Stormfire (78 page)

Catherine lay still, her heart thudding under his hand. Even if she were damned for it, she had not the will to stop him. But there was no urgency in his touch or in his cold lips. "I love you," he whispered against her mouth. "If this is the last
time . . .
I say it in life, it will be my litany in hell."

Her lips parted and answered his with feverish passion. As his heart quickened against her, she breathed, "Take me now and not even Hell can separate us."

"No, little one. Only your prayers in Heaven can beguile the ear of God. Seeing you . . . He may remember he was once a man and pity me."

"You tease me."

He touched her lips. "I love you, madonna. How much more must God?"

"I love you." Her whisper was a lullaby as they drifted into the mist.
"Mon cher diable. Mon ange de feu. Je t'aime toujours. Il n'y a pas de mort C'est un mirage. L'amour seulement n'est pas un
mirage
. . ."

In the swaying crow's nest of the French warship
La République
as she made her lonely way through the icy seas of western Ireland, the lookout retreated deeper into his jacket until he resembled a turtle even unto that creature's melancholy eyes. He was chilled to the marrow and bone-pricked at the rump, but his gaze kept up its restless lizard's flick over the waves for threatening British sail. The sailor's glum demeanor abruptly enlivened. "Ship ahoy!" he howled.

"Where away?" the deck officer demanded.

"Two points a'larboard."

The deck officer's telescope snapped to his eye and he wrung the tube to focus. Then wrung it again to frame a white petticoat. Slowly, he lowered the instrument, his brows puckered.

"What is she?" called the captain. "British?"

"Well. . .
it might be, sir," his officer responded with a quirk to his lips. "I'd have to ask my wife."

Tricolor

Death seemed to come easily, a creeping coldness in the extremities, then sleep. Catherine did not know if Sean's heart had ceased to beat, only that she had grown bitterly cold and his body no longer warmed her. The mist surrounding their drifting, shattered boat crept under the sail and filled her heart. Night fell without stars, without moonlight through the winding mist, without Sean, and she was sick with disappointment and fear. The sun rose like a lantern on the horizon and she eagerly reached for it, straining for the light. A hand caught hers.

"Don't disturb yourself,
Comtesse.
You're quite safe."

"What?" Her vision cleared and she peered incredulously at a silhouetted face. "Who are you?"

There was a chuckle. "Not God,
ma chère Comtesse,
I
asaure
you."

"Then if you're the devil, why are you speaking French, and where is Sean?" she demanded faintly.

"Monsieur is safe in sickbay," the stranger laughed, "and I speak French because I'm Doctor
Emile
Fourquet, not the devil, and this is a French warship,
La République,
possibly hell, I've never been sure. How do you feel?"

She tentatively wriggled her fingers and toes, then stared at him in some amazement. "Alive."

"Quite. Though for a time, I feared I might not have the pleasure of meeting the petticoat sailor."

Fourquet was young, handsome, and sure of himself. As he grinned at her, Catherine recalled suddenly how she must have looked in the battered catboat. She had been wearing next to nothing then, and definitely nothing now. No wonder the man was grinning. Probably the whole crew was nothing but teeth. If Fourquet expected a blush, he did not get it. She regarded him without batting an eye. "As I seem to lack even a petticoat at the moment, may I borrow some clothes?"

His smile became a fraction more professional. "Ah, but you must stay in bed two more days at least."

"I'll cooperate gladly, doctor, after I see Monsieur Culhane."

"I assure you the gentleman is doing as well as can be expected after his considerable injuries, mademoiselle; unfortunately, his chances are poor. You should be prepared for the worst."

Then why aren't you with him? Catherine thought furiously. Instead, you hold the hand of a naked woman with a runny nose, you . . . Frenchman! Aloud, she said simply, "Doctor Fourquet, I intend to visit Monsieur Culhane whether I wear your clothes or this blanket or nothing at all. And I am not Mademoiselle, but
Madame.
Madame Culhane."

Ten minutes later, Fourquet pulled back the curtain of the tiny sickbay to admit a small, unsteady figure in oversized shirt and breeches, then he headed up to the quarterdeck. Catherine knelt by the bunk where Sean lay. She kissed his fingers and the pulse of life in his throat, her tears wetting his haggard face. Alive. He was alive. Like a mother cat going over her cub, she touched him, touched his hair, his face, reveled in his rough, prickly beard. He had been bathed and efficiently rebandaged. Perhaps Fourquet wasn't completely remiss. Food and warmth: that was what Sean needed. A place to heal, to be left alone.

Her scattered thoughts fused together when Fourquet flipped open the sickbay curtain and
Raoul
d'Amauri ducked his head under the bulkhead. "Fourquet says our petticoat sailor is obstinate," he chided her with a comical scowl that broke into his familiar, endearing grin. "I told him he must get used to it."

He opened his arms, and with a cry of relief, Catherine flung herself into them.
"Oh, Raoul,
thank heaven you're safe! I had heard the Killala expedition was a disaster, that you were all captured."

Hugging her, he laughed ruefully. "A disaster definitely, but many of us survived. We were exchanged after a year." He held her back to study her pale face. "It's you who are endangered now. You must behave and go back to bed." His fingers brushed her cracked lips. "You're suffering from exposure and have a touch of fever." Then he added slowly, "Culhane will be well taken care of; I'll see to it myself." He cocked his head. "You had me fooled,
chérie.
When did you marry him?"

With a fading smile, Catherine uneasily slipped her hands from his. "I'm Liam Culhane's wife—his widow. He was killed . . . what day is this?" she asked distractedly, feeling overwarm. Perhaps
Raoul
was right about the fever.

"Your January twenty-first."

"Two days ago he was killed . . . with the others." She fought off a wave of dizziness.

"Ma pauvre petite.
You've had a bad time." He cuddled her again, eyeing the flaring emerald on her finger. "Go back to bed like a good girl. Culhane will be all right, I promise."

Somehow afraid now, Catherine shook her head. "No, I . . . must stay with hiiri." She swayed and clutched the Frenchman's arm to fight the ship's roll. "Please . . ."

"Of course,
chérie
. Sleep
now."

As if hearing a hypnotic command, she collapsed in his arms.

After he had reinstated the countess in his own cabin bunk, Fourquet felt her forehead. "She'll be fine in a day or so. Just overdid a bit. What about Culhane?"

Amauri shrugged. "Keep trying. We can use good mercenaries."

"And Madame Culhane?"

"She has carte blanche."

By the next night, Catherine, much improved, was able to sit up with Sean, who had been transferred to Amauri's vacated cabin. Dozing over one of Fourquet'
s
medical books, she was instantly alerted by a slight pressure of the Irishman's hand in her palm. Her fingers tightened and she looked down. Green eyes flecked with golden lights from the candle reflection held hers. He said nothing, only reached up to touch her face, then slept, long and deeply.

She was giving her patient a light breakfast the next morning when Amauri slipped into the cabin.
"Alors,
Monsieur Culhane, Doctor Fourquet tells me you're back among the living!" He grinned. "You must have the constitution of
Attila."

"No, just Kit. Thanks for the use of your cabin, Colonel."

Amauri shrugged.
"Pas de quoi
The officer who was next door left us in Brest, which leaves a cabin free for ma- dame. I don't mind bunking with Fourquet. It's fortunate your boat drifted so far south. We might easily have missed you. As it was, the
République
nearly ran you down. Must have been quite a storm."

Catherine's well-timed spoon saved Sean an immediate reply. The storm had come up from the south. The
République
must have been surreptitiously cruising off the Irish coast. He swallowed the spoonful. "Bring me a cigar tonight, Colonel, and I'll tell you the whole story."

The spoon hit the cup. "You'll do no such thing. You know what Doctor O'Donnell said."

"Nag." He grinned weakly at her and she fiercely wanted to kiss him.

The look between Catherine and the Irishman was like a small crack of lightning, instantly shielded, but sulphur still hung in the air. Amauri was unable to see the countess's eyes but he derived the distinct impression Culhane was as intent as himself on consoling the bereaved widow. It might be well to loosen the Irishman's tongue. "Is the patient permitted wine with his dinner,
madame?"
he murmured solicitously.