Island Flame (11 page)

“Is something wrong?” Cathy, awakened by Jon’s infuriated bellow, struggled to sit upright. Jon turned frowningly in her direction. With her long golden hair cascading in bright waves around her nakedness and her sapphire eyes wide as saucers, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Just looking at the soft mounds of her breasts, almost completely exposed above the quilt, made his temperature shoot up. God, he wanted her! His muscles ached with it. Jon knew suddenly that he’d better make arrangements to get rid of her mighty fast. If he didn’t, he might find himself in real trouble.

“No. Go back to sleep.” He answered her question shortly, angry that she should have the power to disturb him. Last night she had even brought him to the point of telling her, like some lovesick swain, that he was sorry for having beaten her—when she’d begged for every lick and more besides! Maybe the jade really was the witch he’d called her. It bore thinking about. Such things were not unknown, after all, and he was beginning to believe he had all the symptoms of a man pursued by a devil.

“What are you staring at?” he asked belligerently, seeing that her blue eyes had widened even more as she looked at him.

“Your—your face,” she whispered, the corners of her mouth twitching in a quivering smile.

“What the hell is so funny about my face?” Jon turned to search for the small mirror he used to shave with. Come to think of it, Harry had said something about a shiner. He probed his left eye experimentally. It did
feel a trifle sore. But he had had black eyes before and they’d never amounted to much. His skin was so tough from the sun and sea air that it took a powerful blow to bruise it.

Jon found the mirror and peered at his reflection. What he saw appalled him. He looked like the lone loser in a twenty-man barroom brawl! His eye was ringed with deepening shades of purple streaked with the faintest tinges of a sickly yellow-green. Three long scratches adorned his cheek. And now that he thought about it, his hand throbbed where the little bitch had bitten it. Even his shoulder felt sore! He cast a dark look at Cathy, who was trying to hold back her mirth with scant success.

“So you think it’s funny, do you, miss?” he growled, advancing on her menacingly. Cathy shrieked and tried to leap from the bed, but hard arms came down on either side of her, holding her in place.

“No. Oh, no,” she quavered, then broke into helpless gurgles of laughter. “I’m sorry!” she got out between spasms. “I—I truly can’t help it!”

“You won’t laugh long if I take you up on deck with me and display your wounds to the world,” Jon threatened gruffly, knowing even as he said it that he wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of other men drooling over her sweet nakedness.

“You wouldn’t!” Cathy gasped, her hand flying automatically to protect her still tender posterior.

“I might,” he warned.

“I won’t—I won’t laugh anymore,” she promised, only to collapse in a gale of giggles as she took another look at his battered face.

“Jade,” he said without heat, and turned away from her to sit on the edge of the bunk while he pulled on his high boots.

“Jon,” she ventured when her amusement had abated somewhat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you—at least, I did—but—but I’m sorry now. Really.”

“Are you?” He turned to look at her intently. Cathy felt her heart give a queer little lurch at the expression in his eyes.

“Y-yes.” Not even Cathy herself was certain whether or not she meant what she said. It could have been just a ploy to get him to lower his defenses, or it could have been sincere. He had her emotions in such a turmoil that she just didn’t know.

“Prove it.”

“H-how?”

“Kiss it better.” The gray eyes were mocking, but a tiny flame burned steadily at their backs.

“I—I— all right.” The thought of being kissed by him after the intimacies they had shared the night before was oddly pleasurable. Cathy held her face up submissively, her eyes closed and her rosy lips puckered in the proper position for a kiss. Jon laughed shortly.

“I meant for you to give the kiss, trollop, not the other way around.”

“Oh.” Cathy rocked back on her heels, thinking furiously. She was surprised to find that she actually liked the idea of placing her mouth against his injuries, of soothing his hurts with her lips. The game was getting dangerous. She was no longer sure whether she wanted to win or lose, or even what winning or losing was. But anything that would make him soften toward her must work to her
advantage, she reasoned. Therefore, giving him a willing kiss would fit right in with her plans.

She knelt beside him where he still sat on the edge of the bunk, keeping the quilt tucked carefully about her. His eyes darkened as she slid silky white arms around his neck. Cathy was surprised to find that her own heart beat faster. It wouldn’t do to forget her purpose, she warned herself, moving close. This was all part of her revenge.…

Her mouth went first to his eye, drawing out the soreness with a series of butterfly kisses, then trailed over the long scratches that her nails had raked across his cheek. His skin felt hard and firm against her mouth, tasting of salt from the sea and smelling of man. Cathy was beginning to like the smell.…

Jon’s arms came around her abruptly, his hand tangling in her long hair to pull her mouth down to his. His lips feasted hungrily on hers and then were still, letting her take the initiative. Her lips parted against his and still he didn’t move, keeping his emotions on a tight rein as he let her learn by herself what she needed to know about kissing. Her small tongue flicked his shyly and was hurriedly withdrawn. Jon’s physical reaction was so intense that he felt real pain. More than anything he wanted to push her back against the pillows and love the breath out of her. But he didn’t want to scare her. … He was astonished to realize that rape no longer seemed as satisfying as it once had. He wanted her full, willing cooperation.

“Miss?” Petersham’s voice on the other side of the door broke them abruptly apart. Damn, Jon thought frustratedly, then acknowledged with a grimace that it was really just as well. The wench was beginning to get under
his skin. He needed to get out in the fresh air where he could get the way she made him feel in some kind of perspective. He heaved himself off the bunk, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at her as he strode to the door. Her lips were tucked into a damned irritating little Mona Lisa smile. She looked smugly self-satisfied, and Jon began to wonder if perhaps he was being taken for a ride.…

“I should throw you overboard,” he said slowly, a thread of seriousness lacing the words. “Drowning’s one way to kill a witch.”

“It wouldn’t do you any good. Witches float.” She wrinkled her nose at him impishly. Jon didn’t even smile.

“Master Jon! Uh, Captain! I didn’t realize you were still in your cabin. Are you ill?” Petersham exclaimed, flustered, as Jon flung open the door. His eyes widened at the sight of his captain’s bruised face, but he quickly swallowed the exclamation that leaped to his tongue. Some things were better ignored.

“No, I’m not ill,” Jon answered shortly, scowling at Petersham. The old fool’s thoughts were painfully obvious. “I had some—uh—business to attend to this morning that could best be handled indoors.”

“I understand, sir.” Petersham permitted himself a small smile. Jon stifled a curse and brushed by the valet irritably, disappearing out the door.

“I’ve brought your breakfast, miss.” Petersham entered the cabin hesitantly. After seeing Master Jon’s wounds he hated to look at Miss Cathy. The master was a strong man, and with his temper he wouldn’t have taken kindly to being so attacked. At the very least he expected the girl to be similarly marked. His mind reeled when she smiled at him saucily.

“Good morning, Petersham. I’m starving. What have you brought me to eat?”

Petersham set the meal before her, still in something of a daze. To his knowledge, the captain had never before had any qualms about bestowing a hearty buffet upon a female if he felt it was deserved. And if one had scarred him up the way Miss Cathy had, well, knowing Master Jon he would have expected him at the very least to give as good as he got. He was soft where this girl was concerned. Petersham puzzled over it, but rejected the only solution that occurred to him as ridiculous.

“Petersham.” Cathy called out, as he turned to leave her to eat her breakfast in privacy. “I’d like my other trunks, please. I’m being allowed up for air at last.” She smiled sunnily as she spoke.

“Certainly, miss,” Petersham replied, his thoughts in a turmoil. “I’ll have them brought to you. Uh … with the Captain’s permission, of course.”

“Of course,” Cathy agreed, her voice sugary. If all went well, the captain would soon be agreeing to anything she wished. How she’d love that! And how she’d make him grovel!

The same two sailors who had carried in her bath the night before brought her trunks. They were carefully respectful, but, as she thanked them, Cathy was taken aback by the knowing grins they turned on her. What was so funny, she wondered confusedly, looking down at herself to make sure that she was adequately covered. She was. Cathy shook her head, dismissing the matter. Men were strange creatures at best.

She spent the next hour sorting through her clothes. Her underwear was neatly folded and tucked away in
the wardrobe. Some of Jon’s shirts had to be removed to make room, but as Cathy stuffed them into a sea chest she shrugged. He wouldn’t object, she was sure. He was not overly picky about his clothes. A few of her dresses that were not too badly wrinkled were also hung in the wardrobe. The rest were thrown across the foot of the bed until they could be pressed—if the
Margarita
carried anything so civilized as an iron. … All Jon apparently asked of his garments was that they be clean, and sometimes he was not even too concerned about that.

A white muslin day dress sprigged with tiny, mint-green leaves was the least crushed of the lot, and Cathy decided that it would suit her purpose nicely. It was wrapped about the waist with a green silk sash that tied in the back in an enormous bow, and had little green slippers and a small flat hat to match. The hat added just the right touch, she thought, turning this way and that as she admired her reflection in the long mirror that hung inside the wardrobe door. Its light green color set off her golden hair and made her eyes look even more blue. The simple style of the dress called attention to her tiny waist and the rounded curves above and below it. Jon could not fail to be bowled over, she decided. And bowling him over was a necessary part of her plan.

He had taken her twice more during the night. And if she was honest, she would have to admit that he was right: it got better as one went along. Still, the knowledge that he could use her body whether she liked it or not rankled. Her pride demanded that he be brought to his knees, and making him fall in love with her was the best way she knew how to do it.

It was past noon when Cathy ventured out on deck,
and the sun was floating almost directly overhead. Its brightness made her close her eyes momentarily, and then she lifted her face to the heat, enjoying its fierceness against her skin. She opened her eyes to a cerulean sky with small, white clouds scuttling across its surface like sheep. A sharp sea breeze cooled the air. The
Margarita
rocked up and down gently like a baby’s cradle, rigging snapping in the wind, timbers creaking. Cathy felt suddenly marvelous. It was good to be out in the hustle and bustle of life again!

“Lady Catherine.”

Cathy turned to find the young man who had refused to help her when she was first brought on board behind her. Harry, she’d heard Jon call him. Her good mood cooled somewhat. His presence was a nagging reminder that she was, after all, still a prisoner on this ship, subject to the captain’s orders and goodwill. At the thought she tossed her head, blue eyes flashing. Not for long, she vowed.

“Ma’am, Captain’s compliments and all that, and would you please join him on the quarterdeck. He says the air up there is healthier for a young lady.”

Cathy looked down her nose at him. He hadn’t been nearly so concerned about her well-being the last time he had spoken to her. In fact, he had delivered her straight into the jaws of the proverbial lion! But she had since learned that the lion, though fierce, was not greatly to be feared. And the lion’s protection allowed her to ignore the baying of lesser beasts, such as the man before her.

She turned studiedly away as if suddenly afflicted with acute deafness. Her eyes wandered with determined casualness around the deck. The men had all stopped their various tasks and were staring at her as a pack of dogs would stare at a particularly juicy bone. Cathy shivered under the
regard of so many lascivious eyes. There was little doubt about what was in their minds! If Jon had not afforded her his protection, she guessed that they would have passed her around like candy. Compared to what might have been, her fate suddenly seemed almost bearable.

“My lady,” Harry began with desperation, only to be cut off by an angry bellow from the quarterdeck.

“Harry! Quit your lallygagging and get her up here. And the rest of you men get back to work! You’ll have plenty of time to do your wenching when we make port!”

“Aye, Cap’n, we will, but the question is will we be able to find a piece so lively! Bedding a she-tiger beats the hell out of lying with a tame cat—ain’t that right, boys?”

Hoots and guffaws followed this sally. Even Jon laughed, Cathy noted irritably as she turned her hot face up to where he stood braced on the quarterdeck. Vile, obscene animals, all of them! Their crudity was enough to make her sick! Obviously the crew had correctly guessed the cause of the marks on Jon’s face, and had been making lewd jokes about it for some time. Well, they could think what they liked! She was not about to feel ashamed before a ragtail bunch of pirates!

Jon frowned suddenly as he took in the full glory of her low-cut, thin-as-air dress, and Cathy scowled right back at him. How dare he let his men make her the object of their lewd jests! She stared at him haughtily as she ascended the wooden steps. He looked hard and fierce as he watched her approach, legs straddled to keep him upright against the intermittent roll of the ship, hands clenched over the rail. The breeze had blown his dark hair into raffish disorder. Sunlight glinted along the blue-black stubble that shadowed his cheeks. He wore a white shirt, torn in places, open to the
waist to expose his sweat-dampened chest to the breeze. Pistols and a long knife were thrust into a sash that bound his trim waist, and his powerful legs were encased in snug black breeches. Cathy privately thanked God that he had not looked so fearsome when he had taken her from the
Anna Greer.
She would have been frightened witless!