Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  Catherine smiled up at him. "What's yer name?"

  "Tom Carr."

  "Well, Tom Carr, ye're a kind man. If I were free, I'd be pleased to have ye call. Ye've got nice brown eyes and I like yer smile, but . . . yonder lad in the scuppers is my true love, that's sure."

  ''Oh, well." He shrugged and grinned wryly. "One man's famine, another man's fortune." He hopped up onto the dock, put a foot on the stern, and shoved the boat off.

  "God bless you, Tom Carr," she called softly as the boat eased out from the dock, the sail beginning to belly out.

  "Ah, go along with ye, girl. I didn't do nothin'."

  "More than you know," she whispered.

  The wind was fitful and the sail often hung maddeningly slack as the catboat glided though the inky water. Catherine imagined every hull that loomed up in the fog-swirled darkness to be the harbor patrol.

  She sucked in a deep breath as the sail blossomed in the offshore wind of the harbor mouth, and the boat moved quickly into the open sea. Beyond the sail, a triangular shadow against the hazy stars, cloud cover obscured much of the sky; at this time of year, storms were unpredictable. She managed to sight the North Star and fixed a slightly northwest course. Knowing little of navigation, she wanted to be sure of direction before leaving sight of land. Too far north and they would sail blindly out into the North Atlantic.

  She lashed the tiller to its course and moving forward, pawed for the extra sail under the bow. Wrapped in its folds were a lantern and tallow candle. She crawled back to the stern with her finds, then pulled the mended sail closely about Sean. The candle went into her pocket with the vials; feeling them, she looked down at her lover's still, drawn face. Dear God. Help me see him safely home.

  CHAPTER 22

  Scarlet Beads

  Dawn of the second day saw the catboat approach Malin Head, russet and gold, clawed with streaks of snow. In Ireland's interior, the Grianon thrust its ancient stones above the mountains.

  "Hail, Conal and Niall," Catherine whispered. "Your son has come home to his fathers. He has given you honor. Grant him peace."

  As the sun mounted, she relashed the tiller and knelt beside her lover. His skin hot and dry, he stirred fitfully. She pillowed his head in her lap and scooped snow off a seat where the wind had not yet blown it away. As she let crystals melt on his lips to trickle down his throat, his eyelids flickered and he gazed dazedly up at her. "Where . . . are we?"

  "Malin Head's off our port bow. You're halfway home."

  "I didn't make it . . . on my own," he muttered. "Couldn't."

  She smiled, gently teasing. "You'd be unbearably smug if you had." Then her smile faded and she faltered, "I wanted to die when you refused help." She felt the vials in her pocket. "I nearly poisoned you when that soldier . . . oh, Sean, I was terrified." She burst into tears of latent reaction, sobbing against his hair.

  With an effort, his good hand lifted and groped weakly. "Take . . . that damn cap off. I want . . . to see my girl again." She,pawed at the knitted cap and her hair tumbled down across his shoulder. His fingers found its silk. "Lovely . . . very." His head dropped tiredly against her.

  Carefully, she recovered him and removed the scarf over his eyes. By daylight, the damage was garish and she wondered how they had fooled anyone. She got him to eat a bit of cheese and bread she had slipped in their pockets and took a nip herself from the flask to ward off the chill wind. With a burning throat, she resumed the tiller and focused tired eyes on the horizon.

  Sean stirred very little during the long day and night. The cold tempered his fever but the bandages grew sodden, warning that the bullet in his chest had been dislodged. His breathing was faint and shallow, and with increasing apprehension, Catherine watched the sun sink.

  Near dawn, Shelan's lightless silhouette loomed high against the moon. What if Peg and Rafferty had heard of Sean's capture and given him up for dead? she wondered. What if everyone had gone? What if Liam . . . ? Severely curbing her imagination, she maneuvered the catboat in as close as she dared, then weighed anchor and scrambled for the lantern.

  Holy Mother, no flint. Don't panic. Use the pistol. You've got powder, haven't you? She pulled the pistol out of her waistband. The flash almost gave her powder burns but the candle glowed. Hastily, she dropped lower against the wind as she slipped the taper into the lantern.

  Hanging on to the mast, she waved the lantern, fanning it with her cap to make a signal, then moving it to form Culhane's initials, anything. The candle burned low, but still no light answered from the house. In desperation, she was considering running the boat aground when she saw a shadow push a boat through the surf. Minutes later, a flaming head appeared in the lantern's glow. Her heart sank to her toes. Flannery! That meant Liam! She grabbed for the gun, trying to load it with stiff fingers, but when his hand caught the gunnel, she was still fumbling. She lifted the gun butt with a hopeless cry. "No! I won't let you have him!"

  "Easy, lass. I mean Sean no harm," the giant reassured her.

  "Your murderous master wants him dead!"

  "No man is my master, girl," he retorted tersely, "especially not Liam Culhane; I left him long ago. He wasn't exactly closemouthed in his liquor." He nodded toward the long figure outlined under the sail. "What shape is he in?"

  "He may be dying," she said dully.

  "Then we'd best be quick. Help me with him."

  Peg helped undress the wounded Irishman, keening in Gaelic when she saw his body. She crooned to him, touched his face as Catherine bathed him. The indestructible housekeeper was useless. Flannery finally led her to a chair by the fire, where she sat, rocking and weeping. He came back to the bed. "Rafferty shouldn't be long with the doctor." His mouth was a granite line above his beard as he looked down. "The bastards. Nothin' alive should be treated like this."

  Catherine covered Sean and sagged into a chair, closing her eyes.

  "Had anything to eat?" She shook her head. "Any preferences?"

  "Hot." He patted her arm and left.

  The next thing Catherine knew, Rafferty was frantically shaking her awake. "Doctor O'Donnell's delivering a babe in Ruiralagh. He'll likely not be back 'til mornin'." Peg began to wail and wring her hands.

  "Please take Peg downstairs to bed, Mr. Rafferty," Catherine quietly ordered. "Then ride for the doctor and wait until the baby's safely delivered. Bring him back here. Quickly. Please be as quick as you can . . ."

  Flannery stepped aside with the tray as Rafferty coaxed his wife out of the room. "What is it?"

  Catherine told him. "I'll need boiling water, plenty of it. The sharpest, smallest knife you can find. A razor. Something for forceps. Candles, bandages, linen, whiskey. Nora can help."

  He frowned. "Do you know what ye're doin', lass?"

  "I only know he won't live more than a few hours if that bullet doesn't come out. Help me get him to the floor by the fire."

  When everything was in readiness, she rubbed her gritty eyes and looked up. "Have you any experience with bullet wounds, Mr. Flannery?"

  "I've had a few dug out of me, and I worked one out of a fella's arm once."

  "Nora?" The girl shook her head, freckles stark. "Then go back to bed, Nora," Catherine said gently. "You've been a great help with finding things." After Nora gratefully closed the door, Catherine looked over the equipment and took a breath. "I suppose that's it." With the razor, she reopened Marcus's incision, then blotted to see the entrance angle of the bullet. Using a crochet hook, she probed, trying to keep her hand steady. Culhane groaned, pain seeping into his unconsciousness as the shaft buried deep in his chest but encountered no bullet. The firelight blurred. Flannery dragged her head up and put whiskey to her lips. "Drink. More. That's good."

  Another quarter inch and she found it. "Ready with the heated one?"

  "Go ahead."

  When she worked the bullet loose, blood welled up. White faced she worked quickly to bring the bullet to the surface, then flung it into the fire where it landed with a hiss. Fl
annery instantly handed her a second hook heated red hot, the handle thickly wrapped in wool, then held Sean down. She inserted it into the wound. He convulsed and screamed, then went limp as she withdrew it. The blood flow ebbed.

  Flannery held a cold rag to the back of her neck, then bathed her sweat-beaded face as she gulped air. "He's still losing blood," she muttered. "We'll have to close the others with the flat of a hot blade."

  At last it was done and the cauterized wounds bandaged. Flannery carried the unconscious man to bed and covered him. When he looked back at Catherine, she lay curled up in a heap among the bloodstained blankets. He transported her to his own cot in the adjoining room.

  Bright light blazing through uncurtained windows struck Catherine's eyes when she awoke, and for a moment, she lay bewildered, almost blinded. Then remembering, she flung out of bed and jerked open the bedroom door.

  Flannery sat with stocking feet propped up on the desk. He looked up from his book. "Doctor's come and gone. He'll be-back in a bit."

  She let out her breath. Sean was still alive.

  The Irishman lay on his back, his head turned away from the windows. Frightened by his terrible pallor, she hesitantly touched his bruised cheek.

  A few hours later the doctor arrived and checked the patient. "How is he, Doctor O'Donnell?" Catherine asked worriedly.

  "Mr. Culhane has a rugged constitution, but from now on he'll need someone else to do his fighting for him." Keene blue eyes studied her from a typically Irish face. Dark-haired with strong features, he had a dent in his chin and capable- looking hands. "How are you, Lady Catherine?"

  "Enraged, doctor. I'm in a fighting mood."

  "Good. Stay angry for the next two weeks."

  "What are his chances?"

  He shrugged. "He shouldn't live, but he might. He shouldn't have survived days of neglect, three days at sea, or amateur surgery with a Christ Almighty crochet hook, but he did." He worked into his jacket and picked up his bag. "Personally, I don't like a man who breaks all the rules. He brings out my great green gambling streak and I'm supposed to be a steady man." He tipped his hat. "See you in the morning."

  Just before dawn, Sean's fever mounted. Muttering unintelligibly, he fought the blankets. Without warning, his eyes flickered open and he cried out, arching in shock at the pain. Futilely, Catherine tried to hold him down. "Flannery! Come quickly!"

  Nightshirt flapping, Flannery tore into the room. He shoved her aside, took her place, and jerked his head toward the pile of rolled linen on the chest. "Tie him down with the strips, girl. Hurry!"

  When he felt himself being bound, Sean redoubled his efforts, cursing. Quickly exhausted, he lay pleading, "Don't. Don't cut me. Please . . ."

  Cathering measured laudanum into a cup, hands shaking. He twisted away. "No! I won't take that filthy stuff! Get. . . your . . . filthy . . . hands off!" He screamed, and Flannery held his head rigid while Catherine forced opiate into his mouth and held his jaws closed. He bucked against the restraints, choking. When he stopped, she tried a little more. Too weak to resist, he simply lay there, stubbornly refusing to swallow until the medicine ran from the corner of his mouth. She held his nostrils and jaw closed; finally he had to let the stuff go down his throat, his green eyes glittering with fever and hate. "Butcher! Leave her alone, damn you! I'll kill you!" His voice grew weaker, pleading, "Tell her. . . somebody, tell her it isn't me. . . burn it. No, don't. . . don't kill me like this." His raving faded into an incoherent mumble as he lapsed into drugged delirium.

  Slowly, the injuries began to knit. The restraints were removed as he was less troubled by pain. He even slept occasionally without heavy drugging, although he was never wholly conscious. They fed him in tiny amounts, building his strength, but although he was lucid near the end of a fortnight, he was dangerously weak, unable to lift his head. Catherine was saddened to see him so helpless, when he had been so fiercely self-reliant. When he was conscious for longer periods, she moved her cot into the room. There, she sang and read to him in the long hours of the night, always keeping a candle burning even while he slept, always being where he could see her. Though he rarely asked for anything, his eyes often followed her about the room.

  The day O'Donnell came to take the stitches out of Culhane's head and face, Catherine and the doctor, now easy with one another, bantered with casual good humor. "Well, boyo," O'Donnell teased Sean cheerily, "you may not rival the gods again, but you'll break many a heart before your dotage. When the swelling's gone, your hair will hide most of the scars." He peered at the injured eye. "How's the vision in the left one?"

  "Cloudy."

  "Um. That may pass. I'm going to take your packing out." A minute later, the doctor applied firm pressure to both sides of the nose and stroked upward. Sean winced. O'Donnell shrugged and dropped his instruments in his bag, then rested his hand carelessly on Catherine's shoulder. "Well, your nose is a bit awry, that's sure."

  Catherine smiled down at her patient. "I prefer it this way."

  Sean tried to smile back, but he did not feel it.

  After the doctor left, Catherine laid her head down beside his and he awkwardly caressed her face. "Is Orfeo still about?"

  She chuckled. "Haven't you heard him in the hall? He knows you're home. He's most offended to be shut out."

  "I'd like to see the little beggar."

  When she opened the door, Orfeo got up, stretched, and strolled in, tail tip wisping back and forth. He inspected the room, then hopped up on the bed and nosed Sean's face, sniffing the medicinal odors. When Sean stroked him, he lay down, rumbling rustily, his diabolic amber eyes half closed. "He's getting fat. Peg's spoiling him."

  Catherine laughed. "I'm the guilty one. He's full of cold soup from your tray."

  Sean gently thumped the cat's belly and got a disdainful look. "Tight as a drum." He looked at her. "So will you be soon. What are you going to do then, little mother?""

  Petite mère. Charles d'Artois's farewell phrase slid across her mind as she answered, "What every mother does: bring new life into the world. Our child's name will be Culhane, as it should be." She knelt by the bed and stroked the cat, now folded up líke a mandarin. "I feel complete and at peace. Very aptly, too; next week is Christmas."

  In a playful Christmas spirit, Catherine set herself to amusing her patient by relating the tale of Perez and his fat wife. With a waddle and roll of her eyes she imitated the jealous lady, and she swished Orfeo's tail as an imaginary moustache under her nose to depict the swashbuckling desperado. Sweeping Orfeo into her arms in a dripping parody of lecherous ravishment, she murmured saccharine idiocies at the disgusted cat. Sean's laughing face contorted. "Mercy, woman, I'm in pain!" As she curtsied, Orfeo scrambled out of her arms and made an adroit exit.

  "Enderly believed that swill?" Sean managed at last.

  "I doubt it. If I'd known he already had you, I wouldn't have been so brazen. Naturally, Liam would never endanger himself by revealing any more than required to ensure your capture. He was certain you'd never confess anything." With feigned carelessness, she flopped down in a chair. "Let's not talk about Liam. The only time I care to hear his name again is in a divorce decree."

  Sean's amusement disappeared. "You may have to, Kit. If he wants to cause trouble, he can ruin you. He'd destroy himself, but he'd take you . . . and our child with him."

  "I have to divorce Liam. He must be removed from any possible claim to me and the baby. I'll go to America if necessary." Seeing his eyes, she got up and took his hand. "Please, let's not talk of this now. Don't let's spoil Christmas."

  "No, little one," he said softly, "we'll not spoil Christmas."

  Christmas Eve morning dawned clear and cold with the Donegal coast blanketed in a rare snow, the ramparts of its massive cliffs banded with white above icy froth of incoming breakers. At Catherine's description of the German Tree tradition, Flannery went to the mountains and brought back an ignoble specimen whose windswept rump had to be tucked into a corner of Sean's room. Fort
ified by Peg's potent Yule punch, the Shelan inhabitants joined merry forces with Doctor O'Donnell and his family and drenched the tree with cranberries and currants, paper decorations, sugared pastries and candles. The adults became gaily intoxicated, the children wildly excited when they saw the mysterious parcels. Sean was able to sit up for a few hours, propped against pillows, a blue woolen robe pulled about his shoulders. When the candles were lit, Catherine sat on the bed beside him. Lovely in a white velvet gown, she wore his birthday gift, a gold fifth-century madonna, about her neck.

  The children squealed as the door opened, then sighed because it was only Peg bringing more punch and a slender gentleman with a harp. Sean's eyes lit up. "Arthur!"

  The children looked at one another, unsure whether to be disappointed or not.

  Arthur O'Neill bowed. "A Merry Christmas to you all, my friends. I suggest we delay the immediate introductions, for I'm sure the children are dancing with impatience. Peg, pour me a cup of your famous brew, if you will." She obliged, and seated him by the fire.

  Flannery proceeded to hand out the presents and the young O'Donnells tore into theirs with shouts of glee, then waved their prizes triumphantly as Orfeo pounced in the empty boxes, pursuing string snakes through the crackling paper.

  While the adult presents were passed around, O'Neill took up his harp. After a few soft notes, the group fell raptly silent and Catherine felt as if she were alone with the blind harpist, witched away by the haunting music, pure and warm as the life, love's living dream, within her. Then Sean's hand covered hers and he was inside her too. Their eyes met. Sean slipped a magnificent diamond-mounted baguette emerald on her finger. "It was my mother's, for my bride and mother of my children."

  "You are my soul's husband. Your ring will never leave me," she whispered.