Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  Flung across the counterpane were gowns in a profusion of muslins and silks, all in Le Roy's deceptively simple cuts; all fabulously expensive. Dainty gold, silver, and tinted silk sandals were matched to each dress. Peg pointed to a velvet packet. "There's even paints and pomades like Josephine and the society ladies wear." She flipped open a silk-lined box to reveal crystal vials of perfume. Removing a stopper, she wafted it under Catherine's nose. "An't that sinful?"

  Catherine almost flinched. A flacon of the identical scent was evaporating on the dressing table at home. Sean had overlooked nothing, even a broadcloth riding habit in the latest style with a short jacket and saucy veiled hat. By the armoire, Spanish riding boots gleamed next to his own. She sagged onto the bed and gazed numbly at the splendid array.

  With a mock frown of disapproval, Peg waved a gossamer wisp of lingerie from a finger. "Disgraceful."

  Waiting impatiently in the Rose Salon, Sean replaced his wineglass on the mantel and turned as his mistress entered the room. His breath caught. Catherine's beauty had often taken him unaware but never more than now. By the firelight's glow, she was a slender column of white h la Diane. Amused by the name of the creation, he had included the dress as a prank. Caught at one shoulder in imitation of a tunic of ancient Greece, it was split at the sides from waist to ankle to reveal a slim underskirt and golden sandals. Tiny bell rings were at her toes and fingers and polished black hair fell to her hips. Gilded eyelids fired her opal eyes with Circean allure and her lips had the ripe warmth of pomegranates. In that moment, Sean knew she was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen or would ever see again. "I thought that little rig might suit you," he said lightly. "In Paris, les merveilleuses dispense with the underskirt and wear nothing but tights, sometimes nothing at all."

  Ignoring his teasing suggestion, she replied softly, "You're most generous. Alexander's Roxanne could not have been more richly dressed."

  "I'ye no wish to be an Alexander." He traced the line of her jaw with a fingertip. "I have all the world I need."

  "Have you?" She gazed up at him. "Sean, you cannot have Ireland and me. Your people would never support a leader with an English mistress. I would continually be suspected of twisting your judgment. They would call you a self-indulgent fool, even a traitor."

  " chérie, I've no illusions about the difficulties of keeping a woman like you, even under ordinary circumstances. I might as easily take a stroll through Soho at midnight with gold coins stitched to my coat. And becoming ri eireanne was my mother's ambition, not mine. Ireland's freedom is all I swore to gain. I've no wish to rule."

  "You'll have no choice. The abilities and ancestry that rally Irishmen to your standard will also compel you to accept their leadership in peace. To remain free, Ireland must remain united; and for a time, perhaps all your lifetime, your name obliges you to supply focus for loyalty." She turned away. "There's another difficulty."

  He came up behind her. His closeness made her feel weak, but she forced herself to go on. "You must have legitimate heirs. My . . . my children would become liabilities. Inevitably, another woman would take my place in your arms, perhaps in your heart."

  He lightly caressed her throat. "Would that matter, my taking another woman?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  He caught her shoulders and turned her to accept his mouth, obliterating resistance and all thought save the one of melting into his body. Her head slipped back on his arm, her hair in an ebony stream, and he became aware only of how small she was, how desirable.

  "Please take me away," she whispered against his mouth. "Anywhere. I need . . . I want only you."

  "God, you tempt me." His arms tightened and her response to his kiss took his breath away. He lifted his head at last with an effort. "Kit—"

  She was never to know what his answer would have been for it was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Flannery, eyes widening in frank appreciation of the woman his commander's arm still encircled.

  "What's the problem?"

  Flannery gave him a sheepish grin. "The Meridian has been sighted off Annagh Head. She's makin' fair wind and likely to reach Shelan by mornin'."

  Sean nodded, unaware his mistress's smile had become subtly set. "Very well. 'Have Fournel and his officers report to my study after they come ashore. Give Rafferty a nudge wijh dinner on your way out, will you?"

  Dinner was quiet, both young people preoccupied with their thoughts. Sean restlessly fiddled with his brandy snifter as Rafferty cleared the table. "I've an itch for a hard ride tonight, Kit. Want to come?"

  "Yes. Numidian needs the exercise."

  "Run up and change. I'll have the horses brought around."

  Sean led the way down the treacherous cliff path to the beach. The night was crystal clear and unusually warm. Soon Catherine regretted throwing on Tim's pea coat over the shirt and cords. She struggled out of it and was awkwardly knotting its sleeves about her waist when Sean ordered abruptly, "Pay attention to your riding. It's a long drop to the beach." Meekly she waited until they reached bottom to secure the jacket. She wanted to ask about Fournel, but seeing Sean's withdrawn expression, thought better of it.

  They put the horses into an easy canter down the pale, winding beach. Moonlight painted the pebbles blue-white and transformed the tidal pools into flickering mirrors below cliffs white and mysterious as Oriental palaces, their walls and spires carved ivory. A scent of wild orchids that climbed the rock face hung on the wind. The surf tumbled sleepily on the shore, teasing the horses' hooves into a hard gallop along the luminous sea. The stallions and riders crashed through glassy sheets of water, shattering their surfaces to fragments and thundering on like hurrying ghosts. Only when their mounts began to falter did the man and woman rein to a halt in a swiftly settling spray of sand. The house, a pale silhouette with glowing lights, was barely visible atop the cliffs far to the south. Sean slid off his sweaty horse, then lifted his companion down, his fingers lingering at her waist. Hand in hand, they wandered down the beach leaving the horses to follow, their reins caught around their saddle pommels.

  "A French warship is due here tomorrow, English," Sean said quietly. "Can you guess why?"

  Her fingers tightened in his. "Yes."

  "Ireland will be rising soon, possibly within days. We cannot turn the tide without them."

  She stopped and looked up at him. "Sean, it's dangerous to tell me these things."

  "Not unless you intend to betray me."

  "Would you have me betray my country?"

  "You're half French, Kit. Does it matter so much?7*

  "Napoleon is born to war, Sean. He'll drench the earth with blood. England is his most formidable obstacle." She paused. "Ireland has had foreign allies before and failed."

  "Philip II of Spain and your exiled Charles I weren't in a league with Napoleon, Kit. He's the best and only chance we have. We have to gamble now."

  "Do you think you'll be more than his puppet? If he lets you rule? He wants no native dynasties in his dominions any more than does England. He'll prove as great a tyrant as Cromwell. England's monarchy is weakening, Sean. Parliament is gaining power . . ."

  "If you're asking me to wait until the English bourgeoisie take their turn at wringing us dry, forget it." He put his hands on her shoulders. "You've overlooked one thing about Napoleon, Kit. He's already shown his military genius doesn't extend to government, He left no permanent fortifications to protect his holdings in Italy: just troops and a skeleton government headed by his relatives, and they're impotent without his presence. If he repeats that pattern in each territory he conquers, eventually he must run short of French troops to back them and depend on untrustworthy foreign ones in satellites increasingly distant from home. Even if he retains his power, his hegemony will probably die with him. This all assumes the conspiring Directorate doesn't depose him and return France to the chaos of the Revolution. With England's grip broken, Ireland has a real chance at self-government."

  "What if he succe
eds and has a son?"

  "Josephine had an abortion while she was Paul Barras's mistress; it left her barren. If the Corsican wants an heir, he'll have to divorce her."

  "But divorce is easily obtained under Republican law, and he has the grounds of Josephine's open promiscuity. My father says his brother, Joseph, is using all his influence to have the marriage dissolved; Napoleon may agree. His infatuation with Pauline Foures in Egypt is common knowledge."

  "Foures isn't Josephine, Kit. Napoleon will have to return to Paris sooner or later to put down Barras's intrigues in the Directorate. My wager is that when he does, Pauline will stay in Egypt."

  "Like a discarded boot."

  He caressed her neck. "I daresay Madame Foures isn't without ambition."

  She pulled away. "Perhaps she loves him." Her clear eyes momentarily caught the moonlight. "But love has no place in war, does it?"

  "Doesn't it?" He caught her gently, then stifled any possible answer with his mouth. Catherine clung to him, knowing that it might be for the last time. That she loved him and that it was too late and that he would never know.

  As her breasts thrust maddeningly against his chest, Sean parted the loose shirt to find their soft warmth. Desire pulsed at his groin with a slow, sweet ache and he released her, whispering, "Wait." Retrieving the jacket, he spread it on the sand. They dropped their garments and turned to touch with growing impatience. Pressing his lover down, Sean slowly sheathed himself. Then he was moving inside her, loving her. Velvet sliding through satin. Pale bodies twining under the moon like a night- blooming flower, tenuous, its petals unfurling in transcendent luminous beauty.

  In the morning, leaving Sean to meet the French, Catherine went to the infirmary. When her listlessness drew Doctor Flynn's attention, she snatched a cup of tea from the kitchen and retreated into his office to do the billing. All too soon the ink on the paper spotted as her shoulders shook with sobs. A rap on the door made her straighten aqd swipe at her eyes. Flynn stuck in his head. "You've a caller. Liam wants to take you for a ride. I've only a few patients. You have permission to go if you'd like."

  "Thank you. I'll only be a moment." Hastily she dunked a napkin into the cold tea and soaked her swollen eyes.

  When she joined Liam in the carriage, she was clear-eyed and controlled; so much so that, when he bluntly told her the priest had agreed to dispense with the banns and marry them within the hour, she did no more than nod.

  The ceremony in the village chapel was a mercifully brief ordeal. Like a marionette, she repeated the vows before the rock-faced priest and, after Liam'3 cold lips brushed her in a-decorous kiss, accepted the congratulations offered by the nuns who had acted as witnesses. She sensed Liam was as miserable as she despite his bitter triumph. She had always dreaded a loveless marriage, but this travesty surpassed her worst imaginings. They were to leave at the height of the ball the following night. Liam had arranged a diversion for the eastern patrols. With luck and hard riding, they would reach the Londonderry garrison in three days. From there, word could be sent to General Lake, commander of the British occupation forces. Altogether, Sean would have nearly a week to evacuate Shelan.

  Leaving her at the infirmary door, Liam narrowly missed the escort who had come early to return her to the house. Sean was already in need of his hostess.

  As Catherine entered the foyer at Shelan, a short burst of male voices and scent of tobacco followed Peg out as she shut the study door behind her. "Put on yer habit, lass. We've a pack of sea-weary horse soldiers on our hands. They've all clamorin' to tear about the countryside on a hunt. Yer things have been moved to the room next to Sean's; it has a connectin' door. Liam's on the other side."

  Catherine nodded and climbed the stairs. When she had changed, she critically surveyed her image in the mirror. The habit was beautifully cut in severe black, the white stock of the blouse accentuating her vivid coloring. Gleaming black hair was sleekly twisted up under the high- brimmed hat and her dark blue eyes had an elusive mystery behind the black veil. You look like a gypsy whore in stolen finery, she thought in disgust. Beautiful, yes. Very. Accursed bitch. Catherine Enderly, Catherine de Vigny, Kitty Flynn, Lady Liam Culhane. Kit. You're none of them now. You only exist as a betraying cheat. You've made mockery of a sacrament, every vow a cynical lie, the

  confession before the ceremony a travesty of omission. Wear black for your love, lass. You've killed him sure. All for a worthy cause.

  The young French lieutenant speaking animatedly to Sean of Napoleon's modernization of the Polytechnique changed track in midselttence and stared past his host's shoulder. "Mon Dieu, what a ravishing creature!"

  Sean turned. Catherine was sauntering down the steps. By now all eyes were on her, the hush dropping like a blanket, the appraising Gallic appreciation evident. Sean's eyes narrowed. The bit of veil had all the effect of a black negligee. The witch Was seducing the lot of them without flicking an eyelash. Even as a coltish adolescent she'd had a strange allure; as a woman, that quality was devastating. The Frenchmen surreptitiously jostled one another to have a better look. Grimly he plowed through the crowd to the foot of the stair. "Miss Flynn, you're just in time to meet some of my other guests before the hunt."

  "I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Culhane." She accepted his offered arm.

  Sensing her underlying tension, Sean nodded to Rafferty, who was playing lackey, to offer port. "Thank you." She sipped gratefully and briefly looked up into Sean's eyes as he began introductions. He was incredibly handsome in his riding clothes, a polished stranger, his French flawless; There were so many things she did not know about him . . . and would never know.

  General Fournel, Humbert's representative, was introduced first. Wearing civilian riding clothes as did his men, he was a tall, hawk-faced man with graying temples. His distinguished looks and smooth charm reminded her of her father, but his eyes held a less than paternal expression as he bowed with a smart click of his heels. "Your servant, Mademoiselle Flynn," he murmured in suavely accented English. "If General Bonaparte had heard even a whisper of your beauty, he would have come himself rather than allow so fortunate an envoy to extend his compliments. May I present my corps?"

  "You are most gallant, General," Catherine replied in clipped French. "I shall be pleased to meet them."

  9 Sean's lips twitched. The regal little devil's company

  manners made Napoleon's emissary seem like a lapdog merchant.

  "Colonel . . but where is he?" said Fournel, looking about for his executive officer. "He was here a moment ago."

  "He's outside admiring the horses, mon General," eagerly volunteered the Polytechnique lieutenant.

  "Ah, yes, I might have known." Fournel went on to introduce the convenient Lieutenant Andre Courbier, whose brown eyes grew melting as he offered his compliments. One by one, the officers tried to outdo one another with flattery as they were presented.

  Several Ulster landowners and their wives were scattered among the group along With a newspaper publisher. As Catherine greeted them, the landlords were polite, their wives distant, and the newspaperman shrewd, his addresses no less eloquent than those of the Frenchmen, but lightly barbed. He was just beginning a pointed inquiry about Catherine's family and Sean was preparing to interrupt when the front door opened and the missing officer came gaily into the foyer. "Magnificent! But those blacks are formidable! French barbs mixed with Irish strains. Mesdames, messieurs, we shall do brilliantly together in this enterprise. There can be no doubt. . ." His eyes came to rest on the dark beauty surrounded by his fellow officers.

  Catherine stared back. It was Raoul d'Amauri, the young Frenchman who had courted her at Windemere.

  Fournel waved him over. "Mademoiselle Flynn, my wandering executive officer, Colonel Raoul d'Amauri."

  "Mademoiselle Flynn." Amauri's usually expressive brown eyes were polite, no more.

  His commander glanced at him, "I fear my young friend is overwhelmed by your beauty, mademoiselle. Ordinarily, he is most eloquent, ev
en for a Frenchman."

  Amauri bowed. "Indeed, mon General I assumed my brother officers had already pressed their fortunate advantage in my absence and numbed the young lady's ears with paeans to her charms. Mademoiselle Flynn may find the welcome silence unforgettable."

  Sean smelled a rat. For all her calm response, Catherine looked as if she had seen a ghost, and the handsome Amauri resembled neither a neuter nor a pederast. The Frenchman's facile cover-up and easy smile concealed a control Sean had employed himself when in the presence of a man he had cuckolded. Had he been less than certain he had been Catherine's first lover, he would have been cheerfully inclined to dismember the young Frenchman. As it was, he decided to give Amauri a bit of rein.

  At that moment, Liam came downstairs. He tersely nodded to this guest and that, having met the officers earlier that morning. Ignoring both his brother and Catherine, he took a glass of wine from Rafferty, tossed it down, took another, and began to converse with an acquaintance from a neighboring estate. Finally everyone was assembled. Pulling on their gloves, twenty riders filed out onto the terrace.

  The hunt master, Tim O'Rourke, waited with a pack of sleek Irish hounds, some frolicking about his mount's heels, the older dogs sitting quietly, tongues lolling.

  Accustomed to letting Catherine mount by herself, Sean suddenly noticed three Frenchmen vying for that honor. His own Irish officers, though equally eager, wisely kept their distance. Catherine laughingly bestowed upon Cour- bier the honor of assisting her up, and Sean eyed the fellow's hand on her tiny waist with the goodwill of an Apache. On his left, Amauri watched with tolerant amusement. "My friends are like pups, all standing on each other's ears."

  "I take it your approach will be less awkward?"

  Amauri looked pointedly from Numidian to the big black Sean sat and laughed. "I have been known to poach, monsieur, but not under the gamekeeper's nose."