Sea Fire (7 page)

Cathy bent and kissed her father lightly on the cheek, feeling more cheerful than she had in days. Her step was buoyant as she crossed the hall to her bedroom, her smile bright as she greeted Martha and Cray, who looked up as she entered.

“Help me dress, Martha,” Cathy directed gaily, moving to scoop up her son.

“Mama!” Cray squealed protestingly as she tickled him, and then, as she rolled with him on the bed, they both dissolved in a gale of giggles.

“You’re awfully happy, lovey,” Martha observed with a smile, arms akimbo as she watched the two people she loved best in the world.

“And why not?” Cathy retorted, grinning. “In less than a week we’ll be on our way home! Every time I think of it I feel wonderful!”

“Me, too,” Martha answered in a heartfelt way. Cathy looked at her curiously. But before she could ask the meaning of Martha’s intensity, Cray distracted her.

“Cray wants to go home!” he announced, his little chin quivering ominously. “Cray misses Daddy! Daddy, Daddy!”

“We’ll both see Daddy soon, precious,” Cathy promised, looking quickly around for something to distract him. Her eyes alighted on her pretty crystal bottle of scent, cunningly formed in the shape of a wild bird. “Darling, play with this while Mama gets dressed. Then I’ll tell you a story before you go to bed.”

“Pretty,” Cray said reflectively, taking the crystal bird in his chubby little hand and proceeding to pop it immediately into his mouth. Cathy
looked at him for a moment, pondering the wisdom of taking the thing away from him. If that crystal were to break. . . .

“He’ll be all right, lovey,” Martha said comfortably. But Cathy continued to look rather doubtfully over her shoulder as Martha arranged her hair.

Selecting a dress to wear presented no problem, because Cathy had packed only one suitable for evening. It was a rich cream color with a satin under-dress overlaid by yards of Irish lace. Long-sleeved and tied around the waist by a twist of ivory ribbons, it was more severe in styling than most of the dresses that Cathy had worn recently. Looking at it, Martha signified her qualified approval.

“At least it covers your bosom,” Martha sniffed, and Cathy wrinkled her nose at her.

Martha had left her hair loose, catching it up at the crown of her head with a single ivory ribbon into which she tucked a fragrant cream rose. Red-gold ringlets given form and shape by Martha’s deft hand with a brush cascaded down Cathy’s back. Her only ornaments were her wedding and engagement rings, and a delicate diamond necklet that had been Jon’s gift to her on her last birthday. Martha, looking at her as she swished across the room and sank down on the bed to tell Cray the promised story, thought that she didn’t look old enough to have a son.

By the time Cathy went downstairs, the other guests had arrived. Cathy could hear them laughing and talking in the large reception room at the rear of the house. She walked swiftly toward the open french doors, sniffing appreciatively at the sweet scent of the massed fresh flowers that the servants had arranged in such profusion. Crimson and pink and white, their colors were gorgeous against the sober brown of the rich walnut paneling.

“Cathy! There you are, my dear!” The gushy voice belonged to Lady Stanhope, who swooped on her niece as she hesitated just inside the
french doors. Immediately all eyes riveted on Cathy. Cathy turned a glittering smile on the assembled company, knowing she was the object of considerable speculation: the black sheep of the Aldley flock, a real-life, in-the-flesh scarlet woman! Cathy read these thoughts in their faces. It was all she could do not to cross her eyes and stick her tongue out at them like a freak in a circus sideshow.

“Cathy, I believe you know the Countess of Firth?” Lady Stanhope had shepherded her over to an awful old harridan in a vivid puce gown. Cathy nodded politely, although she hadn’t the faintest idea where she might have met the Countess before, if indeed she had. The Countess returned her nod with a glacial inclination of her be-feathered head.

“Lady Catherine,” she got out in arctic tones. Cathy smiled coolly at her, determined to face down anyone who dared try to belittle her. Lady Stanhope, flustered by this icy exchange of civilities, hurried her niece on around the room.

There were a great many people crowded into the long room, too many for Cathy to remember more than a quarter of their names. Lady Stanhope soon left her to her own devices. Cathy circulated in the approved manner, chatting amiably about nothing, smiling at dull witticisms and generally behaving in an exemplary fashion. It was no wonder that her head soon hurt abominably; the room was stiflingly hot, the long windows closed in deference to the popular wisdom about the miasmas of night air. Candles guttered smokily in chandeliers overhead, the smell of melting tallow combining sickeningly with the scent of food and close-packed bodies. Cathy felt her stomach churn, and knew that she needed to find a quiet place where she could sit down.

She skirted the edge of the crowd with a smile pinned to her lips, nodding when people called or waved to her. She had to get out of this crush! Finally she found what she had been searching for: a crimson velvet curtain that concealed the entrance to a small anteroom. Cathy brushed through it, crossed the marble floor,
and sank down onto the unyielding, horsehair upholstery of a prim, upright sofa. Its scratchy surface felt like silk to her skin. Cathy smiled a little, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. I must be more tired than I imagined, she thought, if this thing feels as soft as my feather-bed. After a moment she put her feet up to lie on the sofa, and let her thoughts wander.

It was thus that Harold found her. He came quietly through the curtain and stopped, momentarily transfixed. She was so beautiful, with her white skin and golden hair, her slender, curved body clothed so demurely in creamy lace, that it took him a moment to remember that she had been a pirate’s whore, and had borne a bastard child. His rather loose mouth curled in distaste even as lust shone from his eyes. His mother must be mad to suggest he marry her! Although he wanted her body badly, he didn’t think he would have to marry her to get it. After all, she had been away from her so-called husband for almost two months now. Her flesh must be itching for a man. . . . But then, there was the money to consider. Her father was a rich man, and she was his only child. It stood to reason that he would leave it all to her. And in the meantime, there was all that lovely money in her trust fund, just waiting to be spent. And Harold needed money badly. He had gambled away his entire fortune, and creditors were dunning him on all sides. If he didn’t find the funds to pay them soon he would be ruined. Maybe he would marry her, at that. She was certainly beautiful, and she had good blood in her, although somehow it had gone wrong. He could marry her and school her until she was a meek, obedient little wife, content to stay down on their country estate and let him spend his time in town. She would probably be so grateful to him for elevating her to her rightful station in life that she would do just whatever he said. Yes, maybe he would marry her. . . .

Cathy stirred, her breasts lifting as she inhaled deeply. Harold stared open-mouthed as those enticing mounds thrust at the fabric of
her dress. All thoughts of money and matrimony immediately quitted his brain. He could only think of how she excited him. Automatically his hand came up to smooth the thinning strands of gingery hair that his man had oiled and teased into the latest fashion. Then, with a tug at the yellow brocade waistcoat made vexingly tight by his supper, he crossed the small room to stand over the sofa, looking down.

Pleasant dreams chased one another through Cathy’s head, dreams of soft summer sunlight and herself laughing with Jon. She dreamed that she was home at Woodham again, lying out in the soft grass of the back lawn, protected from the view of the house by the tall apple tree. Jon came to sit on the grass beside her, smiling at her lovingly, his gray eyes twinkling as he began, ever so gently, to caress her. His hands touched lightly on her breasts, stroking the sensitive nipples into throbbing life, before sliding down to span her waist and then trace the curve of her hips and the long, lissome line of her thighs.

Deep in her dream, Cathy smiled. Jon smiled back at her, his dark face bending nearer. More than anything in the world she wanted him to kiss her. . . . She was starving for the feel of his lips against hers. With a low moan deep in her throat she lifted her hands to twine them around his neck, pulling his head down. When his mouth touched hers at last she gave a hoarse sigh of satisfaction, returning his kiss eagerly.

But something was wrong. The mouth that pressed hers so greedily was loose, and wet, and tasted of stale wine and onions. The hands that clutched her body so roughly were clammy. Never in all the time she had known him had Jon kissed her like this, clumsily, grinding her soft lips back on her teeth, thrusting his tongue so far down her throat that she feared she might choke. Repulsed, Cathy struggled out of her dream only to find that she was still being hotly kissed. Her eyes flew open.

To her horror she
found herself looking into Harold’s round, perspiring face. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing noisily through his rather large nose. His hands clutched hurtfully over her breasts, and it was this that galvanized Cathy back to full awareness. My God, what did he think he was doing?

Before she could clout him on that shuddering nose, as she had every intention of doing, there was a sound over by the curtain. Automatically her eyes swivelled toward the noise, and what she saw made her heart drop into the pit of her stomach.

“What the . . . !” The furious, bitten off exclamation hurt Cathy’s ears. Angrily she pushed at Harold’s shoulders, desperately wanting to free her mouth so that she could explain. There wasn’t time. Harold was suddenly plucked away from her as though a giant hand had reached down from the sky and grabbed him. He was spluttering, his red face turning quickly white as he guessed the identity of the grim-faced man who held him by the collar, shaking him like a great dane with a rat between its teeth.

“Jon!” Cathy cried, wanting to stop him before the violence got out of hand. She might as well have saved her breath. He didn’t even look at her. His anger was all focused on the quivering little man he held before him. As Cathy watched helplessly, Jon’s large fist slammed into Harold’s soft stomach.

“Ugghh!” Harold grunted, doubling. Jon raised his fist to repeat the blow.

“Jon, no!” Cathy shrieked, flying up from the sofa to catch at his arm. “Don’t hurt him!”

Jon turned blazing gray eyes on Cathy for a moment. The look in them caused her to shrink back. He was angrier than she had seen him in years, angry enough to kill. She was almost relieved when he transferred his attention back to Harold.

“I’ll teach you to lay hands on my wife, you bastard,” Jon said thickly, pulling Harold
upright again so that he could land another blow to the man’s jelly-like middle.

“She’s not your wife!” Harold got out before the blow landed, and then he was too busy groaning to say anything at all.

Jon hit him several more times, hard, expert punches that reduced Harold to sobbing helplessness. Finally, with a contemptuous laugh, he released his hold on Harold’s collar and let the smaller man slide to the floor. Then he turned to look at Cathy. His expression was menacing, but she met it bravely.

“What the hell did he mean, you’re not my wife?” he asked heavily. Cathy swallowed. This was not, definitely, how she had planned to tell him. But there was nothing for it, and anyway he certainly couldn’t blame her. She only hoped that he was not angry enough to wash his hands of her as a poor bargain after what had happened tonight.

“It’s true—we’re not married,” she began nervously. His eyes widened incredulously.

“The hell we’re not,” he ground out. Then, his expression growing uglier, he reached out and grabbed her arm in a grip so hard it hurt. “Is that why you were letting him make love to you? Hoping to catch a lord this time, Cathy? What did you do, have the marriage annulled? If you did, you’re a lying little bitch! It’s been consummated more times than I can count.”

“Of course I didn’t have our marriage annulled,” Cathy said indignantly, her eyes beginning to snap blue sparks at his unfounded accusation. “If you would just listen. . . .”

“I’m listening,” Jon growled, but before Cathy could start to explain Harold began to scream like a creature demented. They both turned to look at him, surprised. For a moment they had forgotten his presence.

“God, help me! He’s hurt me! Oh, he’s hurt me!” Harold wailed at the top of his lungs. Almost immediately people began to thrust inquisitive heads through the curtain.

“Help me, help me! I’m hurt!” The room was filling with people eager to watch
any new scandal. Jon quickly crossed the room and grabbed Harold again by the collar. His intention to shut the man up by whatever means were necessary was obvious. Harold shrieked.

“For God’s sake, don’t let him hurt me! Summon the constables! The man’s an escaped convict, sentenced to hang, wanted for piracy and murder!”

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