Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "Oh, God," Moora breathed. She slipped her arm around her friend, firmly drew her back into the bedroom and closed the door. Like a sleepwalker, Catherine made no protest as the Irish girl helped her to the bed and vigorously chafed her cold hands. "Listen to me. Sean's safe, do you hear? Alive and safe."

  Catherine's eyes grew enormous and her lips trembled. "Don't. Don't lie." She began to sob helplessly. "I cannot stand any more. I heard . . ."

  "I can imagine what you heard, no thanks to that husband of yours," Moora said angrily, "and it's true enough, mind you, but he'll not die. The wound's little more than a nasty scratch." She smiled at the expression in Catherine's eyes. "Cross me green Irish heart."

  Catherine sagged against her shoulder. "Oh, merciful God."

  Moora patted her back. "He's been taken to a safe place to hide until the fuss dies down."

  "I must see him."

  Moora shook her head. "You might be followed. Neri's body won't be found any time soon," she said in a voice that held a note of grim relish, "but news of the duel is out. Napoleon may already know. Fouché is bound to put a man on you to locate Sean."

  A sad resolve filled Catherine's eyes. "There can be no waiting, Moora. Sean must leave Paris now. Will you arrange a meeting?"

  The next morning, Catherine, telling her driver to return in an hour, dismissed her coach opposite Notre Dame. Slowly, she walked to Sainte Chapelle and climbed to the upper floor and the chapel proper. As she stepped into its interior, she paused, dazzled by a spectrum of light. Surrounded by gemlike windows, arches flared from slender gilded stalks that supported a deep blue ceiling spangled with gold stars. To Catherine, the small chapel had the intimacy of a jewel box. That this sublime artistry had risen from apolcalyptic horrors of the Middle Ages awed her. Its survival seemed to be a promise of hope, for it represented the best of man's faith and the grandeur of his heart. Catherine crossed herself. What an eye for theater Moora had developed, she thought with sad irony as she looked for Sean. Moora was kneeling on the stones near an old woman, the only other person in the chapel. Then Catherine saw Sean walk slowly toward her from the shadows on the far side of the nave, the light distorting his tall silhouette. Although she had prepared for what was to come, she could not prepare for the treacherous leap of her heart. Then he was too close, invading her fragile wall of control, and the words she had carefully planned caught in her throat. He was pale, and his eyes, God, she could hardly bear to look at them, could hardly bear to speak the terrible words that would sever their bond forever.

  Indeed, she had dressed with infinite care, as if she were preparing for execution. The coral silk dress and gauzy shawl draped about her face made her eyes and skin come alive, simulating a blush of health and well-being.

  Sean lost his powers of speech as well. He was afraid for the first time since prison. Not in any duel, even the one with Neri, had he really felt fear, but now he was helpless against the mortal blow he sensed was coming; when it did, it was so quick and clean he went numb.

  "Sean, I want you to leave Paris within the hour. You must never come back." Catherine wanted to shriek with the reflected pain that arced from his eyes. She wanted to bury his face against her, hold him and cry out her undying love, but she could not. He must go thinking her a jealous, peevish woman, for certainly he would attribute his banishment to rumors of his affairs.

  "And if I choose not to go?" The phrase came like a dying murmur.

  "You hâve no choice." Her voice was cold with despair. "When Napoleon finds out about your last duel, even I may not be able to help you."

  "What particular act did you perform to obtain this little favor," he whispered hoarsely. "Does he prefer it Greek style?" She gave a little cry and stepped back. He caught her wrist. "What about my child? Do you deny me him, too?"

  "Please," she whispered, "you're hurting me."

  He dropped her wrist as if it were a hot iron. "Hurt you? Do you think me a block of stone you can hack at whim?" He twisted away in an unthinking blaze of bitterness. "Forgive me, madame. My inconsiderate survival must have inconvenienced your standing with your lover. I'll go. I'll go and be damned to you!"

  Dear God, not like this; I cannot let him leave feeling betrayed. She caught his sleeve, then murmured like a fervent prayer, "I love you with my whole heart, my whole soul, and my whole mind. Believe I know something of what you've suffered to stay near me; but you're killing me. Each time I hear you've dueled, I die a little more. Even if Napoleon doesn't imprison you, he'll look the other way when the ringleaders hire more killers. They won't bother fighting you now; they'll shoot you in the back or cut your throat." She put her hands to her ears remembering, Raoul's gloating triumph. "Poison. Dear God."

  He had slowly turned as she was speaking and caught her to him, burying his head against her neck. "Don't. Don't remember. Just remember the time we had in Ireland before Liam came. Don't let's tear each other apart now."

  The old woman stared until Moora glared at her so pointedly she laboriously rose and huffily left the chapel.

  Sean's arms tightened. "If only I knew you'd be safe . . ."

  "I'm in no danger. Raoul and I have come to terms; each knows where the other stands. Napoleon's planning to transfer him to Spain indefinitely."

  "And Napoleon, once he has you to himself?"

  "Once Raoul is gone, I'll have no reason to oblige Napoleon. I shall retire to the Convent of Saint Therese near Saint Jean de Luz where Mother received her education. When our son is old enough, I'll send him to you."

  "You'd give him up?"

  "A convent is no place for a boy."

  "A convent is no place for you."

  "Darling, I have a need for peace only God can give me now." She anxiously scanned him. "Are you well enough to ride?"

  "With luck, I'll be across the border in two or three days."' There was so much and yet no more to say.

  She placed her hands on both sides of his face. "God protect you and give you peace, my love."

  "Oh, God, Kit," he cried softly as his head swooped down. His lips crushed hers as if he sought to draw her soul from her body to take with him. Her fingers caught in his hair and she sobbed against his mouth as she clung to him; then he tore out of her arms and away toward the stair, his stride quickening. Abruptly, without looking back, he was gone. She stood there, mute and immobile under the weight of a terrible premonition of disaster. She put out a hand and took a faltering step after him, then another, whispering his name; then the black weight pressed down and she heard Moora's faraway cry of alarm fade into nothing.

  When Catherine heard the front door slam downstairs, her hand slid into the pocket of her white satin dressing gown and her fingers curled around the grip of the tiny pistol she had taken from Raoul's gun collection. She had refused Moora's offer to stay with her and finally, reluctantly, the young Irishwoman had taken the Celtic jewels for safekeeping and left. Now Catherine wished with all her heart Moora had stayed, as Raoul walked into her bedroom, his face taut.

  "Guillaume followed you to Sainte Chapelle," he said tightly. "Your divine Irishman has risen from the dead once too often. Where is he?"

  "I'll tell you nothing, Raoul." She drew the gun. "Now, get out."

  He took a wary step toward her. "If you pull that trigger, you'll die for it."

  "The prospect of living with you is less palatable."

  "You'd condemn your child as well?" he countered suspiciously.

  "Sentence cannot be carried out until after the birth. The baby will go to a safe place." She smiled. "Take another step and make it easy for me."

  He turned on his heel. "I'll find Culhane soon enough. I know his hideouts." He kept going and she heard the front door slam. Still holding the gun, she went to the bedroom door to call her maid. She must find a hiding place in the city. When Raoul discovered Sean was gone, he would be more dangerous than ever. As she stepped into the hall, the thought spun from her mind as her wrist was seized and the gun wrenched from
her hand. A blow cracked across her face. "Raoul!" She twipted away with a shriek. "Antoinette! Help me!"

  He grabbed her hair and cut off her breath with a forearm locked across her throat. "Tell me, you bitch, or I'll beat it out of you!"

  Her slippered foot slammed down on his instep; the heel was not heavy enough to make him lose his grip completely but the pain startled him. She wrenched away and ran toward the steps. "Antoinette!"

  He caught her arm, spun her around, then slapped her again and again, hissing, "Tell me where he is, damn you!"

  "No." She clawed out at him, trying to shield her head, until she lost her balance and fell to the floor. She curled up desperately as she saw his foot go back to kick her.

  "Mon Dieu, Général!"

  Raoul jerked around to see Antoinette's horrified eyes staring up at him. With a witness, the game was up. He bent over his moaning wife and rasped, "I'll kill Culhane just like his brat! You'll have nothing!" He hurtled down the steps and pushed past Antoinette into the library for pistols before racing out the door. Catherine barely heard him go. The first contraction tore through her even as Antoinette knelt by her head.

  The three policemen searching Culhane's quarters snapped to attention as Police Minister Fouché entered the room, a lieutenant of police behind him. "As you were, gentlemen. Moulin, have you anything to report?"

  "No, sir. We've found nothing personal in his belongings: no letters, no addresses, not even money."

  "A man of remarkably pristine habits." Fouché walked slowly about the room. "There has to be something. Even if Culhane's alive, he wouldn't have risked returning here after his fight with the Venetian." Fouché fanned through papers on the desk. "This is no longer a matter of apprehending^ duelist, gentlemen, but a spy. I want this place taken apart, even the floorboards. If you find anything immediately, I'll be at 15 Ile de la Fraternité."

  Mei Lih seized Culhane's hand and dragged him into Madeleine's house with surprising strength. She peered out at the darkened street, then swiftly shut the door. "Minister Fouché just left. He had only one man with him; otherwise, I'm sure he would have left a watch on the house."

  "Napoleon heard of the duel quickly enough."

  "It's not the duel he cares about now. Fouché has a warrant for your arrest as a spy!"

  The Irishman swore under his breath. That meant his drawings had fallen into the wrong hands and his courier was probably dead.

  Madeleine's angry voice floated down from upstairs as she leveled a pistol at his chest. "I don't thank you for this, Culhane. How dare you sell out my country while you enjoy my hospitality!"

  "I haven't betrayed France, Leine; just Napoleon," he shot back coolly. "The Terror was nothing compared to the blood France will spill for that vainglorious runt. You know he doesn't give a damn for the Republic. You're more pissed than patriotic."

  Tears of rage streaked the kohl around her eyes. "Oh, you canaille! You cochon! You . . ." She hurled the gun at him and stalked off in a swish of black silk.

  Culhane eyed the scar the gun had made in the wallpaper, then headed up the stairs. He silently went up behind Madeleine as she poured absinthe with a shaking hand. His familiar hands closed on her shoulders and she swore, starting to swing the bottle. Instantly, his grip slid down her arm to her wrist. "Put it down, Leine. I'm not going to hurt you."

  "Go to hell!"

  "Directly, ma'am, if that's what you want." He kissed her neck. "I'll do anything you want if you help me, even surrender to the police."

  "What!" She spun. "What are you talking about? Get out of here!"

  "Not until Kit's safe," he said flatly. "Fouché can work up a nasty case against her now. He has bits and scraps he can twist to look like a Bourbon conspiracy; piled on top of her association with a known spy, the evidence is more than enough." His hands tightened on Madeleine's shoulders. "I swear on my life she's innocent, Leine. She has no love for Napoleon, but she doesn't want the Bourbons back in France any more than you, and she knows nothing about my work here."

  "What in hell do you expect me to do about her?"

  "Hide her until the baby's born and she can travel."

  "Hide her?" Madeleine threw up her hands. "Where? Under the bed?"

  "You survived the Terror, Leine. I know you have a place," he cajoled softly. "I'll keep you covered in diamonds for the rest of your life." -

  She looked at him with hostility and began to pace nervously, finally stopped and bit a nail. "Would you marry me?"

  "If you want," he said slowly.

  "You love her that much?"

  "She's my sister." He knew better than to tell her the whole truth.

  She blinked, surprise incongruous on her jaded face. "The hell you say!" She swept a quick look from him to Mei Lih and back and her lips tightened. "You never mentioned a sister."

  "You never mentioned a son." His eyes held hers levelly. "Think, Leine. If we were lovers, would I have let her marry Amauri?"

  The tension was abruptly broken by a violent pounding on the door downstairs and they all froze. Carmine lips a blotch in her chalky face, Madeleine pushed the Irishman toward her bedroom. "In there. Hurry!"

  Quickly scanning the dark garden below for police, Sean threw the bedroom window open. As he flung a leg astride the sill, he heard a strange woman's voice cry hysterically, "Madame, you must help! He may come back! I don't know what to do!"

  Then Madeleine's voice, sharply pitched. "Control yourself, Antoinette! You're making no sense at all. What are you talking about?"

  "The general beat Madame Amauri. The baby's coming now! No one's with her and he may come back!" She choked in mid-sob as Sean slammed into the room, his face terrible. "Monseiur Culhane!"

  Sean wheeled on Madeleine. "Leine?" he pleaded hoarsely, desperately. She hesitated, then nodded and he was gone.

  The front door of the Amauri mansion was unlocked, and Sean, pistol drawn, eased into the foyer. Flickering candles in wall sconces cast uneasy shadows that made the rooms seem more eerily deserted. Silently, he mounted the stair, wondering which door to try; then a faint cry told him.

  Catherine lay on her bed, sweat-damp hair fanned over the pillows, face contorted, her belly a swollen bulge under her hands as she pressed at it, gasping between pains. Suddenly, her teeth clenched and she tried to draw into herself, then went limp, panting. As Sean moved toward her, her far hand came up with a pistol even as her head turned, eyes determined, only to flare wide in horror. "Oh, God . . . why are you still here?" She struggled to push him away as his arms closed around her. "No! Run! Run, or it will all have been for nothing!" Beginning to sob with frustration, she ineffectively pommeled his chest as his arms tightened.

  He held her until she quieted, his lips brushing her temples and cheeks. "Hush little one. I'll go, but first I'll take you to a safe place."

  "There's nowhere to hide. No time." A spasm stole the words and she turned her face away, gasping, "Too quickly . . . it's coming . . . too quickly."

  Swiftly, he wrapped blankets around her and scooped her up in his arms. He had left Madeleine's carriage by the stable at the rear of the house. Depositing Catherine in the carriage depths, he drew the blankets high. As she leaned her head against his shoulder, he whipped up the horses, praying Fouché had not yet sent a guard to Madeleine's. He kept to dark, labyrinthine streets, taking them at a perilous pace that caused the wheel hubs to spark against stone as the carriage careened around building corners that jutted like misplaced teeth. Tensely, he counted the minutes between Catherine's pains. She made no sound; only the stiffening of her body indicated the spasms. At this rate, the baby would come within an hour or two. Seeing no suspicious loiterers about Number 15, he drove the carriage into Madeleine's stable, then swept Catherine from the carriage and headed for Madeleine's back door.

  Mei Lih showed no curiosity about the woman whose hair fell as black and long as her own over Culhane's arm as he carried her into the hallway; but upstairs, Madeleine scrutinized the Englishwo
man like a hawk.

  Catherine, through waves of pain, was only vaguely aware of the starkly beautiful woman who led the way into a storeroom adjoining the upstairs sitting room. A dress mannequin amid a jumble of clutter brushed Sean's elbow as he ducked the low, sloping ceiling. Madeleine twisted the knob of a large armoire; it swung back with a creak. Inside was a tiny alcove with a cot prepared with heavy layers of linen. Catherine suddenly cried out and pressed her face against Sean's shoulder.

  "Quickly, put her down." Madeleine pushed blankets aside as Sean laid the writhing woman on the bed. "Mei Lih, see if the water's boiling."

  Catherine gripped Sean's hands as the contraction became more violent. When it passed, she gasped, "Go. For God's sake, go. Raoul's looking for you. He has a gun. Please . . ."

  Madeleine touched his arm. "She's right. You can do no more here. Go, drag that great black goat of a horse out of my garden and ride."

  "Coming," he replied absently, but did not move, just brushed the damp hair from Catherine's face and gently blottèd the seeping blood from the corner of her mouth where Amauri had struck her. Her glistening eyes in the candlelight were dark pools of torment as they locked to his in farewell, her lips compressed as she fought to hold back another scream. He kissed her hand, then pressed a small figure into her palm. "Hold on to this, little one. It's a gift for the child. Kiss him for me."

  "Go with God," she whispered. Her azure eyes told him the rest as Madeleine dragged firmly at his shoulder. As he followed the Frenchwoman back to the sitting room, Sean looked back once to see Catherine staring blindly at him, clutching, as if it were a crucifix, the crude little monkey he had carved.