"That's it."
"Who'll be taking over my routes?"
"I haven't decided," Sean lied calmly. "I'll give you the required charts, rendezvous points, and timetables in my study an hour before you set sail. There'll be one problem. As an English registry vessel, you have a legitimate cover, but that registry will be a liability if an English cruiser spots you off the French coast." He raised his empty cup in token salute. "To your new citizenship, Captain. You're now an American."
"What?" blurted the Dover man. An Irish emigre, he had no loyalty to England, but like many Europeans he considered Americans colonial primitives.
Culhane grinned ironically. "Mad George's ships are unlikely to detain an American vessel as a smuggler. Britain wants no arguments at her backside to distract the navy while Napoleon is filing his teeth."
"I don't sound like a colonial; my men don't. . ."
"How do you think Americans speak? Some of them sound as English as you and me." He flashed a white, wolfish smile.
" 'Twill be more dangerous than smuggling ordinary contraband," persisted the captain. "My crew should be paid more, and I should receive a percentage . . ."
Culhane waved a negligent hand. "We'll discuss that after you complete a run. The pay will match your performance. Now"—the hand waved toward the door—"if you'll excuse us, Captain, I have matters to discuss with Mr. Flannery."
Awkwardly, the worried captain took his leave.
"Will the registry stand scrutiny?" asked Flannery.
"Aye, and so will our Hamburg syndicate."
Although Flannery had done his own share of smuggling, he was unfamiliar with the current, complex business operations of the Culhanes, so Sean took the opportunity to explain. "Max Lehrmann controls the syndicate bank in Hamburg. His backers are, of course, Liam and myself, and he makes handsome percentages from Sylvie's trade in French contraband. In turn, Lehrmann, who is Swiss, assures neutral registry, while the bank provides a foreign currency exchange house with unimpeachable security for dealing with individuals and governments."
Sean toyed with his fork as he continued. "We use both the Sylvie and the Mary D. for smuggling currency, art objects, spies, and, of course, running munitions. Lehrmann screams; he doesn't like risking trouble with his own government.
"Still, with a fair wind the Mary D. can outrun almost anything afloat. Sylvie's the real sharper, but you know that. You captained her yourself."
" 'Twas years ago," Flannery sighed. "Aye, she's yar, sure enough. Never thought that black-patched fop in Marseilles could turn out a beauty like that. We kicked our heels at British gunports for nigh onto five years." He smiled in remembrance.
In the rare times the two men relaxed together, they invariably discussed the sea, their common love. Sean leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs, and grinned. "You wouldn't consider resuming her command, would you?"
"I'm too old for gallivantin' about on a seagoin' racehorse." Flannery patted his paunch. "Takes a man with no fat to run guns. Maybe I an't as resigned to end in a noose as I used to be."
"Rot," said Sean briefly. "The only thing you fear is leaving Liam in my clutches."
"Your doin' him in an't what worries me. Any other man who said what he did this mornin' would now be harpin' with the angels. 'Course I don't know," the giant added slyly. "Of late, ye've been actin' ornery as a penned stallion with his favorite mare bein' nosed by a rival stud. Keepin' that little filly wouldn't be more than a matter of revenge now, would it?"
Sean scowled. "The wench is nothing to me but an irritation. I brought her here for a purpose, and by God, she'll fill it!"
"If she lives that long." Flannery scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Aye, I suppose it wouldn't do to grow fond of her. Pity. She might have grown into a spittin' beauty. Reminds me of a girl I saw once in Brendan's arms at a Dublin ball. One dance they had, then she was gone in the crowd. She was the loveliest creature in the world. Expect she's a grandmother now."
Culhane stared at him impatiently. "Are you growing senile, man, that you're beginning to live in the past?"
"We live in a world of ghosts, you no less than I. We're condemned to that end by a crippled, perhaps dyin' cause. That lass has the soul of life: eager, impatient, curious! She's not chained to the past. Ruinin' her future will gain us naught."
Patience worn to a nub, Culhane rose abruptly. "Spare me your fatherly advice if Rouge is an example of its worth." Flannery whitened and Sean instantly regretted the cruelty erf his heedless words. "Flannery . . ."
"Don't bother," growled the redhead, heaving his bulk out of his chair. He stalked out of the room.
Still troubled by his sharpness with Flannery, Culhane drifted into the study. At length, he dropped into the morocco leather desk chair and, with a toneless whistle, stared off into space. Then, after unlocking a desk drawer, he drew out paper, dipped a quill into the inkwell, and began to write in a quick, firm hand.
By late afternoon four sets of orders were deposited in separate envelopes, their seals stamped with the gold Celtic ring on his right hand. The first envelope contained directions Ennis was to deliver to France. If Ennis became nervous enough to break the seal, he would find only a series of coded dates, times, and incomprehensible substitutions keyed to previously relayed information. The second envelope contained "official" sailing orders for presentation to customs officers, while the third contained his actual orders, porta of call, contacts, and signals. The last envelope was addressed to the captain of the British cutter Stag.
Culhane rose from his chair and stretched, then began to pace, lost in thought. Though he was on the verge of putting into motion the laborious plans of a lifetime, he felt nothing but immense weariness.
Fatigue invariably seemed to lead him to brooding about the English girl. Only a crazy person would have dared to disobey his orders and attack her. Although Maude was mad, he could not bring himself to commit her to an institution; the woman had suffered enough. Punishment was useless; her addled mind would never accept the sense of it. The simplest tack was to remove provocation from her path. Maude would continue with laundry in Catherine's place, while Catherine would work full time at the fishery and in the house.
A final problem remained: Liam. Because of the English girl, Liam was becoming a willful, audacious rebel. If the transformation had blessed his brother with stronger self-control, he would have almost welcomed her influence; as it was, Liam's ill-timed outbursts endangered them all.
A month at sea would clear Liam's brain. Let him act as first officer aboard the Sylvie on her merchant passage to America and he would come back a new man. He would have little choice. Go, and with good behavior the girl would pull lighter duty; stay, and her duty doubled.
Two weeks after the Sylvie sailed for America with Liam snapping orders at a numb crew, the coastal cutter Stag surprised a smuggling ship, the schooner Adele, while she was unloading contraband in a secluded creek four miles from Windemere. The crew disappeared into the thick marshy wood surrounding the captured vessel. The Adele and her valuable cargo of French wines were confiscated and her owners, League, Tunney and Briskell, Ltd., notified. Because of their heretofore unsullied reputations, the owners protested with gradual success that the captain, who conveniently committed suicide, had been introducing his own cargos without their knowledge and altering the accounts. While temporarily embarrassed, they took their considerable loss with stiff but resigned smiles, having long ago been prepared for such an event.
The greatest loser was the syndicate's greatest private investor and the Adele's actual owner, John Enderly. The local magistrate called politely at Windemere because of the estate's proximity to the creek in question. He requested the viscount to keep surveillance for smugglers and Enderly civilly agreed; in turn, the magistrate tactfully did not ask to inspect his warehouses. When the affair was concluded, John Enderly had lost nearly two thousand pounds sterling. The burghers of the syndicate he had bought out sub rosa twenty years befo
re had lost a much smaller percentage of their personal fortunes, amassed with the long-term backing of their secret mentor. They assumed the ship's discovery had been a fluke, and for a time altered the routes of the Adele's sister ships. The effort was pointless, for even their temporary withdrawal from smuggling would not have discomforted the viscount's nemesis in Ireland; he was in no particular hurry, and his scattered fishing fleet kept a close eye on both syndicate shipping and the British coast guard.
Catherine stared stonily up at the canopy finial above her head. For over an hour she had idly watched the canopy shadows grow more distinct. As the morning sun's slow climb gradually illuminated the room, she tried to ignore the bronzed arm thrown casually over her body and the sleeper's face buried in the hollow of her bare shoulder. Her tactics had changed to passive resistance. She silently appeared at Culhane's door each night, undressed matter- of-factly, and submitted to his caresses without a shred of reaction. Only the hate in her eyes made her seem alive* Invariably, with an oath of frustration, he left her and sailed to the eager arms of the fisher girl across the bay. Her nerves were on edge, as they had been all during the two weeks of Liam's temporary exile, although her lot had eased in his absence. There had been no more days in the laundry, no chamber pots, and best of all, no hampering leg-iron; Sean Culhane had benevolently decided to let her run in event of assault.
Still, while Liam's protection had been insignificant, his presence had lent the situation a trace of civilized restraint. Certainly the unconscious brute who lay beside her had none. Despite his frustrated irritation with her coldness, he continued to take her as he liked. Sometimes, when weary from long hours of work, he adjusted her casually to accommodate his long-limbed body and fell asleep immediately afterward, although not without pulling her close like a child's favored plaything. Sometimes he took her as if he wanted to break down her resistance with sheer brute force. And sometimes he was gentle, with a slow, sure skill that left her trembling and breathless. She fought her body's response by concentrating on his ruth- lessness, his brutality, his rages, his infrequent, unexpected tenderness. . . and the struggle would begin again.
Sometimes she spied a flicker of despair in his eyes when he turned away. Occasionally, when her knock at night drew no answer, she knew he was across Donegal Bay, and her small sense of victory seemed perversely sour. The thought of him in another woman's arms often kept her awake with graphic imaginings long into the night.
Catherine irritably turned on her side and dislodged him, but he merely sighed sleepily and pulled her rigid backside into the warm curve of his body. Not daring to move again for fear of awakening him, she chafed. Jealous? How could she be jealous of a detestable brute whose every touch made her seethe with rebellion? She would rather be vain and petty than remotely attracted to a tyrant who insisted upon instant gratification of his every whim. Finally, as if disturbed by her restlessness, Culhane turned away, leaving her free to slip out of bed.
Oblivious to scattered wall mirrors that reflected her nude body at many angles, she padded aimlessly about the room. Ruefully, she ran a finger over the ridged leather bindings of books along the wall. Simple diversions like reading were now incredible luxuries.
Catherine wandered to the desk, stole a quick look at the sleeping man, then eased the center desk drawer open; it contained little of interest except a brass letter opener. Her pulse began to pound. Suddenly, horribly aware this was her chance to kill the Irishman, Catherine stared at it, transfixed. Even as she reached for the thing, the possibility of a trap clanged a warning; but if this opportunity slipped by, there might never be another. Culhane had to be stopped from destroying her father. She slipped the letter opener out of the drawer, then crept stealthily toward the bed.
The naked man lay on his back, the hard beauty of his face turned toward her, his dark lashes curved against his cheeks. Asleep, he appeared younger. The ruthless, mocking lines of his mouth relaxed, he looked capable of warmth and laughter, even love.
Her shaking fingers tightened on the haft. She was not positive of the exact location of the heart; when she felt tentatively for her own, its thudding seemed to echo in her entire breast. The vulnerable hollow at the base of his throat offered the surest target. Catherine raised the dagger, then hesitated, appalled by its spasmodic jerks. "God forgive me," she whispered, and stumbled away, sickened with self-disgust. She had nearly reached the desk when a sound from the bed made her freeze.
The victim's voice was dry. "Flannery was right; you haven't the grit for murder."
Catherine whirled. Culhane rested casually on one elbow, regarding her lazily. "You . . . you weren't asleep," she hissed. "I knew it was too easy."
He lifted an appraising eyebrow. "Is that why you thought better of skewering me with a dull gimrack? Or did your delicate stomach recoil?"
Eyes narrowing to sapphire slits, she flung the letter opener at him, but because of her rage and the weapon's dismal balance, it struck the wall beside the bed and clattered harmlessly to the floor. Culhane, who had not even bothered to duck, laughed shortly, and swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he sat up, kicked the weapon safely under the bed. "If you're intent on imitating the deadly mantis who kills her lovers, Countess, don't vacillate over your prey."
"I'll remember that advice! Unless you intend a terminal remedy for my queasy stomach!" she hissed defiantly, still too angry to be afraid. Tangled black hair hanging nearly to her waist and feet planted apart, she fairly vibrated with the itch to scratch his eyes out.
He lay back on his elbows and smiled faintly. "Plot as much as you like. I much prefer you as you are now, spitting like a wet cat, to the limp-kneed twit you provide so monotonously of late for my bed. Come here."
She stared at him in disbelief. "I just tried to kill yout You cannot possibly desire me now!"
He twitched back the sheet and his white teeth flashed mockingly in his dark face. "You see? Flagrant proof nothing is impossible under heaven. Come here, Catherine."
Teeth and fists clenched, she advanced with dragging slowness, the tiny fires in her eyes snapping. When she stopped stiffly beside the bed, Culhane folded his arms under his head, a smile still playing about his lips. "Lie down on me," he said quietly.
"What whorish service would you have now, master?" she snapped.
"It's simple enough. Lie down. Gently." His voice was patient, but warned a knee to his groin would hurt her longer than him.
Gritting her teeth, she lay upon him, her creamy skin silken against him, her hair falling like a canopy about their faces. Irritated but intrigued, she waited. Mentally, she fidgeted. In her fiery mood and with the insufferable brute beneath her, she felt like the aggressor, as if she were about to rape him. The fur of his chest tickled her breasts and she squirmed slightly, then noted sparks of light playing in his half-closed eyed, sparks that flared in quick response to her movement. Instantly she stilled. "Kiss me," he whispered, and as her lips reluctantly lowered to his, his mouth was hot, opening under hers, yielding, searing, then slanting across hers with a hunger that threatened to consume them both. She lifted her head, her eyes uncertain. "Now," he whispered huskily, "kneel astride my hips. You're going to do the honors."
"No!" she breathed, trying to push away.
"Do it, Catherine." His voice was ragged but inflexible. Having learned open disobedience was useless, Catherine straddled his slim hips uncertainly, then held her breath; she had never touched a male organ with her hand. She stared at the shaft that proudly rose from his body. A man's sex seemed like that of an exotic flower, beautiful, dreadful, potent. She put out her fingers. His manhood was warm, warmer than the rest of him, and he caught his breath as her fingers shyly enfolded him. She could feel his quickened heartbeat under the smooth velvet of his flesh. "Now, Catherine," he whispered, his lean body taut with urgency.
Half reluctant, half fascinated, she slowly brought him to the entrance he sought, then, biting her lip, hesitantly eased him just inside her
body. Although his arms were still beneath his head, he tensed. "Am I hurting you?" she inquired uncertainly.
"No, not in the way you think." His eyes were hazy as a rain-swept sea. Slowly, he began to move, arching his body gently at first and letting his loins rise under her relaxing thighs until overwhelmingly he filled her. She shuddered and her head dropped back, arching the slender stem of her throat. "Like Mephisto," Sean whispered. "Ride my body like the stallion's back. Ride me, little one, as if you could go on forever . . ." His body arched in a driving, deepening rhythm, his arms and hands now pressed down against the sweat-dampened sheets.
Catherine's heavy hair fell in a swaying stream as her head lolled in a near delirium of sensation, yet a spark of resistance still burned; desperately, she concentrated on it, fanning it like a backfire set to control a raging holocaust. As Culhane found his own incendiary release, her nails jabbed painfully into her thighs.
His spent body polished with a fine film of sweat, Sean saw from under his lashes that the girl had cheated him again. Long, angry scratches marked her skin, and her eyes, while dazed, were once more defiant and filled with bitter triumph. At the moment he should have been closest to her, he had been alone. She moved away from him with distaste. As she retrieved her folded clothing from a chair and turned her back to dress, her disdainful look gave way to one of confusion.
At lunchtime that afternoon, after the fishery workers laid down their tools and headed for the house, Catherine climbed the rise to the pond to wash her hands. When she finished, the fishery was already deserted. Shaking her hands to scatter the droplets, she glanced at the stone blockhouse on the pond's far side. Idly wondering how fish were salted and dried, she lifted her skirts to avoid the muddy bank and wandered around the stony shore. Ducking inside the cool darkness of the blockhouse, she discovered the Irish had a unique way of storing fish: behind several rows of salt-encrusted fish were many more rows of muskets. Moving up and down the rows, she rapidly counted some fifty weapons; two damp oilskin-wrapped bundles against the wall contained more. She touched a bundle, then licked her fingers: salt. The muskets had come in by sea, possibly aboard the fishing boats which could pick them up anywhere along European coasts; France in particular would relish revolt at Britain's back door. The arms must be being hauled up the cliff at night, she realized, for she could not have missed seeing such activity by day. A case of lead ingots for shot rested against the rear wall, but it obviously represented only one shipment or part of one,- surely not enough to supply Shelan's men. Perhaps the arms were in the blockhouse temporarily, to be stored in greater quantities and security elsewhere, perhaps even transported under loads of fish by wagon to neighboring markets.
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