Stormfire (69 page)

"He removed one testicle, not both. You're entirely capable of begetting children."

The green eyes were vulnerable. "I'm . . . still a man?"

The doctor smiled. "More than most. It's a rare one indeed that Worthy's unable to break."

Sean closed his eyes. "Enderly thinks I'll bargain for what's left, doesn't he?"

"Yes."

Sweeping fatigue weighted Sean down. He expelled the air in his lungs. "How long have I got?"

"Three weeks. I can stall him a bit, but he's not an idiot."

Sean felt his strength sapping. "You must explain to Enderly's daughter . . . about the package . . ."

"I cannot help you there," Marcus said quickly. "I'd join you on the block. Rest now, lad. We'll talk again."

"You've got to listen . . . she'll be sick again." He fought to press away the fog, but it curled about him and his leaden limbs pulled him down.

Sean awoke to Marcus changing his bandages. "The incision is healing cleanly. You'll be fit soon." When the patient said nothing, Marcus rebandaged him and began to apply ointment to the burns on his body.

"What happens if I don't cooperate with Enderly?" Sean asked abruptly.

"Sergeant Worthy finishes what he started. I advise you to be agreeable. There's always some hope if you're alive."

"Is that how you began to give in? And Worthy? He's a goddamned zombie."

Expressionless, Marcus stood up. "I'm going to unshackle you long enough to do your back. Do I have to call the guards?"

"No."

Marcus unlocked the shackles and helped him turn over. His touch on the lacerated flesh, though gentle, was enough to make his patient grip the bars. He kept talking. "In the past, Enderly has given prisoners who've refused him to his soldiers before returning them to sentence or the cells. Some of those men have been worked over with musket butts until nearly every bone was broken. Some had their genitals hacked off; some were mutilated, rendered mindless. He doesn't recognize a refusal. If you're lucky, you might make them mad enough to kill you before turning you over to Worthy." He wiped his hands on a linen towel. "I'm done."

Sean turned over on his own, lips tightening. "What makes you think I want to stay alive?"

"In your delirium, you repeated a woman's name. You seemed to want to keep her from believing you dead."

"She already does," Culhane answered dully. "Enderly's shown her his rotten proof by now."

"Perhaps not. He's unpredictable. You can be sure of nothing but Worthy's knife."

Sean said nothing. The man was right. But to grovel for a life that had become less than dirt to him! He stared up at the whitewashed ceiling long after Marcus had gone.

That same afternoon,
Mignon
entered Catherine's room at the Royal Crown Inn, took off her bonnet and pelisse. She looked at Catherine, who stood tensely waiting. "Well, I saw your Doctor Flynn. I don't know the man. He can rattle your praises in Gaelic until the sun blackens. You've wasted your time."

Catherine wanted to burst into tears. She gestured aimlessly, then wandered to a chair and dropped into it.
"Mignon,
I'm carrying Sean Culhane's child, a child he may never see. He's been robbed, robbed of everything. He's got to have
something!"
Tears began to slip down her cheeks. "Please. Not for me. Hate me. But help me. There's no one else. He's alone." The words ground out from her soul. "I cannot bear to think of him alone."

Mignon
looked at the huddled figure for a moment. "Culhane's a fool. But you're no less a fool." Her face twisted. "You may as well hear it now. Culhane was taken into the prison at Liverpool the night he brought you back. Likely he's dead. Lucky if he is, for there's none to help him; save me, he let his agents go their ways after the rebellion."

But Catherine did not hear her. She was already slipping to the floor.

"There's a gentleman to see you, my
lady," Mignon
said from the bedroom door. "A Monsieur
Artois."

Catherine slowly sat up and absently brushed at her hair. "I'll see him. Please get my bedjacket,
Mignon."
The maid helped her into it, plumped the pillows, then admitted
Artois
and withdrew.

He quickly crossed the room, concern all over his dark features. "Catherine, you're ill!" He sat on the bed and took her hand. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm not ill, Charles. I saw no need to alarm you."

His dark eyes searched hers. "Did you think I wouldn't come? That I didn't care?"

"No, Charles, I didn't think that."

"Is it the child?"

She touched his face. "The child is well. You're good to be concerned." She smiled. "I hoped you'd come to say good-by."

His grip on her hand tightened imperceptibly. "You're leaving Edinburgh?"
   

"I leave on the tide."

"That's absurd! I won't let you!"

"Charles, you cannot tie me here like a lapdog. Please don't try."

Angered, he stood up. "What is this? A ruse to force my hand so I'll back your scurrilous father? Become an after- the-fact cuckold for your probably illegitimate child? You take me for a fool,
madame!
You languish most attractively of a nonexistent ailment, yet you would have me believe you well enough to make your frail way home to a martyr's end. . . .What the devil, woman?" He glowered. "Why do you smile? Do you think me amusing?"

"No, Charles," Catherine replied, her smile fading, "you just reminded me of someone."

"Him?" he snarled. "Your lucky fellow?"

Her face crumpled suddenly. "They say he's dead. I must go home. I have to know. I must find him." Her last words were sobbed against his chest.
Artois
held her until she stilled. "I'm sorry; this is all so unfair to you," she whispered.

"Shh, I'm an iron man,
petite.
I'm only in danger of rusting from your tears."

She smiled wanly against his damp silk stock and curled her fingers into his lapel. "I'll miss your clanking about. You have a terrible temper."

"Yes. I'm even thought to be dangerous. Didn't your papa tell you?"

"He said you would eat me for an
hors d'oeuvre."

He lightly chucked her under the chin. "Only because that's all I can get." He tilted her head up. "Tell Enderly whatever you like. That I'm madly in love with you. That there is a baby Bourbon in that small belly of yours. Perdition, I'll tell him myself. Have him come to Edinburgh. Find out what you need to know about the baby's father, then leave Windemere immediately. I want you to come to me."

"Is that an order, Charles?"

"The prince orders you; the man can only hope."

She kissed him then, lips clinging as his arms tightened about her.
Artois
felt his pulse begin to race, and gently put her away from him. "You tempt me to lock you into this room and throw the key out into the snow." He went to the writing desk and scratched out a note, then sealed it and stamped his signet into the wax. "This tells Enderly about everything but my paternity of your child. As an heir to the throne of France, I cannot put such an admission in writing. Naturally, you'll want to wait a few weeks before telling him anyway. I'll affirm the child's parentage when he comes to Edinburgh."

"Thank you, Charles."

He looked at her obliquely. "Wouldn't it be much simpler,
chérie,
for me to have him killed?"

Her eyes widened as she started to protest, but he waved her to silence. "Princes are inclined to practicality. Direct measures avoid excessive paperwork, if nothing else. I shall abide by your wishes in this, but if Enderly crosses me, he dies. Is your man in prison?"

"Yes, but more than prison walls separate us," she replied bleakly.

He scribbled another paper and sealed his signature. "This may help. You can fill in the name." He rose, crossed to the bed, and stood looking down at her. "You've been honest with me; I will be the same with you. I
am
a dangerous man. I never settle for scraps. I hope your lover is dead, for if he is not, I may be tempted to kill him. Never tell me his name, Catherine, as you value his life." He held out his hand, palm down. "Acknowledge me as your rightful sovereign, Countess, for I will be king." She kissed his ring. Slowly, he turned his hand palm up. "And what acknowledgment for the man?" She laid her cheek against his hand. He touched her hair. "Good. We understand one another. I'll summon a coach with my crest to take you home. Will you be ready to leave within the hour?"

"Yes, of course."

He kissed her lightly.
"Au revoir,
petite mire
des rois."

Feeling like a Christmas goose being fattened for the kill, Sean idly picked at his tray. Knowing he had to regain strength if he hoped to escape, he tried to eat everything he was given, starting with the thickly cut meats, but he had no heart for it. The door opened and his appetite was little improved when Enderly strode in with Marcus behind him.

"Mr. Fitzhugh, you're looking well. The menu seems to agree with you."

"I've gotten by on less."

"I daresay. We must have a pleasant chat about your past. Doctor . . ." He waved a negligent hand. "Remove the bandages."

Sean felt a wave of malevolence for the men who appraised his body with the same insolence a rake might look over a whore. He masked his expression by watching Marcus snip through the linen dressing and peel it away. The scar was surprisingly small, a livid line along one side of the reduced sac; Worthy had even taken up the slack. The wound was sore but not particularly noticeable unless someone was looking directly at it. Enderly was. Sean forced his hands to relax; he was starting to grip the sheet.

"Good. Pity you insisted on being maimed, but you're more sensible now, aren't you? I'll send for you tomorrow night." Enderly turned to Marcus. "Refasten those shackles. I wouldn't want him to accidentally damage his wound in his sleep."

The guards came for him promptly at eight: four of them, all big, one a hulking bruiser bigger than Rouge. He dumped clothing onto the bench against the wall, then jerked his head to a corporal with hands the size of shovels. When the corporal unlocked the shackles, Sean stood up, two bayonets pointed at his belly. "Try anything funny and ye'll be holdin' yer guts in with yer hands," growled the bruiser. His tiny eyes reminded the Irishman of a mongoose.

After he dressed in a smaller man's clothes, they manacled his hands behind his back. An expressionless corporal attached chain-linked irons to his ankles. The mongoose nudged him in the ribs. "Move out, bucko."

John Enderly spread his hands apologetically. "You must forgive the chains. After a time, I hope we can dispense with them." Sean's guards stayed at either elbow. Mongoose and Shovel Hands took up positions against either wall.

Enderly gestured toward a Louis XV chair opposite him at a layishly laid table. "I've just finished, but would you care for a glass of wine?"