Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  She ordered the driver to turn toward the Seine. At the Pont de la Concorde, she signaled him to stop. As she walked along the sunlight-dappled river, the vehicle trailed her. Parie skies were blue, trees dotted with tender nubs of green. Clots of wildflowers stubbornly poked up in the excavation for the Place de la Concorde. As barges and water coaches ferried cargo and passengers under the bridge, vendors paraded the quais with Marseilles langoustines. It was a long time before she had breathed enough clean air to face the house on Rue Royale again.

  "I lunched with your brother-in-law today," Raoul said casually as the butler placed a bowl of soup on his plate.

  "Oh?" Catherine returned with equal calm. "I trust he's well?"

  "Quite. In fact, when I asked him to join our cadre tchembourti match this Sunday, he agreed."

  "But he has no ponies," she objected.

  "He's ordered that magnificent black of his brought from Ireland. Of course, the animal is too big to be used in tchembourti, but I offered the use of a string from my stable."

  "That was civil of you," she said dryly. "I didn't know we kept a stable of sufficient size to accommodate two players. You are playing in the match?"

  "I wouldn't miss it." Raoul took a sip of his wine. "I keep most of my racers and ponies near Longchamps. They've won a tidy sum this month."

  He smiled to himself as he envisioned his teammates' reaction when Culhane joined them. They would not challenge the Irishman at the match in deference to a brother officer, particularly because they believed Amauri ignorant of Javet's insult to his bride. Too, some of them probably thought Javet had been out of line. No, he was not worried about a scene, but he had not expected Culhane would have the audacity to strut in front of a pack fairly panting for his blood. A good thing the Irishman could take care of himself; he would not have enjoyed calling off the pack.

  Mounted on Mephisto, Sean spotted Catherine in the crowd assembled for the match. Even among many beautiful women who strolled with their gentlemen about the fringes of the playing field, she was extraordinary. The day was chilly, and despite the change of season, Amauri had insisted she wear a dramatic, high-necked black dress with a cashmere shawl fringed in sable tips draped over one shoulder. A large opal-and-diamond pin secured a peacock aigrette to a turban cloche which covered her hair. One gloved hand held a heavy sable muff; in thè other was looped the leash of a cheetah, which sat tensely on his haunches as horses uneasily minced around him- She was a vision out of Omar Khayyam, her incredible bone structure and oblique eyes drawing attention from all over the field.

  As she turned away from a small group of officers and ladies, Catherine saw Sean almost at the same instant, and for a moment, the world dropped away to leave a harsh silence. Need unmasked. Later, neither knew who moved first: Catherine, who left the crowd; or Sean, who urged the black to follow her across the tawny field speckled with shoots of new grass. It was unwise and they knew it. They were too conspicuous, the First Consul's newest mistress and the notorious killer reputed to be the father of her unborn child. Yet, as irresistibly as lunar tides, they were drawn, one to the other.

  Away from the crowd, Catherine looked up at Sean in his Cossack-style tunic with team colors banded on his arm. She lifted her hand, letting the sable slip down her arm in a black glossy fall. Leaning down from the saddle, Sean touched her fingers with his lips, then reluctantly released them.

  "You look tired, love," she said softly as she let her hand drop to stroke Mephisto's neck.

  "You look beautiful." Sean's lips twisted in a slight smile. "There's little resemblance to the greasy urchin of Liverpool."

  She laughed huskily. " 'Tis fickle, y'are. You said I was beautiful then, too."

  "You were," he murmured, then harshly, "I miss you like hell."

  Her eyes glimmered too brightly for a moment, then Mephisto, exasperated because she had stopped stroking him, stepped forward and nudged her. The nervous cheetah backed, fangs bared. Its leash dragged on Catherine's hand and Sean's hand slipped toward his knife. Catherine turned. "Sit, Salomé." The cat obeyed edgily.

  "That's quite a house pet," Culhane commented with a frown.

  "Raoul likes me to make a display. He gave Salomé to me a few days ago. She's quite tame." Her voice lowered. "Too tame. She's afraid to be dangerous."

  Sean caught the faint inflection. "And how are you, Kit?"

  She soothed the cheetah, her heavy lashes hiding her eyes. "As happy as can be expected. The life of a general's wife is a busy one, thank God." She looked up and smiled suddenly. "With my social schedule, our child should be a natural dancer. He was tapping his toes in time to a polonaise at the Russian ambassador's the other night."

  Sean laughed, his release what she had hoped, but somehow the boyish note in his mirth stabbed her to the heart. "Your team is moving onto the field, Sean. Hadn't you better join them?"

  He reluctantly nodded. "I have to switch horses." His voice lowered. "Wish me luck?"

  She slipped a crumpled four-leafed shamrock from the heel of her glove and tucked it into his. "I found it in the garden this morning."

  "More cognac, chérie? Your hands are like ice," Amauri asked his bride solicitously as they rode back into the city.

  "Yes, please." He poured and she sipped gratefully, then thrust her free hand deeper into her muff. Reclining like a skinny dog on the opposite seat, the cheetah watched them.

  "How did you like the match?" Raoul inquired.

  "It was wonderful. Your cadre played beautifully, and with such vigor. They deserved to win."

  "That Georgian cossack officer who showed us the game last year rode with even more vigor, just as brutally as Culhane. He said that in Tibet and Afghanistan, tribesmen use enemies' heads for balls. From watching him on the field, one would think Culhane is a savage! Doesn't he play at anything?"

  "If he weren't a fighter, he'd be dead."

  "Well, he broke Rodier's shoulder with that damned playing stick."

  "Rodier was blocking his shot," she replied placidly.

  "That's no excuse."

  "Rodier deliberately interfered with his shots all through the match; so did some of the others. Sean might have scored at least three more goals if they'd let him alone."

  Amauri scoffed, "The man isn't God. He's never played the game before. How can you blame his misses on others?"

  "If Sean were God, Ireland would be free and I wouldn't be married to you," she said bluntly. "I know what I saw.

  The others in your cadre ostracized him after the match. You and Grouchy were the only ones who spoke to him."

  "Aren't you forgetting Madeleine Rochet and Hortense Castel's barouche of well-rouged young ladies?"

  Catherine's fist clenched in her muff, but her voice was even. "Why did your fellow officers treat him so rudely, Raoul?"

  "Your brother-in-law makes enemies far more readily than friends."

  Her lashes flicked up. "Have you been helping him make enemies?"

  "No, for God's sake! He does well enough at that by himself!" he exploded. "I'm not his keeper, though I ought to keep closer watch on you. You made a spectacle of us both by going off with him. Don't you realize for your child's sake, you mustn't be seen with the man?"

  "Sean Culhane is my brother-in-law, Raoul," she said calmly. "To ignore that relationship will cause gossip too. It's best to treat him normally, as a relative. Surely you know there is no man on earth with whom I would be less likely to compromise your honor."

  As the carriage entered Paris, Raoul stared at her serene, beautiful mask in the twilight. He itched to tell her of Culhane's mistresses, but dared not. Ironically, he had to fan the heat of her longing to ensure her obedience.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Outcast

  "En garde . . . engage!" Shining foils flicked in delicate, explorative movements. Lavalier and his opponent were well matched, their opening movements a deft formality. Wearing old-fashioned steel fencing masks penetrated by a single horizontal slit, the
y resembled medieval knights, formal and mysterious. The matched pairs in the loft drifted from their exercises to watch the two swordsmen. The light foils skimmed in undulating bands of reflected light with flawless precision rarely seen in a century increasingly dominated by sabers.

  Shortly, behind his mask, sweat ran into Lavalier's eyes. It was one thing to meet his equal, another to meet his superior. His opponent was too accustomed to the deadly reality of infighting to shield his expertise. When the match ended, the little Gascon held out his hand. "You're the better man, Monsieur Culhane. It gives me no shame to admit it."

  Murmurs went up as Culhane slipped off his mask and grasped the offered hand. "The more fortunate fighter, perhaps. Monsieur Lavalier, but not the better man."

  Lavalier grinned, his white teeth surprisingly large in his small jaw. "Will you join me for dinner, monsieur? There's a certain little maneuver I'd like you to show me tomorrow. You can understand how awkward it would be for the teacher to pay his pupil?"

  As the two men laughed, several spectators, including one of Javet's cadre officers, approached a trifle hesitantly to be introduced. Others held back; some, awed, hurried off to spread the news that the Irishman had surfaced and to enthusiastically embellish his skill.

  For all his appearance of carelessness, Culhane prowled the Lautier drawing room as edgily as a panther among alien scents. Relief that he was at last able to take action was neutralized by the certainty serious trouble would come of it. On the surface, things were beginning to go his way. Napoleon had given him authority to supervise construction of the artillery modifications; better yet, he wanted more designs. Grouchy had openly befriended him. General hostility was tempered by their association and the match with Lavalier. Now, all he had to do was look tame. He took up a post against the wall where he met furtive stares with sardonic amusement.

  Gil deftly negotiated the general retreat of the Lautiers' dinner guests from that particular area and angled in with two glasses of champagne. "Here. Drink up. Our hostess is fretting about which woman she's going to seat with you at dinner. Your partner lost her nerve." He grinned. "It looks like you're going to draw either one of Madame Lautier's arch enemies or Yours Truly." As Sean laughed, Gill grimaced. "How can you look half-asleep? Haven't you seen Arcôt and his friends glaring daggers?"

  Sean grinned. "I haven't got my back to the wall for nothing, ami " His eyes flicked toward the uniformed malcontents, who glared like sullen organ-grinders' monkeys on the opposite side of the room. "They'll wait until the party's over to start the fur flying."

  Gil shook his head. "Don't be too sure. Fourquet and Murat have spread a pretty black picture of you."

  "Why should Murat discredit me?"

  "He's a crony of Javet's, for one thing; for another, he's an idle gossip." Gil hesitated, then plunged on, "He's labeled you as a homosexual."

  The Irishman's abruptly tightening fingers threatened to snap the stem of his glass.

  "Easy, ami It's not just his way of revenging Javet. He isn't a bad lot. He's brilliant at manipulating the enemy in field maneuvers, but when he carries his intrigues into civilian life, he's an idiot; even Napoleon says so."

  His eyes glinting like dark bits of glass, Culhane said nothing, half wondering if Gil may have chosen this moment to tell him and force him to conquer the shock and rage quickly, but he still craved to do the murder everyone expected.

  Sean watched almost absently as Arcôt selected a pistol from the case Gil offered him. With Levet, his second, standing behind him, the Frenchman looked determined but pale, even in the chill gray mist of early dawn. The aged trees of the Luxembourg loomed like druidical wraiths in the seeping mist that spread outward from the river. Squirrels scampered across the ground and skittered with tiny, scratching claws up the bark to branches, where they flicked nervous peeks at the five men who silently took positions below on the damp, silvery grass. The teams of the two coaches dozed in their traces, heads drooped. High in a chestnut tree, a single bird trilled a warning to his hushed tribe. Then a voice began to count and the bird fell silent. On command, the two armed men turned, aimed, and fired. The horses' heads jerked up with low whinnies and the animals danced restlessly, then settled down, reassured by familiar hands at their reins. Long before they quieted, one duelist lay on his back, his white shirt unstained by blood. Confused, his second knelt at his side as the other men closed in, Then Levet saw the black, welling emptiness where Arcôt's left eye had been and looked up with a hoarse rasp. "You cold-blooded bastard!"

  Culhane said nothing, simply replaced his gun in its case as Gil gently tugged the other one from the dead man's fingers.

  As the coach rolled lumpily over the uneven ground of the park, Gil abruptly pulled Sean's cloak free of his left arm. A sleeve was steeped in blood. The young Frenchman swore. "I thought he got you. Thank God Marius and Levet were too upset to notice."

  "It's just a scratch."

  Gil frowned. "If Arcot hadn't been so tense, he might have done a better job; but then, he wanted to live." He cocked his head. "You don't much care, do you? The girl is all that matters."

  "These fights will get uglier, Gil," Sean said impassively. "Sure you want to tag along?"

  Gil eyed his friend's careful mask. "I know you've been brutal to discourage challengers. It's you I'm concerned for, don't you know that?"

  The Irishman did not reply, but the mask faded, and for Gil, it was enough.

  By the time Culhane reached Madeleine's, his arm throbbed painfully, and he was relieved to find Mei Lih there. Without protest, he let her clean his wound. Her fingers were cool on his bare skin; he tried not to think about the way they felt. Though he had often wanted her, he had not taken her since he had been living at Madeleine's. He tried to relax but the twinges that shot through his arm each time she tweezed a thread out of the seeping groove kept him tense. Finally, she swabbed the fissure with whiskey. After bandaging him, she started to move away with the bottle. He caught her arm. "Wait." He took a long pull at the bottle, then handed it back. "Thanks for the doctoring."

  The Oriental looked up at the man who towered over her. "I am honored to serve you, my lord."

  Sean suddenly wanted to lift her against him like a child and kiss her. Feel the long course of her hair stream through his fingers. Make love to her, then sleep with her small body curved against his like a kitten. Like Kit.

  Without a word, he went to collect his artillery diagrams and set to work at the desk in his bedroom. In late afternoon, he threw himself across the bed, a familiar ache pounding behind the scar near his left eye. The headaches were less frequent now, only returning when he strained his eyes.

  He was nearly asleep when he felt Mei Lih tug at his boots. When she went on to undress him, he cooperated dully, oblivious when she threw a blanket over him.

  It was night when he came partly awake to find her sitting by the bed. Serene as a silver lily in the moonlight, she looked so much like Catherine in the shadows that he felt a pang of longing. "There's no need to keep watch, Mei Lih," he murmured. "The wound is slight."

  "No, my lord. The wound is deep," she replied softly. "You may die of it, I think."

  He realized she was not speaking of the bandaged cut. "Perhaps," he agreed quietly. Obviously, out of his head with self-pity and drink, he had babbled more than he ought on Catherine's wedding night.

  "Let me give you peace, my lord."

  He touched her cheek. "How lovely you are. I don't want to hurt you. How can I make you understand?"

  She held his fingers against her lips, then smiled for the first time, allowing him past her impenetrable reserve. "As a girl baby of poor family, I was given to the Sisters of Saint Marguerite in Saigon and educated. I hoped very much to become a nun. When I was twelve, my father demanded my return. He sold me to a pavilion of love where I remained until a French naval officer brought me to Paris. In a fit of drunkenness, he sold me to a place called Antime's to pay his debts."

  Sean had
heard of Antime's, a rat hole of disease down by the river. Sickened, he wondered what kind of man would condemn another human being to that living hell.

  "Fortunately, I was there only a few days. The officer had first tried to sell me to Madame Hortense; she told Madame Rochet, who, after making certain I had not contracted a disease, took me in." She stroked his open palm. "Since the convent, no one has been concerned with my feelings. Only you."

  He shook his head, his voice low and dull. "You're wrong, p'tite. I've used you."

  Unexpectedly, she smiled again and tilted her head. "Because you see in me the illusion of one denied to you? Perhaps I am a gift of God."

  His lips twisted in the darkness. "An interesting theory, ma petite philosophe. Will it ease the hurt when I blurt out the wrong name, as apparently I've done before?"

  "Long ago I gave my heart to God. He does not mind sharing."

  "Are you certain this is an acceptable way to save a sinner's soul? I'll never see you as a nun."

  "A nun is not what you need," she said firmly, with a gleam in her eye that startled him, "God knows what He is doing."

  The Irishman's final protest was stopped by the softness of her mouth on his.

  Despite Catherine's steely resignation, Amauri saw a growing wildness in her that threatened their fragile arrangement. Abrupt to the servants, taciturn to the point of hostility, she roamed the house like a caged animal. Hardly a promising courtesan, he decided. At this rate, Napoleon would be put off. Steps must be taken to end the problem.