Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "I offer no defense, monsieur. I have nothing to regret."

  "Even though you may shortly be unable to retain any semblance of position?"

  She smiled slightly. "I prefer obscurity."

  "What do you want of me?" he asked softly, his hooded eyes unreadable.

  "My life, monsieur."

  He frowned. "Are you in danger?"

  "This December twenty-third I become sole heiress to the Vigny fortune. I have reason to believe John Enderly murdered my mother to retain that inheritance. He might even murder me. He's not my real father; exposure of that fact will remove him from all claim to my estate."

  "I see." His tone was skeptical, but he was intrigued. Though the tale was wild, his experience of Enderly's ruthless cunning led him to believe it held more than a thread of possibility.

  "Without his knowledge, I married two years ago. Although I separated from my husband without scandal, I am now with child. That child must be protected."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Extend Enderly some reassurance of friendship and proof of regard for me. Under your protection, I would be invulnerable. No amount of money would lead him to risk your wrath if he thought his future depended on your favor. If he also believes my child is yours, the baby and I would be safe forever."

  He marveled at her cool audacity. "And if I refuse?"

  "Then, if I should die before the age of twenty-one, I ask you to make public my parentage; also to become executor of my estate."

  He let out a faint whistle. "You ask a great deal. How do I know this tale isn't some incredible concoction to reestablish your father's position? My own honor would be forfeit."

  "My death will provide proof, monsieur."

  "You wager for high stakes, Countess," he said slowly. "What have you to put on the table?"

  She offered her lips. Without hesitation, he crushed his mouth down on hers.

  He kept her the night. He was an expert lover, but with none of his many mistresses had he felt this need to infuse his soul into a woman's body as he drew both pleasure and tenderness from her. This woman was sad; he knew it and that he could do nothing to dispel it. So, he had loved her with his man's body and heart. For the time, the prince had been gone; only warmth and need had remained. When she had cried out softly, he knew she had not been pretending. She had loved and been loved. Now she gave without reserve, without cheating.

  By the morning light, their faces showed the effects of passion and lack of sleep, flesh drawn against the bone. Artois watched Catherine use his brush to untangle her hair, sending it into a cloud about her naked shoulders. Her spine was straight, the slender back curving to small buttocks. She was pale, mouth still swollen from his kisses. Her breasts lifted as she shook out her hair and began to twist it up into a chignon. As she pinned, he kissed her nape. "I took you many times and I still want you, yet you haven't asked whether I shall give you your desire."

  "You fulfill my desire, Charles," she answered quietly. "As for the other, you will or will not help me. You owe me nothing."

  "Would you have given yourself to me if your life and fortune weren't at stake?"

  Catherine was silent for a moment. Sooner or later, she must ask for her beloved's life. To try to conceal Sean's importance to her was pointless; Artois was no fool. More important, she had already come to respect him too much to treat him like one. "I love another man; I always will. We can never join in flesh as you and I have. He is forever denied to me, while you may fill my nights, my days with life, perhaps love." She carried his hand to her cheek. "I want you to want me. I need you as a man."

  "The child is his, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  He turned away. "As a man, I wish you were more capable of lying. It seems I must be content with scraps from another man's feast." She said nothing. He touched her mouth. "Isn't your life worth a small deceit?"

  "His safety as well as mine depends on your help. He may be imperiled even now, perhaps dead. Before coming here, I was prepared to both lie and whore to save him. Now, knowing you, I can only beg for him and my child, for I love them more than my life."

  "Scruples are ill-suited to whores, Countess," was the bitter reply. His hawkish faced resumed its usual polite mask. "However, my compliments to the fellow. He's a most fortunate man."

  "No," she whispered. "He's not lucky at all."

  A white glare of light needled under Sean's lashes. He stirred, unwilling to leave the quiet, protecting dark, then more restlessly, feeling restraints on his limbs. His back began to sting annoyingly and he jerked weakly twisting his head to see what held him. Leather straps bound his wrists, loosely chained to an iron bed; his ankles were strapped as well. He strained at the fetters, rattling the bed. Then, feeling the heavy, ominous bandage at his groin, the Irishman moaned in his throat like an animal. He went limp, silent, helpless sobs welling up.

  A shadow moved against his closed eyes and a hand touched his shoulder. Sean's streaming eyes flew open, his teeth bared in a snarl. "Damn you, butchers! Kill me and be done with it!"

  "Easy, lad." A brown-haired, middle-aged man with spectacles pushed him down, not ungently, although Sean could not have fought him. The fight was gone. He lay inert, face averted to hide tears he was helpless to either stop or wipe away. Like a woman, he thought hopelessly; not even that.

  "It's not so bad as you think," the man said. "My name is Thatcher Marcus and I've been medical officer in several prisons. Sergeant Worthy knows his business; he's nearly as deft a surgeon as I am, for all those meaty fists of his. You're lucky to be alive. Many men die of shock or hemorrhage; some simply resolve to die. I had a fight, pulling you through."

  "Do you expect gratitude? Do you think I want to live like this?"

  The hand was at his shoulder again. "Do you think I like seeing men treat other men like beasts? I cannot unshackle a man's body, I can only heal it. His degraded spirit must be left to God."

  "God!" The man on the bed laughed hoarsely. "God is a fiend! There is no difference between God and the devil. He's the arch neuter, uncaring, unfeeling . . ." His laughter dissolved into a strangled groan.

  "You're not a neuter. Haven't you realized why you're still alive?"

  The dark head turned slowly. "Worthy cut into me. I felt it."

  "He removed one testicle, not both. You're entirely capable of begetting children."

  The green eyes were vulnerable. "I'm . . . still a man?"

  The doctor smiled. "More than most. It's a rare one indeed that Worthy's unable to break."

  Sean closed his eyes. "Enderly thinks I'll bargain for what's left, doesn't he?"

  "Yes."

  Sweeping fatigue weighted Sean down. He expelled the air in his lungs. "How long have I got?"

  "Three weeks. I can stall him a bit, but he's not an idiot."

  Sean felt his strength sapping. "You must explain to Enderly's daughter . . . about the package . . ."

  "I cannot help you there," Marcus said quickly. "I'd join you on the block. Rest now, lad. We'll talk again."

  "You've got to listen . . . she'll be sick again." He fought to press away the fog, but it curled about him and his leaden limbs pulled him down.

  Sean awoke to Marcus changing his bandages. "The incision is healing cleanly. You'll be fit soon." When the patient said nothing, Marcus rebandaged him and began to apply ointment to the burns on his body.

  "What happens if I don't cooperate with Enderly?" Sean asked abruptly.

  "Sergeant Worthy finishes what he started. I advise you to be agreeable. There's always some hope if you're alive."

  "Is that how you began to give in? And Worthy? He's a goddamned zombie."

  Expressionless, Marcus stood up. "I'm going to unshackle you long enough to do your back. Do I have to call the guards?"

  "No."

  Marcus unlocked the shackles and helped him turn over. His touch on the lacerated flesh, though gentle, was enough to make his patient grip the bars. He kept talking.
"In the past, Enderly has given prisoners who've refused him to his soldiers before returning them to sentence or the cells. Some of those men have been worked over with musket butts until nearly every bone was broken. Some had their genitals hacked off; some were mutilated, rendered mindless. He doesn't recognize a refusal. If you're lucky, you might make them mad enough to kill you before turning you over to Worthy." He wiped his hands on a linen towel. "I'm done."

  Sean turned over on his own, lips tightening. "What makes you think I want to stay alive?"

  "In your delirium, you repeated a woman's name. You seemed to want to keep her from believing you dead."

  "She already does," Culhane answered dully. "Enderly's shown her his rotten proof by now."

  "Perhaps not. He's unpredictable. You can be sure of nothing but Worthy's knife."

  Sean said nothing. The man was right. But to grovel for a life that had become less than dirt to him! He stared up at the whitewashed ceiling long after Marcus had gone.

  That same afternoon, Mignon entered Catherine's room at the Royal Crown Inn, took off her bonnet and pelisse. She looked at Catherine, who stood tensely waiting. "Well, I saw your Doctor Flynn. I don't know the man. He can rattle your praises in Gaelic until the sun blackens. You've wasted your time."

  Catherine wanted to burst into tears. She gestured aimlessly, then wandered to a chair and dropped into it. "Mignon, I'm carrying Sean Culhane's child, a child he may never see. He's been robbed, robbed of everything. He's got to have something!" Tears began to slip down her cheeks. "Please. Not for me. Hate me. But help me. There's no one else. He's alone." The words ground out from her soul. "I cannot bear to think of him alone."

  Mignon looked at the huddled figure for a moment. "Culhane's a fool. But you're no less a fool." Her face twisted. "You may as well hear it now. Culhane was taken into the prison at Liverpool the night he brought you back. Likely he's dead. Lucky if he is, for there's none to help him; save me, he let his agents go their ways after the rebellion."

  But Catherine did not hear her. She was already slipping to the floor.

  "There's a gentleman to see you, my lady," Mignon said from the bedroom door. "A Monsieur Artois."

  Catherine slowly sat up and absently brushed at her hair. "I'll see him. Please get my bedjacket, Mignon." The maid helped her into it, plumped the pillows, then admitted Artois and withdrew.

  He quickly crossed the room, concern all over his dark features. "Catherine, you're ill!" He sat on the bed and took her hand. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I'm not ill, Charles. I saw no need to alarm you."

  His dark eyes searched hers. "Did you think I wouldn't come? That I didn't care?"

  "No, Charles, I didn't think that."

  "Is it the child?"

  She touched his face. "The child is well. You're good to be concerned." She smiled. "I hoped you'd come to say good-by."

  His grip on her hand tightened imperceptibly. "You're leaving Edinburgh?"

  "I leave on the tide."

  "That's absurd! I won't let you!"

  "Charles, you cannot tie me here like a lapdog. Please don't try."

  Angered, he stood up. "What is this? A ruse to force my hand so I'll back your scurrilous father? Become an after- the-fact cuckold for your probably illegitimate child? You take me for a fool, madame! You languish most attractively of a nonexistent ailment, yet you would have me believe you well enough to make your frail way home to a martyr's end. . . .What the devil, woman?" He glowered. "Why do you smile? Do you think me amusing?"

  "No, Charles," Catherine replied, her smile fading, "you just reminded me of someone."

  "Him?" he snarled. "Your lucky fellow?"

  Her face crumpled suddenly. "They say he's dead. I must go home. I have to know. I must find him." Her last words were sobbed against his chest. Artois held her until she stilled. "I'm sorry; this is all so unfair to you," she whispered.

  "Shh, I'm an iron man, petite. I'm only in danger of rusting from your tears."

  She smiled wanly against his damp silk stock and curled her fingers into his lapel. "I'll miss your clanking about. You have a terrible temper."

  "Yes. I'm even thought to be dangerous. Didn't your papa tell you?"

  "He said you would eat me for an hors d'oeuvre."

  He lightly chucked her under the chin. "Only because that's all I can get." He tilted her head up. "Tell Enderly whatever you like. That I'm madly in love with you. That there is a baby Bourbon in that small belly of yours. Perdition, I'll tell him myself. Have him come to Edinburgh. Find out what you need to know about the baby's father, then leave Windemere immediately. I want you to come to me."

  "Is that an order, Charles?"

  "The prince orders you; the man can only hope."

  She kissed him then, lips clinging as his arms tightened about her. Artois felt his pulse begin to race, and gently put her away from him. "You tempt me to lock you into this room and throw the key out into the snow." He went to the writing desk and scratched out a note, then sealed it and stamped his signet into the wax. "This tells Enderly about everything but my paternity of your child. As an heir to the throne of France, I cannot put such an admission in writing. Naturally, you'll want to wait a few weeks before telling him anyway. I'll affirm the child's parentage when he comes to Edinburgh."

  "Thank you, Charles."

  He looked at her obliquely. "Wouldn't it be much simpler, chérie, for me to have him killed?"

  Her eyes widened as she started to protest, but he waved her to silence. "Princes are inclined to practicality. Direct measures avoid excessive paperwork, if nothing else. I shall abide by your wishes in this, but if Enderly crosses me, he dies. Is your man in prison?"

  "Yes, but more than prison walls separate us," she replied bleakly.

  He scribbled another paper and sealed his signature. "This may help. You can fill in the name." He rose, crossed to the bed, and stood looking down at her. "You've been honest with me; I will be the same with you. I am a dangerous man. I never settle for scraps. I hope your lover is dead, for if he is not, I may be tempted to kill him. Never tell me his name, Catherine, as you value his life." He held out his hand, palm down. "Acknowledge me as your rightful sovereign, Countess, for I will be king." She kissed his ring. Slowly, he turned his hand palm up. "And what acknowledgment for the man?" She laid her cheek against his hand. He touched her hair. "Good. We understand one another. I'll summon a coach with my crest to take you home. Will you be ready to leave within the hour?"

  "Yes, of course."

  He kissed her lightly. "Au revoir, petite mire des rois."

  Feeling like a Christmas goose being fattened for the kill, Sean idly picked at his tray. Knowing he had to regain strength if he hoped to escape, he tried to eat everything he was given, starting with the thickly cut meats, but he had no heart for it. The door opened and his appetite was little improved when Enderly strode in with Marcus behind him.

  "Mr. Fitzhugh, you're looking well. The menu seems to agree with you."

  "I've gotten by on less."

  "I daresay. We must have a pleasant chat about your past. Doctor . . ." He waved a negligent hand. "Remove the bandages."

  Sean felt a wave of malevolence for the men who appraised his body with the same insolence a rake might look over a whore. He masked his expression by watching Marcus snip through the linen dressing and peel it away. The scar was surprisingly small, a livid line along one side of the reduced sac; Worthy had even taken up the slack. The wound was sore but not particularly noticeable unless someone was looking directly at it. Enderly was. Sean forced his hands to relax; he was starting to grip the sheet.

  "Good. Pity you insisted on being maimed, but you're more sensible now, aren't you? I'll send for you tomorrow night." Enderly turned to Marcus. "Refasten those shackles. I wouldn't want him to accidentally damage his wound in his sleep."

  The guards came for him promptly at eight: four of them, all big, one a hulking bruiser bigger than Rouge. He dumpe
d clothing onto the bench against the wall, then jerked his head to a corporal with hands the size of shovels. When the corporal unlocked the shackles, Sean stood up, two bayonets pointed at his belly. "Try anything funny and ye'll be holdin' yer guts in with yer hands," growled the bruiser. His tiny eyes reminded the Irishman of a mongoose.

  After he dressed in a smaller man's clothes, they manacled his hands behind his back. An expressionless corporal attached chain-linked irons to his ankles. The mongoose nudged him in the ribs. "Move out, bucko."

  John Enderly spread his hands apologetically. "You must forgive the chains. After a time, I hope we can dispense with them." Sean's guards stayed at either elbow. Mongoose and Shovel Hands took up positions against either wall.

  Enderly gestured toward a Louis XV chair opposite him at a layishly laid table. "I've just finished, but would you care for a glass of wine?"

  "Not particularly." Let's get this over with, damn you, Sean thought tautly. The place reminded him of a bordello. The bed was covered withjeopard skins and jewel-colored pillows, while on the stone walls incongruous draperies hung in swags. Candles in brass sconces created mosaics of light on the mirrors and oriental carpet.

  "You look a bit tense, Robert," Enderly murmured. "Dare I hope you're impatient to confess and have done with any more unpleasantness?" His light mockery was evident as he stood up, the light picking up the curve of his lips as he came nearer.

  "No?"

  The Englishman began to unbutton Sean's shirt, smiling as his prisoner tensed. He caressed him, watching his eyes.

  Disgust wrenched Sean's gut. He focused through the man's eyes to the back of his skull, anywhere but the eyes of the other men.

  "Have you really nothing to say?"

  With a snarl, Sean drove his knee upward with all the force he could muster. And connected with nothing.

  Enderly must have expected just such a reaction. He twisted away with practiced swiftness and a rifle butt cracked across Sean's skull, stunning him. The two guards on either side jerked his arms up high behind his back, forcing him to his knees, and dimly he felt the newly healed back open. They shoved him, still dazed, onto the floor, then clamped a rifle stock behind his neck. With lightning efficiency, they had him stripped and spread- eagled face down, one man on each arm and leg, holding him taut. His head clearing, he twisted and bucked like a pinioned stallion.