Sea Fire (27 page)

“And you’re nothing but a high-born whore who gives herself the airs of a lady!” he yelled back, dark red spots of color staining his cheekbones. He reached for his breeches as he spoke, stepping into them and jerking them up. Cathy’s hair practically stood on end with rage.

“If you feel that way, why don’t you let me go?” she spat, barely able to keep herself from flying at him and raking her claws down that sneering dark face.

“And return you
to Harold?” he jibed, his eyes belying his mocking tone as they seared her. “Now, I might just do that. You’re certainly of no more use to me. That’s the problem with whores, you know: a man soon grows tired of them!”

“You bastard!” Cathy breathed, and throwing caution to the winds launched herself at him. He saw her coming and caught her by her soft upper arms, his long fingers biting deeply into her white flesh. He smiled savagely as he held her, seeming to take pleasure from the pain he was inflicting. Cathy threw her head back, glaring up at him with impotent fury. God, how she hated him! What she wouldn’t give to be a big, strong man for just five minutes, so that she could wipe that smirk from his face!

“I wouldn’t try it,” he advised softly, reading blood-lust in her eyes. “Because nothing would give me more enjoyment than to beat you until you begged for mercy. It’s what I should have done years ago: maybe then you wouldn’t have the morals of an alley cat!”

Lightning flashed from Cathy’s eyes. Her face contorted with rage.

“You make me sick!” she hissed, and without considering the consequences she spat full in his face.

Black anger leapt from Jon’s eyes, scorching her. Cathy knew she should be afraid, should cower before the awful menace she read in his face, but she was too damned mad. She wanted to kill, and if he felt the same, then well and good! She would die before she would cower before him! She could give as good as she got!

“Now, that wasn’t very smart,” he drawled after a long moment, his hands tightening on her arms until she wanted to cry out with pain. “I should slap you silly—and if you ever dare to do anything like it again, I will. And that’s a promise. Just because I’ve never laid a hand on you before, doesn’t mean I won’t!”

His eyes gleamed ferally as he lifted Cathy from the floor by her arms, turning
her around so that her back was to the bunk and he stood between her and the door. Temper emanated from him in perceptible waves. Cathy could not prevent a little frisson of fear from shivering down her spine. He was so very big, easily twice her size, and he could break her in two with his bare hands if he wanted. And in the mood he was in, it might not take much to make him want to do just that.

Almost gently he pushed her down until she sat on the bunk.

“Sit!” he said, his fingers digging warningly into her arms before slowly releasing her. Cathy, refusing to admit it, was cowed. She sat, seething.

He impaled her with those burning eyes while he fastened his breeches and shrugged into his shirt. Cathy, still clad only in the small towel, read a savage challenge in his eyes: move, they seemed to say, and I’ll make you sorry. She had just enough judgement left not to put that silent threat to the test.

“Smart girl, aren’t you?” he taunted after a moment. Cathy, still not quite daring to get up, felt hatred tear at her innards. She wanted desperately to make him suffer.

“Oh, yes, but not half so smart as you,” she purred through gritted teeth, summoning up a false smile. “How very clever of you to guess that the child I’m carrying is Harold’s! I should have known that it was quite, quite useless to lie. . . .”

For a moment Cathy thought she might have pushed him just that fraction too far: his eyes came alive with bitter violence, and he visibly had to restrain himself from hitting her. She faced him proudly, refusing to back down. After a sizzling instant, he seemed to get his fury under control.

“Yes, you should have, shouldn’t you?” he grated, and, pivoting, stalked from the cabin. As the door slammed shut behind him, Cathy leapt to her feet. Her hands found the china pitcher and hurled it at the still vibrating portal. With savage satisfaction she heard the crash as it hit, then shattered into hundreds of tiny shards at her feet.

Jon didn’t
return to the cabin that night, or on any of the succeeding nights. Instead he sent Perkins to retrieve his few belongings. Upon hearing Perkins’ halting explanation of his errand, Cathy, tight-lipped, packed up Jon’s razor and shaving mug and brush, his one spare shirt, and what was left of the bottle of whiskey, and thrust them into the boy’s apologetic arms. Perkins was still stammering excuses when Cathy slammed the door in his face.

Left to enjoy the captain’s cabin in solitary splendor, Cathy’s rage grew every day. She refused to speak to Jon when she saw him on deck, and he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her. Where he was sleeping she couldn’t be sure, but if she were placing a bet, Cathy thought savagely, she would bet that he didn’t lack for female company. Sarita’s gloating self-satisfaction was so evident as to be sickening!

The crew viewed this unmistakable falling out between their captain and his mistress with a combination of amusement, curiosity, and speculation. The cause was unknown, but whatever the fight had been about, it must have been a dilly! And what was even more curious was that the captain was allowing the lady to remain in his cabin, while he himself bunked elsewhere. In the ordinary way of things, they would have expected the lady to have been thrown out on her ear if the captain felt inclined to switch partners. Something was up, they decided amongst themselves, but they could reach no consensus on what. One afternoon Cathy overheard them making wagers on the cause of the rift, and practically ground her teeth with rage. Two-to-one odds were being given on the supposition that she was cold in bed!

While all this was going on, the
Cristobel
was limping toward the nearest port. The storm had blown her way off course. According to Jon’s calculations, they were now far to the east of Tenerife, and considering the shape that the vessel was in, it would be insane to head anywhere except toward the nearest shore. With the sails in tatters and the hull battered, it was a miracle
that they were still afloat. If they ran into another storm, or even one oversized wave, they would likely sink to the bottom like a stone, never to be heard from again.

The weather continued very hot and sultry. The sun beat down relentlessly, and even if there had been any canvas left, there wasn’t enough breeze to propel a child’s toy windmill. The
Cristobel
seemed to mark her journey by inches instead of knots, and Jon, eking out the few feet of canvas remaining with what cloth was going spare amongst the crew, could only mutter a prayer that they would reach land before their provisions ran out.

As days passed, tempers shortened. Jon had ordered that the food be carefully rationed, and had put O’Reilly in charge of this task. Empty bellies and incessant heat led to outbreaks of fighting amongst the men and even sometimes the women. The principals in these disputes were impartially locked in a makeshift brig deep in the hold, and after a few hours in that stifling place could usually be trusted to behave. If not, Jon took positive joy in cracking heads together. His temper was so erratic that even O’Reilly began to stay out of his way.

If Jon was surly, Cathy was cross. More than once her sharp tongue reduced the faithful Angie to tears. Cathy always apologized afterward, but the memory of her remorse was never enough to stop her snappishness before it escaped. Between the heat, the increasing discomfort of her pregnancy, and her fury with Jon, she was as grouchy as a bear with a cub. And when Angie practically seemed to tiptoe around her, it only made things worse. Cathy knew it was unreasonable and unfair, but the girl’s very faithfulness was enough to set her teeth on edge!

At least she had enough to eat. Jon had quietly given orders that her plate was to be filled, as Cathy had found out when she had questioned Clara about the amount of food the woman was ladling out for her consumption. Cathy, knowing that she had her pregnancy to thank for this special treatment, supposed that
Jon expected her to be grateful. Well, she wasn’t! She had neither asked for nor expected any favors from him, and if it wasn’t for the well-being of her unborn child, she would take a great deal of satisfaction in hurling her plate in his teeth!

Water was being hoarded even more carefully than food. Certainly there was none to spare for bathing. Cathy was reduced, like the other women, to washing in sea water, and as a result she never felt entirely clean. The salt in the water stiffened her clothes until they chafed unbearably at her tender skin. Cathy scratched, sweated, and smoldered, and prayed that the dreadful voyage would come to a speedy end.

One consequence of Jon’s vacating his cabin was that some of the men began to eye Cathy in a way she couldn’t like. “Is she available?” they were clearly asking themselves, and without Jon to protect her, Cathy foresaw trouble. Sooner or later one of them was bound to put his luck to the test. Of course, she could always scream for Jon, and she didn’t doubt that he would take sardonic delight in defending her, thus proving to her how very dependent on him she was. Cathy supposed if it really came down to it, she might have to do just that, as much as she hated the thought. But she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. . . .

Her hope was in vain. Late one afternoon, when the sun still hung over the horizon like a fiery red ornament, Cathy was seated on the poop deck, where she had taken to spending most of her time. She had chosen the poop deck for two reasons: one, it provided a modicum of shade, and, two, it was at the opposite end of the ship from the quarterdeck, where Jon spent most of his days. Seated on an overturned barrel pushed up close to the taffrail, Cathy stared out over the flat, glittering blue of the sea and wished fervently for rain. Not a storm, of course, just a gentle, cooling rain of the sort she had so despised in London. What she wouldn’t give to be standing in the midst of
that once-scorned drizzle! Cathy closed her eyes, picturing it. She could almost feel the blessed moisture on her skin. . . .

“Lonesome, lady?” a gruff voice asked close to her ear. Cathy’s eyes opened slowly, reluctant to abandon her day-dream. She looked with some annoyance at the man who stood smiling fatuously at her. He was called Grogan, and a more repulsive specimen would have been hard to find. Big and hairy, with long arms like an ape’s, he was considered very handsome by Clara and some others among the women. Cathy found his coarse features and the habit he had of bubbling his spit between a gap in his front teeth repugnant in the extreme. Still, he had never been other than polite.

“Not at all,” she responded with cool civility, her eyes just brushing his face before returning to their contemplation of the sea. “Enjoying the solitude.”

If she had hoped he would consider this a hint, she was wrong. It sailed right over his head. He grinned at her, and came a little closer.

“Me and the boys thought as how you might be wishful of a little company,” he persisted. “Seeing as how you’re on your own now.”

The portent of this speech was not lost on Cathy, but she thought it best to ignore it. Rising with conscious dignity to her feet, she favored Grogan with an unsmiling look.

“You’re very kind to be concerned about me, but I prefer to be alone,” she said, and without another look at him turned to go to her cabin. She could sense him following her down the stairs and onto the main deck, but she refused to hasten her steps, or in any other way betray her growing concern. Men were like dogs, she thought with disgust and not a little apprehension. Let them once get the idea that you fear them, and they would immediately pounce.

“Wait, lady,” Grogan said behind her, and reached out to grasp her arm. Cathy,
deciding that her best course of action would be to go on the offensive, whirled to face him, her eyes bright with indignation.

“Please take your hand from my arm,” she demanded icily. Grogan’s eyes widened at her vehemence, and then he began to smile.

“Well, now, so you ain’t so cold after all,” he grinned, making no move to release her. Cathy stiffened, regarding him with cold eyes.

“Please take your hand from my arm,” she said again. Grogan winked at her.

“Okay, lady, I will—if you ask me real nice. Like with a kiss.” A growing crowd had begun to gather around them, and several snickers greeted this outrageous suggestion.

“I will ask you once more to release me,” Cathy gritted, controlling her temper with an effort. Her best bet, she knew, was to remain coldly dignified.

“Uh-uh.” Grogan slowly wagged his head from side to side. “Leastways, not ’till I get that kiss.”

“When hell freezes over,” Cathy hissed fiercely, on the verge of abandoning her icy dignity in favor of all-out rage. “You’d better let me go, if you know what’s good for you. Or I’ll. . . .”

“You’ll what?” he sneered, beginning to show signs of anger in his turn. “Cry ‘help’ to the captain? Lady, he ain’t interested. He’s found him a new woman, and I calculate that leaves you for me.”

With a quick jerk on her arm, he pulled her forward, enfolding her in a close embrace. Cathy, pressed up against his mountainous form and forced to endure the assault of his lips, had had enough: she was ready to scream for Jon, and to watch him beat the man into a bloody pulp. The approving guffaws she heard on all sides only added fuel to the fire of her anger. She shoved hard at Grogan’s shoulders, wanting to get her mouth free so that she could summon help. Her eyes were wide open as she
struggled; suddenly, over the man’s shoulder, she saw Jon join the crowd of spectators. She practically sagged in relief. Grogan’s arms tightened enthusiastically at what he perceived as her submission.

Any second she expected Jon to bellow with rage, to pluck Grogan away from her and knock him sprawling on his back. To her stunned amazement, he did none of these things. Instead, he stood at the very back of the crowd, his arms crossed casually over his chest, a sardonic smile curving his mouth as he observed her predicament. As Cathy’s widened eyes met his granite-hard ones, he very slowly lowered one lid in a taunting wink.