"What sort of demon are you, who plucks his victims from the abyss?"
"Like Lucifer, little one, I envy the power of God; One day He may demand an accounting." He smiled faintly. "Will you give a hand to a ruined rebel when he lies smoking in the Pit?"
"If he's the same sooty fellow who once fished me from a pond. Aye. I'd see his wings well laundered."
That night Sean accompanied Catherine to bed, where she slept quietly in his arms for the first time in weeks.
CHAPTER 12
Stormfire
Catherine awoke to see Sean giving the bell rope an impatient tug. With only a glance at her, he began to rifle through his chest. He was pulling out clothing and throwing it on the bed when Peg came puffing in. "Well, what is it, for heaven's sake?" She frowned. "What a mess ye're makin'!"
"Fetch Tim O'Rourke's sea gear, Peg. He won't be needing it for a week or so. I'm taking the lady for a long sail up the coast."
Two jaws dropped simultaneously. The plump one snapped shut when Sean's eyes fixed on her with more than a hint of impatience. "Sure and why not?" she muttered, and backed out the door.
Catherine sat up straight as Sean turned to his shaving. "But what of my infirmary duties? Your work? Surely we can't just leave . . ."
"The devil we can't." His retort was muffled by lather. "We've earned a holiday."
Catherine's eyes brightened. The thought of filling her lungs with sea air made her bounce out of bed.
Amused green eyes met hers from the partly scraped face in the mirror. Sean turned around, scraps of lather clinging to his jaw. "So you relish going alone to sea with a rogue?"
She gave him a feline smile. "For a rogue, you're remarkably reliable."
He dashed his face with cold water. "But not without purpose, my pigeon. You'd best remember naught but a truce is between us."
She hugged her knees to her chin and retorted softly, "Even now you guard me. You make a sorry villain, Sir Rogue, divided against yourself."
Peg pecked at the door and hurried in with a bundle of clothes under her arm. Dropping it on the bed, she gave Catherine a conspiratorial wink. "I'll be back with breakfast."
"No, you won't," Sean said as she threw up the lid of his chest. "We'll breakfast at sea. Have a couple of weeks' rations taken aboard the Megan."
Catherine felt a faint chill at the name. Suddenly the holiday's bright promise was dimmed. As Peg left the room, Catherine went through the clothing in silence. There was a pair erf brown whipcord breeches, a change of shirts and stockings, a warm jacket, and an Aran sweater. She slipped off the bed, and a moment later the nightgown settled in a puddle, on the rug.
Sean had concentrated on his own dressing, but in spite of himself, his eyes lifted. Catherine felt his stare. Seeing the look in his eyes, her own darkened and her fingers went involuntarily to her throat. Abruptly he turned away and dragged on his shirt. "Tim's feet are a near size with your own," he muttered, "so don't use both pairs of socks to stuff the boots. You'll want a pair dry."
While Catherine dressed, Sean quiekly packed a small bundle of toiletries, a flint box, and needle and thread. When he finished, she was regarding him soberly with grave, dark blue eyes from the foot of the bed. Her fragility was accentuated by male clothing; even without the raven hair falling in a silken stream over her jacketed shoulder, her femininity was apparent in heavy, shadowing lashes and a delicate line of jaw. Sean picked up a scarf from the commode and crossed to her, but as he approached he sensed she was somehow wary. Still, she looked up unwaveringly and he had a momentary sensation of falling into a starlit sea. As quickly as the illusion came, he banished it. If his feelings were so badly shielded that Flynn had been aware of them, he must have the dazzled look of a smitten schoolboy.
"Turn around, English. We'll be taking a private shortcut to the beach."
She hesitated, then turned. After the blindfold was secure, she heard the Irishman shrug into his jacket. The bundle he had packed was pushed into her hands. "Hold this. I'll have my hands full."
Suddenly swept off her feet and easily held in strong arms, she was revolved until she lost all sense of direction. There was a slight click and intrigue stole her earlier uneasiness. A wooden panel in the bedroom must be a door.
The passage was narrow, steep, and circuitous, but Sean never once bumped her against the walls. She itched to brush an exploratory fingertip down one of them. Brick on an upper floor would mean the passage was built into the chimney area; granite, along the exterior wall.
Sean felt a furtive movement. "No, you don't, English. That small nose may be atwitch with curiosity, but it'll not catch the first whiff of salt if you don't play fair."
The air grew progressively more cool and damp, the stairway ended, and they crossed an open space. Catherine caught a faint odor of wine. When on kitchen duty, she had never been permitted in the wine cellar. That she might have been originally smuggled into the house via the cellar had long ago occurred to her, but the door was always kept locked unless opened with one of the keys Peg always kept at her side. Catherine's quick mind was still humming when at last her hair lifted on the sea breeze. Sean set her on the sand and removed the blindfold. He grinned faintly at her alert look. "You shouldn't work so hard at playing compass; it will put a pucker between those pretty brows."
She thoughtfully watched him stride toward the surfs edge where a man waited with a dinghy. The two exchanged a few words, which were lost in the rush of the waves. Culhane had taken a chance bringing her through the passage, she mused. Was it because he was beginning to trust her, or because he thought she'd never have the opportunity to describe it to the authorities?
He came back at a trot. "The supplies are aboard. Come on, English, time's wasting."
He rowed through the pounding surf with long, sure strokes, keeping the bow well quartered to oncoming breakers. Surrounded by white, crashing walls of foam, Catherine, her hands clutching the gunnels, tried to concentrate only on Culhane's rhythmically moving body, which blocked out the wildness of the water and part of its lashing spray. Thank heaven she'd had no breakfast; her stomach was cringing somewhere in her throat. She mustn't be sick; he'd never let her forget it. Suddenly she heard a chuckle over the water's roar, then an amused drawl. "Never fear, lass. You'll come to know when the Sea Beast is more sound than fury."
Her lips moved stiffly. "I'm not afraid."
"No. Just a bit thoughtful."
Oddly, she was not really afraid, for though the tiny boat tossed like a cork, Culhane had no fear. He obviously enjoyed the challenge to his skill and muscles. His white teeth were bared in effort and concentration, seeming to match the ferocity of the sea. With his wet hair a ragged black satin cap, he might have been the' Sorcerer Prince battling the elements. Abruptly the roaring muted behind them and they skimmed across the swells to the yacht riding at anchor. As the dinghy came alongside the clean- lined hull, Catherine saw "Megan" painted in green and gold across the stern. Sean secured the dinghy to a deck cleat, then swung over to straddle the gunnel of Megan's teak afterdeck. "Now we'll try your sea legs, English. Give me the blanket." He bent down, and before she realized what was happening, he had caught her about the waist. He slid her over the gunnel and across his thighs until she was safely in his arms. Green eyes teased her wide blue ones. "Next time, you'll be heaving your own ballast aboard."
"I could have managed," she retorted.
"Like to try?" His grip abruptly slackened, and with a gasp, she grabbed for him. Instantly he caught her close, feeling her heart quick against his chest. "Nay, lass," he whispered against her hair. "No games. We're alone with the sea and I'll not have a mutinous crew. While we're aboard, you'll take my orders without thinking. I may tolerate your impertinence, but the sea won't." He caught her face up to his. "Well?"
The long lashes swept up. "You're the captain."
He grinned. "Possibly the only one in the world with a countess for a cabin boy."
Culhane deposited her o
n cushions in a partly sheltered niche just aft of the cabin. From this vantage point she could view preparations for getting under way. Shortly, the mainsail ran up the mast and he took the helm. With rustling snaps, the mainsail bellied out and the jib filled. Picking up speed, the Megan began to dance. Waves slapped against the snowy hull as Sean brought her about and headed southward. "I've an errand below Ballyshan- non, across the bay. After that we'll run south to the Arans, then turn back north as far as Malin Head."
Catherine pushed hair out of her eyes. North, she speculated. Less likelihood of British patrols to the north. Culhane could hang for this holiday. How does it feel, my conniving girl, to have a man risk hanging to bring a bloom to your cheeks?
Sean noticed his companion seemed oddly silent after her first eagerness for the voyage. Possibly the motion of the boat was making her regret coming. She seemed well enough; pale, but no more so than before. He had not realized how much he wanted this voyage to please her. He sensed she was somehow afraid, not of the turbulent sea, but of him, ever since she had seen him staring at her body. And why not, when she had been abused because he had hated her? She looked at him suddenly and her clear eyes held his as if searching for some clue to his thoughts; then, as if realizing her confusion was apparent, she turned her head away.
As they rounded Malinmore Head and beat across the chop of the bay, the mouth of the Erne gleamed pewter in the distant haze.
"Malinmore is the largest headland we'll encounter before we reach Malin to the north. That harbor at the mouth of the Erne is Ballyshannon. We're headed just to the right of it."
"Where do we put in for the night?"
"Broadhaven Bay, with any luck."
Three hours later they approached a narrow jetty below the tiny fishing village of Pullendiva, and Sean wasted no movement as he maneuvered the craft downwind of the jetty, brought the schooner about with a hardover rudder, then eased alongside, gently bumping against the oxhide bags he had thrown over as fenders. The sails slapped loosely as he leaped to the wharf to make the Megan secure. He came back aboard, dropped the sails, and ducked into the cabin. Reappearing a moment later, he handed her an oilskin bag. "Breakfast," he said briefly. "I'll be back with tea."
Before the sound of his boots on the wharf died away, Catherine dove with keen appetite into the bag. Bread, cheese, and apples. Heavenly! Breaking off generous chunks of bread and cheese, she wolfed them. When she became thirsty, she bit into an apple, then almost as it crunched noticed someone watching her from shore. A tall, red-haired girl stood alone on the beach and an uneasy thought crept into Catherine's mind. At that moment the girl came out onto the jetty and regarded her with amber eyes, hair flaming out in the gray wind. "So ye're the one." Her voice was expressionless, a low, husky contralto that suggested color and vivid speech under ordinary circumstances.
"I'm Kitty Flynn. I don't believe we've met," replied Catherine quietly.
"Kitty Flynn, is it?" the girl said ironically. "I heard it was English Kate. Or was it Cat? Ye're better lookin' than they said. But then, no hag'd keep Sean between her sheets."
Catherine's eyes flashed violet. "If you've heard so much, you must have heard as well it's the other way around."
The amber flickered. " 'Tis your witch eyes. His mother spun tales of the Old Ones about him. Now they've sent a witch woman to destroy him. Sean Culhane was never meant to be ri eireanne." The Irish girl sounded as if she were uttering an incantation to ward evil from her lover.
"You must be Fiona," Catherine replied. "No, I've cast no spells to learn your name. Liam told me." Then more softly, "I no longer hate Sean. In some ways, I even understand his need for revenge." She saw no reaction in the Irish girl's face. "As for bringing ill fortune, how could the Old Ones have sent me? Surely they cannot summon one who has no Irish blood."
Fiona made an impatient gesture. "Ye seek Sean's ruin even as ye veil his eyes. But Megan waits in Kenlo. Among her shadows, she's powerful. She'll destroy ye."
"Megan's dead. I'm not afraid of her."
The flame hair lifted and coiled. "No? Megan's at the heart of the demons in Sean Culhane. He'll never resist her biddin' for she's the only woman he'll ever love. When ye see the devil in his eyes, commend yer schemin' soul to hell."
Abruptly the fisher girl turned and went back the way she had come.
Sean, emerging from one of the whitewashed cottages near the shore, frowned as he saw Fiona walking away from the Megan. Quickly he intercepted her on the beach. They exchanged brief words and he caught her arm, then slowly released it. The red-haired girl left him and disappeared into the village. He swiftly returned to the yacht and jumped aboard. Catherine regarded him silently.
"What did she say to you?" he demanded.
"She was concerned for your welfare," Catherine replied quietly.
"The devil she was . . ."
"There's no need to be angry with her. I've known about Fiona for some time. She's lovely." Her voice sounded clear and faraway, as if she were fighting exhaustion.
Sean went down into the cabin, then returned with two mugs and poured tea into them from a narrow tin he had carried aboard from the village. He handed her a mug. "Here, drink this. Careful, it's hot. Peg forgot to pack the tea, so it's the last we'll have for a couple of days . . . that is, if you still want to go." His voice was carefully expressionless.
She wrapped her fingers about the mug, hugging its warmth. "I still want to go."
"I'm taking you below for a while:" He carried her, un- protesting, into the cabin and tucked her into a bunk. A brass lantern swung above the bulkhead. "Try to get some sleep, English."
By the time they had left the dock and the waves of the open bay had begun to slap against the hull, the tea was gone and Catherine burrowed into the woolen blankets. Finally she drifted into sleep.
She awoke some hours later to Sean's touch. "Would you like to face the Beast now, Beauty, or go on sleeping?"
"Is the Beast growling?" she mumbled sleepily.
He brushed a tendril from her forehead. "Not much. He's just a bit lonesome."
She gazed up at him through her lashes. Culhane had never hinted at need for anyone before, only the single time she'd flung it in his face. "Perhaps he just needs his ears scratched. Take me aft, Captain, and show me where he itches."
Culhane tapped her nose. "You'd be shocked." He handed her Tim's jacket. "Button up. The wind has changed and we've a stiff breeze."
He settled her in the downwind curve of his body behind the tiller he had lightly lashed in position. Spray dancing high off her windward quarter, Megan was tautly heeled over and making a steady ten knots westward through a hazy, leaden sea. "We're moving so quickly!" Her eyes lit with excitement. "Ships never fly through the water like this."
"Aye. We're running on a beam reach. You'll notice I've added a staysail to the jib and mainsail for greater speed."
"The staysail is the small, triangular sail near the bow?"
"Aye." He went on to describe the rigging, then finished, "The webs running up the mainmast are ratlines. They're not often used on a craft this size, other than for unsnarling tangled rigging or repairs . . ." He noticed her disappointment. "Sorry, monkey. Still, if you've an inclination to go aloft, I've no objection so long as I'm on deck."
She peered up at him. "You really mean it?"
He shrugged. "It's your neck."
With a pleased sigh, she resettled against his warmth. After a few moments of gazing at the rugged beauty of the passing coastline, she ventured another probe. "I don't suppose you'd let me take the helm?"
"Why not? Put your hands here." He tugged a line and the lashings on the helm fell free as the wheel began to move. He slipped his hands over hers.
As the afternoon passed, Sean let her guide the Megan under his hand until she could hold the sleek craft steady by herself. When her confidence grew, he showed her how to avoid a jibe. "If you let the wind get too much behind her, she'll jibe, which can break a mast. B
e ready to duck. The boom will come around in a hurry . . ." Catherine gasped as suddenly the Megan heeled clumsily sideways and the boom sailed past her ear.
"Lesson one," said the unruffled voice in her ear as the boat swung immediately back on course and the boom came whacking back, "keep a cool head. Mistakes at sea are dangerous, but panic can be fatal."
Toward sunset Catherine became drowsy, but was determined to miss none of the primordial beauty around her. The cliffs now burned dark russet against the intensely purple moors.
Sean noticed her stubborn effort to stay awake. "We anchor in Broadhaven in a couple of hours or so. I'll tell you if you're going to miss anything."
Nodding, she nuzzled her nose into his jacket and was instantly asleep. It seemed only moments later that he was gently nudging her. "Wake up, lass. I have to go forward."
He dropped sail, secured the halyards, and anchored in a harbor sheltered from the Atlantic blasts by a large duned island. The backwater was quiet after the foaming rush of water under the Megan's hull all day. Lowland fields rolled away under a huge, ruddy, upturned bowl where tiny cloud scraps drifted in white sheets. Catherine stretched. "The sky looks like pink porridge. What does that portend, Master Mariner?"
"Fair sailing tomorrow." Sean finished lashing the mainsail to the boom and looked skyward. "That ruddy look in the morning indicates foul weather." Wiping his hands on his breeches, he dropped into the cabin through the forward hatch. He emerged on the aft deck with the oilskin sack, dining utensils, the lantern, and a bottle of wine under his arm. He squatted beside her, dug into the bag, and pulled out a stewed chicken. Placing it on one of the tin plates he had brought, he sawed the bird in half with his boot knife, then cut up cheese, divided gooseberries, and poured the wine. "Hungry?"
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