Stormfire by Christine Monson Read Free Book Online Page A

to hold himself in check. "I suggest you dress . . . now." He indicated the direction of her clothing with the pistol. Without taking her eyes off him, she got up and found her clothes.
    His pulse slowed as she quickly covered her nakedness, but where the torn dress did not meet under the jacket, the cleft of her breasts was an enticing shadow. No longer training the gun on her, but still watchful, he tucked the packet under his arm and moved towardjhe head of the bed, where he gave the bell rope a tug. Shortly, as he shrugged into a robe, a rap sounded on the door.
    "Come in, Peg."
    The woman, with graying blond hair loosely tucked under a nightcap and a plump body contained with equal carelessness in a voluminous robe of indeterminate color, seemed undisturbed to see a wild-haired young woman in torn clothing with eyes like bruises in her master's bedroom. Silently, she waited.
    "Take her downstairs and show her where she's to sleep," Culhane ordered. "She'll begin her duties tomorrow. The slower she learns, the less she eats. If she makes any trouble, deal with her as I would. Good night."
    The woman nodded at Catherine, indicating she should precede her. As the door closed, Catherine saw her rapist staring broodingly into the fire.
    Before they started down the stair, the woman advised briskly, "In case ye've any notions about makin' a run for it, this place is well guarded and ye're as far from help as the moon. I've got arms like a hairy pugilist and a noggin to match, as well as five stone on ye. So move along. We'll both need our sleep for tomorrow."
    Catherine, grateful for the protecting darkness, was too depressed to speak. Feeling torn and degraded, she clung to the banister as they descended.
    Finally, in the bowels of the house, when she verged on collapse, the woman nudged her to stop. Choosing a key from a ring looped over her arm, the Irishwoman unlocked the heavy door and, lifting the candle high, motioned Catherine to enter. '"Tisn't much," she advised in her broad brogue, "but ye'll be glad enough for it at day's end." The flickering candle revealed stone walls and a high window too narrow for even a child to squeeze through, but perversely generous enough to emit an icy draft. The bed, a straw-stuffed pallet on a wooden cot, had only a single, tattered quilt. At home, Chippendale himself had decorated her bedchamber, petit salon, and bath.
    The woman was already headed for the door. "I'll bring ye somethin' suitable to wear in the mornin'."
    "Thank you, Margaret. I am to call you Margaret?"
    The woman paused. "There's no need to thank me. I'm a plain woman and plain Peg will do." She closed the door behind her and locked it.
    Catherine let herself sag. She lay huddled on the prickly pallet and sobbed until she went dry. Too exhausted even to pull up the cover, she dropped into a deathlike sleep.

    An hour later, a scream rent the silence. Instantly awake, Sean unsheathed a dagger concealed amid the bed hangings beside his head. A sobbing cry welled up from the depths of the house. He slid out of bed, found his breeches, and pulled them on. Barefoot and Indian quiet, he padded into the hallway, then swiftly down the stairs. At the bottom he heard the tormented cry again, a crooning, keening, mourning sound eerie as a banshee's wail. His breath caught. It was the girl. Somehow he knew it was the girl. Thinking she might have attempted suicide, he tore down flights of stairs to the levels below the main floor. A candle glowed at the opened door of the cell where Peg stood in her rumpled gown and no nightcap, staring into the room. Grabbing her shoulder, he furiously thrust her aside. "Damnation, Peg, I told you to be certain . . ."
    Catherine lay on the bed, face turned to the wall and shielded by one arm. Peg grasped his arm warningly as he moved to brush past her. "She's still asleep."
    He looked at her dubiously.
    "Oh, aye. It was her right enough. Wailin' as if fiends were at her and mumblin' some heathen