Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have touched you. I thought you were asleep."

  "You could test the passions of the dead, girl," he retorted. "And if you don't wish to try mine further, I suggest you retire. I'll be up directly."

  She rose quickly as he got to his feet. His face was its usual hard mask as he towered over her. "Liam is due back in the next few days," he said abruptly. A fleeting look of undisguised relief came over her lovely features and his mask slipped a little. Turning his back and leaning against the mantel, he lifted the brandy snifter to his lips as she closed the door. Moments later, the thin glass burst into sparkling fragments. He stared at the blood trickling down his fingers and idly picked the tiny crystal daggers out of his flesh, welcoming the pain as a distraction from the greater, unexpected pain her unguarded look had caused him. After wrapping his hand in a napkin, he began to drink steadily out of the decanter, finishing it just before becoming too drunk to manage the stairs.

  As Catherine's eyes opened in the morning, her nose wrinkled in distaste, sniffing overpowering alcohol fumes. Turning on her side, she saw an unconscious and partly clothed Culhane lying on his back, his discarded shirt twisted under him, his right hand clumsily wrapped in a blood-soaked napkin. He stank of brandy and he looked pale.

  Quickly wrapping a sheet about herself, she slipped out of bed and found a towel by the washbowl. After she soaked and wrung it out, she brought it back to the bed, then carefully pried his fingers loose from the makeshift bandage. The hand, badly gashed, was still seeping, though the fingers were stuck together with dried blood. Careful not to awaken him, she bathed the cuts and found a few tiny glass splinters. Swearing softly, she checked more carefully, but he seemed to have found the rest.

  Catherine gave the bell rope a brisk tug, then began to undress him. There was no need to worry that he might awaken. She had just pulled a sheet over him when Peg poked in her head. "What ails him?" she asked curiously, coming over to the bed. "He's white as that sheet."

  "Drunk," Catherine said briefly. "He's hurt his hand. Can you find some bandages and wine to wash the wound?"

  "Aye." Peg frowned. "That's no trouble, but it an't like Sean to tipple overmuch." She looked at the younger woman suspiciously. "The two of ye still fightin'?"

  "No, Peg, we weren't fighting." With a look of anxiety, Catherine sat down on the bed. "I have no idea what made him drink. I doubt if my customary rejection of his advances could have set him off. He was worn out last night; perhaps he simply couldn't hold it."

  "Ha!" snorted Peg. "That boyo can outdrink the British fleet when he sets his mind to it! He meant to get drunk."

  "Well, he ought to sleep if off, even if he takes all day. He's practically dropping in his tracks." She gave the reeking Irishman a jaundiced look. "If he weren't drunk, it would take a clout with a broadax to keep him in bed."

  "Aye, that's true," agreed Peg placidly.

  Catherine frowned, considering. "Perhaps Liam could take over some of the work. Last night, Sean said he'd be returning this week. Surely he's not entirely useless."

  "Mayhap. And what did you say?"

  "About what?" Catherine asked, preoccupied.

  "About Liam's homecomin'."

  "Oh, I'll be delighted to see him." A soft smile stole across Catherine's lips. "Liam's really rather like an engaging boy. These last months would have been unbearable without his kindness. I'd probably still be up to my elbows in fish and laundry if it weren t for his intervention."

  Peg cocked her head to one side. "Ye're right about one thing: Liam's more boy than man. But as for his gettin' ye out of the fish heap, it an't likely. His intercession with Sean nowadays is as unlikely as Saint Peter kickin' my old man's backside. If ye're dolin' out gratitude, place it where it's due. This unconscious lump may not be in any shape to say 'ye're welcome,' but it's to him ye should turn, not that so-called lily-white knight. Liam an't walkin' home on water, ye know. He's comin' on a ship." Peg stalked out to find bandages, leaving the bemused girl to dress.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Idiot and the Butterfly

  Catherine left her jailer freshly sponge-bathed and bandaged, then headed Ellie to the infirmary at a brisk pace. Except for Doctor Flynn, the infirmary was empty and remained so throughout the day. They had only two visitors: a solitary drunkard suffering from delirium tremens, and the half-witted boy, Padraic, who cleaned the place and emptied dry bedpans as if they were full. She spent the morning reading to Flynn. After lunch they walked across the fields to the bluff of Malinmore, which overlooked the bay.

  The view was enormous. On the way to the bluff, Flynn pointed out the drumlins, which he jokingly called "fairy hills," whale-shaped mounds that rumbled up from the rocky soil in huge piles of gravel and dirt. Much of the rock sheeting of the area was exposed, leaving coastal soil thin and untillable, the local inhabitants forced to take their living from the sea. The coastal mountain range, which ran into the Derryveaghs, rose in a blue haze around the bay. From atop the bluff, he pointed out the distant River Eske, which twined like a thick silver serpent deep in the opposite curve of the bay. From the great height of Malinmore Head one could view the spectacular coastline for miles. Mammoth limestone escarpments hundreds of feet high jutted outward along the coast like stone ships at anchor. It was wild and rocky and savagely beautiful, the crashing surf at its base forming plumed white ranks.

  Monotonously, they attacked the shore, only to be thrown back to march again.

  On the way back to Shelan at day's end, Catherine was singing her bawdy song to Ellie when a horseman barreled around a bend in the road, nearly upsetting the light wicker cart. Barking, Ellie pulled at her traces until Catherine could barely manage her. When the dog quieted, she twisted about on the wooden seat and glared angrily up at the horseman, who stared back. Abruptly, her anger was snuffed. "Liam!"

  The young lord slid off his horse and walked over to the cart. "I'm sorry I startled you, Catherine. Are you all right?"

  Catherine was by now accustomed to apologies from the young Irishman, but this one was different: less fumbling, less . . . apologetic. His fair hair bronzed by the setting sun, Liam was deeply tanned, his eyes a more startling blue than a month past. "Yes, of course, I'm quite all right. Welcome home!" She smiled up at him.

  He rested a gloved hand on the woven rim of the cart. "I rode out to meet you. Flannery said you'd be at the infirmary." His approving eyes took in her attire. "You look lovely. Apparently your lot has improved in my absence."

  She regarded him intently. "Perhaps because of your absence. Did you make a pact with Sean to go away if he eased the terms of my imprisonment?"

  He shrugged. "Yes, we had an agreement."

  "But why would he want you to go?"

  His lips tightened. "We quarreled. I'll not say I'm sorry for it. The rift has been a long time coming. I didn't fight him physically, so in that, at least, I kept my promise."

  "Liam—"

  "Listen," he interrupted urgently. "I can see you now. Sean's too busy to keep track of me." Noting her silence, he plunged on with determination. "You said once you wanted to go painting with me. I can come after lunch if you can elude Flynn for an hour. I'll signal with a scarf from the bluff. You can see the rise from the south end of the infirmary and signal back."

  She still hesitated, without really knowing why. "But the patients . . ."

  He flattened the objection. "Flynn hasn't had patients since his wife died seven years ago. Say yes. There's no harm in it," he pressed, then laughed lightly. "Surely you know my intentions are honorable?"

  She flushed. "It's not that. I. . . you're right, of course. I admit to a raging case of spring fever . . . I suppose because I'm sometimes afraid this spring may be my last."

  Seeing her face cloud, he took her hand. "Don't worry, Catherine. You'll soon be free."

  Catherine gazed at him thoughtfully. He was no longer the shy, hesitant young man he had been. Now he sounded confident, as if
he knew what he wanted and how to attain it.

  Still, she was uneasy after he left. She gnawed her lip as the cart rolled along. She ought to be delighted by Liam's new assertiveness, but she was not. His temporarily leaving Shelan to ease her lot had been one thing; to be asked to leave his ancestral home forever was another. Yet she must persuade him to leave in order to disband the rebels at Shelan. Could she lead him into poverty and certain exile, even peril of his life if his brother discovered his intent? She did not dwell on her own fate as his accomplice.

  Sean was still asleep as Catherine eased into the bedroom. Slipping off her shawl, she looked down at him for a long moment. Asleep, he seemed vulnerable, alone, no longer a killer bent on revenge. If he hated her once without reason, how much more would he hate her for destroying his life's work, his bitter reason for existence? She had an eerie premonition that disaster for them all had been set into motion.

  Even as she watched him, Sean's lashes flickered and his green eyes gazed into hers with an unguarded intensity that was almost painful. He propped up on one elbow, letting the sheet fall carelessly down his lean body. An unexpected wave of desire almost dizzied her and she tightly hugged the shawl to still her tension.

  Sean stared at her as if she were some wraith, the light from the windows at her back throwing her into relief. Mercifully, his attention instantly shifted to the light. "Good God, is it twilight? Damnation!" He swung his legs out of bed and threw the covers back, angrily looking for his breeches. She drew back as he brushed by to find his clothing neatly folded on the chest. "I know you meant well, English, but I don't thank you for letting me waste the day." He winced as he quickly drew on his breeches. Noticing his neatly bandaged hand, he glanced at Catherine, who stood with her face in shadow. "My carelessness in my cups was no less foolish than you letting me play indolent country squire." Faintly puzzled by her lack of response, he lightly teased, "You're an oyster tonight, English. Afraid I'll trot you back to your dungeon? All in all, by letting me sleep you've probably saved me from an aching head at best, and cost me tonight's sleep for a bout with the accounts at worst." Favoring the injured hand, he dragged on a shirt, muscles running taut across his belly and back. As he buttoned awkwardly, he peered at her more closely. "Why so grim? Or are you? I can hardly see your face."

  "Liam is home," she answered quietly.

  His fingers hesitated, then continued more slowly. "You were glad enough to hear of his return last night. What's wrong? Did he bring a rich heiress back from Baltimore?"

  She turned away and walked toward the windows. He could just see the strangely beautiful planes of her face in the dusky light. He moved to stand close behind her, his hands coming up to clasp her shoulders lightly, naturally. "What's the matter, Kit? When you don't rise to my barbs, I feel I'm winning. Call me a foul name and you'll feel better."

  His lips were close to her hair and her mind foundered. In another moment he would kiss her and her resistance would cave in. "Sean, let me go back to England. Kill me. Do whatever you like, only let it end now."

  Sean dropped his hands and padded away. Silently he prowled, looking for his boots, then found them and sat on the chest while he awkwardly pulled them on with one hand.

  "Do I merit an answer?" Catherine asked.

  "It's no," he said briefly, rising to his feet, and without looking back he strode out of the room.

  * * *

  Catherine dined alone, and after spending some hours studying a book borrowed from Flynn, she went alone to bed to lie sleepless as the new moon's thin, thready line of molten silver trickled across the black, polished sea. Finally she drifted into troubled sleep and at dawn awoke to find Culhane's side of the bed unused. Rain obscured the horizon; the room was chill and damp.,After washing, she pulled on a dark blue velveteen dress with pantalettes and an extra petticoat added for warmth. Downstairs, she persuaded Peg to find one of Culhane's old cloaks, then wrapped herself well before going out in the wet, gray weather.'

  After a morning of studying and reading with Flynn, she had slipped into the infirmary ward at midday to scan the bluff, but no white scarf waved through the haze. Liam would hardly arrange a meeting in the rain, and a walk in such foul weather would be difficult to explain to Flynn. When nearly two weeks of uninterrupted wet weather followed, she was almost relieved. She saw Liam only on brief occasions, never alone.

  Flynn dismissed his charge early in particularly foul weather that she might get home before the light failed entirely; on one of those stormy days, as Catherine entered the foyer she saw the ballroom door ajar. The ivory and gilt ballroom, although the same size as the great hall, was unused because Liam refused to expose its frescos and chandeliers to the careless vandalism of his brother's mercenaries. Curious, she took a peek, and finding the room empty, slipped in, then carefully shut the door. Leaving a trail of puddles across the polished parquetry, she hurried to the gleaming walnut pianoforte silhouetted against rain-washed Venetian windows. Despositing her cloak on the floor, she sat down on the bench and lifted the pianoforte cover, then struck a note that timidly hovered in the long room. Above gilt chairs in lonely ranks along the wall, painted courtiers and ladies seemed to listen critically from the garden fresco. Wincing at her own clumsiness, she ran through limbering exercises. Thanks to early training from a demanding French master, she had been by far the finest pianist at the academy, but now her fingers were stiff from lack of practice. Finally she ventured

  Schubert's rhapsodic "Ode to Spring," and gradually her fingers began to respond. Fancifully, she imagined the one-dimensional audience was beginning to smile and tap its toes with the urge to dance.

  Suddenly a few crystals on the chandeliers tinkled, and she realized the audience was not all a creation of paint. A round-eyed Moora with a scrub bucket in one hand stood just inside the door. "Come in and close the door," Catherine called softly.

  In an agony of shyness, Moora obeyed, coming hesitantly to the pianoforte, her heavy shoes echoing on the bare floor. "I heard the music. It was so soft and pretty, I thought it was fairies." She paused, swallowing. "Nobody here plays but Lord Liam, only he an't touched the pianoforte since he come back from Rome."

  Catherine smiled ruefully. "I'm out of practice, too, but playing for myself is a bit lonely. Would you like to hear the rest?" Moora hesitated, then nodded. As Catherine continued to play, the Irish girl's eyes took on a glow of wonder.

  " 'Tis lovely," she breathed, still swaying when the last notes died away. "Like magic."

  Catherine smiled. "Yes, but a magic you can learn to summon as easily as I. Would you like to try?"

  Moora's rapture faded and her eyes dropped. "I don't deserve it. I thought Master Sean'd be hangin' me sure for what I done; I got twice as many chores, is all. I don't even have to clean fish no more." Her eyes lifted, warming with shame and confusion. "Ma says ye kept him from punishin' me like he wanted."

  Unaware Sean had heeded her pleas for Moora, Catherine felt a catch in her heart. Would she ever understand the Irishman's mercurial moods? She squeezed the girl's hand. "Desperation can drive one to do perilous, unlikely things."

  "That it can, Countess," said a clear, definite voice from the doorway.

  Moora involuntarily shrank against Catherine as Liam Culhane strolled toward them. "There's no need to be afraid." Catherine steadied the girl with a firm pressure to her back. "Lord Culhane has simply come to join our recital. Haven't you, my lord?"

  "That I have." The fair-haired young man grinned. "Shall we play a duet, Lady Catherine?"

  Giving him a winning smile, she dragged the limp Moora onto the seat. "I was just about to show Moora a few simple scales. Naturally, any addition to the lesson is welcome."

  Moora had difficulty even with basic scales for she could not read; letters assigned to notes made no sense to her. With simple rhyming phrases, Catherine taught her to play a timid scale and silently vowed to teach her the alphabet. Noticing Moora's nervousness in the presence of her subtly
yawning master, Catherine lured Liam into a light, bantering conversation that gradually allowed Moora to relax and even to take part. When the girl doggedly managed her scales several times without error, Catherine showed her a simple song; then, to give her an idea of musical structure, she elevated the piece into an easy minuet, changed the timing to a fugue, then expanded it into a waltz. Liam clapped with tactless enthusiasm, oblivious to Moora's faint flush. "My lady, you make me glad I stayed awake."

  "It's just as well you did; it's your turn to play." As Liam eagerly slid onto the bench, Catherine silkily slipped off the other side, propelling Moora gently but purposefully ahead of her. Liam sat alone, baffled once more. "If you'll play a minuet," she coaxed, "I'll show Moora a dance suitable to a ballroom." Giving him no chance to demur, she quickly led Moora, clopping awkwardly, onto the floor.

  "We'll have to remove our shoes," Catherine told her. "I'll teach you a lady's part, then play the gentleman and partner you." The Irish girl showed a surprising aptitude for the steps and easily mimicked her partner's casual grace, despite Liam's initially rusty playing. Saucily grinning at one another, the two girls began subtly to compete. Catherine led the way to increasingly complicated steps and the Irish girl followed virtually without error. Liam, completely surprised by Moora's unsuspected ability, was openly admiring. At last Catherine spun to a halt and swept her a deep curtsy. "I declare," she laughed merrily with a teasing brogue as Liam applauded, "you've outdone me entirely!"

  Moora playfully imitated the curtsy as aptly as a mirror while Liam applauded. "I do dance nice now, don't I?"

  "Beautifully!" Catherine assured her. "In fact, so marvelously well you may have the talent to succeed at ballet."

  Moora looked dubious. "Ye mean, where doxies flit about in their unmentionables for rich geezers to gawk at?"

  Liam laughed. "Moora, you've got the idea exactly."

  Catherine glared him into amused silence. "Ballet is more than a display of anatomy. My grandmother, who studied with Beauchamp at Louis's court, considered it an indispensable part of my education." Seeing the girl's still doubtful face, she gave Liam a defiant look, then began to unhook her dress.