Island Flame (14 page)

Cathy looked toward where the breakers pounded the curving shoreline, some seven hundred yards away. She had always been a strong swimmer—an unusual accomplishment for a girl. But she had insisted on learning, and, as always, had gotten her own way. For once her willfulness would stand her in good stead. She was certain that she could swim the distance to shore. True, she had never swum so far, but then she had never had so much reason. She was positive that she could do it. Just the thought of thwarting Captain Jonathan Hale would give her the necessary strength!

Eyes glittering triumphantly, Cathy slipped back into the cabin. Jon mustn’t know she had overheard what he’d said to Harry. He must think that she still believed that she would be released while they were in port. He would go blithely ashore tonight, not knowing that she could swim. … Cathy smiled. He would soon learn that she was not so easily tamed!

It was about an hour after dark when Jon returned to
the cabin. Cathy, demurely dressed in her blue wrapper over a matching nightgown, was already curled up with a book on his bunk. She favored him with a haughty glance as he entered, but said nothing. Neither did he. Cathy kept her eyes trained zealously on the book while she inwardly rejoiced. He was going ashore! Instead of stripping off and attacking her as he usually did as soon as he came in, he was carefully setting out his shaving gear. She watched, gloating, as he cleared the thick stubble from his face. Moments later, wiping the excess soap away with a small towel, he pulled on breeches of a good, gray broadcloth that would not have shamed a court dandy. Then he shrugged into a white linen shirt, clean and whole for a change, which sported a small ruffle down the front and at the wrists. That done, he peered into the wardrobe mirror, carefully tying a white silk cravat around his neck. Finally, he donned a black velvet frock coat. He looked almost extremely handsome. If she had met him, dressed like this, at a party or a ball, she would certainly have exerted her charms to attract him. But, as Martha had frequently told her, handsome is as handsome does. By that reckoning, though, Jon should look like the toad prince!

“Going somewhere?” Cathy asked at last, her voice as cold as ice. To display no curiosity at all might invite suspicion.

“I’m honored!” Jon sneered, turning to stare at her with exaggerated awe. “Her ladyship deigns to speak at last! Well, for your information, my lady, I’m going to visit an old friend. A female friend,” he emphasized. “I’ve a fancy for a livelier tart in my bed tonight than you’ve become of late. You should be thankful. Your rest tonight will be as undisturbed as a virgin’s.”

“I
am
thankful,” Cathy assured him, firmly suppressing what felt almost like a prick of jealously. “I only wish you’d decide to replace me altogether. If you’re worried about wounding my sensibilities, don’t. I believe that they would survive the blow.”

Cathy was justifiably proud of the careless tone of her speech. If he’d had any inkling of what she had planned, that should help gull him.

“I’m giving it serious thought,” Jon answered coldly. Cathy had to fight back an urge to scream “liar!” at him. She knew better! The perfidious dog was planning to have her as a main course while he took any other woman he happened to fancy on the side! Well, not for long, she vowed, and almost smiled. Luckily, though, she caught herself in time.

Jon turned back to the mirror to smooth his unruly hair with his gold-backed brush. It looked ridiculously dainty in his big hand. Cathy watched him, triumph glowing in her eyes. The arrogant thing hadn’t even considered that she might try to escape him. Would he ever be in for a shock! Hastily she lowered her eyes, afraid he might be able to read her rising excitement in them.

She maintained a stony silence while he finished his toilette, refusing even to look up or answer when he bade her a mocking good-night.

Cathy had to force herself to remain where she was as he shut the door behind him. She had to give him time to get clear of the ship. … This might be the only chance she would have. She’d better make the most of it.

Finally the splash of oars told her that he was on his way. Cathy jumped up and raced to the window. He was
going, all right. She could see the light bobbing on the water as he rowed himself to shore.

She dropped the curtain and raced across to Jon’s sea chests. Slow down, she told herself, as she almost tripped over the leg of a chair. There’s plenty of time. If he had told her the truth about his destination, he’d likely be gone all night. Yet her fingers flew as they searched his sea chest for suitable swimming gear.

Moments later she stood up with her prize. Breeches and a shirt would have to do. They would certainly be better for swimming than her own long dress. Its material would quickly have become water-logged, dragging her down with its weight. And besides, Jon’s clothes would serve her better once she had reached the shore. She would pretend to be a boy until she was sure she was in good hands. One thing that this voyage had taught her firsthand was a young lady on her own faced danger at every turn.

She dressed hastily, thanking God for the bagginess of the clothes. They allowed not the smallest hint of her shape to show through. Except for her hair, she could easily pass for some ragtail lad. She would have to do something about her hair. Quickly she braided it into two long plaits, then secured them across the top of her head. With one of Jon’s caps pulled low over her forehead, she’d do, she thought, surveying herself critically in the mirror. Anyway, it would be dark, and she would take good care to stay out of the light as much as possible.

Taking her plainest shoes from the wardrobe, she tied the laces together so that they could be hung around her neck. She couldn’t swim in shoes, but on the other hand she couldn’t walk through the town barefoot. The sight of her dainty feet would be a dead giveaway.

Finally, Cathy stripped the two sheets from the bed, tying them together lengthwise and pulling on the knot with all her might to test its strength. Jon had undoubtedly left some of his crew on guard, so she would have to leave by the window, and lower herself by the sheets to avoid the noise of diving. With a lot of care and a little luck, she shouldn’t be missed until Jon returned the next morning. By then she would be safely in the hands of the authorities. When she told her story they would arrest him, and he would hang. … Well, maybe she wouldn’t tell the whole story until the
Margarita
had sailed away. She wouldn’t want any man’s death on her conscience. Thoughtfully, Cathy blew out the candle.

Getting out of the window proved to be easier said than done. Cathy was a small girl, but the window was smaller yet. She heaved and panted and struggled and finally, just as she was beginning to think she was stuck forever, popped clear, like the last olive from a bottle. Luckily she had decided to go feet first, and had maintained a grip on the rope. If she hadn’t, she would have tumbled headfirst into the water with a splash loud enough to alert every ship in the harbor. As it was, except for a few very unladylike words, Cathy managed to lower herself down the
Margarita
’s side in comparative silence. She gasped a little as her bare toes first encountered the waves. The water was colder than she had expected. Well, no one had ever promised her that escape would be fun, she told herself, gritting her teeth as she lowered her body into the chilly depths. After all, a little cold water never killed anyone. Yet, her traitor brain added. Cathy quickly shushed the thought.

The swim to shore should warm her at any rate, she
mused, paddling for a moment to get her bearings. It would be dreadful if she were to accidentally swim out to sea! The water was dark, because the moon had not yet risen. Fortunately, the shore was even darker, an inky black line puntuated with tiny pinpricks of light. Taking a deep breath, Cathy pushed off toward them, using the
Margarita
’s hull for leverage. She swam steadily, arm over arm as she had been taught. Her only problem was the hat. It floated away the first time her head touched the water, and every time she crammed it back on her head it did the same thing again. Finally she took it off, fighting an urge to throw the pesky thing in as far away from her as she could. Once ashore, she would need it. She gripped it between her teeth and held it like a dog with a bone. It tasted vile—like someone had soaked it in a bottle of rum. Which they probably had, knowing Jon’s proclivities!

Cathy had been swimming for what seemed like hours and the shore looked as far away as ever. She glanced back at the
Margarita
to make certain she was still headed in the right direction. Yes, the ship was still directly behind her. Cathy was just congratulating herself on her navigation when her mind was struck by what she had seen. She almost sank herself in her haste to look at the
Margarita
again. Sure enough, down the side of the ship like a tell-tale white serpent snaked her sheet-rope! Damn and blast, Cathy swore under her breath, borrowing one of Jon’s favorite oaths without even realizing it. If she could see the rope so clearly from her position more than halfway across the bay, it must be just a little less visible from the town. She should have pulled it down! Too late now, she thought grimly, striking out for shore with renewed
vigor. Now she was certain to be missed the first time one of the crew looked toward the ship.

Well, there was nothing for it but to swim as hard as she could and pray that the men would be so taken up with their revelries that they wouldn’t spare a glance for the ship. Cathy pushed herself relentlessly, swimming until her arms felt like they would drop from their sockets. Her breath rasped in her throat and her teeth chattered with cold, but still she kept going. Just as she was beginning to despair of ever making it, her feet smacked hard into something solid. With an inward whoop of triumph, Cathy realized that she had succeeded. She stopped swimming and stood up. The muddy bottom felt like the finest carpet beneath her feet. Grinning happily, and wrapping her shivering arms around her equally cold body, she waded toward the shore.

The smell hit her even before she reached dry land. Sweet and rotten, it was a compound of equal parts of rotting fish, garbage, and human waste. Cathy gagged. She had never smelled anything like it in her life.

As she squelched onto the sand beneath the rickety wooden dock, it became obvious that her navigation had steered her into an extremely disreputable section of town. Cathy hastily pulled on her shoes and clamped Jon’s cap down on her head. All her instincts warned her not to linger.

She set off toward what she perceived to be the center of town at a brisk walk. Sinister-looking men and women prowled the streets alongside her. Cathy closed her mind as well as she could to her surroundings, thankful that the people she passed were too intent on their own questionable business to spare her more than a casual glance.
Clearly, it behooved her to find the authorities as quickly as she could. To wander aimlessly through this hell-hole of a town was to risk having her throat slit.

The alley she had been walking down turned off into a wider street, lighted at either end with flaming torches. Drunken men laughed uproariously as they staggered from one rowdy establishment to another, their arms more often then not tight about the waist of a blowzy woman. Cathy started to go back the way she had come, then stopped. If she was ever to be safe, she needed directions. Surely, dressed as she was, there was no harm in asking.

As far as Cathy could tell, all of the open establishments seemed to be saloons of one sort or another. One adobe building, a trifle quieter than the others, had a hanging sign out front proclaiming it to be the Red Dog. Cathy’s Spanish was practically nonexistent, so it seemed the logical choice. Yet some latent instinct for self-preservation caused her to hesitate.

She had to do something. She couldn’t just wander through the streets all night hoping a constable would happen by. In the first place, it was dangerous. In the second, Jon would be looking for her as soon as he had discovered that she was missing. She had to be somewhere safe before then. Anyway, what harm could she come to dressed as a young boy, even in a saloon? She looked down at herself. Not the smallest hint of her sex showed. All she had to do was remember to lower her voice, and no one would suspect that she was a female. For some reason, Cathy was certain that in this section of town, at this time of night, female was not a good thing to be.

Taking a deep breath, Cathy pulled Jon’s still damp cap low over her forehead and marched boldly through
the swinging door. Faint heart never got anything done! Still, her movements became considerably more cautious once she was actually inside. Men sat drinking at round tables, rough, dirty men who looked far more like pirates than the
Margarita
’s crew. They were certainly not gentlemen, with their raucous voices and filthy language. And the women who waited on them, bringing them ale and whiskey and sometimes lingering for a pinch or cuddle, were certainly not ladies! Whores would be more like it, Cathy thought contemptuously, barely controlling a blush as one would-be Lothario tugged at a gaily dressed woman’s bodice, causing her ample bosom to spring free. The woman giggled, pressing the jiggling mounds wantonly against the perpetrator’s face while the other men urged her on with obscene cries.

“Animals!” thought Cathy with a shudder, as she sidled around to the bar. It appeared that all men were dirty, disgusting beasts—it seemed to be inbred. She was beginning to think that, even when she got home again, she would never marry. She had a sneaking suspicion that even the most gentlemanly-seeming of men might share at least some part of that built-in brutishness.

Cathy stood at the bar, pulling her hat down over her eyes again and being very careful to attract no undue attention. She wanted time to get her bearings before asking anyone for anything. The barkeep seemed the most likely choice. He was a huge, meaty fellow with grizzled red hair and a white butcher’s apron that was liberally adorned with stains. Although he looked no less of a ruffian than any other man in the room, he had one advantage—he was stone-cold sober.