Sea Fire (9 page)

“Those are my terms, Cathy. But I can see you’re not interested.” Harold turned and began to walk out of the room. Cathy stared after him in an agony of indecision.

“Harold, wait!” she cried as he reached the door. Slowly he turned back to face her. He was smiling triumphantly.

“I—I’ll marry you,” Cathy said, her voice low. She felt as though her heart would break.

He returned swiftly to her side.

“I felt sure you would, my dear,” he said. Cathy had to fight back an acute attack of nausea as he enfolded her in his arms.

His touch revolted her. She could feel the clamminess of his palms through her thin dress as he clutched at her back. His mouth was loose and wet on hers, and he kissed her as if he wanted to drain every last drop of sweetness from her mouth. Cathy went rigid in his arms, eyes tightly shut, fists clenched at her sides as she tried not to remember that by agreeing to marry him she had given him the right to kiss her like this. After the ceremony, he could do anything he liked with her. At the thought of the physical intimacies he would undoubtedly insist on sharing
with her, she shuddered. “Oh, Jon!” her heart cried, but she knew that she had to endure Harold because, simply, she had no other choice.

“We’ll be married day after tomorrow,” Harold told her thickly, raising his head at last. “And after we’re wed, I’ll expect a little more cooperation from you, my dear. After all, it’s not as if you were inexperienced.”

The sneer in his last words made Cathy long to hit him, but she was at his mercy, and both he and she knew it.

“And Jon?” she asked unsteadily, struggling to remain composed under his taunting eyes.

“I’ll see to it—after we’re married,” Harold said, and turning on his heel, left the room.

H
er wedding day—her second wedding day—was the most miserable of Cathy’s life. As Martha helped her dress, tears stood in her eyes, eyes that were already red and swollen from the tears that had kept her awake all night. Every fiber of her being revolted at what she was about to do. To be married to Harold—to be his wife; the thought made her want to throw up. Martha, sniffling audibly behind her, was no help. Instead of her usual practice of looking for a silver lining to the blackest of clouds, the woman was clearly as upset as Cathy. Together, they were doubtless the most mournful pair who had ever made ready for a wedding.

Two things kept Cathy from breaking down completely: one was the thought of Jon’s long body dangling from the end of a rope that was slowly choking him, his handsome face blue and swollen, his features contorted with agony; the other was the hope that, somehow, she might be able to evade Harold. If he kept his promise and arranged for Jon’s release immediately after their wedding, then it was just possible that she wouldn’t have to carry through her end of the bargain. If she could keep him out
of her bed until Jon was free, then all bets were off: she would immediately petition for an annulment. That such a plan was strictly dishonorable, Cathy knew full well. She also knew full well that she couldn’t care less.

The dress that Martha was helping her into was pale gray silk, almost the color of mourning. Its somber hue exactly matched her mood; if her choice disturbed Harold, then well and good. She cared not a whit what he thought as long as he kept his word about freeing Jon.

Martha drew Cathy’s hair back severely from her face, arranging it in a sober knot at her nape. The tiny white frills edging the high collar of the dress framed her face, which was almost as pale as the lace. Cathy noted with satisfaction that she looked awful, her face colorless and drawn, her eyes swollen from weeping. If ever a girl had looked less like a bride she would not like to see her, Cathy thought starkly, and then when she could delay no longer she turned slowly away from the mirror.

“We’ll be back right after the ceremony, I imagine,” Cathy said evenly to Martha. “Unless Harold wants to stop somewhere to celebrate.” She put bitter emphasis on the last word.

“Oh, lovey, I hate to see you go through with this,” Martha choked, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Not nearly so much as I do.” Cathy forced the joke, then grew serious once more. “Don’t worry about me, Martha. Whatever happens—it’ll be all right.”

“I hope so, lovey, I surely do.” Martha gave her a fierce, quick hug, which Cathy returned rather desperately. Then, while she could still summon the courage to do so, she went out of the room and down the stairs to where Harold awaited her.

Cathy became Lady Stanhope less than an hour later, in a dingy registry office on the outskirts of London’s bustling business district. Her hand shook visibly as she held it out to receive Harold’s ring. Looking down at her white, trembling fingers, she saw to
her horror that she had forgotten to remove the gold and diamond bands that Jon had placed on her finger so many months before. Harold’s face reddened angrily as he followed the direction of her gaze, and he made a gesture as though to snatch the rings from her finger. Cathy forestalled him, jerking her hand from his grasp and removing Jon’s rings herself. For a brief moment she clutched them tightly in her palm; then, with a defiant look at Harold, she slipped them into her reticule.

After it was over, she endured her aunt’s triumphant congratulations before numbly taking Harold’s proffered arm and allowing him to lead her outside. It was a misty, gray day, with wisps of fog rolling along the cobbled streets. Cathy thought that she had never seen a place that depressed her as much as London, and then she ceased thinking at all as Harold ceremoniously handed her up into the ornate brougham that awaited them. As he released her hand she shrank back as far into one corner of the plush seat as she could, wishing desperately that Harold had not chosen a closed carriage. It would be just like him to try to make love to her on the way back to her aunt’s house! And with Jon still very much at the mercy of Harold’s whims, she would be forced to accept whatever he meted out.

When Harold clambered inside at last, he was smiling. Cathy looked at his white skin, nearly as soft and well cared for as her own, at his round cheeks and thinning red hair, at his pursed mouth and beady blue eyes, and felt hatred so intense that she fairly blazed with it. She was sickened at the thought that she now belonged to him, that this very night he was planning to violate her body, which he had every right to do. He was her husband—how the thought flayed her! But she was not beaten yet, thought Cathy with a defiant lift of her chin. If Harold thought that he was going to have everything his own way, he was very much mistaken!

Harold parted the tails of his truly magnificent morning coat, apparently so that
he wouldn’t sit upon and wrinkle them, then sat down heavily beside her. Cathy’s lip curled at this display of concern for the state of his dress. Truly, as dazzling as his raiment was this morning, a little thing like wrinkled coattails would go completely unremarked! The combination of canary yellow breeches, so tight around his pudgy thighs that Cathy was in constant expectation of hearing them split, white satin waistcoat embroidered with tiny yellow daisies, white silk shirt frothing with lace, high-heeled black leather shoes with gleaming brass buckles, and that extraordinary coat made him look like a particularly garish species of tropical bird. Beside him, in her sober gray dress, Cathy knew herself to be positively eclipsed!

“Smiling, my dove?” he asked coldly, correctly interpreting the sneer she had not had time to hide. “Let me entertain you further. I’m sure you’ll be most interested to hear the details of our honeymoon.”

“Honeymoon?” Cathy repeated, feeling a chill of apprehension.

“You didn’t think that I’d ask my lovely new wife to forgo her bride-trip, did you? When you know me better, Cathy, you’ll realize that I would never be so thoughtless! I’ve arranged for us to board the
Tamarind
at Southhampton this evening. She sails on the morrow for La Coruña. I thought we would explore Spain for a while, then return to London via the Continent. Altogether, I expect we’ll be gone for about six months.”

Cathy’s mind reeled beneath the weight of this unexpected information. All her hopeful plans for avoiding Harold would come to naught if she were to be alone with him for six interminable months. She had very much counted on her father’s and Martha’s, and yes, even her aunt’s, presence to keep Harold from resorting to physical violence to consummate their marriage. But now . . . ! And there was Cray! She couldn’t possibly leave him for six months. And her father. . . .

“You’re
joking, of course,” Cathy said with as much composure as she could muster.

“I never joke, my dove,” Harold answered, clearly enjoying her discomfiture. “After all, you must admit that it’s only natural for a new husband to want to have his bride to himself for a while. There are so many aspects of marriage that are best enjoyed in privacy, don’t you agree?”

The leering look he passed over her body made Cathy cringe instinctively. I can’t go through with it, she thought. Every cell in her body urged her to jump from the carriage and run before it was too late. The imagined feel of Harold’s hands on her naked flesh, of his corpulent body joined with hers, made her shudder with revulsion.

“I cannot possibly leave Cray,” Cathy told him coldly.

“Your bastard is of no concern whatsoever to me, my dove. Be thankful that I allow you to keep the whelp at all. My initial inclination was to hand him over to one of the excellent institutions with which this country abounds. I certainly will not allow him to interfere with my plans.” Harold dismissed Cray with a negligent wave of one pudgy, beringed hand.

Cathy’s temper boiled at hearing her beloved son called “bastard.” While technically she knew this was so, he had been made with love and born into what both she and Jon had believed to be a true marriage. She would not allow this fat, pompous toad to so slightingly dismiss her son!

“Why, you . . . !” she spluttered, rejecting epithet after epithet as being too mild for the loathing she wanted to express.

“I’d bite my tongue, if I were you, my dove,” Harold advised maliciously, his pale blue eyes gleaming his pleasure at having provoked such a reaction from her. “There’s still the pirate, you know. If you come the ugly to me, I won’t lift a finger on his behalf. And he’ll hang while you and I are enjoying the delights of our honeymoon.”

Cathy quivered, her anger replaced by rage of another sort.

“You gave your word!” she spat contemptuously. “You gave your word that
you would save him if I married you!”

“And I fully intend to keep it—as long as you keep to your part of the bargain. But I think you should remember that, as long as the pirate remains in prison—which I imagine he will do for many years to come—it will take only a word from me to have him hanged. I would advise you to keep that thought firmly fixed in your lovely little head while you set your mind to pondering how best to please me!”

Cathy wanted to kill. Her fingers curled with the force of her longing, the long, smooth-buffed nails digging hurtfully into her palms. If Harold had been better acquainted with her, he would have recognized his danger from the glittery brilliance of her eyes. As it was, he saw nothing but a properly chastened bride, and congratulated himself on finding an excellent means of keeping her in line.

Cathy stared at him for a long moment, her blue eyes afire with temper. Then she forced herself to try to relax. As Harold had so gleefully pointed out, he had the upper hand. Jon was to all intents and purposes his hostage, and Harold clearly meant to use her love for him to insure her compliance with his every wish. With the threat of Jon’s hanging held over her head, Cathy realized with a sense of horror that she would be forced to submit docilely to Harold’s demands, possibly for years. A wave of black anguish threatened to engulf her. Why hadn’t such a possibility occurred to her sooner? And, yet, if it had, what could she have done?

The carriage rocked to a halt. Cathy looked up, surprised. Maybe Harold had just been teasing her; was it possible that they had returned to her aunt’s house in Grosvenor Square? Where else . . . ?

“See how I keep my word, my dove?” Harold asked jovially, rising as the driver swung the door open from the outside. Cathy stared at him blankly, not understanding. Then, through the open door, she saw the forbidding gray stone walls of Newgate Prison.

“I’m
sure you’ll excuse me while I arrange to save your pirate from his richly deserved fate,” Harold continued smoothly. “And remember, I expect you to keep your side of our bargain as well as I have mine.”

Cathy said nothing as Harold descended. When the door was closed behind him she scooted across the seat, lifting one hand to brush aside the curtain and stare out. The prison sat on a back street in one of London’s slums; all about the carriage Cathy could see ragged and filthy children pawing through the garbage that filled the ditches running along either side of the street. Slatternly-looking women leaned drunkenly against the high prison walls, some clutching a bottle in one hand from which they would snatch an occasional swallow. All seemed totally oblivious to the steadily-falling drizzle. The guard at the gate paid scant attention to these denizens of the street, except to tell one who had sidled close to move along in a loud voice.