Island Flame (38 page)

When Cathy saw exactly how she was expected to get from the
Margarita
’s deck to the small boat bobbing far beneath on the surface of the water, she balked. There was no way that she was going to sit in the sling Jon had devised and be lowered over the side. If she fell, she would fall all the way to China. If nothing else could be arranged, she would much prefer to take her chances with the ladder. Martha agreed with Cathy wholeheartedly. She misliked the look of the contraption herself.

Jon coaxed, cajoled, and ordered. Cathy refused to budge. Finally he lost his patience and dumped her bodily into the sling, still handling her as gently as he could in deference to her condition. Cathy, seeing there was no help for it, allowed him to tie her in, then closed her eyes and clung hard to the attached ropes as she was suspended over the side. A pulley lowered her carefully, and a sailor caught her at the other end, but Cathy was white by the time the operation was completed. She had always had an irrational fear of heights.

Once Cathy was safely aboard the punt, the operation proceeded speedily. Martha was lowered in the same fashion, screaming as she was suspended over the blue waters of the bay. Less care was taken to catch her than Cathy, and by the time Martha was safely installed on the wooden seat her skirt was thoroughly splashed. She muttered direly as Jon climbed down the ladder and jumped lightly aboard. Luckily the water was as smooth as satin. The journey to shore was completed without a hitch.

Jon had hired an open carriage and given it instructions to await them at the dock. He proposed to take Cathy to Woodham while Martha followed in a second carriage with the baggage. The ride should take no more than an hour, and then they would be safely home. Nobody would have to move again unless he or she wanted to.

This partly mollified Martha. She agreed, with an air of injured dignity, to wait for the luggage and to watch over its safe bestowal. Jon, inwardly blessing his father for not having endowed him with a nanny, swung up into the carriage beside Cathy and nodded to the driver to move off.

Cathy leaned her head back against the upholstered
seat, drinking in the sights and sounds around her. As they moved over the cobbled streets, they passed avenue upon avenue of small shops, with wooden signs hanging out front advertising everything from a millinery to a tooth-drawer. After the child was born, Cathy anticipated, she would spend many a pleasurable afternoon in making the acquaintance of the local boutiques. Jon caught her hand as they drove out toward the residential section, and Cathy turned to look at him, surprised. Lately he had not been given to gestures of affection.

“I bought you something else, yesterday,” he said, continuing to hold her left hand while he drew a small box from the pocket of his coat. As Cathy stared at him he drew the wedding ring from her finger. He held it briefly in his clenched fist, then opened his hand to let it fall carelessly over the side of the carriage. Cathy gasped as the small golden circle was left behind in the road, then turned on Jon indignantly. He thrust the box at her.

“Open it,” he ordered brusquely, and Cathy took the box from him. When she hesitated to open it he flipped up the lid with his thumb. Cathy blinked bemusedly at the glitter of jewels inside. There were two rings; a diamond solitaire flanked by two smaller sapphires, and a plain gold wedding band. She looked from the rings to his face, her eyes questioning.

“My wife wears my rings,” he explained sardonically, and when Cathy continued to stare at him he frowned at her impatiently.

“Put them on.”

She made no move to obey, so he caught up her left hand and slid the rings onto her unresisting fingers. The gesture took her by surprise, and she felt an absurd knot
of tears rise in her throat as the long brown fingers slipped the rings onto her slender white ones. It was almost as if they were getting married again, without the twisted emotions that had made a mockery of the real ceremony, and Cathy’s unguarded eyes as she raised them to Jon’s reflected her feelings.

“Jon, I …” she started to say, but something in his face made her think better of the confession she had been about to make. Instead, she decided to use this chance to protest her total innocence again. “I really didn’t know that you were in prison. I certainly never would have had you beaten, or starved. Please believe me.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed coldly on her face.

“As I think I told you before, the subject is closed. There’s no need for you to make ridiculous attempts to appease me. I have accepted the fact that we are married, for better or worse, so you have no need to fear that I’ll exact some sort of vengeance on you for your actions. You’re perfectly safe.”

The sneering tone of the last words stabbed Cathy to the quick. She took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears that started to her eyes. I must not cry, I must not, she told herself fiercely, willing back the tears that seemed to flow on the slightest provocation in these last weeks of her pregnancy.

“Christ, you’ll try anything, won’t you?” Jon muttered fiercely, looking away from the suspicious glitter in her eyes.

“Of course I will,” Cathy retorted angrily, his contempt stiffening her spine. She tilted her chin at him haughtily. “Being married is a dull business. I have to do something to liven it up!”

“You witch!” Jon swore under his breath. Cathy’s mouth tilted in a satisfied smile. Two could be nasty, she thought vindictively. If he thought that she were willing to play doormat, he could bloody well think again! She made up her mind to give back what she got.

The remainder of the ride passed in almost total silence. Only the steady clop clop of the horse’s hoofs on the dirt road sounded in the air. Finally, Jon roused himself from the black study he was lost in to indicate a certain lane to the driver.

“We’re here,” he said laconically to Cathy.

Cathy sat up, willing to ignore what had passed between them in her eagerness to see her new home. The lane curled between two rows of tall oak trees. Sloping green fields fell away on either side. In the distance Cathy could just make out the misty outline of a two-story brick house. As they drew closer she caught her breath. It was beautiful, a stately mansion with soaring white columns guarding the entrance. A veranda ran the length of the house, and a leaded-glass fan light curved over the oak front door. Shallow steps led up to the veranda. Magnolia trees with their wavy white blossoms flanked the steps on either side.

The carriage halted on the circular drive just in front of the house. Jon made a move as though he would jump down, but was arrested in the act as a woman came out to the edge of the porch to stand staring down at him. Jon stared back, his face curiously hard, and got out of the buggy with calm deliberation.

“Good morning, Isobelle,” Jon said, his voice expressionless. Cathy’s eyes went from her husband’s broad back to the fashionably dressed woman on the porch. The
woman was very pretty in a black-haired, flashing-eyed kind of way, and her figure in the low-cut silk gown was voluptuous. But tiny lines marred the skin of her face, and her red mouth had a petulant droop. She was quite old, Cathy saw, even older than Jon. The merest glimmer of a suspicion as to who she might be began to lurk in Cathy’s brain.

“Jon,” the woman nodded in reply to his greeting. Her bold eyes ran over his tall form in a way Cathy didn’t care for. They had widened appreciatively as they came back to linger on his face, and Cathy bit her lip. “You’ve changed, my dear.”

“So have you, Isobelle,” Jon answered, his voice tight. Remembering Cathy’s presence at last, he turned to lift her from the carriage, holding her very carefully in his arms. Cathy flashed him a poisonous look. He smiled slightly at the anger smoldering in her eyes.

“And who have we here?” Isobelle’s eyes narrowed as they ran over Cathy’s round shape. Cathy regarded the woman haughtily. Her possessive attitude toward Jon was irritating in the extreme.

“This is my wife,” Jon said coolly, carrying Cathy with easy strength as he began to mount the stairs. When he was on the second one from the top he paused. “Cathy, this is Isobelle. My stepmother.”

Cathy’s suspicions were confirmed. This, then, was the woman Jon had adored as a teenager, the one who had so cruelly disillusioned him by her betrayal of his father. Much against her will she murmured something polite, which the woman didn’t even bother to answer.

“Cradle-snatching, Jon?” Isobelle asked provocatively. “Or a case of needs must?”

Jon’s mouth tightened at the woman’s cattiness, and Cathy felt a blush heat her own cheeks. Like it or not, that last remark was too close for comfort. But she’d be boiled in oil before she would let Jon’s stepmother guess her discomfiture. She summoned a polite smile, and kept it firmly glued to her lips as Jon continued up the stairs and across the porch. Isobelle followed them into the hall.

“When a man sees something as lovely as Cathy, he takes whatever steps are necessary to stake his claim to it immediately. Or has it been so long that you’ve forgotten, Isobelle?”

Jon’s reply was negligent, but that it stung the woman was evident from her suddenly heightened color. She started to retort, but bit back the words as Petersham came hurrying into the hall from the back of the house.

“Ah, Petersham,” Jon said evenly, “I wondered if you had somehow gotten lost. I see my—uh—instructions were not carried out.”

“I’m sorry, Cap’n, but she insisted on staying. Said she wanted to meet the bride.” Petersham’s eyes were apologetic as they met Cathy’s. She smiled at him.

“Of course I wanted to meet your wife, Jon,” Isobelle trilled with assumed gaiety. “After all, I suppose she’ll be my step-daughter-in-law. I shall have to introduce her to my friends. When Petersham showed up this morning with some ridiculous story about you wanting the house for your family, I knew I had to see this for myself. It’s so hard to picture you as a family man.”

“Well, now that you’ve seen that I am, indeed, a family man, perhaps you’ll excuse me. My wife hasn’t been well, and she needs to rest. Petersham, have you prepared a room?”

“The master suite, Cap’n.”

Jon started to turn toward the stairs, but Isobelle caught at his arm. Cathy glared at the woman icily, but Isobelle ignored her, smiling archly up into Jon’s face. Cathy was conscious of a sudden, shocking urge to rake her nails over that artfully painted face.

“I’m taking a house in town, Jon. You must call on me after you get your wife settled. We can discuss old … times.”

“I may do that, Isobelle. I suppose you have taken the house servants?”

“They were mine.” Isobelle shrugged, her hand with its scarlet nails stroking his sleeve. Cathy gritted her teeth at the intimacy of the action. “Your father gave them to me just before he died. You’re lucky to get the house. After all, you never came home.”

“No, I never did, did I?” Jon answered coldly, then turned away. Cathy’s arms tightened around his neck as he started up the stairs with her. Petersham was right behind them.

“You are welcome to make use of the carriage outside to take you into town,” Jon said over his shoulder to Isobelle.

“You’re too kind, Jon dear,” the woman purred in reply. “Don’t forget to come and see me. I know how … lonely … a man can get when his wife is in an interesting situation.”

Cathy gasped audibly at this blatant invitation. Jon’s jaw tightened, and he slanted a look down at the indignant girl in his arms as Isobelle left.

“You’re not to go to see her,” Cathy told him in a blunt undertone, not wanting Petersham to hear but unable to keep back the words.

“Are you giving me orders, wife?” Jon’s eyes were suddenly
glacial as they looked down at her. Cathy nodded, her blue eyes still burning with resentment over Isobelle’s boldness.

“Don’t,” Jon said softly, his tone edged with cruelty. “Remember that you’re very much on sufferance. You have no right to question my actions, now or at any other time.”

Cathy stared at him, the pain his words caused stabbing at her chest like a knife. Her chin lifted defiantly.

“I wouldn’t dream of questioning your actions, husband.” Cathy stressed the last word in mocking imitation of the tone Jon used when he uttered “wife.” “But on the other hand, you must not question mine. Remember, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”

“I wouldn’t stake my life on it,” Jon answered grimly. “You just might lose.”

Petersham came around him and opened the door into the master suite, thus averting a quarrel. Cathy glared at her husband resentfully as he placed her carefully in the middle of the big four-poster. His eyes gleamed with a stony implacability down into hers as he straightened up from the bed.

“I trust you’ll be comfortable here.” Jon’s voice was distant, and Cathy knew that the words were said more for Petersham’s benefit than hers.

“Certainly,” she replied with equal coolness, determined not to be outdone at the game of polite disinterest. A spark flared in Jon’s eyes at her tone, and that warning muscle began to twitch in his cheek. Before he could respond with the rage that seemed dangerously near the boiling point, however, Petersham spoke from his place by the window.

“Cap’n, that Martha woman is here with the rest of the things. Do you want me to see to them?”

“I’ll do it. I have to go back into town anyway, and I’ll bring them in on my way. You stay with Miss Cathy until Martha gets up here, and then you can go see what’s left of the stables. If I remember my father correctly, there won’t be much.”

“We aiming to stay here for a while, Cap’n?” Petersham asked quietly.

“For a while,” Jon said shortly, and strode from the room without another glance at Cathy. She bit her lip so hard, in her effort not to call after him, that it bled. He had to go back into town, he’d said—to see that woman, no doubt! He was a lusty man, and she knew for a fact that he hadn’t had a woman in months. If he went to that woman she would never forgive him, she fumed. But then, a little voice inside her head mocked, she would probably never know. Who was there to tell her?

Suspicions ate at Cathy like cancer during the next ten days. Jon was hardly ever home, and when he was he was curt and preoccupied. Cathy could not be certain that he was seeing Isobelle, or any other woman for that matter, but it was more than likely, as she silently acknowledged. There was nothing to stop him, after all. Although she was his wife, he was not bound to her by the usual ties of love or even guilt. He would do just as he damned well pleased, she thought dismally, and if she didn’t like it she would just have to learn to lump it!