Stormfire (26 page)

The Atlas Myth

Catherine adjusted her heather shawl as the thatch-roofed stone infirmary appeared around a bend of the path. Doctor Flynn might live in solitude, but he had chosen his surroundings for natural luxury. Verdant heather stretched for miles and the view was breathtaking. In the fresh breeze, boats at anchor in the harbor danced at their moorings.

When the door flung open and Flynn briskly strode out, Catherine had a moment's misgiving. What if he should attribute this elevation in her position to Culhane's approval of his new concubine? But, as he helped her from the cart, the doctor's obvious delight to see her dispelled her uneasiness. He ushered her into a sitting room reserved for waiting patients. Empty at the moment, its worn furnishings had a coziness Shelan's rooms lacked. Flynn's head just cleared the lintel as they walked through the corridor that led to a small kitchen and apartments to the rear. In the center of a round oak table carefully laid with linen, pewter, and sturdy blue Delft plates was a small butter crock hastily stuffed with his handsomest flowers. Only dinnerware laid backward revealed a woman's hand was lacking in the preparations. Catherine felt oddly as if she wanted to cry.

After a succulent chowder followed by cream-drenched gooseberries, the doctor gave his new assistant a tour. The ward was a long, cot-lined, whitewashed room partitioned to separate the sexes. Several windows ensured a light, cheery interior on the bleakest days. The ward was spartan but immaculate; he informed her that a slow-witted lad from the nearby village of Ruiralagh came to clean and perform orderly duties. The dispensary was equally spotless.

Her first task at the infirmary was a simple one. Doctor Flynn's eyes not being what they used to be, she was to read aloud to him his new surgical texts from Edinburgh; Latin terms cropped up on every other line. Fortunately, she had been tutored in Latin and managed reasonably well. Quickly fascinated by the workings of the human body and techniques of repairing it, she began to ask intent questions that first amused Flynn, then pleased him.

Upon returning to Shelan, Catherine realized she would have to rush to make herself ready for dinner. Her wardrobe had been hung in an armoire brought down from the attic that afternoon, and a scented bar of soap was tucked in one of the drawers. She noticed her brush rested cosily beside Culhane's shaving things near the Washbowl. With a slosh of water from the pitcher, she scrubbed hastily at her face, then spent more time on her hands, wishing for cream to ease their redness and broken nails. Sighing, she swabbed her dripping face with the towel and patted at damp tendrils of hair. After brushing her hair until it shone, she decisively placed the brush at the end of the commode far from Sean's gear. Pulling her hair to one side with a bit of ribbon, she gave it a few twirls with, her fingers. With her head tilted to one side to study the effect, she wondered suddenly why she was going to so much trou- - ble for a man she detested? She gave the curls a yank, but she was irritated to see their disarray had more appeal.

Still fiddling with her hair, Catherine ran down the steps, then slowed abruptly to nod decorously to Culhane's puzzled, staring officers who milled about the foyer. Every male head in the room turned to admire the flushed young countess's progress through the crowd and her charming, if somewhat hasty, exit.

She closed the salon door and sagged against it. Clearly, greater freedom went hand in hand with increased exposure as Culhane's mistress. She could imagine the bawdy remarks to be bandied about the officers' table tonight.

She stalked over to the marble fireplace, seized a poker, and stabbed viciously at the fire. Returning the poker to its stand, she sourly eyed the table laid with shimmering crystal and porcelain. The lack of windows in the room added to its aura of cozy intimacy, as did the faded, finely patterned silk wall covering. The furniture was Louis XV; the chair seats upholstered in pale-colored petit points of the changing seasons. Bits of gilt winked in the firelight. Idly, she drifted about, looking at the paintings and water- colors: among them were Liam's lovely, delicate sketches, a Botticelli pen drawing of a nymph, and a David of
Freedom at the Barricades.
The Botticelli, while worth a small fortune, might have been purchased by a past master of Shelan; but the David, despite a Jacobin theme popular among dissident Irish, was no more than a few years old and, like many other paintings in the house, represented a tidy investment. She could not understand Sean Culhane, with his obsession for pumping Shelan's resources into guns and rebellion, permitting such expenditures.

Culhane's deep, melodic lilt startled her. "Do you like Boucher?"

Her eyes slid over the chalk drawing to which he referred as she turned to face him. "No."

The Irishman shrugged out of his dripping cloak, his feral presence making the room's pastel colors seem tepid. "Indeed." One black brow quirked. "Why not?"

"I find his work insipid."

"Is that all?" He was a trifle mocking as he gave the bell rope a tug to summon Rafferty to take his wet cloak.

Her chin came up. "If you mean he reflected a venal society, yes, I've noticed that too."

"Bravo, Countess. Perhaps tutelage at Shelan has proved enlightening."

"I don't need to have my head pushed under the mire to realize it exists!" she retorted. "Have you brought me here tonight to quarrel?"

Rafferty knocked and Culhane shoved the cloak through the door. Scrubbing a hand across his wet hair, he came to stand beside her. "No, English," he said tiredly, "only to keep me company."

Looking at him sideways, Catherine noticed white marks of tension and fatigue at his cheekbones, and the sag of his shoulders. She brought a chair and set it before the fire. "You're tired and chilled," she said firmly, answering his ironic look of surprise.

He dropped gratefully into the chair, and without even a grimace at the mud, she dragged off his boots. He grinned faintly. "Does this concern mean you've lost your itch to cut my throat?"

Without expression, she set his boots before the fire. "Peg told me you saved my life yesterday. No doubt the rescue suited your purposes." Crossing behind him to the table, she poured claret into a goblet. Her voice softened as she handed him the wine, although her hand abruptly withdrew as his fingers brushed hers. "Whatever your intent, I thank you for it." He gave a brief shrug and eyed her thoughtfully.

"You're looking at me strangely. What are you thinking?" she asked with a child's serious intensity.

Sean let his head fall back against his chair. "I'm thinking, little one, you're incredibly appealing in that old blue dress and I'd like to kiss you, to lie quietly before the fire with my head in your lap and trust that torrential rain outside to wash away all our inevitable tomorrows."

He sipped his claret in silence and continued to survey his prisoner as if he had no thought of her discomfiture. "Something's odd about that dress," he announced finally.

Startled, Catherine stepped backward as her critic rose from his chair. To her embarrassed annoyance, he began to undo the fichu of her dress. Although no longer fresh, the airy shawl concealed the daring exposure of her breasts, pressed high by a square-cut, tightly fitted bodice. "Please don't," she pleaded indignantly. "The fichu is entirely suitable. I thought the clothes were to be worn as I chose . . ."A distinct coolness settled about her shoulders as the light scarf slipped away. Seeing the warmth in his eyes as they roved over her throat and breasts, she felt a wave of apprehension.

"Surely you know fichus are no longer worn by sophisticated" women," he teased.
   

"I have no wish to be sophisticated . . ."

"Only suitable." He grinned and she wanted to kick him. As the slant of her eyes grew more wicked and her flush deepened, he drawled, "I don't recommend your starting a row. While I can think of nothing I'd like better than to tumble you on the rug, I think your resulting shrieks would soon be more those of pleasure than outrage. The men in the next room should find the vocal progression most titillating."

"Oh!" She stamped a foot and glared. "A buck rabbit in rut is more of a gentleman than you!" With her sudden motion, Sean caught his breath. "Stop staring at me!" Her voice and foot rose at the same time, and he quickly caught her wrist.

"Stop hobbling every time you move and perhaps I can." He dragged her to the table, pushed her down into her chair, and gave the bell a tug. "I should like to dine in peace, Countess. Shall we preserve the amenities, or have you forgotten them in your brief sojourn among the peasantry?"

"My manners are hardly in question," she hissed. "You're the one who suggested a roll on the rug!"

He laughed easily as he retrieved his wine from the mantel and sauntered back to the table. "Your neckline made the suggestion. Under the circumstance, I cannot be held responsible."

Her eyes narrowed. "I suppose in a like manner, you feel absolved for attacks on my father!"

Culhane's humor disappeared. "You're in no position to cast blame on anyone. You knew nothing and cared nothing for the condition of my people before you came here. It's remarkable that your oblivion extends to your father's activities as well. If you seek to hound me into rejecting your company, disabuse your mind. Tonight we'll dine together, converse politely together, and bed together. Adjust yourself."

"I wish I'd let you freeze," she grated.

"No you don't," he said calmly.

The door opened just then and Catherine, biting off her retort, looked up. "Moora!"

"Milady." Averting her eyes, Moora began to serve the plates.

Catherine tried to ease the girl's discomfiture. "I'm very glad you and Maude have recovered."

Astonishment banished Moora's shame. "Maude's well enough, I suppose. Better off than me, havin' her rest under the cold, wet sod." She caught her master's warning look,too late, and stood tensely, twisting her hands in her apron.

"She's dead?" Catherine stammered, and turned to Culhane. "But . . . you said . . ." Her eyes dimmed. "Oh, God."

"That will do, Moora," Culhane curtly dismissed the pale servant girl.

"Why?" Catherine murmured. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd be upset."

"May I attend the services?"

"Maude was buried this evening."

"Is that why you were late . . and so wet?"

"Yes." He did not add that the local priest had chosen to regard the circumstances of the madwoman's death as dubious and refused to perform the last rites, that only he and Flannery had been at the gravesite to inter the body.

"Buried in a dark hole in the rain," Catherine whispered numbly.

He leaned over and caught her face in his hands. "It could have been you. Be glad to be alive." She stared at him, saying nothing. His hands lowered. "Drink your wine. All of it, quickly." Like a child at an imaginary tea party, she obeyed. "Now start on the roast pork and don't stop until you've done." Even though his own food grew cold, Culhane refilled her glass and prodded her to eat and drink until a trace of color returned to her face. Deliberately, he talked monotonously of inconsequential nothings until her lids drooped, then gathered her up and carried her to bed.

That night fearful nightmares left Catherine shaken and drenched with perspiration. In semiconscious moments she clung to Culhane in terror. Unable to understand her incoherent cries, he could only hold her, whispering softly, and though exhausted himself, would soothe her into troubled sleep, only to find her thrashing a short time later.

Haggard, his eyes burning, Sean watched the sunrise and rubbed the dark stubble of his jaw as he stood at the windows. Catherine was sleeping fitfully. Crossing to the commode, he poured a bowlful of cold water, then shoved his head into it. Still dripping, he shaved quickly and dressed. He swung on a cloak against the damp and went out to saddle Mephisto.