Free Stormfire by Christine Monson Page A

Flannery roared imprecations at them.
    In less than a week, the antics of the Irish no longer amused her. Drill lines were measured, the men less clumsy at their exercises. She recalled that the American colonials had defeated British soldiers by hiding in forest and field and sniping from ambush. After muskets replaced the staffs, Catherine began to take Culhane's puny force seriously. While they were dismal shots and appeared to have only a few guns, their marksmanship, like their drills, would improve. Culhane's ruthless discipline resolved any doubts.
    Once, while she was polishing furniture, she glanced out of a bedroom window to notice Culhane in heated argument with one of his lieutenants. The incensed subordinate pulled a knife and took a swipe at the tall Irishman. Culhane's foot hooked the man's ankle and its owner landed in an awkward sprawl. When he attempted to rise, he found his knife hand pinned under his opponent's booted foot. Catherine saw his mouth gape in a scream as the boot heel crushed his fingers. Sean Culhane kicked the knife away, then to Catherine's horror, coldly kicked his attacker in the side, deliberately breaking several ribs. With a short, sharp movement, he summoned two men to carry the man away. Clearly, Catherine realized, the Irishman would have no resistance to his authority for some time. She must get away from the monster, and quickly.

    Occasionally, ships at sea were so tantalizingly near that Catherine could make out their ensigns on clear days. One afternoon she leaned from a window and flailed away with bed linen, ostensibly airing it, until Moora yanked it from her hands and sailed it to the damp ground. She had to scrub for hours to remove its grass stains and, as punishment, wash the ballroom windows and scour the marble entrance hall.
    Under Moora's ever-present guard, Catherine was still scrubbing the foyer long after she ordinarily would have been confined to her cell for the night. Back aching, she paused to wipe hair out of her face; the rag strip, which secured it atop her head, had an annoying tendency to slip. As she reapplied the scrub brush, the front door opened, and one by one, seven pairs of muddy boots tracked across the clean floor. Her head snapped up and she glared in speechless fury. Sean Culhane gazed down at her with lazy amusement. Liam and the others, a bit embarrassed, stood just behind him while Rouge Flannery smirked, ogling her damp, clinging shirt. "Good evening, Miss Enderly," Culhane murmured with mocking politeness.
    Catherine's eyes shot sparks. Mad as a singed cat, she rose slowly to her feet, fine brows nearly meeting in her smudged face. Suddenly she flashed them a breathtaking smile, then swept a deep curtsy that would have served at a court presentation. Hooking her fingers around the bucket handle on the down sweep, she straightened and let fly an arching torrent of dirty water across the lot of them. "Good evening to you, gentlemen," she purred sweetly.
    Though the men at the rear caught only the spray, the front ranks took the brunt. Flannery sputtered, beating at his beard. Rouge snarled and moved forward to reach for her but was interrupted by a long arm that snapped out to bar his way. Not looking at Rouge, Culhane said easily, "You've been neglected, Miss Enderly, to the detriment of your sunny disposition."
    She watched him warily. Although quick reflexes had saved him from the worst, Culhane's hair dripped in spikes about his face. Were his lips actually twitching in an effort to suppress a laugh? The others were angry enough.
    "Perhaps the exclusive company of women has grown tedious for you," he suggested mildly. She tensed. "Moora" —he glanced at the horrified young woman standing stock-still against the wall—"see that Miss Enderly joins the officers for dinner tomorrow evening." He gave his white-faced captive a hint of a mocking bow. "Sleep well, my lady." Then he waved his men toward the dining hall. As the door closed behind