Instead of leaving, Sean caught up a brandy decanter in Madeleine's sitting room and took a long draught to dull the ache in his shoulder. Mei Lih, having noted the slight stain of blood on his shirt as he had carried Catherine up the stair, slipped a linen pad under his shirt and secured it under the bandage as he leaned against the sideboard. Madeleine eyed him bleakly. "You're not leaving Paris, are you?"
He looked at her while Mei Lih worked. "Not until I relieve Kit of a bad bargain."
"You made me a bargain too, remember?" she returned harshly. "You're no good to me dead. You go after Amauri and it's all off."
He smiled faintly. "You know your trouble, Leine? You have no faith in men." Hie eyes went dark as a muted cry came from the other room. "Go to her, Madeleine," he said softly. "I must keep a promise to myself first; then I'll keep the one to you."
Amauri and Fourquet stealthily crept through Madeleine's garden toward the house. The moon cast an uneasy light through breeze-stirred pear leaves, which mottled the stableyard and garden. From the shadows came a potpourri of scents—hawthorn, violas and primroses, parsley and shallots. And an incongruous sound of munching. A massive black shape nuzzled the herbage where the shade of the garden's wall obscured his presence. A prickling across Raoul's neck warned him to turn, pistol drawn, to face a crouching figure, a quicksilver streak of moonlight along the gun barrel near its center. "Stalking alley cats, General?"
Raoul was momentarily speechless. Finally, he said carefully, "I've come to offer a way to settle our differences."
"Is there more than one way?"
"I see we're in agreement. Will pistols suit you?"
"Anything you like."
"Emile and I will meet you in Mother's garden directly. You'll agree it might be awkward for Madeleine if one of us was to be shot here." As warily as retreating wolves, they parted.
Raoul reached the mansion just ahead of Sean. His mother was unsympathetic. "Bonne chance, mon fils. I hear he's an excellent shot."
"I can handle myself, madame. All I ask is for you to be present. Napoleon must be satisfied we took no part in Culhane's intrigue."
Her beringed fingers drummed lightly on her cigarillo box. "Very well. Wait in the garden. I'll join you directly."
The grounds behind the Amauri mansion were patched with moonlight under massive chestnuts. Between them and the Faubourg Sainte Germaine with its light, late- evening traffic of lantern-dotted carriages, the house windows gleamed silver. "The moonlight seems bright enough to do without lanterns, gentlemen," the baronne observed, her white hair sculptured, her dress catching cold light in its folds. "I see no need to draw the servants' attention to this affair." She looked at the tall, dark man who silently waited as Fourquet loaded the pistols. "Have you no second, sir?"
"No, madame."
"Will I suffice?" She continued implacably as Raoul and Fourquet stared. "I am ill-suited to support your defense, but seconds serve essentially as witnesses, do they not?"
"I'd be honored, Baronne."
"May I ask your grievance against my son, monsieur?"
"There is more than one, Baronne; most of them, I believe you know. Most recently, he brutally beat my sister- in-law and tried to abort her child."
The baronne's face went gray. "I see. How is she, monsieur?"
"She is in a safe place, madame, but the child is coming even now. It may be stillborn."
Her lips trembled slightly. "I am deeply sorry." Then, refusing to look at her son, she stepped back and ordered coldly, "Proceed, gentlemen."
Fourquet offered the pistols, first to Raoul, then Culhane. The Irishman shook his head. "I'll use my own gun."
The doctor started to protest, but Amauri waved him aside. "It doesn't matter. Let's get on with it."
As Fourquet turned away with the pistol case, the baronne held out a hand. "You may give me the remaining weapon, doctor. I've been called here to ensure the fairness of this fight, have I not?"
The two men took their places, back to back, guns lifted, then paced in opposite directions as Fourquet counted. At twelve, he ordered them to turn, then take aim. At the order "Fire," Amauri squeezed his trigger a shade faster than Culhane, but instead of standing his ground, the Irishman twitched aside and shot his opponent between his incredulous, horrified eyes. Even as Fourquet leveled his gun with a cry of, "You filthy swine!" Culhane whipped the knife from his sleeve and sent it into the man's throat. He straightened and turned, unsurprised to find the white-faced baronne aiming the gun he had rejected at his heart.
"You're no gentleman, Monsieur Culhane!"
"No, madame, but neither was your son. You can fire, but I'll wager you'll not hit me, whatever your skill."
"Are you saying this weapon has been tampered with?"
"My guess is that Raoul was no more willing chance losing than I was."
"You wager your life on that guess, monsieur." She fired and the gun jerked slightly to the side, its charge missing him by a good yard.
"Fourquet pared the ball," he said quietly.
She tossed the gun in its case and drew a small pistol out of the shawl looped over her arm. "It appears I should have been forced to kill Raoul if you had not." Her chin lifted and he glimpsed a glisten of tears on her face. "Thank you for relieving me of that obligation."
"You enjoy the honor your son and I lack, madame. I'm sorry that virtue has been so ill-rewarded."
"Honor often covers weakness . . ." She turned to look at her son. "And there lies mine."
Madeleine brushed a straggling lock of hair out of her face with a perspiring forearm and muttered, "Christ, this is hard work. Push, girl, push!"
Her teeth sunk into the monkey doll, Catherine strained against Mei Lih's hands. Fouché's guard had arrived. Bored with wandering the street, he smoked a cigar in the garden.
Suddenly, Mei Lih said urgently, "Here it comes! There's the head!"
Catherine dazedly saw the women bending over her somewhere beyond the barriers of pain, but she had known worse pain after her accident in Ireland, and fiercely, she bore down, knowing she was stronger than this pain. Thè powerful final seizures gripped her and she felt the last gush of agony as her body expelled its burden.
Madeleine held it up, her hands bloody, her black silk rolled up past her elbows. The baby was silent, a tiny pink form glistening with blood and protective coating from the womb. Too exhausted to lift her head, Catherine stared at it in growing panic. Mei Lih, who had assisted many a birth in the pavilion in Saigon, abruptly smacked the child on the buttocks. A gurgling cough, then an angry bellow of surprising volume answered the indignity and Catherine's eyes lit. Madeleine handed the roaring baby to Mei Lih to bathe. "He's a Culhane, that one!"
A month passed before Sean knew he had a son. Under an assumed name, he had written Madeleine from Belgium, then a carefully worded note to Catherine via his agent in Hamburg. Catherine's reply sent his heart soaring. He spent the day on a rented yawl off the coast near Brussels, getting roaring drunk with the captain and singing about sea sirens with wild, black hair.
Shortly, Catherine and her hostesses felt a comradeship against the world. She knew the part they had played in Sean's life, but uneasiness and jealousy had been subdued. Mei Lih informed her privately that to disabuse Madeleine of the impression Sean was her brother would be unwise. On the other hand, knowing Catherine might show telltale aversion to the Frenchwoman, Mei Lih told her nothing about Madeleine's association with Amauri and her marriage bargain with Culhane.
Madeleine found Sean's attraction to his sister only another of his unpredictable aspects. She was certain he would not go so far as incest—until three months later when she caught the first hints of emerald in the baby's eyes. Knowing Sean's brother to be a blue-eyed blonde, she felt fury begin to rise. She had sheltered the bastard's incestuous whore! Even encouraged her to stay because Fouché's intensifying investigations made it dangerous to leave, even though the police had come to the house twice and taken Mei Lih on
ce for questioning. Madeleine had corroborated Mei Lih's story that they had both been working with Amauri and that Mei Lih would have been returned to Antime's if she had betrayed her employer. Mention of Antime's had turned the tide; the women had not been bothered since.
Damn the bastard! She cried hoarsely, sloppily. Disgusted rage was still in her eyes when the other women, hearing her weeping, came into the room. "That's his bastard," she grated, almost choking, then more stridently, "That's your brother's brat, you lying bitch!"
The baby, startled by the noise, began to cry. Catherine protectively scooped him up. "Don't ever call my son a bastard again! Ever! Sean and I didn't know of our relationship when Brendan was conceived, but we're not sorry."
"You're lying! Just like he did, that sneaking spy! He promised to marry me if I saved your skin! Isn't that a laugh? After thirty-seven years and the worst life could do, I trusted him like a green peasant wench!"
As Brendan shrieked, Catherine stared at her. "What spying?"
"Don't tell me you didn't know he was giving French military secrets hand over fist to the enemy!" The profound relief on the other woman's face sent Madeleine into a frenzy. "Get out! Take his brat and go! I ought to turn you in." Her voice quieted ominously. "I will turn you in. I'll pay him back—"
"No, madame," interrupted the Oriental, "for then Monsieur Fouché will know you've hidden Madame d'Amauri. You are an accomplice."
Madeleine's face drained. "Go . . . get out."
Catherine left the room to gather her few belongings. Mei Lih followed her. "Where will you go?"
"I have a friend with the Russian Ballet troupe."
CHAPTER 31
Wings
Through a downsweeping meadow wearily walked a dust-covered man leading a limping black horse. Sean ached in every bone and Mephisto's left front fetlock was swollen. From Austria to Saint Jean de Luz near the Gascon- Spanish border was a long way; every mile felt impressed into his rump. Beyond the meadow sparkled the Bay of Biscay. Ahead sprawled buildings topped with terra-cotta tile. Wisteria and lilac crept up white walls that muted to mauve under the leafy shade.
He tethered Mephisto outside an ornamental iron gate; beyond it was a mimosa-lined patio with a fountain. He tugged at the bell rope.
A white-robed nun appeared, her white-winged cap reminding him of a gull in flight. "God be with you, monsieur. How may we help you?" She stared in spite of herself at the haggard, dirty man who looked like the devil's messenger.
"I'm Sean Culhane, I'm here to see the comtesse de Vigny," he told her. "Monseigneur Messier wrote me."
The nun recovered her composure, "One moment, please." She disappeared, and Sean wondered how old she was; seclusion had left her face free of lines of worldly hardship. Would Kit stay eerily beautiful long after youth had gone? For four years, she had buried herself in this place.
The sister returned. "You may enter, Monsieur Culhane. Reverend Mother will join you directly."
After she left again, he splashed water on his face from the fountain, then wiped it on his jacket sleeve. As he ran his fingers through his tangled hair, he sensed he was no longer alone. A tall woman watched him impassively.
"I am Mother Jeanne Vincente. We are pleased to see you have had a safe journey, Monsieur Culhane. May we offer you refreshment?"
"I would be grateful, Reverend Mother, but later, perhaps?"
"Yes, of course. You are naturally anxious to see the countess and your son. Please." Her hand appeared from under her surplice and, with unexpected grace from so gangling a frame, indicated he was to follow. She had not smiled, and as he followed her, Sean wondered if those colorless eyes had missed anything in their appraisal of his shabby appearance.
In fact, Jeanne Vincente had assessed him thoroughly, from his muddy cavalry boots to the gaunt, guarded face with cheekbones savagely cut above the unshaved jaw and the faded scar that raked into the ragged hair. Most of all, she had noticed the bitter set of the mouth and the cold demonic eyes, their strange, thick-lashed beauty unexpected in such a harsh, forbidding face. Yet her voice betrayed nothing of her dismay at sensing his deep hostility and despair in contrast to the happy, untroubled child he had sired. "By fortunate chance, Monseigneur Messier is dining with me today, monsieur. He's most anxious to see you. Perhaps in an hour you could bring Catherine to my study?"
"Of course, Reverend Mother." As they passed through a maze of arcades, Sean noted they encountered no nuns; he deduced she had taken him a special route. Reverend Mother opened a second grill gate to an arcade which surrounded irregular green plots, shelled walkways, and twisted fruit trees. Massed under the trees were white and vivid pink begonias sparked with scarlet against paint- spatter caladium. "This is our central courtyard. The countess spends much of her time here when not working in the hospital." She scanned the garden, then pointed, but Sean had already spied Catherine despite her novitiate's cap. She had paused to wipe her forehead as she knelt among yellow violas.
As Jeanne Vincente saw the look in the Irishman's eyes, she was no longer disturbed by his harsh appearance. When Catherine looked up as if she had been touched by his hand, Reverend Mother had no doubts at all. Catherine's eyes widened to burn a blue, molten path to the dark man who walked toward her as if drawn by their consuming flame; then she was up and running to close the last distance between them. Slowly, he opened his arms to receive her, then buried his head against her neck and held her as if she were part of his flesh. Reverend Mother turned away, painfully reminded of the depths of human love and passion she had renounced. She did not think she could bear to see them kiss.
When Sean's lips lifted at last from hers, Catherine felt he had taken her breath, her very being away with the starved plunder of that one long kiss. Nearly blinded by tears of joy, she whispered, "Oh, Sweet God, to answer all my prayers . . ."
He kissed her again, knowing he should not, but helpless to stop himself. The sweet insanity swept them both, making them aware only of each other in a delirium of need and response. Then, dimly, Sean felt insistent pounding on the back of his leg and reluctantly gave up his ravenous attention to Catherine to look down at a soot-haired imp. A small stubborn jaw jutted and green eyes glared. "It's a sin to kiss nuns!"
Catherine leaned down to touch her son's chin. "You kiss me, don't you, Brendan? Your kisses aren't sinful."
"I'm allowed!"
"All the kisses you want. Why do you suppose that is?"
"You love me." The small brows met. "You don't love him!" Then suspiciously, "Do you?"
Catherine stooped. "You exist because he and I love each other. He's your father, Brendan."
The four-year-old looked at Sean warily. "Where's your black dress?"
Culhane's lips twitched. "I'm no priest, lad."
"Then how did you get in here?" pursued the boy craftily.
"Because he's your special father, darling," Catherine told him. "Remember Sean, the O'Neill I told you stories about?"
Brendan had envisioned a paragon seven feet tall in a cassock with epaulettes and a flaming sword like Saint Michael's. His father rode a huge black stallion through the sky and sailed ships single-handed and walked on water if they sank. "You don't look like a hero," he said slowly. "Generals have gold buttons."
"I've brought something for you." Sean dug into a pocket to produce a handful of gold and brass, all that remained of his military career.
Brendan tentatively touched an epaulette, then a button. "They're real, aren't they? Did you fight in real battles, too?"
The rapt fascination on Sean's face altered subtly and Catherine took his hand tightly. For a moment he glimpsed Austerlitz's acrid smoke-drifted fields covered with slaughtered carcasses, some not recognizable as human in their scraps of brave color and gilt. "Aye, lad. A few."
The boy's eyes had grown dazzled and dazzling. Christ, his son had lashes like a girl's. Lucky he had a jaw like a little mule or he would be too pretty to piss.
"Will you tell me a battle
story . . . sir?" Priests, the only men in Brendan's life, were never addressed as "sir," and the boy struggled to adjust.
"Someday, when they'll be more to you than stories." Sean longed to embrace the boy, but knew no son of his would tolerate such presumption from a stranger.
The boy examined the buttons, then looked up, awed. "May I show one to Sister Marie Angelique?"
Catherine squeezed Sean's hand. "Of course."
He hugged her, selected the shiniest, and scampered off, then skidded to a halt and turned, attempting a show of dignity. "Thank you, sir." He took off again.
"Who's Marie Angelique?"
"A friend." Catherine gave him a mysterious smile. "There's no need to worry. The sisters won't betray you."
She stood up, drawing him with her. "What do you think of your son?"
He told her and she threw back her head and laughed, not at all nunlike. "Your spittin' image, me darlin'. Likely, his grandfather thought the same of you." Sean turned scarlet and she giggled.
"Well, at least he's an O'Neill. He knows what's his and intends to keep it." Sean grinned suddenly. "You don't need a convent, Kit; the lad's watchdog enough."
She leaned over to pick up her workbasket. "I've been content here, Sean."
"Without a man? How could you be?"
She straightened. "Don't be cruel. I wanted you. I'll always want you. It's both my curse find my blessing, but I cannot have you and that's that."
"I only want you to be happy, Kit," he said slowly. "Are you?"
"My work at the hospital has given me deep satisfaction. It isn't the paradise on earth I knew with you, but yes"— she looked directly at him—"I'm happy. At least I will be now that you're safe. You're not going back to the army, are you?"
"I couldn't if I wanted to," he replied with a crooked grin. "I deserted."
"Oh, Sean! They'll be after you too."
"It doesn't matter. Austria is going to be defeated. You just saved me from another lost cause, that's all."
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