Stormfire by Christine Monson Page B

pot. If he tried a familiar pat, she swore silently, no matter what they did to her, she would empty the entire steaming potful over his head. She set the cup and saucer down without a clink. Although he must have known who was serving him, he spared her not a glance. She poured. He ignored. She retreated with the pot, madder than if he had pinched her. So, she was just one more virgin he had brutally used and given the toe of his boot! By the time she returned the pot to the sideboard, she was as hot as the coffee. And nearly giddy with hunger. Mentally, she called him every foul name she had ever heard and a few she made up on the spot. Peg nudged her. "He wants cobbler now."
    Oh, now he wants it, does he? Grabbing the cream pitcher and packing a saucer under her arm, she picked up the entire remainder of the cobbler and marched to his chair. Moora moved to cut her off, but Peg stopped her daughter with a knowing, silent shake of the head. Catherine plunked down the pitcher on the table, then withdrew the saucer with a flourish from under her armpit, placed it with a sharp rap on his service' plate, and ladled out cob bier in fat dollops. Green Eyes leaned back in his chair and watched her. The others were fascinated as a great pile oozed over the saucer rim onto the plate. She poured cream in a shining stream on the miniature mountain until, to her regret, it ran out before leaking from the table onto his lap.
    Quietly, as if addressing a peevish child, he said, "Because you lack regard for our food, you'll do without your share of it today. Go back to your place."
    Liam winced.
    Cheekbones white with rage, Catherine stalked back to the sideboard. I don't regret it. I don't regret a scrap of it, she told herself furiously.
    Moora edged away. Peg said nothing, simply removed the offending mess from the table, then resumed her place. Most of the men excused themselves, looking Catherine over in wonder as they left the room. Flannery, Liam, and the gray-haired man lingered on with Green Eyes.
    Great Caesar's Ghost, Catherine though irritably, they must be recounting the history of the Roman Empire! I must have something to eat! A wave of dizziness washed over her. In the next moment, she sagged to the floor.
    The men stared at the small heap on the rug. The gray- haired man instantly pushed his chair back, but Sean waved him to remain where he was. "Don't disturb yourself, doctor," he said in clipped English. "When did you feed her last, Liam?"
    "Jimmy gave her hardtack yesterday noon," came the flustered reply, "but she missed two meals yesterday and two the preceding day."
    "Hm. I imagine she is a trifle hungry." Sean appraised the heap. "Pity. She's going to regret sleeping through tomorrow's meals as well."
    A pitiful moan issued immediately from the heap as it began to rouse feebly to a half-sitting position. "Wh . . . what happened?"
    "You appearedito faint," came the expressionless reply.
    "Oh," Catherine said vaguely. She lifted a hand to her forehead and sneaked a peek at him under sooty lashes. Narrow green eyes slanted back at her through lashes as thick as her own.
    He smiled grimly. "We're all gratified by your rapid recovery."
    One sapphire glinted at him from behind her hand. "I feel better now."
    "Oh, good. I was afraid you wouldn't be up to a third act."
    In an instant, she whipped to her feet despite a slight unsteadiness. "If you mean to starve me, I see no reason to work." She glared at him defiantly. "And I won't until I'm given a decent meal."
    Unimpressed, Sean sipped at his coffee. "As you like. Peg . . ." He jerked his head toward the kitchen corridor door. "Take her back to her room. She'll stay there until she agrees to complete her duties. The hours she spends taking her ease will be deducted from her free time in future."
    Catherine said nothing, but if her eyes had been carving knives, Culhane would have been whittled to a chip. Peg and Moora flanked her as she marched out of the room, slim back