Stormfire (95 page)

"How lovely you are today," Catherine said softly, her voice somewhere outside herself. How ironic for a girl wearing a spring bonnet and violets to be a messenger of death.

"I wanted to be first to reach you," Moora said slowly, "but I see you already know." She stopped just outside the door.

"Raoul
told me," Catherine said dully, her eyes dilated by laudanum. "It must have been an entertainment, like a bear baiting. People came to watch him die." Her eyes grew darker, frighteningly disoriented. "Only it was less of a show than they expected. He'd been poisoned, you see." She stared dazedly at the Irish girl. "But you know all this. How stupid of me. You've come to tell me he's dead." She caught Moora's arm, whispering brokenly, "Where is he? Where have they taken him?"

"Oh, God," Moora breathed. She slipped her arm around her friend, firmly drew her back into the bedroom and closed the door. Like a sleepwalker, Catherine made no protest as the Irish girl helped her to the bed and vigorously chafed her cold hands. "Listen to me. Sean's safe, do you hear? Alive and safe."

Catherine's eyes grew enormous and her lips trembled. "Don't. Don't lie." She began to sob helplessly. "I cannot stand any more. I heard . . ."

"I can imagine what you heard, no thanks to that husband of yours," Moora said angrily, "and it's true enough, mind you, but he'll not die. The wound's little more than a nasty scratch." She smiled at the expression in Catherine's eyes. "Cross me green Irish heart."

Catherine sagged against her shoulder. "Oh, merciful God."

Moora
patted her back. "He's been taken to a safe place to hide until the fuss dies down."

"I must see him."

Moora shook her head. "You might be followed. Neri's body won't be found any time soon," she said in a voice that held a note of grim relish, "but news of the duel is out. Napoleon may already know.
Fouché
is bound to put a man on you to locate Sean."

A sad resolve filled Catherine's eyes. "There can be no waiting, Moora. Sean must leave Paris
now.
Will you arrange a meeting?"

The next morning, Catherine, telling her driver to return in an hour, dismissed her coach opposite Notre Dame. Slowly, she walked to
Sainte Chapelle
and climbed to the upper floor and the chapel proper. As she stepped into its interior, she paused, dazzled by a spectrum of light. Surrounded by gemlike windows, arches flared from slender gilded stalks that supported a deep blue ceiling spangled with gold stars. To Catherine, the small chapel had the intimacy of a jewel box. That this sublime artistry had risen from apolcalyptic horrors of the Middle Ages awed her. Its survival seemed to be a promise of hope, for it represented the best of man's faith and the grandeur of his heart. Catherine crossed herself. What an eye for theater Moora had developed, she thought with sad irony as she looked for Sean. Moora was kneeling on the stones near an old woman, the only other person in the chapel. Then Catherine saw Sean walk slowly toward her from the shadows on the far side of the nave, the light distorting his tall silhouette. Although she had prepared for what was to come, she could not prepare for the treacherous leap of her heart. Then he was too close, invading her fragile wall of control, and the words she had carefully planned caught in her throat. He was pale, and his eyes, God, she could hardly bear to look at them, could hardly bear to speak the terrible words that would sever their bond forever.

Indeed, she had dressed with infinite care, as if she were preparing for execution. The coral silk dress and gauzy shawl draped about her face made her eyes and skin come alive, simulating a blush of health and well-being.

Sean lost his powers of speech as well. He was afraid for the first time since prison. Not in any duel, even the one with
Neri,
had he really felt fear, but now he was helpless against the mortal blow he sensed was coming; when it did, it was so quick and clean he went numb.

"Sean, I want you to leave Paris within the hour. You must
never
come back." Catherine wanted to shriek with the reflected pain that arced from his eyes. She wanted to bury his face against her, hold him and cry out her undying love, but she could not. He must go thinking her a jealous, peevish woman, for certainly he would attribute his banishment to rumors of his affairs.

"And if I choose not to go?" The phrase came like a dying murmur.

"You
hâve
no choice." Her voice was cold with despair. "When Napoleon finds out about your last duel, even I may not be able to help you."

"What particular act did you perform to obtain this little favor," he whispered hoarsely. "Does he prefer it Greek style?" She gave a little cry and stepped back. He caught her wrist. "What about my child? Do you deny me him, too?"

"Please," she whispered, "you're hurting me."

He dropped her wrist as if it were a hot iron. "Hurt
you?
Do you think me a block of stone you can hack at whim?" He twisted away in an unthinking blaze of bitterness. "Forgive me,
madame.
My inconsiderate survival must have inconvenienced your standing with your lover. I'll go. I'll go and be damned to you!"

Dear God, not like this; I cannot let him leave feeling betrayed. She caught his sleeve, then murmured like a fervent prayer, "I love you with my whole heart, my whole soul, and my whole mind. Believe I know something of what you've suffered to stay near me; but you're killing me. Each time I hear you've dueled, I die a little more. Even if Napoleon doesn't imprison you, he'll look the other way when the ringleaders hire more killers. They won't bother fighting you now; they'll shoot you in the back or cut your throat." She put her hands to her ears remembering, Raoul's gloating triumph. "Poison. Dear God."

He had slowly turned as she was speaking and caught her to him, burying his head against her neck. "Don't. Don't remember. Just remember the time we had in Ireland before Liam came. Don't let's tear each other apart now."

The old woman stared until Moora glared at her so pointedly she laboriously rose and huffily left the chapel.

Sean's arms tightened. "If only I knew you'd be safe . . ."

"I'm in no danger.
Raoul
and I have come to terms; each knows where the other stands. Napoleon's planning to transfer him to Spain indefinitely."

"And Napoleon, once he has you to himself?"

"Once Raoul
is gone, I'll have no reason to oblige Napoleon. I shall retire to the Convent of Saint Therese near Saint Jean
de Luz
where Mother received her education. When our son is old enough, I'll send him to you."

"You'd give him up?"

"A convent is no place for a boy."

"A convent is no place for you."

"Darling, I have a need for peace only God can give me now." She anxiously scanned him. "Are you well enough to ride?"

"With luck, I'll be across the border in two or three days."' There was so much and yet no more to say.

She placed her hands on both sides of his face. "God protect you and give you peace, my love."

"Oh, God, Kit," he cried softly as his head swooped down. His lips crushed hers as if he sought to draw her soul from her body to take with him. Her fingers caught in his hair and she sobbed against his mouth as she clung to him; then he tore out of her arms and away toward the stair, his stride quickening. Abruptly, without looking back, he was gone. She stood there, mute and immobile under the weight of a terrible premonition of disaster. She put out a hand and took a faltering step after him, then another, whispering his name; then the black weight pressed down and she heard Moora's faraway cry of alarm fade into nothing.

When Catherine heard the front door slam downstairs, her hand slid into the pocket of her white satin dressing gown and her fingers curled around the grip of the tiny pistol she had taken from Raoul's gun collection. She had refused Moora's offer to stay with her and finally, reluctantly, the young Irishwoman had taken the Celtic jewels for safekeeping and left. Now Catherine wished with all her heart Moora had stayed, as
Raoul
walked into her bedroom, his face taut.

"Guillaume
followed you to
Sainte Chapelle,"
he said tightly. "Your divine Irishman has risen from the dead once too often. Where is he?"

"I'll tell you nothing,
Raoul."
She drew the gun. "Now, get out."

He took a wary step toward her. "If you pull that trigger, you'll die for it."

"The prospect of living with you is less palatable."

"You'd condemn your child as well?" he countered suspiciously.

"Sentence cannot be carried out until after the birth. The baby will go to a safe place." She smiled. "Take another step and make it easy for me."

He turned on his heel. "I'll find Culhane soon enough. I know his hideouts." He kept going and she heard the front door slam. Still holding the gun, she went to the bedroom door to call her maid. She must find a hiding place in the city. When
Raoul
discovered Sean was gone, he would be more dangerous than ever. As she stepped into the hall, the thought spun from her mind as her wrist was seized and the gun wrenched from her hand. A blow cracked across her face.
"Raoul!"
She twipted away with a shriek. "Antoinette! Help me!"

He grabbed her hair and cut off her breath with a forearm locked across her throat. "Tell me, you bitch, or I'll beat it out of you!"

Her slippered foot slammed down on his instep; the heel was not heavy enough to make him lose his grip completely but the pain startled him. She wrenched away and ran toward the steps. "Antoinette!"

He caught her arm, spun her around, then slapped her again and again, hissing, "Tell me where he is, damn you!"

"No." She clawed out at him, trying to shield her head, until she lost her balance and fell to the floor. She curled up desperately as she saw his foot go back to kick her.