Stormfire (7 page)

The woman was already headed for the door. "I'll bring ye somethin' suitable to wear in the mornin'."

"Thank you, Margaret. I am to call you Margaret?"

The woman paused. "There's no need to thank me. I'm a plain woman and plain Peg will do." She closed the door behind her and locked it.

Catherine let herself sag. She lay huddled on the prickly pallet and sobbed until she went dry. Too exhausted even to pull up the cover, she dropped into a deathlike sleep.

An hour later, a scream rent the silence. Instantly awake, Sean unsheathed a dagger concealed amid the bed hangings beside his head. A sobbing cry welled up from the depths of the house. He slid out of bed, found his breeches, and pulled them on. Barefoot and Indian quiet, he padded into the hallway, then swiftly down the stairs. At the bottom he heard the tormented cry again, a crooning, keening, mourning sound eerie as a banshee's wail. His breath caught. It was the girl. Somehow he knew it was the girl. Thinking she might have attempted suicide, he tore down flights of stairs to the levels below the main floor. A candle glowed at the opened door of the cell where Peg stood in her rumpled gown and no nightcap, staring into the room. Grabbing her shoulder, he furiously thrust her aside. "Damnation, Peg, I told you to be certain . . ."

Catherine lay on the bed, face turned to the wall and shielded by one arm. Peg grasped his arm warningly as he moved to brush past her. "She's still asleep."

He looked at her dubiously.

"Oh, aye. It was her right enough. Wailin' as if fiends were at her and mumblin' some heathen gibberish. But I doubt she knows a thing about it."

He crossed to the pallet. Catherine, seeming to sense his presence, moaned and flung an arm outward as if to ward him off. Her eyes were faint blue shadows under the lids. Wondering what horrors they were seeing, he watched them flicker. Her nose was swollen, blurring the definition of her features. The parted jacket nearly exposed her breasts, and, without thinking, he pulled the ragged coverlet
over her.

Peg, watching him with a speculative expression, announced rather loudly, "I'm thinkin' she could do with an extra blanket."

He looked up, green eyes unreadable, then glanced at the window and shrugged. "As you like. She's unlikely to last a fortnight without it." Shoving the knife into his breeches band, he left the way he had come.

Catherine lay inert, trying to think what miserable part of herself she did not want to move first. "There's a horrible creature in my head with a hammer," she mumbled.

" Tis a leprechaun, no doubt," Peg said, briskly stripping the blanket down to the foot of the bed. Because the prisoner was numb with cold, the additional draft had little effect.

"Leprechaun?" Catherine muttered dully.

"Aye. Mischievous little men. Some folk call them elves. They cause all sorts of trouble unless ye put out milk for them."

"Milk?" Catherine's eyes flew open with hope.

"Aye. But ye'll not be seein' breakfast for hours," said Peg, slapping a small pile of linen on the bed. "Nearly half the mornin's gone and ye've plenty to do, so ye'd better be movin'."

Catherine squinted into the dark. "You're confused," she said flatly. "It's still night."

"Night, me mither's bun." Peg sniffed. "The birds is caterwaulin'. Out of bed, girl."

As Catherine struggled to her elbows, a sharp pain shot through her neck and down her spine. Stifling a groan, she cranked her complaining body out of bed. When she had reached a more or less stable standing position, Peg thrust a worn, colorless shirt at her from the linen pile on the bed. Catherine looked at it. "You're joking." When Peg did not even blink, she sighed. Every muscle shrieking, Catherine worked her way out of her jacket, then into the shirt. One of Peg's own, it dropped directly over her head to her waist, ignoring her shoulders on the way.

"A tad large," Peg noted. "Pull it up and draw the cord at the neck. . . . Tighter. I want no good Irishmen bein' tempted to sin. That's it. Rip off a strip round the hem and tie it about yer waist." Peg stood back and surveyed the effect. "Well . . . ye won't be dazzlin' the Prince of Wales, but it looks better than it ought."

Catherine tried to pull on her jacket but the narrow sleeves refused to pass over the shirt, so with a sigh, she firmly ripped the sleeves off the once-fine garment and made a passable vest. She had slept in her boots, so at least she was forgiven the necessity of bending over to put them on; she thought she might collapse if she did.

"Come along with ye." Peg led the way through a series of corridors. up a narrow flight of steps, then pushed open a door.

The whitewashed kitchen was enormous. Windows, which lined the far wall, had heavy shutters with musket slits; deep-set casement wells indicated stone foundation walls three feet thick. The place could easily be turned into a fortress. Massive hoods sheltered huge hearths on the near wall. Down the center of the room was a long row of oak tables where several women were either up to their elbows in bread dough or making up vats of porridge and slicing bacon slabs for the fireplaces. As Catherine's nose twitched, her stomach let out a sullen growl. Two boys in their early teens were stacking wood at the near fireplace; one gave her a shy, furtive smile. As she smiled back, his companion gave him a warning thump on the shoulder. "Back to your, work, Danny!" He turned back to his chore. The women were less shy. One by one, as they became aware of her presence, they stared. A wave of hostility drifted toward her. Straightening her aching back, she eyed them as coolly as if Peg were escorting her on tour.

"Know anythin' about cookin'?" Peg asked.

"Not a thing," was the crisp reply. "And I've no intention of learning."

Peg gave her a look. "Ye'd be wise, girl, not to quibble over trifles."

Catherine started to retort, then realized the woman was right. She had best tread lightly until she explored her situation. She shrugged. "Very well, but don't blame me if I burn down the place."

Peg led her to a table where a young blonde with rosy cheeks and Peg's blue eyes kneaded dough. With a sidelong look at Catherine, the blonde kept kneading. "Now," Peg said, "watch Moora here and do as she does."

Catherine wondered if rpw dough was edible. It
looked
edible. She watched Moora's hands work and wind. Catherine filled her hands with flour. Nobody had asked her if they were clean. They were not. Moora plopped a wad of the creamy stuff on a board in front of her. Catherine dug her fingers into it, then tried a few experimental pulls. It was sticky and rubbery, but amusing to manipulate. Better still, it was turning a light gray. She adored the idea of feeding dirty bread to the enemy, but she was famished and the mound of dough was the only food in reach. Casually, she reached into the flattish wooden bowl that held fresh dough. Moora said without looking up, "Don't eat that."

"I've only had a few mouthfuls of food in the last few days," Catherine argued. "I won't be much use if I faint."

Moora's jaw set. "It's a rule. If you eat anythin' besides the regular meals, it's stealin'. Maude, there, handles thievin'."

Catherine looked at Maude's burly physique and man- sized hands that wielded a side of bacon like a demitasse spoon. She kept on kneading.

After a bit, Moora rolled her own portion into a fat sausage shape, then coiled it into a long knot. Catherine started to duplicate the pattern. "No. Another handful of flour or so for yer dough, then flour yer hands again before ye roll it."
       

For the next few hours Catherine folded dough, longing to pillow her head in the soft mass to sleep forever. At last, a bell sounded by the hearth nearest the door and her stomach gave a gurgle of joy. Breakfast! Everyone began to scurry about, clear tables, and set them with porringers, mugs, and spoons. Moora, without a word to her unwanted apprentice, joined the others.- Catherine watched for a moment, wondering if she was expected to assist, until Peg waggled an imperative finger and pointed to one of several silver trays loaded with covered dishes monogrammed with the initial C. The beast's own breakfast, no doubt.

"Take that and follow me," Peg said. Moora and four girls picked up the other trays.

"But, what about. . . ?"

"Your breakfast?" Moora ironically supplied for her.

"Later," Peg intoned. With a sigh, Catherine picked up the heavy tray. By the time they reached the end of the long corridor to the dining room, she thought her wrists would break.

The first face she recognized was Liam's at the table's far end. Toying abstractedly with a water glass, he glanced up as Peg led the servants into the room. His startled look told Catherine the bruises on her face must have ripened. With a flush, he focused on his empty plate. She hoped his conscience roasted him!

As she trailed Peg and Moora past the chairs toward him, she saw only strange men until Flannery's flaming beard came into view. Possibly accustomed to his master's brutality, he apeared less surprised than Liam. The trays went down on a massive mahogany sideboard. The room was Georgian with dark green walls, handsome white wainscoting, and a carpet with a scarlet field bordered in green and gold. A George Stubbs painting of riders and dappled white hounds hung in a gilt frame over the sideboard. Across the room, long windows admitted the hazy glow of early morning and framed a landscape bleak as a drained sea adrift with clinging scraps of mist. A few trees clustered near the house, but beyond those, nothing whatever relieved the wind-blasted furze and heather-blanketed rock. A peach-veined marble fireplace held a cheery crackling fire which dispelled the morning chill. Due to the laggard winter light, candles in brass wall brackets and on'the table had been lit.

As the dishes were uncovered, Catherine developed the attention of a starved dog. Crisp bacon wafted a heavenly odor to her nostrils. Poached eggs with lovely yellow yolks peeped from their deep dish. Kippers, golden cottage potatoes. And luxury of luxuries, black Jamaican coffee.

"Now, ye're to serve each gentleman yer dish from the left," Peg told her after dismissing the rest of the servant girls except Moora. "If he wants a bit, you spoon him out a bit. If he keeps lookin' at ye, give him more. Don't trip over yer skirts, and tomorrow, tie yer hair back. Begin with the big chair at either end, dependin' on whether Moora or meseif an't already there. I know it an't usual, but that's the way we do it at Shelan."

Shelan. Up until now, no one had mentioned names of anything or anyone.

"When ye're done, come back to this spot. If anybody wants extra helpin's, he'll crook his finger; you go runnin' and see what he wants."

You mean they don't whistle and expect me to wag my tail? Catherine thought irritably. I was so looking forward to relieving myself on some Irish gentleman's foot.

Thankfully, Peg and Moora headed for the far chair, the one where
he
must rest his villainous posterior. Catherine avoided looking in that direction and turned her attention to the choirboy. She doled bacon onto Liam's plate with precise plops. His neck was rosy, his embarrassment tangible as he muttered, "Thank you."

Catherine bobbed abruptly and whined in perfect Cockney only he could hear, "Ow, don't think nothin' of it, ducks!" Ignoring his choke, she went on to the next man.

Then she heard the Green-Eyed Beast's hateful, melodic
lilt
in the same strange language from the previous night and stole a look at him under her lashes. Insufferably at ease, he was sitting back, long legs stretched out under the table, a bleached linen shirt open at his tanned throat, his eyes on Flannery. Critically assessing the clean-cut profile etched against the window's hard, gray light, she reluctantly had to admit he was a man any woman would look at. Like her father, he used no gestures as he spoke. She noted with satisfaction the scratches on his cheek.