Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  Balustrades topped with flambeaux set off the staircase where, as throughout the rest of the house, cream walls blended with peach marble floors. Raoul led her along the upper landing. "This is your room."

  Grandmère's old room. As he opened the door, she held her breath, expecting a travesty of the senior comtesse's femininity. A moment later, she impulsively flung her arms around Raoul's neck. "You found nearly everything, even Grandmère's bed! It's just as it was. . . . How did you ever do it?"

  He grinned and his arms tightened. "Maman remembered how the room was from the old days."

  "She's recalled everything wonderfully. Oh, Raoul, thank you!"

  When he kissed her, taking his time, she made herself relax and, trying to block a swift, bitter pang of memory, answered his ardor. After his head lifted, his eyes were dark with desire. "Don't be too long, chérie. I'm impatient for you."

  When he came to her, wearing a dark green velvet robe, Catherine stood tensely waiting in a white Grecian negligee that had been laid out on the bed. She knew what her bridegroom saw when he caught his breath. Caught simply at the shoulder, the filmy fabric draped across the breasts leaving the arms bare. Slashed to the hips on both sides, it hung straight, revealing her body: the long legs, the soft darkness between her thighs; the high, haughty breasts. Her handspan waist was thickened but not yet misshapen.

  Raoul came close and lifted the cloud of her hair in his fingers to feel its softness. His lips lightly brushed hers, and as his fingertips brushed her nipples through their diaphanous covering, she shivered. "I'll warm you, p'tite; never fear." He unhooked the shoulder catch and let the negligee fall, then caught it just under her breasts. "Beautiful." But as he dropped thè negligee, he noticed the scar under her right breast. "Where did you get that?" he asked abruptly.

  Startled by his change of mood, she murmured, "I was injured in a riding accident. Does it disturb you?"

  He frowned. "No, of course not. It's just that otherwise, your body is perfect." He felt her stiffen slightly and his teasing manner returned. "I want a woman tonight, not a goddess." Suddenly, he caught her face up to his with one hand and kissed her almost brutally; his other hand undid his robe and pulled her close to feel his hard nakedness. "Touch me," he whispered against her lips. "Hold me." He smiled as her eyes widened at his size. "I'll keep you very happy, chérie." He lifted her and laid her on the satin sheets, then cast off his robe.

  Involuntarily, she thought of Sean's lean, hard beauty, the fierce arrogance of his virility, and a knot of desire grew in her belly. Ruthlessly, she tried to concentrate on Raoul. Raoul was real, inevitable. But for all her resolve, a ghost entered her that night, green eyes burning into hers even as his lips seared her body. She moaned and arched, wanting him so badly that his rhythm broke cadence and, startled, elated and greedy, he plunged into her. It was over quickly for them both, for Catherine's impassioned response had excited her lover to shuddering, precipitate release.

  "Dieu, chérie. What a woman you are!"

  His voice brought her back to reality, to guilt, and a kind of fury that led to hard resolution. "I want to be everything you need, Raoul."

  Because she meant it, he believed her. "If only you knew what you're saying," he whispered, flushed with pleasure. "Nothing will be denied us. I have dreams beyond anything you can imagine. We'll share them all. The past will fade, you'll see."

  Thoughtfully stirring her café noir, Madeleine Rochet listened to the downstairs door close and the whisper of silk as Mei Lih ascended the stair. The Indo-Chinese entered the bedroom and bowed. The girl's youth and beauty were useful, but this morning, the Frenchwoman felt a twinge of jealousy.

  The night before, Culhane had carried the Oriental directly into the front bedroom; then there had been only sounds of lovemaking and the clink of a decanter behind the closed door. Perversely, Madeleine had felt like demanding money before he left, but then he would never have returned. Gentlemen knew what was expected of them, and Culhane was generous.

  She sipped the coffee. "Did Monsieur Culhane say anything of interest?"

  "He intends to leave France within the fortnight, madame."

  "Anything else?"

  "No, madame."

  Madeleine's mind began to click, the momentary distraction enough to make her miss the oblique opacity of the Oriental's eyes. "Bring pen and paper, Meh Lih."

  A few hours later, Raoul d'Amauri kissed her wrists and smiled. "How beautiful you always look, Madi. I received your message, but you're wicked to use perfumed paper; after all, I'm a married man now. Is there some problem?"

  "Perhaps." She drew him to the sofa, then glanced up at the girl. "You may leave us, Meh Lih."

  The girl's dark lashes fanned downward as she bowed.

  With her light, graceful walk, she left the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

  "Her resemblance to my wife is remarkable." Amauri smiled lazily. "You're a devious womam, Madi. I'm beginning to see why my brother-in-law is letting the women of Paris languish."

  She inclined her head, demurely accepting the compliment. "Still, I'm not so clever as you. May I congratulate you on your promotion, mon Général?" She rose and went to the sideboard, where she drew a chilled bottle of champagne from an ice bucket for his approval.

  "Merci bien! Here, let me open it." She rejoined him on the sofa and handed him the bottle. Moments later, blond liquid bubbled into waiting glasses. They sipped. "Excellent year." The new general leaned back into the cushions and stretched comfortably. "Now, what's this possible problem?"

  "Culhane plans to leave Paris within a week or two."

  "Damn, I was afraid of that." He looked at her over the glass rim. "This is where you really begin to earn your money, Madi. Culhane has to stay. Persuading you to discourage your current patron in order to be available to Culhane has been expensive, but I'm prepared to be far more generous if my plans go well. My wife signed the papers reclaiming the Vigny estate this morning."

  Madeleine smiled. "Everything seems to have gone as you wished. You're now possessed of a promotion, a great fortune, and a very beautiful wife. I've heard the comtesse is even more beautiful than Josephine."

  "You've only to look at Mei Lih for proof of that." He paused. "But how did you choose the girl without seeing my wife?"

  "La comtesse was described to me and Madame Hortense suggested this girl." She watched his eyes. "Monsieur Culhane won't return until this evening. Would you like to see her privately?"

  He thought a moment. "Culhane was here last night?"

  "He was with her from early evening until dawn."

  "I suppose I can spare an hour before I drop by Maman's." He smiled slowly.

  CHAPTER 26

  Rotted Roses

  Catherine soon learned her husband's playful manner hid more than a shrewd mind. Far from being disappointed by her lack of virginity, he reveled in her skilled ability to arouse him and appeared bent on teaching her every technique of a courtesan. While patient and considerate, he was also insatiable.

  The newlyweds first rift came almost immediately and another facet of Raoul's character was clarified. The quarrel was over the house. Its original facade had been clumsily renovated to the neoclassic style in the early days of the Directorate. "Raoul, do you suppose we could restore the exterior of the house?" Catherine suggested one evening as they returned from a dinner party. "The old facade was much more graceful."

  "You've inherited your mother's penchant for remodeling," he said lightly as he held the gate open for her. "Do you have any idea what such changes would cost?"

  "Surely we can afford it; This house was one of the architectural jewels of the city. You said yourself the former occupants had deplorable taste."

  "But the good sense to adjust to the times." Raoul clicked the gate shut. "To alter my house to reflect the pomp and greed of France's worst despot immediately after marrying an aristocrat would create a most unfavorable climate for my career."

  She st
ared at him. "Your house, Raoul?"

  Scenting battle, the coachman headed for the stable.

  "No, of course not," Raoul soothed, mentally cursing his careless slip. "But you must realize you have reason to assist my advancement. After all, your future is linked to mine." He offered his arm.

  Catherine hesitated, then accepted it. But as they moved up the walk, she observed quietly, "Somehow, that role in your life suggests a shadow. You said Napoleon wanted to ally with the old regime. I should think he would be delighted to see this house restored. If one can believe his admirers, he's no poor judge of architecture." Her soft voice grew more determined. "It won't cost you a franc. I'll use my own income."

  "Our income, chérie," Raoul corrected firmly. "Certainly you'll have a generous allowance for house management, couturier . . ."

  Catherine stopped dead. "I'm not an idiot, Raoul. I intend to learn to manage the estate."

  He looked grim. "Do you think I would cheat you?"

  "No, of course not, but why should I behave like a doll with sawdust brains? I won't be managed!"

  Raoul lightly gripped her shoulders. "Catherine, be reasonable. By law, your property became mine when you married me; you knew that."

  "I didn't know I possessed an immediate fortune at the time; certainly, I never assumed you'd appropriate it. You said you loved me!" She pulled away from him. "Perhaps I was naive. Perhaps it's the money you wanted."

  "That isn't true," he flung back. "I had no idea Napoleon intended to return the property. I do love you." He hesitated, then said slowly, "I'm only behaving as I've been trained. I'm used to taking command. Perhaps I've gone too far. Forgive me, chérie. I'll teach you whatever you wish to learn. And I'll have an architect look at the house."

  "You mean it?"

  "Yes." He shrugged ruefully. "Even if we're crossed off the guest lists of every Republican in town."

  She laid her hand on his arm. "I don't mean to be a spoiled brat, Raoul. If you're so certain renovation at this time is unwise, I don't mind waiting. But I would like to see the accounts tomorrow. I don't even know what I . . . we own."

  That night, they made up the quarrel as lovers do, but in the morning, after Catherine had gone over the accounts with Monsieur Armand Lessier, her husband's solicitor, she saw only one extranational property listed under the Vigny holdings. No mention was made of either the Caribbean property, or of holdings in southern Switzerland and the Ruhr, which Amin had described. "Is that all, Monsieur Lessier?"

  "Oui, madame. You are a very rich young woman."

  "Certainly richer than one might think," she replied coolly.

  That evening, she held out an aperitif to Raoul and lightly kissed his lips. "Thank you for sending Monsieur Lessier today. The accounts were most interesting."

  He nuzzled her ear. "I'm relieved to hear you weren't bored. That sort of thing quickly becomes dreary."

  "Oh, I wasn't bored; far from it. Unfortunately, Monsieur Lessier could only stay for an hour." She sipped her drink. "Perhaps we can finish tomorrow or the day after."

  Raoul looked startled. "Didn't you finish today?"

  "Heavens, no. Not half. We've still . . ." And she listed her international holdings.

  He rotated his glass. "You're too modest, chérie; you seem to know the exact extent of your estate. I'm more surprised your father discussed financial matters with you so frankly. Unfortunately, he recently sold those properties."

  She smiled. "Papa is extremely private . . . and shrewd, like you. You once said you'd never underestimate me again; certainly, Papa isn't like to make that mistake. A successful arrangement between us is dependent on complete trust and frankness, don't you agree?"

  But even as Amauri began to spill oil over the waters, they both knew she would never completely trust him again.

  Sean frowned critically at the rough drawing of a single-limber gun carriage he had just sketched. At first glance, it was much simpler, lighter, and more maneuverable than the double limber commonly used, yet far more complex to build to the required strength. His concentration kept wandering and he hardly knew why he bothered, except to occupy his, mind. The single limber had been tried before with poor results; so far, his ideas showed no more promise.

  Yesterday, Grouchy had informed him Napoleon wished an interview. Sean knew he should have held his tongue about artillery at the Amauri wedding reception, but the chance to tap the mind of a genius had been irresistible. His tour of armaments factories and barges had been another mistake. Grouchy had made sure he had seen things no foreigner should have.

  To avoid incidents with Javet's cronies, Sean rarely left his rooms. He had not been back to Madeleine's since the night of Catherine's marriage. Meh Lih had been strangely subdued, and he remembered his drinking and demands on her body. Even more callously, he had made Meh Lih Catherine's surrogate. Catherine. Slamming her out of his mind, he grabbed for the wooden triangle.

  Sean had drawn no more than a few lines when he heard a knock at the door. He swore and went to answer it.

  "Gil, you skinny bastard! I was beginning to think the British had rammed you down a cannon bore!"

  The slim young naval lieutenant grinned. "Not a chance! Maman is preventing that with her cooking. I've only been home a week and she's already letting out my breeches." Beneath his sandy hair, Gil Lachaise's fine- boned face had the innocent charm of a young Parcival; his gray eyes, the lucid clarity of dew. His grin softened and he held out his hand. "It's good to see you again, my friend. I heard you were dead."

  Sean clasped his hand, then they embraced tightly. He drew Lachaise into the room. "You haven't changed much, Gil."

  "More than you think." Gil winked. "I'm to be a captain within the month.

  Sean grinned and slapped the young naval officer on the shoulder. "We'll have a drink to celebrate."

  An hour later, the two men sat, legs stretched out, a fire crackling in the fireplace, their reminiscences well warmed with Irish whiskey.

  An old classmate from the École, Gil was the illegitimate son of an aristocrat. Generously, he had left Gil a legacy and, though married with other sons, had seen him regularly. When he and his family died in the Revolution, Gil and his mother had genuinely mourned them.

  Although Gil had not suffered from the question of illegitimacy as had Sean, the young cadets had reached an understanding thaH-an far deeper than did their relationships with others. Besides Catherine, Gil was the truest friend Culhane had ever known.

  "You will come to dinner, Sean? Maman's upset that you haven't called. All she heard was that a wounded Irish rebel had floated practically to Paris in a wrecked boat." He grinned wickedly. "When we learned the fellow was wrapped in the arms of a meagerly clad beauty, we knew he had to be you."

  The Irishman's easy manner ebbed. "The woman in the boat was my sister-in-law. She'd been widowed only a few days before when Shelan was overrun by the English."

  Gil sobered instantly. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

  "Don't be too sorry. You're not entirely off." Hesitantly, the story came out of him like the draining of a long- cankered sore, in a way that once would have been impossible for him before Catherine had made him face his need for other human beings. The only thing Sean could not admit, even to Gil, was the extent of his degradation in prison.

  When he was at last silent, dusk had fallen along with one of the last light snows of the season, which left the dome of Sacre Coeur a ghostly mound of white hovering above the indistinct rooftops of the city. The room had grown cold and Sean threw wood on the fire.

  Gil watched the fire's red reflection play about his friend's dark face. Agony of spirit seemed to burn under the flesh, pitilessly searing away its prison.

  The Frenchman hated to say what he had come to say, but now it was doubly necessary. "Sean, you must leave Paris. The officers are debating about who should have the honor of calling you out. They're after your blood. Not just Javet's friends. The city is full of idiots who haven't spent their
recklessness on the battlefield."

  Sean leaned against the mantel. "I'm leaving day after tomorrow. My staying on can only compromise Catherine. Amauri will protect her now; God knows the poor devil will probably have his career ruined for his trouble."

  Gil frowned. "Why do you say that?"

  Sean shrugged. "Napoleon can hardly be delighted to be eluded at the altar."

  Gil sighed. "Sean, I think you've been duped. Amauri made brigadier general on the eve of his wedding; his friends congratulate him, not only on his bride's beauty, but on her magnificent dowry."

  "Kit has no dowry," Sean said tightly, "not a sou she can claim."

  "Napoleon ceded the Vigny estates back to her as a wedding present. Does that sound like the act of a thwarted lover? Now that he's First Consul, he prefers his mistresses to be married; it prevents embarrassing accidents from being laid at his door."

  Respite the heat of the fire, Sean felt suddenly, clammily cold, and utterly stupid. He was not accustomed to feeling stupid, but now the sensation gripped him like a mailed fist and he smashed his hand against the mantel. "The whole damned thing was an arrangement. I'll wager Amauri even suggested Bonapart have Fouché present his calling card!" God, what his stupidity had done to Catherine, whom he had sworn he would never hurt again. He had been too preoccupied with his own misery to see the trap. "I'll kill the slimy bastard."

  The deadly whisper galvanized Gil. "Look, Amauri may be innocent. I'll grant you he's ambitious, but I've never heard he. was unscrupulous. Besides, even if he is, you'd only make things worse. God knows what information Amauri might have already fed Fouché. You say your lady's five months pregnant; surely she's safe until the child is born."

  Culhane's muscles contracted as he gripped the mantel in self-disgust.

  The Irishman thought for a moment. "I'll have to make myself valuable to Napoleon, in case France's latest boy general should fatally choke on his recent good fortune."

  * * *