Stormfire (60 page)

"Jesus!"

"Catherine carried a dead child for two months or more that should have miscarried but didn't, perhaps because she was confined. Inevitably, her system would have been poisoned. Whether her nausea is due to foul prison fare or gradual poisoning, I don't know, but if she hadn't fallen off that horse this afternoon, she'd have died within the month."

"Because she was afraid I'd take her child."

"She was sure of it. Probably even thought you might destroy it in a fit of temper."

Sean threw his glass into the fire. Hardly moving to evade the violent burst of flame from burning alcohol, in its glare he looked like a creature from hell. "Can she be moved?"

"You mean to a bed? Absolutely not. She's held together by thread and bandages. But she could use a pillow and blankets. That room is freezing without a fire."

Already on his way out of the room, Sean began to shout orders to the few servants.

Fires were built in the former messroom's three massive stone fireplaces, the drapes pulled, and the surgical table moved closer to the central fire. Sean carefully swaddled his unconscious charge in blankets and tucked pillows under her head to assist her breathing. Then he sent the others away and began the long night. Hour after hour, he kept vigil alone, rising occasionally to feed the fires, then returning to his place to watch them beat high, weaving weird, staccato patterns on the walls as they undulated in restless, ominous cycles. Outside, the wind mourned in the crags and the servants whispered that the
Bean Si,
the harbinger of death, was near.

When the sun's first rays needled through a torn drapery, Catherine yet lived. As the sun climbed and sank, Sean watched her face, retracing its features against the time when they would be shut from his gaze forever. For all his defiance, he believed she would die.

Ellen came to say good-by, but seeing his haggard face, she smoothed his hair. "Eat something and sleep. You'll be ill."

He shook his head. "I brought her here, from everything she loved. I cannot leave her alone now."

"Why not let someone else—"

"No."

She went down beside his chair. "Sean, when your Kit awakens she'll need your strength without reserve. I'll call you if there's the slightest change. You can make a place here before the fire." She took his hand. "There'll be time enough later for penance." So, Ellen persuaded him to eat something and lie on a blanket to sleep. She covered him and took his place in the chair to sit gazing at the wasted features of the other woman's face.

Sean awoke on his own. He sat up, rubbing his stubbled beard. In her chair, outlined against the green drapery, auburn hair piled high, Ellen reminded him of Megan, only she had a quiet warmth his mother had lacked. Megan had been tempestuous, even incandescent, but never warm. "You're a rare woman, Ellen. Thank you for staying."

She smiled. "George Ennery will wait. I tucked him into bed with a bottle of your best whiskey."

"How is she?"

"Becoming feverish. Doctor Flynn was here. If she hasn't regained consciousness by nightfall, you're to send for him."

"Would you continue to be an angel and keep watch a bit longer? There's a thing I must do."

"Yes, of course. I expected you to sleep for hours."

Sean found Peg dusting aimlessly in the Rose Salon, "Peg, where's the child?" he asked quietly.

She tucked the duster under her arm. "I bathed and wrapped the little fellow in a linen pillowcase. He's in my
room."

"Take me to him."

A tiny bundle lay on the bed. The odor was horrible. "You didn't take him outside?"

"To feed the dogs? Whether he's yours or Liam's, he's a
Culhane . . ."

"You knew two months ago, didn't you?"

She could not read his voice or his mood, but she looked at him straight. "Aye. Ye had enough trouble without a babe into the bargain. I figured ye'd be findin' out in good time. Only I didn't know the babe was dead. I had no wish to see the lass and her child die in so mean a fashion, and ye haunted the rest of yer days."

Sean touched the linen and she caught his head. "Nay, don't be lookin'. Naught of life's there. Bury him deep and remember him decently."

High on the hill near Maude Corrigan's marker, Sean dug a hole with his hands and knife, then carefully laid the bundle in it, but could find no prayer to say nor the heart to push the dirt back into the grave. Rubbish. Burying his own son and Catherine's like rubbish. A spasm took him , then and a keening cry welled in his throat like the howl of an animal across the gray, windswept heath.

"You don't have to go."

Ellen kissed Sean gently. "You want to be alone. She may come around soon."

"Ellen,
I. . ."

"Don't say it." She pressed a finger against his lips. "We've had wonderful times together; but I've always thought you were incapable of loving any woman deeply." She smiled with soft regret, her lovely eyes drawing him as they always had, but now with an irrevocable difference. "If I ever find a man to love me as you do your Kit, I'll snap him up like a starved trout." She took his hands.

"Good-by, darling. Good luck. For your sake, I hope the girl lives, but whatever happens, don't let it destroy you. My house is yours. Don't stay here alone."

He held her close for a long moment, but she knew it was for the last time.

There was no need to call Flynn. Near sunset, Catherine, murmuring incoherently, stirred weakly in the blankets. Sean bathed her face and tried to trickle gruel down her throat, but aware only of mounting pain, she dazedly avoided the spoon. Her breath came in shallow pants; then a sharp spasm raked her eyes open, and with a cry, she strained against the pain as if it were a fearful, consuming lover. He held her shoulders. "Easy, little one." But she did not know him, could not distinguish his voice over tidal sweeps of agony. The dull pulsations rose into a livid, incoherent shriek, then plunged her into soundless depths where she drifted.

For the next few days, Catherine, unable to endure for long the pain that lay in wait, wavered in and out of consciousness. Sean dreaded feedings; as careful as he was, the gruel induced coughing that left her torn and trembling.

On the third evening, he carried her, wrapped in a blanket, up to his room, the splinted leg stiff from the knee down, the small head lax like a tired child's against his shoulder. Her cropped hair tickled his chin and he looked down at the long, ragged lashes that swept her cheeks. Aye. Rest, little one. Rest to fight again . . . and again. You've the heart of Conal, and a good English backbone, and my arm to lean on. Just don't let go.

Peg followed him into the room and pulled the draperies, then came to stand with him by the bed. " 'Tis hard to hate her now. Just the day the Frenchies came, she asked me to look after ye. I'd have taken oath she wished ye no harm." She fell silent for a moment. "There's somethin' about the whole matter that's awry. . . . Will ye sleep now? I'll watch a bit."

He left, but wandered instead to the empty ballroom. As he lifted the cover of the pianoforte and pressed a key, a single tenor note lingered in the room, evoking the image of a dark-haired girl poised
en penchse
before the long hazy windows; fleeting, ephemeral glimpses of a slender body in flight, vibrant as a firefly in the gloom. That spirit had been the real Catherine, the Catherine he had never known, had tried to touch. To seize. The idiot and the butterfly.

When the doctor came that night, Sean asked the question that plagued him. "Where was Padraic those last days before the ball?"

"With me," Flynn said, deftly changing dressings. "And he slept over, as he often does. Why?"

"Kit said she had used Padraic to send a letter to Lord Lieutenant Camden, probably on the mail coach out of Donegal. But she couldn't have known exact details of the rebellion until after Fournel arrived. Wasn't there any time the boy could have gotten away for several hours, even as late as the day of the ball?"

Flynn shook his head. "I kept him hopping."

"Would he have passed the message to someone else?"

"Not likely. Padraic worships Catherine and he's literal about commands. If she told him to take the message personally, he'd not have thought of relinquishing it." Flynn frowned. "He might have hidden it out of shame . . . you know, conflicting orders and
all.
He wanted to obey me, too."

"No, Camden got a message, all right; only it wasn't sent from Catherine."

"So, she
was
lying?"

"Aye." Sean felt oddly relieved and wretched at the same time. Had Catherine loved Liam so much she would protect him to the last, knowing she might die for it?

"Do you think Liam betrayed us?"

"Not us. Me." Sean rubbed his head as if it ached and dropped it against the back of the chair. "At the last, he hated my guts. Maybe always; I don't know."

Flynn finished bandaging, and took the patient's pulse. "Well, there's something you'd better know and face. Catherine's side is beginning to knit, but her strength is failing."

"She'll live," Sean said flatly. "She was able to say a few words this morning." "Gibberish. Calling for her mother, the baby. I've heard her. Most of the time she has no idea who or where she is."

"She'll remember."

Flynn pulled on his jacket. "Then what? Her body has been fighting of itself, but given conscious, rational choice, do you think she'd choose life?" He opened the door. "If she awakens, you'll have a real fight on your hands."

If only the pain would end. Late that night, nerves taut, Sean held Catherine down as she twisted with shrieks that slowly subsided as the pain exhausted her. He eased his grip and bathed her hot forehead and parched lips. "Maman," she mumbled, eyes slowly opening and following the movement of the cloth as he withdrew it. She tried to speak, but was unable to get past the pain. Then, almost inaudibly, she whispered, "Help me."

Sean stroked her hair. "Easy, little one, I'm here. Don't try to talk . . ."

"Please. I
hurt . . ."

"I know, kitten. The pain will pass. Try. You have to keep trying."

Her fingers caught in his
sleeve. "I. . .
cannot. . . bear any more! You've . . . made me suffer as your promised." Her fingers tightened. "End it. I beg you!"

Realizing what she was asking, he clamped his hands on both sides of her face, her heat seeming to sear him. "Damn it, no! You're going to live. I'll make you."

"You . . . cannot hold me now." The dim flare of rebellion guttered in her eyes as her head slipped to one side.

He left the room at a run and yelled down the stair, "Peg, get Flynn!"

Flynn looked up from the bed. "She must have a priest."

Sean stiffened. "No. I've seen it before. She'll give up."

"That has already happened. Catherine's a practicing Catholic. Would you have her die believing she's damned?"

Distraught, the young Irishman twisted away. "Do you want me to hand her over to Ryan? Where's the solace in that toad?"

"The man matters not. It's God he represents, and only God can give her peace."

Sean stared furiously at the small, still form in the bed. "Where was God when I brought her here?"