Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "I?"

  "Didn't you know Monseigneur Messier had written me?"

  "No," she said, suddenly tense. "I didn't know you were coming until I saw you. What did he say?"

  "Not much. I expect he'll enlighten us both in a few minutes. We're to report like dutiful children to the study. . ." He grimaced. "After we've had our chaste reunion."

  His bitterness stabbed her and she touched his sleeve. "You mustn't think of it anymore, Sean. Our lives run in very different paths now. Take Brendan to America and begin again."

  Sean began to pace aimlessly. "He hardly knows me. How can he be expected to accept the loss of his home and mother?" .

  "He must go, Sean. You've seen his distorted view of the world."

  "Hell, he thinks I'm a bloody hero," he protested. "I'm a professional butcher."

  "You're more man and hero than he'll ever find in dreaming! Can you ever know my pride that you're his sire?"

  He wanted to believe, yet found himself only grateful for her stubborn faith. "Be proud for both of us then, Kit, for I've not a scrap of pride left, save in the boy."

  Brendan appeared leading a slim nun by the hand. Sean swore softly as the girl grew close enough to recognize. "Mei Lih."

  "My lord, I am very happy to see you well." She smiled and bowed.

  Brendan bounced impatiently. "He's not Jesus, Sister, just my father!"

  Marie Angelique's eyes danced as Sean laughed ruefully. "Out of the mouths of babes. . . Perhaps we can talk later, but Monseigneur Messier is waiting now to see Kit and me. We shouldn't be longer than an hour."

  "Of course. We'll have a picnic, won't we, Brendan?" Marie Angelique looked down at the boy who was gazing upward, fascinated by his father's beard.

  "What's a picnic?"

  "Something especially nice, darling." Catherine kissed him. "Run and help Sister get everything ready."

  The boy regarded her uncertainly. "Will you be here when we come back?"

  "Yes, darling," Catherine answered unevenly, wondering if he had sensed something. "Your father and I are just going to talk with Monseigneur for a little."

  Marie Angelique led the boy away. Sean started to speak and Catherine put her hand on his breast. "Don't say it, my love. I've been at war with myself for four years and my heart is sore."

  Messier stood up as he greeted Sean from behind a desk in the small, book-lined room. Arched windows opened on the courtyard, their panes brushed with branches of lilac. An occasional bird twitter carried in.

  "I've wanted to meet you for a long time, Monsieur Culhane," Messier said. "Catherine has told me much about you."

  I'll bet, Sean thought ironically. Catherine's confession must have been the liveliest tale he's heard in years. "I'm grateful to you, Monseigneur, for befriending her."

  "Catherine is a most charming young woman, but I have a greater interest than friendship; rather, say, an obligation."

  The silver-haired prelate indicated they should sit, then resumed Mother Superior's high-backed chair and wedged himself into an elegant slump. "Many years ago, against my better judgment, I married Elise de Vigny to John Enderly. Now, I realize the disasters that union begot. When you arrived here, Catherine, I made inquiries about your background but had little luck. After you expressed your desire to enter the Church and cede it your inheritance, I had an idea. Most of my investigation was blocked by Father Patrick Ryan'in Ireland and his refusal to contribute information that might shed light on your case."

  He smiled. "I must confess to a certain duplicity. I wrote Father Ryan again and implied that Catherine Culhane planned to leave her property to the Church and certain Vatican officials would take it kindly if he could help untangle difficulties concerning claims to the Shelan estate. As far as Father Ryan knows, you, Catherine, are the last surviving heir of those properties, and you, Monsieur Culhane, are dead." His fine hands spread. "As to the last, I did not enlighten him. I requested a copy of the will and ' codicil, which unfortunately he no longer possessed. Apparently, Liam Culhane took the only copy; but, being now eager to serve his Church, Father Ryan suggested Brendan Culhane might have entrusted a copy to another priest as a safety measure, Ireland often being in turmoil, Catholics persecuted and their records destroyed. He mentioned several possible clerics, and eventually I traced a copy of the will to the archbishop of Londonderry; I have it here." He indicated a sheaf of papers. "It is as you described to me, Catherine, except for one vital part, which I will read to you now."

  He found the page. "Your mother, Monsieur Culhane, had become convinced her husband and Elise Enderly were lovers."

  He began to read. " 'Megan vowed revenge that would hurt me most. My dearest friend, Lockland Fitzhugh, had been in love with her for years, yet certain his honor would never permit a sordid venture against mine, Megan and I continued our close association with him. She seduced him. I cannot blame him; I, once bewitched by her, freely forgive him, who will not forgive himself. There was no doubt Sean was not my son. Now, I forgive her; but then, I wanted a son like that proud, fiery boy too much.

  " 'When you returned, to Shelan, Sean, I had your presence, but I never had your heart. In my mind, you are my son. I hope one day you will accept this indulgence.'

  "It goes on from there in the same vein as the other will."

  The dumbstruck young people stared at the priest as if he were some hobgoblin sent to torment them further.

  "Something's wrong." Sean muttered hoarsely. "The other will was in Brendan's writing; I know his hand. I was looking for a forgery."

  "The other will was probably authentic, for the most part. I never saw it, so I can only surmise, but I would guess the division of pages lent itself to partial forgery. Your brother was an artist. He probably gambled on your being too shocked by the revelation to think clearly. He didn't allow you to handle the codicil for long, did he?"

  "No," the Irishman said numbly.

  "And after all, he appeared to have as much to lose as you by such a document. But as you see, you are not related to Catherine at all." The Jesuit handed'the will across the desk. "Here, see what you think."

  Sean went through each page, then finally looked up at Catherine, who sat transfixed with a kind of horror in her eyes. "Kit," he whispered, "it was all for nothing."

  Her eyes closed. "When Liam was dying, he said, 'Not his . . . never his . . . only mine.' We thought he was possessive to the bitter end, but perhaps he was trying to tell the truth."

  "One thing you should know," Messier interposed. "My investigation was greatly assisted by the duc d'Artois."

  Both dark heads snapped up and he smiled. "I presumed he had assigned agents to Catherine after the Irish prison incident.. He was most relieved to hear you were spying against Napoleon, Monsieur Culhane; it corrected the impression that Catherine had betrayed his trust.

  "He offered a guilty conscience as his reason for assisting me. You see, he had ordered Enderly's extermination after Catherine's apparent defection, but someone else intercepted Enderly on the way to Edinburgh at the invitation of the duc—an invitation to assassination. The men hired to perform the killing found Enderly decapitated on the road."

  "Amin," whispered Catherine. "He must have ridden him down in the dark. I've seen him cap strawberries at a gallop."

  Sean shook his head, still dazed. "I cannot believe Artois would help us. He wants Catherine for himself."

  "The duc knows well the privations of exile and disappointment. Is it so strange he might wish to spare one he loves from the same fate?"

  An hour later, they stood before Monseigneur Messier at the chapel altar. Neatly buttoned and brushed, Sean had taken a quick bath and shave and given his boots a buff. Over the braided coronet of her hair, Catherine wore a delicate garland of mignonettes and marguerite daisies Marie Angelique had woven to cap her white novice's veil. In her hands was a small matching bouquet. Marie Angelique, Mother Superior, and Brendan were the only visible observers; others were shadowed behind a scre
en in the choir loft, their singing pure as a nightingale's call at sunset. Catherine's eyes glistened as Sean repeated his vows. His eyes met hers and he almost drifted into silence. Behind her cloudy veil, her exquisite face was luminous.

  Later, as they walked alone through the convent gardens, Sean felt peace, yet subtle suspense, as if not yet assured of awakening from a nightmare. Above the convent roof the cloudy scales of a mackerel sky curved against the setting sun like massive, fiery fish. The convent's simple cross rose against the sun. A smile flickered unwillingly across the Irishman's mouth. If You're a Fisher of Men,

  You're as stubborn as I am. You wait until the fight's gone out of me, then ease the line. If You've reclaimed my soul through this woman, I'll buy each day with her with my life, my soul, only don't ever let her stop loving me . . .

  "What is it, darling?" Catherine looked up at him with concern. His grip had tightened almost painfully on her hand.

  "I was praying, I suppose." His lips sought hers as if they were children tasting the innocence of a first kiss.

  A long mometít later, Sean chuckled softly. "Our son isn't going to relinquish his place under your blankets so easily every night. A night with Mei Lih is an irresistible temptation to any man, but in the morning he'll know he's been had."

  "He isn't.the only one who'll know he's been had." Catherine impishly tugged him in the direction of her room.

  "Are you sure this haste is seemly, ma'am?"

  His bride slowed to a maddening amble, eyes demurely downcast. He snatched her up in his arms. "No more nonsense, woman. You're about to become a respectable wife and mend your wicked ways."

  "My wicked ways?" She lifted a derisive eyebrow.

  He grinned. "Suitably matched, aren't we?"

  They came to the end of the building, but nothing was beyond but more garden. "Where is this room of yours anyway?" Catherine gave him a feline smile. "Out with it, madame! I'm hot!" he demanded in his best general's bellow. Flushing scarlet, she pointed hastily to the door nearest her groom's broad shoulder.

  As he kicked open the door, she gave his hair á sharp tug. "For shame, to shock the sisters so!"

  "I'd have given 'em a far ruder shock if you'd persisted in the game—" He broke off.

  Catherine followed his gaze to a small table decorated with white damask, lighted tapers, and a bowl of marguerites. Steaming pilaf and Messier's best champagne stood ready.. "How thoughtful of them," Catherine said softly.

  "These nuns of yours are like leprechauns," Sean muttered as he reluctantly set his bride down. "One never sees them. Things just appear."

  "Aren't you hungry?"

  "Starved.'' He stared wistfully at the bed.

  She laughed and tugged at his hand. "Come. You'll need your strength! I'm not likely to let you sleep the night away!"

  "Oh, it's sure you are I can satisfy your demands?" With a wicked grin, he seated her and bit her neck.

  She gave a little yelp. He slid languidly into his chair and with a drowsy look poured wine. Her eyes widened with chagrin. "You aren't that tired, are you?"

  He lifted his glass, his eyes sleepy 8lits. "I shall do my utmost not to doze off at an inopportune moment, ma- dame."

  Biting her lip, she frowned at him, then caught the tawny glint to his eyes and broke into soft laughter. "You liar! Desire turns your eyes exactly the shade they are now . . ."

  "I see I'll have to be wary of you, lady. If I hide my passions so poorly, I'll be helpless against your wiles." His voice turned husky and his eyes clouded as he touched his glass to hers. "Yet I would be lost, for I do desire you, even unto madness."

  Twilight faded into darkness, candlelight playing on their still, waiting faces and the last drops of liquor in the wineglasses. Sean carried a candle to a wall niche by the bed, then tugged off his boots. When he turned, Catherine was waiting. She unfastened his shirt to kiss warm skin until he went taut with desire. She slipped off the shirt, then unfastened his breeches and eased them down over the slim hips and flat belly to bare the hard beauty of his body.

  When he was naked, Sean removed Catherine's veil and garland, then tugged loose the dark, heavy mass of her hair until it fell in a stream through his fingers to her waist. Tugging a marguerite from the garland, he tucked it in her hair. The perfume of her skin filled his nostrils as he slipped her gown from her shoulders, then sought her throat with his lips, and the proud rise of her breasts. Catherine's head fell back and she sighed, filled with longing. The robe slid to the floor and the sweetness of her flesh sent Sean's senses reeling in joy and craving. " Jesu, I've dreamed of you unit I thought no woman could be as beautiful as the dream. What poor things dreams are!"

  Then over her shoulder, he saw the lights and led her to the window. The night garden was abloom with candles, haloes radiating from luminous clouds of flowers. Seeing tears glisten in Catherine's eyes, Sean enfolded her in his arms as he said huskily, "I think I understand now what your life here meant to you. Are you sorry?"

  She looked up at him. "I weep for happiness, beloved, and because I have more love than I can bear."

  With lips and hands, she made love to him, moving down his lean body, rediscovering each smooth, dark hollow and plane until she knelt before him and paid tender tribute to the proud maleness of him. Sean's chest rose and fell more quickly as the burning, sweet ache in his core became pure, raging flame. With a muted groan, he swayed and lifted her hair to bathe his loins in silk. "Kit. . . Sweet God." He felt as if he were lost in an impossible dream that drained him of all his nights of frustrated longing. Catherine pressed her cheek against the graceful curve of his long body and entwined her arms about his hips, the softness of her hair a warm cloud. Silently, he stroked her hair and lifted it, letting the pounding pulse of blood in his body slow, letting the rise and fall of his breathing ease.

  How still it was, his own heartbeat the only sound in the darkness. He felt blood surge through his veins and the powerful promise of his own life force. He was alive and a man. Sean slipped downward in Catherine's embrace and enfolded her like a flower, tasted his own potency on her mouth.

  As if her limbs were weighted, Catherine was hardly aware when Sean carried her to the bed and lay beside her, but when his lips and hands began their sweet, slow exploration of her body, she opened to him like lush, ripening fruit. Desire focused in a solar glow between her thighs, and when his mouth sought her there, her hips undulated in mute, primitive need until she cried out,, burning, begging.

  At last, Sean covered her body with his own. With a soft moan, she buried her face against his neck. He poised for a heartbeat; then, without urgency, he consummated their union, slowly giving himself to her. He receded and surged into her likè the sea in a rising storm, endlessly arching and curling over her to pound her downward to inky depths, only to lift her up on rising crests of passion until she became irrevocably part of him, part of the spume and savagery of him. Then she felt herself hurtled into the sun in sheets of glistening spray, to fall back in a million droplets of shattered fire through cushioning ether to the enclosing sea. Deep, dark, and silent, its tawny green softened to gold-flécked sunlight like Sean's eyes, so close their heavy lashes nearly brushed hers. Dazed, she felt as if her heart would burst of love for him.

  "Wife," he murmured wonderingly. "Mother of my son." His lips brushed hers. "Little love."

  She touched his lips. "My husband. My heart's life."

  They lay, his head on her breast as she stroked his hair. In moments, he fell asleep, worn out from his long journey. After the last candle in the garden had burned away, Catherine lay awake, listening to the beat of Sean's heart and echoing it with a prayer in her own.

  The sun was high overhead when Sean opened one eye, threw a long leg over his wife, and without a word, proceeded to make love to her languidly and thoroughly. She Was flushed with both satisfaction and embarrassment when he finally grinned down at her, his green eyes slits of sleepy amusement, but she was too happy to make her scowl
convincing. "Pleased with yourself, aren't you, bucko? Couldn't you wait until we were away from here to make me sound like a cat caught in a briar?"

  His grin widened wickedly. "Afraid the good sisters will realize what they're missing and defect?" He nipped her stomach and she squealed and tugged his hair.

  "Your conceit boggles the imagination! Why, I suppose you even fancy they'd form a line at the door for your favors!"

  "Why not, when you're so obviously and loudly uncomplaining?"

  "Oh!" Her eyes sparked and she fought to clamber free of him. Laughing, he twisted her easily back under him and with amusement, then a distinct leer, watched her frustrated wriggling. Her lips parted in a soft O as he parted her thighs. "You . . . cheated."

  He slid into her like a sword sheathing in silk, his lips hovering in a whisper just above hers. "Anytime you've had enough, I'm yours to command."

  His strokes possessively deepened, sweeping her will away, and she groaned in pleasure and vexation. Then, with a sweet, vengeful smile, she retaliated with a special skill of her own until his control disintegrated.

  Wide awake now, he stared at her. "Where did you learn that?"

  She twirled a curl of his chest fur. "From your little Flower of the East. Did you think we talked of nothing but diapers in Paris, your mistresses and I?" Her voice lowered to a silky purr. "Rare is the man who can leave three women cooped up in a house for months with nothing in common but his lovemaking and have them refrain from carving each other into mincemeat. Not that you deserve any credit for it, bucko." She tapped his nose and rolled away from him, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "The women in your life are just marvelously tolerant, that's all." She was nearly up when he dragged her back down again, laughing as she fought him half playfully, half in earnest, then dissolved in helpless giggles. "Sean, I have to bathe. I smell like a she-goat!"

  "The perfume suits a haughty nanny that keeps her nose"—he nipped a buttock—"and her tail in the air."

  She shrieked and pummeled, but inevitably found herself back where it had all begun, flat on her back with hiifc coaxing her thighs apart with a devilish gleam of white teeth and an ease that both infuriated and beguiled her.