Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "What! But he must know . . ." She spun away. "We'll obtain a divorce without his consent! He knows I'll never live with him now!"

  Furious, eyes slanting like a catamount's, Catherine was more beautiful than ever and Sean never wanted her more than at that moment, as he lied to her. "I've had word from Cardinal Manzetti. Without Liam's cooperation, divorce is impossible. The Pope considers that too many witnesses disclaim our position."

  Her shoulders sagged and the fight went out of her. "Oh, Sean, I'm so sorry." She came into his arms and tensely he held her. "Let Liam have his hollow victory. All that matters is staying together." She lifted her lips to his and, gently but firmly, Sean put her away from him.

  "Divorce matters to me." He poured her a favorite pale Rhine wine. "To your happiness, Catherine."

  Automatically, she drank, then put the glass down deliberately. "You're terrifying me. Please say what you must."

  "You've made these last few months the happiest of my life," he said dully, "but they were an illusion. Reality is living a lie. Cohabitation. Fornication. Breeding bastards. Everyone assumes I'm a bastard; even I don't know the truth. I won't bring that down on my children."

  Numbly, Catherine put the glass to her lips again. He was not saying this. Not now.

  "You'd never be sure of me, Kit, if we simply lived together. Now, you're young and beautiful; no man in his right mind would leave you for another. Later, you'll have doubts. I've never been faithful to any woman long. And what of me? I've mistreated you more than once out of jealousy." He paused. "It's marriage or nothing."

  There was a silence. "You're full of malarkey, my love," she said definitely and melodically. "What our children never know won't hurt them. But you love me so much it does hurt, the same way I love you. You were faithful when I was deranged, when there was little hope I'd be any more than that. There will never be any woman for you but me, and you know damned well I'll never want another man! What did Liam really say to make you lie?" The last word was slightly slurred.

  "Believe what you want, Kit, but we're done," he said flatly. "I'm sending you home."

  She stood up, feeling an unsteadiness that increased dramatically, sending the room into a blur. "I won't go. You don't want me to go." She caught at the table. "Don't lie to me anymore! Don't . . ." The world dimmed into a warm, enveloping mist. Then arms closed about her, cradling her. "You deceitful. . . bastard. I'll come . . . back."

  Just before the mist turned black and silent, she heard his reply. "I won't be here."

  CHAPTER 19

  Trapped

  The mist moved over Catherine as if creeping in from the sea, then receded until nearly penetrable. She felt something beneath her heavy head as hot fluid trickled down her throat. The mist drifted in again, thicker than before. Finally, it parted to reveal cherubs gamboling about a naked, reclining Venus painted on a ceiling. Cupid leaned over Venus's shoulder with a coy, familiar wink. Nostrils flaring at the room's stale odor, Catherine clutched a satin counterpane. Her bed. Home. After nearly three years. Her eyes closed. Sean, come back. You're, my breath, my life. She lurched from the bed to the armoire, then scrabbled through her musty clothes: several Le Roys, but nothing from Sean. She threw a habit on the bed, then dug for her boots.

  "Welcome home, my lady. Will you be needing me?" Catherine jumped and looked over her shoulder. The maid, Mignon, regarded her unblinkingly.

  Catherine turned deliberately. "Yes, you can help me. Where is he?"

  "Who, my lady?" The woman's French was clipped, like Sean's.

  "Don't play games with me. You're his spy."

  "My lady?"

  "Damn it, Mignon, I have to find him before . . ." She stopped. This was no Moora. In this hard little face were eyes the color and warmth of Toledo steel. "Mignon, I'm not his enemy. I won't betray him. And I'll give you anything."

  "I need nothing, my lady." Mignon went to the bed and began to unbutton the jacket that lay there. "Will you be riding before breakfast? My lord Enderly is anxious to see you."

  Catherine caught the maid's wrist. "I have proof. I have . . ." Then she remembered. Sean had never given her Flynn's address. There was nothing to indicate her captivity had been anything but unwilling.

  The girl regarded her with contempt. "If the gentleman in question has no wish to be followed, you have little choice but to accept his decision."

  Catherine sagged down on the bed. Mignon was right. Sean had made it clear, whatever his reasons, he never wanted to see her again. What twisted weapon had Liam used? Growing anger drove back raw pain. If it took the rest of her life, she would find out the truth and she would find Sean. Yet nilly, willy, first she had to deal with her father. "Mignon, I shall want the emerald silk."

  For one of the rare times in his life, John Enderly was startled. The breathtaking creature who embraced him was not the moon-eyed child of three years before, but an assured woman, a dramatic beauty with fire and promise.

  "Papa," Catherine said warmly, "how good it is to see you. I cannot tell you how happy I am to be home."

  He took her hands. "Are you well, my dear? I had lost all hope of your safe return."

  "Quite well, Papa. Older. Wiser. With a reputation that I assume is in tatters." He looked somewhat taken aback at her frankness. She squeezed his hands. "Poor Papa. My resurrection must embarrass you greatly."

  He lead her to the breakfast table, bare of candelabra and usual flowers. "That you must never believe, my dear. You are all I have, and most precious." He seated her. "So lovely a creature is rarely at a disadvantage in society, I assure you." He resumed his place at the end of the table and flicked out a napkin. Catherine, opening her own, found it frayed and less than clean. Pale spots on the walls demarcated absent paintings. The sideboard and its silver were missing. Enderly noticed her glance. "As you may have noticed, the rest of the house is even more barren. The vendetta was rather complete. I depend on you to assist me in locating the author of our misfortunes.!'

  John, the butler, came in with a tray. He bowed as he presented Catherine with a segmented Madeira orange surrounded by dried figs. "Good morning, John."

  "My lady." Stiffly correct, he served Enderly and left the ' room.

  Catherine dipped into the fruit. "In some ways, it seems as if I've never been away. Nothing ruffles John."

  "He's one of the few servants I retain."

  "Surely Alice is here?"

  "Your former maid succumbed to heart failure two years ago."

  "Poor Alice," Catherine whispered softly. "I had so missed her."

  "She did nothing but talk of your childhood. One would have thought the woman had been your mother."

  "In a sense she was. I was fortunate to have had two such mothers."

  Noticing he frowned slightly, as he always had when she spoke familiarly of the servants, she thought dispassionately, How could I have adored him so blindly? What a narrow creature he is. Outwardly, he was unchanged so far as Catherine could tell: his clothing no less well cut for all its simplicity, his face as handsome as ever, the few shavings of silver at his temples merely adding to his distinction.

  Kidney omelets arrived with hot, black tea. The meal was blandly pleasant, the conversation no less so. How civilized we English are, she thought, faintly amused.

  After breakfast, Enderly led her to the study. As he spread out a map, she noticed the terrace beyond the window was leaf strewn, the gardens weed choked. "You must tell me all you can remember. Where were you kidnapped?"

  Careful, my girl. Not too much or too little. Dear Father has not been sitting on his hands. Tell him only what you think he knows. Her tale was an adroit mixture of scant truth about the actual abduction and blatant fiction about Caribbean Island smugglers and their vengeful leader, who had first maltreated her, then made her his mistress.

  "He was a Spaniard of education who called himself Perez, and he never left the island, to my knowledge. I managed to make him infatuated with me. The past two years have bee
n fairly comfortable . . . if somewhat exhausting."

  Enderly lifted an eyebrow, but made no comment. "Why did this Perez let you go?"

  "He married the daughter of a rich French planter. Louise was plump and given to ruffles. She and her equally plump papa heatedly objected to my remaining on the island. Apparently, the Spaniard had completed his plans for you, so with considerable regret, he sent me home as abruptly as I was kidnapped. Except this time, I was drugged. Perhaps he thought I might go into hysterics at the prospect of leaving him," she added dryly.

  "The green-eyed man, what of him?"

  Although she did not twitch a hair, her heart sank. "A paid mercenary. I rarely saw him."

  "Did Perez ever say why he initiated this vendetta?"

  "An old grievance. He held you responsible for the death of his mother, but where or how, he never said, and he was a dangerous man to prod."

  "Do you believe his story?"

  "Of course not," she lied blandly. "The man was obsessed. You know how Latins are about their mothers."

  Enderly eased into his desk chair. "You've endured a great deal, Catherine, but I never expected you to turn into a cynic."

  "As I said, Papa, I made adjustments. I don't think of myself as cynical, merely practical." She looked at him cooly. "For instance, my absenee must have been awkward to explain. How did you?"

  "At first, you were abroad; later, you visited relatives in America."

  She laughed lightly. "How embarrassing to claim colonial relations; no one could doubt such an admission to be true."

  "No one believes it now, of course, but no one can disprove it."

  She played with a curl at her cheek. "Still, no virtue, no dowry, no marriage. Even a rich bourgeois couldn't begin to restore our fortune." She appeared to mull the problem over. "I may have to become a discreet courtesan, an expensive one only the richest can afford." She cut Enderly a look. "Would you mind very much?"

  "What makes you assume you're suited to be a courtesan?"

  Dear Papa. You'd feed me to the wolves if they had gold teeth. "Perez was a man of jaded tastes," she stated matter-of-factly. "I never bored him. I'm new, mysteriously scandalous, well-bred and available . . . for a price. But I want more than money." She leaned forward deliberately, breasts swelling against the low-cut decolletage. "You could see that I'm introduced to the proper men. Artois and Angoulême are still in Edinburgh, aren't they?"

  "Angoulême is to be married next year to the princess of Savoie. Not a wise choice, my dear."

  "I wasn't thinking of Louis. Monsieur is the one who controls the purse strings."

  "He's no fool, Catherine. He has a mistress of some years with whom he's well, satisfied. He indulges no one but himself. He would have you for an hors d'oeuvre."

  "Such a nibble may intrigue a gourmet." She smiled wickedly. "I believe Monsieur le due might be tempted to sample the whole feast."

  "Perhaps."

  She leaned over the desk. "Papa, there's no time. How much longer before we lose Windemere? Months? Weeks? I don't question your judgment; I only urge you to make use of me while I can be a valuable tool. Public poverty is no whetstone."

  "I'm aware of your point, Catherine. I'll consider it." He rose from his chair. "Now, regretfully, I have pressing business in Liverpool. I beg you to excuse me until this evening, my dear. I'm sorry about the distraction, but your arrival was precipitate." He took her hands. "We'll spend a great deal of time together, I promise. I'm sure you're tired after the journey and would like to rest quietly in your room. John will be near if you should want anything."

  John the Jailer. "Thank you, Papa. I am tired. I should like something to read. Is the account of Artois's Vendue Expedition still in the library?"

  "Yes, of course. Perhaps I can correct its Jacobin slant for you after dinner."

  Ushering her out of the study, he locked the door and strolled with her to the foyer where John handed him his hat, gloves, and crop. He kissed her cheek. "Until this evening, my dear."

  Catherine watched him mount a bay stallion and trot down the drive. Dear Papa doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me, she mused, and that's exactly why I'll get to Edinburgh to see Flynn!

  John Enderly reviewed his daughter's brief story. Although she had made no slips, the tale had yawning gaps; its comparison to the prisoner's version might be interesting. Her return was awkward, but her unusual beauty presented possibilities. She was not yet twenty-one; that left nearly two months to decide whether she would prove more useful dead than alive.

  To receive his first real information virtually on the eve of her return was a peculiar coincidence. The anonymous note had simply stated his daughter would be reentering England via Liverpool within the week. If he were to have men about the docks and the Cockcrow Inn, he might intercept the man who had ruined him. It had cost them, but the marines had taken him alive. When the prisoner awoke infes cell and catlike green eyes glared through the bars, the watch officer knew he had his man.

  Without delay, Sean was taken to Sergeant Worthy to have his tongue unlocked. Despite his rigid control, his nerves crawled as Worthy slit off his clothing. His boots were neatly placed, as if by a valet, near the door of the two-storied stone room. Worthy was fastidious despite his huge-muscled bulk. His amiable pug face did nothing to dispel the icy knot in Sean's gut. A cat-o'-nine-tails hung on the frame that held him suspended by the wrists, ankles tied apart to the support columns, his toes just touching the floor. He blinked, a sweat of anticipation pricking his skin.

  Worthy tested the ropes at his wrists, which were wrapped in coarse cotton to absorb perspiration and keep the prisoner from slipping free in an effusion of his own fear. "Well, lad. That about does it." The man held out a handful of wicked iron points hooked to the rawhide strips of the cat. "Any time ye've had enough, sing out. I an't the sort who likes to hurt a man more than necessary, but I do my job, see, and I'm good at it." He backed off, then seemed to remember something and tapped Sean's shoulder. The young Irishman flinched. "Don't tense up. The cat can tear tight muscles permanent."

  Sean tried to concentrate on the rope cutting into his wrists, the pounding ache in his head from the pistol butt-, anything but what he knew was coming. But he could not know, could not imagine, the searing claw of pain that made him gasp and snap against the bonds. The second raked across the first and he bit blood. Relaxing made him feel exposed, and with all his will, he fought the urge to knot his muscles against the pain. Tried to go inside himself. Hide. With the methodical timing of a clock, Worthy cut his back to shreds. Darkness was a long time in coming; when it did, Worthy had to pour three buckets of stinging salt water over him to bring him around. He pulled his dripping head up by the hair. "Anything to say, lad?"

  Sean blinked, trying to focus, then shook his head like a tired dog.

  The pug sighed. "Well, it's up to you." He dropped his victim's head, then placed a heated brazier on a nearby tripod. "After I was pressed into the marines, I spent fifteen years in the Orient. Might say I learned the finer points of my trade there." He propped long needles into the brazier. Thick fingers slid along Sean's nape. "Them yellow devils can make a man howl just by a touch." He applied a subtle pressure to the medulla and the Irishman's head jerked back, lips drawn across his teeth in a rictus; the boring pain was a nail driving into his brain, making the pain of the lash a comparative caress. Then Worthy's hand shifted to his spine and he tore at the bonds; when it moved to his groin, he made animal sounds of fear, then began screaming and went on screaming as the fingers finally became white hot needles that explored the nerves in his body until no sound emerged from cracked, bloody lips though he still screamed. Until he didn't know Worthy. Didn't know his own name. Anything.

  The viscount on the balcony above went home to dinner.

  still screamed. Until he didn't know Worthy. Didn't know his own name. Anything.

  The viscount on the balcony above went home to dinner. ,

  "Papa, I'm going t
o the stables this morning to see Numidian. Why not join me?"

  "Unfortunately, my dear," the viscount murmured, "the horse was stolen by a stableboy, the one who was your driver the night of the kidnapping. I suspect he was in league with . . . Señor Perez."

  Catherine's brisk spirits plummeted convincingly. "Numidian, gone? Oh, Papa! Amin isn't gone too, is he?"

  "Your mother left him a legacy. I daresay he'll be with us until doomsday." The last was sardonic. No love was lost between the Englishman and the Arab.

  "I suppose I'll have to make do," Catherine sighed. "We haven't ridden together in years, Papa. Do come."

  "You know I detest horses," he replied lazily. "Having to do without a coach is tedious enough without riding as sport." Then he relented gracefully. "I've another errand in Liverpool, but tomorrow we'll do something together, I promise."

  "Dear Papa, you are good to me." Catherine ran upstairs and hastily donned a habit, then hurried to the stables.

  After a gravely dignified but happy reunion with Amin, she led him to the riding ring out of earshot of John, who had followed to lurk behind a nearby boxwood hedge. Once Amin realized she had come to despise her father and knew of his vicious career, he was a mine of information. Finally, she dug to its core.

  "I remember Mother's death now. I'm free of it except for one thing. She promised to tell me a secret the day she was killed; she never had the chance."

  "Your mother had resolved to separate from my lord Enderly."

  She felt a cold dread. "The accident was rather oddly timed." Amin said nothing. "Amin, Father didn't really love her and he had all her money. Why would he care so much what she did?"

  "My lord Enderly is an exceedingly proud man." He stressed the last words with an inflection of hatred she had never heard him use.

  "He murdered her? Out of pride?" she whispered, aghast.

  "Pride and greed. Had she persuaded you to go with her, he would have lost all possibility of her fortune."