Stormfire (67 page)

"Good morning, Mr. Fitzhugh. Can you hear me?"

Sean moved his lips, but all that came forth was a groan.

"The prisoner seems rather inarticulate, Mr. Worthy."

Worthy shrugged. "I worked on him just shy of the point where he'd die or go barmy. It's my opinion, milord, ye'll get nothing out of him."

Enderly's crop tapped against his hand, his only
sign
of irritation. "You're a stubborn man, Mr. Fitzhugh, but that won't save you. Your refusal to break confirms your guilt. You're too headstrong to follow orders and you're not stupid enough to die for another man." He pushed the crop under his prisoner's chin, abruptly forcing his head up. "I may not be able to retrieve my fortune and my sullied reputation, but like Shakespeare's Shylock, I
will
have my pound of flesh and more, beginning with your vaunted manhood."

Sean rasped each word. "You . . . envious . . . faggot!"

Enderly's mouth whitened and his knuckles strained on the crop. "You'd like to taunt me into killing you with a blow, wouldn't you?" He turned to Worthy and dictated

calmly as if giving an order to a tradesman, "Geld him." He lifted a finger and let it fall.

Listening in numb, incredulous silence, Sean went berserk, shrieking a lifetime of hate at his enemy. Finally, he hung, twitching, semiconscious, eyes as sulphurous as a " demon's from hell. Enderly gracefully withdrew a packet from his pocket. "In this package, Mr. Worthy, you'll find a woman's undergarment. Bring me his equipment in it. I intend to present the package to my daughter."

"Leave her alone! She has no part in this. Leave her alone!"

"Thank you, Mr. Fitzhugh. The last few minutes have been most rewarding. Now, if you will excuse me, I'll leave you to the expertise of Mr. Worthy."

After witnessing the Irishman's violent outburst, Worthy took no chances. He summoned four guards to take the prisoner from the flogging brace and spread-eagle him, still fighting, to an X-shaped stone slab in the center of the room. Adjustable iron manacles imbedded in the stone stretched limbs to the straining point and securely loeked wrists and ankles. The condemned man was trussed for butchering in less than five minutes.

Worthy dismissed the soldiers and began to strop a knife that resembled a medical scalpel. "Watchin' only makes it worse, lad. The sharper the blade, the less ye feel. I'll be as quick as I can."

The knife flittered blue-white, and sweat streamed from the Irishman's bleeding body as he strained against the bonds.

Worthy tested the blade against his thumb, then took a position between the prisoner's thighs.

"Jesus, Mary, Mother of God," Sean whispered, unable to take his eyes from the descending blade.

Suddenly, the spread-eagled man arched like a drawn bow, tendons standing out like crawling snakes as the knife sliced cleanly. His body convulsed, his hopeless howl of outrage tearing through the roof of his brain, up, up, echoing against the stone walls. Blackness filled his mouth and eyes and he plummeted backwards, headfirst into a twisting pit.

The Nadir

Persuading Enderly to permit her to go to Edinburgh proved as simple as Catherine had supposed, and less than two weeks after setting foot in England, she dressed in an inn in Scotland to catch the eye of a royal duke. The claret velvet dress and pelisse were trimmed in ermine, the muff of the same luxurious fur, with pendant tips. A flicker of admiration in Mignon's eye, although quickly suppressed, was a greater boost to her confidence than a host of male compliments.

"Mignon,
I wish you to go to the university and copy a posting of this week's surgical lectures. You may be followed. I assume you can elude an interested party?"

Although the narrow streets were snow-drifted below their creaking ornamental sfcop signs, Catherine ordered an open carriage and directed the driver to the park. As the man cracked his whip and urged the horses toward the broader avenues of the city, a second carriage followed discreetly after them. Beautiful in a strange, brooding way, the stone buildings of Edinburgh spilled over a series of gorges. The massive bulk of Edinburgh Castle on its bluff loomed over misty rooftops. Although the park was bleak in winter, its formal flowerbeds barren, ornamental shrubbery formed fanciful sculptures under blankets of white, and children in bright caps shrieked as they frolicked through the formations.

Watching them, the young countess felt a quiet happiness. Now certain Sean's life was within her, she shared her mother's joy and pain when she had carried a child of the man she loved, but could never have. Catherine could not hate her parents; she understood their anguish too well.

Shortly, she saw the innkeeper was an accurate gossip; a group of riders trotted along a path at the far end of the park. She signaled the driver to take her closer. Slim and dark among the riders was
Angoulême;
with him were three young men and an older one. As they walked the horses, snatches of male laughter drifted across the snow. With a quick order to the driver to stop, she dismounted the carriage. Running lightly toward the children, she. scooped up a handful of snow, packed it expertly, and let the nearest boy have it in the back of the head. He grabbed up ammunition of his own, spun around, then gaped at the elegant culprit. Her teasing laughter tinkled invitingly in the crisp air. "Are you going to let me get away with that?" ,

"I
canna
pelt a lady, ma'am," the boy faltered.

"Why not? I duck like a trooper. Retaliate!"

Two other children goggled as their companion nervously tossed a timid snowball in the lady's general direction. Catherine batted it with her muff, sending it exploding into powder. "Come on, you can do better than that!
I
can do better than that!" So saying, she scooped up another wad of snow and knocked his cap off. The boy reddened as another caught him in the shoulder. Indignation conquered gallantry, and he responded with energy. Soon Catherine's missiles began to connect with the other children. Merrily, everybody pelted away.

The men on horseback, noticing the furious battle and the lovely girl defending a hedge fort, drew near with predictable masculine curiosity. Suddenly, the young woman whirled. With marksman's accuracy, she dispatched a wet lump of snow into
Angoulême's
left ear. He gasped and grabbed at his head. The older man behind him quickly kneed his mount forward to block the duke's body with his own, intending to jostle the assailant aside. Catherine sidestepped and dug the horse sharply in the ribs. He shied, neatly unseating his rider in the snow. The children cheered and in defense of their new friend hurled a flurry of snowballs at the mounted riders.
Angôulême
ducked, trying to get a glimpse of his initial assailant. She giggled and called merrily, "Are you prepared to surrender, gentlemen?"

Louis's eyes widened. "Catherine! I mean . . ."

"Good day, Your Grace."

Brushing snow from their shoulders and hats, the others stared aghast at the reckless young woman. The children paused, hands full, watching the men.

A mischievous smile lit Catherine's lovely face.
"Quelle
assassine,
to dispatch a duke in so ignoble a fashion!
La
Gloire de
France
and all his forces leveled by a snowball bombardment!"

Lips twitched, but no one quite dared to laugh. Louis was thoroughly embarrassed, even more so because of his engagement and the Enderlys' disgrace, but
Dieu,
she was a gorgeous creature! The countess's eyes sparkled like a rajah's jewels and the snow on her lashes was entrancing. "There is no danger, Rochand. I know the young lady," he said edgily to the man scrambling to his feet.

Sapphire eyes slanted up at him under fantastic lashes. "Are you so certain I'm not dangerous, Your Grace?"

He flushed. "My lady, may I present my equerries . . ." He rattled off their names unhappily, finishing with the dismounted rider, Rochand, his father's aide. "Gentlemen, Lady Catherine Enderly,
la comtesse de Vigny."

Catherine swept a curtsy a shade deeper than necessary. The children, recognizing the spew of titles even in French, faded away, thinking better of a new attack. The young duke's companions were openly intrigued. The beauty's scandalous reputation was an open challenge. And how well she knew it.

Even Louis, against his better judgment, felt a sharp twinge of regret. What a desirable wench! And she had deliberately sought him out. Obviously, she wished to curry favor for her father. How far would she be willing to go? He curbed his fancies with an effort. Seeming to know what he was thinking, she smiled up at him with a roguishly assessing glance. He stirred uncomfortably. Best to end this charade quickly and meet her privately later. "I apologize, Countess, but I have pressing duties this afternoon. Will you forgive us?"

A succulent lower lip protruded softly. "Don't you mean to invite me to court, Your Grace? I may be forced to leave the city tomorrow. Papa asked me specifically to present his compliments to
Monsieur le duc.
"

Louis whitened. Damn the girl!

His equerries looked at each other. The lady did not lack for nerve, but she clearly stirred the
young
duke's imagination. If he snubbed her now, he could say good-by forever to enjoying her favor. If he claimed her, they would have to wait their turns, and no one wanted to wait.

Catherine's eyes widened, their mysterious depths lovely beyond imagining, her soft mouth vulnerable, somehow pleading now. The fur drifted slightly in the softly falling snow. Louis imagined that mouth parting under his in gratitude, those eyes darkening as her body answered his desire. His father might rebuke him, but what difference could one brief audience make? It was so little to yield for so rich a reward. The others regarded her like so many epauletted vultures. "If his appointments permit, I'm sure my father will be happy to receive you this afternoon, Countess. May we escort you?" Her smile, suddenly radiant just for him, warmed his vitals like hot wine.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said softly.

Ah, how vulnerable, how feminine she is underneath the impudence, he thought as she signaled her driver. How I shall enjoy her.

Artois's
hawkish brows lowered as his son hesitantly asked permission to present the countess. "You're aware, Louis, I've no wish to receive her?"

"Yes, Father, but I thought it could do no harm to be civil. After all, she's not responsible for her father's misdeeds."

"As parents are not always to be held accountable for the idiotic indiscretions of their children," said
Artois
ironically, staring coldly at his reddening son. "This is unlike you, Louis."

"I apologize, Father," Louis said, shamefaced. "Shall I send her away?"

The duke sighed in exasperation. Louis's strategy was childishly clear, but if he was bent on an affair, the woman would be better dealt with now in order to avoid trouble later. "Admit her. But Louis"—his head lifted slightly— "don't presume on my patience again."

"Yes, Father," the young man murmured meekly.