Stormfire (55 page)

"You thought of everything." His fingers tightened and his voice became a silken, deadly, crooning whisper. "Papa's girl. Papa's lying, murderous little whore. And all the time you kept prating of honor! Pulling Maude and Moora out of the pond was sheer genius. You fooled us all, but no one more than me." His fingers closed like steel bands, cutting off her breath. "Only you should have planned for this. You've such a fragile neck, my love. Like porcelain. So easy to snap. I've been hearing the sound for days . . ."

She made no effort to resist, and even hating her with a force that choked him, Sean wondered if he could bear to see the strange, lovely fires in her eyes fade to ash. He had loved her so deeply even her death could never exorcise him. His hatred turned on himself, exploding in a low, tigerish snarl. "You want a quick death, don't you? Do you really think it'll be that easy?" He released her and, almost unconscious, she stumbled, falling until his hand caught in her hair and he jerked out his knife. For an instant, utter terror leaped into her eyes. "No, madam, I'm not going to slit your throat. You're going to live, until living is intolerable." He slashed the dress and chemise from bodice to waist, then cut them away. Fingers still knotted in her hair, he pushed her roughly to her knees. Twisting up the thick mass of her hair, he sawed it off next to the scalp, then hacked at the rest until it was scattered refuse on the carpet. "Irish tradition for traitresses, usually followed by tar and feathers; but I've a better notion."

Leaving her huddled on the rug, he stripped off his shirt, then dropped into the desk chair where he applied himself steadily to the decanter. Most of the blood on the shirt was not his own, though his torso was a mass of bruises and cuts. Sitting laxly in the chair, he stared at Catherine with the fixed attention of a man who sees nothing. He had hoped shearing would diminish her beauty, but the rough crop gave her the look of a stricken, lovely child, by accentuating the delicate, breathtaking sculpture of her face and making her eyes, now dark amethyst and glistening with tears, seem larger. She was more an enchantress than ever, and he raged against the spell that held him like a steel chain.

With a low growl of anger, he spun out of the chair and found his knife. Severing the bonds at her ankles with a single jerk, he threw her to the floor and assaulted her. Hating, hurting, until all she could feel was his hatred, permeating her soul. There was nothing he did not do to her. And the moment came at last when she felt nothing; then a time when he finally left her alone and fell into exhausted, drunken sleep, muttering incoherently. Once she felt his hand clumsily ruffling her hair. "Lambsoft . . . soft bitch."

After dawn, she too slept with sheer exhaustion until he roughly shook her shoulder. It was night again and his voice was slurred, the odor of brandy heavy on his breath. "Get up. Time to get dressed." He cut the bonds and jerked her to a sitting position. His jaw dark with rough stubble, he had thrown on his stained clothing, the torn shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose. The look in his eyes pierced her lassitude.

"Sean?"

"Shut up." He dragged the butterfly negligee over her head and arms, snapping a strap in the process, then daubed rouge and pomade on her face. Pulling her after him, he dragged her downstairs and into the barren mess hall. The five men morosely idling there turned to stare at the unsteady apparition of their leader and the garishly painted girl who began to fight frantically with dawning comprehension.

"I've a fresh wench for you, lads. Who'll be first to top the English whore?"

More than one of them had eyed the girl surreptitiously in the past, but none stepped forward.

Almost unbalanced by his mistress's struggles, Sean swayed on his feet. "Well?" he bellowed. "You were hot enough for the bitch once! Doesn't she suit anymore?"

He jerked her in front of him and, placing his forearm under her jaw, dragged her head up. "I warrant she's not much to look at now, but you can always close your eyes, eh?" He ran his free hand down her body as she twisted. "Soft and sweet as
cream . . ."
His voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "But don't ever look into her eyes. She's a witch."

The men stirred restlessly, riveted by the roving hand. Sean laughed disjointedly. "You don't believe me, do you? Nay, lads. She's yours. I don't want her anymore. I'll prove it." He jerked the negligee down to her waist and she froze as he fondled her breasts. "Beautiful, aren't they?" The lust unleashed in the room was almost tangible as he taunted them, pushing the negligee from her hips; it dropped to the floor. A man in the shadows caught his breath and another licked his lips. With a crooked smile, Sean shoved her toward them, and before he turned to go, three of them were already dragging her to the floor.

After bridling the first horse he found in the stable, he flung himself onto its bare back, then kicked it ruthlessly to a gallop, spurring away from what was happening back in the house, from the look in Kit's eyes as he gave her to them. As if demented, he took walls he could barely see and with no thought for treacherous footing smashed through streams, goading the frothing horse until it stumbled and threw him. He lay where he fell for a time, then stumbled to his feet, reeling as the moon swooped about his head, and took another step into bottomless darkness.

The sun was pleasantly warm on his face when he awoke. He lay quietly, listening to the bees' low drone and the faint rustle of field flowers. Lifting his head, he winced. His temples pounded with a familiar ache and his mouth tasted of stale brandy. He sat up and rubbed his head, remembering Catherine's foul antidote. Then, remembered all of it. The shattered dream. And what he had done to her, even to the last. Two men holding her down while a third tore at his breeches. And the others, waiting. They would all use her over and over. They might even kill her. He clawed to his feet and screamed for the horse, but it was gone. He began to run—run until his chest was a white-hot band, and the bile rose, and his legs refused to obey, then slowed to a hopeless stumble. Whatever they had done was done.

The messroom was empty. Only bottles and dirty glassware remained; those, and a blood-soaked negligee wadded and thrown into a corner. Softly, Sean shut the door and went into the study. He took a dueling pistol from the weapon collection and, out of habit, polished its barrel with a sleeve. Perfectly balanced and without ornamentation, it was Brendan's finest.

"Ye'll not be needin' that. The lass is safe," Peg spoke behind him, having entered without knocking.

"Where?" He did not turn.

"In her cell. I saw ye bring her downstairs and sent Rafferty after a gun before ye left the terrace."

He looked at her then. "Her nightgown was covered with blood . . ."

"Tim O'Rourke tried to talk the others out of rapin' her and some of them were leery of what might happen when ye sobered. That Callahan, though, he was ready to take the risk. He tried to put a bullet in Tim when the lad jerked him off her. Tim was unarmed and Rafferty had to shoot Callahan. Somebody picked up the nightdress and tried to stop the bleedin', but he died in minutes."

"You liked her, didn't you?"

The Irishwoman's mouth tightened. "I didn't do it for her. I knew the state ye'd be in when ye came to yer senses."

Sean sagged into a chair and stared at the carpet. "I cannot kill her and cannot stand the thought of anyone else doing it. She's a barb in my guts that won't be cut out."

"Then stop tryin'. Ye'll not heal yer hurt in whores and liquor. 'Twill take time." Gently she drew the pistol from his unresisting fingers. "Much of the blame in this is mine. I thought that girl could ease the festerin' hurt inside ye, but instead she's brought ye low. I'd like to take this pistol and put a ball through her schemin' skull, but it wouldn't help." She touched his shoulder. "Have ye thought of what to do with her?" He rubbed his head, trying to clear it. "The English will come to search the house for rebels and guns. . . . Transfer the wench to the cellar cell. She can rot there," he added bitterly. "Revenge might have been sweet, but I'll be damned if she'll relish the aftertaste." He dragged his long frame out of the chair. "Have the portable art shifted to the wine cellar. The English will steal the wine, but I doubt if they'll break through the racks." He crossed to the painting behind the desk and opened the secret wall compartment it concealed. He withdrew pouches of gold and jewelry, then dropped them on the desk. "Bury these tonight with the Celtic artifacts in the ruins. Have Tim take the best stock into the mountains." He closed the compartment and turned. "How many servants are left to help you?"

"A handful. The rest stole some fishing boats and put out to sea before ye returned from Wexford. Most of the men who came back with ye followed them last night. Tim's gone, too. Said he'd had enough. 'Tis sorry I am, lad, but there it is."

"It was bound to happen." With apparent idleness, he toyed with a brooch from a loosened pouch. "Liam said Mother took lovers in Brendan's absence. He mentioned a particular English
lieutenant. . ."

He looked up and Peg's heart went out to him. "I don't know, lad, and that's God's truth. I was Megan's personal maid. If I didn't know, then Liam couldn't. She was wild. I disliked and mistrusted her. But to my knowledge, she was a faithful wife."

He slipped the brooch into the bag and drew the strings. "Then let's get on with it."

Catherine dully surveyed stone walls, now as familiar as her own hands. The boredom of confinement was incredible, the lack of a window to tell the difference between night and day disquieting after . . . how long? She estimated two weeks by counting the barren meals. Her appetite was far from titillated by the inevitable fish, watercress, and potato diet. She sat on a pallet; the cot frame and webbing had been removed along with anything that might permit suicide, which left a stool, a slop bucket, and a candle. Asphyxiation by firing the pallet was possible, but her religion forbade that release even though God seemed to have turned a deaf ear to prayer and no human appeal was possible. She had not seen Sean since the terrible night he had thrown her to the human wolves. She still awoke in cold sweats, remembering their holding her down to endure the man's obscene groping before he suddenly collapsed atop her, blood spurting.

There was another fact even more terrible to contemplate. She was pregnant.

The cell door creaked and a servant with a shawl about her head brought in the ration, set it on the floor, and straightened in the gloom. "Fiona!"

The Irish girl smiled coldly. "I'll be lookin' after yer needs from now on, but mostly Sean's." Her smile grew triumphant. "He's fair sick with hate of ye, but I'm making him forget. Every time he makes love to me he forgets. We spent yesterday in bed. Soon he's goin' to forget ye're alive. He'll not even notice when ye ain't. I'm thinkin' maybe I'll let ye die a bit at a time, maybe for years."

When Catherine finally picked up her food, she found only half the usual ration and the fish, while not actually spoiled, had such an unsavory odor that she left it. The next day was the same, but the rations were halved and the candle not replaced. The dark closed in like a blanket.

Squinting against late-afternoon sunlight that glanced in a blinding glare off the water, Sean finished lashing the
Megan's
mainsail and reeled in the dinghy. Fiona slipped her arms around his chest and leaned against his bare back. " 'Twas glorious today, just like the old days when we'd sail and make love on the deck for hours." She giggled and ran her hands down his belly. "Rememberin' makes me hot all over again."

He eased away her hand. "We've all the night, girl, and naught else to do."

She bit his ear before releasing him to retrieve their luncheon basket. "Aye. Long, sweet hours. Just us. It's as good for you as it is for me. I knew for certain this afternoon. Ye
can
forget. 'Twas
my
name ye cried." Silently, he held out a hand to help her into the dinghy. She caught his fingers and kissed them, amber eyes aglow. "I want yer child. 'Tis right, Sean; I know it is. My love is more than I can hold within." He drew her close and tenderly kissed her, then handed her into the boat.

As he rowed ashore, the Irishman glanced down into sunlit blue water that deepened to beckoning shadows. Forget? How could he, when each moment recalled her, the ghost at his shoulder? Forcing him to cry out another woman's name to keep from groaning hers with a longing that tore him apart. He had not seen Kit in three months, yet she haunted him, a gentle harpy. Fiona deserved marriage and children. She was ripe for it with a man faithful in body
and
mind. Their frequency of lovemaking made a child inevitable. He had been accused of siring more than one bastard, but as the results were from casual relationships with women who entertained more than one lover, he had felt no obligation. Fiona was different. He had to make a decision; that meant he had to see Catherine.