Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "Don't be concerned, General," Catherine said lightly.

  "We're only playing. You must agree a duel is more diverting than the usual pianoforte repertoire after dinner." She saluted Amauri with the knife in the formal manner of a swordsman. "Are you ready?"

  Amauri smiled and returned the salute. "Comme vous voulez, mademoiselle. En garde." His smile soon vanished. The Frenchman handled his knife with facility, but Catherine's better training, sharper reflexes, and quicker footing were quickly evident. His first feints teased as they circled, but if he advanced, she retreated, and her blade always blocked any opening before he could attempt to take advantage of it. Without warning, her knife blurred toward his chest and there was a clink on the marble.

  "You've lost a button, sir," one of the adjutants called.

  "The one over your heart, Colonel," his small opponent murmured helpfully. "Faites attention." The knife flicked out again. "Tsk. There goes another. Colonel, you really must learn to sew if you lose buttons like a schoolboy."

  Amauri's smile became grin. "I think it's the schoolgirl who needs a lesson." He began to circle intently, and Sean palmed his dagger from the sheath beneath his silk cuff. Amauri made a calculated jab, but Catherine faded before it like a wraith. He tried again, with due respect for a possible counterattack; again she was out of range without seeming to move.

  For once in his life, Amauri was confused. The girl was making an idiot of him. One part of him wanted to slice her to ribbons, but the other simply wanted her. The countess was magnificent, he thought, a beautiful, wily panther. What must she be like in bed? Before he knew what was happening, he felt a slice across his midriff and heard a husky, teasing murmur. "For shame, Colonel, now I know your mind is wandering." Flushing, he took a furious swipe and she laughed, easily avoiding him. "Ah, Colonel, you're wearing a sour face. What a pity when you have such a charming smile. It has just a suggestion of mischief . . . .la!"

  A feather brush across the corner of his mouth left a fine white scratch across his flushed cheek. Angry now, he attacked her as he would have a man. Suddenly he held a handful of stinging fingers, but nothing else. His weapon lay near the foot of the stair; when he would have retrieved it, he found a polished boot firmly planted across its blade.

  "The duel is at an end, Colonel." Without looking around at Catherine, Sean continued lazily, "I trust your honor has been satisfied, Miss Flynn."

  "Completely, Mr. Culhane."

  Sean nodded pleasantly. "Good. Any objections, Colonel?"

  Amauri was angry, but not foolish. He smiled sheepishly. "No, monsieur. It is I who have been objectionable." As Catherine was slipping the knife back into her belt, he took her hand and kissed it. "Please accept my most profound apologies, mademoiselle. Believe me, I shall never underrate you again."

  Catherine laughed, then curtsied. "I think it's time I resume a skirt, Colonel. It's hardly fair for a woman to amuse herself by wearing breeches. After all, how many men can enjoy the option of petticoats?"

  As she responded to a witticism from Fournel, Sean turned to a lanky Irish officer and ordered quietly, "Hal- loran, circulate and invite all officers into the study. All except my brother." He nodded toward Liam, who was sullenly plying his wineglass as he leaned against the dining room door. "Lord Culhane is in no state to lend our allies confidence. We've a good deal to cover tonight."

  Leaving the throng, Catherine retired to her room and locked the door in case her audacity might tempt a visiting male to further test her unconventionality. As she stripped off Tim's shirt, she noticed a small bouquet of flowers by the bedside: tiny, starlike white wildflowers from the startings she had planted on Maude Corrigan's grave. The Irishman was-asking her to have faith in him. She fought back tears. It was too late to change course now; the marriage had taken care of that.

  Quickly, she donned the satin peignoir and slippers newly brought from Paris, then brushed out her hair. If she was to discover anything from the conference in the library, there was no time to lose. Quietly, she took the service passage to the ballroom.

  The great room was thunderously silent, its tall windows shaping ghosts of moonlight. Sean had said the house's peculiar acoustics enabled ballroom sounds to be perfectly distinct in the library; surely the reverse was also true. She crisscrossed the room methodically and heard nothing but a droning mumble, until finally, near the foyer wall, the voices clarified. Not everything was audible, but during the next hour she heard enough. The rebels planned to seize the Dublin mail coaches; the failure of the coaches to arrive at their destinations would signal the uprising throughout Ireland. The initial objectives would be to control Dublin and Wexford. Weather permitting, French support would come ashore at Killala across Donegal Bay and somewhere else she could not make out. Fournel appeared concerned with infantry, while Amauri discussed artillery, talking of roads and horses, fortifications and counterbatteries. Mostly she heard fragmented snatches, but the tone certainly suggested a major French buildup after the initial invasion.

  Finally, the conference began to break up and she returned the way she had come, anticipating a hand at her throat at every turn. Not until safely in bed did she draw a complete breath. The candle was barely snuffed when the door of Sean's room clicked open into hers. Heart thudding, she forced her breathing to seem regular. After a moment, the door closed and she was left alone to lie sleepless until dawn.

  As the sun came up, Catherine finally drifted wearily into sleep, not to awaken until she felt Sean's presence. Tall against the window light, he stood in his riding clothes at the foot of the bed. The look on his face tugged at her heart and she lifted her arms to him. In a moment, he lay across the bed, his mouth slanting first fiercely across hers, then slowly, savoring the heady wine of her lips, feeling the lushness of the slim body under the clinging satin, the softness of breasts, barely contained by filmy lace butterflies. His fingers caught in her hair and he drew her head back, murmuring against her throat, "You'd tempt the devil, witch."

  Her fingers stole inside his shirt, touching him, luring him. Desperately, she wanted to hold him inside her, to shield him like a child from the hurt she must give him.

  With a sigh, he traced a finger down her cheek. "But even the devil cannot always suit himself. Fournel and Amauri are cooling their heels on the terrace even now."

  She touched his lips. "Be careful."

  He looked at her quizzically. "Of Fournel? He'd sell out his own mother. But, if he turns on me, he'll catch a bullet with his perfect teeth."

  "Not just Fournel. Everyone."

  "Even you?"

  "Even me."

  He pushed back the tendrils of her hair. "Nay, lass, it's not in you to bury the knife with a kiss. Not in me. Not now." His lips reclaimed hers with a searing sweetness that left them both shaken. At last, reluctantly, he tore away and headed for the door. "Sleep as long as you like. You've nothing but entertainment of country biddies this afternoon." His piratical grin flashed. "Why not give 'em a rousing chorus of 'The Tart of Whitemarsh'?"

  The afternoon dragged unbearably as Catherine amused the visiting ladies on the pianoforte, startling them with her skill and smoothing their ruffled sensibilities. Deftly, she dodged pointed queries about her background until, piqued by the mystery and her polite indifference to local gossip, the ladies concluded she was some French emigre's bastard in pursuit of a life of profligate indulgence.

  Peg stole time to help Catherine dress for the ball. As excited as a girl making her own debut, the Irishwoman murmured over the dragonfly iridescence of threads that ran subtly, almost invisibly through the blue-green cobweb silk of her ball gown, making it seem alive with hidden color. As Catherine gilded her nails and eyelids, she forced herself to listen to the housekeeper's chatter. Concentrating on holding the hand mirror steady, she was startled at the stylish coiffure Peg had produced. Catherine, pleading a very real headache, had dined in her room, but Peg had massaged the ache away. Now, when she donned silver sandals and crosse
d to the pier glass, no sign of strain was visible. About her throat, accentuating its delicacy, was the Niall Tore.

  Peg smiled inwardly. Sean was no idiot. By publicly displaying Catherine Enderly as his woman, even were she Cromwell reincarnate, any man, even an Irishman, could see his reason; and once intrigued by her beauty, to be beguiled by the woman was inevitable. Peg handed Catherine a silver fan, then tilted her head as a rap resounded at the door. "That'll be Liam. He's to escort ye." She stood back a moment, surveying the final effect, then hugged Catherine tightly. "Ye're a blazin' beauty, girl. Yer man'll be that proud. Stand by him tonight." She let Liam in from his room and left.

  Liam's blond brow lifted slightly as he surveyed his bride's attire and tucked her arm in his. "I'm richly anticipating my marital rights, love. Any woman who could induce my tight-fisted brother to spend so much on a wardrobe must be an extraordinary bedmate." Impassively, Catherine flicked open her fan and scrutinized him. Handsome in dark blue velvet, her husband smiled ironically. "No, dearest, I'm not drunk. You see?" He extended his hands to demonstrate their steadiness. "Tonight, I'm giving my all for love. The white knight is rescuing the lady fair at peril of life and fortune, but I expect you'll be worth it." He inclined his blond head toward the door. "Shall we go down, Countess? Most of the guests are already tooth to tusk with the musicians."

  "Where are we to meet?" she asked as they strolled toward the stair.

  He squeezed her hand. "You'll reserve the twelfth dance for me. At that point, we'll stroll out onto the terrace to take the air. The north steps have been screened with potted shrubbery and trees to shield our exit. The horses are waiting in the ruins."

  "What of the tower watch?"

  "I'll deliver drugged wine to them during the orchestra's second relief. At the same time, a messenger will carry news to the eastern patrols that a spy has been spotted trying to breach the southern pickets. They'll be given directions to reinforce the line."

  "It all seems so easy."

  "Yes," her husband said dryly. "Only it won't give us more than two hours' start."

  Catherine's fingers tightened on his arm. "Less with Mephisto in pursuit."

  Liam's handsome profile was serene. "The black will be useless tonight and for several to come. I angled a nail into his shoe. He'll pull up lame minutes from Shelan."

  She felt sick. It was the beginning. The beginning of hurting all who trusted her.

  , Liam's sharp voice cut across her thoughts. "You look suspiciously pale." He spun her around and sharply pinched her cheeks. "Pull yourself together. This was your idea." For the benefit of the couple immediately behind them in the hallway, he tilted her now falsely radiant face up to his and lightly kissed her, murmuring, "Remember the first time, chérieV'

  The woman nodded significantly to her husband.

  When they walked into the blaze of light under the great ballroom chandeliers, Catherine felt faint. She forced deep breaths until the lights ceased to blur. Over the musicians' heads hung a draped French tricolor flanked by flags of green: one emblazoned with a harp, the other with a scarlet fist. Uniformed Frenchmen stood in clusters, and for the first time, Sean's officers wore Ireland's green and gold with harp insignia at their breasts. The women turned to look, fans fluttering.

  Then, out of the crowd strode a tall man in black whose green eyes claimed her before his lean fingers lifted her cold hand to his lips. "Miss Flynn, will you do my brother and me the honor of opening the ball with General Fournel?"

  "I should be delighted, sir," she murmured.

  With a short, ironic bow, Liam released his partner to Sean. Fournel's eyes roved, expressing barely concealed desire as they exchanged amenities. When the music started, Catherine felt as if she were entering an eel's embrace. Fournel was dismayed not at all by her deft rebuttal of his suggestive flirtation, and the others who eagerly followed him no less so. Courbier in particular gazed at her longingly, and she had the urge to break into hysterical giggles. Liam saw something in her face and quickly cut in. He whirled her so rapidly around the ballroom, that she was forced to concentrate to stay in step. "Don't lose control now, damn it! I have to drug the pickets in half an hour."

  Her head snapped up. "I'm quite all right now, thank you. You won't need to intervene again."

  "Good. I'd hate to be shot for a tittering female."

  She jerked away from him and practically ran into Amauri's chest. Smoothly, he steered her back into the waltz, blandly smiling.into her flushed face. "Quarreling with your fair-haired boy, chirie? I seem to be always rescuing you from disagreeable men."

  Valera's ghost flickered briefly and Catherine glared at Raoul as they danced past the musicians. "Liam is no more disagreeable than you. You're rather a sugar-coated bully, Raoul."

  Hid grin was unabashed. "I'm only concerned for you, chirie. Perhaps in my eagerness to save you from a dreary liaison . . ."

  She grimaced. "Your General Fournel suggests I wear kneepants and a moustache to vary my lackluster vie d'amour. What, pray, is your remedy?"

  Amauri's grin widened. "Champagne and intermission in my room for a start."

  "A fifteen-minute toss? Your staying power is hardly encouraging."

  "La, la, chérie, what a sharp little tongue. I can think of better employment for it."

  She tried to pull away. "I don't have to listen to this. . ."

  His fingers tightened and the teasing smile faded. "Ah, but you do. You don't love that popinjay. I saw your face when you looked at him last night. He's a fool and a tippler. I don't know what game you're playing here, but it's dangerous. Your father's finished. You cannot help him, if that's your wish. Neither Napoleon nor the Bourbons will touch him now. But you need not join him in disfavor. Come to Paris, Catherine."

  "With you?"

  "With me. You need a man, not a weakling fool."

  "You underestimate Liam, Raoul," she said coldly, "and the profits to be made in Ireland in the wake of insurrection. I'll not be leaving until I've used my advantages here."

  Raoul studied the cool, lovely face turned arrogantly up to his. "You're your father's daughter after all."

  "Mais naturellement, mon Colonel— Surely you're not disappointed? After all, how long would an ingenue have sustained your interest?"

  The dance ended and Amauri raised her hand to his lips. "Forever, if she became the woman I see now."

  Then a Captain Rodier was bowing, politely waiting for his superior to make his adieux. Amauri frowned at him. "What is it, Captain?"

  "I. . . I have this dance with Mademoiselle Flynn, mon Colonel"

  Catherine withdrew her card from her glove and waved it under Amauri's nose. "Ah, yes. Captain Rodier. I've been looking forward to trying a quadrille with you. You danced so beautifully with Madame O'Connell. Will you excuse us, Colonel?" She strolled off with the flattered but uneasy subordinate.

  Dance after dance followed until suddenly Sean was holding her in his arms, his dark hair like ragged black satin under the flickering candles, his green eyes shadowed under their lashes, caressing her. The tall man in black and the slim girl in a whisper of green moved perfectly together. She wanted to touch his face, his lips that lost their hardness when he held her to his breast, but her heart was cracking and the agony turned her limbs to lead. You couldn't drive in the knife with a kiss. Not you. I love you. I love you. My God, help me. Let me die now. Now, this moment

  She stumbled and he caught her close, his murmur husky against her ear, as it had been so often in the night when he was loving her. "Kit? What's wrong?"

  She shook her head, unable to look at him. The music was shrill. "It's very hard, that's all."

  He lifted her chin gently. "I know. Only a little longer. The Frenchmen will be gone soon. Amauri has already gone to prepare the Meridian for sailing." The misery in her eyes deepened. "You look sad, kitten. Is it possible you'll miss me a bit?"

  How could he know? Liam . . .

  He misread her distraction and whispered
, "You still haven't given up entirely, have you? Part of you still fights. But there's love in your eyes tonight, and before dawn I'm going to hear you say the words. Then all the cannon in Ireland and ice in Canada won't keep me from you when the fighting's done."

  Canada. Of course. He was talking about Canada. Not the escape. He didn't know.

  Suddenly, Liam was tapping his brother's shoulder. "The gavotte is mine, brother," he said tautly.

  Sean carelessly shrugged off his hand, then kissed Catherine's fingers. "I'll see you later this evening, Miss Flynn." Then he was gone.

  Liam's grip threatened to snap her fingers. "Stop mooning as if the earth had swallowed him!" He pulled her into the brisk gavotte. "It's too late to turn back. The watch are trussed like Christmas geese." They spun into the pattern of dancers. "Don't fool yourself, love. If you confess to Sean now, he'll throttle you. You're my wife, remember? I'll tell him I've had you from the first, all the time you were at Flynn's . . ."

  "Stop it!"

  "That something went wrong in the escape plan . . ."

  "Liam, for God's sake, I'm not going to tell him. I have to go through with this, in spite of Sean, in spite of you. Don't threaten me." Her voice was cold and steady, although she felt light-headed. The whirling . . . "I'm dizzy. Let's leave now."

  He nodded and steered her toward the terrace. The cool breeze hit her like smelling salts and, fighting for air, she leaned briefly against the stone balustrade.

  Liam's voice came from behind her, gentler now. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes." She straightened.

  "Very well. We'll stroll toward the ruins. If someone sees us, they'll assume we're having a moonlit tryst."

  No one saw them. Nebulous shapes in the shadows, the horses whickered and Liam put his hands over their noses. Quickly, he tossed Catherine a cloak, then threw one over his own shoulders. Without waiting for assistance, she mounted. Bending low over the horses' necks, the riders walked the horses a few hundred yards north of the ruins.

  At a safe distance from the house, they spurred to a gallop.