to the floor.

  "Kit, not here," he protested roughly.

  "Why not?" she said fuzzily, working on the shirt buttons as she got to her feet. "It's a lovely room. Just like the inside of a rose. And we've a lovely soft couch." A finger waggled at the silk chaise lounge. "I once saw a lady—well, not precisely a lady—take off absolutely everything on a stage in front of a roomful erf men. So, you've no need to worry about my undressing in here. Rooms like this are designed for seduction; Papa has them at home." She paused, thinking. "The actress disrobed so slowly I was bored, but the men seemed to prefer it." A silken shoulder slid free of the shirt and Sean's protest stuck in his throat. Then the other shoulder appeared and the creamy translucence of her skin made his loins ache as her small breasts curved above the garment. Noticing his eyes, she smiled and hummed softly to herself. By maddening degrees that played merry hell with his restraint, she let the shirt slide to the floor and stood there, a small, warm Aphrodite.

  As if in a trance, she moved to the divan and lay upon it, languidly arching her body. "Come, dear jailer." She lifted her arms to him. But even as his lips found hers, tasting intoxicating wine and dazed desire, her arms slipped limply from his neck as she dropped for the second time that day into oblivion.

  Sighing, he lifted her in his arms. Her head slipped over his arm as he picked up the bottle of champagne, checked the foyer, then quickly ascended the stair, his mind and body a knot of frustration. After tucking his beatifically limp burden into bed, he pulled off his clothes and flung open the terrace doors. Standing stark naked outside on the cold flagging, he poured the still-chilly contents of the champagne bottle on the source of his tension.

  Early the next morning a head-wagging Rafferty scooped clothing off the salon carpet, while upstairs a miserable Catherine had her head held over the terrace balustrade. Sometime later when, on Culhane's order, breakfast arrived upstairs, she groaned and bolted for the tetrace again, wearing only a sheet. Peg shook her head. "Those flowers'll never show their poor heads next season!"

  Stumbling back into the room, Catherine hiked the sheet up and kicked at it irritably as it vindictively tried to trip her. Keeping well away from the tray, she sidled crablike over to the bed, then crawled in with a pitiful moan.

  "I'll have breakfast at my desk, Peg," Culhane said helpfully.

  Plopping the tray down on the desk with a bang that made the bundle in the bed cringe, Peg scolded, " 'Tis ashamed ye should be, porin' all that liquor down the poor child; and after all she's been through!"

  Her victim started to protest, when to his surprise, Catherine weakly defended him from the bed. "Please don't shout, Peg. It wasn't his fault. I . . ." Suddenly her eyes widened and she buried herself in the covers with a wail of horror.

  Culhane threw back his head with an ungallant hoot. "So, you do remember, you sly little boozer!"

  Holding her throbbing head, she reared upright, nearly gasping with pain and losing the dignity of her sheet. "You're mean! You're the meanest man in the world . . ."

  "If you don't mind spending your charms on a meager audience, I don't mind applauding your amateurish but energetic efforts."

  "Oh!" she shrieked, and burst into tears.

  Her distress was so obviously genuine that Sean went to her and gathered her into his arms. Sitting on the side of the bed, he nodded the bemused Peg out and tucked Catherine's head into his shoulder despite her tearful struggles. "There, there. Don't cry. You were quite good, really." Catherine groaned and weakly punched at his ribs. "Shhh," he soothed her quickly, "I'm teasing, minx. You had a bad time yesterday. Anyone would have wanted to get tight."

  She peered through wet lashes up at him. "Have you ever nearly died?"

  "Yes. It isn't much fun, is it?" She shook her head and turned her face back into his chest. "If it's any consolation, I've also been much drunker than you were, and for far less reason."

  "But you weren't ass enough to strip," came the muffled, woeful reply.

  His lips twitched. "Don't be too sure. Drunk enough, I'd peel for the queen."

  She pulled back, intrigued. "You would, wouldn't you?" Quick suspicion danced in her blue eyes. "You haven't taken off your clothes for Princess Caroline, have you? She may not be queen yet, but she has a well-rouged reputation . . ."

  Sean pinched her pale cheeks. "What do you know of rouge, brat?"

  "Enough. I'm not a child," she retorted. "I wouldn't put it past you to bed a sow if you thought she'd squeal state secrets."

  He chucked her under the chin. "Refrain from prying into my affairs and I'll refrain f
rom telling the world you're a sot." He got up and began to rummage through his chest.

  Catherine, watching him, suddenly asked, "Did I let you make love to me last night?"

  He slowly shook his head. "Why?"

  "I. . . I just wondered."

  "Shall I correct that omission now?" he asked softly, a rare smile easing the lean hardness of his face.

  "Oh!" Hastily she clapped a hand to her forehead as he took a step toward the bed. "I still have a headache."

  His smile subtly resumed its familiar mocking lines. "For one so young, you're quick to find refuge in dog-eared bedroom diplomacy." She flushed and their easy intimacy was gone.

  Culhane slammed the chest lid and said abruptly, "Little else in my wardrobe suits your needs. Peg will bring appropriate clothing if your nose and taste can bear the mustiness of outdated gowns. There may be even, God forbid, petticoats and pantalettes. But," he warned grimly, "if you put on a corset or panniers, I'll tear 'em off." He fished in his pocket and came up with a small, flat object.

  She tensed as he came toward her and his fingers found her throat. She decided he was going to kiss her or strangle her, and she had no idea what had prompted him to do either. Looking with some amusement into her wide, uneasy eyes, he unlocked the thrall collar and removed it. Her eyes went cloudy. "Why?" she finally managed to ask softly. "Why now?"

  "Partly good behavior," was the laconic reply; then he added more gently, "and partly because heavy jewelry doesn't suit you; but don't ever try to run away from me again." His last words were low, but she did not underestimate their warning.

  "I'm sending you to work with Doctor Flynn at the infirmary, but don't get any ideas. If I weren't sure of security, I wouldn't assign you away from the house.

  "You'll join me in the salon for dinner each evening, and hereafter, you'll share my bed. Peg has already brought up your things." He saw her brightening gaze dim, and his next words came leaden. "Don't look so forlorn. I'll make love to you again only at your desire."

  She was confounded. "You won't touch me?"

  He smiled faintly. "Inadvertently, perhaps. To avoid one another absolutely in even so large a bed is impractical."

  She considered his proposal, eyes narrowing. Why would he suddenly relieve her of his attentions when she had been so obviously on the verge of capitulation?

  Her behavior in the salon had been a shameless invitation. Why shouldn't she use his body as casually as he had hers? That was it! He refused to be her stud. His arrogance demanded more. He wanted to ensnare her mind, perhaps even her love. She was still wearing a slave collar, only now it was silken, invisible. Her eyes flared. "Do you think sheer lust will lead me into betrayal of my father, country, whatever honor I have left? Can't you just let me be!" She was frantic, almost hysterical, but he did nothing to calm her.

  "Not yet," he said quietly. "Soon, perhaps. I hope so, for both our sakes."

  There was a tap at the door and a flushed, dusty Peg led Danny and Rafferty in with an old trunk and several boxes covered in faded silks. Shooing the gaping porters out, she gave a nod to Sean. "Ye've a messenger waitin' downstairs."

  His face a polite mask, Culhane turned to Catherine. "Rafferty will bring the dogcart to the front door at noon. You'll take lunch with Flynn. Rafferty will pick you up later. Tomorrow and thereafter, you'll drive yourself."

  Catherine smiled bitterly. "How clever of you to choose such a quaint mode of transportation for me. I can see Fido kicking dust in the faces of your guards."

  His lips quirked. "And a pregnant Fido at that. Don't look so horrified; she isn't due for a month." With that tidbit he strolled out of the room, leaving her to cope with alterations, camphor, pins, and Peg's nervous fingers.

  The messenger had a sheet of decoded signals. Dismissing the man, Culhane scanned the note on the way to his study. It indicated Messrs. League, Tunney, and Briskell had fled to France after cleaning out their office safe of incriminating papers and a cache of their clients' funds. Like rats, they had kept an escape hole and gotten off with their lives, if not their wealth. The syndicate account at Lloyd's was in escrow while the organization's other investments were being investigated. Trial for captain and crew would be immediate and the lot of them were talking to save their skins. The local magistrate had paid John Enderly a second visit and made tactless reference to his warehouses, but had not produced a search warrant. Sean smiled grimly. The blow to Enderly's purse would amount to a fortune. Now, all the Irishman had to do was wait to see which way he would jump.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Atlas Myth

  Catherine adjusted her heather shawl as the thatch-roofed stone infirmary appeared around a bend of the path. Doctor Flynn might live in solitude, but he had chosen his surroundings for natural luxury. Verdant heather stretched for miles and the view was breathtaking. In the fresh breeze, boats at anchor in the harbor danced at their moorings.

  When the door flung open and Flynn briskly strode out, Catherine had a moment's misgiving. What if he should attribute this elevation in her position to Culhane's approval of his new concubine? But, as he helped her from the cart, the doctor's obvious delight to see her dispelled her uneasiness. He ushered her into a sitting room reserved for waiting patients. Empty at the moment, its worn furnishings had a coziness Shelan's rooms lacked. Flynn's head just cleared the lintel as they walked through the corridor that led to a small kitchen and apartments to the rear. In the center of a round oak table carefully laid with linen, pewter, and sturdy blue Delft plates was a small butter crock hastily stuffed with his handsomest flowers. Only dinnerware laid backward revealed a woman's hand was lacking in the preparations. Catherine felt oddly as if she wanted to cry.

  After a succulent chowder followed by cream-drenched gooseberries, the doctor gave his new assistant a tour. The ward was a long, cot-lined, whitewashed room partitioned to separate the sexes. Several windows ensured a light, cheery interior on the bleakest days. The ward was spartan but immaculate; he informed her that a slow-witted lad from the nearby village of Ruiralagh came to clean and perform orderly duties. The dispensary was equally spotless.

  Her first task at the infirmary was a simple one. Doctor Flynn's eyes not being what they used to be, she was to read aloud to him his new surgical texts from Edinburgh; Latin terms cropped up on every other line. Fortunately, she had been tutored in Latin and managed reasonably well. Quickly fascinated by the workings of the human body and techniques of repairing it, she began to ask intent questions that first amused Flynn, then pleased him.

  Upon returning to Shelan, Catherine realized she would have to rush to make herself ready for dinner. Her wardrobe had been hung in an armoire brought down from the attic that afternoon, and a scented bar of soap was tucked in one of the drawers. She noticed her brush rested cosily beside Culhane's shaving things near the Washbowl. With a slosh of water from the pitcher, she scrubbed hastily at her face, then spent more time on her hands, wishing for cream to ease their redness and broken nails. Sighing, she swabbed her dripping face with the towel and patted at damp tendrils of hair. After brushing her hair until it shone, she decisively placed the brush at the end of the commode far from Sean's gear. Pulling her hair to one side with a bit of ribbon, she gave it a few twirls with, her fingers. With her head tilted to one side to study the effect, she wondered suddenly why she was going to so much trou- - ble for a man she detested? She gave the curls a yank, but she was irritated to see their disarray had more appeal.

  Still fiddling with her hair, Catherine ran down the steps, then slowed abruptly to nod decorously to Culhane's puzzled, staring officers who milled about the foyer. Every male head in the room turned to admire the flushed young countess's progress through the crowd and her charming, if somewhat hasty, exit.

  She closed the salon door and sagged against it. Clearly, greater freedom went hand in hand with increased exposure as Culhane's mistress. She could imagine the bawdy remarks to be bandied about the officers' table tonight.

/>   She stalked over to the marble fireplace, seized a poker, and stabbed viciously at the fire. Returning the poker to its stand, she sourly eyed the table laid with shimmering crystal and porcelain. The lack of windows in the room added to its aura of cozy intimacy, as did the faded, finely patterned silk wall covering. The furniture was Louis XV; the chair seats upholstered in pale-colored petit points of the changing seasons. Bits of gilt winked in the firelight. Idly, she drifted about, looking at the paintings and water- colors: among them were Liam's lovely, delicate sketches, a Botticelli pen drawing of a nymph, and a David of Freedom at the Barricades. The Botticelli, while worth a small fortune, might have been purchased by a past master of Shelan; but the David, despite a Jacobin theme popular among dissident Irish, was no more than a few years old and, like many other paintings in the house, represented a tidy investment. She could not understand Sean Culhane, with his obsession for pumping Shelan's resources into guns and rebellion, permitting such expenditures.

  Culhane's deep, melodic lilt startled her. "Do you like Boucher?"

  Her eyes slid over the chalk drawing to which he referred as she turned to face him. "No."

  The Irishman shrugged out of his dripping cloak, his feral presence making the room's pastel colors seem tepid. "Indeed." One black brow quirked. "Why not?"

  "I find his work insipid."

  "Is that all?" He was a trifle mocking as he gave the bell rope a tug to summon Rafferty to take his wet cloak.

  Her chin came up. "If you mean he reflected a venal society, yes, I've noticed that too."

  "Bravo, Countess. Perhaps tutelage at Shelan has proved enlightening."

  "I don't need to have my head pushed under the mire to realize it exists!" she retorted. "Have you brought me here tonight to quarrel?"

  Rafferty knocked and Culhane shoved the cloak through the door. Scrubbing a hand across his wet hair, he came to stand beside her. "No, English," he said tiredly, "only to keep me company."