Stormfire (47 page)

He caught her shoulders and turned her to accept his mouth, obliterating resistance and all thought save the one of melting into his body. Her head slipped back on his arm, her hair in an ebony stream, and he became aware only of how small she was, how desirable.

"Please take me away," she whispered against his mouth. "Anywhere. I
need . . .
I want only you."

"God, you tempt me." His arms tightened and her response to his kiss took his breath away. He lifted his head at last with an effort. "Kit—"

She was never to know what his answer would have been for it was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Flannery, eyes widening in frank appreciation of the woman his commander's arm still encircled.

"What's the problem?"

Flannery gave him a sheepish grin. "The
Meridian
has been sighted off Annagh Head. She's makin' fair wind and likely to reach Shelan by mornin'."

Sean nodded, unaware his mistress's smile had become subtly set. "Very well. 'Have Fournel and his officers report to my study after they come ashore. Give Rafferty a nudge wijh dinner on your way out, will you?"

Dinner was quiet, both young people preoccupied with their thoughts. Sean restlessly fiddled with his brandy snifter as Rafferty cleared the table. "I've an itch for a hard ride tonight, Kit. Want to come?"

"Yes. Numidian needs the exercise."

"Run up and change.
I'll
have the horses brought around."

Sean led the way down the treacherous cliff path to the beach. The night was crystal clear and unusually warm. Soon Catherine regretted throwing on Tim's pea coat over the shirt and cords. She struggled out of it and was awkwardly knotting its sleeves about her waist when Sean ordered abruptly, "Pay attention to your riding. It's a long drop to the beach." Meekly she waited until they reached bottom to secure the jacket. She wanted to ask about Fournel, but seeing Sean's withdrawn expression, thought better of it.

They put the horses into an easy canter down the pale, winding beach. Moonlight painted the pebbles blue-white and transformed the tidal pools into flickering mirrors below cliffs white and mysterious as Oriental palaces, their walls and spires carved ivory. A scent of wild orchids that climbed the rock face hung on the wind. The surf tumbled sleepily on the shore, teasing the horses' hooves into a hard gallop along the luminous sea. The stallions and riders crashed through glassy sheets of water, shattering their surfaces to fragments and thundering on like hurrying ghosts. Only when their mounts began to falter did the man and woman rein to a halt in a swiftly settling spray of sand. The house, a pale silhouette with glowing lights, was barely visible atop the cliffs far to the south. Sean slid off his sweaty horse, then lifted his companion down, his fingers lingering at her waist. Hand in hand, they wandered down the beach leaving the horses to follow, their reins caught around their saddle pommels.

"A French warship is due here tomorrow, English," Sean said quietly. "Can you guess why?"

Her fingers tightened in his. "Yes."

"Ireland will be rising soon, possibly within days. We cannot turn the tide without them."

She stopped and looked up at him. "Sean, it's dangerous to tell me these things."

"Not unless you intend to betray me."

"Would you have me betray my country?"

"You're half French, Kit. Does it matter so much?
⁷
*

"Napoleon is born to war, Sean. He'll drench the earth with blood. England is his most formidable obstacle." She paused. "Ireland has had foreign allies before and failed."

"Philip II of Spain and your exiled Charles I weren't in a league with Napoleon, Kit. He's the best and only chance we have. We have to gamble now."

"Do you think you'll be more than his puppet? If he lets you rule? He wants no native dynasties in his dominions any more than does England. He'll prove as great a tyrant as Cromwell. England's monarchy is weakening, Sean. Parliament is gaining
power . . ."

"If you're asking me to wait until the English bourgeoisie take their turn at wringing us dry, forget it." He put his hands on her shoulders. "You've overlooked one thing about Napoleon, Kit. He's already shown his military genius doesn't extend to government, He left no permanent fortifications to protect his holdings in Italy: just troops and a skeleton government headed by his relatives, and they're impotent without his presence. If he repeats that pattern in each territory he conquers, eventually he must run short of French troops to back them and depend on untrustworthy foreign ones in satellites increasingly distant from home. Even if he retains his power, his hegemony will probably die with him. This all assumes the conspiring Directorate doesn't depose him and return France to the chaos of the Revolution. With England's grip broken, Ireland has a real chance at self-government."

"What if he succeeds and has a son?"

"Josephine had an abortion while she was Paul Barras's mistress; it left her barren. If the Corsican wants an heir, he'll have to divorce her."

"But divorce is easily obtained under Republican law, and he has the grounds of Josephine's open promiscuity.
My father says his brother, Joseph, is using all his influence to have the marriage dissolved; Napoleon may agree. His infatuation with Pauline Foures in Egypt is common knowledge."

"Foures isn't Josephine, Kit. Napoleon will have to return to Paris sooner or later to put down Barras's intrigues in the Directorate. My wager is that when he does, Pauline will stay in Egypt."

"Like a discarded boot."

He caressed her neck. "I daresay Madame Foures isn't without ambition."

She pulled away. "Perhaps she loves him." Her clear eyes momentarily caught the moonlight. "But love has no place in war, does it?"

"Doesn't it?" He caught her gently, then stifled any possible answer with his mouth. Catherine clung to him, knowing that it might be for the last time. That she loved him and that it was too late and that he would never know.

As her breasts thrust maddeningly against his chest, Sean parted the loose shirt to find their soft warmth. Desire pulsed at his groin with a slow, sweet ache and he released her, whispering, "Wait." Retrieving the jacket, he spread it on the sand. They dropped their garments and turned to touch with growing impatience. Pressing his lover down, Sean slowly sheathed himself. Then he was moving inside her, loving her. Velvet sliding through satin. Pale bodies twining under the moon like a night- blooming flower, tenuous, its petals unfurling in transcendent luminous beauty.

In the morning, leaving Sean to meet the French, Catherine went to the infirmary. When her listlessness drew Doctor Flynn's attention, she snatched a cup of tea from the kitchen and retreated into his office to do the billing. All too soon the ink on the paper spotted as her shoulders shook with sobs. A rap on the door made her straighten aqd swipe at her eyes. Flynn stuck in his head. "You've a caller. Liam wants to take you for a ride. I've only a few patients. You have permission to go if you'd like."

"Thank you. I'll only be a moment." Hastily she dunked a napkin into the cold tea and soaked her swollen eyes.

When she joined Liam in the carriage, she was clear-eyed and controlled; so much so that, when he bluntly told her the priest had agreed to dispense with the banns and marry them within the hour, she did no more than nod.

The ceremony in the village chapel was a mercifully brief ordeal. Like a marionette, she repeated the vows before the rock-faced priest and, after Liam'3 cold lips brushed her in a-decorous kiss, accepted the congratulations offered by the nuns who had acted as witnesses. She sensed Liam was as miserable as she despite his bitter triumph. She had always dreaded a loveless marriage, but this travesty surpassed her worst imaginings. They were to leave at the height of the ball the following night. Liam had arranged a diversion for the eastern patrols. With luck and hard riding, they would reach the Londonderry garrison in three days. From there, word could be sent to General Lake, commander of the British occupation forces. Altogether, Sean would have nearly a week to evacuate Shelan.

Leaving her at the infirmary door, Liam narrowly missed the escort who had come early to return her to the house. Sean was already in need of his hostess.

As Catherine entered the foyer at Shelan, a short burst of male voices and scent of tobacco followed Peg out as she shut the study door behind her. "Put on yer habit, lass. We've a pack of sea-weary horse soldiers on our hands. They've all clamorin' to tear about the countryside on a hunt. Yer things have been moved to the room next to Sean's; it has a connectin' door. Liam's on the other side."

Catherine nodded and climbed the stairs. When she had changed, she critically surveyed her image in the mirror. The habit was beautifully cut in severe black, the white stock of the blouse accentuating her vivid coloring. Gleaming black hair was sleekly twisted up under the high- brimmed hat and her dark blue eyes had an elusive mystery behind the black veil. You look like a gypsy whore in stolen finery, she thought in disgust. Beautiful, yes. Very. Accursed bitch. Catherine Enderly, Catherine de Vigny, Kitty Flynn, Lady Liam Culhane. Kit. You're none of them now. You only exist as a betraying cheat. You've made mockery of a sacrament, every vow a cynical lie, the

confession before the ceremony a travesty of omission. Wear black for your love, lass. You've killed him sure. All for a worthy cause.

The young French lieutenant speaking animatedly to Sean of Napoleon's modernization of the Polytechnique changed track in midselttence and stared past his host's shoulder.
"Mon Dieu,
what a ravishing creature!"

Sean turned. Catherine was sauntering down the steps. By now all eyes were on her, the hush dropping like a blanket, the appraising Gallic appreciation evident. Sean's eyes narrowed. The bit of veil had all the effect of a black negligee. The witch Was seducing the lot of them without flicking an eyelash. Even as a coltish adolescent she'd had a strange allure; as a woman, that quality was devastating. The Frenchmen surreptitiously jostled one another to have a better look. Grimly he plowed through the crowd to the foot of the stair. "Miss Flynn, you're just in time to meet some of my
other
guests before the hunt."

"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Culhane." She accepted his offered arm.

Sensing her underlying tension, Sean nodded to Rafferty, who was playing lackey, to offer port. "Thank you." She sipped gratefully and briefly looked up into Sean's eyes as he began introductions. He was incredibly handsome in his riding clothes, a polished stranger, his French flawless; There were so many things she did not know about him . . . and would never know.

General Fournel, Humbert's representative, was introduced first. Wearing civilian riding clothes as did his men, he was a tall, hawk-faced man with graying temples. His distinguished looks and smooth charm reminded her of her father, but his eyes held a less than paternal expression as he bowed with a smart click of his heels. "Your servant, Mademoiselle Flynn," he murmured in suavely accented English. "If General Bonaparte had heard even a whisper of your beauty, he would have come himself rather than allow so fortunate an envoy to extend his compliments. May I present my corps?"