Stormfire (20 page)

"Hmph. There was nobody to stop her. She'd have cut the girl to ribbons if the lass hadn't laid the discouragin' point of a broomstick into her hulkin' middle."

"Christ, a broomstick!" he muttered.

"She could have planted a knife in Maude's belly instead; enough were handy."

"Then why in hell didn't she?" demanded the dark Irishman.

"Because she's no killer," put in Flannery.

Sean's green eyes narrowed. "And how would you know that, Master Blacksmith?"

"I just don't think she has the knack," the giant said simply.

"Ha!"

"You won't be satisfied until she's murdered by some hothead with a score to settle, will you, brother?" said Liam, coming out of his chair with a snarl. "You parade her like a trophy of war. You deliberately make her a target, raising up the sins of her father!" He kicked back his chair. "What if no defense had been at hand, not even that pathetic broom? Where would you bury your prisoner, Sean? Under rotted feed?" Almost choking with fury, he missed Flannery's sharp frown and Ennis's look of sly interest. "But she'll be already dead, won't she? Where's the fun in that?"

"Shut up!" roared Sean.

Liam walked coolly toward him. "Make me."

Flannery pushed his own chair back. "Don't be stupid, Liam. He can take you apart."

"Not without some effort."

"Well, I'll be damned," breathed Sean, "if older brother isn't the errant knight to the damsel's rescue. I trust you're prepared to keep your visor lowered in the lady's presence, Galahad; few women have a taste for missing teeth."

His brother whitened with rage and drew back his fist while Sean merely looked at him, smiling grimly. Liam wavered, belatedly remembering his promise to Catherine not to initiate violence. "Come for me," he invited hoarsely.

"The hell you say," scoffed Sean. "You began this farce."

"Damn you," whispered Liam. "Come for me, bastard!"

Sean tensed and for a moment the others thought Liam's time had come. Even Ennis knew his accusation was an unpleasant possibility, that Megan had had provocation for taking lovers. Brendan had enjoyed occasional mistresses over the years; the portrait of one brunette beauty had hung in his room until removed after his death.

"Gentlemen don't brawl with bastards," Sean finally returned with icy sarcasm. "Have you forgotten your inane aristocratic code? Painting with shattered hands is trying, bully boy. Put steel in your fist, or better yet, a pistol.

"Now, as for the rumors of my questionable lineage. . ." He bit out each word. "I've killed for less public mention. For all purposes you are my brother, but when you call me bastard, you call our mother whore. Repeat that insult and you'll have your fight."

Knowing he owed his brother an apology his injured pride would not permit, Liam said stiffly, "So long as I know what your honor requires," and walked quickly from the room.

Wisely deciding this was a poor moment to continue discussion of Maude, Peg shook her head and returned to the kitchen.

"Now, Captain Ennis," said Sean coolly, relaxing again into his chair as if nothing had happened, "I'd like you and the
Mary D.
to take over the
Sylvie'
s sea routes for the next several months."

"You mean, the
Mary D.
is to make the munitions runs out of Normandy, sir?"

"That's it."

"Who'll be taking over my routes?"

"I haven't decided," Sean lied calmly. "I'll give you the required charts, rendezvous points, and timetables in my study an hour before you set sail. There'll be one problem. As an English registry vessel, you have a legitimate cover, but that registry will be a liability if an English cruiser spots you off the French coast." He raised his empty cup in token salute. "To your new citizenship, Captain. You're now an American."

"What?" blurted the Dover man. An Irish emigre, he had no loyalty to England, but like many Europeans he considered Americans colonial primitives.

Culhane grinned ironically. "Mad George's ships are unlikely to detain an American vessel as a smuggler. Britain wants no arguments at her backside to distract the navy while Napoleon is filing his teeth."

"I don't sound like a colonial; my men don't. . ."

"How do you think Americans speak? Some of them sound as English as you and me." He flashed a white, wolfish smile.

" 'Twill be more dangerous than smuggling ordinary contraband," persisted the captain. "My crew should be paid more, and I should receive a percentage . . ."

Culhane waved a negligent hand. "We'll discuss that after you complete a run. The pay will match your performance. Now"—the hand waved toward the door—"if you'll excuse us, Captain, I have matters to discuss with Mr. Flannery."

Awkwardly, the worried captain took his leave.

"Will the registry stand scrutiny?" asked Flannery.

"Aye, and so will our Hamburg syndicate."

Although Flannery had done his own share of smuggling, he was unfamiliar with the current, complex business operations of the Culhanes, so Sean took the opportunity to explain. "Max Lehrmann controls the syndicate bank in Hamburg. His backers are, of course, Liam and myself, and he makes handsome percentages from
Sylvie's
trade in French contraband. In turn, Lehrmann, who is Swiss, assures neutral registry, while the bank provides a foreign currency exchange house with unimpeachable security for dealing with individuals and governments."

Sean toyed with his fork as he continued. "We use both the
Sylvie
and the
Mary D.
for smuggling currency, art objects, spies, and, of course, running munitions. Lehrmann screams; he doesn't like risking trouble with his own government.

"Still, with a fair wind the
Mary D.
can outrun almost anything afloat.
Sylvie'
s the real sharper, but you know that. You captained her yourself."

" 'Twas years ago," Flannery sighed. "Aye, she's yar, sure enough. Never thought that black-patched fop in Marseilles could turn out a beauty like that. We kicked our heels at British gunports for nigh onto five years." He smiled in remembrance.

In the rare times the two men relaxed together, they invariably discussed the sea, their common love. Sean leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs, and grinned. "You wouldn't consider resuming her command, would you?"

"I'm too old for gallivantin' about on a seagoin' racehorse." Flannery patted his paunch. "Takes a man with no fat to run guns. Maybe I an't as resigned to end in a noose as I used to be."

"Rot," said Sean briefly. "The only thing you fear is leaving Liam in my clutches."

"Your doin' him in an't what worries me. Any other man who said what he did this mornin' would now be harpin' with the angels. 'Course I don't know," the giant added slyly. "Of late, ye've been actin' ornery as a penned stallion with his favorite mare bein' nosed by a rival stud.
Keepin' that little filly wouldn't be more than a matter of revenge now, would it?"

Sean scowled. "The wench is nothing to me but an irritation. I brought her here for a purpose, and by God, she'll fill it!"

"If she lives that long." Flannery scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Aye, I suppose it wouldn't do to grow fond of her. Pity. She might have grown into a spittin' beauty. Reminds me of a girl I saw once in Brendan's arms at a Dublin ball. One dance they had, then she was gone in the crowd. She was the loveliest creature in the world. Expect she's a grandmother now."

Culhane stared at him impatiently. "Are you growing senile, man, that you're beginning to live in the past?"

"We live in a world of ghosts, you no less than I. We're condemned to that end by a crippled, perhaps dyin' cause. That lass has the soul of life: eager, impatient, curious! She's not chained to the past. Ruinin' her future will gain us naught."

Patience worn to a nub, Culhane rose abruptly. "Spare me your fatherly advice if Rouge is an example of its worth." Flannery whitened and Sean instantly regretted the cruelty erf his heedless words. "Flannery . . ."

"Don't bother," growled the redhead, heaving his bulk out of his chair. He stalked out of the room.

Still troubled by his sharpness with Flannery, Culhane drifted into the study. At length, he dropped into the morocco leather desk chair and, with a toneless whistle, stared off into space. Then, after unlocking a desk drawer, he drew out paper, dipped a quill into the inkwell, and began to write in a quick, firm hand.

By late afternoon four sets of orders were deposited in separate envelopes, their seals stamped with the gold Celtic ring on his right hand. The first envelope contained directions Ennis was to deliver to France. If Ennis became nervous enough to break the seal, he would find only a series of coded dates, times, and incomprehensible substitutions keyed to previously relayed information. The second envelope contained "official" sailing orders for presentation to customs officers, while the third contained his actual orders, porta of call, contacts, and signals. The last envelope was addressed to the captain of the British cutter
Stag.

Culhane rose from his chair and stretched, then began to pace, lost in thought. Though he was on the verge of putting into motion the laborious plans of a lifetime, he felt nothing but immense weariness.

Fatigue invariably seemed to lead him to brooding about the English girl. Only a crazy person would have dared to disobey his orders and attack her. Although Maude was mad, he could not bring himself to commit her to an institution; the woman had suffered enough. Punishment was useless; her addled mind would never accept the sense of it. The simplest tack was to remove provocation from her path. Maude would continue with laundry in Catherine's place, while Catherine would work full time at the fishery and in the house.

A final problem remained: Liam. Because of the English girl, Liam was becoming a willful, audacious rebel. If the transformation had blessed his brother with stronger self-control, he would have almost welcomed her influence; as it was, Liam's ill-timed outbursts endangered them all.