Stormfire (27 page)

As Catherine, pale and drawn, rolled over to greet Peg and a breakfast tray, Sean knocked on Doctor Flynn's door. By the time she had donned a rose woolen dress, wrapped the heather shawl mantilla-fashion about her head, and driven the dogcart to Flynn's door, he was saying good-by. "Is someone ill?" she asked.

Doctor Flynn took her hand. "No, but this young mule is bucking for trouble." He looked at Culhane. "You cannot train men from dawn
to
dark and spend every free moment over account books without breaking your health. Atlas was a myth."

Culhane shrugged. "Atlas was a fool; he served everyone's interests but his own."

Flynn scoffed. "And you don't?"

Culhane stonily returned his stare and, with a brief nod to Catherine, swung up into his saddle, then galloped the big black away toward Shelan. Flynn shook his head. "There goes a fool, indeed. He'll end in a noose if that wolf pack he leads doesn't turn on him first. He's too fine to treat his life so cheaply."

Frowning against the sun-pierced haze, Catherine looked up at him. "I'm forced to disagree, doctor. He's a ruthless, dangerous man. I doubt if anyone at Shelan will ever be a threat to him. He holds that wretched place in a grip of iron, pitiless and unfeeling."

A glint appeared in Flynn's eyes. "You've cause to complain of ill treatment, but I believe you judge him too harshly. It's Culhane prestige that holds Shelan together, not Sean. The Irish are a stiff lot in some ways. Sean is rumored a bastard, and they won't follow bastards, even legally accepted ones; that was proven by the O'Neills' clash over the Tyrone succession in Queen Elizabeth's day. If Liam went, the rest would scatter like winter leaves."

Her eyes narrowing, Catherine's fingers tightened on her shawl. Flynn had unwittingly supplied the key to Shelan's bloodless destruction.

The oblivious doctor stared at the horseman cresting the horizon. "If Sean Culhane seems to be made of iron, it's because he's had to be. You've seen the brutal life of the common people; yet it's far better at Shelan than in most parts of Ireland. Because of Sean, scores are fed, clothed, sheltered, and given a purpose beyond their usual futile existences. You say he's unfeeling, yet he came here today out of concern for you."

She stared at him in astonishment, then grimaced. "I must have kept him awake all night."

"I don't believe Sean thinks of himself often. He's autocratic, but he's the most selfless man I know."

"He regards me as property. He maintains me as such. The day he tires of me will mark the end of his concern."

"But surely you don't suppose he means to kill you?"

"I know too much," she said flatly. "At times, he seems to forget how much he hates me, but he always remembers."

He patted her hand. "You've had enough of fear and death of late. It's time you thought of life. A young woman in Ruiralagh is giving birth today. I want you to assist the delivery."

"But I know nothing about babies."

"If I doubted your abilities, I wouldn't ask you to come. Sean knows you're with me; he'll not look for you tonight."

Twenty-one hours later, Eileen Devlin gave birth to a healthy baby boy whose red, shriveled face wrinkled into a toothless wail moments after he emerged from his exhausted mother. The three who had waited 30 long hours for him were convinced he was the handsomest baby in creation.

From the study windows, Sean saw a small, warm-colored figure kneeling on the hillside against a sea of sweeping furze. He threw on his jacket, left the house, and quickly strode across the rising moor. Catherine did not hear him until he was nearly touching her. The shawl draped over her head and shoulders and the serenity of her tired face as she turned to him resembled the ageless madonna in the Kenlo chapel. She had planted a handful of white, starlike wild flowers from Peg's garden in the fresh earth of Maude Corrigan's grave. He noticed her fingerprints in the raw, thin soil. Although their stems were a trifle limp, the flowers waved bravely in the breeze from the sea. "They're called stars-of-Bethlehem," she told him quietly. "If they survive, they'll cover the hillside one day."

He dropped to one knee and tamped earth around a forlorn bloom that was trying to blow over. "How's the baby?"

She smiled, a soft light in her eyes. "A beautiful boy. Doctor Flynn says it was a relatively easy birth for a first child. Only a common, everyday miracle."

Sean started to touch her cheek, then reluctantly withdrew his dirty fingers and rose to his feet, drawing her up with him. "Get some sleep. You need it."

She gazed up at him, the windblown shawl casting angular shadows across her fine-boned face. "And you? When will you rest?"

"Tonight." He smiled faintly. "If we can put off the customary quarrel."

Her lips twitched. "I believe my restraint is equal to your own."

That evening when Sean entered the salon, he whistled softly in pleased surprise. Her hair caught up in a loose, rippling cascade, Catherine waited by the fire in a watered silk gown of a pale green that accented the iridescence of her eyes. Tiny cream lilies were embroidered with gold threads on the lace-bordered bodice panel, and snug sleeves ended at the elbow in a froth of lace ruching. The lace was faded, the gold tarnished to
bronze,
and her hair too long to be coaxed into tightly coiled ringlets of a past era, but by the amber candleglow her aura was softer, more wistfully appealing than that of any powdered beauty. "Turn," he ordered softly. Gracefully, she obeyed. Blue-black hair that fell nearly to the small of her back seemed to tug her small head back slightly on her slender neck, giving her naturally ramrod-proud carriage a defiant look. Her waist seemed little more than a wisp, and her small, high breasts were creamy perfection. "Aye," he breathed, "it's a real blueblood you are, Countess. If your grandmother looked anything like you, old Louis must have galloped after her the length of Versailles, gout and all."

Smiling demurely, she gave him a deep curtsy.

"That dress calls for pearls," he observed. "Unfortunately, the family coffers have been bare of such trinkets for some time. Still. . ." He moved closer to her, dropping his jacket on a chair. "I prefer you without jewels." Smiling as her eyes widened, he hooked a finger under the ribbon at her throat. "Even this competes with your eyes, English."

Unlike the previous night, she stood without protest as his fingers undid the ribbon, brushing her neck as he withdrew it. His eyes held hers so long her confidence was undone. When he started to touch her cheek, she backed away, babbling hastily, "We're having quail tonight. I hope your fatigue endures such tedious fare; it's so difficult to extract meat from tiny game fowl."

"No less difficult than to extract a response from fairer game," he replied slowly.

Cursing her weakness for dressing to please him, she murmured, "Shall we sit down?" He politely stepped aside to let her pass and she did so swiftly, but somehow he arrived at the table in time to seat her with exaggerated courtesy. While they waited for Rafferty, the silence grew ponderous.

"I hope you slept well," Culhane said conversationally. If it were not for the faintly mocking gleam in his green eyes, she could almost believe he was solicitous.

"Very well, thank you. I was quite lazy; I didn't rise until late afternoon." Her dark blue eyes briefly lifted to his, then slid away again.

"My men must have found the sight of you coming down the stair a pleasant aperitif."

Angry spots of color appeared on her cheeks despite her firm resolution not to fight. "No one saw me. I came down early."

His lips curved lazily. "Were you so eager for my company?"

"Hardly eager," she snapped. "I resent being paraded as your mistress."

"If I wished to parade you, we would be dining less privately. Why so reluctant, Countess? You're not unappealing. And your grandmother was a courtesan, so why the prudery? You're a little stuffy for one so young."

She glared at him. "Compared to you, Attila was stuffy. And my grandmother was no courtesan, whatever your sordid information!"

"So much for your restraint," he commented dryly. "Wasn't she a mistress of Louis XIV?"

"For a matter of months, yes! Her husband's position and, fortune were at stake."

"Oh? I heard she profited personally. A matter of a diamond and sapphire collar and some other trifling baubles."

Catherine flushed. "They were gifts. Why shouldn't she have taken them? Louis had what he wanted."

"A practical attitude, my lady. You may be more of a mistress at heart than you think. I wonder. . . what would you trade to protect a man you loved?"

"I've never been in love, and with any luck, I intend to elude that state."

"I think not, Countess. You remind me of a small porcupine: all barbs o.n the outside, but vulnerable on the inside."

"Then I must beware the hounds, sir," she returned tartly.

"Aye," he grinned slowly, "take care they don't turn you belly up."

Her hot retort interrupted by Rafferty and his tray, she glared at the uncomfortable man the entire time he served her. He hastily waited on Sean, then withdrew, and she stabbed viciously at a crisply browned bird, which instantly skidded across the plate and landed stickily on the fine Aubusson rug. Culhane burst into a rude hoot of laughter. She scowled at him so fiercely that his amusement mounted. Gradually, her own sense of humor tickled by his infectious laughter, Catherine began to giggle and finally joined his mirth completely.

Attacking dinner with hearty appetites, they both finally sat back surfeited. "I'm beginning to understand why the wilted ladies of Mother's generation fainted at every turn," Catherine sighed. "It's impossible to both breathe and eat in this dress."

Sean grinned wickedly. "Shall I ease your dilemma?"

"I think not, sir. Lacings are all that prevent my exploding." She rose, and carrying her brandy, went to sit on the rug before the fire, skirts blooming outward like a silken flower. Sean followed and seated himself beside her, an elbow resting on one upraised knee. He silently offered to replenish her glass. "No, thank you. I prefer to mount the stairs on my own tonight." Her smile turned thoughtful. "Doctor Flynn says you went to see him because of me. Why?"

His green eyes were unreadable. "We both needed sleep. Any other questions?"

"No," she replied softly, "no other questions." She studied his profile in the glow of the fire: the straight nose; the hard, sensual mouth; the lean, stubborn jaw; the proud carriage of the dark head; the hazy green of his eyes under their black lashes. "Doctor Flynn is right; you look exhausted. Isn't there anyone to whom you can delegate authority?"

His lips curled. "Like Liam? He's next to useless. Flannery? He's nearly sixty. Soft slippers before a hearth are all he wants, and he's earned them. These last nights I've begun to share his inclination." He stared into the fire several long moments.

Suddenly he uncurled and stretched his length on the rug, dropping his head into her lap. He sleepily looked up into her startled eyes. "Wake me when you tire of playing pillow. I need only a few minutes . . ." His words trailed away as his eyes closed. Seconds later, his head dropped toward her and his breathing evened.

Catherine sat motionless for a long while. Utterly relaxed, he looked boyish and she could at last visualize him as younger than Liam. He seemed defenseless. Very lightly, she began to stroke his temples and brow, smoothing back the black, ragged fringe of his hair. Then, almost without her realizing it, her fingertips wandered to his lips, traced them.

His hand came from nowhere and gently caught her roving fingers. Green eyes stared dazedly into hers. Twisting out of her lap, he pressed her down onto the carpet so that he partly lay across her body. Removing the few pins from her hair, he spread the long tresses like a dark cloud. Her eyes turned inky, as her breasts, pressed high above her bodice, quickly rose and fell; but when his lips lowered to hers, she tensed. "No,
I. . .
I didn't mean . . . don't!"