Stormfire (63 page)

He nuzzled her ear. "I never courted you properly, did I, lass?"

"Nay, sir, you did not," she replied with a trace of sadness, and turned to look up at him. "You took me by storm; I'll never see another so wild and unpredictable. How dull the world will be without your filling the sky."

He sensed she was only half teasing. Something of his agony must have come into his eyes, for she drew away. "I'll tell Peg to prepare a lunch," he said quietly.

The day was clear, the sun unusually hot as the carriage rolled northward along green-carpeted parapets patched with red thyme and plum tones of heather. The Atlantic was a hard, brilliant blue, the sunlight sequkted with gulls kiting off the ramparts. They reminded Catherine of the day Sean had distracted her from despair by teaching her how to swear; even then, he had tried to protect her. She watched his hands, long-fingered, strong on the reins. Hands that could be brutal. Tender. She and her Irishman had fought love from the beginning, perhaps sensing it could only come to this ashen end. She regretted suggesting the picnic. Her mouth had a bitter taste.

She set out the food as Sean lay on his back, eyes closed, arms under his head. They had said little sifter starting out, each lost in his own thoughts. Perspiration stuck the white Dacca muslin to her back, and she pushed hair out of her eyes for the third time as she leaned over to slice bread. Bees droned about the hamper with irritating stubbornness. As she flicked a poaching insect off the butter, Sean turned on his side and propped his head on a hand. His steady regard made her nervous. She began to slice faster with short, hard strokes, sweat beginning to triekle down her spine and between her breasts.

"Careful, kitten; you'll cut a finger."

Her head shot up, but sharp words died on her lips. "What shall I put on your bread?" she asked lamely.

He shrugged. "Whatever you like."

She selected roast beef, added fruit to the plate, and held it out to him.

Sean reached past the plate and touched her nose. "You're getting freckles." Then he sat up and took the food, thanking her politely.

She threw odds and ends on her own plate, then sat staring down at it. She put something in her mouth and chewed it slowly; it tasted like sawdust. Almost eagerly, she accepted the glass of wine Sean poured, and drained half before he restored the bottle to the hamper.

"More?" he asked, as if she had done nothing strange.

"Yes, thank you. It's quite good. I . . . was thirsty."

He poured impassively. "It's a Haut-Brion; it ought to be good."

Liquid gold and she had gulped it like water. She sipped more slowly. It would be easy to become drunk, just when a clear head was mandatory.

Sean eyed her over his glass as she toyed with a pear slice. With the demure white gown and her piled-up hair windblown, she looked like a polite, beautiful child restlessly putting up with an elder's company. "Would you like Flynn's address in Edinburgh?" he asked suddenly.

The long lashes flicked up. "Very much. I've never thanked him for all he did." Her eyes lowered again and she prodded the pear. "I've never thanked you either."

"You've nothing to be grateful for."

"I disagree."

"I told you once I didn't want your gratitude," he said curtly, "especially when it's misplaced. I murdered our child. I nearly murdered you."

"We were both responsible for Michael's death, Sean. We're both selfish, each wanting to punish himself by taking sole blame. You hurt me horribly, but I did no less to you." She cut off his attempted interruption. "I
was
a spy. I would have betrayed you if I had reached Londonderry. I knew you might hang, that everyone involved in the rebellion might be killed. I did what I had to do—as you did." Her eyes held his. "In that cellar, I prayed Michael might be spared the unhappiness of a world that had no love for him"—her voice hardened—"and he was spared, but I lived because you refused to let me take the easy way out. As Mother might have lived, had I refused her. I'll never know now whether I made the right choice. I must live with that doubt,
despite
that doubt. But you?" She leaned forward. "Will you stay here at Shelan and stew in your own martyrdom? Hack at rock to keep sane? Walk that empty house until your ghosts are more alive than you?" A sob of anguish and fury rose in her. "How long before you blow your brains out? How long—"

Culhane jerked her hands forward, then twisted her under him and stopped her mouth brutally with his own, ravaging it until she lay limp and unresisting under him, all the fury done except for the heaving of her breasts against his chest, maddening him with lust, anger, and loss. "Kit. Kit. Damn you," he muttered hoarsely against her lips. "I love you." His mouth slanted across hers and Catherine felt torn asunder with the sudden force of a terrible desire. Fatal. Fatal wanting. Needing. God. No. Not now. His hands burned through the thin bodice and his hardness pressed fiercely against her. Desperately, she clawed at his back, his face, feeling sickeningly the tearing of his flesh, hearing his muffled gasp of pain. Rearing up, he raised his hand to slap her into submission, then realizing what he was about to do, flung off her. "Get away from me, then, damn it, if you don't want to be raped!"

Still dazed with desire and wretchedness, Catherine retreated. A fat raindrop struck her forearm, then more spattered the blanket. Eyes averted, she began to dump things into the hamper. Intent on their quarrel, neither had noticed storm clouds moving in from the sea. With a muffled curse, Sean caught her arm. "Leave it! We're in for a drenching." Dragging her to her feet as the downpour let loose in earnest, he headed for the carriage. Lightning cracked the heavens. The horses bolted in fear, tore up the tether posts, then raced homeward with the carriage rattling behind.

Catherine pushed streaming hair out of her eyes. "What are we going to do? It's miles to Shelan."
 

"There's Flannery's old place. Come on, run!" Racing under the storm, he led her across the gray, rainswept heath.

At last Catherine huddled against the cottage wall while Sean battered the lock off the door. The door crashed inward and he caught her wrist, pulling her in with him. Dripping, they surveyed a dusty room containing a crude bed and table with stools. Except for cobwebs and field- mouse droppings in the corners, everything was as Flannery had left it. The windows whitened in the storm's glare and Catherine shivered. Sean thought to wrap the bed counterpane about her, then saw the roses of her chill-stiffened nipples clearly through their wet, transparent skin of muslin. His hair was a sleek black helmet, and his green eyes slanted like a cat's in the gloom as he stared at her, wet clothing defining his rising desire. With her hands crossed over her breasts, Catherine shrank away. "No," she whispered. A roof post abruptly stopped her. "Please!" She was still pleading when he caught and gently drew her wrists behind the post.

Holding them loosely with one hand, he unfastened the laces of her bodice; as it parted, his eyes veiled under his lashes, then lifted. "You're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. All the rest of your days, men are going to tell you that and they're going to want you in the same way—except for one thing." His lips hovered above hers. "This is the time you're going to remember when you hear the words 'I love you.' " With infinite tenderness he kissed her lips, then her throat as it strained away beneath his mouth, then her shoulders and the swell erf her breasts, arousing the sleeping, burning serpent in her belly. Ignoring her struggles, he returned to invade her mouth with slow, ravaging hunger until her head fell back. With his free hand, he eased the sodden dress from her shoulders, then peeled the filmy stuff away from her breasts. Tugging her wrists back so the twin mounds thrust forward, he took each nipple into his mouth and teased them into jutting peaks of desire.

Catherine groaned and thrashed as her body turned to liquid fire. "Stop it!"

Almost angrily, Sean picked her up and threw her on the bed, then shoved the sodden skirts up about her waist and tore away the soaking silk undergarments. She thrashed, long legs gleaming in the cool light, as he tore open his own clothing. "No more lies between us, Kit. You're swollen with wanting. Just like me. Tell me you want me."

"No!"

"Love me, Kit," he whispered hoarsely. "One last time." She bucked, and with a despairing curse, he wrenched her thighs apart and plunged into her. Felt the clinging velvet drag of tight sheathing. Wild with long-pent desire and frustration, he drove more deeply and more demandingly with each stroke. Suddenly, with a low, keening cry of surrender, she caught him about the neck and arched to take him even deeper, deeper, until he was battering at the entrance of her womb and still she convulsed under him, still crying out with need, holding him as if she would never let go. "Sweet God, Kit!" A spasm twisted his face. Desperately, he fought to withdraw, but she wrapped her legs about him. Past control, he flooded her in convulsive spurts that seemed to drain his guts. He collapsed, sagging. In the stark silence, their hearts thudded like tiny savage drums.

His eyes sought hers in confusion. "Why, Kit? You cannot want my child. Tomorrow you're free of me for good."

Her eyes smoky in the darkness, Catherine's lips curved slightly as she traced the line of his jaw. "You arrogant bastard. Always telling me what I want. Then making me want it. Telling me what
you
want. Then making me want that, too." Her voice was soft and husky. "I'll never be free of you, you devil-eyed mick. I love you. I've always loved you."

"Kit?"

"Yes."

"Marry me."

Her silence brought a tension. Then she spoke of the thing that remained unsaid between them. "What of Liam? What if he comes? Why hasn't he?"

"I don't know, kitten. Possibly he doesn't dare press the issue. He'd hardly invite English magistrates in here to ultimately confiscate the place. Nobody likes a turncoat, especially one whose usefulness is done."

"Where is he now?"

He nuzzled her neck. "Holed up somewhere in Ulster, no doubt. I've been too preoccupied with you to run him down. Are you afraid of him?"

"He hates you, Sean."

"If he could take you away from me, he'd have tried by now. You don't have to stay married to him. The banns were never posted and you agreed to the terms under duress."

"Liam didn't twist my arm; he simply gave me a choice. And the marriage was consummated. Neither the Vatican nor any law in Christendom recognizes rape by a husband."

"Don't you want to marry me, little barrister?"

In answer, Catherine slid atop him and lowered her lips to his with a kiss that could have rekindled the London Fire. When her head lifted, Sean Culhane lay a smoking ruin. As he let out his breath in a beatific sigh, she gave a low purr of delight and rubbed her nose in his fur. He stroked her nape. "You're not afraid anymore?"

She burrowed closer, whispering, "I died inside when you hated me. Even sifter the hate was gone, I felt like glass only glued together each time you touched me. Then, suddenly, there was no more time and nothing mattered anymore but never losing you."