Sea Fire (25 page)

Jon didn’t return to the cabin at all. Cathy worried about him even more than she did herself. There was only jerky to sustain him, and out on deck he was exposed to the full fury of the hurricane. He must be chilled to the bone, wet and hungry and exhausted, and still working to bring them safely through the storm. Cathy said a prayer for his safety. For love or for hatred, she wanted him alive.

With the storm’s blackness raging all around them, it was impossible to distinguish night from day. Cathy had no idea whether it was noon or midnight when the wind began to drop at last, but she welcomed its surcease with profound thankfulness. It seemed that their combined prayers had been heeded, and the
Cristobel
would be spared.

When Jon appeared at last in the door, he was drenched to the skin, and swaying on his feet from exhaustion. Forgetting their differences, and their audience, Cathy ran to his side. Beyond him she could see that the rain had lightened to a drizzle, and that the sky, while still gray, was bright compared to the blackness that had gone before.

“Are you all right?” she asked him, her hands coming out quite unconsciously to
rest against his soaked chest. He looked down at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable, while he supported himself with both hands braced against the doorjamb.

“I’m fine,” he answered, then spoke over her head to the others: “You can all return to your quarters now. The danger’s past.”

“Thank God! And thank you, Captain!” Angie breathed, her eyes closing in relief.

“Yes, Jonny, it is thanks to you! You were wonderful, I know it!” Sarita exclaimed dramatically, and would have thrown herself at her savior if Cathy hadn’t turned on her with a glare so fierce it would have stopped an army dead in its tracks.

Sarita returned her glare, but, when Jon moved out of the doorway, she walked by without attempting to touch him. Cathy thought fiercely that she was wise: it wouldn’t have taken much provocation to send Cathy clawing at the other woman’s eyes!

When they were alone, and the cabin door closed behind them, Jon made his way over to the bunk, shrugging Cathy away when she would have offered him her support. She followed anxiously behind him.

“God, I’m tired,” he sighed, sinking heavily into a sitting position on the bunk. Cathy eyed him worriedly. He was very pale, his skin gray from water and fatigue.

“When did you last eat?” she asked quietly, brushing his hands aside when he started to unbutton his shirt and doing the job herself. He leaned his head back against the paneling, submitting with weary docility to her ministrations.

“Yesterday sometime—I think,” he said, closing his eyes. “Tinker brought us all some dried beef.”

“And you haven’t had any sleep for the past two days, either.” Cathy made it a statement rather than a question. Jon said nothing. Cathy took his silence for agreement.

“Here, lean up.”
Cathy pulled the wet shirt off when he did as she asked. He bent to pull off his boots himself, then hoisted himself to his feet, unbuttoning his sopping breeches and stepping out of them. He shivered as he stood there naked, and Cathy saw that his tall body was ridged with goose bumps. Quickly she caught up a rough towel and briskly rubbed him dry. Then she pulled the coverlet from the bunk and wrapped him in it. His hand came out to clutch it to him automatically; Cathy, looking at him as he stood there swathed in the faded plaid cloth, thought that he looked like some enormous Indian.

“Don’t fuss. There’s nothing wrong with me that a nap and something to eat won’t fix,” he said irritably as Cathy pushed him back down onto the bunk. “Besides, I’ll wager that you haven’t had much to eat—or much sleep—yourself.”

“No,” Cathy agreed. “But at least we were in here out of the storm, and we did manage to eat something regularly and even doze a bit. Now, I’m going to light the stove and get you something to eat, and then you can go to sleep. And not just a nap, either.”

“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he asked with a faint grin, but Cathy noticed that he did not argue. She turned to smile at him, but his eyes were closed again. Quietly she let herself out of the cabin to go in search of coal and food.

As she picked her way across the deck, Cathy was appalled at the destruction which met her eyes. The tip of the foremast had been broken off, and lay leaning drunkenly against the wall of the quarterdeck like a discarded Christmas tree. What was left of the sails hung in tatters from the spars. Ropes dangled everywhere. Bits of wood and cloth and other debris littered the deck, which was still thoroughly awash. Over by the poop deck, an emergency infirmary had been set up: perhaps half-a-dozen men lay beneath the shelter afforded by its wooden overhang. None appeared too badly hurt, although one kept clutching his leg, which was swollen to about thrice its normal size,
and moaning. Another of the men, who she vaguely recognized as a quiet, scholarly type known as Dougan, was moving about amongst them, having apparently taken on the role of doctor.

“Do you need help?” she asked him quietly. He looked around, saw who was addressing him, and his rather thin face pinkened.

“Oh, no, ma’am, I mean, my lady,” he stammered. “One of the other ladies—uh, females—has offered to help out. Angie, you know. She’s a good girl. And none of these chaps are badly hurt. Except Croomer, who has broken his leg. Clumsy idiot tripped over a coil of rope.”

Croomer, plainly the man who had been holding his leg and groaning, swore roundly at Dougan for this impudence. Dougan looked scandalized.

“Watch your tongue, you blasted fool, there’s a lady present,” he snapped, then looked flustered himself as he clearly wondered whether “blasted” was too strong a word with which to sully Cathy’s ears. Cathy was barely able to hold back a grin. Did Dougan but know it, she had heard far, far worse, not only from Jon, from whom such a thing would be expected, but from several of the very genteel ladies who graced many a London drawing room.

“You looking after the Cap’n, ma’am?” Dougan asked. When Cathy nodded, he made a gesture of approval. “He’s a brave man, my lady. He was everywhere, doing everything. Fighting the wheel, up in the rigging, chopping up the mast when it fell on Grouse. He brought us through almost single-handed, and that’s a fact.”

“I know,” Cathy said quietly, and moved away. But as she searched out the supplies she needed and then retraced her steps to the cabin, she felt a warm glow of pride.

Jon had fallen asleep, she saw as soon as she entered the cabin. He was still in a sitting position, his head and broad shoulders leaning back against the wall, his lips parted as a slight snore rattled through
them. Cathy looked at his pale, black-stubbled face, at the wildly mussed hair dulled by rain and sea water, at the long body huddled into the tattered cover and the strong brown feet protruding from its end, and felt a rush of tenderness. He looked so vulnerable, so entirely without defense, that Cathy wanted to care for and protect him as she would Cray. Just at the moment, she was prepared to forget all that had lately passed between them. He was tired, cold, and hungry. He needed her, and she would do her best for him.

She piled the coal in the stove, lit it, and watched until it was burning steadily. Then she closed the small grate and crossed the room to Jon. He would probably feel better for a wash, Cathy thought, seeing the salt bloom that marked his face and hands. But she thought that he needed sleep more. Gently she caught hold of his shoulders and tried to maneuver him so that he was lying prone. It was a harder task than she had anticipated: Jon was heavy, and asleep he was a dead weight. By the time she finally had his head on the hard, flat pillow, she was panting with exertion. Luckily his feet were easier to manage. She merely grasped them about the ankles and swung them up on the bunk. With some amusement she noticed that they protruded several inches over the edge. Jon was well above six feet in height and the bunk had obviously been designed for a much smaller man.

Still cozily swathed in the cover, he slept through the whole operation. As those faint, rasping snores continued to emerge with undisturbed regularity, Cathy had to smile. He had always slept like the dead, and Cray had inherited that tendency from his father. Lord help them all if ever an emergency arose while the Hale men were asleep! Unless she beat them over the head with a broom handle, Cathy thought, she would be left to face whatever it was alone! And suddenly she wondered if the new baby, the one sleeping even now in her womb, would be the same. It made the child seem more real, a person instead of
a thing, and she suddenly felt a rush of love for it. No matter the problems it might create, it was hers, and she wanted it even if no one else did! Another little boy like Cray, or maybe a daughter. . . .

Cathy made herself a cup of tea and sat down in one of the hard chairs, absently contemplating Jon’s sleeping form. She was tired herself, but she didn’t want to climb into the bunk and risk disturbing him. He needed his sleep far more than she did, because she could sleep any time, and he was forced to snatch what rest he could between the various tasks involved in sailing the ship. He looked supremely peaceful despite his dishevelment. Cathy smiled faintly as she watched him.

She would have to tell him about the baby very soon, Cathy thought suddenly. Although he had been absent during most of her pregnancy with Cray, he was no stranger to the way a woman’s body works. Sooner or later he was bound to notice the conspicuous absence of her monthly flow, or the slight but unmistakable roundness of her belly. He was even more intimately familiar with her shape than she was; Cathy was surprised that the increased fullness of her breasts and belly had not attracted his attention before this. Likely he had been too busy slaking his anger to pay his usual close attention to the contours of her body.

For the sake of the coming child, and for Cray, Cathy realized with a sense of inevitability that she and Jon would have to patch up their differences and try again. Their child—
children, Cathy corrected with a tiny thrill—deserved a real, loving family, as she and Jon and Cray had been before Harold and his machinations had entered their lives. Her marriage to Harold was a problem, but she fully believed that it was not irresolvable. After all, the union had never been consummated. An annulment, while difficult to obtain, should not be impossible. She was not exactly a nobody, and her father, if he were still alive and somewhat recovered by the time she was once again
in touch with him, should be able to use his considerable influence on her behalf. It was possible that Harold might object, or even lie about the consummation of their marriage, Cathy knew. But somehow Cathy didn’t think that even the desire to be revenged on herself would outweigh in Harold’s mind the idea of a bastard child of a convicted pirate inheriting his title. He was too full of pride.

The cabin had grown damp and chilly during the storm. Even now, with the little stove’s round mid-section glowing warmly, Cathy could feel the pervading cold. She shivered, drawing her knees up under her chin and wrapping her arms around them for warmth. Except for the pool of light around the stove, the cabin was shrouded in deep gray shadow.

A sudden yawn caught Cathy by surprise. She was getting so sleepy! For some time she sat there, battling the effects of fatigue, and then finally she surrendered. Getting to her feet, she padded across the room to the bunk, and quickly shed her clothes. She still did not feel entirely comfortable about sleeping naked, but when one had only one set of garments, there wasn’t much choice.

She stood for a moment staring down at Jon. He was sprawled on his stomach now, his face buried in the pillow and his arms and legs spread-eagled. The cover was wrapped around and caught under his big body. He looked bronzed and very strong lying there against the white sheet. He also looked immovable. Cathy sighed and began to push him over so that she could get into bed. Like a statue he lay unmoving until Cathy had the happy idea of blowing in his ear. At first he ignored it, then he frowned and brushed at the annoyance with his hand, and finally, with a grunt, turned on his side facing the wall to hide the maltreated ear from its tormentor. Quickly Cathy slid into the bunk beside him, drawing the freed coverlet up over both of them and snuggling up against his broad back for warmth. Her arm slipped cozily around his muscular waist, and with a little sigh she fell asleep.

The feel of a
warm hand gently fondling her breast awoke her. Cathy lay quiescent for a moment, still groggy with sleep. The hand continued with its erotic movements, cupping and stroking and caressing the hardening nipple. Then, as if satisfied that one breast was fully aroused, the hand moved on to its twin, and repeated the motions until that breast was quivering like its fellow. Cathy gasped, opening her eyes to find Jon lying on his side beside her, one arm pillowing his head while his other hand toyed with her yielding body. His gray eyes were somnolent as she met them, and in something of a daze Cathy noticed that the shadows hemming them in were now almost pitch black. It must be the middle of the night.

“Go back to sleep,” Jon whispered, his voice drugging her senses. That caressing hand slid down to gently stroke her belly, and Cathy obediently closed her eyes. It would be easier to pretend that this was all part of her dreams. . . .

His fingers traced a tingling path from her belly to her silken white thighs and back again, drawing teasing little circles, their texture coarse against the smoothness of her skin. Deliberately he avoided the one place, the secret place, that was aching for his touch. Cathy began to moan, a low sound deep in her throat, and her head moved from side to side on the pillow. Silently, with her movements, she implored him. . . .

Her eyes still closed, she refused to let herself think that, not so very long ago, he had been touching Sarita in just this same way. A demon of jealousy struggled to rise inside her, but she resolutely closed her mind to its influence. It was so pleasant just to lie here, to accept the rousing touch of his hands without protest, to know that soon he would cover her body with his own and make her his. . . . His mouth began to nibble seductively along the silken cord of her neck, and then his tongue came out and tested its way across her collarbone to the softness of her breast. Cathy moaned as it brushed wetly across the sensitive peak. Her breast swelled under the rousing contact. Gently,
tantalizingly, his tongue made tiny circles around her eagerly awaiting nipple, until Cathy could stand it no longer. With a little cry she reached up and caught his black head, drawing it to the throbbing pebble that seemed the very center of her desire.