Island Flame (44 page)

Jon slept too, but not as deeply as Cathy. He awoke just as the sun was peeping over the horizon, the first of its rays slanting into the room, to find his arms wrapped tightly around her naked body. Jon ran a lazy hand over her silken skin, then when that brought no response he propped himself up on one elbow, staring down at the sleeping loveliness of her face.

His eyes touched tenderly on the dark lashes that lay in long, feathery crescents against her delicately tinted cheeks, her small nose, the lovely, seductive curve of her rose-colored mouth. He admired the fine-boned line of
her jaw, her slender neck, the strawberries-and-cream perfection of her breasts. The quilts were still twisted about their feet, and the slenderness of her waist, the rounded turn of her hip, her long, lissome legs were all laid bare to his appreciative gaze. He thought of the incredible bliss she had given him in the night, and marveled at the depth of his passion. Never before in his life had he experienced anything like it.

A stray sunbeam touched a curling lock of her hair, bringing it to vibrant, shimmering life. Jon picked up the strand, testing its silken texture with his fingers, lifting it to his nose to inhale its sweet fragrance, pressing it reverently to his lips. He froze in the act. He was behaving like some besotted half-wit! Last night the devouring love he felt for her had blinded him to everything but her beauty and his need. Daylight, with its accompanying return to sanity, had come not a moment too soon. Jon thanked God that Cathy had slept through his awakening. If she had not, he would have confessed his love, imploring her on bended knees if necessary to return it. God, how she would have enjoyed that! Her revenge would have been complete.

Jon got off the bed hastily, gathering up his discarded clothes from where they had fallen. A scowl furrowed his brow. He needed time to think before facing Cathy again. They could not go on as they were. At least, he could not. Not bothering to do more than pull on his breeches, he let himself quietly out of the room.

The day was well-advanced when Cathy awoke, the sun high up in the sky. She stirred sleepily, missing the warmth that had curled around her in the night. Her eyes blinked open, and she pressed her face lovingly to the indention
in the pillow next to hers. Jon must already have gone out to the fields. What a slug-a-bed he must think her! And what a shameless hussy, she thought, blushing as she remembered her boldness of the night.

Jon loved her. The thought rang with a clarion purity through the otherwise confusing memories of last night. Could she doubt it, remembering his wild lovemaking? Slowly a frown marred her features as less welcome memories began to intrude. He had taken her more than once, last night. The first time was in the carriage on the way home from the ball. With sickening detail, Jon’s brutal rape of her body replayed itself in her mind. God, how could he have done such a thing? If he loved her? Had he actually said that he loved her, or had she only imagined it because she wanted it so much? She concentrated, trying to remember. A deep, painful blush crept up over her face to the very roots of her hair as the events of the night came back to her. God, she had acted like a bitch in heat, practically begging him to make love to her! She remembered the way she had touched him, had pressed wanton kisses all over his body, and wanted to die.

He didn’t love her. He couldn’t. Not after the bestial, disgusting way he had taken her in the carriage! The champagne she had consumed had combined with her desperate need to make the words up out of thin air! God, how he must be laughing at her! How he must despise her! Or worse, maybe he just didn’t care. Maybe such nights were so common to him that he wouldn’t even give her behavior a second thought.

A discreet knock at the door interrupted her agonized musings. She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm.

“Yes?”

“About time you woke up, Miss Cathy,” Martha scolded good-humoredly, opening the door. “Master Jon told me to let you sleep, but enough’s enough. Master Cray is making such a to-do that you’d think he was about to starve!”

“You’ve seen Jon this morning!” Cathy said with as much coolness as she could muster.

“Yes, and a fine feather he looked to be in, too. You must have stirred his blood for him, last night!”

In spite of herself, Cathy could feel a blush stealing across her cheeks. There was no doubt that she had, as Martha put it, stirred his blood! Humiliation rose like bile in her throat, and Martha’s amused chuckles didn’t help.

“Was he going out to the fields?” She had to know how much time she had to prepare for her next meeting with him. Martha’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Why, no, lovey, he said he had to go to Atlanta on business. He said he’d be gone about a week. Didn’t he tell you!” Martha sounded suddenly concerned, as if she was beginning to suspect that something was not quite right. Cathy swallowed, and did her best to produce a bright smile.

“Oh, yes, of course he did. I just forgot, for a moment,” she lied. “Did you say Cray was hungry? Poor little boy! Bring him here, please, and I’ll see what I can do about it.”

Cathy went through the rest of the day like a zombie. She smiled, she played with Cray, she made all the right responses while one thought pounded repeatedly in her brain: Jon cared so little for her, thought so little of what had happened between them the night before, that he
could take off to Atlanta for a week without a word, without even saying good-bye! Dear God, the thought hurt! Cathy had never felt so totally forsaken in her life.

Late that afternoon as she played with Cray in the rose garden she heard a carriage roll up the drive. What now, she thought dismally, and prepared herself for a gossip session with a catty neighbor. Some pretty probing questions were likely to be directed at herself, she realized with a blush. Last night had been a disaster on all fronts.

“You’ve got a visitor, miss,” Petersham came out to tell her, sounding vaguely disapproving. Cathy looked at him, puzzled by his tone.

“Who is it?”

“A gentleman, miss. He wouldn’t give his name.”

Which accounted for Petersham’s disapproval, Cathy reflected. She hoped fervently that it wasn’t Paul Harrison come to apologize for his behavior of last night, or, worse, to pursue their acquaintance. Cathy carried Cray with her as she followed Petersham back into the house, hurriedly smoothing her hair as Petersham indicated the parlor.

“I put him in there, Miss Cathy. If you need me, I’ll be within call.”

Really, did he expect the man to attack her in her own house? Cathy frowned at him impatiently, then pushed open the parlor door. A nattily dressed, silver-haired gentleman stood with his back to her. He turned slowly as Cathy opened the door. Cathy recognized him as soon as he moved. A glad cry rose in her throat, and she practically ran across the room to embrace him.

“Papa! Oh, Papa, I’m so glad you’re here!”

Seventeen

A
re you sure you’re doing the right thing, Miss Cathy?” Martha sounded deeply troubled as she poured steaming cans of hot water into the ornate bath.

“Yes, Martha, I’m sure.” Cathy’s reply was clipped. Inwardly she wished she was really as certain as she claimed to be. Part of her longed to tuck Cray under one arm and her portmanteau under the other and fly back to Woodham—and Jon—as if her feet had suddenly sprouted wings. But that was the soft, weak, feminine part. With the rest of her—her pride, her self-respect, her common sense—she knew that the time had come to cut her losses. Jon did not love her—his behavior had made that more than clear. It was folly—no, madness—to stay with a man who sooner or later would take her heart and break it into millions of tiny pieces. She had to get away while she still had the strength of will to do so—and before she had another infant growing under her skirt. Now that the ice had been broken and he was once again taking her to bed, it would not be long before she found herself with child a second time. And the bonds that bound her to Jon would be stronger than ever. Even now, she could only hope that his seed from those last two encounters had not taken.

The thought of Jon’s reaction to her leave-taking made Cathy swallow nervously. But luckily she wouldn’t be around to see or hear it, she thought, shifting Cray to a
more comfortable position as he nursed. By the time Jon returned to Woodham, the
Unicorn
would be well out to sea. He had said he’d be gone for a week, and two days had already passed. Two more would see the
Unicorn
on her way to England.

Her father’s presence was providential. Without Sir Thomas she would never have been able to arrange passage in the time available to her. But Sir Thomas had already reserved one cabin on the
Unicorn
, and with his influence it was easy to arrange for two more.

Something about her father’s attitude puzzled Cathy. He acted worried, guilty almost, and he went to great pains to assure himself that both she and Cray had not been harmed. He had even questioned Martha as to how they had fared, and when the woman told him roundly that Captain Hale treated both his wife and new son with the utmost kindness Sir Thomas became thoughtful, even morose. When Cathy had announced her intention of leaving Woodham while her husband was still away, Sir Thomas had seemed almost reluctant to help her. He had only relented when she had broken down and cried on his shoulder.

But finally, she had gotten her own way as she always did with him. And here she was, in a luxurious cabin aboard the English ship
Unicorn
, her son at her breast, her nanny to care for them both, and under the protection of her father. Why then did she feel so miserable?

“Lovey, won’t you change your mind before it’s too late?” Martha’s words broke into her thoughts. Cathy stirred restlessly in the chair by the bed, one hand joggling Cray’s diaper-clad bottom as she stretched her aching back.

“No, Martha, I won’t.” Cathy was tired of the endless
discussion and her voice reflected it. “It’s best that we go back to England for a number of reasons you know nothing about.”

This attempt to quell Martha failed abysmally, as Cathy should have known it would. Instead of being silenced, Martha merely shifted the focus of her attack.

“You’ll break the poor man’s heart, lovey. He’s that daft about you.”

Cathy slanted Martha a reproachful look, then deliberately shifted her attention back to Cray, whose grip on her nipple was lessening as he struggled with sleep. A fond smile curved her mouth as she watched his silent battle. As long as her son lived she would never be able to forget his father, she thought a trifle sadly. The two were so alike, even in Cray’s infancy, that it was uncanny.

“Captain Hale’s a fine man, Miss Cathy. You’ll be hard put to it to find another to match him, or his care of you.”

Cathy was unable to stop herself from responding to this.

“Captain Hale kidnapped me, raped me, and got me with child. He then deserted me, and only came back because he wanted revenge for some fancied wrong. If that’s what you call his care of me, you can have it. I think I’ll be better off without it.”

“He’s your husband, lovey, whether you like it or not. In the eyes of God and the eyes of the law. It’s not right, you taking his son and leaving him.”

“Oh, hush, Martha, for God’s sake!” Cathy cried angrily. The shrillness of her voice caused Cray’s blue eyes to open wide with alarm. The small replica of Jon’s face crinkled ominously, and Cathy got hurriedly to her feet as Cray let out a frightened yell.

“Hush, my darling, Mommy wasn’t fussing. Shh, now, that’s my good boy,” she crooned into the black curls that lay against her shoulder as she walked him back and forth. At Martha she cast a burning glare, as if to say, “Now see what you’ve done.” The woman looked unrepentant. Her face was set in stolid lines as she laid out soap and towels for Cathy’s bath.

Finally Cray’s sobs quieted to gulping sniffles, and then these too ceased. Cathy crossed with him to the bunk. If she moved very carefully and was very quiet she might be able to put the child down without waking him. He had been fractious all day, and she was worn out with tending him. She could only surmise that the change in his surroundings had not agreed with him, as Martha had pointed out earlier with gloomy relish.

Cathy positioned Cray on his stomach close to the wall side of the bunk, then covered him with the tiny hand-crocheted blanket that she had brought with them from Woodham. Dear as the child was to her, she welcomed his periods of sleep. The bath water steamed invitingly, and she longed to climb in and soothe her stiff muscles with a long, luxurious soak.

Martha was thankfully silent as she helped Cathy to undress. Cathy knew that this unaccustomed forbearance was not due to anything she had said or done. Martha was just reluctant to disturb Cray’s rest. Sooner or later the woman would start again with her recriminations. They would undoubtedly be thrown at her head incessantly until the
Unicorn
was at sea.

The water, as she slid into it, felt wonderful. Cathy sank to her chin, breathing deeply of the soft honeysuckle fragrance and blowing idly on the bubbles. She closed her
eyes, determined to enjoy the first moments of peace and quiet she had had all day. A dark, hawkish face appeared on the screen of her closed lids. Cathy opened them immediately. She would not allow herself to think of Jon.