Stormfire (5 page)

Liam scowled, but Flannery chuckled.- "Aye, the little chicky has steel pinfeathers. Must have got 'em from her da. They'll be plucked soon enough." He resumed his stance at the wheel. "Take the girl below, Liam. Tie her and don't dawdle. I want ye to spell me at the wheel."

Liam scooped up the limp prisoner and desposited her below, glancing resentfully at the still face as he tied efficient knots. How could any female be vulnerable one minute and mean as a mink the next? The witch probably deserved anything she got.

As Liam returned and took the helm, Flannery dragged a cigar put of his pocket. Poking it into the lantern, he puffed until it caught. "Tell you something, laddy.

We're not ten miles off Antrim. If she'd made it ashore to tattle to the authorities, the English would be on us like bloodhounds. On the other hand, maybe she'd have only shot one of us. I don't like bein' a leak-mouth, Liam, but Sean has to know ye were foxed. We can't afford soft spots."

Liam's blue eyes flared. "I didn't want this job. And you cannot claim we're doing it for the sake of home and country. We're doing it for Sean's sick hate. If he wants to break Enderly, why not aim for the man himself? That girl is barely seventeen. I daresay she knows nothing about her father's activities."

Flannery leaned on the binnacle and tapped his cigar so that the end glowed briefly like a hot, red eye. "Little Miss Enderly did quite a job in a space of ten minutes, didn't she?"

"For God's sake, she didn't put these words into my mouth. I thought of all this before we ever set sail from Donegal."

"Did ye now? Well, think again. Irish women and children have been made into proper hash by the English, though ye've never seen much of that. From now on Fll see ye do, should the stinkin' occasion arise. Ye've not seen pregnant women raped and bayoneted and babes bashed against the walls. Seen girls—and lads not five years old- abused and strangled." He bit off a piece of his cigar and spat it viciously downwind. "Then ye'll see the Enderiy girl's no different from them, that she gets no pity. She's the enemy. Do ye think yer mother died of polite conversation with the English?"

Liam's lips tightened. "Megan was a spy."

"Aye, so ye heard that, did ye? Well, so she was, and a good one, too. But the other forty people in that village weren't spies; they were poor, dumb fisherfolk and they got the same as her." He chewed the cigar, twirling it thoughtfully. "Ye niver forgave her for leavin' ye. That's more like it, an't it, boy?"

"She was nothing to me. I hardly remember her." Liam's profile was stony as he checked the compass needle.

"No, I suppose it's what ye don't remember that gripes at ye." Flannery yawned again. "It's been a long night and this cold's bitin' me bones. Hold her steady 'til ye sight South Rock Beacon, then pick up five points north and rouse out Jimmy." He stubbed out his cigar. "I'm goin' below to sleep. Think on what I said. She's the enemy. The day ye forget it again will be a sorry one for us all."

Stiff and cold, Catherine awoke at dawn. Prison gray light wavered over the roughhewn bulkheads. Wrapped in blankets, the big redhead snored loudly in his hammock. Liam, an inert bundle, lay in a pile of sails at his feet. Her stomach growled when she shifted to renew circulation. As she burrowed awkwardly into her covering, Jimmy came below to rouse Flannery. Without giving her a glance, they left Liam sleeping. After some time, she drowsed.

The regular pattern of men changing watch and taking turns at the sails continued for the rest of the trip. Late in the day she was fed hardtack and coffee by the grinning Jimmy, who loosened the fetters but left her feet hobbled. Sometime after that, she slept again.

The next day seemed like one fitful nap, again broken by a single feeding. Catherine was awakened after nightfall when someone wrapped her tightly in the cloak again, head and all. She was lifted and carried, then lowered into other arms in what must have been the pitching dinghy. An icy feeling in the pit of her stomach warned they had reached their destination. Surf sounded and the dinghy lifted and rolled forward as the oars maneuvered, controlling the vessel's path up onto a pebbled shore with a grating shudder. The men in the bow went over the side and dragged the boat up onto the beach.

She was lifted again and passed over the bow. Then it seemed they walked and climbed forever, shifting her from man to man every so often. Periodically hearing dripping water, she imagined a cave or dungeon and bit the cloak to still her chattering teeth. Heels sounded on stone, then a finished floor. She was swung from a shoulder and dumped. Scared as she was, she felt a wave of rage at her captors' roughness. Well, let Valera enjoy her—if he could! She was dirty, smelly, mad as a hornet, and stiff as a board.

She heard Flannery's voice in a strange language, then Liam's; finally, a last one, deep and unfamiliar, in a tone of dismissal. The door closed and silence fell.

Angel on Fire

Catherine rolled as the cloak was snapped away with an abrupt tug and dropped near her feet. For a moment, she lay rigid with apprehension, then cautiously opened her eyes to stare at a polished pair of boots carelessly crossed just beyond her nose. Her eyes followed the boots up long legs encased in black breeches to a white-shirted chest. While his head and shoulders were nearly obscured in shadow, the man seated before her was too tall to be Valera. Quickly she scanned the dim corners of the room searching for the Spaniard, then realized no one else was there. Nonplussed, she wondered what was going on. Who
had
kidnapped her, and why? Her attention darted back to the stranger. He leaned forward slightly and a dark face took form from the shadows, a form as beautiful as Original Sin must have seemed to Eve, with all its lure and its pain. As eyes the smoky green of storm seas caughtrhers and held, a phrase from Milton's
Paradise Lost
whispered through her mind:

His form had yet pot lost

All his original brightness, nor appeared

Less than Archangel ruined . . .

He might be Lucifer, she thought. How sad he is.

Sean was equally unprepared for her. As the dark torrent of hair fell away from her pale face, her breathless, controlled fear was as tangible in the firelit room as a small fist in his belly. God, she was young. He had pictured some blond, simpering bitch, unconsciously attributing to John Enderly's daughter characteristics he detested in Englishwomen. He had never imagined a dark forest creature, this childish Ondine. She has eyes out of legend, he thought. But legends sharply reminded him of Megan and the tales she had told him in childhood; the fleeting impulse to free the English girl left him.

Seeming to be unafraid now, the girl watched him as if he were some mythic beast caught in her virginal snare. Still, she paled and drew back when he rose and went to. her with his knife unsheathed. He cut her bonds with two quick moves, then walked to the fireplace and poked the fire until it blazed. He turned and hunkered down to watch her chafe her wrists; they were purpled beneath the light froth of lace, but she made no murmur, and began systematically to rub her ankles. The silence was almost companionable.

In the heightened firelight he saw part of the reason her eyes were so compelling. Veiled by heavy lashes, they were slightly oblique, crested by brows like a lark's wings. Above high, slanting cheekbones, her features were finely chiseled, but placed upon a too-thin face; she looked a year or so younger than she was. The mouth was finely drawn, with a tender, full underlip. Dishevelment added to her appearance of vulnerability, but now that he saw his prisoner more clearly, he also noted the proud, almost arrogant set of head and the determined jaw.

Aware of his intent assessment, Catherine also saw it had subtly taken a hostile turn. She withdrew her attention from her ankles and met his gaze. She had seen the same hawk-hard cast of features among Moors of southern Spain, and his closely cropped black hair suggested Jacobin sympathies. "You've gone to a great deal of trouble to bring me here. May I ask why?" Her voice was soft, almost husky, but as clipped as a Prussian officer's. Sean might have smiled at her coolness if the situation had left any room for amusement.

"Your father owes me a debt."

She glanced at the handsomely appointed study, the huge painting of leopards
couchants
over the desk, the gleaming Celtic artifacts mounted on one wall. "Wouldn't it have been more civilized to send a solicitor?"

"Possibly. If the debt were merely monetary."

His indulgent tone annoyed her. "You must hate him very much to risk
other
men's lives to steal his only child."

"Few men have cause to hate him more, but I'm only one among his critics," he replied dryly. "And little risk was involved. Stealing you was simple enough."

"And not having been present, you're very sure of that?"

"If you managed, in some small way, to inconvenience my men and escaped with a few bruises, don't press your luck. You've arrived intact by my order. Personally, I'd like nothing better than an excuse to throttle you."

Her jaw lifted. "Do you intend to murder me?"

Culhane's eyebrows quirked. "Not at the moment." He rose and crossed to her. Her slim white throat was arched, her head with its thick, tangled hair thrown back as she looked up at him, her eyes unflinching. Still, he heard a slight gasp as he pulled her up on deadened legs. She made no effort to pull away, probably realizing she would fall if she tried to resist him. Backing, he forced her to take a few steps. Along with the waver of cramped limbs, he felt her tension, although her eyes showed nothing but defiant contempt. "If you're looking into my soul, I can tell you now it's black as the Pit," he drawled.

"If bullying defenseless women is the least of your sins, I must agree with you."

"It's amazed I am at how quickly you've blossomed from child to woman." His lilt had become mocking. "Moments ago, I could swear you were barely out of leaders."

"A short time in your company has sufficed to age me."

"Well . . ."
He looked down at her faltering steps. "If you hope to totter home one day, you'd better mind your manners."

Her eyes blazed. "What will you do if I don't?
Threaten
me to death?" She tried to twist out of his grasp but he jerked her up so that her toes barely reached to the floor.

"It's time you understand your status here. So long as I intend to keep you, you're mine to do with as I like. You're in Ireland, girl, to see how the Irish live, and how they die, if I'm inclined to stretch your education that far. Here, my word is law, whereas you rate less than the least Irish
Pig"

Blinded with fury, she spat. The spittle struck him on the cheek and his green eyes went mtpderous. One hand left its bruising grip on her arm, ana he backhanded her across the face. Catherine thought her neck would snap. Light exploded in her head as warmth flowed into her nose and mouth. The fire in the hearth dimmed.

He roughly picked her up and strode through the door into a dark foyer. Only the pounding pain in her head and neck told her she had not fainted. He carried her up a long flight of stairs, then along a hallway. Pausing almost in midstride, he shouldered open a door, went into a room, and unceremoniously dropped her in a straight-backed chair. When she immediately tried to get up, he firmly shoved her back, dunked a towel in a basin of water on the adjacent commode, and, tugging her head back by the hair, plopped the cold towel sopping wet across her face. She let out a squeal of shock and outrage as icy water ran down her chin and throat and worked its chilly way between her breasts. When she grabbed at the towel, he jerked her hands away. "Hold still! Your nose is bleeding a river. And keep your head back!"

Though furious, she realized the practicality of his order and obeyed, until he clamped her nostrils together. With frantic distress noises at being suffocated, she clawed at the towel over her mouth. He muttered an oath and, lifting the towel, swabbed at her cut lip with a corner of the cloth while she gulped for air. Gradually, the bleeding stopped as he roughly cleaned her face. She looked more peaked than ever when he finished, but her eyes were still mutinous. Tensely, she watched as he wrung out the towel in the basin, his strong hands easily twisting the heavy cloth. With a slight shiver, she remembered his remark about throttling her.