Stormfire (72 page)

"Ye coldhearted rotter, 'e could die out 'ere!"

"Naw, I an't goin' for the doctor. I'm on watch, see?"

"Well, help me get 'im to the back door. I'll tote 'im up to the Bones if the bloke's too fancy to come down. I know the back way. Nobody'll see us.
^J
Ere, lad, have a 'eart."

The marine sighed. He was well acquainted with Short; the fellow was fully capable of badgering him all night. Sometimes the two did him favors, like pieking up that draft of rum for him last night while he stood post. "Alright, alright. Heave 'im up."

Less than an hour later, the two emerged, Lean hobbling along under his own steam, a fat bandage on his head. "What's Doc say?" The marine's breath formed a cloud.

"No work for a while," said Short gleefully. Lean rolled his eyes and gave the guard a smirk as he limped past.

The man stared after them. "Lumme, never met a stiffie yet that an't got a queer sense of wit."

Shortly after, Marcus left the prison's main entrance. "Evening, lads. I may miss curfew tonight. Keep an eye out for me, will you?"

"Night on the town, 'ay, Doc. Ye don't get many of those."

"You fellows keep me too well occupied." He touched his hat in a small salute. "Night."

Minutes later, he ducked into a doorway. "I got your message. 'Lazarus operandus, Kit' puzzled Short a bit; his pronunciation was more imaginative. I realize you couldn't say much, so I brought the basics."

"God bless you for coming." Quickly, Catherine described Sean's injuries. "We should go to the house separately. I'll leave the back door unlocked. He's in the cellar."

Marcus nodded, then paused. "Your father knows his prisoner wasn't executed. He's talked to Worthy."

"Does he know Sean's alive?"

"Not yet, but he'll dig up all the fresh graves in that field until he's sure; that won't take more than a day.!'

"Then I must get Sean out of England by tomorrow night. They're sure to begin a house search." Distraught, she looked up. "Can you get word to the diggers? I don't want them hurt. I don't want
you
hurt. You're taking a terrible chance."

"I've always thought I had the only sane attitude possible for a prison practitioner. I've also been a coward. Give me your address, Countess."

Quickly descending the cellar stair, Catherine shook snow from her cloak. Sean stirred restlessly, muttering unintelligible snatches in three languages. She felt his head; he was feverish.

"Kit? Please . . . don't go. Don't leave me in the dark. Where are you? . . . No. Get out of here. Stay away. God . . . I'm cold."

Catherine added another blanket and heated gruel, then, lifting his head, spooned the liquid between his lips. A little went down; most he could not control and she dabbed at the corner of his mouth. His good eye opened. "Thought. . . you were gone."

"I'm not going to leave you."

His face contorted. "I don't want you!
Part . . .
of re
venge . . .
to make you think I cared."

"Nothing you can say will make me go."

He turned his face away sharply. "I'm your half brother. I took you
knowingly . . .
in incest. Now, will you go?"

"Liam told you, didn't he?" She brushed back his hair as he turned back to stare at her. "I know why you brought me home. Amin explained everything."

His eyes clouded. "How can you look at me like that, after . . ."

"I love you. Nothing can alter that. But how did Liam find out?" .

"A codicil to Brendan's will. And Brendan's painting
. . .
of
Elise."

As the truth dawned, Catherine's eyes hardened. "Then he knew! Liam knew when he married me! That's why he went into a frenzy when he finished that painting on the cliff." Rage bubbled over. "Oh, God, how could he! Then send his own brother to certain death. It wasn't as if he hadn't done enough!"

A creak at the stair top brought her to instant, breathless silence, Sean to the edge of terror. As polished boots descended the staircase, he fought to reach the pistol. When Catherine restrained him, he lunged against her like a madman. "Give me . . . that gun!"

"Sean, it's Doctor Marcus. Don't you see?"

Exhausted, he leaned against her, staring like a cornered wolf at the surgeon.

"I've come to do what I can, Sean," Marcus said quietly. "No one knows I'm here. You dragged yourself this far. You cannot wish to die now like a dog in this cellar."

"I'll never leave here alive. Why give her false hope?" His voice faded to a dull whisper. "She'll be better off."

Catherine's arms tightened about him and she murmured against his hair. "I'm carrying your child, love. Nothing can make me sorry for your life in me. This child was conceived in innocence; he'll be loved without reservation, but you know more than anyone what being thought a bastard is like. For his sake and mine, you must live."

His arms stole around her, one hand hanging limply, his face against the curve of her neck. "All right, little one. I . . . owe you one."

Finally it was over. "I don't like having to leave this piece of lead in his chest," Marcus muttered as he bandaged, "but if I take it out, he'll not be going anywhere for weeks."

He straightened the nose and packed it. "I see you've been applying compresses; the swelling's reduced." He pulled on his jacket. "You're an excellent assistant, Countess. I've rarely had better."

She walked him up the stair to the back door. "I had a good teacher. And please call me Kit. I owe you Sean's life; I'll pray for your well-being every night of mine."

He took her hand at the door. "I'm the one who should thank you for giving me back my self-respect." He fished in his pocket and brought up a pair of vials. "I almost forgot, If he's in imminent danger of being retaken, pour one of these down him; it kills within seconds." He dropped them in her hand. "I advise you to swallow the other."

Sean, propped against a wall, gazed critically at the slim sailor lad who pommeled a stocking into the toe of an out-sized boot. She pulled it onto a foot already encased in three pairs of wool stockings. "Two pairs of mittens, too." The pseudo-sailor waggled woolly fingers. "They'll not look as closely at a boy."

Sean rested his head back against the wall. The thought of merely standing up filled him with dread.

Catherine stripped off the gloves, then stooped and began to dab at his face with a melted paste of
coffee
grounds and lard, carefully avoiding cuts. "In the dark, this will blend with the rest of your skin. It's a shame the doctor had to shave you; a bit of beard would have helped." She touched up his nose as he tried not to wince.

When she had finished with Sean, Catherine dragged on thick sweaters and a pea jacket and struck a boyish stance. "Well, how do I look?"

The Irishman's broken lips moved in a semblance of a wry smile. "Lovely. Very."

Catherine gave a snort of exasperation. "We'll soon see about that!" Quickly, she brushed the coffee mixture against the grain of her brows to roughen them, then altered the contours of her face. Minutes later, she was unrecognizable. She put her hands on her hips. "Well, as they say, it's now or never. The nine o'clock watch comes by in an hour. Not too many people on the streets and not too few. Ready, bucko?"

"Aye." He took a deep,breath, then lifted an arm. She got a shoulder under his armpit, and as gently as possible, helped him to his feet. His lips went white, and he swayed unsteadily for a moment, then lifted his head and nodded.

The Irishman's face was beaded with sweat when they reached the top of the cellar stair, and she let him briefly rest. By the time they reached the back door, Catherine already felt the strain of his weight.

The night was chill with little wind. Snow sifted lazily across streets silvered by a half-moon. His bad arm slung over Catherine's shoulders, Sean tried to take as much weight off her as possible, concentrating on one step at a time, each dull explosion of pain. When they entered an alley across the street, he used a wall to help support himself. They rested at the alley's end, just off a street of lighted taverns where a few sailors, doxies, and stray soldiers wandered. Most townspeople were in bed. When the street emptied somewhat, Catherine took Sean's arm and helped him into the street. Partway across, a hurrying soldier, bending his head against the cold, accidentally bumped into the Irishman's shoulder. Catherine heard Sean's gasp of pain and the soldier did, too. "Sorry, bub." He peered into Culhane's face, then at Catherine. "Say, what's wrong with 'im? I didn't tyke his bloody arm off, y'know. Sod looks ready to pass out."

"He's . . .
my brother," Catherine said desperately. " 'E's just a bit soused. A bloke in an inn down the street took a poke at 'im."

"More than one poke, looks like."

"Bloody bashtard," Sean mumbled. He swore incoherently, then began to sing in a slurred voice, "Four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness . . ."

"Best get 'im home, lad." The soldier chuckled.

"I mean to, sir."

When they reached the dark shelter of another alley, Sean almost dropped in his tracks. She eased him against the wall as he fought back waves of pain. "How much farther?" he muttered.

"Just a few more steps."

With painful slowness, they finally reached the end of the alley and the harbor spread before them. Catherine braced him against the wall and his head fell forward, his breathing sick and shallow. "Look . . . for a small boat. Just big
enough . . .
to be seaworthy."

Scanning the vessels tied at the
quai,
she almost sobbed, "These are too big and it's time for the watch."

"We'll wait. Further down . . . boats . . ."

He sagged, and she gasped, "Sean, I cannot hold you!"

He pressed upward, thinking how tired he was, how much he wanted to go to sleep in the snow with her holding him.

"They're coming," she whispered.

The watch tramped by, bayonets fixed. They split formation just beyond the alley. The first one peeled off to check the wharf across from the lovers' hiding place. Far down the
quai,
in the direction of the prison, moving torches flared; already search parties were out posting sentries with torches at intervals along the waterfront.

The guard strolled out to the end of the pier, slowly turned and scanned the building fronts. Catherine's fingers closed around one of the vials in her pocket and eased its stopper out. Sean's eyes were closed. In complete trust, he would swallow anything she put to his lips. Please, God. He's come so far.

The marine turned back to face the harbor, spread his legs slightly, and urinated into the water. She went weak with relief. The man hastened to rejoin his comrades, now dwindling down the
quai.

"Sean, they've gone, but the marines are picketing the harbor. We have to go now or we'll be trapped here. Please, love."

"Leave . . . me. . . . Bleeding . . . bad."

With desperate fury, she dragged his arm over her shoulder. "I won't leave! If you give up, you won't go back to prison alone."

His battered face twisted. "Damn it, get out of here!"

"No!" she hissed. "Why should I? You didn't let me off so easily. Walk, damn you! I'll drag you if you don't!"