"Enderly has no love for her, no money or inclination to look after her!" the younger man argued. "She'd be carted off to a madhouse to be starved and beaten and live in filth! They'd tie her up and worse."
Flynn sighed in exasperation. "I find it difficult to believe he'd send his daughter to such a place, if only to protect his reputation."
"Kit's nothing but merchandise to him. Like this, he cannot even make a paying prostitute of her, though I wouldn't put even that past him." Sean turned away. "Kit has to go back whole and able to deal with him on her own terms."
Flynn spread his hands in resignation. "Suit yourself, as always. I can certainly do nothing for her." He tugged his jacket from a chair back and shrugged into it. "As she no longer requires my services, I'll be moving to Edinburgh for further studies. I've bemoaned the lack of medical skills in rural areas too long, ignoring my own inadequacy. I've arranged for a younger man, Doctor Edwin O'Donnell, to take over the clinic in my absence. His brothers were killed in the uprising, leaving him with a mother and family to support. He's glad for the opportunity."
"You'll be missed here."
"I doubt it."
CHAPTER 18
Into Eden
Winter faded, spring bloomed into summer, then blazed into fall. Viceroy Canning's government brought moderation and peace to the land, although the proposed union with England was ominous, as was Napoleon's return from Egypt. The world outside the windows of Shelan was gray and mistbound, like the shadowed barriers of Catherine's mind that the Irishman circled like a prowling wolf in the fog. The pianoforte he ordered from Londonderry arrived in early September. Like a doll, she allowed him to press her fingers down on its keys, but he could only summon an echo of his lack of skill in a world of gentle learning he had long ago abandoned.
Still hoping to reach her with music, he asked a distant cousin, Arthur O'Neill, a famous harpist and music collector, to visit Shelan. O'Neill was blind; his sympathy for the afflicted girl was of a depth few capacitated people could imagine. Hour after hour, he played for her. As Sean went about his work, he would come into the room from time to time to listen, and finally he lingered with a sense of peace lost to him for over a year. Her profile hazed by silvery light from the long windows as she reclined on a divan, Catherine was as tranquil as a dream and as far removed from reality. When O'Neill departed, the house was more silent than before. The winter of 1799 closed in.
The following summer, Culhane carried Catherine down to the beach. In desperation, he waded into water nearly up to his chest, thrust her under, and held her there. There was no sign of struggle, only fragile bubbles rising with increasing slowness. Almost sobbing, he lifted her and caught her to him. "Don't. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. Please, I only want to talk." She lay against his chest, a sodden dripping bundle.
Buffeted by the surf, the Irishman stumbled back to shore. Laying her down just above the tideline, he crouched over her. "Can you hear the sea rushing up the sand, trying to touch us like the night we loved on the beach? We loved, Kit." He lowered his lips to hers, hair forming dripping black points about his dark face. Her lips were cold, but inside her mouth was warm. "I'll never stop loving you," he whispered.
From the beginning, Sean had doggedly persisted in treating Catherine as if she were not incapacitated. He read to her for hours and spoke as if she were listening until Peg wondered if he himself were becoming unbalanced. She could not deny that the daily outings either in the carriage or on the sloop did wonders for the girl's color. Sean spent most days grubbing in the stable or wrestling with rocks in the thin soil, not because Shelan suffered want, but to occupy hjs mind and allow him to sleep. Even after giving a fortune away to war-ravaged families, he was rich, his reserves left intact due to the rebellion's brevity.
After taking a spartan supper, he would wearily mount the stair to sit beside Catherine and read. Before retiring to his roughly furnished quarters in the adjoining room, he would brush out her hair, now shoulder-length, lifting it and plaiting it to watch its shimmer in the candlelight. Each night she seemed more beautiful, his sad-eyed, lovely doll.
The spring of 1800 arrived, and with it, budding life. A litter of mewling kittens in the stable caught Sean's attention as he fed-the stock. Hunkering down, he waggled a finger in their midst. A taffy-colored mite, braver than his fellows, reached up and caught the invader with all four feet. "Ouch, you little demon!" The Irishman tried to withdraw his finger and the kitten clung tenaciously. Sean's lips twitched. "You're bloated with milk; now it's meat on the table you're wanting." He picked the kitten up and rubbed it against his cheek. "You're a bit soft for a man-eater." The kitten scowled as he held it up; Sean scowled back and the kitten kicked at his hand. "Ha! You remind me of someone, cat." He tucked it against his chest and stroked it. "You two should be introduced, if you can stay awake that long." Already beginning to drowse under the petting, the kitten butted its head into the curve of his elbow.
Catherine lay on the chaise on the terrace where crocuses peeped from flowerbeds near the steps. Sean slipped the sleeping kitten into her lap and curved her hands over its warm fur, moving them to stroke the mite's softness. "Best make friends with the tyke quickly, lass. He'll be howling for his mother soon." Catherine gazed past his shoulder as if at some distant sail on the horizon. Leaving the kitten in her lap, where it seemed content to sleep, he headed for the garden.
The kitten dozed for a bit, then began to groggily explore his perch. Nosing about, he planted his paws on Catherine's chest and sniffed her chin, then grew bored and crawled over the intriguing mounds and valleys of the blanket, falling over heavily and worrying with tiny teeth those which hampered his progress. The blanket monsters subdued, he peered about for further adventure.
Culhane nearly sank the hoe into his foot when he heard a dog's furious barking and, mingled with it, an urgent cry for help. Dropping the hoe, he pounded toward the sound, then rounded the house corner at a sharp angle. The chaise was empty. An Irish staghound, one of two kept as watchdogs, crouched snarling not five feet away from Catherine, who lay on the terrace trying to reach the kitten spitting practically in the dog's face. Sean snatched up a handful of pebbles and flung them in the staghound's face. With a startled yipe, it fled, leaving a heap of shattered crocuses in its wake through the flowerbeds. Swiftly, he picked Catherine up and carried her to the div£n. "The kitten," she protested weakly.
He snatched at the tabby, which promptly sank its claws into his hand. Sean yelped, not unlike the dog, and dragged the offended hand out of reach. There was a sound suspiciously like a giggle. He carefully picked the little brute up by the scruff, then took it to Catherine, who murmured to it and stroked away its fright Then her eyes met his like sunlight on clear water, and his legs slowly ceased to support him. He sagged to his knees and buried his head in her lap. As the kitten wandered down the chaise and curled up, the girl gazed down at the dark head. Slowly, her fingers touched his hair.
An unspoken alliance developed between them. Catherine did her utmost to recover full health as quickly as possible, and Sean gave all his time and concentration to help her achieve that end, although he knew his effort inevitably hastened their separation.
On fair days, they went to the beach, where he held her hands as she kicked in the surf. Sometimes they were even able to laugh as waves pelted over her head and she sputtered; but more often, as the cut-off shift clung wetly to her slim, sinuous body, her nearness taunted Sean, who had not had a woman in over two years. At these times he let her swim without assistance, but one day, when an unexpected wave choked her, he caught her in his arms without thinking. She felt iron hardness at his groin and froze, eyes dilating, then, completely unnerved, began to struggle. He released her, and instantly she waded warily out of reach, breasts heaving under the wet material. "Sweet Jesus, Kit, I'm not made of wood," he said hoarsely. "That shift is transparent." Her lashes swept down and a crimson flush rose under them. She dropped into the water up to her
neck. Sean dived under an incoming breaker, then drove in a hard crawl out to where he could scarcely see her head. When his breathing evened, he struck out slowly for shore, giving Catherine time to leave the water and wrap up in a blanket they had left on the beach.
Uncertainly, she looked up at him as with harsh strokes he dried glittering beads of water from his body, hard muscles playing under darkly tanned skin. He jackknifed to his heels. "I'm sorry, but I cannot help it," he said flatly.
"I know," she replied softly. "Why didn't you say something before? I've been wearing this shift for weeks."
"I didn't want you to begin remembering." He brushed water from his hair. "Besides, what you wear makes no difference. You're covered to the neck now and all I can think of is jerking that blanket off and driving into you until you forget your name, the past, everything except the way I feel inside you. Until I forget, though God knows that would take more endurance than I've got." He rose quickly and picked her up before she had time to react. "Unless you're up to walking home, love, you'd better relax. It's a long climb."
In the early days of Catherine's recovery, a goal had been set. When she was able to walk up the main staircase on her own, Sean was to take her up the hill to the baby's grave. Three days after the swimming incident, she climbed the stair, and he knew it was because she had grown wary of him and increasingly anxious to leave.
On the way to the grave, he made her stop to rest. Her gaze followed the well-worn path. "You come here often, don't you?"
"Humility's a bitter draft to swallow," he replied tersely, "but more effective in regular doses." He offered his arm again. Finally, they reached the place. Bobbing in the wind, white Stars of Bethlehem covered the green hill. Catherine knelt to read the inscription scratched on the crude stone marker. "Beloved son of Sean and Catherine Culhane." She looked up questioningly at the tall man towering above her. He shrugged. "The other claimant wasn't here to argue the point." His eyes were unreadable. "The name is uncut. I figured you might have something in mind. A proper stone will be ordered when you've decided."
"Michael," she said softly, "after Doctor Flynn."
Sean knelt and scratched in the name. When he had done, he stayed hunkered, brushing stone dust out of the new scrapes with a finger. "$ean," Catherine said quietly, "I believe Michael was your child. Liam took me only once, forcibly, the night we ran away."
"Why did you marry him, Kit?"
She looked out toward the bay. "I was fond of Liam; but I couldn't love him, not the way he wanted. He became embittered. He told me about the French and we struck a bargain. He sensed I never meant to keep it, but he knew if the marriage were consummated I'd stay with him; I had committed enough offenses against God." She stared at the white stars dancing over the mound. "Our child died for those offenses."
"You didn't kill Michael!" Sean returned vehemently. "He died of starvation, as you might have, months before the accident. You'd never have lived to carry him full term. Even if he'd survived . . ." His eyes went tawny. "You might have gone into labor in that cellar."
"Animals deliver their young alone. I was less afraid of giving birth than what would happen after." She looked at him. "Fiona said you gave instructions—"
"Damn Fiona! I don't blame you for believing her. God knows I gave you reason." Sean stood abruptly. "I didn't know what was happening, though that in no way relieves me of responsibility. You were right to be afraid. I would have sent Michael away." His voice grew strained and husky. "But I swear I'd never have hurt him. Not this. I never meant this, Kit. Just as I never wanted to hurt you." His mouth twisted. "Why don't you hate me? All I see in your face is pity! You lied to keep me from finding out Liam was a traitor. At first I thought you lied because you loved him, but it was out of pity for me, wasn't it?" Fury rose in him and his fist clenched. "Don't, damn it! Don't ever pity me! Why should you?" Stooping down, he caught her shoulders. "I degraded you because I was jealous. Because there was a part of you I couldn't touch. Because I thought Liam had. That you could give yourself willingly to any man but me." His voice hardened. "Don't look at me like that!" Roughly, he jerked her against him and kissed her brutally, holding her head immobile until, with a bitter relief, he felt her stiffen. Abruptly, he let her go with deliberate harshness. "Are you finished here?"
Swiftly, she rose. "Yes, I'm finished." On the way down the hill, she tired, but when he offered his arm, she drew away. He let her continue alone to the house.
Sean could not have said why he chose a particular day to say good-by, but in the mellow sunlight one morning as she stood on the terrace brushing her hair, Catherine was so lovely he found it painful to look at her. Each day could only hurt more. Going up behind her, he drew her close, his lips against her hair. "This is our last day together, little one. What would you like to do with it?" He had not wanted to see her gladness, but her sudden tension clearly communicated it.
"You mean it, don't you?" „
"Rafferty will take you to Donegal Town. From there you'll take a coach to Dublin." There was a long silence. Now that the moment was here, they both felt a plummeting sense of unreality.
"Why don't we have a picnic?" she said finally. "We've had little time for quiet pleasures."
He nuzzled her ear. "I never courted you properly, did I, lass?"
"Nay, sir, you did not," she replied with a trace of sadness, and turned to look up at him. "You took me by storm; I'll never see another so wild and unpredictable. How dull the world will be without your filling the sky."
He sensed she was only half teasing. Something of his agony must have come into his eyes, for she drew away. "I'll tell Peg to prepare a lunch," he said quietly.
The day was clear, the sun unusually hot as the carriage rolled northward along green-carpeted parapets patched with red thyme and plum tones of heather. The Atlantic was a hard, brilliant blue, the sunlight sequkted with gulls kiting off the ramparts. They reminded Catherine of the day Sean had distracted her from despair by teaching her how to swear; even then, he had tried to protect her. She watched his hands, long-fingered, strong on the reins. Hands that could be brutal. Tender. She and her Irishman had fought love from the beginning, perhaps sensing it could only come to this ashen end. She regretted suggesting the picnic. Her mouth had a bitter taste.
She set out the food as Sean lay on his back, eyes closed, arms under his head. They had said little sifter starting out, each lost in his own thoughts. Perspiration stuck the white Dacca muslin to her back, and she pushed hair out of her eyes for the third time as she leaned over to slice bread. Bees droned about the hamper with irritating stubbornness. As she flicked a poaching insect off the butter, Sean turned on his side and propped his head on a hand. His steady regard made her nervous. She began to slice faster with short, hard strokes, sweat beginning to triekle down her spine and between her breasts.
"Careful, kitten; you'll cut a finger."
Her head shot up, but sharp words died on her lips. "What shall I put on your bread?" she asked lamely.
He shrugged. "Whatever you like."
She selected roast beef, added fruit to the plate, and held it out to him.
Sean reached past the plate and touched her nose. "You're getting freckles." Then he sat up and took the food, thanking her politely.
She threw odds and ends on her own plate, then sat staring down at it. She put something in her mouth and chewed it slowly; it tasted like sawdust. Almost eagerly, she accepted the glass of wine Sean poured, and drained half before he restored the bottle to the hamper.
"More?" he asked, as if she had done nothing strange.
"Yes, thank you. It's quite good. I . . . was thirsty."
He poured impassively. "It's a Haut-Brion; it ought to be good."
Liquid gold and she had gulped it like water. She sipped more slowly. It would be easy to become drunk, just when a clear head was mandatory.
Sean eyed her over his glass as she toyed with a pear slice. With the demure white gown and her piled-
up hair windblown, she looked like a polite, beautiful child restlessly putting up with an elder's company. "Would you like Flynn's address in Edinburgh?" he asked suddenly.
The long lashes flicked up. "Very much. I've never thanked him for all he did." Her eyes lowered again and she prodded the pear. "I've never thanked you either."
"You've nothing to be grateful for."
"I disagree."
"I told you once I didn't want your gratitude," he said curtly, "especially when it's misplaced. I murdered our child. I nearly murdered you."
"We were both responsible for Michael's death, Sean. We're both selfish, each wanting to punish himself by taking sole blame. You hurt me horribly, but I did no less to you." She cut off his attempted interruption. "I was a spy. I would have betrayed you if I had reached Londonderry. I knew you might hang, that everyone involved in the rebellion might be killed. I did what I had to do—as you did." Her eyes held his. "In that cellar, I prayed Michael might be spared the unhappiness of a world that had no love for him"—her voice hardened—"and he was spared, but I lived because you refused to let me take the easy way out. As Mother might have lived, had I refused her. I'll never know now whether I made the right choice. I must live with that doubt, despite that doubt. But you?" She leaned forward. "Will you stay here at Shelan and stew in your own martyrdom? Hack at rock to keep sane? Walk that empty house until your ghosts are more alive than you?" A sob of anguish and fury rose in her. "How long before you blow your brains out? How long—"
Culhane jerked her hands forward, then twisted her under him and stopped her mouth brutally with his own, ravaging it until she lay limp and unresisting under him, all the fury done except for the heaving of her breasts against his chest, maddening him with lust, anger, and loss. "Kit. Kit. Damn you," he muttered hoarsely against her lips. "I love you." His mouth slanted across hers and Catherine felt torn asunder with the sudden force of a terrible desire. Fatal. Fatal wanting. Needing. God. No. Not now. His hands burned through the thin bodice and his hardness pressed fiercely against her. Desperately, she clawed at his back, his face, feeling sickeningly the tearing of his flesh, hearing his muffled gasp of pain. Rearing up, he raised his hand to slap her into submission, then realizing what he was about to do, flung off her. "Get away from me, then, damn it, if you don't want to be raped!"
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