Stormfire (41 page)

"I'm Kitty Flynn. I don't believe we've met," replied Catherine quietly.

"Kitty Flynn, is it?" the girl said ironically. "I heard it was English Kate. Or was it Cat? Ye're better lookin' than they said. But then, no hag'd keep Sean between her sheets."

Catherine's eyes flashed violet. "If you've heard so much, you must have heard as well it's the other way around."

The amber flickered. " 'Tis your witch eyes. His mother spun tales of the Old Ones about him. Now they've sent a witch woman to destroy him. Sean Culhane was never meant to be
ri eireanne."
The Irish girl sounded as if she were uttering an incantation to ward evil from her lover.

"You must be Fiona," Catherine replied. "No, I've cast no spells to learn your name. Liam told me." Then more softly, "I no longer hate Sean. In some ways, I even understand his need for revenge." She saw no reaction in the Irish girl's face. "As for bringing ill fortune, how could th
e
Old Ones have sent me? Surely they cannot summon one who has no Irish blood."

Fiona made an impatient gesture. "Ye seek Sean's ruin even as ye veil his eyes. But Megan waits in Kenlo. Among her shadows, she's powerful. She'll destroy ye."

"Megan's dead. I'm not afraid of her."

The flame hair lifted and coiled. "No? Megan's at the heart of the demons in Sean Culhane. He'll never resist her biddin' for she's the only woman he'll ever love. When ye see the devil in his eyes, commend yer schemin' soul to hell."

Abruptly the fisher girl turned and went back the way she had come.

Sean, emerging from one of the whitewashed cottages near the shore, frowned as he saw Fiona walking away from the
Megan.
Quickly he intercepted her on the beach. They exchanged brief words and he caught her arm, then slowly released it. The red-haired girl left him and disappeared into the village. He swiftly returned to the yacht and jumped aboard. Catherine regarded him silently.

"What did she say to you?" he demanded.

"She was concerned for your welfare," Catherine replied quietly.

"The devil she was . . ."

"There's no need to be angry with her. I've known about Fiona for some time. She's lovely." Her voice sounded clear and faraway, as if she were fighting exhaustion.

Sean went down into the cabin, then returned with two mugs and poured tea into them from a narrow tin he had carried aboard from the village. He handed her a mug. "Here, drink this. Careful, it's hot. Peg forgot to pack the tea, so it's the last we'll have for a couple of days . . . that is, if you still want to go." His voice was carefully expressionless.

She wrapped her fingers about the mug, hugging its warmth. "I still want to go."

"I'm taking you below for a while:" He carried her, un- protesting, into the cabin and tucked her into a bunk. A brass lantern swung above the bulkhead. "Try to get some sleep, English."

By the time they had left the dock and the waves of the open bay had begun to slap against the hull, the tea was gone and Catherine burrowed into the woolen blankets. Finally she drifted into sleep.

She awoke some hours later to Sean's touch. "Would you like to face the Beast now, Beauty, or go on sleeping?"

"Is the Beast growling?" she mumbled sleepily.

He brushed a tendril from her forehead. "Not much. He's just a bit lonesome."

She gazed up at him through her lashes. Culhane had never hinted at need for anyone before, only the single time she'd flung it in his face. "Perhaps he just needs his ears scratched. Take me aft, Captain, and show me where he itches."

Culhane tapped her nose. "You'd be shocked." He handed her Tim's jacket. "Button up. The wind has changed and we've a stiff breeze."

He settled her in the downwind curve of his body behind the tiller he had lightly lashed in position. Spray dancing high off her windward quarter,
Megan
was tautly heeled over and making a steady ten knots westward through a hazy, leaden sea. "We're moving so quickly!" Her eyes lit with excitement. "Ships never fly through the water like this."

"Aye. We're running on a beam reach. You'll notice I've added a staysail to the jib and mainsail for greater speed."

"The staysail is the small, triangular sail near the bow?"

"Aye." He went on to describe the rigging, then finished, "The webs running up the mainmast are ratlines. They're not often used on a craft this size, other than for unsnarling tangled rigging or repairs . . ." He noticed her disappointment. "Sorry, monkey. Still, if you've an inclination to go aloft, I've no objection so long as I'm on deck."

She peered up at him. "You really mean it?"

He shrugged. "It's your neck."

With a pleased sigh, she resettled against his warmth. After a few moments of gazing at the rugged beauty of the passing coastline, she ventured another probe. "I don't suppose you'd let me take the helm?"

"Why not? Put your hands here." He tugged a line and the lashings on the helm fell free as the wheel began to move. He slipped his hands over hers.

As the afternoon passed, Sean let her guide the
Megan
under his hand until she could hold the sleek craft steady by herself. When her confidence grew, he showed her how to avoid a jibe. "If you let the wind get too much behind her, she'll jibe, which can break a mast. Be ready to duck. The boom will come around in a hurry . . ." Catherine gasped as suddenly the
Megan
heeled clumsily sideways and the boom sailed past her ear.

"Lesson one," said the unruffled voice in her ear as the boat swung immediately back on course and the boom came whacking back, "keep a cool head. Mistakes at sea are dangerous, but panic can be fatal."

Toward sunset Catherine became drowsy, but was determined to miss none of the primordial beauty around her. The cliffs now burned dark russet against the intensely purple moors.

Sean noticed her stubborn effort to stay awake. "We anchor in Broadhaven in a couple of hours or so. I'll tell you if you're going to miss anything."

Nodding, she nuzzled her nose into his jacket and was instantly asleep. It seemed only moments later that he was gently nudging her. "Wake up, lass. I have to go forward."

He dropped sail, secured the halyards, and anchored in a harbor sheltered from the Atlantic blasts by a large duned island. The backwater was quiet after the foaming rush of water under the
Megan's
hull all day. Lowland fields rolled away under a huge, ruddy, upturned bowl where tiny cloud scraps drifted in white sheets. Catherine stretched. "The sky looks like pink porridge. What does that portend, Master Mariner?"

"Fair sailing tomorrow." Sean finished lashing the mainsail to the boom and looked skyward. "That ruddy look in the morning indicates foul weather." Wiping his hands on his breeches, he dropped into the cabin through the forward hatch. He emerged on the aft deck with the oilskin sack, dining utensils, the lantern, and a bottle of wine under his arm. He squatted beside her, dug into the bag, and pulled out a stewed chicken. Placing it on one of the tin plates he had brought, he sawed the bird in half with his boot knife, then cut up cheese, divided gooseberries, and poured the wine. "Hungry?"

"Starved. I could eat a well-salted sail."

He grinned as he lit the lantern in the gathering darkness. "Well, you'd better enjoy the feasting while it lasts, because the fresh grub won't keep long. We'll shortly be dining on salt pork and hardtack." He handed her a mug and clicked it lightly with his own.
"Slainte,
Countess."

"Slainte,
Captain."

The delicious food, the lantern light, the wind, and the gentle rock of the boat combined with lulling treachery. Catherine fell asleep in the middle of the most pleasant meal of her life.

She was awakened by sunlight streaming through a porthole across her pillow. She stretched with a contented purr, eyes slitted against the light. She realized she was wearing nothing under the blanket, that Sean had undressed her. Strange, how she had come to trust him. His manner was almost brotherly, even if his eyes often warned his desire was on short tether, Gradually she had grown accustomed to his touch. Often she awoke to find his body intimately entwined with her own, as if a night of love had left him unwilling to part with her. Grown now unused to sleeping alone, she wished he were lying warm against her in her bunk rather than already moving about the deck.

Donning shirt, sweater, and breeches, Catherine poked her head out of the aft hatch to feel the sun warm on her upturned face. The morning was fair as promised, the breeze light.
Megan's
topsides and brass mirrored the play of sun off water as she rocked at anchor. "Oh, what a gorgeous day," Catherine breathed, realizing how a bird must feel and wanting to turn inside out with song.

Sean, splicing a rope near the bow, glanced up and noted her steady walk. His teeth flashed their startling white in his dark face. "Sleep well, Beauty?"

"Like the proverbial stone." She grinned back, swinging the hair out of her face. "You're a passable wizard. Weather as ordered, I see." Her grin turned impish. "Your wand seems to be back in working order."

He shot her a wicked look under his lashes. "For all I know, it's rusted away entirely."

She lifted an ironic brow. "Surely it has more than earned its rest."

"True," he observed slyly. "To rest in your willing warmth is a consummation devoutly to be wished."

She flushed. His words had a seductive pull beneath their teasing surface. She should not have begun to fence with him.

She sat on the deck and dangled her feet over the side, toes just clearing the water. Her wavering reflection blended with that of the hull, then was cut by a sheet- white gull that skimmed low, mewling over glittering azure water. Its head snapped down and came up with breakfast. Catherine trilled clearly after him as he flew off, wings occasionally taking a lazy beat toward the gray- blue shore.

"Like it here, English?"

"Very much, Irish." Her heels drummed against the hull. "Where are we going today?"

"We'll explore the islands off Achill. We can reach them by afternoon if we get under way within the hour."