Stormfire (91 page)

He shook his head, his voice low and dull. "You're wrong,
p'tite.
I've used you."

Unexpectedly, she smiled again and tilted her head. "Because you see in me the illusion of one denied to you? Perhaps I am a gift of God."

His lips twisted in the darkness. "An interesting theory,
ma petite
philosophe.
Will it ease the hurt when I blurt out the wrong name, as apparently I've done before?"

"Long ago I gave my heart to God. He does not mind sharing."

"Are you certain this is an acceptable way to save a sinner's soul? I'll never see you as a nun."

"A nun is not what you need," she said firmly, with a gleam in her eye that startled him, "God knows what He is doing."

The Irishman's final protest was stopped by the softness of her mouth on his.

Despite Catherine's steely resignation, Amauri saw a growing wildness in her that threatened their fragile arrangement. Abrupt to the servants, taciturn to the point of hostility, she roamed the house like a caged animal. Hardly a promising courtesan, he decided. At this rate, Napoleon would be put off. Steps must be taken to end the problem.

A visit to Madeleine's was out of the question, so, as if for an exercise bout, Amauri went to Lavalier's fencing school. After watching the Irishman in a brilliant exchange with the Gascon master, Amauri invited him out for a drink.

Stone drunk, the young Frenchman arrived home well after dinner. Silent and morose, Culhane returned to Madeleine's. Each, determined to wrangle information out of the other, had merely succeeded in acquiring the requisites for a brain-splitting hangover. As he was put to bed by his wife, Amauri did remember one thing: the object of his visit to Lavalier's. "Culhane'sh goin' opera th'us tomorra night. Just a cozy m'nage
à trois
to oblige my blushing bride." He tugged her head clumsily down to kiss her before he passed out with a lopsided smile.

Sober, with the traces of a pounding headache still lurking at his temples, Amauri found his rival's presence far less easy to shrug off when he and the Irishman flanked Catherine's chair in a box at the Opera. Before they left for the theater, he had served Culhane cognac in the drawing room while Catherine finished her toilette. He had insisted she wear her prettiest, most seductive dress, and when she entered the room, he felt triumphant. Catherine had chosen the perilously low-cut black
Alençon
lace. Besides her rings, she wore only a pair of magnificent diamond studs in her ears. But when
Raoul
saw the starved longing in the Irishman's briefly unguarded eyes, he realized his wife could have worn rags. And Catherine's eyes, which
Raoul
only saw of late as cold, brilliant sapphires, warmed with deep-fired radiance as she gazed at the Irishman; then their yearning melted to stark unhappiness within a heartbeat.
Raoul
had meant to remind her of her love for Culhane so forcefully that she would never dare to resist Napoleon. Now, all he knew was that Culhane had her love and no other man could beg, borrow, or steal it.

He glanced up automatically as the orchestra finished the
Alceste
overture and the corps
de
ballet swirled into their opening steps. Fetching wenches. Why the hell did he have to be married to a raving beauty who made other women seem insipid?

For Catherine and Sean, the performance was torture, their frustration almost tangible under the indifferent masks they had worn as they had passed through the lobby crowds and climbed the stair to their box. Catherine's black
moiré
evening cloak formed a dramatic foil to the tall man in black at her side, and Amauri realized he had erred in ordering the black lace. In his blue and scarlet he, himself, appeared to be the stray escort.

Because the gilt chairs of the two men were placed slightly behind hers, Catherine was unable to see Sean without turning her head. But she felt him in the darkness. Warm reality. Sensed his nearness as if his hands caressed her skin. Sensed his heartbeat as if it lay beneath her ear. How tired he looked. How tense and wary, as if he held the world at bay. She could have wept as she remembered the shy efforts he had once made to meet people halfway. His loneliness now was so transparent she ached to touch him, even if only to take his hand as a friend. And how transparent was Amauri's reason for this miserable farce.

Grim thoughts that had plagued her for weeks whirled through her brain. If she warned Sean, he would realize her danger and refuse to leave France. Whether he went or stayed, he would eventually know if she became Napoleon's mistress. He would do something desperate and be killed. And if he stayed in Paris, sooner or later Amauri would destroy him anyway. There seemed to be only one thing to do; she must hurt him to keep him alive.

Tantalized by the subtle scent of Catherine's perfume, Sean remembered glimpsing the roses of her nipples beneath her lace bodice as he had kissed her hand in her drawing room. He had not dared to dwell on the thought before, but now it went straight to his groin. As he tried to divert his mind, Catherine reached out and took her husband's hand. Missing Amauri's look of surprise before the Frenchman smiled back at her, Culhane felt jealousy rattle through him like an angry snake. He tried to fight the fury down. After all, she had married the man. They had done far more than hold hands; then, as he imagined
that,
he nearly went berserk.

As he watched Catherine's small, affectionate attentions to Amauri through the remainder of the performance, Sean sensed she loved her husband. He was utterly unprepared for her rejection piled on top of the stark hostility he met everywhere. He felt as if he were some nameless dead planet blindly hurtling away from its sun.

Then his jaw set. He had nothing left to lose, but Catherine had a chance. Unless Amauri turned out to be Napoleon's puppet. Catherine would want to know the truth, no matter how much it hurt. But could he hurt her?

As the performers took their final bows under a rain of flowers, Amauri turned with his easy smile and lightly Caressed Catherine's bare arm. "We've been invited backstage to meet the prima donna. You'll enjoy Madame Wetzl, Sean. She's more of
a roué
than most men."

Sean managed a noncommittal smile and opened the door of their box, not looking at Catherine as she passed through it.

Madame Wetzl held court backstage, her fleshy face dampened with perspiration under heavy makeup. Catherine felt drained. She fixedly stared at the web of ropes and pulleys overhead, the stacked flats, anywhere but at Sean's set face. The diva had unabashedly looked him up and down, then claimed his arm, her body powder smearing his sleeve.

The couples who had come backstage eyed Culhane with wary curiosity, then, disarmed by his polite manner, engaged him in conversation when La Wetzl allowed anyone else a word. Catherine had known she would have to contend with other women in Sean's life, but that knowledge did not make it easier as she felt the electric interest of the attractive
Parisiennes
who vied for his notice. Even the dancers peeked at him as they mopped uninhibitedly at their pretty, perspiring faces and shoulders, hitching up their muslin costumes like so many tired butterflies. One blonde stared outright, and made no effort to respond to the quips tossed at her by the attentive rakes.

Suddenly, Catherine stared back, eyes wide with astonishment. "Moora!" she breathed. She slipped out of Amauri's clasp. "Pardon me,
Raoul;
I see someone I know." He watched curiously as she flew across the stage to a golden-haired dancer who met her partway with open arms.

"My lady!" Moora sobbed with confusion and joy. "Oh, my lady!"

"It's plain Kit to you and don't you ever forget it! Oh, you look wonderful!" Catherine hugged her tightly, then looked her up and down. "You're so sophisticated!" She did not exaggerate. The Irish girl's blond hair was sleekly caught back from a porcelain face dominated by impudent blue eyes that made her resemble a lively, lovely doll.

"I'm Marya Alexandrovna now, dahlink," Moora replied grandly with a heavy Russian accent. "I lif on vodka and caviar, slip on satin sheets covered with roses, and swat men away like mosquitoes." She grinned impishly. "The only trouble is, raw fish still heaves me stomach, I've scratches from thorns, and I slide out of bed the livelong night." She shrugged. "And what use has a woman in love for swarms of men?"

"You're in love? How wonderful! Who's the lucky fellow?"

"There are three actually; I just haven't the heart to discard any of them."

Catherine laughed. "Sean warned you'd take to a life of sin like a duck to water!"

Moora's eyes slid over Catherine's shoulder. "That's
him,
isn't it?"

"In the flesh. He'll be so glad to see you . . . but for heaven's sake, behave, or he'll never let me hear the end of it."

"I knew ye'd win him over!" Moora said triumphantly, lapsing into brogue. "Will ye be lookin' at that boulder on yer finger! I knew he was a goner when he pulled ye out of that pond. Scared silly, he was—"

"Moora, hasn't your mother written you?" cut in Catherine, her smile slipping.

"We've been on tour. The troupe just opened in Paris a week ago. With the war and all, I imagine I've letters waitin' in six cities."

Moora stole another look at the Wetzl crowd. "For a minute I was worried when I saw you with General Amauri. There's a skirt chaser! He's been after every girl in the corps!"

"He's my husband, Moora," Catherine said quietly, "not Sean."

Moora went white. "Oh, Lord, what can I say?"

Catherine smiled faintly. "Nothing. Raoul's infidelity is no surprise."

Tears came to the girl's eyes. "But why? What's Culhane doin' here if he's not with you?" Suddenly, her eyes fell to Catherine's gently protruding belly and she fell awkwardly silent.

"We cannot talk here," Catherine said. "Can we meet tomorrow?"

"We can go to my lodgings after the matinee."

"I'll be there. Now, come and see Sean." Catherine's fingers suddenly dug into her hand. "He ought to know something in his life has been a success!"