Island Flame (6 page)

Hastily she forced her thoughts away from such an indelicate subject, and turned them severely to coming up with a plan of escape. Try as she would, she could think of nothing that had the least chance of success. At last, her head dropped wearily on the pillow and she nodded off to sleep.

She awoke with a start, almost thrown from her makeshift bed by a violent pitch of the ship. She peered around the cabin groggily, uncertain for the moment of where she was. The candle was guttering in its own tallow, and cast only a feeble glow over the room. A movement in one corner of the room caught her eye, and she stiffened with dismay. A tall, masculine form knelt with its back to her, rummaging through one of the sea chests. The captain! His hair was plastered to his skull with water, and his
clothes were soaking wet. He looked as though he had fallen overboard. Another violent heave of the ship, followed closely by a muffled crash of thunder, enlightened her. There was a storm, and he had been out in it. Cathy breathed a silent prayer of gratitude. With a storm to battle, at least he wouldn’t have time for her.

Jon found what he was looking for in the chest and slammed the lid shut. He turned partially toward her and began stripping off his wet clothes, not even so much as glancing in her direction. It was as though he had forgotten her very existence. Cathy watched him through her lashes, carefully feigning sleep.

His chest gleamed in the light of the candle, the dark mat of hair glistening with moisture. The muscles of his arms and chest rippled in the dim light as he tossed aside his shirt, and then he half turned away as he began to peel off his sopping breeches.

Cathy felt hot color wash into her cheeks as she watched him undress, pick up a rough towel from the bed, and briskly rub himself dry. Seen from the back, he looked like a magnificent male animal with his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long, muscular legs. His back and shoulders were deeply tanned. The contrast between them and the skin lower down was startling. Blushing furiously, Cathy let her eyes wander downward to stare with fascination at his buttocks. They were well-muscled and taut looking, completely unlike her own rounded posterior. She imagined that they would be hard to the touch. … Cathy quickly shut her eyes, shamed to the bone by her own thoughts. She had never seen a naked man before, and that she could even look at one without swooning from the shock both frightened and amazed
her. There had to be something wrong with her. A true lady would have fainted dead away at the sight.

Jon stepped into a dry pair of breeches, fastened them, then turned, pulling on his shirt. He looked directly across the room at her still form huddled on the window seat. He grinned and moved toward her unhurriedly. The wench was trying to make him think she was asleep.

Cathy saw him move in her direction, and hastily closed her eyes. She tried to make her breathing regular and deep as he bent over her. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure he must hear it, and know she wasn’t asleep. She concentrated on her breathing, then started violently as she felt his arms slide around her. He swung her up in his arms, and she forced herself to go limp, desperately feigning sleep.

Jon chuckled at her play, and carried her across the cabin to the bed. He lowered her gently to the mattress and stood looking at her. She looked so young and defenseless, with her eyes shut tight against him and her copper hair tumbling across the pillow. Her lips were parted and slightly moist, and the alluring curves of her body were clearly visible through the torn chemise, which was all she had on. Staring down at her, he felt desire, such as he had not known in a long time, rage through his body. His mouth went dry as he imagined crawling into bed with her and easing his lust in her soft flesh. A crash of thunder sobered him as he reluctantly remembered the storm and the lives that depended on his skill. He reached down and pulled the covers over her, then straightened.

“Another time, my lady,” he said softly, and Cathy’s ears burned. Had he known she was not asleep, then? If so, why had he left her alone, and unmolested, in his
bed? Cathy pondered these questions, and the man who caused them, for some time. Dawn was streaking the sky before she finally fell asleep.

When Cathy awoke hours later, the cabin was still almost as dark as it had been during the night. Briefly she wondered at it, then remembered. The storm. It must be very bad, then. The ship was tossing and pitching wildly, and Cathy had a hard time getting to her feet. She had to hold on to a bedpost to steady herself. Someone had evidently already been in the cabin, for there was fresh water in a covered jug, a basket of rolls and honey, and a pot of tea. Her gown had been neatly folded and lay across the foot of the bed. Cathy donned it hastily, clumsily pinning the torn front together. She seated herself at the table, wondering at her lack of hunger. After all, it had been many hours since she had eaten, and she had had no supper at all the night before.

The sweet scent of the rolls wafted up to her and she turned her head away, feeling suddenly queasy. A sidelong roll of the ship made her clutch at her stomach, then get up from the table and run headlong for the window. She barely got it open in time. Mountains of angry dark waves threatened her as she leaned out, emptying her stomach into the sea.

Cathy spent the next three days in bed, alternating between an uneasy sleep and emptying her insides into the slop jar provided for her convenience. She thought that she was going to die, and toward the end of the first day prayed fervently that she might. Anything to escape this misery! The captain laughed unfeelingly when made aware of her state, and instructed his valet, Petersham, to see to her needs.

Petersham was a thin, wiry little man, well into middle age, who had known the captain since he was a mere lad. He had been a groom for the captain’s father at Woodham, he told Cathy, the Hale family home in South Carolina. When young Jon had quarreled with his father and run away to sea, Petersham had been dispatched by the infuriated gentleman to fetch his son back. One thing led to another, however, and Petersham had ended up going to sea with his young charge. He had been with Master Jon ever since, and the things he had seen. … They were enough to curl a person’s hair! All in all, though, he liked the life, and there was no dragging the captain away from it.

Cathy was very much interested in what Petersham told her. So Captain Hale was an American, was he? That explained much. Cathy had heard that the people who lived in the colonies were all wild, heedless savages, and Jonathan Hale certainly bore this out. He was no better than a savage—plundering, murdering, and stealing women at will.

The captain entered his cabin infrequently, always to snatch a quick meal, or a few hours of badly needed rest. The first night she had been asleep when he came in, and had awakened to find him stretched out in exhausted slumber beside her. He was completely naked, and Cathy could feel his skin burning her where he touched her, even through the material of her dress. She tried to edge cautiously away from him, but his arm was resting on her hair and she could not free herself without waking him. She lay back against the pillows uneasily, watching him with wariness in her eyes. As he continued to sleep, she gradually relaxed, and finally dozed off beside him.

He was still sleeping when she awoke, one of his
hands cupped casually around her breast and his knee resting between her thighs. Cathy gasped at the intimacy of their position, and tried frantically to free herself, waking him with her frenzied movements.

“Be still!” he growled, scowling at her through red-rimmed eyes. Cathy subsided weakly, frightened of what he might do if she disobeyed, and he closed his eyes again. But a few minutes later he got up and stretched, casually displaying his male nudity. This time Cathy shut her eyes in real horror. His front view was far more terrifying than his back.

Thunder rolled, and the ship rolled with it. The captain cursed, and dressed himself hastily. His shoulders drooped and his eyes were bloodshot from weariness. Cathy was surprised to find that she actually felt sorry for him. But her softer feelings were quickly dissipated by his next words.

“Next time I get into bed with you, I want you out of that dress. Get Petersham to find you a nightshirt of mine if your modesty is offended. It’s like sleeping with a goddamn pincushion! I warn you, if you are not undressed by the time I return, I’ll strip you myself. And believe me, it won’t displeasure me in the slightest to do so!”

He leered at her, and she pulled the bedclothes high around her neck, not daring to look at him lest she provoke him to some violence. He slammed out of the cabin, in no very good humor, and she smiled gleefully to herself. So the high and mighty captain had been stabbed by the pins in her dress, had he? It was small vengeance for all she had suffered at his hands!

Despite her mirth, she did not dare disobey him. There was no sense in provoking a confrontation if she
could avoid it. She rummaged through his sea chests herself, found a neat pile of nightshirts, and dressed herself in one. It was many times too large for her, the sleeves hanging almost to her knees and the bottom dragging the floor by a good ten inches. But she had to admit that it was far more comfortable than her torn and filthy dress, and as long as she was careful to keep the bedcovers high around her chin when someone was in the cabin, there could be no objection to it. It was certainly far less revealing than her own filmy lawn nightdresses.

The captain did not return to his cabin until late that night, by which time Cathy had grown used to her unaccustomed attire. She was sitting up in bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, cautiously sipping a cup of tea. Her stomach had settled somewhat, but it still went into violent rebellion if the ship pitched too hard. When the captain entered the room, reeling with fatigue, she stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes, and made a motion as though she would vacate the bed.

“If you step one foot out of that bed, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born, my fine lady,” he snarled. “Consider yourself reprieved until a later date.”

Cathy stayed where she was, watching warily as he blew out the candle and then undressed. She could just make out his shadowy form through the gloom. She jumped when he crawled into bed beside her, and tried to pull away when he twined one hard arm around her waist. Then she felt him shiver with a chill. It was just possible that he had spoken the truth, and wanted her solely for her warmth. It was a chance she had to take. She allowed him to pull her close in the warm darkness, his limbs entwining themselves around her stiff body. When
he did nothing more than hold her, she gradually relaxed. The nearness of his body was still frightening—and disturbing, in an odd sort of way—but as long as the storm raged she did not think that she had reason to fear him.

He fell asleep almost at once, his breathing deep and regular. Cathy raised herself on one elbow, peering down at the bronzed face nestled so cozily into her pillow. His eyelashes were ridiculously long for so masculine a man, and lay in dark crescents against his cheeks. His mouth was sensitive, his jaw lean and hard. She felt curiously drawn to him as he slept, and wondered idly how it would feel to run her lips across his sandpaper cheek. … Angry at the turn her thoughts had taken, she flounced back down upon the mattress, closing her eyes. Eventually she drifted off to sleep.

Cathy awoke to find the sun shining at last, and the bed empty beside her. She sprang to her feet, running to the window and leaning out. The sea sparkled like diamond-paned glass. The sun was warm upon her upturned face, and the air was balmy and sweet. Cathy longed to be out in all that freshness, and determined to beg Petersham to get permission for her to go up on deck. Even murderers were allowed some exercise, she thought rebelliously.

“But how can I?” she wondered as she splashed her face with cold water. Her once-beautiful gown had been reduced to a grimy rag, and her only alternative seemed to be one of the captain’s nightshirts. The nightshirts were clean, and covered her after a fashion, but that was all that could be said of them. They were definitely not suitable for a promenade about the deck.

Disgruntled, Cathy settled herself in a chair with a
book of plays in her hand. “Property of Jonathan Creighton Hale” was scrawled in a bold, masculine hand on the flyleaf, and she was contemplating that signature when Jonathan Creighton Hale himself strolled in. Looking at him now she could not understand the softening she had felt toward him as he slept. Awake, he was the same arrogant, disgusting monster who had abducted and abused her. She scowled blackly at him.

“You’re looking pale today, my lady,” he said, the hateful, mocking note back in his voice.

“It’s no wonder, the way you keep me locked up here. Are you trying to kill me by suffocation or boredom?” Her tone was venomous.

“I’d watch my tongue if I were you, my sweet. There are worse fates, as you may quickly find out.” He crossed to the bed, divesting himself of coat and shirt as he went. Cathy bit her lip in vexation, watching the muscles flex in his broad back. With the storm ended, she was again at his mercy. She controlled her temper with an effort, and tried a sweeter tone.

“I would very much like to go up on deck, Captain.”

“What’s stopping you? The door has been unlocked for the past two days. After all, we are on the high seas, and there’s really no place for you to run even if you wanted to. Unless, of course, you prefer the somewhat rough advances of my men to my charming self.” He grinned at her wolfishly, and Cathy nearly choked with rage.

“I would prefer the advances of anything to your vile presence!” she spat.

“Would you indeed, my lady? Then by all means, go up on deck. Flaunt yourself. I wonder how long you would last, with each of my men taking a turn on you?
I wager you would be dead long before the
Margarita
reached port.” Anger darkened his eyes, and his words hit her like tiny stones. Cathy was prudently silent, slumping back in her chair and eyeing him with a smoldering resentment. He turned away, flopping full length upon the bed, and lay that way for some time. When he spoke at last, some of the anger had faded from his voice.