Stormfire (73 page)

His eyes opened, their green depths burning with fever and anger. "You little bitch, don't. . . give me . . . orders."

"Then look after yourself! Any man who won't stand on his own two feet deserves to die!"

He stared at her in disbelief, then his face hardened. He twisted away and felt his way along the wall, nearly falling as he reached the corner. She followed anxiously and put out a hand. "Don't. . . touch me, dammit!" he snarled.

"You'll never make it alone."

His low, derisive laugh ended sharply, bitten off by pain.

"I'm a bloody O'Neill, remember?" Unbelievably, he began to stumble down the
quai,
pushing along the wall, his bad arm pressed against his side and chest. The few sailors paid little attention, thinking he was drunk, the white-faced boy tagging behind a shipmate. Fifty yards down the
quai,
he sagged against a tavern wall and slipped to his knees.

With a low cry, she stooped beside him. "Sean, don't do this! You're killing yourself!"

"Pick . . .
a boat," he muttered. "Pick . . ."

Terrified now, she obeyed him, running out on a pier. The vessels were still too big to handle alone. Finally, between a couple of fishing boats rocked a catboat, its sails neatly furled. Almost stumbling, she raced back, noticing the picket lights had crept halfway around the harbor.

She stooped beside Culhane, who clung to the wall, his body sagging, his eyes glassy. "I've found one." She slipped a hand under his arm. Unresisting now, he let her pull him upward. She pressed between him and the wall, trying to get him upright, his good arm around her neck.

A sailor came out of the tavern and glanced at their gyrations with amused curiosity. Sean's head dropped forward against her cheek and he groaned. She lifted wide, terrified eyes to the sailor. A slow grin crossed his plain, amiable face. "Blast me, ye're a girl, an't ye?"

Sean's head dropped lower, his lips moving against her neck, "My . . . girl."

The sailor laughed and shrugged. "No offense, mate. I an't tryin' to steal yer lass away." He winked at her. "Though I'll promise ye, missy, he'll not be much use tonight."

"Would . . . would ye give me a hand with him, please? Our boat's just down the wharf,
but. . .
he's awful heavy."

The sailor cocked his head. Odd-looking little thing. "Sure, lass, why not?"

He started to throw a brawny arm about Sean's other side, and hastily she said, "He's been in a fearsome brawl. Could ye go easy, please?"

"Oh, sure, sure. Handle 'im like a babe."

"You fisherfolk?" the sailor asked as they half walked, half carried the Irishman down the wharf.

"Aye. We've not enough family men to crew the boat, so I help out. Not many spot me as a woman though. How did ye know?"

The sailor flashed her a grin across Sean's dangling head. "Yer eyes. Big aw saucers starin' up at me like I was goin' to gobble ye up. No boy I ever knowed had eyes like that."

She managed a faint grimace. "Blokes in the streets scare me a bit at night."

"Yer fella git in fights often?" he asked as they sat Cul- hauie on the dock alongside the boat, his legs hanging over the side.

"Only when he's pushed,"

Dropping into the boat, the sailor eased his burden forward, then lowered him carefully. The Irishman slipped into unconsciousness the moment his head touched the deck. "Well, 'e's out like a light. Want a hand with the mainsail?"

"Please."

She unlashed the tiller as the sailor ran up the sail and handed her the
boom shéet.
He hesitated, then asked shyly, "This fella spoken for ye yet? I mean, I don't live here. I'm out of Marblehead. That's in Massachusetts. My ship's the
Ina
Clair"—he
pointed—"the bark yonder. We'll be takin' on stores and cargo." He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I don't know any girls hereabouts."

Catherine smiled up at him. "What's yer name?"

"Tom Carr."

"Well, Tom Carr, ye're a kind man. If I were free, I'd be pleased to have ye call. Ye've got nice brown eyes and I like yer smile, but . . . yonder lad in the scuppers is my true love, that's sure."

''Oh, well." He shrugged
and
grinned wryly. "One man's famine, another man's fortune." He hopped up onto the dock, put a foot on the stern, and shoved the boat off.

"God bless you, Tom Carr," she called softly as the boat eased out from the dock, the sail beginning to belly out.

"Ah, go along with ye, girl. I didn't do nothin'."

"More than you know," she whispered.

The wind was fitful and the sail often hung maddeningly slack as the catboat glided though the inky water. Cather
ine
imagined every hull that loomed up in the fog-swirled darkness to be the harbor patrol.

She sucked in a deep breath as the sail blossomed in the offshore wind of the harbor mouth, and the boat moved quickly into the open sea. Beyond the sail, a triangular shadow against the hazy stars, cloud cover obscured much of the sky; at this time of year, storms were unpredictable. She managed to sight the North Star and fixed a slightly northwest course. Knowing little of navigation, she wanted to be sure of direction before leaving sight of land. Too far north and they would sail blindly out into the North Atlantic.

She lashed the tiller to its course and moving forward, pawed for the extra sail under the bow. Wrapped in its folds were a lantern and tallow candle. She crawled back to the stern with her finds, then pulled the mended sail closely about Sean. The candle went into her pocket with the vials; feeling them, she looked down at her lover's still, drawn face. Dear God. Help me see him safely home.

Scarlet Beads

Dawn of the second day saw the catboat approach
Malin
Head, russet and gold, clawed with streaks of snow. In Ireland's interior, the Grianon thrust its ancient stones above the mountains.

"Hail, Conal and Niall," Catherine whispered. "Your son has come home to his fathers. He has given you honor. Grant him peace."

As the sun mounted, she relashed the tiller and knelt beside her lover. His skin hot and dry, he stirred fitfully. She pillowed his head in her lap and scooped snow off a seat where the wind had not yet blown it away. As she let crystals melt on his lips to trickle down his throat, his eyelids flickered and he gazed dazedly up at her. "Where . . . are we?"

"Malin
Head's off our port bow. You're halfway home."

"I didn't make
it . . .
on my own," he muttered. "Couldn't."

She smiled, gently teasing. "You'd be unbearably smug if you had." Then her smile faded and she faltered, "I wanted to die when you refused help." She felt the vials in her pocket. "I nearly poisoned you when that soldier . . . oh, Sean, I was terrified." She burst into tears of latent reaction, sobbing against his hair.

With an effort, his good hand lifted and groped weakly. "Take . . . that damn cap off. I
want . . .
to see my girl again." She,pawed at the knitted cap and her hair tumbled down across his shoulder. His fingers found its silk. "Lovely . . . very." His head dropped tiredly against her.

Carefully, she recovered him and removed the scarf over his eyes. By daylight, the damage was garish and she wondered how they had fooled anyone. She got him to eat a bit of cheese and bread she had slipped in their pockets and took a nip herself from the flask to ward off the chill wind. With a burning throat, she resumed the tiller and focused tired eyes on the horizon.

Sean stirred very little during the long day and night. The cold tempered his fever but the bandages grew sodden, warning that the bullet in his chest had been dislodged. His breathing was faint and shallow, and with increasing apprehension, Catherine watched the sun sink.

Near dawn, Shelan's lightless silhouette loomed high against the moon. What if Peg and Rafferty had heard of Sean's capture and given him up for dead? she wondered. What if everyone had gone? What if
Liam . . . ?
Severely curbing her imagination, she maneuvered the catboat in as close as she dared, then weighed anchor and scrambled for the lantern.

Holy Mother, no flint. Don't panic. Use the pistol. You've got powder, haven't you? She pulled the pistol out of her waistband. The flash almost gave her powder burns but the candle glowed. Hastily, she dropped lower against the wind as she slipped the taper into the lantern.

Hanging on to the mast, she waved the lantern, fanning it with her cap to make a signal, then moving it to form Culhane's initials, anything. The candle burned low, but still no light answered from the house. In desperation, she was considering running the boat aground when she saw a shadow push a boat through the surf. Minutes later, a flaming head appeared in the lantern's glow. Her heart sank to her toes. Flannery! That meant Liam! She grabbed for the gun, trying to load it with stiff fingers, but when his hand caught the gunnel, she was still fumbling. She lifted the gun butt with a hopeless cry. "No! I won't let you have him!"

"Easy, lass. I mean Sean no harm," the giant reassured her.

"Your murderous master wants him dead!"

"No man is my master, girl," he retorted tersely, "especially not Liam Culhane; I left him long ago. He wasn't ex
actly closemouthed in his liquor." He nodded toward the long figure outlined under the sail. "What shape is he in?"

"He may be dying," she said dully.

"Then we'd best be quick. Help me with him."

Peg helped undress the wounded Irishman, keening in Gaelic when she saw his body. She crooned to him, touched his face as Catherine bathed him. The indestructible housekeeper was useless. Flannery finally led her to a chair by the fire, where she sat, rocking and weeping. He came back to the bed. "Rafferty shouldn't be long with the doctor." His mouth was a granite line above his beard as he looked down. "The bastards. Nothin' alive should be treated like this."

Catherine covered Sean and sagged into
a
chair, closing her eyes.

"Had anything to eat?" She shook her head. "Any preferences?"

"Hot." He patted her arm and left.

The next thing Catherine knew, Rafferty was frantically shaking her awake. "Doctor O'Donnell's delivering a babe in Ruiralagh. He'll likely not be back 'til mornin'." Peg began to wail and wring her hands.

"Please take Peg downstairs to bed, Mr. Rafferty," Catherine quietly ordered. "Then ride for the doctor and wait until the baby's safely delivered. Bring him back here. Quickly. Please be as quick as you can . . ."

Flannery stepped aside with the tray as Rafferty coaxed his wife out of the room. "What is it?"

Catherine told him. "I'll need boiling water, plenty of it. The sharpest, smallest knife you can find. A razor. Something for forceps. Candles, bandages, linen, whiskey. Nora can help."