Sea Fire (8 page)

N
ewgate Prison was every bit as gruesome as Jon had remembered. Moisture dripped down gray stone walls that were green in splotches from mold. The odor of dampness mingled with the stink of human excrement to form a smell that was indescribable. Just as well that he had dined on nothing but a moldy slice of bread for the past three days, Jon thought with black humor as he sat huddled on the rough stone floor, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees for warmth. If his stomach had been comfortably filled, he could not have been answerable for the consequences.

He was dressed only in his now torn and filthy breeches. The rest of his clothes had been confiscated while he was still unconscious from the beating he had received while trying to fight his way free of his captors. His bare arms and chest and, yes, even his feet were ridged with goose bumps. God, the damned place was cold! Maybe whoever had designed it had, in the spirit of economy, hoped that inflammation of the lungs would save the Crown the cost of many a hangman.

One of the few advantages of being under sentence of death, Jon reflected wryly,
was that he had the small cell all to himself. It was no more than a dank hole measuring five feet across by eight feet long and located deep in the bowels of the prison, totally dark except when touched by the light of a lantern held by a passing guard. He knew its exact size, because he had paced it off countless times since his confinement began. Still, if he had been an everyday criminal, a pickpocket, say, or a highwayman, there would have been half-a-dozen or so other poor, unwashed souls crammed in with him. As it was, because of the death sentence soon to be carried out and his previous escape, he was left in splendid isolation. They meant to see to it that he did not get the chance to escape again.

There was no furniture, not a bed of any description, not even a pot to piss in, as the saying went. That last was literally true. He had been forced to turn one corner of the cell into a privy, just one of the many indignities witnessed with delight by the grinning guards. That corner, degrading and dehumanizing, was something he preferred not to think about. It reminded him too vividly of the half-crazed, starved, and filthy creature that this place had reduced him to once before. Oh, well, he thought with another attempt at humor, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about that; this time he wouldn’t be around long enough.

God, he was hungry! Unable to stop himself from drooling, he pictured a huge Virginia ham, baked to a turn, with all the trimmings: yams, fresh baked bread with butter. . . . Suddenly he dropped his head to his knees, feeling queasy. His stomach, so empty that he could feel its sides clinging together, gave a loud growl followed by a dry heave. Grimly he forced his mind away from the dangerous topic of food.

Cathy; her lovely face with its huge sapphire eyes and trembling rose-pink mouth replaced the ham in Jon’s mind. But this image was even more painful. Since the night when he had been dragged from her aunt’s townhouse by a half-dozen burly constables, he
had not heard so much as a syllable from her. So she was not his legal wife—that smarmy little cousin of hers had made sure he knew the facts of that. Still, what of the love she had professed to feel for him? What of their son, and their home, and their plans for the future? Did they mean nothing at all to her? As much as the thought hurt, Jon was beginning to believe it must be true. She had not visited him, not written, not even sent him a message by one of the guards. It was as if, now that she knew that she was not bound to him by the chains of matrimony, she preferred to forget his existence. In less than a week now he would be dead, unless by some unlikely chance he could manage to escape; the thought that Cathy didn’t even care enough to come and bid him a final farewell tortured him.

He had tried. God knows, he had tried! He had done his best to give her all the things she was used to, but he knew that life as the wife of an obscure, not particularly wealthy cotton planter could not compare to what she could have had if he had not turned her life upside down. If he had not abducted her and made her his mistress, she could have married anyone: she would have been rich and pampered, with an entrée into the most exalted circles of society. Ever since their marriage, the fear that she would one day regret her decision and leave him had haunted his nights. It was this fear, plus the knowledge that she was back in the midst of the glittering world she had once held so dear, that had at last broken through the barriers raised by his better judgement and sent him hot-footing it to England. Jon smiled bitterly. The threat of a hanging had seemed as nothing compared to the danger of losing Cathy’s love. So now he was here in this stinking prison, his wife already lost to him, his life soon to be. God, what a blind fool he had been!

Still, he could not quite extinguish a last flicker of hope. Maybe something was keeping her from him—maybe her father was worse, and she didn’t feel that she could leave him. Jon knew just how
pitifully forlorn this conjecture was, but he was loath to let it go. His love for her made him hope long after the time for hoping had passed, but gradually the harsh cynicism born of a lifetime of dealings with the so-called gentler sex surfaced. Women were by nature two-faced creatures whose one interest in a man was in his ability to provide them with fripperies, as he knew, and had always known full well. He could blame no one but himself if he had allowed a lovely face and soft, curved flesh to distort his judgement. Well, better men than he had made fools of themselves over a woman. But the blow to his pride—he no longer was prepared to admit that it might have struck clear through to his heart—was a stabbing ache that, try as he would, he could not banish.

The spectre of Cathy as he had last seen her, in the arms of another man—a wealthy, titled lord for all his fat stomach and thinning hair—haunted him night and day. It had the power to make his palms sweat and his teeth gnash with rage. She’s mine! He wanted to cry, and came to despise himself for the wanting. But still he sat huddled on the cold stone floor, watching the iron-barred door hour after hour, hoping against all odds to see a woman who never came.

C
athy, for her part, was nearly in despair. She had spent the last few days in a feverish race from one judge to another, from magistrate to magistrate as she made shameless use of her family connections, cajoling and promising and finally out-and-out begging with tears rolling down her cheeks for a commutation of Jon’s sentence. Her pleas continually fell on deaf ears. To a man, the judges pronounced Jon a pirate and a murderer, well deserving of a hangman’s noose. They were sorry for her and her son, they said, but there was nothing they could do. Jon’s execution was scheduled for seven days hence, and it would be carried out.

Her father, although greatly improved, was still far too ill to be of
any help to her. Cathy was very much afraid that the shock of hearing of Jon’s imprisonment and imminent hanging would kill the older man. Martha and Mason were horrified and sympathetic, but horror and sympathy were not what Cathy needed. She needed, as she was finally coming to realize, a small miracle if Jon were to be saved from death.

Six days before the scheduled execution, Cathy went to the prison as she had every day since Jon had been taken there, only to be once again turned away. The prisoner had escaped once, she was told grimly, and they were taking no chances on its happening again. He was to be allowed no visitors; even the hanging itself was to take place within the prison walls, on a scaffold specially constructed for that purpose.

Cathy returned to her aunt’s house in tears. Only the day before she had seen the last of the judges with any jurisdiction over the case. During the interview, she had practically gone down on her knees as she begged for Jon’s life. The man was not to be moved. Cathy had come away with a dreadful sense of helplessness: he had been her last hope. The only thing left for her was to somehow arrange for Jon to escape, but she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go about it. Panic threatened to swamp her, but she forced it back. Think, she told herself fiercely. Think!

She rocked back and forth in the small chair set before the sewing room fire, racking sobs threatening to choke her. Dear God, what could she do?

“Troubled, cousin?” Harold’s smirking voice broke through her haze of agony. She turned to face him like a small wild animal, eyes flashing, teeth bared. She blamed him utterly for what had happened. If Jon died, he would have caused it as surely as if he had pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger.

“Not crying over the pirate, are you?” he asked tauntingly. “Waste of time, you know, my dear girl. He’s dead meat. Nothing in the world that can save him—unless. . . .”

Cathy, knowing that he
had deliberately set out to tantalize her, nevertheless snapped eagerly at the bait.

“Unless what?” she demanded, eyes fixed with painful intensity on Harold’s moon face.

“Unless you had someone very influential to pull some strings. Someone like Sir Thomas. . . .”

“You know the shock would kill him,” Cathy answered resentfully, sinking back in the chair. She had known that Harold’s mouthings would come to nothing, but still. . . .

“Or me,” he added. Cathy’s heart missed a beat.

“You?” she breathed slowly. “You could help me?”

“Oh, I
could
,” Harold replied, negligently brushing a piece of lint from his maroon velvet coat. “If I wanted to.”

Cathy thought quickly. Harold was, after all, a peer of the realm, and for some reason unfathomable to her seemed to be in high favor at Court. It was just possible that he could help—she was surprised that it hadn’t occurred to her before. But why should he? He was not particularly fond of her despite their blood tie, and she suspected that he hated Jon. Her eyes narrowed. Whatever it took, she would persuade him.

“What do you want, Harold?” With great effort she managed to keep her voice reasonably cool. It would never do for Harold to guess how near to the end of her rope she had been. He was sadistic by nature; it would give him pleasure to watch her squirm. He might even refuse just for the pleasure of witnessing her pain.

“Well, let’s see, what is a pirate worth these days? I imagine they must come pretty high. Not exactly two-a-penny, you know.”

“I’ll pay you anything, Harold. You can have all my money. I—I have quite a lot, and I’ve never touched a penny of it.” The words burst from her before Cathy could control them. When they were out, she sat biting her lip, knowing she had made a mistake. Harold’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction; his pursed mouth smiled at her.

“All your money—ah,
that’s quite a temptation. But you can’t do that, you know. Your money’s tied up so that you can’t just give it away. Nasty little thing called a trust fund.”

“I—I’ll find a way to break it, Harold. Or maybe I could borrow against it.” Cathy despised the humble tone of her voice, but she couldn’t help it. She would do anything, anything, to save Jon.

“Well, now, I don’t know. When I think of all the people the pirate is bound to have killed, the ships he’s looted, my blood just runs cold. It might be a public service to let him hang—and, as you know, I am a great believer in serving the public.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Cathy accused bitterly, rising from her chair to face him, hands clenched impotently at her sides. In the sober deep blue of her challis day dress, long-sleeved and buttoned close to the neck, she was a small, slender figure with flashing blue eyes. Harold stared at her, admiring the golden hair swept back into a smooth chignon, the soft skin glowing pink with temper, even the defiant way her little chin was tilted at him. She was most desirable, and he wanted her as well as the money. Suddenly he made up his mind.

“I’m going to do you a favor, cousin: I’m going to marry you. I’ll even let you keep your bastard whelp, so long as he stays out of my sight.”

It was a statement, not a question, and it robbed Cathy of breath.

“I—I. . . . You don’t want to marry me, Harold,” she said at last, moistening her lips with her small pink tongue. She felt as if her worst nightmare was coming true. “I’m not the wife for you. You need someone worthy of you, a young lady with an unblemished reputation. If the reason you want to marry me is for the money, I’ll find some way of breaking the trust, I swear!”

“The money’s a prime inducement, I’ll admit,” Harold answered smugly.
“But I want you, too. You hate me, don’t you, Cathy? Well, I don’t like people who hate me. You’re going to have to pay for that—in my bed!”

“I can’t do it,” Cathy said, feeling sick at the images conjured up by his last words.

“Not even for your pirate?” he taunted. “And I thought you loved him. It’s the only way I’ll help, cousin. Otherwise, he’ll hang.”

“Harold, please. . . .” Cathy was trapped and she knew it. She had exhausted all other avenues open to her. Jon would die in six days if she didn’t do something, and Harold was offering her a way to save him. But if she married Harold, she would be cutting Jon out of her life for good. He would never forgive her for what she knew he would consider her betrayal, and, anyway, she would be another man’s wife.