Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  Madeleine laughed lightly. "You made me sound indestructible." She gave a nod to Meh Lih, then took Sean by the hand and led him into her bedroom to sit on the bed. A candle burned on the side table. "Mei Lih will prepare a bath. She'll massage you and then you'll sleep." She blew out the candle and undressed him, her hands gentle, expert, not lingering on scarred flesh.

  "All is prepared, madame," Mei Lih's silhouette murmured from the doorway, the yellow sheath rimmed with firelight.

  Madeleine slipped Sean into a robe, then led him to the bath. The fireplace gave the only light, but he tensed slightly as Madeleine removed the robe. Their eyes impersonal, the women eased him into the bath, then bathed him. He grew drowsy in the copper tub and accustomed to their hands, until Mèi Lih started to soap his genitals. He caught her hand swiftly. "I'll do that."

  She began to lather his hair. They let him soak until the water turned tepid, then Mei Lih held out a large towel and, half-asleep, he stepped out of the tub.

  Mei Lih indicated for him to lie face down on a thick cotton pad before the fire. She left the towel over his hips and began to massage him with almond oil, beginning with the toes and working upward to the fingertips and neck until he felt liquid. Almost asleep, he idly watched Madeleine, who sat on the divan, her robe parted to the waist, her beautiful breasts glimmering in the firelight. Mei Lih turned him over and began again to slowly work up his body.

  As if the heat of the fire were too intense, Madeline unfastened her robe and let it fall away until her body was a luminous white shape against the black silk. Seeming to believe him asleep, she began to slowly make love to herself, carressing her own breasts, thighs and belly, then dipped her long fingers into herself. At the same moment, Mei Lih slipped the towel from his hips and massaged his chest and belly, his inner thighs. Dimly, he felt a vague desire, but his eyelids and mind were leaden and he slept; his last conscious memory was Madeleine's soft moans and disappearing fingers.

  His next awareness was of darkness and a warm, slow mouth at his partly swollen sex. He stiffened and a second mouth gently kissed him, then licked his lips, exploring, probing unhurriedly like the soft tongue that caressed his groin. He was too full of cognac and too relaxed to feel panic. Easier to surrender. To feel. Hands stroking every inch of his body, tongues at his nipples and encircling his glans until he felt a full, sweet pressure. At long last, he felt amost unbearable relief.

  "Sleep again, my love," Madeleine murmured.

  Later, in the darkness, he pulled Madeleine to him, putting his mouth where her fingers had been.

  He awoke to find a stream of sunlight across a sprawled body, only now he was alone with the Indonesian. As she felt him stir, she lifted her head and smiled. Then without giving him time to protest or cover himself, she slid down to his groin and stroked her cheek against him, nuzzling him, her almond eyes half-closed and sleepy. As the girl made love to him, he closed his eyes, remembering Catherine and that stormy night in the deserted cottage. Then just before the moment, he eased Mie Lih up and under him and made love to her, slowing his thrusts to a powerful, undulating rhythm that made her eyes widen. When her need matched his, he took her with him until her slim body shuddered as if in a storm wind.

  "Mon Dieu, mon ami, I've been concerned!" Raoul exclaimed as Sean walked through the front door of their apartment. "When you didn't return last night, I feared you had either run into trouble or collapsed in the street! After all, you're not long out of a sickbed."

  Sean shrugged off his cloak for Guillaume, the waiting manservant. "Sorry to have worried you. I was visiting an old friend."

  "Ah, well." Amauri stirred his coffee and leaned back in his chair at the breakfast table. "I suppose you don't feel like going to the artillery drills today."

  "I feel fine. Where are they?"

  "In a field on the city outskirts. We can wager on the firing times. Want an Omelette before we go?"

  "I've eaten, thanks, but a second cup of coffee sounds good. Café noir, Guillaume." The valet headed for his tiny kitchen.

  "La Noire last night was tris bonne, aussi, " Amauri observed. "Didn't you like her?"

  "Very much."

  The Frenchman grinned wryly. "Too much of a good thing, eh? You may be right. One needs to be celibate occasionally, just to purge the system." His smile faded. "Catherine's the one woman I cannot get out of my mind. I was wild when I heard she was married. The trouble is, I seem to be in love with her. But half of Paris saw her at the ball. Even Napoleon wants her! How do I fight them all? Christ!" He kicked back his chair and stood up. "I don't want to be married. Catherine's no Caroline a Murat can stroll away from."

  "Caroline makes no pretense of being faithful to Murat."

  "Well, Catherine's no whore," Amauri replied tightly. "I don't care what they say of her in England. The rumors are already drifting into Paris. Soon, no matter where she goes, lies will follow. She must be protected. Not only that, . ." He hesitated. "I don't want to worry you, but Fouché, the minister of police, has Mother's house under surveillance. I think Napoleon himself ordered it." Sean stiffened and Amauri shook his head. "No, mon ami, there's nothing we can do. If we try to smuggle Catherine out of the country, Fouché would pick her up before she got a mile outside the city. She entered France without papers. Fouché can come up with a hundred legal technicalities to detain a possible Royalist."

  The Irishman snorted. "So much for détente!"

  "Oh, Napoleon's intentions are honorable in that respect, but Catherine's too damned beautiful, that's all. He's made his interest clear to everyone. He wants her as his mistress."

  "I suppose it's naive to suggest he might accept a refusal?" Sean asked tightly.

  "Of course. He's no boor. He'll simply wait until she changes her mind." Amauri sympathetically touched Sean's shoulder. "I'm sorry, my friend; I feel entirely responsible. After all, I gave you my assurance of her safety. Short of betraying France, I'll do anything I can to help, even to the cost of my life."

  "Thanks, Amauri, but as you say, it's too late now."

  A week later, after attending a reception celebrating the Peace of Amiens between England and France, Sean reached Amauri's quarters and the laconic Guillaume handed him a sealed note. Recognizing the handwriting, Culhane ripped it open. "I must see you immediately. Catherine."

  Although Culhane asked the butler if he might see Lady Culhane, it was the baronne who greeted him in the drawing room. "My dear monsieur, what a pleasant surprise. Catherine will be down in a moment. She's putting on her habit." Her voice altered subtly. "May I suggest, under the circumstances, that you refrain from riding in public areas?"

  "Circumstances, madame?"

  Her silk dress nearly the color of her hair, she walked to the window. "Did you notice the kite vendor across the park? He's a representative of Monsieur Fouché." She turned. "Those white roses on the mantel came today; the card contains a single 'N.' Similar arrangements are scattered throughout the house. Catherine refuses to have them in her bedroom. Thank heaven, roses are short-lived; the scent is beginning to cloy . . . ah, there you are, and so quickly, too."

  With cheeks flushed from a race down the stairs, and blue eyes brilliant under a tilted, feathered hat, Catherine came into the room. Her new habit was moss green velvet with eream silk ruching about a high Medici collar, and Sean thought she had rarely looked more adorable. She said nothing, her eyes widening slightly, drinking him in as he was her. Then she turned to the baronne. "We won't be long, madame."

  "Dinner won't be served until eight, my dear. You have plenty of time. Perhaps you will dine with us, monsieur?"

  Catherine's face lost a little of its luster as Sean replied, "Thank you no, madame. I have another engagement this evening. . . . Why don't Kit and I go out the back? The hostler can bring my horse around as if to the stables."

  Chestnuts rose tall and straight-shafted against the rusty gold of the setting sun as the riders reached the outskirts of the Luxembourg. With no birds twitte
ring a summons to winter twilight, the wood was strangely silent. Creeping away from clusters of skeletal underbrush, tree roots twisted bare across parchment-dry leaves and lavender, pebble-strewn earth. When the horses reached a clearing, Sean dismounted and Catherine slid off her mount into his arms. Her face was luminous in the golden light and he held her so closely she found breathing difficult, but she clung to him even more tightly. "Take me away from here. I'm beginning to be afraid."

  He tipped her face up. "What are you afraid of?"

  "Everything. Everyone. Since the ball, this house has been like a prison. Every time I suggest going to see Mother's old friends or into the city, the baronne says it's unwise. This is the first time I've been out. Now even you won't stay to dinner."

  "Poor Kit." He removed her little hat and tucked her head under his chin. "Unfortunately, the baronne is right.

  It seems Napoleon intends to use your Royalist connections to detain you here until you become more approachable."

  Her eyes blazed. "I won't! I'll die first!"

  He gripped her head tightly. "Don't say that! Don't even 'think it!"

  Her eyes filled with tears and slowly she wilted. "What can I do?"

  "I wish I knew. Fouché's good, Kit. We don't stand a chance of making a run in a coach for the border. Horseback is out of the question in your condition."

  "Are you saying I should give in?" she whispered. "The baronne thinks I'm a fool . . ."

  "God, no! I'd assassinate the bastard first!"

  Catherine's fingers fiercely dug into his arm. "No! He's surrounded by bodyguards. If anything happens to you

  "Don't worry, little one," he hastened to soothe her. "So long as the general behaves, he's safe from me. I'll think of something."

  She sighed. "No, there's nothing you can do. I'll just have to keep refusing. Sooner or later, he'll find a diversion." She looked up. "But I need a house of my own; a small place I can keep myself. The baronne will be relieved to have me gone. She cannot relish Fouché's henchmen lurking about."

  "I'll find a place." He hesitated. "What do you think of Raoul?"

  "He's a godsend, I suppose. If it weren't for him, we'd be dead." She smiled ruefully and toyed with his silver cloak clasp. "We hadn't tuppence between us when the République fished us out of the water. Until you wrote the bankers, it could have been a great deal worse."

  "He's in love with you."

  Her head snapped up. "I don't believe it! He must have a different mistress for every night of the week!"

  "Oh, he's energgtic, I'll grant you"—he smiled faintly— "and he's not exactly delighted to be in love; that's why I think he means it."

  She eased away and wandered across the clearing. "Perhaps that's why his mother watches me like a hawk. She occasionally darts in questions about Ireland and you. I don't think she believes I was ever married to Liam."

  "Others may agree with her. Raoul says slander from England is beginning to tint local gossip. We may as well be prepared, Kit. When the baby begins to show, I'm sure to be named its sire."

  Catherine stared at the chestnut-framed sky and clenched-her fists. "I cannot even present marriage documents without overturning a scorpion's nest." She looked at him suddenly. "Is that why you refused the baronne's invitation?"

  "Each moment we're together can only confirm her suspicions." In frustration, he kicked at a lichen-encrusted log. "My feelings must be daubed on my face like clown's paint every time I look at you." He was silent for a moment. "I won't be going with you and the Amauris to Saint Denis this Sunday. It's time I found living arrangements separate from Raoul's. Until the baby comes, it will be better if we see each other as little as possible, better if Raoul and his mother think I'm losing myself in the city."

  "That's partly true, isn't it?" she murmured. "You're different. You're becoming hard and withdrawn again."

  "Is that the way you see me?"

  "I see only the man I love, will always love, no matter what guise he assumes."

  "What would you have me do, Kit?" he asked hoarsely.

  "Stop loving me," she whispered raggedly. "Save yourself."

  "But there's no need to go!" Raoul argued as Sean packed his few belongings. "I thought you and I had become friends."

  "Raoul, I've been camped here nearly a month. Your mother has agents on her doorstep. Kit and I cannot infringe on Amauri hospitality forever."

  "Look, if you want privacy, that's one thing, but you don't bother me. And if you think Mother's going to let Fouché bully one of her guests out of her house, you don't know her." Amauri distractedly ran a hand through his hair. "Look, with any luck, I may be moving soon and you can have this place to yourself. And Catherine won't need a house . . . because she'll be living with me."

  Sean's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

  "I'm going to ask her to marry me tomorrow when we lunch in the Bois."

  The Irishman's eyes slitted. "Isn't that a little precipitate? She's been widowed less than two months."

  Amauri sat on a desk edge. "Catherine is pregnant, no? You needn't look surprised; Mother noticed almost immediately. Widow or not, there'll be a great deal of talk. Do you want your brother's child to be called a bastard?"

  Culhane's lips tightened. "Since you're aware of my dubious parentage, you already know the answer to that question. But you cannot expect Catherine to go along with the idea; she hardly knows you."-

  "She knows me better than any man in Paris, except you. Will you marry her?"

  "No," Sean said flatly, and turned away to pull another handful of clothes out of his armoire.

  "My family name is old and respected," Raoul continued with determination. "Mother's reputation is impeccable. I've already spoken to her and she's fully prepared to give her blessing to the match and back Catherine to the hilt, no matter what the gossip. After all, no woman who deserves a scandalous reputation would refuse Napoleon. Once Catherine's married to me, the general will have to drop his siege."

  "He wouldn't thank you, Raoul. You could be a colonel for life."

  "Look, I'll admit I'm easygoing, but I'm not spineless."

  "If you've made up your mind, why talk to me?"

  "Because I have the feeling Catherine won't accept any man unless he has your approval."

  Sean eyed him narrowly. "Then you overestimate my influence. Kit has a mind of her own. I'm the last man you should approach for a benediction."

  "Are you against me?"

  "As I said, Kit can decide for herself. If she asks my opinion, I won't turn thumbs down on you,"

  Raoul held out his hand. "That's all I ask."

  Slowly, Sean took it.

  * * *

  The Irishman laid aside his book and watched Raoul fling his cloak over a chair on his return from the Bois. "How was the porc rôti?"

  "Catherine refused me," Raoul said quietly. "You knew she would, didn't you?"

  "I thought she might. Respectability is a poor trade for freedom."

  "I cannot just throw her to the wolves," Amauri said quietly. "I'm not giving up."

  The baronne d'Amauri strode into the foyer even as her son shook rain off his cloak and handed it to the butler. Her blue eyes cool, she watched the servant mince around the muddy puddle on the floor as he took the garment away. When the man was out of earshot, she addressed her son, whose rain-streaked face was pale with cold and nervous anticipation. "I see you received my summons quickly enough. Catherine's most upset. You'd better go to her. She's in the library."

  As Raoul opened the library door, Catherine started and spun to face him. Fear blanched her face. Raoul swiftly went to her and, eyes grave with concern, drew his arms around her. "Catherine, what is it? You're shaking like a leaf!"

  "Fouché just left . . . Fouché himself. My God, that man signed the death warrants for my family."

  "Easy, chérie. What did he want?"

  "He implied that I've been conspiring with Royalists, that Sean might be involved. He considered my father's con
nection with the duc d'Artois incriminating."

  "But you haven't had conference with Artois. Fouché can have no evidence, only suspicions."

  She turned away, her face utterly white.

  "Catherine? Is there something I don't know?"

  "I have seen Artois recently. The business was personal; it had nothing to do with politics or Napoleon, but several of Artois's aides and servants must know of it. If Fouché has agents among them, he'll have no difficulty trumping up evidence." She whirled. "Sean had nothing to do with the Bourbons and he knew nothing of my visit to Edinburgh. He was in prison!"

  The defiance underlying her last words struck Raoul as incongruous. "It was you who tried to arrange his release, wasn't it?" he guessed suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "Mon Dieu, Catherine, did you ask Artois to get Culhane out of prison?"

  "Indirectly."

  He threw up his hands. "Then you're both in up to your necks! Fouché's investigation must be discouraged or you'll end up in the Conciergerie at the very least. Sean could be shot or turned over to the English." He strode toward herand demanded in angry exasperation, "He did escape, didn't he? That much is true, isn't it?"

  "Yes." Completely terrified now, she caught his arm. "Raoul, please! You must stop Fouché! He cannot send Sean back!"

  "How do you expect me to stop him? Yesterday, I talked myself blue trying to convince you the situation was dangerous!"

  "I didn't realize," she whispered.

  He clasped her shoulders. "Listen. At the moment, Fouché is only conducting a routine investigation because of your background. Napoleon's interest in you requires that he be much more painstaking than usual. If you're innocent, there's nothing to worry about. The whole problem is easily solved." He tipped her face up to his. "Marry me. Napoleon will be forced to look elsewhere for a mistress, and Fouché, who is a very busy man, will turn his attention to another unlucky soul . . . shh, let me finish." He touched her lips. "I've already explained the advantages—no, necessity—of a father for your child. I've even talked to Sean. He understands and accepts the situation."