Island Flame (42 page)

His mouth as it twisted over hers was deliberately brutal, his tongue raping her mouth with no thought of her pleasure or even comfort. The feel of her soft little mouth opening under his, her arms twining around his neck, her small tongue caressing his lips and teeth lit the fuse of both his starved passion and his mounting rage. She was actually responding to a kiss that was intended to insult her! She thought she had won at last, he realized infuriatedly. The evening was ending just as she had planned—with him making love to her. Well, he would take her because he could no longer help himself. But my lady wouldn’t
have everything her own way. Jon smiled savagely, his hand coming up to clench over the top of her extravagant ballgown before jerking downward with all his might.

The flimsy material gave with a satisfying rip. Cathy gasped against his mouth, placing both hands against his chest and trying to push away. Jon let her draw back a little, wanting her to see his face—he knew it would be frightening with its furious mixture of hatred, passion, and rage. The sleepy satisfaction vanished from her eyes as she stared at him. Jon knew he must look mad, as indeed he was. She had finally succeeded in driving him insane.

He held his stare as he plunged his hand, with brutish strength, down the front of her chemise. His fingers closed over her breast, pinching cruelly at the soft peak. She cried out with shocked protest, trying to squirm free. His arm tight around her waist kept her clamped firmly on his knees.

“What’s the matter, wife?” he jeered cruelly, jerking her chemise down over her shoulders so that her rounded breasts popped free. The neckline of the chemise trapped her arms at her waist, and she had no way of holding him off as he bent his head to suckle at her breast. His mouth clamped ferociously over the tender nipple, ravaging her, hurting her.

“Jon, don’t,” Cathy moaned, helpless in his arms. The violence of his mood drove all thoughts of lovemaking from her head.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

He was angry—furiously and savagely angry. Cathy was more than a little afraid of him. He plainly meant to punish her for her behavior earlier in the evening. Just the feel of his mouth sucking viciously where little Cray
still nursed did that. She felt her milk begin to flow, and flushed painfully. His use of her was humiliating.

Jon tasted the warm, sweet liquid as it gushed into his mouth, his face contorting fiendishly. His outraged desire rose with an infernal heat, and even as he knew that he had to have her, now, this minute, he felt a curious sneaking shame that he could so abuse the mother of his child. But the woman deserved it, had asked for it in fact, and nothing could stop him from giving it to her. His fingers dug into her waist and he bore her back against the padded seat. Her eyes were wide and frightened as they stared up into his.

“Jon, please,” she begged weakly. Her hands were still imprisoned by her chemise, and his weight on her made struggling impossible. Besides, he was her husband. He had the legal right to take her, when and where he pleased.

“Please what? Isn’t this what you wanted?” he demanded viciously, his face just inches away from hers. In the flickering light of the lantern, he looked inhuman, diabolical. Cathy shivered beneath him. His mouth twisted as he felt her fear.

“No—not like this … !” she cried, shutting her eyes against the sadistic mask that his face had become.

“Like what then?”

“I—I wanted you to love me!” Cathy muttered in despair. His eyes blazed with demoniacal rage at her soft words.

“Far be it from me to disappoint a lady,” he sneered, rising to his knees between her spread legs. He was kneeling on the golden skirt of her ballgown, leering down at the quivering, rose-tipped mounds of her bared breasts. His weight on the material of her dress held her legs
immobile. Her arms ached from where the chemise cut into their softness.

Jon’s hand went to the buttons of his breeches, and he began to unfasten them one at a time, his movements almost leisurely. Cathy’s eyes widened with shocked horror. He couldn’t mean to take her in the carriage! But apparently he did. His swollen desire jutted out at her obscenely amidst the dark finery of his evening clothes. Cathy couldn’t take her eyes from it. Jon laughed, the sound ugly, and reached down to whip her skirts up around her waist. Her lace-trimmed linen pantalets still stood between him and his goal, and he ripped at them until they hung in ragged tatters from her waist. Husband or no, Cathy began to struggle, kicking at him frantically and trying to roll from the seat. Jon subdued her easily, seeming to enjoy her futile fight. His teeth gleamed at her wolfishly as he dragged her back in place. His hands closed hurtfully over her buttocks.

He held her like that, her bottom lifted toward where he knelt between her flailing legs, his eyes gloating on her squirming, shamed nakedness. Cathy’s breath caught in her throat at the deliberate crudity of his look, her head thrashing helplessly from side to side against the velvet-cushioned seat.

“Jon, please don’t!” she pleaded desperately, knowing that if he took her like this, in anger and hatred, something would be destroyed between them forever. When she imagined him making love to her, she had pictured the laughing, tender Jon of Las Palmas, not this hard, brutal stranger who seemed bent on hurting and humiliating her.

“Why the hell not?” His voice was vicious, his hands painfully kneading the soft flesh of her buttocks. “You’re
my wife, by your own unsavory little act. I own you. I must admit, keeping a wife is more expensive than paying an occasional whore, but I plan to get my money’s worth. Starting right now.”

With this speech he pulled her toward him, spearing her with his passion, his action brutal. Her cry of pain gave him almost fiendish pleasure. He wanted to hurt her, meant to hurt her. He took her like an animal, kneeling above her, plunging savagely in and out. Her pained whimpers drove him on like red-hot whips. His eyes glazed over with passion, his breath rasping harshly in his throat. Cathy’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears trickling past her closed lids. She had accused him of rape before. By God, now she knew what the word meant!

A ragged groan was dragged from deep inside him as his seed spewed hotly forth. For some minutes afterward he stayed imbedded in her soft warmth, then his eyes opened and he stared expressionlessly down into her tear-wet face. Sneering, he looked her half-naked body up and down, then freed himself and stood up, turning his back as he adjusted his clothing. Cathy lay where he had dropped her, making no attempt to cover herself. Shock and despair had combined to make her totally apathetic to anything else he might take it into his head to do. Jon turned around, his lip curling angrily as he saw that she hadn’t moved.

“Hoping for more?” he mocked in an unpleasant growl. The carriage swayed over a pot-hole in the road, and he had to brace himself with one hand against the wall. “I’d be happy to accommodate you, but we’re nearly home. Unless you want the coachman to take my place, I suggest you cover yourself.”

Still Cathy didn’t move. With a furious curse Jon
reached down, grabbing her by the arm and jerking her into a sitting position. She cringed away from him, her blue eyes swimming with tears. Jon’s face tightened ominously.

“I said cover yourself!” he grated. Cathy made feeble attempts to obey. Her hands were shaking so badly that she was barely able to tidy herself. Jon watched, mouth compressed in a grim line, as she managed to slide the straps of her chemise back up over her shoulders, hiding her full breasts from his view. She smoothed her skirt down over her legs, but there was nothing she could do about her torn bodice. It gaped open, revealing her flesh through the thin silk of her chemise.

Jon swore under his breath as the carriage came to a rocking halt. Cathy clutched the front of her dress together with both hands, twisting around so that her back was toward the door. Quickly Jon doffed his coat, draping it around her shoulders before leaning over to blow out the lantern. No sooner had the interior of the carriage plunged into darkness than the door was swung open. The poker-faced coachman stood waiting for them to descend.

Jumping easily to the ground, Jon turned to hold up his arms for Cathy. She submitted woodenly to being lifted down, but when Jon’s hands would have left her waist she swayed, feeling suddenly dizzy. Her knees no longer seemed to have the strength to hold her upright. Jon stifled a curse as he felt rather than saw her weakness, and tightened his hands on her waist. Unable to help herself, Cathy closed her eyes, leaning heavily back against him. She was sure she was going to faint.

With an indrawn breath, Jon slid one arm around her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, picking her up as if she was a small child. Her head lolled weakly
on his shoulder, looking ghostly in the faint moonlight. The coachman stood gaping at the pair of them, and Jon scowled at him.

“Put the carriage away, and see to the horses,” he ordered tersely, then moved with long, angry strides up the front steps and into the house.

The hall was deserted, the servants long since in bed. A pair of candles had been left burning on a table at the foot of the stairs for use by the master and mistress of the house when they returned home in the small hours of the morning. His hands full, Jon was unable to take advantage of their light to ease his way up the stairs. Cursing under his breath, he bent to blow them out, mounting the stairs in a thick darkness that was relieved only marginally by the silvery moonlight streaming through the fan-shaped window above the door. Agile and keen-eyed from his years at sea, he managed to negotiate the curving steps without too much difficulty. Cathy lay limply in his arms as he strode along the upstairs hall, not even bothering to put her own around his neck. She felt foully, churningly sick.

Jon paused outside the door to her bedroom, his grip shifting slightly as he struggled to turn the knob. Cathy felt herself slipping and instinctively clutched at his shoulders just as the door swung open.

The warm glow of a many-branched candelabra lit the room that was designed to be shared by Woodham’s owner and his wife. The huge four-poster, its covers turned down invitingly, loomed large in the center of the floor. A small fire burned in the grate, and in front of it, curled up in a chair, Martha slumbered peacefully.

“You can put me down now,” Cathy whispered stiffly,
not looking at him, mindful of Martha’s sleeping form. “I feel quite recovered.”

“You look recovered,” he retorted in a stinging undertone, his gray eyes blazing with anger and something else as he looked down into her pale face. “Your face is as white as death. What the hell’s wrong with you, anyway? Did I hurt you?”

This last question was ground out with an effort. Cathy could tell from the anxious look in his eyes that he was afraid his assault might have damaged tissues not yet fully recovered from Cray’s birth.

“Yes, you hurt me!” Her response was no less fierce for being whispered. “I thought that was the whole idea!”

“Miss Cathy, is that you?” Martha sat up, blinking sleepily as she looked around the room.

“Yes, Martha, it’s me.” Cathy was glad of Martha’s presence. The sooner Jon left, the happier she would be. To him, she whispered fiercely, “Put me down.”

“As I’ve told you before, I don’t take orders from you,” Jon growled in her ear, but the arm beneath her knees relaxed its grip, allowing her feet to slide to the floor. His other arm stayed firmly about her waist, and Cathy was secretly glad of its support. Her head swam alarmingly, and if he had released her she was afraid she might have fallen.

“You’re late, lovey, and I was.…” Martha began reprovingly, just making out Cathy’s shape in the shadows beyond the firelight. The woman broke off, her eyes widening perceptibly as she saw Jon standing behind her charge, one arm clasping her possessively about the waist. Martha’s sharp eyes traveled from Jon’s arm to Cathy’s tumbled hair, then touched on her huge, slightly
unfocused eyes and bee-stung mouth. Clearly, Miss Cathy would have no need of her services tonight! From the looks of the two of them, all they wanted was to be alone.

“Well, it’s plain to see that you won’t be needing me tonight, lovey, so I’ll get along to my own bed. Don’t worry about Master Cray. If he wakes, I’ll tend him. Do that young gentleman good to get a taste of a sugar-tit, for a change!”

She smiled at them beatifically as she spoke, her gray hair in its two neat plaits swaying in time to her stately walk toward the door.

“Martha …” Cathy gasped out convulsively, frightened anew at the idea of being left alone with her husband. Jon’s arm tightened like a vise around her waist, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh as Martha looked inquiringly back over her shoulder.

“Yes, Miss Cathy?”

“Let her go. Do you want her to see you like this?” Jon hissed in Cathy’s ear as Martha spoke. Cathy thought of her torn dress, of the unmistakable signs of Jon’s possession that still soiled her body, and swallowed.

“Have a good night, Martha,” she forced out from between dry lips.

Martha smiled at her whimsically.

“You too, lovey,” she twinkled, and left the room, pulling the door closed very gently behind her.

Jon didn’t release her immediately. Cathy’s every nerve was aware of the strong body behind her, of his heart beating rhythmically beneath her ear, of his breath stirring her hair. She stiffened, trying to pull away. His grip didn’t slacken.

“You can let me go now. We’re quite alone. There’s no
need to continue with your touching display of concern.” Sarcasm edged the words.

“Can you stand?” Jon’s voice was harsh as he ignored her taunt.

“Certainly,” Cathy replied with icy dignity. The hard arm around her waist slowly removed itself. Without its iron support her knees quivered, but she forced herself to remain upright. All she wanted now was to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Good-night,” she said pointedly, taking a few steps toward the bed and then turning to face him. Very casually she leaned against a bedpost, conscious of his eyes on her. He made no move to leave.