Stormfire (64 page)

"I never stopped loving you, little one. I nearly went crazy. Christ, what a battleground we made of what should have been."

They made love again, lingeringly, rediscovering each other in the darkness. Then it was still, the easing rain lightly drumming in somnolent rhythm as they lay entwined under the faded counterpane. They slept, still locked together, then loved again as the sun sank, turning their bed to pale gold, their bodies to burnished bronze.

Throughout the golden days of summer and fall, they gorged on one another, not trusting the future. There was only now, and they took it as hungrily as they took each other. Reexploring the coast and islands, the two sunned for endless days on the
Megan's
deck and made love until their skins turned Indian dark and they looked like a pair of jewel-eyed primitives. As the weather cooled, they went back into the Donegal mountains, into Eden. Part of the debris of war, blasted and scarred, they slowly healed their wounds and found peace. The stubborn seed of their love gave flower as Sean found a happiness with Catherine he had never known. Increasingly, he became aware of the difference between Megan, who promised all but only took, and Catherine, who gave warmth and love without measure. He learned to laugh easily and often as Catherine's playfulness surfaced after years of repression. In many ways, he had never really known her, and the emerging woman beguiled him. All contrasts, all mesmer, she wrapped him in love and he adored her.

As Sean opened his study door one crisp October afternoon, the only warning of an alien presence was a faint cloud of blueish smoke rising above the back of his wingback chair. He silently eased back into the foyer. A familiar voice with an unfamiliar note of bored mockery floated across the room with the smoke. "Don't bother going for a gun. You've grown careless in the ruins of your dreams. I daresay ambition has lost its gloss?"

Sean crossed the room, dropped into the desk chair with a carelessness he did not feel. "What do you want, Liam?"

The dissipated face that regarded him from the chair was shocking, even more so than its sudden appearance. The fine, fair hair was the same, if untrimmed; but the handsome aesthete was now a bloated Parsival disappointed to find the Grail a beggar's cup. Wine and misanthropy had taken a hard toll of Liam Culhane. His skin was blotched, his mouth indulgent; eyes secretive, bright with malice. "Why, what a question, brother. I saw you on the beach from the cliff. My wife looks fit. She was ill, I gather?" He might have been discussing the weather. When Sean said nothing, Liam continued with a derisive smile. "A charming couple you made, playing children's games and stealing kisses. I was a bit surprised you didn't heave her skirts up and have at her." Sean's jaw tightened, but he held his tongue.

Liam sipped his whiskey, then toyed with the glass and smiled into space. "All kissed and made up, even to the point of my wife being your cheery whore until the divorce papers are served and husband Liam is out on his noble duff." Sean's head lifted slightly. "Oh, yes, I received due notice. Actually, you could say I've been waiting for it. Two years." He waved the glass. "Holed up like a troglodyte in a cave of all my worldly wealth. My minions were afraid to come and cut your throat. You made a nasty impression on them—"

"You've becomes sot and a bore as well as a traitor, Liam," Sean interrupted bluntly. "Why not take the bottle and crawl back to your lair?"

"I've been off liquor for a week so I might pay you and my wife a polite visit," his brother snarled. "Don't patronize me. And as for boring"—thin lips curled around the word—"here is titillation for you: you rut upon your own sister."

Sean stared at him. "You're deranged."

Liam chuckled. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I believe my wife has that honor. Is that how you persuaded her to spread herself in your incestuous sty?"

Sean vaulted over the desk and wrenched Liam out of the chair by his shirtfront as whiskey spiraled onto the rug. "Why would I lie?" Liam challenged. "She's my sister, too."

"You'd contrive any rot to get her away from me, you slime!"

"I'm not lying. And if you close my mouth now, Catherine will hear the truth from the Pope and nothing will keep her with you!"

Slowly, Sean released him. "Let's see your concocted proof. I've an itch to cram it down your throat!"

Liam shrugged his jacket back into position, reached down beside his chair for a leather portfolio, and laid it on the desk. He drew out a canvas. "Recognize it?"

"Of course," Sean "said impatiently. "It's the portrait that used to hang in Brendan's bedroom."

"Does the woman look familiar?"

"Should she?"

"You know her intimately, or rather, her daughter."

Liam drew out a second painting. It was a portrait of Catherine in an almost identical pose to the one in the older canvas. Catherine was by far the more beautiful, her eyes and cheekbones more dramatic, the mouth more provocative, but the two women were undeniably related. "It won't wash, Liam. This is no proof of anything."

"That's what I thought at first. It left too many loose ends." He restored the paintings to the folio, then pulled out a vellum envelope. "Then I found this. Brendan gave a codicil to Father Ryan's predecessor along with a copy of the will to safeguard in case either of us ever contested dispensation of the estate." He casually handed it to Sean. "You'll find it most interesting."

Sean suspected forgery, but he knew Brendan's writing as well as his own and the document was authentic, even to the subtle weighting of the ink in certain letters. The pages held answers to questions he had wondered about all his life, including some answers he would have given that life not to have known.

My dear sons,

I have added this codicil to my last will and testament to be opened only upon question of the dictates of my will. The major actors it discusses are all dead now, and it may explain my actions.

At the age of eighteen, I sailed on one of Grandfather Ruadric's barques, which foundered off the French coast. I washed ashore near the Convent of Saint Anne, where a young girl, Elise de Vigny, aided the sisters in attending me. She was innocent as the dawn and as lovely. When I regained health, she invited me to stay at her father's estate until a ship might take me home. In that brief time, we loved with all the joy of children who cannot believe their love is impossible. Inevitably, desire overcame restraint. I asked the comte de Vigny for her hand; one of the richest men in France, he refused, enraged. I was forcibly put on the next packet boat and kept under guard until passage to Ireland was effected.

Word soon arrived of my lady's marriage. Wild with grief and anger, I returned to sea, sailing to the Americas, around the Horn to the Pacific. On my homecoming, marriage to Megan was proposed. I wanted a mate to ease my loneliness, to bear my children; Megan wanted a sire for future kings and a man to match her desires.

In the beginning, we were well matched; then Liam was born, I was often away in Dublin, and we grew apart. In Dublin, I saw Elise again, as wife of an aide to the viceroy. She had been sold into marriage to conceal her pregnancy with my child, a child that was stillborn. Enderly was a discreet homosexual, interested in her only as a possession. Although we were faithful to our separate marriage vows, tongues began to wag.

When I was imprisoned, Elise, with the aid of Lockland Fitzhugh, used her influence and private income to gain my release. She concealed money bribes to officials in expense lists for the restoration of Windemere. On one of her prison visits, Megan encountered Elise in my cell and was convinced by Dublin gossip that we were lovers. She left for Shelan, where some months later she gave birth to Sean. Upon my release, she took him to Kenlo.

After Megan's tragic death, I went to Dublin and pleaded with Elise to leave Enderly. She refused to believe the extent of his crimes, and as a devout Catholic, felt bound to him. In a desperate effort to lure her away, I made love to her, virtually by rape. Like the release of a raging river, our love could no longer be checked. Yet, when her husband returned to England, Elise, unaware she was pregnant, accompanied him. Because he had not slept with her in years, there was no doubt of the sire. He accepted the child, my daughter, Catherine, but his relations with Elise became even more cold. After twelve years of misery, she became convinced of his vicious nature and resolved to end the marriage. A week before she was to leave England, she died horribly in a riding accident. My heart died with her. Your sister, Catherine, was shut away in school. I have never seen her, the living love of my Elise. The above is explanation for this further provision: in the event either of you refuses to abide in any manner with the dispensation of your inheritance or dies without issue, that portion of the estate allotted to said heir shall revert to my daughter, Catherine de Vigny Enderly, through anonymous investments to her mother's American estate.

I ask your forgiveness for my failures as a man and as a father. With the hope for happiness for all my children, I am your loving father,

Brendan Culhane.

Sean felt as if a sword had emerged from the grave and slashed out his entrails. Liam took the document from his unresisting fingers. "I take it you're no longer bored?" He tucked the codicil back into its envelope and gave his ashen brother a bitter smile. "Perhaps you'd like a drink; you'll need a great many to catch up to me." He put the bottle down on the desk. "Do you tell her or shall I?"

Sean slashed the bottle away to shatter against the wall, leaving a spreading stain. "Leave Kit out of this! She's endured enough."

"How do you propose she be left out? We've both had her. It would seem Rouge Flannery is the most virtuous suitor of us all."

"I'll take her home." The words came out slowly, grating in Sean's throat like bloody cinders. "I'll never see her again, but you have to give her an uncontested divorce."

"Your gallantry is uncharacteristic, brother," Liam sneered. "How can I be sure you'll keep your part of the bargain?"

"For Christ's sake, Liam, do you think I could take Kit into my bed again,
knowing
? No, of course you don't! That's the revenge you've been waiting for all these years." The agony in his eyes hardened to a deadly glitter. "But I'll tell you something. If you ever go near Kit, or speak a word about this to her or another living soul, I'll blow your sick, sodden brains out!"

Liam shrugged. "Somehow, I think you may perform that exercise on yourself first, brother, but I agree to a divorce as soon as Catherine is safe at Windemere."

"I want that codicil burned."

"We'll burn it together, after she's in England. Then we'll drink a toast to the sister we both adore." He eyed a brandy decanter. "In fact, why don't we have a drink now?"

"Damn you, get out!" Sean shook with shock and helpless rage. "Get out!"

"Very well, brother. Have a pleasant journey to England."

Of late, everyone at Shelan took meals together in the kitchen. The cozy gatherings, which often dissolved into gay bouts of laughter and songs the house had rarely known, provided Sean with the family intimacy for which his loneliness hungered. Occasionally, Catherine glimpsed a subtle shyness about him, a wistfulness in the midst of the hubbub that made her heart go out to him. The alienation she had felt in Ireland had been the lot of her man all his life. A private dinner in the salon indicated a special occasion, hopefully One which promised news from Rome; but as soon as she opened the salon door and saw Sean restlessly stirring the peat in the grate, Catherine knew better. She went to him and took his arm. "What is it, darling? Bad news?"