Stormfire (56 page)

Sean unlocked the cell, then muttered a startled, muffled curse when he saw the tiny room contained the Stygian darkness and stench of a tomb. "Catherine? . . . Damn you, answer me! Where are you?" His reply was a ratlike scuffling in a far corner. With a chill in his gut, he wasted no more questions, but snatched up the candle he had brought, stepped into the cell, and swung it high. In the corner, crouched against the wall, a small wraith flinched from the light. As he approached, stunned by Catherine's appearance, she shrank away, shaking uncontrollably. "Kit?" He touched her shoulder, and wild-eyed, she tore away as if he had branded the candle to her flesh. Too weak to do more than crawl a few feet in an effort to escape, his prisoner huddled like a trapped rabbit in the seeking pool of light.

After planting the candle in a wall niche, Sean pulled her up. She beat at him weakly. "No! No! Don't! Don't hurt my—" She stopped abruptly as if she had revealed a terrible secret, and he thought her mind had gone. "Let me go," she whimpered against his chest, "please . . ."

"I won't hurt you . . . hush." Without thinking, he stroked her hair and held her close. Stricken with terror, she was skin and bone under the shapeless shift. The small face had lost its beauty. Only the eyes were recognizable, but they were black with fear, their brilliant glory ruined.

"Shh, little one. Be still. It's all right. I haven't come to hurt you."

Slowly, her trembling lessened and he heard her whisper, "Please . . . the candle. I'm not used to it."

He blocked the light with his shoulder. "Why not, Kit? Have you been living in the dark?" She was silent. "Where's
your
candle?" he prodded gently.

"You . . . told her to take it away." She sounded vague and sad, like a dazed child. She sagged in his arms, and he picked her up. Never much more than a hundred pounds, now she could not have weighed more than three quarters of that. She clutched something against her breast. After he laid her on the pallet, he tried to remove it from her fingers. With surprising tenacity, she resisted and for the moment he let her be, continuing to stroke her hair. She was unconscious when he spoke to her again. He pried the object loose and relit the candle to see bits of straw roughly tied with thread pulling from her clothing into the form of a cross. With fury rising in him like a tidal flood, he took her up in his arms. As he carried her out of the cell, he saw on the floor the slop she had been fed.

Fiona sailed into the bedroom with swirling skirts and a teasing laugh. "We've the best of a brace of fresh rabbits for supper and a champagne Boney couldn't afford. When do I have Peg bring it up? Before or after . . . ?" The words died on her lips as she saw the girl on the bed. And green eyes that blistered her with revulsion. "Sean,
I. . ."

"Don't bother. Unless you want to take her place, leave now." The words came out like separate chips of ice.

"Sean, I did it for us. She's a witch, sent to destroy ye. She's evil." Fiona came toward him, pleading, eyes golden in the fading light of sunset.

"You starved her like a dog," he snarled. "You made a coffin of that cell, and God knows what else—"

"You
were the one who put her there!" she flared in defensive anger. "Ye said she could rot! I know. Peg told me!" She came close. "I niver touched the slut because ye forbade it. I did not a whit more than ye wanted. I
let
her rot! Only I'd not the patience to wait years. The witch can't die fast enough!" Her voice rose in hysteria and her hands reached out like claws toward her wasted rival.

With a blow that sent her to the floor, Sean gritted, "Because there's truth in what you say, I'll not
kill
you. But if I ever see your face again, I'll put a bullet through your murderous heart."

She got to her knees and crawled toward him. "Sean, ye're my life! I'd as lief spend my days in that cellar than be shut away from ye."

He scooped the cell keys from the bedside table and threw them in her face. "Be sure to lock the door."

Holding her cut cheek, Fiona shrieked, "She's bewitched ye! Ye're not a Gael anymore! Bastard traitor!" Stumbling to her feet, she fled.

Mothwing lashes flickered on pale cheeks as Catherine groped weakly through the blankets; then what she sought was tucked into her hand. Her eyes opened. Like a child awakened from a nightmare, she gazed up at the man sitting on the edge of the bed. "Am I dying?" she asked softly. He shook his head. "Then . . . why did you come for me?"

"I nosed you out on the stair," Culhane teased gently. "You were in sore need of a bath, lass."

Unexpectedly, she
tensed. "No . . .
I don't
want. . ."

"Easy. Peg has bathed you already. Haven't you noticed a change in your perfume?" She eyed him furtively and again he wondered if confinement had affected her mind. "You're also in need of fattening up." He lifted a spoonful of custard from a cup on the side table and placed it temptingly near her mouth.

Her nostrils quivered, but she shook her head. "I'd just be sick."

Culhane returned the spoon to the cup. "Have you been sick long?"

"A few weeks."

"You have to eat, girl, or be sicker yet."

Her eyes were bottomless pools. "When I'm
well. . .
will you send me back to that place?"

"No, lass. Not ever."

Something in his eyes made her put the cross in his hand and close his fingers over it before she slept.

After that, Catherine ate obediently, and was nauseated after each effort until Peg made a concoction that allowed her to hold soft food down. In contrast to the passivity, she insisted on bathing herself, flatly refusing to let anyone either touch or see her body. Attributing her modesty to his sexual abuse, Sean did not force the issue.

After a month, she looked less like a small skeleton and was able to walk for limited periods on the terrace. Sean was gentle with her, but more coolly polite as she regained health. At length, she became restless and asked him if she might walk on the lawn. He studied her silently, then spoke. "You're almost well again. You'll have to be confined."

She paled, then said quietly, "I see. Where is my cell to be this time?" The small, cropped head was high, and her eyes held his unflinchingly, but the mouth was vulnerable.

"A room has been prepared on the top floor. It's plain, but livable. There's a view of the sea."

Her eyes darkened. "Through bars?"

"Yes," he said tightly.

"Shall I never leave that room?"

"You'll be permitted out on special occasions."

She smiled ironically. "Weddings and funerals."

"What did you expect," he snarled suddenly, "a personal jester? You've had that!"

"I never laughed at you," she replied softly, and stood up, gathering the heather shawl close, shivering slightly against the late breeze. "I'm a little cold. Could we go in now?"

As he eased off the balustrade, she looked up at him. "Shall I see you on these special occasions?"

"Yes."

She gave him-her arm.

Cry of the Bean Si

As the breeze ruffled her cropped hair, Catherine leaned her cheek against the bars to feel the final warming rays of a brilliant sunset. Shorn hair made her resemble a skinny boy but there was no one to see her as a woman except the taciturn, hard-faced guard who brought her food. The plainly furnished room was bright and airy, with a choice of books. Still, it was a prison, and on sunlit days she wanted to beat her wings against the bars. Her tension increased with advancing pregnancy, although the swollen curve of her stomach was not yet apparent under her high-waisted dresses. Nearly six months pregnant, she worried because the child was undersized. Still, she could not bring herself to tell Sean, aware her condition would seem a mockery to him.

The key turned in the lock, and her heart lurched as Culhane entered the room. To hide the transparent longing in her eyes, she quickly turned to close the window.

Sean watched her fumble awkwardly in an attempt to capture the swinging frame, and easing her aside, he closed the window, then turned to look at her. By sunset, her face seem to glow like a burning rose and desire went through him like a hot wind. He veered away and began to pace the room, reminding her of a jungle cat wary of a trap. "I'm expecting guests for a fortnight. I thought you might like to join the group—in a limited way, of course."

"When will they arrive?"

"Tomorrow. At dinner, you may join us as Flynn's in
valid niece. He'll be present, so with your skill at deceit, the masquerade shouldn't be difficult. You'll return to your room at an appropriate time in the evening and keep to your chamber by day."

"Very well, I shall do as you ask."

"You'll do as I
tell
you, madam, or I'll lock you up until Christmas next!" Slamming the door behind him, he left his prisoner to wonder what she had done to antagonize him.

To meet the guests, Catherine donned a cinnamon silk; but she was still too thin to do justice to the long-sleeved dress, and touches of rouge added scant color to cheekbones strained against the skin. I
look
the languishing invalid, she thought as she surveyed her image in the mirror. Now that she anticipated seeing people again, the possibility that Sean might find her appearance embarrassing and banish her upstairs seemed unbearable. Wistfully, she hoped they would like her.

When Catherine entered the dining room and the door closed discreetly behind on her guard, the men all stood up at once. Like multicolored penguins bobbing about a candlelit iceberg, she thought a bit wildly. Nowhere was the masculine admiration to which she had grown accustomed. The seated women in their brilliant plumage clearly dismissed her as a dowdy bird despite her expensive dress. "I . . . I'm sorry to be late." Uncertainly, she sought Sean's eyes, but they were expressionless as he came to take her arm and made introductions before seating her next to Doctor Flynn. The doctor did not look at her after his initial, startled stare. Dear Lord, she thought in growing dismay. I must look dreadful!

General conversation resumed as Rafferty and Peg served dinner. After managing small talk with her neighbor, Milton O'Keane, a thin, elderly member of Irish Parliament, and beginning a second glass of wine, Catherine felt brave enough to peep at the dinner party: three men and two women. George Ennery, a portly, powerful-looking man was saying, "We were all grieved to hear of Lockland Fitzhugh's death, Sean. He'll be irreplaceable. The deaths in the revolt must have broken him."

"He was in ill health for several years," Sean said quietly, "and he had borne many defeats."

The guest on his right, a spectacularly beautiful patrician in her thirties with rich auburn hair that reminded Catherine uncomfortably of Fiona, laid a beringed hand on his arm. "You loved Lockland; we all did. Perhaps it's best he's not here to witness Ireland's last humiliations."

"Ellen's right," said Kevin Tralee, the mustachioed blonde next to her. "Viceroy Camden was utterly ineffectual in curbing the brutality. Lake hanged rebels in scores, even butchered our wounded in their hospital beds. There's hardly a family in Wexford and Ulster who hasn't a man dead or in jail. The repression is terrible."