Sea Fire (32 page)

“She’s drugged,” he said briefly to O’Reilly. Then, to the men who waited at the oars, added, “For the love of God, get a move on! It won’t take them long to figure out what happened.”

Thus adjured, the men set to with what looked to Cathy to be almost a frenzy. The little boat fairly shot through the waves. In less time than it takes to tell, they were beside the
Cristobel
, and the men were hurriedly climbing a rope ladder.

“This may hurt, but I don’t have time to think of anything else,” Jon told Cathy hurriedly, and while she was still trying to comprehend this remark he hauled her onto his back and tied her hands around his neck.

“Hang on,” he said over his shoulder, and then as Cathy was still puzzling at his meaning he climbed the ladder with her dangling helplessly from his neck.

When they had almost reached the deck, hands reached down from above to support Cathy’s weight, and at the same time drag both her and Jon over the rail.

“How is she, Captain?” Cathy recognized Angie’s anxious voice as Jon quickly untied her hands.

“Well enough, I think,” he answered tersely. Then, turning to the hovering men, he added: “For God’s sake, don’t just stand there! Set sail!”

twelve

J
on knew that the way he felt was contradictory, but he couldn’t help it. On the one hand, he hated Cathy with a bitter, gnawing hatred for her betrayal of him, and their love. But on the other—he had been half out of his mind when she had disappeared back there in Rabat. It had been indeed the worst twenty-four hours of his life. The Berber servants had ever so circuitously hinted that perhaps the Begum, in one of the fits of despondency so common to an expectant mother, had drowned herself in the bay. Certainly they seemed convinced that looking for her was a waste of time, as she was nowhere to be found. Something in their faces, their very reluctance to discuss the matter, had roused Jon’s suspicions. They knew more than they were willing to tell. Never at any moment had he believed that Cathy might have killed herself. Not his Cathy, with her fighting spirit! (Here Jon grimaced wryly as he noticed the possessive, which was how he still thought of her, despite everything.) And certainly not while she was with child. She was an excellent, loving mother, fiercely protective of both Cray and the coming infant. He could visualize no depression black enough to induce her
to harm either herself or her child. If she felt herself to be neglected, or misused, as the servants delicately implied, then she was far more likely to harm
him!

He had scoured the city, thinking that perhaps the little minx was hiding, hoping to give him a fright. Stymied at every turn, he had gone in desperation to the
Cristobel.
Maybe Angie knew something. . . . But even before he had a chance to talk to Angie, he had come face to face with Sarita. The woman’s knowing smile had caught his attention. Then, when he had curtly demanded of her whether she had knowledge of Cathy’s whereabouts, she had looked both guilty and frightened. It had been enough to convince him that, whatever had befallen Cathy, Sarita had been involved. Cringing in the face of his terrible anger, she had denied everything. Jon had never thought that he would enjoy hitting a woman, but he was wrong. He had taken savage delight in slapping the truth from Sarita, leaving her a sprawled, sobbing heap on the floor of his cabin when he had at last forced her to confess what she had done. But at that, she was lucky. If she had been a man, he would have killed her. As he would have killed Grogan and Meade, her helpers, if there had been time.

Rescuing Cathy by storming the Sheikh’s palace, as had been his first, furious intention, was clearly impossible. The building was a veritable fortress, protected by hundreds of guards. No, his only hope for getting in there and getting out alive again with Cathy had been to create a diversion. Which he had done very nicely, thank you, by planting crude bombs against the far wall of the palace. As he had hoped, the explosions had sent everyone running to see what had happened, and they had stayed to fight the mushrooming fire. He had only had to contend with a few eunuchs.

The Sheikh would be livid when he discovered what had happened, Jon knew. Maybe livid enough to send boats in pursuit of what he would call the murdering infidel dogs. Which was why Jon thought it wise to discard his original plan of stopping off at Tenerife.
Best to get safely back to America, where they would be beyond the reach of the Sheikh’s minions and the Royal British Navy alike.

The one flaw in this plan was Cathy. She was far gone with child, at least seven months, according to Jon’s calculations, and more if he believed what she insisted was true. Which he didn’t, of course. He remembered very clearly how enormous she had been just before she gave birth to Cray, and she was nowhere near so cumbersome now. Her own body, among other things, gave the lie to her tale. Still, seven months was pretty far along, and he would not breathe freely again until he had her safe on dry land, with a doctor in attendance. He could not conceive of anything more horrible than to have her go into labor on the
Cristobel
, in the middle of the high seas, with one of the few females left on board to act as midwife. The very thought made him break out into a cold sweat. His own mother had died in child-bed, and he had always had a dread of it. And Cathy had suffered so terribly with Cray. . . .

But at the most it should take four weeks to cross the Atlantic, less if he piled on plenty of canvas and headed straight for Newfoundland, via the Azores. If she showed signs of being near her time, they could even berth in the Azores until the child was born. Deciding on that, Jon felt greatly relieved. He did not stop to consider why he should be so worried at the idea of Cathy suffering, perhaps dying, in child-bed. After all, it was only what she deserved, giving birth to another man’s child.

Cathy, for her part, was worried herself, although she tried not to let Jon know it. She was much nearer nine than seven months along, despite what Jon thought. It seemed very likely that she would have the baby in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. But there was Angie to tend her, and Clara, who assured her that she had brought many a child into the world, as the former madam of a whorehouse. Which was some comfort, the scandalous
nature of her experience notwithstanding.

Cathy knew that Jon was still convinced that the coming baby was Harold’s, and despised her for it. Still, he was kind to her, now that they were back aboard ship, and always inquired solicitously after her health. She still had the exclusive use of his cabin, but she no longer had to worry about where he was spending his nights. Sarita, along with Grogan and the other man, had been left behind in Rabat. The knowledge warmed Cathy mightily.

Another thing that cheered her was the realization that Jon would very soon be convinced that he was the father of this new baby. When the child put in an appearance, all he would have to do was count back nine months to be left in no doubt. The infant had been conceived before she had left Woodham, and when it was born Jon would be forced to admit that there was no possible way that it could be Harold’s. Cathy pictured his abject apologies with intense satisfaction. It would do him good to humbly beg her pardon, then sweat for a while to see if she was willing to forgive him. Which she might, or might not, do. That he thought so ill of her rankled mightily, and she was not sure whether or not she wanted to spend the rest of her life with a man who considered her capable of such behavior. Was she prepared to put up with his jealousies for years on end? She would have to think about it. . . . Besides, there was always the possibility that, even after realizing that this new child was his, Jon might not want her.

Days turned into a week, and the
Cristobel
was well away from Rabat, sailing a northwesterly course. The weather was fine, but hot. Jon had set some of the crew to rigging up a shelter for Cathy on the quarterdeck, so that she could be out in the fresh air but at the same time protected from the broiling sun, and under his eyes. Cathy spent most of her time beneath this makeshift canopy, too lethargic to do more than recline sleepily upon the hammock he had had hung for her, and watch the constantly-
changing sea. From time to time she would catch Jon’s eye, as he tended to the sailing of the ship. Almost reluctantly he would smile at her, and sometimes even come across to chat. They spoke mainly of the weather, and everyday happenings aboard ship, carefully avoiding any topic that might precipitate a quarrel. Both were content to let their relationship drift along in this guardedly friendly fashion for the time being.

One morning Cathy awoke and went out on deck to find the world shrouded in a fog as thick as molasses. Long combers of mist rolled in from the east, enveloping the
Cristobel
like a cocoon. At first it felt good to be free of the blazing sun for a while, but after a couple of hours the dampness grew uncomfortable. Cathy, ensconced in her hammock, shivered. Jon, seeing the involuntary movement and noting the drops of moisture on her face and hair, sent her inside. Cathy went without demur.

When she emerged again, it was afternoon, and the fog seemed to be lifting slightly. Certainly it was warmer, and as Cathy breathed deeply of the gray mist she thought that it was almost like inhaling steam. Eddies of vapor swirled about her full black skirts as she climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck.

Instead of going directly to her hammock, as was her custom, she decided on the spur of the moment to join Jon at the rail. He was busy charting their position on an enormous map, alternating between looking at the compass which he held in one hand, squinting up at the sky in a vain attempt to pinpoint the location of the sun, and drawing lines on the map with a ruler and pencil. As she crossed to stand beside him, she nodded casually at Mick Frazier, who was at the wheel. In such fog, she would have thought that steering was useless, as there was no possible way to see where they were going. Still, she realized that Jon, as always, knew what he was about. She had no fear that he would get the
Cristobel
lost, or see her run aground.

“Should you be
out in this?” he asked, frowning slightly, when he at last became aware of her presence beside him. Cathy smiled at him, thinking how handsome he looked with his dark face clean-shaven for once to show the lean, hard lines of his jaw and chin and his eyes as silvery-gray as the mist around them. Moisture had coaxed his black hair into deep waves. One unruly lock curled down across his forehead. On impulse, Cathy stood on tiptoe and gently smoothed it back. His eyes narrowed slightly at her action, and then he, too, smiled.

“Softening me up for something?” he mocked lightly. Cathy shook her head, dimpling. It felt good to banter in this light-hearted fashion, as they once had.

“I wouldn’t dare,” she answered pertly. “You’re far too frightening.”

“And you shake on your little pink toes every time I come near you,” he said dryly. “You’re no more afraid of me than a fish is of the water.”

Cathy chuckled, admitting the truth of this.

“Should I be?” she asked provocatively, her eyes glinting mischievously up at him.

“You tell me,” he answered, sounding suddenly enigmatic, and turned back to his map.

“Where are we?” she asked idly after a moment, seeing that he was determined to ignore her.

“As near as I can figure, about halfway to the Azores. Another ten days, and we should be sighting them. Think you can hang on until then?” This was accompanied by a slanting look at her bulging midriff, and sounded part sarcastic, part worried. Cathy chose to ignore the sarcastic part. She wasn’t in the mood for a quarrel.

“I’ll do my best,” she said gravely, and his frown deepened.

“You haven’t been feeling—uh—unwell?” His voice was sharp, and Cathy could tell that it was more a demand for reassurance than a
question. Remembering his dread of childbirth, Cathy sighed inwardly. If she wasn’t able to hold out for another ten days, until they sighted land again—and she might not be, if the earliest of her possible due dates was the right one—Jon would likely suffer more than she would herself. She remembered Petersham’s account of how upset Jon had been while she had labored with Cray, and wished she could spare him this time. But she couldn’t, and anyway she didn’t know why she should want to. A little suffering, after all he had put her through, would do him good! Besides, maybe he wouldn’t be too concerned about what she had to endure bringing this child into the world. After all, he didn’t believe it was his.

“Do you care?” she asked, the words tinged with bitterness. She wished them unsaid as soon as she uttered them, but it was too late. His mouth tightened, and his eyes took on a thin film of ice.

“I should be distressed if you suffered any ill effects while you’re in my care,” he drawled nastily. “Harold might not like it if his heir were to be stillborn.”

“That’s a dreadful thing to suggest!” Cathy gasped, her hand flying automatically to cover her stomach in a protective gesture. Jon noted the movement with narrowed eyes. His mouth tightened even more.