Stormfire Read online

  Slipping the papers back in place, she quickly searched the side drawers. The key she found in the top one fit the other desk. The map case opened without a click, but her ears, attuned for any betraying sound, heard the knob slowly turn on the library door. Snatching up an agate inkwell, she darted behind the door and flattened against the wall. As the door inched open, the widening hinge crack revealed a female figure. Moora's.

  "Catherine?" she whispered. "Where are you?"

  Holding her breath, Catherine hoisted the inkwell. Moora moved farther into the room. As her body cleared the door, Catherine knocked it shut with her hip and regretfully brought the inkwell down on the back of the girl's head. Moora dropped like a rock. Catherine slipped down beside her to anxiously test her pulse. It was steady, if a bit fast. Quickly, she yanked down the damask curtain catches, knotted them about Moora's wrists and ankles, then stuffed the girl's mouth with her own mobcap.

  Breathing quickly, Catherine returned to the desk and went through the maps, at least half of which were nautical charts. Finally she found one that showed Donegal Town deep in the belly of a bay in Ireland's northwestern corner; its size suggested a garrison. At a twenty-mile radius from the town, Shelan could only be one of two places on the coast, but to head north or south was the question. She decided to ride south for five miles; if she did not reach the bay, she would have to head north to find it and trace its curve to Donegal Town.

  She heard a muffled groan from Moora as she selected a bronze dagger with a peculiar undulating blade from the Celtic collection and thrust it into her waistband. As an afterthought, she pulled down a lethal-looking throwing ax.

  As she crossed the room with the ax still in her hand, Catherine saw Moora's blue eyes widen in terror. Although any delay was risky, she stopped to touch the girl's shoulder. "I didn't want to hurt you, Moora, but Culhane means to give me to his men. I know you could have called them before coming to look for me. Thank you." Then she was gone.

  The cold night air was intoxicating after weeks of confinement. None of the usual threatening rainclouds hung over the moon-painted moor. Reaching the paddock without interception, she cracked the stable door a fraction of an inch. A single lantern in the rear revealed the place was deserted. She slipped in and closed the door, took a bridle from the wall, and went from stall to stall looking for the thoroughbred gelding she had seen Liam use on his painting excursions. She found the gelding, then saw something better. In the last stall, a big black pawed restlessly. As she went closer, a grin spread from ear to ear. If her stallion, Numidian, had a brother, this was the horse. Arab blood showed in every line of his huge body, but hiB size indicated a Morgan sire. If so, he would have stamina. She began to croon to him in tones that would have had Numidian sitting in her lap. though his eyes showed oyster white crescents and he wickered nervously as she approached, he stood quietly, glossy skin twitching as she moved into his stall.

  "There," she soothed. "There, darling . . . I won't hurt you. You lovely, big fellow, you beauty. Oh, darling, I wish I had a carrot," she whispered as he nuzzled her fingers with soft lips. "If you get me away from here, I'll fill you to bursting with carrots. Anything. Come away with me." Gently, she stroked him all over, hands slipping down fine, oval-boned legs. She quickly saddled him, then grabbed an extra horse blanket to wrap about herself and led him to the stable door. She peeked out. The house lights reached toward her like fingers, but seeing no one, she walked the black out into the moonlight. He stood, a massive, inky shape. With a deep breath, she put a foot in the stirrup. If he revolted now. . . She mounted and found the other stirrup. He whiffed softly through his nostrils. She walked him slowly in a short circle, touched heef to his flank, and gave him his lead. He broke into a smooth canter; then they lightly cleared the paddock wall and were off to the southeast like the wind.

  Catherine was drunk with joyful release as the chill wind swept away the fog of hostility that had surrounded her, and the black settled into a long, easy stride that ate the miles. With a sense of omnipotence, she ripped away the strip securing her hair and flung it into the darkness. Her loosened hair whipped about her head like a heavy flag, stung her cheeks, brought tears to her eyes and laughter to her lips. She felt like a Valkyrie, riding the clouds, scattering the stars.

  Then, for the first time, a troubling thought struck her. Once she reached Donegal Town the British army would be about Sean Culhane's neck like a python, but what of the others trapped in the coils? The rebels at Shelan, particularly the mercenaries paid to train the amateurs, were a nest of adders that should be scattered at whatever cost. But the women and children? And Doctor Flynn? They would all be imprisoned or worse. And what, after all, of Sean Culhane? He might be tortured for information about his activities and other potential rebels. Hanging he certainly deserved, but to be broken and maimed? She tried to fight her softness, remembering she had been foolishly lulled into sympathy the very night he had raped her. What had been an ecstatic ride to freedom now held grim promise at its conclusion.

  Sensing her change of mood, the black slacked his pace. The moonlit landscape that had seemed so bright was now cold and barren as it undulated like a vast sea of stone. The hills rose and fell in slow waves, one like the other, monotonous and still, and the stars in the purple night glittered shrilly. Then a single star swung in a pendulum arc low on the horizon and the rhythm jangled into erratic, deafening discord. Heeling the horse in the flank, Catherine aent him thundering due east. She leaned over his neck as his long stride opened out. "They're coming! Run, beauty! Oh, please run!" Then a star swung directly ahead. Catherine wheeled in a rip of pebbles and turf, only to see yet another star waltzing in the northern hills. Hoping to outmaneu- ver them, she decided to try to slip past their rear guard in the dark. Better to dismount and lose them in the coastal rocks than to remain an obvious target in clear moonlight. She thudded away from the lights, but before she had gone a mile, the slim hope that they had been too far away to see her clearly faded as the lights swooped toward her in a rapidly closing V. All she could do now was run as long as the black held out.

  "There she is!" Liam shouted at his brother, who galloped a big roan at Liam's side ahead of a handful of horsemen. "If we don't head her off, the outriders will drive her over the rocks!"

  "Not on Mephisto, they won't. The wench may go over his head, but that horse isn't fool enough to jump to perdition."

  Exasperated by Sean's seeming lack of concern, Liam started to retort, but his brother, apparently deciding his precious stallion might be in danger after all, pulled away and spurred until his companion riders were hard put to keep up.

  Sean himself did not know whether the girl's danger or Mephisto's urged him on. Mephisto knew the cliffs well, but goaded to his utmost speed at night, he might not be able to stop in time. He had a momentary vision of girl and horse cartwheeling to the rocks below. Mephisto, he would be sorry to lose, but the girl confused him. Everything she represented repelled and disgusted him, yet he wanted her. Every night these last two weeks he had sailed to the village across the bay and assuaged his desire in the pale body of Fiona Cassidy as he tried to blot the English girl from his mind; he thought he had succeeded, yet tonight she had scowled up at him with blue eyes smoldering from the smudged little face and he had wanted to snatch away the fastening of her hair and crush that mutinous mouth under his in front of all his men. Better if she was out of his life now.

  He was close enough to see sparks spit from the black's hooves and dimly hear the sea crashing on the cliff rocks. Suddenly, inevitably, Mephisto neighed wildly and twisted back on his haunches. Rearing horse and rider silhouetted against the moon before the girl screamed and fell.

  Catherine scrambled to her feet as the riders closed in. They halted, some twenty of them, just fifty feet away. As the spent, sweaty black nuzzled her shoulder, she soothed him, stroking his white-flecked neck and side. The men were too far away to see the tears brim in her eyes. Then she gave him a gentle push a
nd murmured softly, "You must go, beauty. I don't want you hurt."

  A whistle sounded from a tall, shadowed rider. "Mephisto." The horse obediently trotted to his master. Growing a shade paler as she recognized the voice, Catherine drew the ax from her belt and waited, hair whipping in the sea wind. The tall rider gave a nod to one of the others, who rode forward a few paces.

  Liam's voice carried over the dull sound of the surf. "Miss Enderly, give yourself up. If you peacefully surrender your weapons, I give you my word of honor no one will hurt you."

  His answer was a cool, derisive laugh. "You have no honor, none of you. And you've murdered peace. Now you'll have to murder me, because I'll never willingly return to Shelan." Her voice lowered. "Shall we get this over with?"

  The mercenaries were openly amused. One let out a catcall; another, leaning mockingly from his saddle, gave an ululating Irish war cry.

  "Never let it be said an Irishman kept a lady waiting," the tall horseman said, and dismounted. As he stepped forward, the moon gave his eyes the translucence of pale glass. "Well, Miss Enderly," Sean Culhane said amiably, "here we are again, toe to toe. Do you recall the conversation during our last tiff, when you attempted to make a point with a candlestick?"

  Catherine said nothing, merely watched him warily as he slowly advanced.

  "I see you do. Now, if you don't throw that thing, I'll take it away from you. If you throw it and miss, you're going to think the culmination of our last argument was idyllic. If you don't miss, my men are going to throw you off that cliff after giving vent to their irritation at losing the source of their income. So don't be nervous, and take your best shot, Miss Enderly; you sure as hell won't get another."

  Despite his efforts to rattle her, Catherine still waited. And despite his easy words, Sean's midsection prickled as the distance between them closed and he realized she meant to let him get close enough to try to bury the ax in his gut. At a twitch of her elbow, he dropped and rolled, hearing an evil whistle where his belly had been. Uttering a yelp, a rider scuttled aside. His companions' amusement vanished. As Sean came quickly to a crouch, his opponent stared at him with the cold intensity of a cornered lynx, the bronze dagger in her fist. His heart began to resume its normal pace. The girl had managed the ax with startling expertise, but he was relieved to see she was unaccustomed to a knife. She held the blade haft up instead of horizontally, blade out. He slowly rose, and drew his own knife, and let it change from hand to hand to glint moonlight along its blade. Mercilessly he began to tease her, closing all the while, feinting easily, his blade a distracting blur. Watching closely, she quickly shifted her hold on her knife and imitated his movements, stalking him as stealthily as a small Indian.

  Culhane's grin flashed briefly white in the dark. "Not bad for a beginner, but you've much to learn . . ." Inches from her, his blade suddenly cut upward in an arc from the shadow of his body. Startled, she backed, nearly dropping her guard.

  "Lesson one. Killing at a distance is one thing, Disembowelment at close quarters is less aesthetic. Have you ever seen a pig butchered, Miss Enderly? Not pretty, is it? Death on a knife is nowhere as refined as that, I assure you." His knife flicked, flirted with her body, forced her back. "The final moments are" messy, usually because one slash isn't sufficient unless the fighter is experienced. Would you like to die in stages, girl. . . or all at once?" His knife snaked out and caught her blade guard in a deft twist, wrenching it from her fingers. Throwing an arm up to ward him off, she stumbled back the last, remaining inches to the cliff rim. Her feet slipped sickeningly from under her; then she rifled down into nothingness. Abruptly Culhane's powerful grip caught her wrist, dragged her upward. She tried to wrench free, and he swore as he caught her roughly under the armpits and jerked her to him. For a terrible moment they struggled on the crumbling edge of the rock face until the Irishman found his footing and fought them both to safety.

  As if unaware of her near fall, Catherine pummeled his chest and kicked wildly at his shins and groin. With a growl, he reached for her scruff; she snapped at him with her teeth. He got a handful of hair, jerked her around so he could hold her by the arms, then pushed her to the edge of the precipice. "Look down, damn you! That dagger you dropped down there is irreplaceable. I ought to throw you after it!" Breath coming in sobs of frustration, she writhed, still fighting him. He shook her, deliberately letting her hang outward.

  "For God's sake, Sean," Liam cried. "Stop it!"

  Sean ignored him. "Look down, you little idiot! That's death, real and final. Look down!"

  Unable to help herself, she looked. A dizzy void yawned at her feet, the jagged rocks a hundred-feet below reaching upward like deadly fangs, the glassy waves deceptively soft as they hurled moonlight-dappled walls of water against the sheer rock face. "When you invited my men to hack you to death, you didn't really know what death was, did you? Did you!"

  Strangely silent, she hung from his hands. He gritted his teeth. She expected him to drop her, the ninny. He dragged her from the rim until the plummeting view was behind them. Passively, she allowed him to snap her about, then stood like a sleepwalker, staring at his chest. Thinking she was still in the thrall of the height, he tightened his grip on her arms to shake her when he realized she was rigid, her eyes glazed blanks. "Catherine," he said carefully. Her eyes flickered, then slowly registered. He knew she was aware of him when they flooded with despair.

  "Bring me the roan's bridle." When one of the outriders handed it over, Sean pulled Catherine's wrists forward and lashed them in front of her. She made no resistance as he led her to the black; but when, instead of putting her in the saddle, he tied her to Mephisto's tail, she struggled like a wild animal, then stood with feet braced, eyes ablaze with humiliation and hate.

  "Sean, this is intolerable," Liam protested angrily. "I gave Miss Enderly my word—"

  "Which she didn't accept." Sean handed the reins of the mount he had ridden to one of the men and swung into Mephisto's saddle. "Flannery, head for the smithy and heat up the forge. The rest of you get back to your posts. Liam, I suggest you go with them. Your temper could use a cooling out. I'll escort the lady home."

  Liam gave his brother a look of fury, sawed his horse around, and dug in his spurs.

  Culhane nudged Mephisto into a steady walk. Catherine balked, then was jerked forward into an unwilling trot. The Irishman did not look back. She quickly found she could only walk for a few paces, but then had to take several running steps to keep up as they followed a path worn in the furze along the cliff. Before they had gone far, the sun bloomed like a burning rose over the moors. Wretched as she was, Catherine was relieved to be alive to see the glowing dawn. White gulls wheeled and screamed along the sheer cliffs, then spiraled downward into the sea to emerge with fish.

  Free. They're free! Catherine thought desolately. Suddenly blinded by tears, she stumbled and fell, scraping her knees on sharp pebbles. But her captor kept moving. Dragged by the straps at her wrists, she scrambled up with tear-streaked cheeks and began to swear steadily at him under her breath. Feeling better, she began to swear at him out loud, warily, then at the top of her lungs. She finally got the hiccups and had to stop.

  Without looking back, Sean said dryly, "Good. Your limited vocabulary was growing tedious. If you're going to swear, do it properly. You haven't the feel of it a'tall, a'tall. Listen . . ." The air resounded with profanity, musical and grand.

  Catherine's cheeks flamed scarlet. If her vocabulary was limited, Sean Culhane's definitely was not. The oaths had roll and thunder. When he finished, he had not repeated himself once. Of course, the lilt added a certain elan.

  She frowned at Mephisto's tail in consideration, then repeated his last phrase. She had no idea what it meant, but she liked the rhythm of it. A low chuckle came back to her over the Irishman's shoulder. "Better. But don't mince up to it. Belly up."

  She took a deep breath and let fly a volley at his head.

  "Again better. Now let one flow gently, follow with p
ower, lull, then build to a peak, and so forth. That's why a good string of oaths sounds like music."

  Catherine could not believe she was having this conversation. Apparently the brute had a perverse sense of humor. Still, swearing relieved her anguish. She had thought to die, yet here she was tied to a horse's tail, admiring the scenery and trading profanity with a villain who had abducted her, raped her, then dangled her off a cliff. I must be hysterical, she thought. Aloud she began noisily to sing "The Tart of Whitemarsh," then wound up with an unrequested encore of choice selections from her newly learned repertoire.

  Culhane clapped obligingly and she dropped a mocking curtsy to Mephisto's rump. An amused drawl floated back. "That Whitemarsh drab should have been walled up with the pharaohs, but I've heard worse renditions in music halls. No doubt you learned it discreetly at Ye Dreary Gentlewoman's Academy."

  "As a matter of fact, I didn't," she retorted. "I was sitting in a schoolmate's brother's clothes in the fifth row of a Drury Lane theater"—she squinted at the bright light glancing off the sea—"but I concede the academy was exceedingly dreary."