Stormfire (39 page)

Sean began to take Catherine riding in the afternoons. To make up this time from his work, he spent long hours at night in the study where he often slept on the sofa to avoid bedding with her, for he trusted his restraint less and less.

As a horsewoman, Catherine fearlessly managed her mount with a reckless though elegant grace. Had her precision been less than faultless, Culhane would have curbed her perilous inclination to speed, but observing her ability to take any jump as easily as himself, he was shortly inclined to believe Elizabeth Dunaway's assessment of her rival was colored with jealousy. Astride Numidian, Catherine reverted to the careless, impudent hellion she had been in England. She delighted in showing her heels to Mephisto and took outrageous chances to do so.

Although the rides were a needed diversion and both he and Catherine reacted like unruly children on holiday, at night her dreams left her shaken and confused. The nightmares, which had briefly abated at his homecoming, returned. He knew the broken French lullaby by heart; its childish monotony made his skin crawl.

One hazy day he led her to a high stone breastwork, which ranged across the barren moor not quite a mile from the house. He was galloping when the barrier appeared, but slowly fell back to allow her to take the lead. Almost casually, she veered away and cantered along the wall looking for a place to negotiate it where visibility was unimpeded, then slowed to a trot when she found none. Her head snapped around when the Irishman drawled, "I knew you'd find an obstacle that mollycoddled he-goat would refuse." He looped a leg over his pommel and gave her a grin as he scratched Mephisto between the ears.

She frowned. "Numidian didn't refuse; I did. I won't risk him foolishly."

"Ha! You've run him ragged over wooden gates higher than this. Come, Miss Enderly, admit it. That nag is a sham of a competitor. He's a big pet, nothing better."

"He's not afraid! I told you I reined him in!"

"Why? Why check him at this particular jump?" He trotted close to her.

"I dislike blind jumps." Imperceptibly, she tried to ease Numidian away from Mephisto, whose big body blocked the way to the open field.

Sean casually kneed the stallion to cut her off. "Dislike? You're afraid. Why not say so?"

She stiffened. "I wouldn't dream of marring your complacency. Think what you please." Numidian sensed his mistress's tension and began to paw the ground.

Sean scoffed, "So plucky Catherine Enderly is a mewling babe after all. Would you like me to go first, Miss Snivel?"

She bridled at the unlooked-for insult. "Why not? Break you arrogant neck, if you cannot bend it! See if I care."

"Such is your concern for my hide, lady," he replied sardonically. "No doubt it would please you best, stretched on yonder wall." Roughly, he jerked the big stallion around, trotted some distance into the field, and wheeled. Catherine's fingers twisted at the reins as the Irishman spurred Mephisto forward. The mighty stallion's muscles rippled under glossy hide as he thundered across the rocky ground. The wall loomed closer with each hoofbeat.

Suddenly Catherine heard herself shriek. "No! No! Stop, please God . . ." Her terror ended in a whimper. A dark blanket abruptly settled over her head.

Something brushed her face, and involuntarily she twisted away. Light played around the edges of the shadowy blanket, then grew blinding as the darkness lifted. She clearly heard her name. With an effort, her fingers lifted to touch a hard chest under a woolen jacket.

"Aye, lass, my neck is still stiff enough to defy the king's hangman." Culhane's voice was gently teasing, yet its strained note made her wonder.

"Did I faint?"

"Slid overboard like a green cabin boy on a well-greased whaler. Anything hurt?"

She grimaced and sat up woozily. "Only my pride. I've always considered vaporous females idiotic." She blinked. "Did you jump the wall?"

"With a squalling banshee ruining my concentration? Not likely!" He pulled her to her feet and held her until she steadied. "All right now?"

She eased out of his arms. "Quite."

During the next weeks, blind obstacles bristled all over the countryside. Culhane permitted her no excuse to discontinue the daily rides which quickly became an ordeal. Inevitably he would drop back from the lead, forcing her to take his place, never again attempting a wall she refused. One by one, she rode around barriers or turned away. He never pressed, only waited silently. Despite their recent relaxation of hostility, Catherine was almost convinced he had finally determined to destroy her, yet his gentle patience was bewildering.

She dared not turn to Liam, who avoided both her and his brother and spent many days away from home. Distantly polite at their rare meetings, he too seemed to be waiting for her to break, to be forced to recognize him as her salvation. Even Flynn, busy with his practice, was preoccupied and she struggled alone with increasingly complex studies. While Sean labored in the study, sometimes until dawn, Catherine, fearing sleep, poured over medical books. Occasionally sheer fatigue overcame her at the desk; hours later, Sean would put her to bed. During the day she hid from him at the infirmary, unaware Flynn also observed her carefully. Sean and Flynn were apprehensive. How much her mind could endure if forced to relive her mother's death was impossible to guess. But neither of them could know she was under an additional intolerable strain. Racked between irreconcilable political and moral responsibilities, she would tell them nothing of her current dilemma and could remember nothing of the old.

To Sean fell the dangerous decision. He would have yielded to the obvious solution and sent his hostage home despite the pain of losing her, but according to his spies, even at Windemere Catherine had been haunted by the past. To return her was to condemn her to that condition for life. Would the man who purchased her for a bride care for her hurts? How would he react to her nocturnal screams?

When Culhane led her again to the stone wall on the moor, Catherine followed with mute docility as if through a ritual. She seemed drugged as she automatically veered Numidian away at a monotonous trot. But lethargy escalated into panic as the Irishman crowded Numidian to the wall so closely she feared injury to her beloved stallion. When she flung up a fist to ward off her tormentor, he seized her wrist in a firm grip. "Not today, Kit. Today you don't refuse."

Her pupils shrank to pinpoints. "Let go!" Her voice dropped to a low snarl. "I won't take the wall and you'H not make me!" She goaded Numidian to rear, but Sean's hard downward twist on her wrist forced her to quiet the stallion. "I'm sick of being toyed-with! You think I don't know what you're trying to do?" Her voice rose in hysteria as she wrenched against his hand with a strength that surprised him. "You're a monster! Let go of me, damn you!"

"I'll put you up in front of me and take us both over! Take your choice."

Viciously she kicked at his leg and, dropping the reins, clawed at his head. When Sean ducked, she slid out of the saddle, crying out at the strain oh her wrist. Still she punched and kneed at Mephisto's flank until he tore the earth with his heavy hooves and reared. As Sean loosed her wrist for fear of trampling her, she scrambled away and ran like a panicked deer. Culhane kept Mephisto close at her shoulder, ready to twitch the black aside if she stumbled, and flushed her toward the wall. Back and forth she darted, but flying feet were no match for the black. Panting and exhausted, she was forced against the stone barrier, where she turned at bay and caught up a jagged rock. Instantly Culhane slid off the stallion and pushed the nervous horse away.

Catherine shrank against the stones but, instead of hurling her missile, began to edge away. "Get back! Get back!" His hand shot out and planted itself beside her left shoulder. She recoiled, only to meet his other hand blocking escape. Twisting to the wall, she pressed against the rough surface as if attempting to dislodge its stones. "Leave me alone! Stop hounding me!"

"What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing! Nothing! Leave me alone!" She was screaming now.

"Catherine, who's behind the wall?" She froze. Abrupt silence fell over the sunlit meadow. "Is someone in trouble?"

Fingers clawing weakly at the rocks, she whimpered. "Please. Please. Stop . . ."

"Kit, do you hear a woman crying?"

"No . . . Maman, don't. Don't cry."

"Is it your mother, Kit?"

"She . . . was hurt . . . she needed help . . . but no one came." Her head sagged against the rock and for a moment Sean thought she had fainted.

"What happened? Why was she hurt?"

"Her birthday," Catherine muttered dully. "It was her birthday." Catherine's voice was strained and faraway and he had difficulty catching all the words, but the picture they recalled was all too vivid. Windemere had been crowded with guests for the week-long birthday celebration and Elise Enderly had been at her best, exhilarated by dancing and a midnight supper. Toward dawn, she had left her bleary-eyed guests gaming at whist and piquet and gone to Catherine's room to rouse out her daughter for an early-morning ride. They had whispered like mischievous schoolgirls while she helped Catherine dress. An usual, they had saddled the horses without awakening the grooms and had left the stable before first light. Dawn had come as still as a silence between heartbeats, the birds just beginning to call as light threaded the sky. The spring fields were blooming and green, the fecund scent of raw earth fresh on the breeze. Elise, riding Ethiop, had teased Catherine into a race to greet the sun. "A wonderful secret's the prize!" she had cried gaily.

"I couldn't keep up with her on Boswick," Catherine murmured. "She began to outdistance me. She was laughing when she took Ethiop over the east meadow wall, then . . . screaming. I would have followed her if she hadn't screamed." Her fingers splayed on the wall. "When I reached them, they were still alive . . . hanging on a hayrack like gory butterflies. Ethiop was nearly gutted."

"Kit, that's enough."

"They wouldn't die and Ethiop kept trying to run . . ."

"Kit. . ."

"Mother always carried a small pistol; it looked like a toy. I took it and shot Ethiop. She pleaded for the other bullet. I wanted to go for help, but she clung to me, begging. Blood came from her mouth and I thought she was dying. She was terrified to die alone. So I stayed and she kept living and moaning through those bloody bubbles. Finally, I put the gun to her head. Then she was quiet." Distractedly, she crooned, "Maman, don't cry. I'll never leave you . . . never."

Turning her to him, Sean held her tightly. "Kit, it's over."

But the soft, terrible voice went on. "When Papa and the men finally came, they stared at me. My habit was covered with blood. Then I began to see she might have lived if I had gone for help. Papa took away the gun and put me in a room. I wasn't permitted to go to the funeral. I stayed in the room and sang. She hated the dark, to be alone . . ." Catherine's head rested on his chest as she pondered idly, wistfully, "I wonder what her secret was?"

"How long were you in the' room?"

"I don't know. A few weeks . . . months."

"What was it like?"

Her voice grew stronger, more aware. "There were bars and a cot and two servants who tied me down when I became violent. Finally a doctor had them throw cold water on me and I stopped singing. After a time, I was sent to school . . . Papa was very angry, you see."

A harsh note edged Sean's voice despite his effort to keep his words even. "He blamed you?"

"He never said so. But he never came to see me. I knew."

"Kit, you've begun to learn something of medicine," he said carefully. "Your mother's lungs were pierced. She couldn't have lived. Don't you see your father and the men who found you in the field must have pitied the terrible choice you had to make? The horror you thought you saw in their eyes was a reflection of your own uncertainty and grief."

"If Papa understood, why did he send me away?"

"Grief can be a selfish emotion. Some people best bear their sorrows alone. Perhaps he felt you would recover more quickly if your surroundings no longer suggested bad memories." Privately, Sean thought the viscount could not have done more to ensure his daughter's mental collapse. Denied every normal form of mourning, even painful but necessary relinquishment by witnessing the burial, she had been given neither support nor solace. Enderly's callousness seemed incredible, yet the girl loved him with all the forlorn hope of a rejected child and sought some miserly token of forgiveness. With all his soul, Sean wished he had killed the man at Ingram. "Kit." He tilted her chin up. "Look at me." Even in direct sunlight, her eyes were dark and filled with loss. "You know I'm a coldhearted villain who gives no quarter. Why should I pity you? I could easily tell you you're a murderess, but it would be a lie."