Stormfire (23 page)

That afternoon, Catherine, intent on avoiding the muddy shallows of the fishery pond, walked out on the narrow, decrepit dock to scrub her hands before lunch. When she turned, the way to shore was cut off by three women; the rest of the workers had disappeared. One of the women was Maude. Gripped by icy apprehension, Catherine stood, fingers dripping. Maude lumbered onto the creaking dock, her eyes pinpoints of mad, gray light, her tattered, colorless clothing giving her the appearance of some hulking derelict risen from the sea.

"What do you want?" Catherine asked quietly.

The pinpoints flickered. "Pray for your soul, slut."

The closer Maude came, the more Catherine knew any attempt to reason with her would be a waste of breath, yet she dared not retreat from the huge woman. Like drab vultures, the others waited on shore; one of them, she was startled to see, was Moora. Maude, sensing her dismay, struck with blinding speed, bringing her huge fists downward in scything arcs that would have broken her target's collarbones if Catherine had not recoiled just in time, nearly losing her footing on the irregular boards. Maude charged, but the heel of her victim's hand caught her in the throat, and with a croak of pain, she caught Catherine blindly about the ribs, dragging her into a deadly embrace. Catherine twisted a leg about the woman's bulky calves, then shoved with all the force she could muster, toppling them both into the pond. The shock of cold water closing over their heads loosened Maude's grip. Ramming her hands against the woman's jaw, Catherine broke free.

As her head cleared the surface, she dodged a flailing grasp, back watered, dodged the Irishwoman again, and tried to swim away. Then she spied Moora, who, not ten yards away, was awkwardly paddling a fat, narrow river skiff she had found tangled in the reeds. "Moora, help me!" Catherine swam for the boat, long skirts tangling about her legs, then, eyes widening, ducked just before the flat of Moora's paddle slammed down with a forceful crack on the water. Before the Irish girl could lift the unwieldy weapon, her victim reared up, grasped the blade, and sharply jerked it. With a shriek, Moora capsized. She went down like a stone as the boat bobbed away in the low chop of the struggle. The woman on shore.began to scream and Maude flailed toward them with clumsy determination. Upending like a water bird, Catherine dove downward. Although partly blinded by mud kicked up from the bottom, she caught sight of colorless hair wafting in the dank water. She grabbed and hauled, breaking the surface with her erstwhile attacker, and, towing her by her hair, headed for shore. Despite the Irish girl's struggles, Catherine dragged her to a safe spot in the shallows where she pounded her on the back. Moora gagged and retched.

"Maude! Maude's drowndin'!" the third woman shrieked. Catherine staggered to her feet and looked in the direction the frantic woman was pointing. Maude's dirty kerchief showed above the water; her upturned face gaped like a wounded fish. Sighing, Catherine pulled off her hampering skirt and the one shoe she had not lost, then ran into the deeper water, wincing as her bare feet encountered sharp stones on the bottom. She closed the distance to the drowning woman with clean but tiring strokes. Circling just out of reach until the flailing Maude predictably sank, Catherine grabbed her hair. With the horrible glare of a Medusa, the woman reached up with sudden, insane strength, grasped Catherine's wrist with both hands, and pulled her close. Her hands shifted to Catherine's throat, then dragged her under.

Head pounding in a red mist, Catherine struck with all her force at the Irishwoman's belly and face, but her blows quickly weakened. When Maude finally became aware of her own danger and clawed for the surface, Catherine was already unconscious and sinking toward the muddy bottom.

"Mr. Flannery! Mr. Flannery!" The north tower lookout stumbled into the foundry and hung gasping from the dooijamb. His eyes widened in surprise as, instead of the jovial redhead, he found his commander-in-chief. Bare to the waist, torso smeared with black grease and sweat, Sean Culhane was paring one of his stallion's hind hooves in preparation for shoes cooling in the tank.

Culhane's green eyes slanted wickedly from the gloom at the messenger. "What the devil are you doing away from your post?"

Wiping his hands on his leather apron, Flannery came into the foundry from a back storeroom as the man stammered, "The limey lass, sor. They're drowndin' her in the pond . . ." The words were hardly out when Culhane exploded by the man, slamming him against the jamb; Flannery was right behind him.

One of the laundrywomen waved frantically to a spot some fifty feet out in the water as Sean kicked out of his worn work boots on the pebbled shore. He raced through the shallows, then angled out in a flat dive. He tuckfd and sliced under, eyes straining for some sign of life. On shore, a gathering crowd curiously milled about the pacing Flannery. He caught his breath as Sean's dark head broke the surface of the pond alone. Sean dived, and dived again. Flannery shook his head. "It's been too long."

Sean's chest felt as if it were stabbed by hot pokers and his head pounded horribly, yet he drove deeper into the murky darkness. Suddenly his outstretched, straining fingers brushed cloth and he seized it like a madman, pulling until he felt it give. Clouds of mud roiled up from the bottom. More carefully, he tugged, then felt a body under his fingers. Hauling it upward against his chest, he fought for the surface. At last his head cleared the murk and he gasped with pain as his starved lungs filled with air. A small, silken head like a drowned kitten's fell across his shoulder.

With the last of his strength he got Catherine to shore and nearly collapsed atop her as they reached the shallows. Flannery roughly ordered the crowd back. Catherine was deathly pale, her lids and lips blueish. Her head lolled limply as Sean dragged her up the shore just far enough to roll her on her stomach and rhythmically empty her lungs. He began to pump water out of her, but finally there was no more—and no sign of life. The watchers became restless, even those gaping at the victim's scantily clad body. Noticing their avid eyes, Flannery abruptly ordered them away. He touched Culhane's shoulder. "It's no use. Ye've been at it long enough."

"Leave me alone, dammit." Desperately, the dark Irishman flipped Catherine over and brought the heel of his hand down hard between her breasts. Flannery, the laundry woman, and the sodden Moora stared at him as if he had gone berserk. He hit her again and again, and Flannery had just taken a step toward him when Catherine coughed weakly. Water tinged with blood trickled from her mouth. Heart thudding in his chest, Sean pressed his mouth to hers and breathed. A ragged, bubbly breath mingled with his. When the long moth-wing lashes fluttered and he saw again the incredible blue of her eyes, he wanted to take her small face in his hands and make love to her mouth until she protested; only her dazed, shivering weakness stopped him.

"Flannery," he rasped hoarsely, "get a cloak or blanket—something." As Flannery headed off at a lumbering run toward the house, Culhane shifted to one knee. He steadied himself, waiting until his mind began to function again. "What happened here?" he demanded, lifting his head at last to stare unwinkingly at Moora and her stricken companion.

" 'Twas her, milord! The English bitch!" the laundry-woman hastily volunteered. "She pushed poor Maude from the pier, then came after us'with a fish knife." The woman looked to Moora for support, but Moora stared through her.

"So English jumped all three of you with a scraper, did she? She's a real terrier, wouldn't you say?" he grated.

The woman cast a desperate glance at Moora, who turned her head away. The laundrywoman went as pale as the girl lying on the ground. Her hand to her mouth, she began to back away from the swiftly mounting fury in her master's eyes, then bolted for the cliff path. Moora sat unmoving, hair stuck to her face and clothing flapping heavily in the rising wind.

Culhane looked down at the slim girl they had nearly murdered. Her color had improved slightly, but she seemed disoriented and trembled with cold. Wishing Flannery would hurry with the cloak, he chafed her hands. Although he could have carried her to the house, he did not want to parade her unclad body past gawkers still hovering near shore. "Get out of here or I'll have the lot of you boiled in-oil!" he roared. Instantly, they scattered. His attention ominously turned to Moora. "Well, Moora? Shall we have your bilge now?"

Moora met his eyes and told him the blunt, ugly truth.

" 'Twas all Maude and me. Annie just watched when Maude pushed her in," she said flatly. "I tried to brain her with the paddle, but fell in. I never learnt to swim. She pulled me out, then went back for Maude."

"I ought to hang the pair of you! What the devil got into you, Moora?"

"One fish too many," she muttered, absently watching Flannery approach at a trot with a cloak flung over one brawny shoulder.

Sean stared at her. "If you've been driven to murder, why not lie, too?" He angrily indicated the pale, shivering girl who moaned incoherently.
"She's
in no condition to protest. I might have believed you, if not Annie."

Moora's blue eyes held a strange look. "Milady wouldn't believe I wanted to kill her, and even after . . ." She paused. "She could have let us die."

"Don't dismiss the possibility of your demise too soon, girl," he snapped. "Even Peg wouldn't chide me now for letting you swing."

Coming up to them, Flannery handed Culhane the cloak, which the younger man wrapped about the nearly unconscious girl with swift care. Cradling her in his arms, Sean quickly carried her toward the house, her small feet dangling from the cloak's heavy folds, her dripping hair resoaking his shoulder and sending icy trickles down his ribs. As he took the stairs to his bedroom two steps at a time, he yelled orders at the startled servants. "Get a tub of steaming water upstairs with towels and liniment! Step lively!"

He had barely laid her in the big bed, stripped off her wet clothing and tucked the covers high about her ears, when the kitchen boys filed into the room with buckets of hot water. Flannery and Rafferty carted in a huge copper tub, Peg at their heels with the demanded liniment and towels. Her blue eyes crinkled with agitation as she plopped her load on the end of the bed. "What's this I hear about Moora?"

"Let's fret about one thing at a time." Sean patted her shoulder, then grimaced at the black mark left by his hand.

She shook him off, staring at Catherine's white face and tangled wet hair on the pillow. "What's Moora done?"

"Flannery will explain everything," he said gently, escorting her to the door. "Moora had a dunk in the pond and needs your looking after."

Peg twisted at the door. "But what about this poor lamb?"

He eased her out. "Don't concern yourself, Peg. I'll take care of her."

"You!" the anxious housekeeper sputtered. "You blitherin' blackamoor, what do you know about nursin'?"

"She's all right, Peg. Just chilled and a bit dazed." He pushed firmly, added, "I can manage," and closed the door.

When the tub was clouded with steam, Sean shooed the others out. Wiping his hands clean on a towel, he uncovered Catherine's arm, poured liniment into his palm, and began to rub her down, briskly starting with the fingertips and working upward. She stirred as he reached her shoulder. Covering her again, he slipped her other arm free of the covers and repeated the process. Catherine blinked as he started on her feet. "What. . . what are you doing?"

"Rubbing your toes." He began to stroke between them.

Having one's toes massaged was a strange but remarkably pleasurable sensation, she thought groggily. Her head raised a fraction. "Is Maude all right?"

"Yes."

She watched him work his way up her leg, easing the numbness with his strong hands as clinically as a doctor. Except a proper doctor, she considered, would not have spiky hair and lashes and be half-naked, wet, and sooty. "You're dripping on the bed," she protested feebly.

"So I am." His unexpected grin was a startling white in his smudged face. Her lips twitched as she unconsciously started to grin back, profoundly relieved to be alive. She sternly managed to work up a small frown instead when he flipped back the covers and vigorously massaged her torso. "Stop that," she protested.

Again his grin was like a boy's. "I've half a mind to tickle you back to life, you wriggling imp. Turn over," he ordered. With the wounded dignity of a sodden cat, she obeyed. His voice was brusque, but his hands were gentle, and already the ache in her chest was fading. Despite her muffled squawk, he rubbed her chilly derriere. As he slowly worked over her back and shoulders, she slipped into a vfdrm, euphoric stupor. All too quickly, she was jolted into wakefulness as she was turned over, lifted in powerful arms, and pressed against a Cold, furry chest. Her eyes flew open as Culhane inexorably lowered her into the tub of hot water. "Oh! Don't!" she squealed. "It's too hot!"