Sea Fire (43 page)

The sailors were dazzled by their luck at having such a beauty as Cathy dropped in their midst. Whenever she appeared on deck, she was the object of much gallantry and many admiring glances. Virginia too came in for a great deal of attention. When the two of them were out of the cabin, Jon was usually never far from their side. Just his presence in the vicinity was enough to send most of the men about their business. Those gray eyes had a way of resting on a man that made him feel as if death was breathing down his neck, as Cathy overheard one sailor tell another. She repeated the remark to Jon with a gurgle of laughter, but Jon didn’t even grin.

He was polite when they were alone, but not particularly communicative, or affectionate. Cathy began to wonder if she had imagined him telling her, in such passionate tones, that he loved her. Or if, as he had said, his words had been motivated by nothing more or less than sheer physical need. She wanted to ask him, but somehow the opportunity never seemed to arise. She would wait until they were safely back in England, she decided, and then they would have it out.

The one place where Jon was not coolly courteous was in the narrow bunk they shared. There he was as hot and passionate as Cathy could have wished. His lovemaking had the power to wipe every other consideration from her mind. Each time she was caught up on the tidal wave of his passion, sweeping along with him to scale incredible heights. And when they slept, afterward, he would hold her close, his arms wrapped protectively around her, her head cradled on his uninjured shoulder.
But never once, though she strained to catch them, did words of love fall from his lips.

As the
Victoria
drew ever nearer to England, Cathy found herself thinking of things that she had long forced to the back of her mind. First, of course, was Cray. She was feverish to see him again, to hold him in her arms, to assure him that she loved him. It had been eight long months since she had married Harold and left on that fateful honeymoon cruise. Would he understand that she had left him because she had to, not because she wanted to? Would he even remember her? And what would he think of baby Virginia? It would be such fun introducing them. . . .

And her father. How, she wondered, was he? She refused to dwell on the possibility that he might no longer be alive. With Mason’s devoted nursing, she was sure he must have pulled through.

Harold’s pudgy face loomed larger in her mind the nearer she got to land. He was like an evil genie, haunting her dreams. She was reluctant to mention even so much as his name to Jon, for fear of seeing those gray eyes film over with ice, and that long mouth harden. Still, it was a problem that had to be dealt with. Like it or not, she was Harold’s legal wife. Until that difficulty was eliminated, there remained an enormous barrier between her and Jon. More than anything in the world she wanted to be Jon’s wife, to have both her children legally recognized as his, and to return with him to live quietly and happily at Woodham. But Harold stood squarely in her path.

An annulment shouldn’t be hard to obtain, she thought optimistically. The problem was, she would have to be in England to get it, or so she assumed, and she wanted to get Jon safely back on American soil as soon as possible. As long as there was the possibility that he could be dragged off again to prison and have the whole horrible nightmare start up once more, she wouldn’t feel secure. Perhaps it would be best if he went ahead to Woodham, and she and the children joined him when everything was
settled. But she hated the prospect of another lengthy separation. It was something she needed to talk over with Jon. Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to broach the subject. Despite the fact that Virginia’s birthdate had finally, she thought, convinced Jon she was his daughter, the whole fiasco of Cathy’s marriage to Harold was a sensitive topic. She dreaded bringing it up. It was something else that could wait until they reached England. . . . .

Deliberately turning her mind to more pleasant matters, Cathy realized with a sense of amazement that she had missed her own birthday. She had turned twenty on February 21, but so many things had been happening in her life at that time that she hadn’t even realized. Jon, too, was a year older than when they had left Woodham. He had turned thirty-seven this past November, while he was a prisoner on the
Cristobel
.

Thirty-seven! From the perspective of twenty, that sounded almost old. Cathy, closely studying Jon as he lay sleeping in the bunk next to her, noticed as if for the first time the harsh lines carved by time and experience on the bronzed planes of his face. His hair, that thick wavy black hair that she loved to caress, was just beginning to be touched by silver at the temples. Discovering this, Cathy felt a fierce rush of tenderness for him. In twenty years’ time, she realized, he would be an old man. But what an old man! She pictured him, his silver head leonine, his big body still strong and erect, but possibly a trifle leaner. The gray eyes would be unchanged, still fierce and twinkling by turns beneath silvering dark brows. He would be incredibly handsome even then, and she would love him madly. Of that she had no doubt.

Now that she was really looking at him, she saw that he had collected quite a number of scars over the years since she had first met him. There was the long, jagged tear on his right thigh, caused by a viciously wielded broken bottle on the night nearly three years ago when he had rescued her from the bar in Cadiz. It was white and puckered now, running like a piece of yellowed ribbon
along the inside of his leg from just below his manhood to just above his knee. Criss-cross marks, the legacy of countless prison beatings during his first confinement in Newgate, formed faint ridges on his broad back. More recent disfigurements included the reddish puckered circle just below his left shoulder where she had shot him. Touching it with a penitent finger, she bit her lower lip. She still felt guilty about that. And, of course, there was the saber slash just above it. . . .

“You’re making me feel like an underweight steer at a cattle auction,” Jon murmured dryly, the gray eyes opening to stare straight at her. Cathy started. It was still very early in the morning and she hadn’t expected him to be awake. She flushed a little as she realized that her absorbed inspection of his long naked body, gleaming darkly against the white sheet as he lay on his side facing her, must have wakened him.

“I was just—looking,” she stammered. His eyes darkened to the deep gray of storm clouds. He turned over onto his back, his hand coming out to catch hers and draw her down beside him.

“Look as long as you like,” he invited, his voice a soft, slow drawl. “As long as I’m allowed the same privilege.”

Cradling her against his side, he lifted his free hand to gently squeeze her breast. It swelled into instant life under his hands. Cathy, her lips parting, felt a languorous warmth begin to steal upward from the pit of her stomach. She made no protest when he started to unbutton the too-big nightshirt donated to her wardrobe by one of the
Victoria
’s crew. Soon she was as naked as he, and his mouth was sending shivers chasing up and down her spine as it crawled over her skin. By the time he possessed her, she was moaning, nearly out of her mind with pleasure.

When it was over, he lay across her still quivering body. Cathy could feel perspiration dropping from his flesh onto hers. Slowly, slowly, she
was coming back to reality, her hands still clutching his back, loving him. . . .

“God, you drive me crazy,” he muttered into her ear. Cathy smiled, her eyes still closed, her toes curling at his words. It was wonderful to hear him say such things. Maybe now was the time to get him to say even more. . . .

“Tell me you love me,” she whispered shamelessly, her eyes opening to fix him with a pleading blue stare. To her bewilderment she felt him stiffen. Then he was lifting himself away from her, rolling onto his side of the bunk and then sitting up, his legs over the edge, his back to her.

“Jon!” she protested, hurt puzzlement in her voice as she, too, sat up, the sheet pulled up under her armpits to hide her nakedness.

“Does it give you a thrill, to hear me admit it?” he demanded, casting her a glinting look over his shoulder. “All right, I love you: I love your soft, squirming little body and the way it jumps and quivers under my hands; I love the wild little mewling noises you make deep in your throat when I take you. But every time I love you, something funny happens: I find myself wondering how many other men have loved you in the exact same way!”

His voice was cruel, his words deliberately calculated to hurt. Cathy’s eyes widened at the shock of his attack. For a moment she just sat staring at him, stunned.

“What are you talking about?” she asked at last. “You know you’re the only man I’ve ever—who’s ever. . . .”

“Oh, for God’s sake, can’t you be honest for once?” His voice was harsh, his gray eyes as bleak as a wintry sea. “I know about Harold, and I’ve come to terms with it. Maybe you even did what you did for love of me, as you kept insisting not so long ago. But what I can’t take is watching you smile and bat your eyelashes at every man who comes within arm’s length of you! You’ve flirted with every horny bastard on this ship, and I’m
getting damned tired of playing watchdog! I realized long ago that women are naturally about as faithful as alley-cats, but I’m warning you now that I won’t put up with it any longer: if I catch you bedding another man, I’ll kill him. And then I’ll take a great deal of pleasure in making you wish that you’d never been born!”

Cathy was gasping at the ferocity in his face and voice.

“How dare you accuse me in such a way?” she said furiously, when she had at last recovered her powers of speech. “Just who the hell do you think you are, anyway? You’re not my husband, you know! I don’t have to listen to that from you any longer, thank God! You’re sick, Jonathan Hale, and I feel sorry for you! You’re so jealous of any man who so much as asks me the time of day that you’re pathetic!”

“Pathetic, am I?” he growled, his gray eyes beginning to blaze as he swivelled fully to face her. “You didn’t seem to think so just a few minutes ago!”

Cathy’s face flushed a deep pink at the undeniable truth of this.

“You’re a conceited swine, aren’t you?” she spat. “Did it ever occur to you that I might respond to every one of my legions of lovers the same way?”

Rage had forced the remark from her. As soon as it was uttered, she would have given anything to recall it. But it was too late. The gray eyes fairly leapt with fury, and Jon’s jaw clenched as he glared at her.

“So you’re admitting it at last, are you?” he snarled unpleasantly. “The truth will out, as they say. How many men have you had, Cathy? Besides me, and Harold? Tell me, did you cuckold me every chance you got when we were living at Woodham?”

“You unspeakable bastard!” Cathy gasped, her hands clenching over the edge of the sheet that covered her. She looked fragile and very feminine sitting there, her golden hair a wild riot of curls around her small, pink-flushed face, her eyes shooting sapphire flames.
Jon regarded her almost with hatred. The way he felt about her was making his life a hell!

“Get out of my sight,” she ordered, her voice shaking. “I have nothing further to say to you: you can believe what you like. Thank God I’m not married to you any longer! I can’t imagine anything worse than being tied for the rest of my life to such a jealous brute!”

Jon’s eyes narrowed until they were no more than icy gray slits in his face. He got jerkily to his feet, his big hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if he was having a struggle to keep them from closing about Cathy’s slender neck.

“Can’t you?” he drawled unpleasantly. “Well, I can: believe me, it’s far worse to be married to a chit of a girl who’ll spread her legs for anything in sight. And I speak from experience!”

Cathy felt her cheeks turn fiery crimson. She was almost beside herself with temper, so furious she could hardly speak.

“You certainly don’t believe in practicing what you preach, do you?” she hissed finally, her eyes glittering with homicidal intent. “Haven’t you heard that what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander? You’re a fine one to prate on and on about fidelity! Or have you very conveniently forgotten about Sarita?”

Her tone was one of angry triumph. Jon stared at her for a moment without speaking. Then a hard smile curved his lips.

“Ah, Sarita,” he murmured reminiscently. “Now there was a fine, warm armful. . . .”

“Get out!” Cathy practically screamed the words at him. Insufferable beast, she would like to kill him! It would give her more pleasure than anything in the world to carve him up for bait with a dull knife!

He stood there grinning at her, malice snapping from those gray eyes.

“How does it feel to be jealous, my sweet?” he taunted softly. He was watching her with a certain amount of savage satisfaction. Naked, fists resting
lightly on his hips, his body hair like a thick dark shadow against his bronzed skin, he looked big and dangerous.

“Get out!” Cathy flounced into a kneeling position in the center of the bunk, the sheet still clutched protectively before her, her eyes wild with fury. More than anything in the world she longed to do him an injury. . . . Her eyes darted feverishly about the tiny cabin, looking for something that would make a satisfying dent when brought into hard contact with his arrogant black head. Jon, angrily pulling on his borrowed pantaloons, correctly interpreted the murderous gleam in her eye.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” he growled, his mouth curling in a nasty smile. “It would give me too much pleasure to retaliate. Right at this moment I could happily break your cheating little neck.”

“Swine!” Cathy flared, giving up her search for a suitable hard object and reaching instead for the nearest thing to hand. This just happened to be her feather pillow. Snatching it up, she flung it at him with every ounce of her strength. He dodged, laughed derisively, and slammed out of the cabin, his uniform jacket in his hand.

“I hate you!” Cathy screeched at the closed door. She gritted her teeth in impotent fury, dwelling with considerable pleasure on the various gory details of such methods of slaying him as ocurred to her. She hated him, she told herself, hated him, hated him! It would serve him right if what he thought was true, and she was momentarily tempted to take a lover just to teach Captain Jonathan Hale a much-needed lesson. She pictured his towering rage if she should flaunt the
Victoria
’s nice young captain under his nose. He would be fit to kill. . . . And that was probably literally true, she realized. In a jealous fury, he was quite capable of summarily disposing of any man he believed to be her lover. Which would hardly be fair to Captain Davis. Still. . . .