Sea Fire (11 page)

“Jump!”

Came the command, as it did every morning. Painfully the prisoners began to jump up and down, waving their arms and stomping their feet. This exercise, which was kept up for some five minutes, was designed to insure that the men would be fit for work when they reached their destination. For work was what they were slated to do. Factories abounded on Africa’s
west coast, factories that supplied England with numerous goods and were run on slave labor. When the
Cristobel
docked along the Ivory Coast, the prisoners would be auctioned off to the factories. The money would go into England’s coffers, less a tidy profit for the crew. Thus everyone—except, of course, the new slaves—would be happy.

When the exercise was over for the day, the men were herded around the half-dozen or so large black cauldrons that cooked the day’s ration of food right there on deck. Hungrily they scooped the inevitable watery stew up in their hands, devouring it as quickly as they could until it was gone.

“Take ’em below!”

Jon was still eating when the order rang out. Hastily he scooped up one last handful of stew, gulped it down, and licked his fingers. He just had time to swallow his allowance of water before Hinton and another guard stood before him. The other man bent to unfasten the long chain from the ring-bolt, while Hinton walked behind Jon, prodding him painfully in the back with his musket in an unspoken command to move. Jon, along with the rest of the prisoners, obediently started to fall into line for the return trip to the hold. Suddenly a hoarse scream rang out: everyone on deck immediately craned their necks to see what was happening. Over by the open hatchway, two prisoners had each other in a strangle-hold. Four guards ran over to separate them, clubbing them viciously with their muskets. Over his shoulder Jon could smell Hinton’s sour breath as the man moved closer so that he could watch the fun; his musket once again jabbed Jon sharply in the small of the back. Instinctively, without even taking time to think, Jon brought his two fists together so that the thick chain was bunched between them. Then in a lightning move he whirled, bringing the iron club thus formed down hard onto Hinton’s unsuspecting head. The man crumpled without a sound. Jon looked hastily around: only O’Reilly’s bulging eyes seemed to be watching. To his relief he realized that everyone else was too preoccupied with
what was taking place near the hatchway to have seen what he had just done. It took only an instant to lean down and remove the ring of keys from Hinton’s belt. Careful to keep well out of sight, he unfastened his shackles and the chain that bound him to O’Reilly. Then he passed the keys to O’Reilly who quickly loosed his own bonds and passed them on. Jon, meanwhile, snatched up the fallen guard’s musket and began to move quickly and unobtrusively toward the stairs leading to the quarterdeck As he gained the top of them, the musket at the ready, he heard a sudden roar behind him, and above it the cry, “Mutiny!”

“No heroics, gentlemen, or I’ll blow you all to hell!” he said calmly to the ship’s officers; as they whirled to face him, a savage grin split his face.

C
athy, on the
Tamarind
, was smiling equally savagely. Harold had just left her, in what, for Harold, passed as a towering rage; Cathy doubted that she could hold him off much longer. He had made it clear that tonight he meant to share her bed, whether she was sick or well. It was this that had occasioned Cathy’s grin. She had been feigning seasickness for the past ten days, moaning and clutching her stomach whenever Harold was near. Harold, himself somewhat sickened by the movements of the ship, was revolted by the sight of Cathy’s distress. But this morning, when she had seemed no better, he had accused her of play-acting, which had somewhat increased Cathy’s opinion of his intelligence. For play-acting she was, and very skillfully, too, if she should say so herself; after her experiences with Jon aboard the
Margarita,
her stomach was proof against anything the sea could throw at it.

If Harold didn’t believe her little act, Cathy thought determinedly, she would have to convince him in such a way as would leave him in no doubt. She hit on a plan, and smiled as she considered it. So
far Harold had not been hard to dupe, and she expected tonight to be no exception. Their marriage was still unconsummated, and, if Cathy could possibly contrive it, it would stay that way.

As evening approached, Harold returned to the cabin. Behind him came a sailor bearing a loaded tray. While the sailor set the dishes on the table in one corner of the room, Harold crossed to the bed and stood looking angrily down at Cathy. She returned his look limpidly.

“I insist that you join me for dinner.” His voice was harsh.

“But, Harold, I am not well,” Cathy protested tremulously. “The motion. . . .”

“You heard me!”

“Yes, Harold,” Cathy whispered, meekly casting down her eyes. Through her thick lashes she saw his triumphant smile.

Dressed in a charming bronze-green satin wrapper over a matching nightdress from the complete trousseau that had been waiting for her when she had come aboard the
Tamarind
, Cathy obediently sat down opposite Harold as he began to eat. Although her perfectly healthy stomach protested since she had had no more than tea and toast all day, she listlessly pushed the food around her plate with her fork. The impression she wanted to give was that she was too ill to eat; from the frowning looks that Harold was casting her way, she thought she just might be succeeding.

In truth, Harold was thinking that she looked utterly enchanting, pale from her long sojourn in their cabin (she had not been on deck since they had sailed; perhaps she really was ill). Her sapphire eyes seemed to glow like stars against the whiteness of her skin, while her golden hair, loose and waving about her shoulders, was lovelier than Harold could have dreamed. That silky outfit she wore became her extremely, as did the rest of the garments he had selected for her. For an instant Harold congratulated himself on his excellent clothes sense, and then Cathy
moved her head in a way that set her breasts to jiggling entrancingly. He stared openly, wetting his lips. Since marrying her, he had come to desire her more fiercely than he had ever desired a woman in his life. So far she had managed to keep him out of her bed, but tonight he would put an end to that. He meant to have her whether she was willing or no. And, who knew, perhaps by the time they returned to England she might be as hot for him as he was for her. Certainly it was no use for her to even think about the pirate; he had seen to it that the man was put forever beyond her reach, while still keeping his promise to the letter.

“Not feeling ill, are you?” Harold queried sharply when she took no more than a bite of the delicious raspberry ice that had been provided for their dessert.

“Not—not really, Harold,” Cathy whispered bravely, playing her part to the hilt.

“Good. Because I don’t intend to allow you to escape me any longer. Tonight I’m going to take what is legally mine.”

Cathy felt her temper spark at this deliberate crudeness, but she managed to hang on to her submissive facade.

“We’re married, Harold. How could I possibly escape you? It’s just—I’ve felt so ill.” Deliberately Cathy let her voice die away.

Harold nodded with satisfaction.

“In a way, I’m glad you’ve decided to be sensible, although taming you would not have been without its rewards. But I’m sure you gained plenty of experience as the pirate’s paramour, and I expect you to make good use of it tonight. If my bride is not the blushing virgin that I deserve, then she can at least pleasure me. So come here, Cathy, and make a start.”

Cathy blanched as Harold pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, beckoning to her. She had not counted on this happening so fast. Her mind raced as she stood up. For the moment she had to obey him. To fight him now would only result in rape.
No, guile was what she needed to win this battle, and guile was what she would use. . . .

Harold’s touch was every bit as dreadful as she had known it would be. His arms clamped around her body, jerking her roughly against his protruding belly, his mouth attaching itself to hers like a leech. It was loose and wet as it moved against her lips; his tongue forced its way between her teeth, thrusting down her throat so that she wanted to gag. But she stood her ground, submitting as docilely as she could to his grotesque embrace, not flinching even when his hand thrust roughly inside the neckline of her wrapper to close hurtfully on one soft breast.

Cathy’s fingers itched to slap him as he kneaded her bare breast with rough familiarity, making obscene grunting noises in his throat like a huge rooting pig. With an immense effort of will she managed to restrain herself. Jon’s dark face swam momentarily across the screen of her closed lids; the thought of his reaction if he could see her now made her banish it hurriedly. If her plan was to succeed, she must concentrate solely upon saving herself.

When Harold began to rip at the bodice of her wrapper, Cathy pushed him away with what gentleness she could muster. He stumbled back a pace. She saw with inward contempt that his face was mottled with passion and his breathing was hard and irregular. For the first time she began to get an inkling of the effect she had on him. His physical reaction betrayed his desire, and she began to perceive that it was something that might later be turned to her advantage. He was not the only one to hold aces in their little game.

“Harold, please, let’s do this properly,” she whispered, lowering her eyes as if shy. “Why don’t you go for a walk on deck while I bathe and get into bed? When you get back, I’ll be waiting for you. . . .” her voice trailed off seductively. Harold gulped, his pale blue eyes bulging as he stared at her.

“I
don’t want to wait,” he said thickly, nearly making her jump out of her skin as he reached for her. Smiling slightly, shaking her head, she still managed to look seductive while placing both hands on his pouter pigeon chest and holding him off.

“It will be better later, don’t you see?” she beguiled him with her eyes. “I’ve been ill and I need a bath. I have the most delicious perfumed bath salts . . . and then we’ll share a bottle of wine. . . .”

“All right,” Harold agreed in a hoarse voice, much to Cathy’s relief. She smiled at him, inwardly wishing that she had a sword so that she could run him through. God, how she despised him! Just the thought of him making love to her—if it could be called that—was enough to make her stomach churn, in truth!

He pressed a moist kiss on her mouth, and then, with one last, languishing look, left her. Cathy nearly crowed with triumph. It was going to work . . . it was going to work! She began to undress as quickly as she could, splashed herself with cold water and a little perfume, and climbed into a fragile nightgown of pure white silk that had obviously been designed with a bride in mind. She ran a quick brush through her hair and leapt into the bed, pulling the covers up around her waist as she lay back provocatively against a mound of pillows. At all costs she had to make this believable.

She was ready not a moment too soon. As she heard Harold fumble with the door latch she took a deep breath. Then, determinedly, she thrust a slender finger as far down her throat as she could reach.

Her timing could not have been bettered. Harold finally made it through the door to be greeted by the sight of his incredibly lovely bride, dressed in nearly transparent white silk with her golden hair loose and gleaming in the light of the many-branched candelabra, vomiting grotesquely all over the jade velvet of what was to have been their bridal bed. He recoiled against the doorjamb,
feeling his own stomach heave at the gruesome sight. In a high-pitched, shaking voice, he began to call for the ship’s doctor.

Over the next few days, Cathy was hard put to it not to laugh. She played at being desperately nauseated, and Harold believed her. Whenever he was in the cabin she had only to clutch her stomach and moan to send him scuttling from the room. His own digestion was delicate at the best of times, he informed her nervously, and just the sight of her being so ill had been enough to put him off his feed. He took good care to stay out of the way as much as possible, even going so far as to have the steward make up a bed for him in an empty cabin. Since he had previously taken care to inform everyone on board that they were on their honeymoon, this circumstance was greeted with hilarity by the ship’s crew, and those male passengers in the know.

Ian Smith, the ship’s doctor, was puzzled at Cathy’s illness. He examined her only cursorily (it was not considered proper for a doctor to do more, unless the lady lay at death’s door), and he had to admit that she had all the usual symptoms of seasickness: vomiting, listlessness, a refusal to eat or even suffer food near her. Still, something did not quite seem right. But he could not put his finger on it, and, when pressed, said reluctantly that Lady Stanhope appeared to be suffering from a severe case of
mal de mer.

Cathy was well aware that she couldn’t hold Harold off forever by pretending to be ill, but while they were still at sea it served very well. There was no possible way he could take reprisals against Jon, for the simple reason that there was no way he could send a message; besides, after she had had time to think things through, it had occurred to her that if Harold really did, as he had threatened, go ahead and have Jon hanged to punish her for her lack of cooperation, he would no longer have anything to hold over her head. She would then leave him so fast he wouldn’t have time to blink. Since her freedom involved Jon’s
death, the very thought of which made her shudder convulsively, she hadn’t yet figured out how to turn this deduction to her advantage, but given time she was sure she would. And that was what she was doing now—
playing for time.