Stormfire (83 page)

The defiance underlying her last words struck
Raoul
as incongruous. "It was
you
who tried to arrange his release, wasn't it?" he guessed suddenly, his eyes narrowing.
"Mon Dieu,
Catherine, did you ask
Artois
to get Culhane out of prison?"

"Indirectly."

He threw up his hands. "Then you're both in up to your necks!
Fouché's
investigation must be discouraged or you'll end up in the
Conciergerie
at the very least. Sean could be shot or turned over to the English." He strode toward herand demanded in angry exasperation, "He did escape, didn't he? That much is true, isn't it?"

"Yes." Completely terrified now, she caught his arm.
"Raoul,
please! You must stop
Fouché!
He cannot send Sean back!"

"How do you expect me to stop him? Yesterday, I talked myself blue trying to convince you the situation was dangerous!"

"I didn't realize," she whispered.

He clasped her shoulders. "Listen. At the moment,
Fouché
is only conducting a routine investigation because of your background. Napoleon's interest in you requires that he be much more painstaking than usual. If you're innocent, there's nothing to worry about. The whole problem is easily solved." He tipped her face up to his. "Marry me. Napoleon will be forced to look elsewhere for a mistress, and
Fouché,
who is a very busy man, will turn his attention to another unlucky soul . . . shh, let me finish." He touched her lips. "I've already explained the advantages—no, necessity—of a father for your child. I've even talked to Sean. He understands and accepts the situation."

"He said that?"

"He promised his blessing." His warm hands slipped down to her cold ones. "Catherine, I learned a hard lesson in Ireland. I love your independence as I love you. I'll be a good husband and your child will be as my own. I'm only sorry my proposal must come on the heels of your bereavement." His cinnamon eyes burned with warm, inviting fires. "You wanted me once with all the innocent passion of a young girl. Now that you've grown up, is it so impossible to love me?"

She touched his face sadly. "If I were capable of loving again,
Raoul,
it could easily be you."

He grimaced ruefully. "Then you've nothing to lose. If you cannot love anyone, you might as well have me." He tapped her nose and laughed softly. "You underestimate the confidence of a Frenchman. If I should concentrate all my irresistible charm on you, how can you help but surrender in time?" Without asking permission, he kissed her, fully and deeply.

Catherine felt her pulse quicken, and wondered dimly whether it stemmed from sexual excitement or her highly strung nerves. Amauri's kiss hinted at considerable skill as a lover. His lips sought her throat, and breathlessly she pushed at his chest.
"Raoul,
you must let me think. You're making me dizzy."

His eyes took on a sleepy look. "Good. I want you to feel dizzy. I want you to fall into my arms, to let me feel like a conquering hero. I want you, Catherine. When I make love to other women, it's you I see." His lips caressed her cheek. "You, I feel."

"Raoul,
you haven't thought this out."

"I've thought about it for three years, but you'd disappeared."

Gently, she disengaged herself.
"Raoul,
please try to understand. Everything's happening too quickly. I have to
think-1
must see Sean. Liam was his brother; he'll be affected more than anyone."

"Of course," he said easily. "Do you want me to contact your father?"

"No, I'll write him," she responded quickly.

"I'll invite Sean to dinner; he'll come once he knows what's at stake."

The private discussion between the Culhanes was charged with bitter grief and hard silences. Knowing Sean would not let her sacrifice herself to preserve his safety, Catherine was evasive about his danger. Sean, not wishing to frighten her even more, was equally evasive. More than Catherine, he realized a visit from the minister of police at this point had to be a scare tactic. Now, Napoleon only meant to bring his quarry to ground, but if he found out about
Artois,
he might have her guillotined.

Sean's own inquiries to Madeleine had turned up only good reports of
Amarai.
A hell-raiser, but no worse than most, Amauri was a good commander, respected by his men and fellow officers. He drank and gambled, but not foolishly. He could easily afford a family and seemed ready to settle down. Culhane had nothing against the man except his allegiance to Napoleon, but Amauri could hardly be rebuked for patriotism.

Finally, Culhane
coüld
only stand by silently, trying to hide his wretchedness and sense of loss, but knowing he was failing completely because Catherine's eyes were luminous with tears. Not daring to touch, they moved about the library like carefully precisioned planets, knowing divergence from the prescribed orbits promised disaster. All the while, some devil kept whispering to them, "Run. Take your forbidden love and flee. No one will know." Until Catherine suddenly clamped her hands over her ears. "I'll marry him! Only let's have it done quickly!"

Amauri and his mother were waiting in the drawing room. Sean extended his hand and said simply, "Congratulations,
Raoul."

The
baronne
kissed Catherine's pale cheeks, then Amauri drew her to his side. The happiness of the betrothed pair was toasted in champagne, but Sean's throat recoiled as if the wine were gall.

Lilies and Pearls

The champagne at Amauri's bachelor dinner three weeks later was no better, and Culhane bluntly ordered whiskey from a passing waiter. He drank it raw, letting its fierceness eat at his innards as he watched a line of skimpily clad nymphs prance through a burlesque ballet. Their shrill squeals and lascivious wriggles, encouraged by raucous shouts from the disheveled males who crowded Madame Hortense's
Maison
Rouge, did little to relieve his depression. As a satyr-boy chased the nymphs through silver-painted paper laurel trees, they threw flower garlands to the noisiest of their admirers. The reigning champion was a chasseur with the lungs—and apparent ardor—of a Zeus transformed into a white bull. Festooned with garlands like
a
maypole, the chasseur let loose with another languishing bellow. Seeing a lackey with a tray, Culhane abruptly exchanged his empty glass for a full one and tossed it down, no longer caring what the contents were.

"Surly bastard, isn't he?" Javet, barely sober himself, murmured none too softly to a brother officer.

Apart from the others, the Irishman, a grim half smile curving his lips, silently eyed Javet. The man had been egging him on all evening, his subtlety decreasing as his liquor consumption increased.

Javet made another deliberate aside. "Perhaps Culhane's disposition can be traced to his missing equipment."

His companion laughed. "He might be better pleased by a private performance with that satyr-boy."

Javet laughed mockingly. "He'd much rather seek his pleasures between his sister-in-law's thighs, if he can find room between Amauri and Bonaparte."

The Irishman reached Javet in two strides. "Keep your mind on me, Javet. If you want a fight, you've got it."

Javet grinned mirthlessly, his eyes glazed with liquor. ''Sabers. I want the satisfaction of carving
up
what's left of you! La Place
des Vosges
at sundown tomorrow evening. Name your second.

Sean shrugged. "I don't—"

"May I offer my services, Monsieur Culhane?" Emmanuel
de
Grouchy, his long face impassive, appeared at Sean's elbow.

"Thank you, General."

"I am Lieutenant
Antoine Le Clerc.
I'll second Captain Javet, sir," offered Javet's friend, chagrinned to have become involved in a questionable quarrel over a woman favored by Napoleon.

"Very well, gentlemen," the general replied. "I suggest we adjourn until tomorrow."

After Javet and
Le Clerc
had gone, Grouchy lingered with Culhane. "Javet will have second thoughts, you know. Once he sobers, he'll regret everything he said."

"Until the next time he gets drunk. See you tomorrow, General."

As he left Hortense's, Sean flexed his right wrist and fingers. The fingers were still stiff and the wrist without its former strength. He could not sustain a drawn-out fight with a cavalry saber.

Catherine turned as Culhane was admitted to an anteroom beneath Notre Dame where she waited with the
baronne
d'Amauri and twelve bridesmaids, all strangers, all hand-picked by the
baronne
from families of the
ancien régime
and the Republic. The bride's incredible beauty struck the Irishman like a blow, though she was as white as the lily-embroidered satin dress, its train a gleaming river across the burgundy carpet. Long-sleeved and high-necked with
appliquéd
lilies edging the fragile curve of her jaw and wrist, the dress drifted into satin loosely studded with tiny pearls as it swept to the ground. Atop her sleekly chignoned hair was a coronet of lilies, pearls, and diamonds. A vivid memory of her chipping at the
Megan'
s
varnish and grinning at him with paint on her sunburned nose put a hard knot in Sean's throat. He bowed slightly to the girls in aqua satin, then kissed the baronne's hand. As he took Catherine's icy hands, he felt their trembling. "You're lovely, little one."