Stormfire (45 page)

She stood motionless, not resisting, not responding; then her voice came low. "I understand. Nothing's changed. Except now I'm your whore in fact."

He wanted to shake her, cover her face with angry kisses, persuade her with words, his body, anything; but he knew it would be useless. Defeated, he dropped his hands. "Get dressed, Countess. The holiday's over."

A Scent of Orchids

Catherine knelt before the glowing peat fire, her skin tingling with the intense heat. During the last leg of the trip home the weather had been rough, and the
Megan
had limped into Shelan long after dark. Now, her shawl and Elizabeth Flynn's nightgown provided scant protection from the damp, faintly musty chill of the bedroom. Stirring the fire until it flared up, she thought of the holocaust Sean Culhane had ignited. They were both lost to sense or caution, existing only with blind impatience to be one flesh again, to be made mindless in a sensual delirium. She both exulted in and was frightened by a desire that made her capable of such submission. Was it only lust that made her wish to lie forever beneath his body, supine, endlessly yielding as he endlessly took? In every sense a whore? His whore. Far better that than to be the blessed of Heaven, if Heaven had cast him out.

And then Culhane was there, his dark presence like gently demanding hands touching her everywhere. She looked up. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. No thanks to Liam. He was gone most of the time." He placed an object on the desk with a metallic clink, poured two brandies from the decanter, and came over to her. He handed her a snifter. "Flynn misses you." He was looking at her strangely but his face was unreadable.

He pulled up a chair, dropped into it, and stared into the fire; then as she inhaled the aroma of her brandy, he reached down to finger the lace at her throat. She stiffened involuntarily, feeling a rush of blood to her cheeks. "You've donned lace armor tonight." His fingers slipped to the delicate line of her jaw. "You've no need to wear armor with me, Kit. Take it off."

"May I not finish this brandy first? The room's cold. . ." she faltered.

Culhane frowned, then shrugged with a touch of his old indifference. "As you like." He quickly drained his own glass, then rose and went to his armoire, removing his shirt as he did so. Swiftly, he stripped and put away his clothing, then turned to see Catherine flinch from his nudity. Silently, he went to her, removed the glass from her fingers, and drew her up. He slipped the shawl from her shoulders. In the long, high-necked gown she looked like a bride, untouched, unawakened, glossy hair still coiled up from the bath. As he began to undo the long row of tiny buttons that fastened the garment, he wondered how Flynn had had the patience to work through them on his wedding night. Perhaps he had simply pushed the gown up. His throat went suddenly dry as at last the garment parted to the waist, revealing the shadowed swelling of her breasts. He started to slip the gown from her shoulders and felt her trembling. "Kit, haven't you learned I've no wish to force you?"

"I don't understand the emotions you arouse," she whispered. "When you touch me, you take my will."

"Kit. . . sweet. . ." Sean whispered against her throat, exploring its fragile hollow with his lips, tracing a burning path from the fragrant curve of her neck and lower until she sighed and let him roam where he would. Gently he cupped her velvety breasts inside the gown, stroking them, tempting their peaks to press eagerly against his fingertips. Then he parted the gown to let it fall from her shoulders until she was naked; his warm lips sought the sun-tinted flesh it revealed. "Aye," he breathed, "this is how I would have you."

Drawing a gleaming mass from the desk, he turned her to face the pier glass that reflected her nakedness full length against his, then fastened a necklace about her neck. An intricately worked golden collar with smooth amber and sapphire studs set in mazes of uncut amethysts rested against her skin. Warm from his fingers, it was surprisingly heavy, the irregular stones subtly echoing the shading of her eyes. He loosed her hair and let it fall in a wild, stormy mass to her waist. "For fourteen centuries, only Gaelic queens have worn the Niall Tore. From this night, it's yours.
Ta in gra le tusa,
Catherine."

For a moment she could say nothing, feeling as if the necklace had enclosed her in a spiraling, ancient current of time. As if his quiet Gaelic had sealed her destiny. "Sean," she breathed, "you mustn't . . ."

"Why?" he asked tightly. "Do you find the Tore barbaric in comparison to your grandmama's diamonds?"

She turned to him. "You know it's priceless . . . and never meant for one who is English."

"The Tore was never made to gather dust in a museum, love, but to be worn by a woman against warm, living flesh; to be worn by the chosen of the O'Neill, high chief of the Gaels. I am the O'Neill. And you are the woman I choose."

"But how is this collar different from the other, for all its beauty?" she asked softly. "Once you shackled my body, but my mind and heart were free. Now . . . now I'm less than your thrall." Tears slipped down her cheeks as she lowered her head.

"Nay, I think not. Whatever shackles you bear are fastened in my heart." He carried her to the fire and laid her down in the furs, spreading her hair until it spilled across the blue fox in a shimmering torrent. "Aye, this is how I would have you," he whispered, his mouth coming down on hers in a kiss that seemed to draw her soul from her body.

The surrounding shadows scattered, past and future retreating until only the demand of now remained. His hands moved slowly, seeking love's secret places, reducing her into pliant surrender until her body succumbed and she arched against him with a soft cry. But as he sought entry, she whispered, "You play on my senses with the ease of a practiced seducer. May I not take part in the game?"

With a teasing grin, he rolled onto his back. "Seduce away, wench; I've no objection."

"But, where shall I. . . ? What. . . should I do?"

He shrugged lazily. "Whatever you like. You'll know quickly enough what I think of it." He closed his eyes as if prepared to be bored into sleep.

Catherine considered the supple brown body that reclined in the furs.
Quel beau sauvage, que c'est magnifique.
Startled that her reaction had been in French, she recalled his taunt about her Gallic blood and her expression subtly altered to a mysterious smile.
Au secours, ma ch'ere grand- maman, Nathalie.
You conquered France. Let me humble just one Irishman. She scattered light butterfly kisses on his closed eyelids, then trailed down to his lips. Without moving a muscle, he kissed her back, letting his lips part under hers, arousing her easily to impatient desire with no effort and no apparent counterreaction. Piqued to inspiration, she nuzzled his throat and temple, then lightly darted the tip of her tongue into his ear and was rewarded by the swift intake of his breath.
Merci, Grandmaman!
She wandered down to the hollow of his shoulder and discovered his nipples, nibbling them to the hardness of bullets. But by the time her slim fingers stroked his inner thighs and hesitantly explored his sex, Sean lay like a gathering explosion. Theii her tongue delicately flicked him and he gasped, his belly contracting. She caressed him until he was trembling and involuntarily spread-eagled in the furs, surrendering completely to her seeking mouth,

"Sweet Jesus . . . Kit. . ." he groaned. No longer able to bear her gentle torture, he seized her and rolled her beneath him into the fur. He drove deeply between her thighs in sweet revenge even as he sought her mouth. His thrusts quickened until she wrapped her legs about his hips and raked his back in primitive response to the ravenous demand of his driving body. With a harsh, moaning cry, Sean lost his last shred of control and felt his lover violently convulse beneath him at the same moment. As the fire burned low, they lay locked together, shaken and dazed from the terrible force of their passion. So long at odds, they now hardly dared to breathe, afraid to be parted.

"Bitch," Culhane murmured. "Beguiling witch. My innocent wanton. You have the mouth of a
child. . .
a whore. I no longer care whether you offer salvation or damnation. Like Alexander, I've done reveling at the victory feast, only to seek defeat in a woman's arms. Never leave me, Kit."

"If love were my only prison, I should not know where to go," she whispered. "When you hold me, I'm bound and blind, heeding only your voice, the touch of your lips, your body claiming mine. What have you done to me? I'm lost. Please . . ."

As Sean answered her plea with his lips, he began to move with slow, age-old rhythm in cadence with her breathing until they moved as one and Catherine felt as if her entire body were an incandescent extension of her lover. At last she splintered and floated within his being. As he gathered the furs close about them, she lay against him in warm oblivion, partly covering him, still containing him.

Late the next morning, Liam paused in the shadowed hall outside his door as he saw his brother and Catherine emerge from their room. He knew their relationship had changed. As they descended the stair they were not touching, yet were. Silently he followed, and as they reached the landing saw Sean take Catherine in his arms and kiss her lingeringly. Her body molded to his, and when Sean's head lifted, Liam wanted to be sick. She looked like a sleepwalker, eyes still dark with desire, lips swollen and bruised. Even her body had a new, beckoning ripeness, but invited only one man, whose green eyes were clouded with a look Liam had never seen there before. They parted in the foyer, and when Liam heard the study door close he quickly descended the stairs to catch Catherine on the terrace before she reached the carriage.

"Liam! Where did you come—"

Motioning her to be quiet, he pulled her back toward the house, out of view of the study windows and earshot of the carriage. "I must see you alone. Meet me by the cliffs today."

"Liam,
I. . ."

"I
know,
damn it. You look like a bitch in heat. But there are things you don't know and you'd better hear."

She jerked away. "I don't want to hear anything!"

His fingers tightened on her arm. "Don't be a fool. You're not the first to play harlot for my brother. Will you turn traitor as well? I'll be waiting by the cliffs at noon. If you're not there, I'll come to Flynn's." He gave her a push toward the carriage and its curious driver.

She met him. He waited, his hands in his pockets and back to the sea, blond hair silver in the hazy light. He was thinner, harder, more bitter.

"Welcome home. I trust the holiday was refreshing?" He smiled sardonically.

"I've no time for recriminations, Liam. A great deal of work must be waiting at the infirmary."

"Ah. Ever the cool lady. Only, you're hot enough for my brother of late."