Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  Catherine wandered the ruins of her grandmother's rose garden. Revolutionary mobs had trampled the gardens. Swaddled in-shallow, drifted snow, the remaining rose bushes were diseased. Restoration would take years, but she had years; to think of how many made her shiver.

  Careless of her fur-lined kid gloves, Catherine dug at the roots of a damaged lilac bush. The shrub showed promise. Letting dirt and snow sift off her fingers, she watched sunlight wink off the snow's minute facets. Her heart felt as if it were cracked into tiny, frozen crystals like the ones that blanketed the garden. Her spirit had pointlessly endured only to die of creeping frost.

  The marriage was a disaster. She was beginning to recognize Amauri's lies; like Enderly's they came fluently, as if they were part of his charm. He wanted something from her, beyond money, beyond her body, beyond even love, and fear of that something made her shake from head to foot.

  That night, as Catherine brushed her hair before bed, Amauri nuzzled her ear and purred, "I've a wonderful surprise, chérie. Josephine has chosen you to be one of her ladies-in-waiting. ' '

  Even prepared for an outburst, he flinched as she whirled. "That's absurd! She wouldn't choose me if I were the last woman on earth!"

  Hastily, he tried to calm her. "Josephine desperately needs a suitable lady, Catherine. One of the three she has is leaving with her husband for an Italian post. To be asked is a spectacular honor. After all, I'm only a general and the army has scores of generals—"

  "So soon dissatisfied, mon cher?" she cut in ironically.

  He flushed. "Not at all. I'm just trying to make you understand. It's a political appointment, not a matter of favorites."

  "I daresay it depends on whose favorite one is," she muttered as she turned back to the mirror and resumed brushing her hair with studied carelessness.

  Amauri pretended astonished anger. "Are you insinuating Napoleon still has designs on you? How can you abuse his honor after accepting his generosity?"

  "He merely returned what is rightfully mine." Coolly, her eyes met his in the mirror. "Besides, what has his so called generosity done for me but transfer my property into the hands of one of his faithful servants? Every time I request a conference with our solicitor, he's either conveniently in court or out of the city, or contracting measles from one of his children; from the time he spends in bed, he must have dozens of them."

  "Catherine, you aren't being fair," Amauri said sternly. "We aren't his only clients." He scowled and began to pace the room. "Do you think I'd let you accept this position if I thought Napoleon would abuse you?"

  "I'm beginning to think you'd do anything to get what you want, Raoul," she said flatly. She tossed her hairbrush on the dresser. "What do you want? What is worth being not just another general, but the foremost cuckold of Paris?"

  He slapped her. "I ought to kill that Corsican and you, too!"

  "So, at last you're honest." She did not touch her face; she had not even shielded it.

  With a kind of dull pain, he stared at the livid marks of his hand and wondered what they had cost him.

  She looked at him levelly. "I won't agree to become Napoleon's mistress to further your career, Raoul. You'll just have to take your chances like all the other generals."

  Raoul saw now he had tried to maneuver her stupidly. Catherine had proven she was as intelligent as she was beautiful. He could not lose her. Ever. Not to Napoleon and certainly not to a ghost.

  "I suppose I could force you into anything I wanted," he said quietly. "I checked Culhane's story about the prison; also your marriage. Father Ryan in Ruiralagh was most informative."

  She stiffened.

  Good. Let her worryT "So, you see, I do have ways, but I have no intention of using them."

  She said nothing, watched him.

  "You're right about one thing; our marriage was arranged, but not because Napoleon desired you. At the time, he couldn't have cared less. You were only seventeen."

  She stared at him. "You?"

  With a wry smile, Raoul nodded. "Remember you were afraid your father had selected Valera, the Spaniard, as your future husband? Valera was only a ruse to turn you to me. I was to save the lady fair from his lecherous grasp." His smile grew even more rueful. "Only everyone stepped out of character. The schoolgirl turned out to be the most intriguing nymph I'd ever seen, and the villain was in earnest when he tried to rape her; to this day, I cannot blame him. I had all I could do to keep from taking you myself, but if I had taken your virginity, I would have been killed. Valera was, you know, less than a day's ride from Windemere."

  Her unblinking expression made him feel awkward, but he plowed on, "On the other hand, I. . . wanted you as a woman, not an innocent."

  "You were willing to marry me in that condition."

  Now he felt his way. "I cannot deny that. I didn't love you, although I was delighted with the prospect of having you. I was to return to England in the spring. Then the Egyptian campaign threw everything awry. By spring, your father was reluctant to negotiate, I thought because he thought Napoleon would be trapped in Egypt." He hesitated. "I was disappointed, more than I believed possible. Then when I saw you in Ireland, I became determined to have you whether anyone approved or not, although I'll admit I Was keener on a mistress than a wife. As it was, Napoleon still desired the marriage for exactly the reason you hit on: a legal transfer of your property to the Republic and an alliance with the old regime."

  "Why does he want to convert the property according to pre-Revolutionary laws, Raoul?" she asked.

  "That, you will have to ask Napoleon. I only know it takes a lot of money to outfit an army."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Then, to finance his campaigns, he's draining the Vigny estate?"

  "Among others."

  "But he could use the estate without my cooperation."

  "Easily."

  She stared at him. "You were telling the truth when you said certain properties had been sold."

  He grimaced sheepishly. "I didn't really think you'd accept the ruse of patronizing husband."

  "What a wretch you are, Raoul," she sighed, and sagged into a chair.

  "But I do have a certain boyish charm, you must admit," he coaxed, "and I do love you. I was even glad to marry you." His cinnamon eyes grew warm and yearning.

  "Will you still love me when I cut off Napoleon's supply of money?"

  He appeared genuinely astonished. "But why would you do that? He'd simply rescind the conversion of property and imprison you. Culhane and I would have adjoining cells."

  "Not you, Raoul," she said amiably. "You'd be sole heir and director of my fortune. But I don't believe there's any immediate danger of my confinement. It would be too embarrassing for the First Consul to pack his fairy-tale princess off to a dungeon; it might even look as if he was piqued because she'd refused his advances. So that just leaves Sean Culhane's neck on the block, doesn't it?"

  He held his breath.

  "I have no intention of thwarting Napoleon. I just wanted to hear what you'd say if I proposed it."

  He did not quite know how to take her ambivalent reaction. "Does . . . that mean you'll become Josephine's companion?"

  "Why not? It seems a silly charade. It would be so much simpler to escort me to the First Consul's bedroom and hold out your hand for your reward; perhaps his valet will expect a small percentage, but after all, these transactions are a pimp's function, are they not?"

  His fingers trembled with the urge to hit her again. "Jesu," he breathed, then his face contorted in real pain. "I don't want you to go to Napoleon! On my life, I don't! You're my wife. The idea of sharing you sickens me."

  "Prove it. Tell me to refuse this appointment."

  "It would destroy my career," he whispered in genuine misery.

  "You're a general, aren't you? How much more do you want?"

  "For God's sake, I'm twenty-seven years old! I cannot just stand still!"

  "I'm pregnant. Plead my condition. After all, I can hardly be expected to app
ear at court functions after this month."

  "Josephine is prepared to make allowances. Besides, Napoleon would just send over his personal physician to examine you."

  "Let him. I'll give the doctor a show! He'll believe Pm about to produce a dancing bear!"

  "Catherine, be serious!"

  "I am serious," she said calmly, though inside, she felt paralyzed with dread. Still, the axe might as well fall all at once than an inch at a time, for she had no doubt of her husband's reaction. "Either you refuse the appointment or I do. Which is it?"

  "You must accept, Catherine," Raoul said tightly. "I cannpt permit you to do otherwise."

  "Then why continue to play games?" She rose abruptly. "This marriage was a farce from the beginning, and it will be until the end. If you want me again, you'll have to take me by force."

  "You don't mean that," he whispered. "Ryan said Culhane kidnapped you, raped you; yet you endured it. You even gave yourself to Artois in trade for Culhane's prison release." His face twisted as his voice rose. "You whored for a man who raped you! Why not have a little understanding for me? I saved both your lives!"

  Her eyes held his. "What would you have done if Sean had been my husband, Raoul?"

  His eyes flickered. "Why, the same . . ."

  "The devil take your lying tongue," she flared impatiently. "You'd have murdered him! He would have simply succumbed to his wounds aboard the République and been conveniently buried at sea."

  Desperate resolve took the place of Raoul's pleading despair. "If you whored for that bastard once, you'll do it again. Don't think what the British did to him cannot be finished in France. Or perhaps I should notify your father? Why cheat the man of his revenge? After all, he was cheated of attending his only 'daughter's' wedding!"

  Although she had known they were inevitable, Catherine went paler with his every word. She had fought with the only weak weapons she had.

  But Amauri realized from her silence that while she might submit, the victory was not his. No matter what happened, Culhane had won. He suddenly hated the Irishman. He caught Catherine's chin. "Warn him and he'll die imagining you in Napoleon's bed."

  Her blue eyes, hard as minerals, glared back at him.

  "And you'll satisfy my wants, too. A whore's first duty is to her pimp." He jerked her to him, dragged her head back, and kissed her brutally. It was like kissing a dead woman: He twisted his hands in her hair. "Show me, Catherine. Show me how much you want him to live . . ."

  She kissed him back, startling him with a passion that drove him against her in desire, then pulled back. "How long, Raoul? What guarantee do I have you won't betray him?"

  "As long as Napoleon wants you, Culhane is safe from me. Then it's a matter of how long I want you. . . and Culhane's luck, of course. You cannot very well expect me to save him from natural calamity, can you?"

  "Can I not? The day he dies is the day you lose all hold on me."

  "Haven't you forgotten the child, chérie?" he murmured as he pushed her down onto the bed. "I think you'll be with me for a long, long time."

  Sean tugged on leather gloves as he strode out of Napoleon's receiving room. He was glad to be free of the artillery sketches Napoleon had kept. Most of the expensive changes involved alterations in current casting procedures, which might take months, even years to perfect; but Napoleon had been keenly interested, particularly in the gun carriage modifications.

  As he rounded a corner, he glimpsed a woman he could have sworn was Catherine at the end of arutdjoining corridor. He took an involuntary step in that direction, then caught himself. Paris was glutted with slender brunettes.

  "So you see, Madame Amauri, your official duties are not demanding. I daresay your informal ones will consume even less time."

  "I am at your service, Madame," Catherine murmured politely, noting the only subtle barb the First Consul's wife had permitted herself while she and her ladies-in- waiting toured their new companion about the palace.

  Josephine was the consummate official's wife: charming, diplomatic. The tiny lines about the eyes Catherine had expected were there, but Josephine had long been celebrated as the most beautiful woman in Europe and she still deserved the accolade.

  But since the Pauline Foures affair and a near-divorce, she had become wary. Obviously, the young countess knew why she had been appointed to the First Consul's family circle, and was wretched. Josephine felt a bit sorry for her, but that twinge of sympathy was dispelled when she saw quickly hidden hunger for the girl in Napoleon's eyes as, flanked by two aides, he entered the room.

  Napoleon lightly kissed his wife's fingertips, then nodded to his sisters, Caroline and Pauline, as they curtsied. He turned to Catherine, who curtsied with a rustle of apricot moire.

  "We're introducing Madame Amauri to the Tuileries and her duties, my love," Josephine murmured.

  Napoleon extended his hand, and slowly, Catherine laid her fingers across his. He carried her hand to his lips. "I hope you will find your connection with my household pleasant, madame."

  "To serve France is pleasure enough, man Général, " she said obliquely.

  "True," he replied with an impish quirt to his lips. "The attitudes of patriotic fervor are infinitely variable."

  Josephine shut her tiny fan with a click. "Will you join us for luncheon, Bonaparte?"

  He eyed her. "Unfortunately, I cannot." He bowed slightly. "I bid you good afternoon, ladies. Why not show Madame Amauri the view of the gardens from the ballroom? The first narcissus are in bloom."

  Tucking his foil under his arm, Guy Lavalier slipped off his mask. "Technically, Monsieur Culhane, I can teach you little." He flipped the mask onto a rack and turned to watch the tall, black-haired man remove his equipment and flex his wrist.

  "One never knows enough, Monsieur Lavalier."

  Lavalier rubbed his nose. "How long do you plan to stay in Paris, monsieur?"

  "Indefinitely."

  "I see. May I suggest we work together privately to strengthen your wrist?"

  Culhane looked at him with an ironic smile. "No profits in dead pupils?"

  "Your fight with the late Captain Javet wasn't exactly a credit to me, Monsieur Culhane; he was one of my pupils too." The fencing master's smile echoed the Irishman's irony. "The place is usually empty before noon; you can come up the back way. What do you say?"

  Culhane slipped his foil into the rack and hung up his mask. "Same time tomorrow?"

  "Of course . . . are you going to your lodging now?"

  The Irishman's eyes narrowed, and Lavalier quickly added, "I only mean to suggest you stay elsewhere until your wrist is recovered."

  Culhane nodded. "Thanks for the warning." Then went on slowly, "Why not just let matters take their course?"

  "Grouchy says you're a good man. That's enough for me."

  Culhane went to Madeleine's; he had no other choice. To seek refuge with the Lachaises would endanger Gil. Madeleine welcomed him with open arms and transparent relief. "Merciful God, I was afraid some idiot had killed you! Why didn't you come back? Did Mei Lih say something?"

  "No. How did you hear about the fight?"

  "Madame Hortense. Half her military clientele are bragging to their girls about taking you on! I've been out of my mind . . ."

  He kissed her to quiet her questions. "Leine, may I stay here for a few days?"

  "But of course. As long as you like." Knowing he never would have avoided trouble in the old days, she looked at him intently, but held her tongue. "Come, you're tired. I'll have my cook prepare something for you."

  As Sean dug into a bowl of soup, Madeleine twirled a glass of Chablis. "I'm glad you came, chéri; I was afraid you wouldn't be so sensible. I've been wanting to talk to you."

  He glanced at her and buttered his bread. "You sound serious."

  Madeleine listened until the cook's footfalls faded. "Mei Lih overheard my cook gossiping. Apparently your sister- in-law and her husband aren't getting along too well."

  Culhane kept his voic
e expressionless. "How would your cook know that?"

  "Her sister is Catherine d'Amauri's maid."

  "Every couple bickers. It takes time to adjust."

  "Last night they had a violent quarrel. Raoul d'Amauri isn't given to quarrels."

  "I'd be surprised if Catherine picked a fight without provocation. She's determined to make the best of this marriage."

  Madeleine laid a hand on his arm. "Heavens, I'm not accusing her! I just thought you'd like to know. After all, you'll be leaving shortly, and she'll have no one to turn to if something is seriously wrong." She squeezed. "Of course, servants do exaggerate. It's probably nothing. After all, they did make up the fight in the usual way."

  Sean abruptly displaced her hand. "I'm not interested in the Amauris' intimacies."

  "No, naturally not," Madeleine murmured. "I daresay in that area the bride is deliriously happy."

  Ignoring the glint in his eyes, she rose and wandered over to the decanter of absinthe, fabric whispering against her thighs. "As I recall"—-she smiled as if to herself— "Raoul is extremely well-endowed." She turned. "But I've been talking too much. You've hardly touched your food."

  "I'm more interested in bed now."

  "But of course. How thoughtless of me."

  Culhane crossed quickly to her. Catching her chin up in his hand, he said roughly, "No, Leine. You're thinking all the time." Pushing her against the sideboard, he kissed her so brutally she thought her neck would snap.

  * * *

  For a week, Napoleon had been no more than polite, Catherine mused as her coach moved away from the Tuileries. Perhaps obviously pregnant women did not appeal to him and she would have a few months' reprieve before he demanded her surrender. Maybe he would even discover another mistress. But as she glanced idly at the surrounding debris of the Carrousel, which was being demolished to make way for Napoleon's new design for central Paris, she knew she was building false hope. He was merely giving her time to get used to him, taking special care to be charming. He must know she found the situation revolting. Yet, perhaps he enjoyed anticipation.

  Well, she was not anticipating. In the past week, she had become the consummate whore, capable of feeling nothing but contempt for the husband who took her over and over, finding increasingly perverse ways to excite her because he sensed her abandoned response was exactly that: a body abandoned of soul and passion. Only Raoul could change the course of their lives together, but even if he made the decent choice, she could never love him. His threat to Sean was too stark. She would cooperate until she could retaliate. God, what black thoughts to mingle with the first lovely hints of spring.