Stormfire (77 page)

"I'll
hate
you!" she screamed. "I'll hate you the rest of my life!"

"You don't know how to hate," he said gently, "not really hate." He looked at Sean. "You and I do, though, don't we, brother? You, the English; and I, you."

"Stop waving that bloody thing like a handkerchief and get it over with," Sean said in a tone of bored contempt.

"Oh, I'm in no hurry. I've waited a lifetime for this mo
ment
. . ."

As Liam talked, Catherine crept toward Rouge's body. Her eyes never left her husband. Intent on Sean, he was unable to see her directly without turning his head.

"Let her go, Liam. To the British, you're nothing but a turncoat. Do you think they'll let you keep this place, keep
her?
You're only trying to frighten her now with threats of rape, but you won't be able to stop them. To them, she's a collaborator. Take her out of here . . ."
Sean
clung to the bedpost, the stain at his breast slowly blossoming.

"You've gone soft, brother," Liam sneered, face taut. "Delilah has shorn the scourge of her people and he is given unto the Philistines. Will you bring the temple down about our ears, brother?" Suddenly, he stiffened. "That's what Flannery's up to, isn't it? You thieving urchin bastard! You'll not wreck my house!" The gun aimed at Sean's heart, and Catherine scrambled over Rouge's body as Liam cocked the pistol.

A sharp sound spat from the corner. Hunching as if jabbed in the ribs by a playful elbow, Liam twisted, feet awkwardly placed. He stared at his wife. With tears streaming down her face, she knelt on the bloody rug, Rouge's smoking pistol in her upraised hand. "Catherine,
not. . .
you! You couldn't."

"You'll not hurt him anymore, Liam," she whispered brokenly. "You've taken too much."

Wearily, Liam tried to focus on his brother's chest, but the gun was too heavy now. Its muzzle dropped, even as he dropped, his knees striking first. Catherine crawled toward him and Sean warned him sharply, "Kit, don't. He's still armed."

"Liam won't hurt me," she said softly as she slipped Liam's head into her lap. "It would be like killing himself."

Liam's bl
ue
eyes, the last familiar feature in a face dissolved by dissipation, began to fade as Catherine brushed his hair from his brow, where it always persisted in falling. "You . . . almost loved me," he whispered, "didn't you?"

"Yes."

"If I'd only had time. If Sean hadn't . . ." His voice became urgent. "Don't. . . leave me here. They . . . hate me . . . British bastards. Don't let them
have . . .
my house."

"We won't, brother," Sean promised quietly.

"Liam," Catherine whispered, "I'm carrying a child. If you know anything of Sean's parentage, you must tell us now."

He stared up at her. "You're . . . mine. Not his. Only. . . mine." The color went from his eyes and his head sagged.

Half-grievihg, half-wild with frustration, she wanted to shake the inert body. "Oh, Liam, clutching and greedy for love to the last." She stroked his eyes and mouth closed and eased his head to the floor.

"We have to leave now, Kit," Sean muttered. "We've no time to wait for Flannery to come up."

Swiftly, she got Sean into his jacket, then threw on her cloak. With his good arm around her neck, she supported him through the hall and started down the stair, but near the bottom, his slender reserve of strength failed. He collapsed, twisting as he fell, to sprawl on his back, head down, his body partly inclined up the last steps. She screamed, clutching the rail, then skittered to him. When she cradled his head, his face was as still as Liam's. She screamed again in terror that grew when pounding feet sounded in the service passage. "Get yerself together!" Flannery gave her shoulder a jerk as he knelt to feel for Sean's pulse. "He's still alive. Come on, girl, get movin' and lock that front door. The British are on the hillside!"

Even as Catherine slammed the open door, red coats beaded the frosted slope. She tore down the corridor after Flannery, who carried Sean in his arms. Once in the wine cellar, the giant nodded toward a fuse running in the concealed armory. "Don't kick that. There's enough loose powder from those cracked kegs in there to blast us to smithereens. Lock the cellar door and get over here." She obeyed, struggling for a moment with the heavy bar. "The door's iron-faced; they'll not come through in a hurry. Hit the fuse with that wall torch, then give this bottle a twist."

A section of wine rack swung back, and seconds later they were descending through a long rock passage cut into the bowels of the cliff beneath Shelan. Partway down, Flannery began to wheeze, and for the first time Catherine realized how old he was, the strain he was sustaining. Head flung back over Flannery's brawny arm, shirt hanging loosely from his bandaged chest, Sean gave no sign of returning consciousness.

"They're at the door by now. Hurry, lass, but for God's sake don't stumble!" They reached the bottom. Flannery sagged against the rock, his lips white. "The. . . lever . . . there."

Catherine threw her weight on it, and a huge rock moved back. They staggered into the sunlight. Quickly, Catherine ran to the curragh overturned on the beach. Slipping on the sand, getting silt mixed with the blood on her petticoat, she wrestled the unwieldy hide boat to the water. Flannery lowered Sean into it and motioned her into the stern. Rowing swiftly, his face now flushed nearly the red of his great beard, he got them to the catboat and helped her maneuver Sean over the side. As Catherine unlashed the tiller, he ran up the sail, then went back over the side. "Weigh anchor, girl; head dead out. When ye're beyond sight of land, bear north to Kenlo. Hurry! The winds against ye. I can give ye only a few minutes."

She grabbed at his hand. "Come with us! Let them have the place, Flannery! Liam's dead. Shelan isn't worth your life!"

Gently, he put her hand away. "Every Culhane since Conal has had a Flannery at his back, girl." His voice turned to a whisper. "Ye do yer real da proud. Thank God it's you and that
boyo
who'll carry on his line." He pushed off before she could kiss him.

Flannery beached the curragh, flipped it and slashed its bottom, then ran heavily toward high ground. Fanning from the house and pounding down the cliff trail across the beach, soldiers fired at him and the catboat, which danced away on the waves as it tacked out to sea. He clambered to a protected crevice, where he emptied his pistols, picking off two marksmen firing at the boat.

"Save yer shots, men," a puffing lieutenant cried as he waved his saber and charged the Irishman's crevice. "He has only a knife left!" Those were the last words the officer uttered as a slash ripped through his gilt-braided tunic. His sword shimmied with a clatter down the rocks.

A sergeant was less inclined to ration lead. Efficiently, he shot Flannery through the heart, then waved his men to join their fellows reloading at the edge of the surf. As the catboat tacked further away despite their efforts, he paced, scowling. "Hurry up, ye bleedin' blind! They're nearly out of range! Jesu, if I had even a toy of a cannon, I'd blow her out of the water." As if a mischievous demon had answered his wish, the cliff erupted behind them. In a thunderous billow of smoke and debris, Shelan hurled its bowels into the sky to fall in a hurtling, deadly rain of glass, burning timber, and stone. Soldiers on the beach scattered pell-mell like scarlet beads, screaming as their uniforms ignited or they were crushed by falling wreckage. Beyond the rolling breakers, the catboat headed for the horizon.

As the boat turned north, the sky filled with ominous, dark-rimmed clouds. To break the rising wind, Catherine handled the tiller with only her head above the funnels. Tears for Flannery were hard, icy patches on her cheeks. She wrapped Sean closely in the extra sail, pulling it high to protect his face from stinging spray; then with the tiller braced under her arm, she tried to protect her face against frostbite with the
clóak.

Even with its sail reefed, the boat heeled under the onslaught of the first gale winds. Catherine gripped the tiller with white knuckles. The boat reeled, fought itself erect, only to bend to the wind's force again. She let the main- sheet slide through numb fingers until the boat righted, then hauled in enough tension to maneuver. The waves grew into black, towering walls of water that slid under the boat just when they seemed about to engulf it. One particular brute hit their stern, slewing it around and filling the small craft with enough spray to set the bailing bucket afloat in the scuppers. Quickly, she lashed the tiller and scrambled forward for the small leather bucket as more
water
came over the stern. She applied it with frantic determination. The pelting rain became freezing aleet. With the cloak up to shield her head, she kept bailing with numb hands. Suddenly the boat rolled viciously and the tip of the boom caught a wave. As the boat slewed sideways again, the boom whistled over Catherine's head. The backstay parted with a pop, and with a sickening crack, the mast snapped and toppled. Sick with despair, she stared at the spilling canvas. It was over. They were done except for the dying.

Catherine finished bailing as darkness fell, then numbly listening to the silence and subtle hiss of blowing snow, hung against the gunnel. The waves ran by them now, leaving the catboat bobbing helplessly on a sea of black glass. As a last, desperate hope for rescue, she pulled off the bloody petticoat and secured it to the bare mast stump before she crept under the old sail to lie against Sean's comparative warmth. She rubbed her hands and feet harshly until they stung, then did the same to Sean. Luckily, Flannery had padded sail thickly about him to keep him dry. With her cloak pulled over them both, she whispered a prayer and crept against him.

Dawn rose gray-white, hazy with fat, lazily drifting flakes of snow hissing as they met the slow roll of the waves. Catherine stirred to find Sean's arm about her, his breath warm to her face. His legs were wrapped with hers * in an effort to keep her warm. She opened her eyes to look into his, dark murky green under lowered lashes. "Soggy little cat," he murmured. "Come closer . . . I'm not strong enough to hold you close."

Shivering, she burrowed against him. "Flannery?" he whispered.

"Dead. Shelan went with him."

He was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice was slurred, as if coherency was an effort. "I hear flapping. Couldn't you reef the sail?"

"There was a sudden storm . . ." Her voice gave way. "The mast snapped. We've blown out to sea. I lost your monkey, too," she finished dismally.

"I know you tried." He caressed her until she lay quiet against him, limbs entangled with his. His lips moved against her hair. "Tiger kitten. I could die so easily making love to you
. . .
la petite mort,
then
sleep. . ."
His hand slipped into the open chemise and found soft flesh.