Island Flame (34 page)

“Where is your cloak?” he muttered, as he turned to look about the room. He spied the wardrobe, and dragged her in his wake as he strode toward it. She stumbled after him, afraid to resist, lest she should further inflame his maniacal rage.

He flung open the wardrobe door, and stopped short at the sight of her collection of mourning dresses. She heard him suck in his breath as at a mortal blow.

“Thus vanishes my last doubt,” he muttered cryptically, jerking on her wrists with a violence that would have sent her stumbling to the floor if he had not held her upright. His eyes seared hers with hatred, and then he thrust his hand into the closet, tearing the dresses from their hangers in his search for her cloak. He found what he was seeking at last, and wrapped it roughly about her, lifting her clear off her feet and up into his arms. She could feel the bones of his chest and shoulders as he held her in a fierce grip that told her he enjoyed hurting her.

“Unfortunately for you, wife, your widowhood was a touch premature. A fact which I’m sure you bitterly regret.”

Cathy squirmed in his arms, deathly frightened of
being borne away by this dark, terrifying stranger. Dear God, he was not the man she knew and loved! He hated her, and he looked like the devil himself with all the fires of hell burning out of his eyes! This must be some strange, twisted nightmare. … Cathy prayed that she was having a nightmare, and writhed desperately in an effort to wake herself up.

“Lie still! Lie still, bitch, or by God I’ll …”

The threat trailed off as he crushed her to him. Cathy went limp, convinced by the violence of his tone that he was no apparition. Her heart was beating in frightened bursts, and she suddenly knew how a rabbit must feel in a snare when the hunter approaches. Was he going to kill her … ?

The bedroom door creaked open, sending a quivering circle of light spilling over the floor. Cathy could feel him freeze. She froze, too, in terror for the person coming into her room. He was mad, and violent. He was capable of murder.…

“Miss Cathy?” Martha said, venturing a step or two into the room, the candle she carried held high as she peered toward the bed. When she perceived a candle already burning by the bed, she faltered, and then looked around searchingly.

“Miss Cathy?” The voice was a quavery whisper. Cathy could feel Jon’s heart beating in slamming thuds against her ear. He fumbled at his waist with one hand, and Cathy realized with a sickening sense of helplessness that he was carrying a pistol. She tried to scream, to warn Martha, but was able to force only a strangled groan through the gag. It was enough. Martha swung toward them, her eyes widening as she dropped the candle with a crash, her mouth opening for a scream.

“Make a sound and I’ll kill her.”

Jon’s voice sounded hoarse and menacing as he threatened Martha. The woman froze, the cry of alarm dying in her throat as she saw the pistol pressed to Cathy’s head.

“Come over here.”

Martha stared at him with growing horror.

“You’re … the pirate!” she gasped painfully. She went paper-white, as if she might faint.

“I said, come here!” Jon’s voice, low though it was, cracked like a whip. Martha obeyed jerkily, like a puppet on a string. Cathy met her nanny’s frightened eyes. Be calm, she willed silently. Do as he says. He’s gone mad.

When Martha was within touching distance, Jon set Cathy on her feet, holding her with one arm around her waist so that she could not run away. The pistol was now pointed squarely at Martha. It didn’t waver as he reached out to pull the sash of the woman’s wrapper free. He deftly looped it into a hangman’s noose with one hand and then slipped it over Martha’s head to rest around her neck. He turned her around so that her back was to them, taking up the slack in the sash and tying it to his belt. Cathy could only stand by numbly, waiting to see what he would do next. So far, he hadn’t actually harmed either of them. Perhaps if they were docile he would relax his guard long enough to give them a chance to escape. Martha had neither moved nor spoken since Jon had turned her around.

“When I give the word, we’re going to walk very quietly out of the house. If one of you makes a false move, or a sound, I’ll kill you both. Do you understand?”

Cathy nodded, hoping he could feel the movement of her head against his chest. She believed him. He was
mad enough to do exactly as he had said. Martha’s head bobbed in the same assenting gesture. Cathy looked around her wildly, searching for anything that might be used to delay or impede him until they could be rescued. There was nothing.

“Move!”

The command was like a bullet next to Cathy’s ear. Martha took a tentative step forward, and Jon pushed Cathy after her. She stumbled over one of her crumpled dresses that he had pulled from the wardrobe and thrown to the floor. He swore furiously, kicking it out of the way, but the memory of it and the others lying like silent witnesses in front of the wardrobe comforted Cathy slightly. Her father would realize that they had been kidnapped when he saw such traces. She prayed he would be in time to rescue them. Jon was clearly not sane, and she and Martha were helpless in his hands. He could do with them what he willed.

Thirteen

J
on’s cabin aboard the
Margarita
was unchanged. Martha and Cathy had been thrust roughly through the door, which was then slammed shut behind them. There was the sound of a key grating in the lock. The cabin was pitch dark, and icy cold, but Cathy at least was thoroughly familiar with it. Shivering slightly with cold, relieved to be rid of Jon’s demonic presence, she crossed to the table and lit the candle that stood there. By its light, she could see that Martha was trembling, her arms hugging her plump body. Her bare feet were blue from having walked barefoot through the snow to the closed carriage that had been awaiting him farther down the street. Cathy supposed she could attribute the fact that Jon had carried her to the child burgeoning inside her. His arms about her had felt heart breakingly familiar—with one enormous difference: he had held her as if he hated her. Cathy was more than ever convinced that he had gone mad.

Martha’s teeth chattered audibly, and with a little cry Cathy ran clumsily to embrace her nanny. The older woman’s arms came around her to hug her tightly.

“Oh, Miss Cathy,” she murmured brokenly. “Do you think he means to harm us?”

“I don’t think so, Martha,” Cathy denied, although she was far from sure herself. As she spoke she turned away
to strip two quilts from the bed, wrapping one around Martha and one around herself.

“If he meant to hurt us, surely he would have done so already,” Cathy argued, as much to convince herself as Martha. She knelt before the coal stove and stuffed a few sticks of kindling inside before striking a match and setting it ablaze. After a few moments the coals began to glow, and Cathy sank back on her heels, pleased with herself.

Martha’s eyes were closed, and her head was flung back when Cathy turned around. The woman’s face was pasty. Cathy was afraid that the experience they had just endured had been even more frightening for Martha than for herself. For Martha was totally unfamiliar with Jon. Perhaps it had brought on some sort of attack. She got laboriously to her feet, weighted down by the seven-month fetus inside her, and walked to Martha’s side.

“Why don’t you lie down, Martha?” she asked gently. “The bed’s quite comfortable. I can guarantee it.”

Cathy smiled as she spoke, hoping to lighten the fear that clogged the very air. Martha opened her eyes and stared at the bed as one would at a poisonous snake.

“Is that where … did he bring you here after … my poor lovely, you must have been frightened to death. I never realized.…” Martha’s words trailed off, and she regarded Cathy with loving pity. Cathy smiled at her.

“Yes, that is where …” she echoed teasingly, hoping to buck Martha up a little by a deliberately light touch. “But at the time I must admit that I was as much curious as frightened. I wondered what it was like, you see. Besides, Jon was … was … different then.”

She bit her lower lip as she spoke, her eyes clouding over. Martha reached out to clasp her hand.

“Has he gone mad, Miss Cathy?” the woman whispered. Cathy shut her eyes. This was what she feared herself, yet to admit as much to Martha would only terrify the woman further. She returned the pressure of the hand, but then tugged at it briskly.

“Come on,” she said, avoiding a direct answer. “Let’s both get into bed. I, for one, am frozen, and we won’t do ourselves any good by sitting here worrying.”

Martha obediently got to her feet and followed Cathy across to the bunk. Cathy urged her between the sheets, then spread the two quilts back over the bed and got beneath them herself. They huddled together, their body heat gradually warming them, and at last Martha drifted off to sleep. Cathy smiled wryly at the woman’s slight snores. Martha had always been able to sleep through anything. Something to do with a hardy Scots ancestry, she supposed, although Martha herself would doubtless attribute it to a clear conscience.

Try as she would, Cathy could no longer avoid thinking about Jon. He had not said a word to her since that tersely voiced “move!”—not even when he had roughly removed her bonds during the long ride to the coast. Obviously, he had come to repay her for some wrong she had supposedly done him. His whole attitude made that clear. But what could it be? Surely he was not enraged over the manner of their marriage! No, he was too violently angry to be nursing a grievance about something so unimportant to him. Then what had she done? She tried frantically to remember any injury she had caused him, but could think of nothing. Which left her first terrifying conclusion intact. He was, quite simply, mad. It was the only explanation.

Cathy shivered, pulling the quilts more securely around her. The thought of being helpless in the hands of a madman was unnerving in the extreme. What had befallen him to turn his brain in such a way? Would he, perhaps, recover his senses? Or maybe her father would manage to rescue them before anything too horrible could happen. She hoped so. She prayed so. The memory of Jon’s gray eyes gleaming like the fires of hell made her sweat with fear.

The chance of rescue was becoming more remote every second, she realized. Above her she could hear the flapping of the
Margarita
’s sails as they were run up the masts. The sudden plunging of the ship beneath her said that they were beginning to move toward the sea. Once away from the coast, they could head anywhere. It might be weeks, months even, before a rescue party could overtake them. Dear Lord! Her eyes widened with horror. This time there could be no rescue! The man who had stolen her away was her husband in the eyes of the law, and she was absolutely subject to his wishes. He owned her, like a slave, and any man who attempted to come between them would be legally in the wrong. The thought so stunned Cathy that she could only stare blankly into space. Her heart pounded as she realized that Jon had her well and truly trapped. And the hysterically funny part about the whole thing was that the web was of her own making!

Cathy drifted off despite her fear, and, the next thing she knew, she was being jerked awake to the sound of the key turning in the lock. Her eyes widened fearfully as the door opened and Jon strode into the room. Instinctively she pulled the covers high around her neck. His eyes ran over her derisively, jeering at the action, and then
he turned back to whoever had followed him to the door.

“I want a bath,” he said abruptly to the unseen person. The reply was unintelligible, although plainly affirmative. Jon swung back to face Cathy.

“Get her the hell out of here,” he growled, brusquely nodding at Martha who was coming groggily awake. “Now!”

“W-why?” Cathy stammered, clutching instinctively at the older woman. Martha sat up, her gray hair in a wild frizz around her head, her arm going protectively about her charge.

“Don’t worry, lovey. No one’s sending me away from you!”

It was an unmistakable challenge. Martha, up in arms like a lioness protecting her one cub, glared at Jon ferociously. He scowled back, his thick black brows rushing together ominously over his nose. The rest of his expression was hidden by that fierce-looking beard. Cathy trembled, and Martha’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

“I said get out.” Jon’s voice was even, but it had an underlying tinge of menace. “Unless you want to watch me bathe. It’s your choice.”

He shrugged indifferently, turning back to open the door for Petersham who struggled in with the porcelain bath that Cathy had used in happier times. Cathy’s spirits picked up a little at the sight of her old friend. She was not to be entirely at Jon’s mercy, it seemed!

“Oh, Petersham!” she exclaimed. “How are you?”

The joy in her voice made Jon’s eyes narrow. Petersham glanced at her, his expression stony.

“Very good, ma’am,” he answered, his voice like ice. Cathy fell back against the pillows. Good God, Petersham
hated her too! What was it that she had done? Would no one tell her? Or did they suppose she already knew?

Jon’s lips curved in the ghost of a satisfied smile. Cathy stared at him. The murderous light was gone from his eyes, and except for that revolting beard and his filthy clothes, he looked almost normal. Was he insane? Or was there something going on that she simply didn’t understand?