Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "Kit?" he asked in a ragged whisper.

  She touched his broken lips. "Yes, my darling."

  "You're . . . real." The relief in his eyes was so intense she fought back tears.

  "It's all right now," she whispered. "I'm going to take care of you."

  He seemed to relax, then tensed and strained to lift his head. "No! You mustn't stay here!" Gently, she pressed him back, but he resisted with growing desperation. His face twisted in pain and her hands trembled as she started to draw back the blanket. "No." He caught her hand tightly, trying to stay conscious. "Kit, get out of here . . . I'm dying."

  "I'll bring a doctor."

  "No! No doctor. I'd be turned in." A lost look came into his eyes. "I'll not go back there."

  "Don't think of it. You're safe now. Try to rest." She kissed his hand, lulling him. "No one's going to hurt you anymore."

  "Kitten, go away, please . . ." His whisper died away to quick, shallow breathing. She pulled the covers away. The prison rags were blood soaked from neck to groin.

  Waiting not an instant longer, Catherine went out to buy candles, bedding, and food. Shortly, surrounded by supplies and a pan of hot water, she rolled up her sleeves. Then she began to cut away the rags, tears streaking her face. Sean's right arm was broken near the wrist and several ribs were caved in. The bullet wound in his chest was ugly and mounded. She eased him onto his side, and in his back, now a mass of livid scars and reopened cuts, found a bullet hole just missing the spine. His skin was so encrusted with blood and dirt that despite the lantern and candles, she gave up trying to see any more. After slipping clean towels under him, she spent the better part of an hour bathing him. Clean, his body showed the full extent of its brutal abuse. Then she saw how they had mutilated him.

  Her head dropped beside his cheek. Unimaginable hatred filled her until at last she knew fully why Sean had devoted his life to vengeance. Their lives were not payment enough. Nothing would be enough.

  After she had bandaged him, changed the linen, and finally pulled warm blankets over him, she. rested her head in her hands, trying to fight off black despair. Sean very possibly was dying. Without surgery, he would die.

  Clad in shabby clothing found in an old bureau, Catherine huddled in the deep doorway of a house near the prison on the way to the potter's field. As dusk fell, the two gravediggers came along, their empty cart rattling on the cobbles. She slipped out of the shadows and fell in beside them. "Would you like to make another ten sovereigns, angels?"

  They squinted. "Lumme, it's the rich lydy. Come down a bit, an't ye, mum?"

  "Not a whit. I can pay you well. I need a favor. Are you interested?"

  Lean cackled to Short, "We'll have gold-plyted wings afore long. What's up?"

  When she told them, they became markedly less enthusiastic.

  "Fifty upon completion. You'll never dig another grave in winter."

  Ten minutes later, in full sight of the marine guard, Lean took a whopping fall on the ice just outside the rear of the prison and set up a groaning like a sea cow in labor. "Gor, 'is crown's cracked!" wailed Short. "Get a doctor!"

  The guard frowned dubiously. "Doctor an't goin' to come down for no lousy digger."

  "Ye coldhearted rotter, 'e could die out 'ere!"

  "Naw, I an't goin' for the doctor. I'm on watch, see?"

  "Well, help me get 'im to the back door. I'll tote 'im up to the Bones if the bloke's too fancy to come down. I know the back way. Nobody'll see us. JEre, lad, have a 'eart."

  The marine sighed. He was well acquainted with Short; the fellow was fully capable of badgering him all night. Sometimes the two did him favors, like pieking up that draft of rum for him last night while he stood post. "Alright, alright. Heave 'im up."

  Less than an hour later, the two emerged, Lean hobbling along under his own steam, a fat bandage on his head. "What's Doc say?" The marine's breath formed a cloud.

  "No work for a while," said Short gleefully. Lean rolled his eyes and gave the guard a smirk as he limped past.

  The man stared after them. "Lumme, never met a stiffie yet that an't got a queer sense of wit."

  Shortly after, Marcus left the prison's main entrance. "Evening, lads. I may miss curfew tonight. Keep an eye out for me, will you?"

  "Night on the town, 'ay, Doc. Ye don't get many of those."

  "You fellows keep me too well occupied." He touched his hat in a small salute. "Night."

  Minutes later, he ducked into a doorway. "I got your message. 'Lazarus operandus, Kit' puzzled Short a bit; his pronunciation was more imaginative. I realize you couldn't say much, so I brought the basics."

  "God bless you for coming." Quickly, Catherine described Sean's injuries. "We should go to the house separately. I'll leave the back door unlocked. He's in the cellar."

  Marcus nodded, then paused. "Your father knows his prisoner wasn't executed. He's talked to Worthy."

  "Does he know Sean's alive?"

  "Not yet, but he'll dig up all the fresh graves in that field until he's sure; that won't take more than a day.!'

  "Then I must get Sean out of England by tomorrow night. They're sure to begin a house search." Distraught, she looked up. "Can you get word to the diggers? I don't want them hurt. I don't want you hurt. You're taking a terrible chance."

  "I've always thought I had the only sane attitude possible for a prison practitioner. I've also been a coward. Give me your address, Countess."

  Quickly descending the cellar stair, Catherine shook snow from her cloak. Sean stirred restlessly, muttering unintelligible snatches in three languages. She felt his head; he was feverish.

  "Kit? Please . . . don't go. Don't leave me in the dark. Where are you? . . . No. Get out of here. Stay away. God . . . I'm cold."

  Catherine added another blanket and heated gruel, then, lifting his head, spooned the liquid between his lips. A little went down; most he could not control and she dabbed at the corner of his mouth. His good eye opened. "Thought. . . you were gone."

  "I'm not going to leave you."

  His face contorted. "I don't want you! Part . . . of revenge . . . to make you think I cared."

  "Nothing you can say will make me go."

  He turned his face away sharply. "I'm your half brother. I took you knowingly . . . in incest. Now, will you go?"

  "Liam told you, didn't he?" She brushed back his hair as he turned back to stare at her. "I know why you brought me home. Amin explained everything."

  His eyes clouded. "How can you look at me like that, after . . ."

  "I love you. Nothing can alter that. But how did Liam find out?" .

  "A codicil to Brendan's will. And Brendan's painting . . . of Elise."

  As the truth dawned, Catherine's eyes hardened. "Then he knew! Liam knew when he married me! That's why he went into a frenzy when he finished that painting on the cliff." Rage bubbled over. "Oh, God, how could he! Then send his own brother to certain death. It wasn't as if he hadn't done enough!"

  A creak at the stair top brought her to instant, breathless silence, Sean to the edge of terror. As polished boots descended the staircase, he fought to reach the pistol. When Catherine restrained him, he lunged against her like a madman. "Give me . . . that gun!"

  "Sean, it's Doctor Marcus. Don't you see?"

  Exhausted, he leaned against her, staring like a cornered wolf at the surgeon.

  "I've come to do what I can, Sean," Marcus said quietly. "No one knows I'm here. You dragged yourself this far. You cannot wish to die now like a dog in this cellar."

  "I'll never leave here alive. Why give her false hope?" His voice faded to a dull whisper. "She'll be better off."

  Catherine's arms tightened about him and she murmured against his hair. "I'm carrying your child, love. Nothing can make me sorry for your life in me. This child was conceived in innocence; he'll be loved without reservation, but you know more than anyone what being thought a bastard is like. For his sake and mine, you must live."

  His arms stole a
round her, one hand hanging limply, his face against the curve of her neck. "All right, little one. I . . . owe you one."

  Finally it was over. "I don't like having to leave this piece of lead in his chest," Marcus muttered as he bandaged, "but if I take it out, he'll not be going anywhere for weeks."

  He straightened the nose and packed it. "I see you've been applying compresses; the swelling's reduced." He pulled on his jacket. "You're an excellent assistant, Countess. I've rarely had better."

  She walked him up the stair to the back door. "I had a good teacher. And please call me Kit. I owe you Sean's life; I'll pray for your well-being every night of mine."

  He took her hand at the door. "I'm the one who should thank you for giving me back my self-respect." He fished in his pocket and brought up a pair of vials. "I almost forgot, If he's in imminent danger of being retaken, pour one of these down him; it kills within seconds." He dropped them in her hand. "I advise you to swallow the other."

  Sean, propped against a wall, gazed critically at the slim sailor lad who pommeled a stocking into the toe of an out-sized boot. She pulled it onto a foot already encased in three pairs of wool stockings. "Two pairs of mittens, too." The pseudo-sailor waggled woolly fingers. "They'll not look as closely at a boy."

  Sean rested his head back against the wall. The thought of merely standing up filled him with dread.

  Catherine stripped off the gloves, then stooped and began to dab at his face with a melted paste of coffee grounds and lard, carefully avoiding cuts. "In the dark, this will blend with the rest of your skin. It's a shame the doctor had to shave you; a bit of beard would have helped." She touched up his nose as he tried not to wince.

  When she had finished with Sean, Catherine dragged on thick sweaters and a pea jacket and struck a boyish stance. "Well, how do I look?"

  The Irishman's broken lips moved in a semblance of a wry smile. "Lovely. Very."

  Catherine gave a snort of exasperation. "We'll soon see about that!" Quickly, she brushed the coffee mixture against the grain of her brows to roughen them, then altered the contours of her face. Minutes later, she was unrecognizable. She put her hands on her hips. "Well, as they say, it's now or never. The nine o'clock watch comes by in an hour. Not too many people on the streets and not too few. Ready, bucko?"

  "Aye." He took a deep,breath, then lifted an arm. She got a shoulder under his armpit, and as gently as possible, helped him to his feet. His lips went white, and he swayed unsteadily for a moment, then lifted his head and nodded.

  The Irishman's face was beaded with sweat when they reached the top of the cellar stair, and she let him briefly rest. By the time they reached the back door, Catherine already felt the strain of his weight.

  The night was chill with little wind. Snow sifted lazily across streets silvered by a half-moon. His bad arm slung over Catherine's shoulders, Sean tried to take as much weight off her as possible, concentrating on one step at a time, each dull explosion of pain. When they entered an alley across the street, he used a wall to help support himself. They rested at the alley's end, just off a street of lighted taverns where a few sailors, doxies, and stray soldiers wandered. Most townspeople were in bed. When the street emptied somewhat, Catherine took Sean's arm and helped him into the street. Partway across, a hurrying soldier, bending his head against the cold, accidentally bumped into the Irishman's shoulder. Catherine heard Sean's gasp of pain and the soldier did, too. "Sorry, bub." He peered into Culhane's face, then at Catherine. "Say, what's wrong with 'im? I didn't tyke his bloody arm off, y'know. Sod looks ready to pass out."

  "He's . . . my brother," Catherine said desperately. " 'E's just a bit soused. A bloke in an inn down the street took a poke at 'im."

  "More than one poke, looks like."

  "Bloody bashtard," Sean mumbled. He swore incoherently, then began to sing in a slurred voice, "Four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness . . ."

  "Best get 'im home, lad." The soldier chuckled.

  "I mean to, sir."

  When they reached the dark shelter of another alley, Sean almost dropped in his tracks. She eased him against the wall as he fought back waves of pain. "How much farther?" he muttered.

  "Just a few more steps."

  With painful slowness, they finally reached the end of the alley and the harbor spread before them. Catherine braced him against the wall and his head fell forward, his breathing sick and shallow. "Look . . . for a small boat. Just big enough . . . to be seaworthy."

  Scanning the vessels tied at the quai, she almost sobbed, "These are too big and it's time for the watch."

  "We'll wait. Further down . . . boats . . ."

  He sagged, and she gasped, "Sean, I cannot hold you!"

  He pressed upward, thinking how tired he was, how much he wanted to go to sleep in the snow with her holding him.

  "They're coming," she whispered.

  The watch tramped by, bayonets fixed. They split formation just beyond the alley. The first one peeled off to check the wharf across from the lovers' hiding place. Far down the quai, in the direction of the prison, moving torches flared; already search parties were out posting sentries with torches at intervals along the waterfront.

  The guard strolled out to the end of the pier, slowly turned and scanned the building fronts. Catherine's fingers closed around one of the vials in her pocket and eased its stopper out. Sean's eyes were closed. In complete trust, he would swallow anything she put to his lips. Please, God. He's come so far.

  The marine turned back to face the harbor, spread his legs slightly, and urinated into the water. She went weak with relief. The man hastened to rejoin his comrades, now dwindling down the quai.

  "Sean, they've gone, but the marines are picketing the harbor. We have to go now or we'll be trapped here. Please, love."

  "Leave . . . me. . . . Bleeding . . . bad."

  With desperate fury, she dragged his arm over her shoulder. "I won't leave! If you give up, you won't go back to prison alone."

  His battered face twisted. "Damn it, get out of here!"

  "No!" she hissed. "Why should I? You didn't let me off so easily. Walk, damn you! I'll drag you if you don't!"

  His eyes opened, their green depths burning with fever and anger. "You little bitch, don't. . . give me . . . orders."

  "Then look after yourself! Any man who won't stand on his own two feet deserves to die!"

  He stared at her in disbelief, then his face hardened. He twisted away and felt his way along the wall, nearly falling as he reached the corner. She followed anxiously and put out a hand. "Don't. . . touch me, dammit!" he snarled.

  "You'll never make it alone."

  His low, derisive laugh ended sharply, bitten off by pain.

  "I'm a bloody O'Neill, remember?" Unbelievably, he began to stumble down the quai, pushing along the wall, his bad arm pressed against his side and chest. The few sailors paid little attention, thinking he was drunk, the white-faced boy tagging behind a shipmate. Fifty yards down the quai, he sagged against a tavern wall and slipped to his knees.

  With a low cry, she stooped beside him. "Sean, don't do this! You're killing yourself!"

  "Pick . . . a boat," he muttered. "Pick . . ."

  Terrified now, she obeyed him, running out on a pier. The vessels were still too big to handle alone. Finally, between a couple of fishing boats rocked a catboat, its sails neatly furled. Almost stumbling, she raced back, noticing the picket lights had crept halfway around the harbor.

  She stooped beside Culhane, who clung to the wall, his body sagging, his eyes glassy. "I've found one." She slipped a hand under his arm. Unresisting now, he let her pull him upward. She pressed between him and the wall, trying to get him upright, his good arm around her neck.

  A sailor came out of the tavern and glanced at their gyrations with amused curiosity. Sean's head dropped forward against her cheek and he groaned. She lifted wide, terrified eyes to the sailor. A slow grin crossed his plain, amiable face. "Blast me, ye're a girl, an't ye?" />
  Sean's head dropped lower, his lips moving against her neck, "My . . . girl."

  The sailor laughed and shrugged. "No offense, mate. I an't tryin' to steal yer lass away." He winked at her. "Though I'll promise ye, missy, he'll not be much use tonight."

  "Would . . . would ye give me a hand with him, please? Our boat's just down the wharf, but. . . he's awful heavy."

  The sailor cocked his head. Odd-looking little thing. "Sure, lass, why not?"

  He started to throw a brawny arm about Sean's other side, and hastily she said, "He's been in a fearsome brawl. Could ye go easy, please?"

  "Oh, sure, sure. Handle 'im like a babe."

  "You fisherfolk?" the sailor asked as they half walked, half carried the Irishman down the wharf.

  "Aye. We've not enough family men to crew the boat, so I help out. Not many spot me as a woman though. How did ye know?"

  The sailor flashed her a grin across Sean's dangling head. "Yer eyes. Big aw saucers starin' up at me like I was goin' to gobble ye up. No boy I ever knowed had eyes like that."

  She managed a faint grimace. "Blokes in the streets scare me a bit at night."

  "Yer fella git in fights often?" he asked as they sat Cul- hauie on the dock alongside the boat, his legs hanging over the side.

  "Only when he's pushed,"

  Dropping into the boat, the sailor eased his burden forward, then lowered him carefully. The Irishman slipped into unconsciousness the moment his head touched the deck. "Well, 'e's out like a light. Want a hand with the mainsail?"

  "Please."

  She unlashed the tiller as the sailor ran up the sail and handed her the boom shéet. He hesitated, then asked shyly, "This fella spoken for ye yet? I mean, I don't live here. I'm out of Marblehead. That's in Massachusetts. My ship's the Ina Clair"—he pointed—"the bark yonder. We'll be takin' on stores and cargo." He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I don't know any girls hereabouts."