Sea Fire (17 page)

Her hair posed something of a problem. Jon had not thought to scoop up her hairpins when he had stolen her away so abruptly, and she had none on her, nor were there any in her trunk. The best she could devise was to brush out the curling mass as severely as she could, and then secure it away from her face with a scrap of pale blue satin ribbon. It flowed down her back with a life of its own, but without pins there was no way she could arrange it in a more circumspect style.

It was a beautiful but somewhat odd-looking lady who stood blinking in the strong sunlight some few minutes later, shielding her eyes with one hand as she tried to get her bearings. Contrary to all established modes, bare pink toes peeped from beneath the hem of a dress that was made in the latest fashion, but was just a trifle too long without the high heels with which it was intended to be worn. And trailing masses of golden hair, fetching as some might argue them to be, were certainly not the coiffure recommended for a female of quality! But Cathy, standing rather gingerly on the deck, was aware of none of these things. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness, it was all she could do not to run back to the comparative safety of
Jon’s cabin. The deck seemed to be positively crawling with men! They were everywhere she looked, all seeming to get in each other’s way as they stumbled clumsily about, apparently trying their best to see to the business of running the ship.

Cathy stared, thinking that they were totally different than she had learned to expect Jon’s crews to be. When she had sailed with him before, he had insisted on his men performing with clockwork efficiency. Humor twitched at Cathy’s lips. These men certainly could not be accused of that!

As Cathy stared, so, one by one, did the men. Gradually the whole crowd of them fell silent, and stood gaping at her, open-mouthed. Under the regard of so many masculine pairs of eyes, Cathy felt suddenly nervous. Quickly she turned toward the narrow wooden stairs leading to the quarterdeck. She had not meant to go up there, planning to give Jon as wide a berth as possible while still obeying the letter if not the spirit of his order to present herself on deck. But she suddenly felt the need for his protection. However loathsome and brutal he might be to her himself, she was quite, quite certain that he would not permit anyone else to offer her the slightest hurt.

The quarterdeck, Cathy saw as she ascended to it, was small, hopelessly cluttered, and in need of a good sweeping. A scrawny little man with a head as bald as an eagle’s was steering the ship, while Jon stood with another, stockier, man directly behind the bowsprit. He appeared to be explaining the intricacies of navigation to his companion, for he held a compass in one hand and a sextant in the other. Then the stocky man moved slightly, and Cathy saw, to her amazement, that a woman was standing with them!

“Uh—Captain.” The scrawny man at the wheel cleared his throat loudly. When the three by the bowsprit looked inquiringly at him, he nodded his head wordlessly in Cathy’s direction. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at her with very different expressions.

Cathy had no idea
of the lovely picture she made, poised at the head of the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the narrow wooden railing that enclosed the quarterdeck. Against a background of blue skies and billowing canvas, the sun glinted off her hair, making the long, curling mass of it seem ablaze with golden fire. The bodice of her silk dress clung tantalizingly to her figure, emphasizing her rounded breasts and the narrowness of her waist, while the full skirt opened around her like the petals of some exotic flower. Above the dress the skin of her shoulders and bosom glowed pearly white, while the deep blue of the silk enhanced the sapphire of her eyes.

Beside him, Jon heard O’Reilly suck in his breath in wordless admiration, while on his other side Sarita, completely eclipsed by Cathy’s beauty and knowing it, slowly stiffened.

“Jonny, who’s that?” the woman demanded petulantly. Her possessive tone caused Cathy’s chin to jerk up. With a haughty lift of her eyebrows and a cold look at Jon, Cathy moved forward, delicately lifting her full skirt out of the way of her bare toes.

“Yes, Jon, who is
that?
” Cathy asked icily, clearly referring to the smoldering Sarita. Jon grinned, suddenly amused. Despite her own two-timing, Cathy plainly did not care for Sarita’s presence, or her familiar “Jonny.” Savagely he hoped that jealousy would raise its ugly head to torture her as it had been torturing him for weeks.

“Sarita, let me make you known to my . . .” wife, Jon nearly said without thinking, but caught himself in time. “Lady Stanhope,” he finished with just the suggestion of a bite. With a taunting smile at Cathy, he added, “Lady Stanhope, this is Miss Sarita Jones. Beside me is Tom O’Reilly, and over there at the wheel is Mick Frazier. All, like me, newly liberated prisoners.”

Cathy nodded her head curtly in acknowledgement of these introductions, not liking the way the other woman was clutching at
Jon’s arm, for all the world as if he were her property! Not that he meant anything any longer to her, Cathy, but really . . . ! Sarita, for her part, was staring hard at Cathy, her expression hostile. Cathy stared just as hostilely back.

“Where’d she come from, Jonny?” Sarita’s shrill voice grated on Cathy’s ears. Jon smiled fatuously down at the simpering thing, patting the hand that clutched at his arm.

“I—uh—acquired her in La Coruña,” Jon said smoothly, shooting a malicious smile at Cathy. Schooling herself to betray no trace of anger, which the swell-headed beast would doubtless misconstrue, Cathy smiled just as maliciously back.

O’Reilly, watching this exchange which reminded him of nothing so much as the salute of swords before a duel, thought with inward relief that he no longer had to worry about the captain making time with Sarita. No, sir, as much as the black-haired wench appealed to him, O’Reilly, she wasn’t a patch on the captain’s lady, and that was a fact. That little blonde was the prettiest thing he had seen in years, and he would wager anything you liked that he wasn’t the only one to feel that way. The captain was watching her in a possessive way that shouted “keep off” as clearly as words, and a body would have had to have been deaf, dumb, and blind to miss the crackle in the air when their eyes met. One thing for sure, with the lady on board and the captain feeling about her the way he did, sooner or later there was bound to be fireworks. O’Reilly just hoped that he wasn’t around when they were set alight!

“Ready to go to work, Lady Stanhope?” Jon asked with an edge to his voice.

“Quite ready,” Cathy answered coolly, staring him down. Jon’s mouth tightened, and he turned pointedly to Sarita.

“Lady Stanhope here has very kindly volunteered to help you and the other ladies with the cooking,” he explained sardonically. Cathy shot him a dagger-look, but he was too busy smiling down into Sarita’s coarse-featured face to see it. “I would appreciate it if you would show her what to do.”

“Yes, Jonny.”
The cloying way the older woman was looking up into Jon’s face was sickening, Cathy thought furiously. That and her everlasting “Jonny” was getting on Cathy’s nerves. For that reason and no other, Cathy told herself, she felt the most overwhelming urge to knock the swarthy-faced wench back onto her too-plump behind!

Sarita led the way down from the quarterdeck and across the deck, her hips swaying exaggeratedly. Cathy, gritting her teeth at the woman’s blatant provocativeness, had perforce to follow. She was determined to let Jon see not the smallest sign of weakness. She knew that he was just waiting for her to beg him for mercy, and then he would jeeringly let her off. But Cathy was not about to ask for quarter from him! Whatever Sarita set her to, she would do!

As Cathy picked her way across the deck in Sarita’s wake, she felt herself to be the cynosure of all eyes. Men stared at her from every angle, men of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions. Some of them were admiring, some curious, and some frankly lewd. But none of them accosted her. Cathy supposed dryly that word must have gotten round that she was the captain’s private stock, and as such, she merited their grudging respect.

The work Sarita set her to, fetching water from the barrels stored beneath the poop to fill the big cauldrons used for cooking, was exhausting, to say the least. Cathy suspected that Sarita had chosen to give her such an arduous task out of pure spite. But no matter, Cathy was determined to carry it through. Jon had told her to work, and work she would. And if he was waiting for her to collapse sobbing at his feet, she vowed, he would be mightily disappointed!

Despite the ever-rising heat, Cathy labored manfully. The buckets which she lugged to and fro were heavy, and grew heavier with each succeeding trip. It seemed as if it would take forever to fill the cauldrons. Soon sharp pains were stabbing through the muscles of her shoulders and arms, and the metal handles of the buckets were cutting into her soft palms. Finally Cathy was forced
to stop to tear the bottom ruffle from her petticoat to make pads for her sore hands. As she did this, she twisted the fine material savagely, wishing that she could do the same to Jon’s strong brown neck!

When at long last—thank you, Lord!—no more water was needed, Cathy sank down in a shady spot on the deck. Leaning back against the rail, she fanned her flushed face with her skirt, hoping to get some relief from the stifling temperature. The other women—there were, perhaps, eight not counting Sarita—were busy stirring the mixture of salt pork and vegetables that the men were to have for lunch. Cathy felt not the slightest pang of guilt for sitting when the rest were working. She had done her share—more than her share—and she needed a break. Already she could feel her skin burning from its unaccustomed exposure to the near-tropical sun; her head hurt as well, and her stomach felt queasy.

The men came to eat in shifts, holding out tin plates for the women to ladle food into. Cathy watched the proceedings without much interest. The mixture looked unappetizing in the extreme, and Cathy was sure she could not eat it. But the men seemed to find nothing amiss. Greedily they gobbled what was put on their plates, for the most part using their fingers instead of spoons. Then they went back for more. By the time the second wave of locusts descended, and began to eat, Cathy was feeling nauseous just from watching. Finally she closed her eyes to block out the disgusting sight. She was so hot she had gone beyond sweating, and every muscle in her body was starting to ache.

Jon, when he came to eat with the last of the men, found her like that, her skirts spread in a wide circle around her as she sat in a patch of shade, her head resting back against the rail, and her eyes closed. She looked for all the world as if she were taking a nap. From the sweat streaking her brow and the disordered tendrils of her hair that curled around her up-tilted face, Jon concluded that she had been doing something. Whatever it was, she
obviously was doing it no longer. Plainly she felt that she could defy him with impunity. Well, he had told her to work, and work she would! His mouth tightened as he moved purposefully toward her.

“Lady Stanhope,” he drawled with mock deference when he stood before her. Cathy opened her eyes, having to tilt her head back even further than it was already to see his face as he towered over her, his broad form blocking out the sun. He was frowning, she saw, and her own lips compressed in response. It was clear that he was in no very good humor, but bully for him! If it came to that, neither was she!

“Did you want something?” she asked ungraciously.

“Pray forgive me for disturbing your rest, my lady,” Jon murmured, his eyes belying the pseudo-respectful tone of his voice. “I’m sure you need it after your exhausting labors.”

“You’re right. I do,” Cathy answered with unhidden hostility.

Jon’s eyes narrowed at her tone. “Napping must be very tiring,” he murmured sardonically.

“Did you come over here just to make yourself objectionable, or did you want something?” she snapped.

A muscle twitched warningly in his jaw.

“Oh, I want something,” he said. “My dinner. You can fetch it.”

Cathy stared at him disbelievingly.

“You’re joking,” she answered at last.

“Not at all,” Jon replied coldly. “As I believe I told you once already, no one on the
Cristobel
gets a free ride. Well, I agree you’re not good for much, but you can fetch me my dinner.”

“While you do what?”

“Take a well-deserved rest. Unlike you, I’ve been working very hard all morning.”

“Unlike me . . . !” Cathy spluttered angrily. Then she bit back the catalogue of her morning’s activities which had threatened to burst from
the tip of her tongue. If he wanted to believe that she had done nothing but sit in the shade, then far be it from her to disabuse him!

“I’m not going to stand about bandying words with you all afternoon,” Jon said shortly, his eyes hardening as they took in her indignant face. “I told you to go fetch my dinner. And I’d appreciate it if you’d be quick.”

A whole range of emotions chased themselves across Cathy’s expressive face. First there was disbelief, then anger, then defiance, followed by anger again. Her face flushed even rosier than it was already, and her blue eyes as they met his gave off glittering sparks.

“You actually mean for me to wait on you?” she asked as if she still couldn’t believe that she had heard correctly.

“That’s right,” Jon told her. Tired of the discussion, he reached down and took hold of her upper arm, hauling her to her feet. When she was standing, Cathy faced him angrily, jerking her arm from his grasp.

“Now,” Jon ordered grimly. Cathy stood glaring at him for an instant as if undecided, but apparently she remembered that discretion was the better part of valor. Contenting herself with an indignant sniff, she went to do as he said.

Jon grinned as he watched her go, his taut features relaxing in some amusement. She was openly flouncing, clearly furious with him. Her skirts swayed around her like a bell. The effect was entrancing, and Jon sank down into the place she had vacated by the rail to watch the show. Slut she might be, but she was certainly easy on the eye, and he saw no reason why he should deny himself whatever pleasure she could give him. After all, he had certainly paid a high enough price for it!