Stormfire Page 8

  "Then why go? I find it difficult to imagine anyone convincing a female as mule-brained as you to do anything you didn't think of yourself."

  "Other people don't always employ your blunt methods of persuasion."

  "You believe your father's techniques to be less crude?" His tone was light enough, but she feit a prick of unease.

  "He's as different from you as heaven from hell," she replied curtly.

  Culhane gave a short, ominous laugh. "Somewhere, heaven and hell meet: at that point even you, Miss Enderly, might have trouble telling the difference."

  "The same thing is said about love and hate, but there, sir, you'd be at a loss. I cannot imagine your loving anyone, being gentle, even kind. You're a piece of stone, unfeeling—"

  "Particularly about sentimental rot."

  "You speak of rot!" Her temper heated. "You're a swamp of hatred . . . you . . ." She stopped, realizing she was going too far. Picking a quarrel with a lunatic on an isolated clifftop was the height of stupidity.

  "You were saying? That is, before you considered your death might add a fillip to my stench?" His voice was taut, dangerous.

  "I want to live, yes. But not without freedom. Not starved and beaten and threatened with death at every turn. Not surrounded by those who hate me. I'll fight to escape to my last breath. Your treating me like a slave doesn't make me one." She was tired now, the surge of energy that had carried her from Shelan seeped away. Her feet were sore; her wrists chafed. The brief, enforced trots were becoming uncertain and more frequent.

  "Miss Enderly, you've only had a taste of the Irish condition. For seven hundred years British ambitions have brought war to this land, and with it disease, famine, and death. What you've endured has been nothing. If you think a slap in the face, a lean mattress, a limited wardrobe, a few floors to scrub, and a single man between your legs is a miserable life, you've not begun to learn misery. The Irish will never tolerate the English heel on their necks. Shall we see how well you stand an Irish heel on yours?" Culhane gave Mephisto a kick and the horse moved into a trot.

  By the time they reached Shelan, Catherine staggered and stumbled from side to side, nearly hanging by her wrists. Her lungs felt incinerated, her eyes stung with perspiration, and her hair clung toiler head in damp tangles. When Mephisto came to a halt in front of the house, she sank gasping onto the cobbles. In a stupor, she heard voices and sensed people looking down at her, then dully heard Culhane. "Flannery, is the forge ready?"

  "Aye." Flannery's voice lacked its usual bluff humor.

  "Good. I'll join you directly. Jimmy, take Mephisto. Feed him oats and rub him down well. The wench ran him to a rag."

  "Aye, sor." Jimmy, too, was humorless.

  Catherine heard Mephisto being led away.

  "Peg, you and Rafferty stow the girl in her cell. Feed her. Then scrub out her mouth with soap. She has the ear of a parrot for foul language."

  Catherine glared up, incoherent with rage and exhaustion, then struggled to her knees, sputtering, "But you . . . you . . . ohhh, I hate you . . . you . . . !"

  "Still limited, I see." Culhane's lips twisted in a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Get her out of here. And after you wash her mouth out, wash her all over. The baggage is meeting the men tonight." He turned on his heel, leaving his prisoner stunned and numb with horror. Rafferty sawed through her wrist bonds, then he and Peg got her under the arms and pulled. When her legs collapsed, they draped her arms about their necks and towed her into the house.

  Peg followed Culhane's orders to the letter. With Moora's surly help, Catherine was summarily undressed, even to her knife, and dropped into a tub of steaming water. She let out a howl. "You're boiling me! Oh, Peg, I'll be burnt!"

  "Only for your sins, dearie. Open up!"

  She pushed, clawed, and kicked until her assailants were as wet as herself, but Moora held on to her hair while Peg rubbed her clenched teeth thoroughly with a blob of strong soap.

  "Ohohhh, pfooo! Stop!. . . Phooey!" Her spitting stopped when Moora rammed her head underwater with definite relish. Peg then poured a bucket of water over her head. The bath Catherine had been longing for was a complete ordeal. She was not allowed to scrub herself; Peg and Moora did every inch of her, with scrub brushes, until she was raw. Having the snarls combed out of her wet hair was the most exquisite torment of all. By the time Moora finished, Catherine was certain she would be bald. When her hair was finally clean, coiled, and neatly pinned on top of her head, Peg said, "Open." Giving her a black look, Catherine clenched her teeth. "Go along with ye, girl, it's stew."

  She opened instantly like a baby bird. As she chewed, a tentative smile tugged at her lips. "Exchellent stoo, Peg," she mumbled with her mouth full of a second spoonful.

  "A' course it is. I was cookin' while ye were skedaddlin'. Hurry up, girl, we haven't got the mornin'. . . good, good. That's enough. Up ye go." Peg and Moora each got a hand under her armpits and hauled. Moora supported her as Peg wrapped her in a huge towel, wagging her head and rubbing her charge vigorously. "Here I've been tryin' to fatten ye up, and ye run it all off!" Leaving her wrapped in the towel, they helped her to her pallet, then covered her with quilts. She wanted to speak to Moora, but Peg dragged her daughter out the door. Catherine nestled down and was asleep before she finished burrowing.

  She was awakened by a banging noise and the feel of a cold weight around her bare ankle. In fact, one leg was chilly up to the knee. Sleepily pushing herself to her elbows, she was surprised to see Flannery, his hair flame bright in the barren gray room, hammering at something on the floor at the foot of the pallet. "Whatever are you doing?" she mumbled. Flannery kept pounding without looking up. She flopped back down, too sleepy to stay upright; then dim realization dawned. She bolted up, clutching the quilts under her chin as he applied the final blows to a long pin fitted through the hasp of a leg-iron around her ankle. Attached to it was a short chain and a ten- pound ball of shot. "Oh, no. . . even he . . ." Her voice was a soft, strangled cry.

  He finally looked up into eyes that were black and too bright. Her face was bloodless. "I'm sorry, girl, but there's more. Ye'll have to sit up." Catherine obeyed in a kind of stupor, holding the quilts tucked under her arms. When he brought the collar out, her eyes slowly filled with tears. She lowered her head as if baring her neck to an executioner's ax. As he fitted the iron band about her throat, Flannery saw the childlike tendrils at her nape, the narrowness of her shoulders, how small she was, how desperately young. He rammed the bolt home. He left her staring across the cell, head held unnaturally high as if it would topple off her neck if she moved it. She looked like an effigy on a tomb.

  Sean looked up as Flannery filled the library door. "Well, is it done?"

  "Aye. 'Tis done."

  He quizzically eyed Flannery as the redhead lumbered toward the desk. "Your tone could sink the British fleet. Didn't the English's new jewelry suit her?"

  "She didn't say. Personally, I'd say it didn't suit her."

  Sean deliberately misunderstood. "Oh? Does that mean it didn't fit? Or that she kicked you?"

  "Oh, that thrall collar's a perfect fit," Flannery replied flatly, "exactly right for a woman or child." His tone hardened. "We haven't had slaves in Ireland for four hundred years, and I haven't been fightin' beside Culhanes for nearly fifty to bring 'em back."

  Culhane started to interrupt, but Flannery waved him to silence. "In all these years, I've never known ye to do a stupid thing, but if ye parade that girl in irons, ye'll regret it. Every time a man who was on the cliffs last night sees her weighed down with chains, his gorge is goin' to rise. They're not laughin' at her now, y'know." His big hands gripped the desk edge. "Ye had twenty mounted men armed with pistols and sabers to take a girl on foot cartin' a pair of antiques. I've not seen many men who could face cold steel that well."

  "Think, man. She knew I wouldn't have her killed. She figured I'd send one or two men at her. If she could make a brief show and keep her skin in one piece, she'd have
the lot of you on her side. Little Miss Nobility Braveheart. It worked beautifully. She even fooled you, and I would have wagered your rock of a heart couldn't be dented with a pickax."

  Flannery shook his head. "She was ready to die and ye knew it. I think that's why ye went out to her yerself, to keep another man from hurtin' her."

  Culhane came to his fteet. "That's enough, Flannery."

  "I'm thinkin' it is, but shacklin' that bit of a girl is too much. I'll keep takin' yer orders for Liam's sake, but don't ask me to lay a hand on her again."

  Long after sunset, two handsome whores in brazenly low-cut dresses strolled into Catherine's cell; the taller girl was a sultry-eyed brunette with flaring cheekbones and a wide mouth, the other a flaxen blonde with magnificent breasts and a confident strut. With hands on her hips, the dark one, dressed in crimson, surveyed the prisoner's slight body curled up among the quilts. "Faith, she's not much to look at!"

  The blonde nodded. "Give a man too much to eat, and he's more interested in meat on his plate than in his bed. But, Jaysus, this wouldn't even pick his teeth!"

  Anger gave back Catherine's eyes some of their life as she flushed at their blunt appraisal.

  The blonde blew a loose wisp of hair out of her faee. "Ye must have put Culhane out more than a bit. He's a moody sort at best, but he an't ordinarily nasty."

  Crimson shrugged dreamily. "I wouldn't mind if he was in a black temper all the time, so long as he kept me on me back!"

  Catherine was incredulous. "You enjoy his attentions?"

  The brunette closed her eyes and acquired a lewd grin. "Like a cat loves her cream."

  "But, he's . . ."

  "Violent?" the blonde finished for her. "Sometimes. Then he's like a storm breakin', but sometimes he's slow and easy. No angel can play a harp better than Culhane plays a woman."

  Catherine's eyes skeptically flicked over the pair. "I gather you're not forced to . . . entertain his men?"

  "A' course not," the blonde said, beginning to paw about for the prisoner's clothes. "Invited is what ye'd probably be callin' it, when ye was a lady."

  "I am still a lady!" Catherine retorted furiously.

  "Now don't be gettin' upset," clucked Crimson, pulling firmly at the quilts. "Irene don't meanit personal."

  Catherine clutched her last protection with the tenacity of a worried crab. "Personal! Culhane is turning me into a . . . he's no better than a . . . oh! Give that back! Stop it!" She scratched and flailed, but the two got her into her skirt and blouse. After a brief inspection Irene shook her head. The pair exchanged glances, then yanked at Catherine's neckline. She gasped and grabbed, but the drawstring slid to an impenetrable knot just short of letting the garment slip from her shoulders.

  Both women nodded simultaneously. "That's better. Nuns is apt to spoil the lads' appetites."

  Catherine glared downward. "I won't do it!"

  They ignored her. "Leave her hair up, don't ye think, Milly?"

  "Aye, she'll do fine."

  Milly picked up the iron ball; then each got an arm between them, and by lifting the kicking prisoner clear of the floor, the two had her through the corridors in a trice. They set her down in front of the doors of the common dining hall.

  Catherine's knees went weak. She was to be raped again, not once, but many times by many men. The remembered pain of her only experience thudded in her mind like a hammer, and color drained from her cheeks. She took a shaking step backward.

  Crimson firmly stopped her. "Buck up now, dearie."

  Irene whispered a last reassurance. "And don't be worryin' yer head about the irons. Some men like 'em!" They opened the doors, then shoved her through. She stumbled as dead weight jerked at her ankle. In the midst of bewildering noise and smoky candles, she numbly straightened, heart pounding. Sudden silence surrounded her, then a wall of stares.

  Liam, at the head of his table, turned with the others when the arresting silence drew his attention to the door. Sean, facing that direction from the seat on his brother's right, impassively watched his prisoner's halting entrance as Liam's jaw tightened. The girl's eyes reminded him of a trapped fawn. Her feet were bare and hair loosely piled atop her head escaped in tendrils, about her cheeks and throat. Around her neck, like an obscenity, was a narrow band of iron; a heavier band was locked about one ankle. When Liam heard the scrape of the weight, something burst in his mind. Without looking at his brother, he rose and walked the length of the room to meet her. The girl gazed at him in bewilderment; then, as he stopped to pick up the ugly iron ball, her eyes filled with stunned gratitude. Close to her, Liam could see the velvet texture of her skin, accentuated by the blouse's rough material; for an instant he wished she were a whore he could carry away to the darkness. He blushed, ashamed of his thoughts. "I cannot ask your forgiveness for bringing you here; what I've done is unforgivable. I'm sorry with all my heart. . . my lady." He offered her his arm.

  She hesitated, then placed her hand on it and murmured, "Thank you, Lord Culhane."

  Across the room, Sean felt the warmth of the radiant look Catherine gave his brother like a twist in his gut. When Liam turned to escort her from the hall, Sean uncoiled to his feet. His voice rang out, "It would be rude, brother, to steal the wench away before she has been introduced. Surely you don't mean to keep so fine a piece to yourself."

  Flushing with anger, Liam stopped in his tracks. Feeling Catherine's fingers tighten convulsively on his arm as he altered course, he slowly walked her to the head of the table. "We'll have to brazen it out now," he whispered. "If we don't stay, you will appear to be going to my bed."

  "But if they believe I'm your mistress, they might leave me alone!"

  "You may yet go home again, my lady. Now, these people can only guess about my brother's relationship with you, but were I to compromise you publicly, your reputation would never be secure." He covered her hand on his arm with his own. "Don't worry. I'll get you out of the room as soon as possible."

  Heads craned as the pair made their way through the room. Most of the spectators were merely curious about the irons, but true to Flannery's prophecy, some of the men who had seen the captive's courage on the cliff were angry, and a wave of murmurs rose in her wake.

  Sean watched the couple with a grim smile as he thought angrily, Damn it, how does the wench contrive to give irons the effect of a virgin's nightgown? Half the men v would flatten out and let her trip her dainty feet across their backsides!

  As Liam started to seat her at the table, Sean stood and raised his wineglass in a mocking toast. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lady Catherine Denise Enderly, comtesse de Vigny. You may have heard of her father, General John Richmond Enderly. As adjutant to the governor general some years ago, he did much to relieve Ireland of her excess population. To your continued good health, my lady!" He drained the glass, flung it to the floor, and ground it under his heel. Aware of her barely controlled panic, he gazed mockingly at the crowd. "You should see yourselves gawk. Have none of you seen an English blue- blood before? Well then, you'll have a eloser look!" His arm swept down the table and Catherine jerked back, thinking he was about to tear at her clothes, but his hand locked around a pitcher of wine and thrust it at her. "Take up your duties, Countess. They want a look at you."

  "Lady Enderly has no duties," Liam said firmly. "I've promised her my protection."

  "You wasted your breath, brother."

  Liam whitened. His hand twitched, then moved for his dagger. Unarmed, Sean tensed, ready to dash the pitcher in Liam's face and relieve him of his weapon. Feeling Liam's convulsive movement, Catherine tightened her grip. "No, please! You must not, my lord." Her voice lifted with defiance. "As your brother says, too much blood has been spilled in Ireland, though he slanders my father as the cause. He shall have no excuse to malign Enderly honor further."

  Tucking the ball under an arm, she pulled the pitcher from Sean's grasp with surprising force and surveyed with saccharine mockery the seated men who had not risen in her presence
. "Please, don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen." Some of the younger ones had the grace to flush as she sauntered off. Liam dropped into his chair with a furious look at his brother, who returned it unwinkingly.

  As Catherine filled the tankards of the silent, fidgeting men at the nearest table, Irene and Milly quickly took her lead and began to joke with their patrons. By the time Catherine had refilled the pitcher a few times from large casks of wine and ale set about the room, the racket had resumed its normal level, much of it caused by lively discussion of the open antagonism between the Culhanes.

  At length, although the men were becoming drunk and boisterous and their women acquiescent, she dared not reenter the tinderbox atmosphere of the Culhane table. The men subdued their coarse language in her presence, but their women, who seemed resentful, became more offensive. At first the men were slightly embarrassed, but as drink and nearness of flesh inflamed them, their hands stealthily groped at her flanks as she pressed through the tangle.

  Finally, when a hand drove between her thighs, she exploded. Swinging the pitcher in a wide swath, she bashed every head in reach and soaked several innocent bystanders. Abruptly, a hand locked through her iron collar, then jerked her against the bare, hairy chest of Rouge Flannery. His breath reeked of liquor. "So, it's the bad-tempered little wench!" She dropped the ball and pushed away from him, but he lifted until the ring, cutting into the back of her neck, nearly dragged her off her feet. "Oh, no, ye don't. We an't met proper yet!" He smiled mirthlessly, his gray eyes like stone chips, then jerked her head back with his free hand and smashed his mouth down on hers. She arched wildly, stifled and choked. His lips were loose and wet, his thick tongue forcing its way into her mouth. Finally he withdrew, painfully arching her head back as he did so. "That's it . . . keep fightin'. Keep wrigglin' . . ." He thrust his crotch against her and manipulated her hips with his hand. When she stiffened with revulsion, his voice turned venomous. "Think ye're too good to be fucked, eh? Culhane said we could have a look at ye, didn't he?"