Sea Fire (18 page)

Cathy’s eyes were glittering dangerously as she held out a plate to be filled. Clara, the stocky middle-aged woman in charge of that particular kettle, gave her a keen look.

“Brought you with us for a maid, did he?” she observed with sly humor, her head jerking in Jon’s direction. Cathy’s nostrils flared, but she
had no intention of adding to Clara’s enjoyment.

“Apparently,” was all she answered, but as she returned to Jon her eyes were flashing fire.

He was sprawled where she had been, his long legs stretched out before him as he took his ease. The slight breeze was ruffling through his over-long black hair, which the heat had caused to wave in a way she knew he detested. His face and the strong column of his neck were very dark, burnt to a leathery toughness by constant exposure to the sun. The arrogant lines of his jaw and mouth were partially obliterated by several days’ growth of blue-black, stubbly beard. Beneath his sweat-dampened white shirt she could see the faint dark outline of the fine black pelt which covered his chest. His shoulders as they leaned against the railing were formidable in their breadth, while his forearms, bared by the rolled up sleeves of the shirt, were tanned to a teak brown and corded with muscle. He was a handsome animal, Cathy had to admit, but she thought with a sniff that animal was the operative word.

“Your slave is back, master,” Cathy sneered when she stood before him again. “Would you like me to feed you, too?”

Jon opened his eyes; those gray irises darkened to the color of gunmetal as they rested contemplatively on her face. Cathy met that considering look with a defiant glare. To her surprise he said nothing, just held up his hand for his plate.

As he began to eat, Cathy started to turn haughtily away. One brown hand shot out to catch a fold of her skirt, detaining her. She looked back down at him, her eyebrows lifted in icy inquiry.

“Stay,” he directed briefly, as he would have to a pet dog. Cathy bristled, her arms crossing over her breasts. Jon eyed her belligerent stance speculatively, then returned his attention to his food without another word.

Cathy watched with growing indignation as he consumed the unappetizing mess with
what looked like relish. He was paying her no more attention than he would have a piece of wood, not even having the common courtesy to inquire if she had eaten, which she emphatically had not! No, he thought he could keep her standing before him like some odalisque from a Sultan’s harem for as long as he wished! And he hadn’t bothered to say even a word of thanks for the service she had done him, either.

When at last he had scraped the plate clean, he looked up. Seeing the raging anger in her eyes, he smiled slowly. The gesture was a mere thinning of his lips, in no way signifying amusement.

“I’m still hungry,” he said meaningfully, and held up his plate. “You can fetch me some more.”

Cathy spluttered angrily, her blue eyes flaming.

“Remember what I told you about tantrums,” Jon warned softly, his gray eyes bright as if he were looking forward to having to quell one.

Cathy took his empty plate without a word. Her anger growing with every step, she went back to have Clara refill it. Then she retraced her path to stand before Jon, the filled plate in her hand.

“That’s a good girl,” Jon told her with mocking approval, and reached out to take the plate from her. Cathy smiled at him, her mouth curving sweetly to reveal the rows of small, gleaming white teeth. Then she lifted the plate just out of his reach, and proceeded to very gently tilt its contents all over the top of his arrogant black head.

seven

D
amn it!” Jon roared, his hand going up to dash the slimy mess from his hair and face as he sprang to his feet.

Cathy could not prevent a triumphant grin. It quickly disappeared as the full extent of his rage became apparent. His face was suffused with dark red color and his mouth twitched furiously as he towered over her. His hands were balled into huge fists at his sides. Cathy swallowed, suddenly nervous. It took every ounce of courage she possessed to stop her from taking to her heels. People had been telling her for years that one day her spitfire temper was going to get her into very serious trouble; Cathy very much feared that today was that day. Then, behind her, she heard a hastily muffled guffaw from an onlooker, and she was sure of it.

She risked a quick glance over her shoulder to find that she and Jon were the center of goggling attention. Activity on deck had been completely suspended as everyone craned their necks to see what would happen next. Would the new captain, who thought nothing of laying low the brawniest of men for so slight a cause as an insubordinate smile, meekly take such abuse from
a little chit of a female, be she ever so pretty? And if not, how would he reply?

“I wager he knocks her back on her cute little ass!” Cathy overheard one excited comment.

“Nah, he’ll pitch her overboard for sure,” came the answer. As her eyes fearfully searched Jon’s face, she felt the second fellow just might be right. Jon looked entirely capable of throwing her overboard. Those gray eyes blazed with an unholy light.

“You stupid little bitch!” he ground out finally, the words muttered half under his breath. Then he reached for her. Cathy, reading bloody vengeance in his eyes, felt her courage abruptly desert her, like the yellow-bellied turncoat it was. With a little gasp, she gathered her too-long skirts about her and turned to run. She never made it. Jon caught her by the arm, his long fingers biting viciously into her soft flesh, spinning her back around to face him. His face was a dark, furious mask, with only those glittering gray eyes providing twin pinpoints of light.

“I—I’m sorry,” Cathy gasped, hoping to propitiate him. In the face of his rage, her pride had fled along with her courage.

“Too late,” he bit off, and then he jerked her toward him. Before Cathy knew what he intended she felt herself twisting through space. With a jolt her stomach came into hard contact with his bent knee. As his arm clamped down over her back, imprisoning her, Cathy began to kick wildly. From her position, bent face down across his knee, her long hair trailing the dusty deck and her bottom ungloriously upended, she realized that he intended to publicly spank her!

“Let me go!” she cried, knowing even as she said it that it was useless.

“Oh, no!” he replied, sounding as if the words were forced out from between clenched teeth. “You asked for this, you little bitch, and you’re going to get it!”

Cathy kicked and writhed, her struggles fueled by the cheers and laughter that
had greeted Jon’s apparent intention. Then her cheeks crimsoned as she felt, to her shocked amazement, Jon lifting her skirts!

He pushed her skirt and one petticoat up around her waist, leaving her writhing bottom clad only in the thin muslin of her ruffled, lace-trimmed pantalets. Whistles and catcalls from the assembled crowd followed this action, and Cathy could feel her whole body flushing fierily. Her struggles intensified; she hurled invective at Jon’s booted feet. Then the breath was knocked temporarily from her body as his large hand descended with painful force on the softness of her behind.

Whap!
The blow was repeated unmercifully until Cathy’s screams of rage were reduced to sobbing whimpers. Her bottom felt as if it were on fire. She had stopped kicking, sensing that it was just fanning the blaze of his temper, and finally lay quietly across his knee. Guffaws and admiring comments assailed her ears.

“That’s the way to learn ’em, Cap’n!” Cathy heard respect in the man’s tone.

“Yay-ah, we got to show them females who’s the boss!” another man called out.

Jon’s hand bestowed one more hard slap on Cathy’s behind, then thankfully ceased its punishment. Roughly he hauled her to her feet. Her skirts were still caught up and she pushed them down with a swift movement, hot embarrassment flooding her face from neck to ears. For a moment her long golden hair shielded her from the grinning crowd. Then she shook it back proudly, her eyes glaring, her chin raised as she faced them. Damn it, she wouldn’t feel shame before this assembly of jailbirds and gallows’ bait! And Jonathan Hale was the chief one!

Before Cathy could do more than cast a venomous glance in Jon’s direction, he scooped her up in his arms. Cathy, stunned by his action, lay quietly against his chest as she tried to work out what
he meant to do. If his intention was non-violent, she didn’t want to risk re-igniting his anger by putting up a fight that would almost certainly be a waste of energy in any case. But, on the other hand, if he was set on something dastardly, like throwing her into the sea. . . .

Whatever Cathy expected, it was certainly not what she got. Jon’s rolling stride stopped abruptly. Cathy just had time to register that they were a good, safe distance from the rail when her knees were lifted high into the air and her head was allowed to drop. With an instinctive scream of fright she felt the same warm, gooey mess she had dumped on Jon’s head reach up to caress her trailing hair. The no-good bastard was lowering her headfirst into one of the kettles which still held the remnants of lunch!

When Jon pulled her back out, her hair was coated with the sickening stuff. He had not dipped her in any further than her forehead, for which Cathy supposed she should be grateful. But she was too furious for anything but thoughts of murder. Her fingers curved into sharp talons as he hauled her back into his arms, letting the gruesome mess that he had made of her head rest with careless indifference against the clean white linen covering his broad shoulder.

“Better think again,” he advised dryly, seeing the involuntary movement of her fingers. Cathy, her eyes promising a terrible retribution, did as he suggested. She would gain nothing by attacking him except her own further pain and humiliation. She could wait. . . .

He was openly laughing at her as he walked with her across the deck. The assembled men parted to let them pass, exactly like the Red Sea must have before Moses, Cathy thought resentfully. They were laughing too, deep, gurgling chortles that bespoke genuine amusement. Ha, ha! Cathy mocked furiously to herself.
Ha, ha, ha!

“Perkins, better bring us some water. I think Lady Stanhope here would be much improved by a bath!” Jon said to a gangly boy as
they passed. This remark occasioned more hilarity. Cathy bit down so hard on her lower lip that she felt blood seep into her mouth. He would pay for this humiliation, she promised herself, if it took her the rest of her life to arrange it!

Jon shouldered his way into his cabin, a taunting grin still splitting his face. As he shut the door behind them, he let Cathy slip to the floor. It was all she could do not to reach up and box those bronzed ears, but with truly heroic self-control she managed to restrain herself. He would get no more amusement out of her! Turning her back on him, she walked with stiff dignity to look out a porthole. Only the glitter in her eyes and the involuntary clenching and unclenching of her fingers betrayed her inner rage.

But Jon had known her too long and too well to be deceived.

“I warned you about throwing tantrums on deck,” he reminded her, humor quivering in his voice. That was too much! Cathy whirled to face him with a snarl, her dripping hair whipping around her body. The horrible feel of it added fuel to the inferno of her anger.

The hot words bubbling in her throat were forestalled by the briefest of taps on the door. Jon grinned at her mockingly, then opened it. Perkins stood outside with his arms wrapped around a huge, iron-bound barrel. Over the top of his head someone had jokingly placed a dented tin tub. Jon took the barrel from the boy, set it inside the cabin, then lifted the tub from his head. Perkins grinned at him rather shyly.

“Thank you, sir. I—I thought you might need rather a lot. . . .” he stuttered.

“Good thinking, Perkins. You were exactly right,” Jon said dryly, then as the boy still stood there, not seeming to know what else to do, Jon shut the door.

“Strip!” he said briskly to Cathy. She gaped at him, her anger temporarily forgotten.

“What?” she asked.

“Strip!” he said again.
“The only way you’re going to get that mess out of your hair is to wash it. I aim to help you out!”

“You can go to hell!” Cathy said between her teeth. Jon laughed.

“I’ve been there, thank you very much, and while it was well enough, I don’t think I’d care to go back. Now, are you going to do as I say, or. . . .”

“I loathe and despise you,” Cathy hissed, knowing that she had no choice but to obey. If she didn’t, she knew full well that he would strip her himself, forcibly.

Knowing that to ask him to either leave or turn his back would be an exercise in futility, Cathy turned her own back as she began to unfasten her dress. Jon snorted.

“Why you continually pretend to a modesty you can’t possibly feel is beyond me,” he remarked laconically. “I’ve seen every inch of your admittedly delectable body—more than seen it, in fact. I’ve touched it, tasted it, watched it come to quivering life under my hands. . . .”

“Oh, shut up,” Cathy snapped, annoyed and embarrassed at the same time. Her fingers were still shaking with temper, and she was having trouble with the dozens of tiny hooks that did her dress up the back.