Stormfire (98 page)

The baby, startled by the noise, began to cry. Catherine protectively scooped him up. "Don't ever call my son a bastard again! Ever! Sean and I didn't know of our relationship when Brendan was conceived, but we're not sorry."

"You're lying! Just like he did, that sneaking spy! He promised to
marry
me if I saved your skin! Isn't that
a
laugh? After thirty-seven years and the worst life could do, I trusted him like a green peasant wench!"

As Brendan shrieked, Catherine stared at her. "What spying?"

"Don't tell me you didn't know he was giving French military secrets hand over fist to the enemy!" The profound relief on the other woman's face sent Madeleine into a frenzy. "Get out! Take his brat and go! I ought to turn you in." Her voice quieted ominously. "I
will
turn you in. I'll pay him back—"

"No,
madame,"
interrupted the Oriental, "for then Monsieur
Fouché
will know you've hidden Madame d'Amauri. You are an accomplice."

Madeleine's face drained. "Go . . . get out."

Catherine left the room to gather her few belongings.
Mei
Lih followed her. "Where will you go?"

"I have a friend with the Russian Ballet troupe."

Wings

Through a downsweeping meadow wearily walked a dust-covered man leading a limping black horse. Sean ached in every bone and Mephisto's left front fetlock was swollen. From Austria to Saint Jean
de Luz
near the Gascon- Spanish border was a long way; every mile felt impressed into his rump. Beyond the meadow sparkled the Bay of Biscay. Ahead sprawled buildings topped with
terra-cotta
tile. Wisteria and lilac crept up white walls that muted to mauve under the leafy shade.

He tethered Mephisto outside an ornamental iron gate; beyond it was a mimosa-lined patio with a fountain. He tugged at the bell rope.

A white-robed nun appeared, her white-winged cap reminding him of a gull in flight. "God be with you, monsieur. How may we help you?" She stared in spite of herself at the haggard, dirty man who looked like the devil's messenger.

"I'm Sean Culhane, I'm here to see the
comtesse de Vigny,"
he told her.
"Monseigneur
Messier wrote me."

The nun recovered her composure, "One moment, please." She disappeared, and Sean wondered how old she was; seclusion had left her face free of lines of worldly hardship. Would Kit stay eerily beautiful long after youth had gone? For four years, she had buried herself in this place.

The sister returned. "You may enter, Monsieur Culhane. Reverend Mother will join you directly."

After
she left again, he splashed water on his face from the fountain, then wiped it on his jacket sleeve. As he ran his fingers through his tangled hair, he sensed he was no longer alone. A tall woman watched him impassively.

"I am Mother Jeanne
Vincente.
We are pleased to see you have had a safe journey, Monsieur Culhane. May we offer you refreshment?"

"I would be grateful, Reverend Mother, but later, perhaps?"

"Yes, of course. You are naturally anxious to see the countess and your son. Please." Her hand appeared from under her surplice and, with unexpected grace from so gangling a frame, indicated he was to follow. She had not smiled, and as he followed her, Sean wondered if those colorless eyes had missed anything in their appraisal of his shabby appearance.

In fact, Jeanne
Vincente
had assessed him thoroughly, from his muddy cavalry boots to the gaunt, guarded face with cheekbones savagely cut above the unshaved jaw and the faded scar that raked into the ragged hair. Most of all, she had noticed the bitter set of the mouth and the cold demonic eyes, their strange, thick-lashed beauty unexpected in such a harsh, forbidding face. Yet her voice betrayed nothing of her dismay at sensing his deep hostility and despair in contrast to the happy, untroubled child he had sired. "By fortunate chance,
Monseigneur
Messier is dining with me today, monsieur. He's most anxious to see you. Perhaps in an hour you could bring Catherine to my study?"

"Of course, Reverend Mother." As they passed through a maze of arcades, Sean noted they encountered no nuns; he deduced she had taken him a special route. Reverend Mother opened a second grill gate to an arcade which surrounded irregular green plots, shelled walkways, and twisted fruit trees. Massed under the trees were white and vivid pink begonias sparked with scarlet against paint- spatter caladium. "This is our central courtyard. The countess spends much of her time here when not working in the hospital." She scanned the garden, then pointed, but Sean had already spied Catherine despite her novitiate's cap. She had paused to wipe her forehead as she knelt among yellow violas.

As Jeanne
Vincente
saw the look in the Irishman's eyes, she was no longer disturbed by his harsh appearance. When Catherine looked up as if she had been touched by his hand, Reverend Mother had no doubts at all. Catherine's eyes widened to burn a blue, molten path to the dark man who walked toward her as if drawn by their consuming flame; then she was up and running to close the last distance between them. Slowly, he opened his arms to receive her, then buried his head against her neck and held her as if she were part of his flesh. Reverend Mother turned away, painfully reminded of the depths of human love and passion she had renounced. She did not think she could bear to see them kiss.

When Sean's lips lifted at last from hers, Catherine felt he had taken her breath, her very being away with the starved plunder of that one long kiss. Nearly blinded by tears of joy, she whispered, "Oh, Sweet God, to answer all my prayers . . ."

He kissed her again, knowing he should not, but helpless to stop himself. The sweet insanity swept them both, making them aware only of each other in a delirium of need and response. Then, dimly, Sean felt insistent pounding on the back of his leg and reluctantly gave up his ravenous attention to Catherine to look down at a soot-haired imp. A small stubborn jaw jutted and green eyes glared. "It's a sin to kiss nuns!"

Catherine leaned down to touch her son's chin. "You kiss me, don't you, Brendan? Your kisses aren't sinful."

"I'm allowed!"

"All the kisses you want. Why do you suppose that is?"

"You love me." The small brows met. "You don't love him!" Then suspiciously, "Do you?"

Catherine stooped. "You exist because he and I love each other. He's your father, Brendan."

The four-year-old looked at Sean warily. "Where's your black dress?"

Culhane's lips twitched. "I'm no priest, lad."

"Then how did you get in here?" pursued the boy craftily.

"Because he's your special father, darling," Catherine told him. "Remember Sean, the O'Neill I told you stories about?"

Brendan had envisioned a paragon seven feet tall in a cassock with epaulettes and a flaming sword like Saint Michael's. His father rode a huge black stallion through the sky and sailed ships single-handed and walked on water if they sank. "You don't look like a hero," he said slowly. "Generals have gold buttons."

"I've brought something for you." Sean dug into a pocket to produce a handful of gold and brass, all that remained of his military career.

Brendan tentatively touched an epaulette, then a button. "They're real, aren't they? Did you fight in real battles, too?"

The rapt fascination on Sean's face altered subtly and Catherine took his hand tightly. For a moment he glimpsed Austerlitz's acrid smoke-drifted fields covered with slaughtered carcasses, some not recognizable as human in their scraps of brave color and gilt. "Aye, lad. A few."

The boy's eyes had grown dazzled and dazzling. Christ, his son had lashes like a girl's. Lucky he had a jaw like a little mule or he would be too pretty to piss.

"Will you tell me a battle story . . . sir?" Priests, the only men in Brendan's life, were never addressed as "sir," and the boy struggled to adjust.

"Someday, when they'll be more to you than stories." Sean longed to embrace the boy, but knew no son of his would tolerate such presumption from a stranger.

The boy examined the buttons, then looked up, awed. "May I show one to Sister Marie Angelique?"

Catherine squeezed Sean's hand. "Of course."

He hugged her, selected the shiniest, and scampered off, then skidded to a halt and turned, attempting a show of dignity. "Thank you, sir." He took off again.

"Who's Marie Angelique?"

"A friend." Catherine gave him a mysterious smile. "There's no need to worry. The sisters won't betray you."

She stood up, drawing him with her. "What do you think of your son?"

He told her and she threw back her head and laughed, not at all nunlike. "Your spittin' image, me darlin'. Likely, his grandfather thought the same of you." Sean turned scarlet and she giggled.

"Well, at least he's an O'Neill. He knows what's his and intends to keep it." Sean grinned suddenly. "You don't need a convent, Kit; the lad's watchdog enough."

She leaned over to pick up her workbasket. "I've been content here, Sean."

"Without a man? How could you be?"

She straightened. "Don't be cruel. I wanted you. I'll always want you. It's both my curse find my blessing, but I cannot have you and that's that."

"I only want you to be happy, Kit," he said slowly. "Are you?"