Vigorously rubbing her hands, Catherine wished for her muff. The wind hit her directly in the face as she tugged up the hood and faced the rail. Because of the low fog, no stars were visible, so direction was a mystery. If the Irishmen were headed out to sea, they must expect to be met by another vessel; Valera could easily be moored up one of the coastal creeks, waiting to take his pleasure at leisure, then dump her body in a back marsh.
Desperation prodded her to action. Knowing the blonde was immediately behind her, Catherine deliberately slipped on the wet planking. She managed to twist slightly so that when he caught her she could easily turn into his chest. All happened exactly as planned, under Flannery's sardonic eye.
Liam felt the girl tremble under the cloak. Poor little devil, he thought; she's frightened out of her wits. She must be holding together by sheer bravado. "Are you all right?" he murmured into hair that smelled perfumed in the sifting snow where the hood had fallen away.
A small hand rested against his chest. "Yes . . . yes, I think so. It was clumsy of me. I. . . wasn't thinking." His captive looked up at him gratefully, her eyes great shadowed pools. In them he saw desperation and a determination not to let it show, but beyond that, a mysterious beauty that caught at his heart. In the pit of his stomach, Liam had a growing dread of the fate that awaited the girl in Ireland.
She clung to him for the barest fraction of a moment, then released him and turned away. They both leaned against the rail and she resettled the hood of the cloak. Liam was a little disappointed; he had been watching the lift of the wind in her hair. Still not looking at him, she murmured, "You don't seem like a criminal."
Liam shifted his back to Flannery and answered with a tinge of discomfort, "I'm not, ordinarily."
Catherine noted his move to conceal their conversation. Flattening a palm, she turned it upward to catch the idly drifting snowflakes. "Do you know what your . . . employer plans to do with me?"
"No," Liam answered honestly. He did not know, but he had a fair idea.
"Not the confiding sort, is he?"
"He's not."
"And you're not a man who'd press the point."
He began to get angry again. "Why should I?"
"If I told you he intends to rape and possibly murder me, would that make a difference?"
"I don't know that and neither do you." Underneath his level rebuttal he was stunned by her blunt appraisal.
Catherine's hands tightened on the rail as she turned on him. "I do know! You'll be as guilty as the monster you serve. You can stop it now. You won't accept money to cheat him, so you must have some sense of decency. If you help him, it will be the end of you."
Liam was glumly inclined to agree. He was accustomed to following where Sean led, and although he shrank from some of those paths, he respected his brother's judgment. Still, revenge was at the heart of the festering hatred Sean bore for their mother's murderers, and in that hatred, Liam did not know whether his brother was entirely lucid. What if Sean did kill the girl? Could he be a party to murder?
Reading indecision in his eyes, Catherine laid down her last card. "If you help me escape, my father will reward you with anything you ask, help you make a new start anywhere you like. You could make a respectable name for yourself. . ."
Liam's voice turned hard. "So . . . the English lady would graciously give me what's mine already, what you and your countrymen would have stolen long ago if you could beat down the final resistance of men like my 'employer'! Do you think you can wheedle concessions from people you've trodden underfoot? Come down from your pedestal, my lady, and have a good look at the source of your own wealth, a pittance of which you deign to share with me if I lick your feet as a proper Irishman should. Your father wrung his money and rank from dead bodies he strewed all over my homeland. Their lives paid for the clothes on your back! And by all that's holy, if my 'employer,' as you call him, doesn't throttle you, I may be tempted to do it myself, in memoriam!" With that, he swung his prisoner away from the rail and pushed her back toward the tiny cabin.
Catherine stiffened, hovering between cold rage and colder certainty that she was in the company of a fanatical madman. For a wild, fleeting moment, she thought of jumping over the side, but certain death had little appeal. Just before being thrust into the cabin, she spotted the third accomplice. He squatted near the stern where he relashed a small dinghy. The dinghy! The big craft would be impossible to manage, but the dinghy!
The blonde pushed her ahead of him into the cabin, then stooped to clear his height through the doorway. Catherine spun abruptly, slammed the heels of her hands upward against his chin, and cracked his head against the lintel. When he reeled and caught automatically at his ringing head, she dove into his midsection, snatched his pistol, cocked and leveled it without a tremor. "Back out, Sir Patriot, with your hands clasped at the back of your neck. And don't suppose I'm a poor shot. You're a sizable partridge at this range and you've told me exactly where you stand, so move!"
Cheeks blazing and head throbbing, Liam moved. He would never hear the last of this, but injured pride did not provoke him to try anything stupid. The cold glitter of those sapphire eyes, so warm and beseeching a moment ago, assured him the girl wag in no mood for rash behavior. He could almost feel Flannery shaking his head in disdain as he backed gingerly across the threshold.
The countess motioned him to a point several feet from Flannery and waggled the gun briefly at the big man's belly. "Drop your weapon, sir; call your companion and shed your jacket and boots. This man is dead if you delay."
Flannery calmly unhitched his belt and shrugged out of his jacket as he called briefly, "Come forward, Reagan. We're in the lady's company now." He indicated his inability to let go of the wheel long enough to remove his boots.
"Lash it. And you, Fair Hair, off with your top clothes."
Liam frowned. "Do you mean for us to freeze to death?"
"Letting you turn to ice would be an admirable way to preserve ammunition." She eyed the third man moving forward. "But I leave such tactics to you Irish . . . unless you continue to spew lies about my father. Hurry up!"
Liam sullenly tugged at his jacket as the third man joined him and was motioned to discard his clothes and weapons with the others. Catherine felt a growing uneasiness. They were too calm, too acquiescent. Seasoned villains could not be impressed so easily, unless . . . a fourth man was aboard. She leveled the pistol with both hands at the big man's belly. "Call the other one."
Flannery's bushy eyebrows went up slightly. "What other one? Ye're lookin' at the lot of us, little lady."
"Tell him to sing out, or you'll be lying amidst your dinner on the decking. I want that dinghy launched posthaste; these men can manage that very well without you. I shall count to three. One . . . two . . ."
Flannery interrupted, still with the same slightly amused look. "All right, Jimmy boy, the jig's up. Introduce yourself."
Abruptly, a crushing weight dropped onto Catherine's shoulders from behind and flattened her to the deck. The pistol was plucked quickly from her fingers as a tenor voice whistled reedily in her ear, "How d'ye do, ma'am. Sorry to drop in on ye like this." Red suns seemed to explode in her skull and her ears pounded as Catherine watched the redhead's big boots dance crazily toward her across the planking. He's going to kick me in the head, she thought dully. She tried to push the boots away but her fingers would not obey. The deck faded into blackness.
Flannery stood looking down at the unconscious girl and prodded Jimmy's leg with his foot. "Up with ye, lad, or ye'll crush the life out of her. She don't have the backbone of a cavalry nag."
Freckled, carrot-haired Jim Cochrane grinned as he hauled his two hundred lanky pounds off the captive who lay with black hair spilled across the wet deck. "She's got sufficient to put a fatal leak in a man's gut." He slipped a sly look at Flannery's belly. "Thought fancy doxies only knew how to crook their dainty fingers through teacup handles . . . and rings in men's noses." Now, he openly grinned at Liam.
Liam scowled, but Flannery chuckled.- "Aye, the little chicky has steel pinfeathers. Must have got 'em from her da. They'll be plucked soon enough." He resumed his stance at the wheel. "Take the girl below, Liam. Tie her and don't dawdle. I want ye to spell me at the wheel."
Liam scooped up the limp prisoner and desposited her below, glancing resentfully at the still face as he tied efficient knots. How could any female be vulnerable one minute and mean as a mink the next? The witch probably deserved anything she got.
As Liam returned and took the helm, Flannery dragged a cigar put of his pocket. Poking it into the lantern, he puffed until it caught. "Tell you something, laddy.
We're not ten miles off Antrim. If she'd made it ashore to tattle to the authorities, the English would be on us like bloodhounds. On the other hand, maybe she'd have only shot one of us. I don't like bein' a leak-mouth, Liam, but Sean has to know ye were foxed. We can't afford soft spots."
Liam's blue eyes flared. "I didn't want this job. And you cannot claim we're doing it for the sake of home and country. We're doing it for Sean's sick hate. If he wants to break Enderly, why not aim for the man himself? That girl is barely seventeen. I daresay she knows nothing about her father's activities."
Flannery leaned on the binnacle and tapped his cigar so that the end glowed briefly like a hot, red eye. "Little Miss Enderly did quite a job in a space of ten minutes, didn't she?"
"For God's sake, she didn't put these words into my mouth. I thought of all this before we ever set sail from Donegal."
"Did ye now? Well, think again. Irish women and children have been made into proper hash by the English, though ye've never seen much of that. From now on Fll see ye do, should the stinkin' occasion arise. Ye've not seen pregnant women raped and bayoneted and babes bashed against the walls. Seen girls—and lads not five years old- abused and strangled." He bit off a piece of his cigar and spat it viciously downwind. "Then ye'll see the Enderiy girl's no different from them, that she gets no pity. She's the enemy. Do ye think yer mother died of polite conversation with the English?"
Liam's lips tightened. "Megan was a spy."
"Aye, so ye heard that, did ye? Well, so she was, and a good one, too. But the other forty people in that village weren't spies; they were poor, dumb fisherfolk and they got the same as her." He chewed the cigar, twirling it thoughtfully. "Ye niver forgave her for leavin' ye. That's more like it, an't it, boy?"
"She was nothing to me. I hardly remember her." Liam's profile was stony as he checked the compass needle.
"No, I suppose it's what ye don't remember that gripes at ye." Flannery yawned again. "It's been a long night and this cold's bitin' me bones. Hold her steady 'til ye sight South Rock Beacon, then pick up five points north and rouse out Jimmy." He stubbed out his cigar. "I'm goin' below to sleep. Think on what I said. She's the enemy. The day ye forget it again will be a sorry one for us all."
Stiff and cold, Catherine awoke at dawn. Prison gray light wavered over the roughhewn bulkheads. Wrapped in blankets, the big redhead snored loudly in his hammock. Liam, an inert bundle, lay in a pile of sails at his feet. Her stomach growled when she shifted to renew circulation. As she burrowed awkwardly into her covering, Jimmy came below to rouse Flannery. Without giving her a glance, they left Liam sleeping. After some time, she drowsed.
The regular pattern of men changing watch and taking turns at the sails continued for the rest of the trip. Late in the day she was fed hardtack and coffee by the grinning Jimmy, who loosened the fetters but left her feet hobbled. Sometime after that, she slept again.
The next day seemed like one fitful nap, again broken by a single feeding. Catherine was awakened after nightfall when someone wrapped her tightly in the cloak again, head and all. She was lifted and carried, then lowered into other arms in what must have been the pitching dinghy. An icy feeling in the pit of her stomach warned they had reached their destination. Surf sounded and the dinghy lifted and rolled forward as the oars maneuvered, controlling the vessel's path up onto a pebbled shore with a grating shudder. The men in the bow went over the side and dragged the boat up onto the beach.
She was lifted again and passed over the bow. Then it seemed they walked and climbed forever, shifting her from man to man every so often. Periodically hearing dripping water, she imagined a cave or dungeon and bit the cloak to still her chattering teeth. Heels sounded on stone, then a finished floor. She was swung from a shoulder and dumped. Scared as she was, she felt a wave of rage at her captors' roughness. Well, let Valera enjoy her—if he could! She was dirty, smelly, mad as a hornet, and stiff as a board.
She heard Flannery's voice in a strange language, then Liam's; finally, a last one, deep and unfamiliar, in a tone of dismissal. The door closed and silence fell.
CHAPTER 2
Angel on Fire
Catherine rolled as the cloak was snapped away with an abrupt tug and dropped near her feet. For a moment, she lay rigid with apprehension, then cautiously opened her eyes to stare at a polished pair of boots carelessly crossed just beyond her nose. Her eyes followed the boots up long legs encased in black breeches to a white-shirted chest. While his head and shoulders were nearly obscured in shadow, the man seated before her was too tall to be Valera. Quickly she scanned the dim corners of the room searching for the Spaniard, then realized no one else was there. Nonplussed, she wondered what was going on. Who had kidnapped her, and why? Her attention darted back to the stranger. He leaned forward slightly and a dark face took form from the shadows, a form as beautiful as Original Sin must have seemed to Eve, with all its lure and its pain. As eyes the smoky green of storm seas caughtrhers and held, a phrase from Milton's Paradise Lost whispered through her mind:
His form had yet pot lost
All his original brightness, nor appeared
Less than Archangel ruined . . .
He might be Lucifer, she thought. How sad he is.
Sean was equally unprepared for her. As the dark torrent of hair fell away from her pale face, her breathless, controlled fear was as tangible in the firelit room as a small fist in his belly. God, she was young. He had pictured some blond, simpering bitch, unconsciously attributing to John Enderly's daughter characteristics he detested in Englishwomen. He had never imagined a dark forest creature, this childish Ondine. She has eyes out of legend, he thought. But legends sharply reminded him of Megan and the tales she had told him in childhood; the fleeting impulse to free the English girl left him.
Seeming to be unafraid now, the girl watched him as if he were some mythic beast caught in her virginal snare. Still, she paled and drew back when he rose and went to. her with his knife unsheathed. He cut her bonds with two quick moves, then walked to the fireplace and poked the fire until it blazed. He turned and hunkered down to watch her chafe her wrists; they were purpled beneath the light froth of lace, but she made no murmur, and began systematically to rub her ankles. The silence was almost companionable.
In the heightened firelight he saw part of the reason her eyes were so compelling. Veiled by heavy lashes, they were slightly oblique, crested by brows like a lark's wings. Above high, slanting cheekbones, her features were finely chiseled, but placed upon a too-thin face; she looked a year or so younger than she was. The mouth was finely drawn, with a tender, full underlip. Dishevelment added to her appearance of vulnerability, but now that he saw his prisoner more clearly, he also noted the proud, almost arrogant set of head and the determined jaw.
Aware of his intent assessment, Catherine also saw it had subtly taken a hostile turn. She withdrew her attention from her ankles and met his gaze. She had seen the same hawk-hard cast of features among Moors of southern Spain, and his closely cropped black hair suggested Jacobin sympathies. "You've gone to a great deal of trouble to bring me here. May I ask why?" Her voice was soft, almost husky, but as clipped as a Prussian officer's. Sean might have smiled at her coolness if the situation had left any room for amusement.
"Your father owes me a debt."
; She glanced at the handsomely appointed study, the huge painting of leopards couchants over the desk, the gleaming Celtic artifacts mounted on one wall. "Wouldn't it have been more civilized to send a solicitor?"
"Possibly. If the debt were merely monetary."
His indulgent tone annoyed her. "You must hate him very much to risk other men's lives to steal his only child."
"Few men have cause to hate him more, but I'm only one among his critics," he replied dryly. "And little risk was involved. Stealing you was simple enough."
"And not having been present, you're very sure of that?"
"If you managed, in some small way, to inconvenience my men and escaped with a few bruises, don't press your luck. You've arrived intact by my order. Personally, I'd like nothing better than an excuse to throttle you."
Her jaw lifted. "Do you intend to murder me?"
Culhane's eyebrows quirked. "Not at the moment." He rose and crossed to her. Her slim white throat was arched, her head with its thick, tangled hair thrown back as she looked up at him, her eyes unflinching. Still, he heard a slight gasp as he pulled her up on deadened legs. She made no effort to pull away, probably realizing she would fall if she tried to resist him. Backing, he forced her to take a few steps. Along with the waver of cramped limbs, he felt her tension, although her eyes showed nothing but defiant contempt. "If you're looking into my soul, I can tell you now it's black as the Pit," he drawled.
"If bullying defenseless women is the least of your sins, I must agree with you."
"It's amazed I am at how quickly you've blossomed from child to woman." His lilt had become mocking. "Moments ago, I could swear you were barely out of leaders."
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