Stormfire (10 page)

Catherine's eyes shot sparks. Mad as a singed cat, she rose slowly to her feet, fine brows nearly meeting in her smudged face. Suddenly she flashed them a breathtaking smile, then swept a deep curtsy that would have served at a court presentation. Hooking her fingers around the bucket handle on the down sweep, she straightened and let fly an arching torrent of dirty water across the lot of them. "Good evening to you, gentlemen," she purred sweetly.

Though the men at the rear caught only the spray, the front ranks took the brunt. Flannery sputtered, beating at his beard. Rouge snarled and moved forward to reach for her but was interrupted by a long arm that snapped out to bar his way. Not looking at Rouge, Culhane said easily, "You've been neglected, Miss Enderly, to the detriment of your sunny disposition."

She watched him warily. Although quick reflexes had saved him from the worst, Culhane's hair dripped in spikes about his face. Were his lips actually twitching in an effort to suppress a laugh? The others were angry enough.

"Perhaps the exclusive company of women has grown tedious for you," he suggested mildly. She tensed. "Moora" —he glanced at the horrified young woman standing stock-still against the wall—"see that Miss Enderly joins the officers for dinner tomorrow evening." He gave his white-faced captive a hint of a mocking bow. "Sleep well, my lady." Then he waved his men toward the dining hall. As the door closed behind them, she heard an almost boyish explosion of laughter that might have been appealing had it not chilled her.

Feeling Moora's eyes boring into the back of her head, she defiantly planted her hands on her hips and faced her. The Irish girl's look of incredulous astonishment would have done credit to an owl. "What are you staring at?" Catherine demanded.

"Ye've got a nerve!" Morra spluttered. "I wonder Culhane didn't beat ye within an inch of yer life! Ye're daft!" Her voice rose steadily, but with a note of admiration.

"Perhaps; perhaps not. I have a temper. And I don't like being bullied." Catherine picked up the bucket and headed for the kitchen.

As Catherine sloshed water from the kitchen pump into the bucket, Moora, hands behind her back, watched almost shyly. She fidgeted for a moment, then insisted, "But Sean Culhane is master here."

"He's not my master, nor will he ever be."

Moora's eyes rounded. "He'd not be likin' to hear that sort of talk."

Catherine dropped a gluey handful of soap in the water. "I daresay he won't, when you tell him." She sardonically eyed the reddening girl. "Still, a new note may relieve the monotony of the daily recital. Pity. I should like to think it's boring him to death." She began to lug the bucket back upstairs.

As they climbed the stair, Catherine heard a faint giggle. "Bored he'll never be, not with a cheeky wench near drownin' him on his own doorstep. And him laughin' it off! He never laughs!" She giggled again. "Didn't they look a sorry pack of wet hounds? That Rouge, he's the cur in the pack. I don't mind stayin' up the night, just to watch him get his comeuppance." They reached the foyer door and briefly her hand touched Catherine's wrist. "Rouge won't forget, though. See you don't ever find yerself alone with him."

"Thank you, Moora. I'll remember that."

As the night wore on, Moora opened up like a flower in her desire to know about Catherine's life in England: the dresses, the parties, the jewels. Catherine tried to explain that the past five years had been as commonplace as the routine at Shelan, but Moora seemed so elated by even scraps of information, that Catherine recalled all she could, feeling a twinge as she watched the girl's wistful face. How barren life was for so many; yet even wealth and position had not made her own life happy, though Moora would never have believed it.

Unused to late hours, Moora gradually became drowsy, and when Catherine casually asked if elegant shops were available in the vicinity, she muttered sleepily, "Not for twenty miles, more's the pity. Donegal Town's the nearest."

As Moora slumped lower into her chair, Catherine edged toward the library door. When her young guard's breathing became regular, Catherine slipped into the library and shut the door. Knowing she could not have long before the dining hall emptied, she immediately tried the slant-top mahogany map desk; it was locked. Culhane's desk was also secure, but she expertly ran her fingers under the ridge between the drawer sections. As she hoped, a wad of sealing wax on the far left pressed a key to the wood. She rather suspected Liam, not Sean Culhane, would use such an old ploy. The key fitted the middle drawer lock, which in turn released the side drawer catches. Flipping through
the papers to find the key to the map desk, she found a couple of hand-drawn maps on letter paper; one was unfamiliar, but with a shock, she realized the other, jotted with a number 14 and a question mark, depicted the Windemere estate. Holden Woods, a three-fingered shape, about two miles north of the house, was heavily circled. The small forest was one of the finest walnut stands in England and provided a tidy portion of Windemere's incomes. Year- round selective timber operations would make it an unlikely hiding place for even a small concentration of strangers, and surely better ambush points were closer to the house. Then why . . . ? Suddenly she had a sick feeling that Culhane meant to destroy the timber as part of his plot for revenge. He might already have done it.

Slipping the papers back in place, she quickly searched the side drawers. The key she found in the top one fit the other desk. The map case opened without a click, but her ears, attuned for any betraying sound, heard the knob slowly turn on the library door. Snatching up an agate inkwell, she darted behind the door and flattened against the wall. As the door inched open, the widening hinge crack revealed a female figure. Moora's.

"Catherine?" she whispered. "Where are you?"

Holding her breath, Catherine hoisted the inkwell. Moora moved farther into the room. As her body cleared the door, Catherine knocked it shut with her hip and regretfully brought the inkwell down on the back of the girl's head. Moora dropped like a rock. Catherine slipped down beside her to anxiously test her pulse. It was steady, if a bit fast. Quickly, she yanked down the damask curtain catches, knotted them about Moora's wrists and ankles, then stuffed the girl's mouth with her own mobcap.

Breathing quickly, Catherine returned to the desk and went through the maps, at least half of which were nautical charts. Finally she found one that showed Donegal Town deep in the belly of a bay in Ireland's northwestern corner; its size suggested a garrison. At a twenty-mile radius from the town, Shelan could only be one of two places on the coast, but to head north or south was the question. She decided to ride south for five miles; if she did not reach the bay, she would have to head north to find it and trace its curve to Donegal Town.

She heard a muffled groan from Moora as she selected a bronze dagger with a peculiar undulating blade from the Celtic collection and thrust it into her waistband. As an afterthought, she pulled down a lethal-looking throwing ax.

As she crossed the room with the ax still in her hand, Catherine saw Moora's blue eyes widen in terror. Although any delay was risky, she stopped to touch the girl's shoulder. "I didn't want to hurt you, Moora, but Culhane means to give me to his men. I know you could have called them before coming to look for me. Thank you." Then she was gone.

The cold night air was intoxicating after weeks of confinement. None of the usual threatening rainclouds hung over the moon-painted moor. Reaching the paddock without interception, she cracked the stable door a fraction of an inch. A single lantern in the rear revealed the place was deserted. She slipped in and closed the door, took a bridle from the wall, and went from stall to stall looking for the thoroughbred gelding she had seen Liam use on his painting excursions. She found the gelding, then saw something better. In the last stall, a big black pawed restlessly. As she went closer, a grin spread from ear to ear. If her stallion, Numidian, had a brother, this was the horse. Arab blood showed in every line of his huge body, but hiB size indicated a Morgan sire. If so, he would have stamina. She began to croon to him in tones that would have had Numidian sitting in her lap. though his eyes showed oyster white crescents and he wickered nervously as she approached, he stood quietly, glossy skin twitching as she moved into his stall.

"There," she soothed. "There, darling . . . I won't hurt you. You lovely, big fellow, you beauty. Oh, darling, I wish I had a carrot," she whispered as he nuzzled her fingers with soft lips. "If you get me away from here, I'll fill you to bursting with carrots. Anything. Come away with me." Gently, she stroked him all over, hands slipping down fine, oval-boned legs. She quickly saddled him, then grabbed an extra horse blanket to wrap about herself and led him to the stable door. She peeked out. The house lights reached toward her like fingers, but seeing no one, she walked the black out into the moonlight. He stood, a massive, inky shape. With a deep breath, she put a foot in the stirrup. If he revolted now. . . She mounted and found the other stirrup. He whiffed softly through his nostrils. She walked him slowly in a short circle, touched heef to his flank, and gave him his lead. He broke into a smooth canter; then they lightly cleared the paddock wall and were off to the southeast like the wind.

Catherine was drunk with joyful release as the chill wind swept away the fog of hostility that had surrounded her, and the black settled into a long, easy stride that ate the miles. With a sense of omnipotence, she ripped away the strip securing her hair and flung it into the darkness. Her loosened hair whipped about her head like a heavy flag, stung her cheeks, brought tears to her eyes and laughter to her lips. She felt like a Valkyrie, riding the clouds, scattering the stars.

Then, for the first time, a troubling thought struck her. Once she reached Donegal Town the British army would be about Sean Culhane's neck like a python, but what of the others trapped in the coils? The rebels at Shelan, particularly the mercenaries paid to train the amateurs, were a nest of adders that should be scattered at whatever cost. But the women and children? And Doctor Flynn? They would all be imprisoned or worse. And what, after all, of Sean Culhane? He might be tortured for information about his activities and other potential rebels. Hanging he certainly deserved, but to be broken and maimed? She tried to fight her softness, remembering she had been foolishly lulled into sympathy the very night he had raped her. What had been an ecstatic ride to freedom now held grim promise at its conclusion.

Sensing her change of mood, the black slacked his pace. The moonlit landscape that had seemed so bright was now cold and barren as it undulated like a vast sea of stone. The hills rose and fell in slow waves, one like the other, monotonous and still, and the stars in the purple night glittered shrilly. Then a single star swung in a pendulum arc low on the horizon and the rhythm jangled into erratic, deafening discord. Heeling the horse in the flank, Catherine aent him thundering due east. She leaned over his neck as his long stride opened out. "They're coming! Run, beauty! Oh, please run!" Then a star swung directly ahead. Catherine wheeled in a rip of pebbles and turf, only to see yet another star waltzing in the northern hills. Hoping to outmaneu- ver them, she decided to try to slip past their rear guard in the dark. Better to dismount and lose them in the coastal rocks than to remain an obvious target in clear moonlight. She thudded away from the lights, but before she had gone a mile, the slim hope that they had been too far away to see her clearly faded as the lights swooped toward her in a rapidly closing V. All she could do now was run as long as the black held out.

"There she is!" Liam shouted at his brother, who galloped a big roan at Liam's side ahead of a handful of horsemen. "If we don't head her off, the outriders will drive her over the rocks!"

"Not on Mephisto, they won't. The wench may go over his head, but that horse isn't fool enough to jump to perdition."

Exasperated by Sean's seeming lack of concern, Liam started to retort, but his brother, apparently deciding his precious stallion might be in danger after all, pulled away and spurred until his companion riders were hard put to keep up.

Sean himself did not know whether the girl's danger or Mephisto's urged him on. Mephisto knew the cliffs well, but goaded to his utmost speed at night, he might not be able to stop in time. He had a momentary vision of girl and horse cartwheeling to the rocks below. Mephisto, he would be sorry to lose, but the girl confused him. Everything she represented repelled and disgusted him, yet he wanted her. Every night these last two weeks he had sailed to the village across the bay and assuaged his desire in the pale body of Fiona Cassidy as he tried to blot the English girl from his mind; he thought he had succeeded, yet tonight she had scowled up at him with blue eyes smoldering from the smudged little face and he had wanted to snatch away the fastening of her hair and crush that mutinous mouth under his in front of all his men. Better if she was out of his life now.