Sea Fire (22 page)

Finally she straddled one long, muscular bare leg, hitching the trailing sarong-cover up crossly. She stood with her back to Jon, bent over as she finally succeeded in fitting the boot over his long foot. Then she grasped the cursed object by its top and pulled with every ounce of strength she possessed. It dragged upward a mere few inches. She was bending again for another effort when she felt a hand creep under the hitched-up ends of her garment to fondle the softness of her bare behind with intimate familiarity. Cathy choked, nearly tripping over Jon’s long leg as she whirled. The devil was laughing, she saw with a sudden spurt of rage, and she lifted her hand to him threateningly. He pretended to cower away from her, raising his good arm to ward off possible blows.

“It was such a tempting target,” he explained with a grin, and then, when Cathy raised her threatening hand a little
higher, he added persuasively, “Now, you wouldn’t hit a wounded man, would you?”

Cathy wouldn’t. She scowled at him, her hand dropping reluctantly. He studied her for an instant, his eyes touching on the turbulence in her blue eyes, the tangles of her golden hair that swirled about her like a lion’s mane, the belligerent set of her little chin, and the tenseness of her lovely body. He smiled suddenly, a sweet and charming smile such as Cathy had not seen on his face since she had left him behind at Woodham.

“You’re a bloodthirsty little minx,” he told her softly. While she still gaped
at him, he reached out and drew her down on his knee. Cathy stared at him warily, surprised and not entirely trusting of his sudden softness. His hand slid beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. Cathy was too thrown off balance to do anything but acquiesce as he gently covered her mouth with his. The kiss was brief, but exquisite in its tenderness. For a moment Cathy was passive beneath it, but then she began to return it with wild hope. It was Jon who broke it off, lifting his head and pushing her gently until she slid off his knee to sit beside him on the bunk. She was still dazed from the kiss as he stood abruptly.

“Help me with this shirt. I have to get out on deck,” he said gruffly, not looking at her as he picked up his shirt. Cathy stood up, bewildered. She took the shirt from him and gently helped him ease it over his injured arm and shoulder. Then, when he had put his other arm into it, she buttoned it for him as she would have done for Cray. Dozens of emotions were whirling crazily inside her, but finally one thought emerged from the confusion: she had to make one more attempt to convince Jon of the truth about her marriage to Harold. For the sake of the love she had once borne him, and for their son, she at least owed both of them that.

“Jon. . . .” she began, her hands clutching his shirt front as she looked up into his eyes. Their gray depths were unreadable as they stared down at her, but at least he no longer seemed actively hostile. Cathy moistened her suddenly dry lips with her little pink tongue, and saw his attention focus on that small movement.

“Jon, I. . . .” she began again.

“Later,” he said brusquely, his hands coming up to free his shirt from her clutches. Cathy was left staring after him helplessly as he turned on his heel and strode from the cabin.

All through the day and long into the night Cathy waited for him as nervously as any bride. She would go down on her knees, if necessary, to convince him that she had done what she had for him.
Despite his distrust of her, and his anger, which she suspected stemmed from pain, if he thought coolly and reasonably on the subject he could not help but be convinced: after all, he merely had to compare a mental picture of Harold with himself. Would any female in her right mind trade Jon’s hard, virile masculinity for Harold’s pasty mound of flesh? Certainly not. Cathy smiled a little at the images this conjured up. Persuading Jon of the truth of her argument might be most enjoyable, at that.

Cathy hummed as she washed herself, faltering only a little as the water in the basin turned a dingy brown from Jon’s blood which had streaked her shoulders and hands. Perhaps shooting Jon had not been such a dreadful thing, after all. It had certainly provoked him to more tenderness than he had shown her since they had come aboard the
Cristobel.
Maybe it had needed a shock like that to bring him to his senses. Cathy frowned, considering the possibility that his wound might cause him some problems. He would certainly be weakened, both from shock and loss of blood, and his arm would be sore. But aside from that, it had been a clean, self-contained hole, and the blood had run freely from it, hopefully cleansing it of any impurities. Infection was the big worry; Cathy remembered the horrible putrification which had set into Jon’s leg when he had been stabbed there years ago, and paled a little. But this wound was nothing compared to that dreadful jagged tear. He would survive it, she told herself consolingly, without much more than a few twinges of pain. And surely he deserved that for his suspicions of her!

Cathy scrubbed the blood from the floor and walls, and then turned her attention to the bunk. Blood stained the coarse white sheet and smeared the wooden frame. The frame was easily taken care of with water and a rag, but the sheet posed some problems. Since she had torn up the top one to use for bandages, it was the only sheet that was left. Cathy grimaced as she considered sleeping on it. Impossible! It sickened her just to think of it.
No, the sheet would have to be washed if there were no more to be had, and she would have to do it. Grimacing, she stripped it from the bunk and set to work.

It was hours later, long after sundown, when Cathy finally could wait no longer. Where was Jon? Surely he was as anxious to work out their problems as she. And he must have sensed that she had something to tell him. He should have been back long before this. Cathy refused to even consider the possibility that perhaps he just didn’t want to know. Something about the sailing of the ship must be delaying him, she told herself stoutly, or maybe he was just plain shy. Cathy grinned a little at the thought of Jon being shy. On the surface it seemed ridiculous, but one never knew. Maybe she should go and fetch him in, Cathy thought. It was after dark, and if she wrapped the cover securely around herself there would be nothing for anyone to see. Surely even Jon himself could not object. Making up her mind with a nod, Cathy rearranged her sarong so that it more closely resembled a toga, and let herself out of the cabin.

It was a velvety black night; the moon had not yet risen, and only a few tiny stars winked against the darkness of the sky. The sea was calm, one gently rolling wave following another. Only the slap-slap of water lapping against the hull and the creaking of the rigging broke the silence. The deck was deserted as far as Cathy could tell, and while she knew that couldn’t be true it imparted a wonderful feeling of peace. The night air was warm and heavy as it caressed the skin of her face and one bare shoulder. Cathy breathed deeply of it, loving the salt smell which, combined with the odor of fish and the scent of tar, would forever remind her of the sea. For a long moment she stood motionless, savoring the night, and then she turned to the stairs that led to the quarterdeck. It was a safe bet that Jon would be up there, and that was where she would begin her search.

At first she thought
the quarterdeck was deserted too, and she frowned disbelievingly. Jon would be furious if he knew. One of his strongest maxims was that there must always be a man on watch. Her frown deepened as she saw that the wheel was lashed. Where was everybody? Had something happened that she should know about? Then, as she came around the wheel so that the port side of the quarterdeck was visible to her for the first time, she stopped as if she had been pole-axed. Her eyes narrowed and her teeth clenched as she suddenly perceived the reason for the silence.

Just as she had expected, Jon was on the quarterdeck. He was busy kissing that hussy Sarita, who was wrapped around him like a particularly sickening species of clinging vine.

Watching them, Cathy felt a rage so fierce that it seemed to pierce her vitals. Her fingers curved into claws, the nails digging deep into her palms. Cathy didn’t even feel the pain. Her whole attention was focused on the two silhouettes outlined against the night sky, so close they might almost have been one. The sight hurt so much that she could scarcely breathe. She wanted to scream, to cry, to run across and tear them apart. But she did none of those. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed with dreadful fascination on the source of her agony while it seemed as if every drop of blood in her body had turned to ice.

She must have made some slight sound, because Jon raised his head. Over Sarita’s black hair his eyes met hers. Cathy would have at least expected him to push the woman away, to attempt to make some sort of explanation. Instead a curious kind of triumph lit those gray eyes. Cathy could almost feel him savoring her agony. Then Sarita’s hand came behind his head, pulling him down. Without another look at Cathy, he bent over the woman once more.

For what seemed like an eternity but must in reality have been only seconds, Cathy stood frozen while a horrible choking feeling gripped her throat.
Then she turned, and stumbled blindly down the stairs and into the cabin.

She was still in a daze as she sank down onto the bunk. Thankfully, her emotions had gone numb. She felt as if some vital part of her had been destroyed; rather, she suspected, as she would feel if she had an arm or a leg amputated. How could he do such a thing, was the thought that kept pushing to the forefront of her brain. How could he do such a thing—
to me?

It was foolish in the extreme to feel so betrayed. Cathy knew it, but she couldn’t help it. Reminding herself that Jon was no longer her husband—had never been her husband—did no good at all. Illogically, she still considered him her own exclusive property. To see him like that with Sarita had been a killing blow to the chains that still bound him to her heart. She huddled into a little ball on the bunk, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking back and forth like a bewildered child who suddenly finds itself alone in the dark. At any moment she expected Jon to come bursting through the door, full of apologies and explanations. “That bitch Sarita kissed me, I didn’t kiss her,” he would say, and when he saw how he had hurt her he would take her in his arms and kiss her, and tell her that she was the only woman in the world for him. Cathy prayed that this would come to pass with an intensity she had never felt before. But, as hours passed, and the night slowly lightened into dawn, she had to face the brutal fact: Jon was not coming to bed. At least, not to hers. He had doubtless been cozily ensconced in Sarita’s lo these many hours past. Finally, as orange feelers began to grope their way across the violet sky, suspicion crystallized into certainty. Tears had marbleized on Cathy’s face when exhaustion lulled her to sleep at last.

J
on awoke feeling lower than a
snake’s belly. His shoulder ached like hell, his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and his muscles were protesting loudly at being forced to spend the night on the hard boards of the deck. But worse than any physical pain was his sense of self-disgust. He had used Sarita solely to get back at Cathy, and it had backfired. He had gotten no enjoyment from the act at all. If the truth were known, he had barely been able to function, and only his male pride had kept him from backing out at the last moment. The sight of Sarita’s over-ripe body had sickened him: with every look he had mentally compared it with Cathy’s silken perfection. Cathy. He groaned at the thought, rolling over onto his back and throwing his arm up to shield his eyes from the just rising sun. The stricken look in her eyes which had afforded him so much satisfaction last night returned in the sober light of day to haunt him. Against all reason, he felt as guilty as hell.

Which was stupid, he castigated himself. He was a free agent, not bound to Cathy by matrimony or anything else. He was a bachelor—briefly Jon savored the thought, which had just occurred to him—and there was no reason in the world why he shouldn’t take his pleasure with any woman he pleased. Pleasure: now that was a word! Certainly he had felt none with Sarita, despite her almost embarrassing avidity. It was Cathy he had wanted, Cathy he had taken in the end when his mind refused to allow him to perform with Sarita as his partner. Finally, when he had spewed his seed into Sarita’s writhing body, he had pictured soft golden hair and softer skin, black lashes lying like shadows against pinkened cheeks, a sweet voice moaning his name. . . . God! Whatever the little bitch had done to him, she had done it well. She had entwined him in silken threads as a spider imprisons a fly. Ever since he had first made her his—an eternity ago, it seemed—he had felt desire for no other woman.

Oh, he had tried.
At first, when he was trying to fight his way out of her web, he had deliberately sought out the most attractive females he could find for the purpose of bedding them. But he had never been able to go through with it. No matter how enticing their charms, they had been eclipsed when he had compared them with the dazzling sun that was Cathy. Until last night, he had been ever faithful, like an old dog who has been abandoned by its master but still sits by the road, hoping and hoping he will return, Jon thought savagely.