Sea Fire (20 page)

“Nice dress,” Jon observed when she had it twitched into place, his eyes ominously narrowed. “I don’t believe I’ve seen it before?”

“You haven’t seen a lot of my clothes,” Cathy snapped back with perfect truth. Fervently she hoped that he wouldn’t guess the source of her garments. She didn’t feel up to another scene.

“Part of your trousseau, Lady Stanhope?” he asked unpleasantly.

“If you want to think so.” Her voice dripped icicles. Calmly she turned her back on him and began to comb the snarls from her long, damp hair.

“Damn you, don’t turn your back on me,” he rasped, crossing the space between them in two quick strides and grabbing her by the shoulders, spinning her about. Cathy glared up at him furiously.

“Don’t you manhandle me!” she hurled back, her chin jutting at him defiantly.

“I’ll treat you however the hell I please,” he growled. If Cathy had hoped her anger might divert him, she was mistaken, as she soon saw. “Did Harold buy that dress?”

“What if he did?” Cathy challenged, her eyes taunting him.

“By God, he bought everything you have on,” Jon breathed, his eyes darting furiously over her. “He meant to pay you well for services rendered, did he? Well, too bad, Lady Stanhope. I’ll see you in hell before I let you wear clothes he paid for when you’re with me!”

His lips parted in a savage snarl. Before Cathy could guess his intention, his hand
shot out, closing over the neck of her gown and pulling downward with a hard jerk. The material gave with a loud rip. Cathy saw to her horror that the dress had split completely down the front. Even as she registered that, he was tearing it from her back, then did the same with her petticoat and pantalets. Struggling furiously, she was left naked, while he stalked across the cabin to her trunk. Dropping to one knee beside it, he rummaged through the contents, throwing out her brush and comb set and her other toiletries. It was when he was stuffing the torn gold dress and the rags that were left of her once-elegant underclothes inside it that Cathy’s control deserted her. With a feral growl she launched herself at him, leaping onto his back, her little fists pummeling him with every ounce of her strength behind them.

“Hell-cat!” he bellowed, rising and spinning to catch her. His hands closed around her wrists with such force that Cathy could feel her fingers growing numb.

“Let me go, you . . . !” Cathy raged, unable to think of a name bad enough to call him.

“Run out of names?” he taunted, his fingers pressing cruelly into her soft skin. Cathy tried to jerk her hands free of his hold, and a stray sunbeam wandering mistakenly through a porthole glinted off the enormous diamond that was Harold’s ring.

Cathy froze, but it was too late: he had seen it. His face hardened into a granite mask, his eyes leaping with anger.

“By God,” he said slowly, drawing out the words in a way that made Cathy shiver. She would rather by far that he had ranted and raved and threatened her than just stare at her hand with that deadly look in his eyes.

“What happened to the rings I gave you?” he rasped after a long moment. “Did you pitch them out with the other garbage?”

“Yes!” Cathy hurled breathlessly, too angry to consider the consequences.

“You bitch!” he snarled, and then
with a savage movement he was dragging the rings from her finger. That done, he pushed her away from him roughly, and turned to pick up the trunk crammed with her clothes.

“Where are you going with my things?” Cathy cried, recovering her balance just in time to keep from falling and clinging to the foot of the bunk for support.

“I’m going to pitch them overboard,” Jon answered grimly, heading for the door.

“You can’t!” Cathy protested frantically. “They’re all the clothes I have! I don’t have anything else I can wear!”

“You won’t need clothes for your new job.” He had turned to look at her, his eyes traveling insolently over her naked body. Cathy, suddenly becoming very aware of her state of undress, blushed from her toes to her hairline under that scathing perusal. Instinctively she snatched the cover from the bed, holding it in front of herself. Jon’s lip curled.

“I’ve decided that your only value lies in your abilities as a whore, and for that you’re perfect just as you are,” he grated. Then, as Cathy gasped indignantly, he turned on his heel and stalked to the door.

“Be ready to commence your new duties when I get back,” he threw tauntingly over his shoulder, and then he let himself out of the cabin.

“Filthy swine!” Cathy hurled at the closed door. Then she sat down abruptly on the end of the bunk. Her knees were shaking so badly that she feared they would give way at any moment.

Jon had said her new job would be as his whore, and Cathy soon found to her fury that that had not been an idle threat. He kept her naked, and locked in his cabin, coming in to take his ease of her body whenever it suited him. Days passed, and still he showed no signs of relenting. Cathy’s hatred of him grew until it was almost a living creature inside her: she pictured it as a great fiery dragon, steam shooting from its nostrils and
its tail continually lashing. Jon paid no attention to the abuse she heaped on his head at every opportunity. Instead, he merely picked her up, pitched her over onto her back on the bunk, and pumped out his lust between her legs. After these encounters, which were devoid of any feeling except impotent fury on her part and physical need on his, she wanted to kill him so much that she could taste the blood-lust in her mouth. He had called her a whore, and now he had made her feel like one. She would hate him forever for that.

He slept beside her too, of course. Certainly he was not gentleman enough to allow her the sole use of his bunk. It was usually late at night when he came in: he would strip off his clothes, wash, fall into bed, take her body or not as it pleased him, and promptly roll over and fall asleep. Most of the time he didn’t even bother to speak. Cathy felt thoroughly humiliated by his treatment of her, and as her humiliation grew, so did her rage.

One night he woke her from a sound sleep, his mouth closing over hers, his hands parting her legs and his body thrusting between them before she was even totally awake. Cathy gasped a little at the pain of his taking her when she was not ready, lying stiff as a board in his arms as he moved over her.

“You’re hurting me!” she cried as his mouth roughly ravaged her sensitive breasts.

“So?” he grunted insolently, barely pausing in what he was doing. “Getting hurt is part of the job for whores. You should have thought of that before you became one!”

“Get off me, you insufferable swine!” She pummeled at his broad shoulders with her fists, kicking and bucking as she sought to be free of him. “Get off me, do you hear?”

Jon merely laughed unpleasantly. He controlled her struggles with shaming ease, and in his own good time finished what he was about.

When he rolled away at last, Cathy lay fuming in the bunk beside him. Her whole
body was sore, her breasts tingling where he had practically swallowed them whole, the sensitive place between her legs aching at his harsh possession. But worse than any physical pain was her sense of mortification. It was intolerable that he could treat her like this! He took her body where and when he pleased, with no thought of either her pleasure or consent. And the truly horrible thing about it was, there didn’t seem to be any way she could stop him. Her strength was puny next to his, and screeching at him was just as useless. What she needed was a weapon, to make him see that she meant business.

Cathy propped herself up on one elbow, looking reflectively down at the sleeping face of the man beside her. He was lying on his back (selfish swine, taking up all the room!), one arm flung above his head, the other curled at his waist. The top sheet was pulled carelessly up around his middle. His face, half turned away from her, was dark against the white of the bed linen. His lips were slightly parted as his breath rattled through them in a gentle snore. His black hair was wildly tousled, probably from the way she had pulled at it in an effort to make him let her go. Black stubble roughened the lean lines of his jaw and chin; Cathy could feel her own skin rubbed raw where it had touched her. For a moment her heart stopped. She thought, He looks like Cray! and an indescribable softness began to steal over her. Then the memory of the way he had treated her, the things he had said, came rushing back. His resemblance to Cray was only a surface likeness. Inside, he was warped by his insecurities, like a shiny apple that you bite into only to discover rot around the core. She thought of the night he had tied her, of the uncaring way he had forced himself on her tonight, and her heart hardened. He needs a lesson, she thought grimly, and as her eyes wandered around the dark cabin she began to get the glimmer of an idea.

She was up before him, the faded plaid cover wrapped sarong-fashion around her body, sitting in one of the hard chairs with her feet
propped in the other. A small smile played around her mouth. As Jon muttered, and stirred, his hand searching the bed for her, Cathy’s smile widened. Now, my fine captain, she thought triumphantly, is when you get your comeuppance!

Jon’s eyes blinked open when he found no trace of what he was seeking, a faint frown corrugating his brow. Those gray eyes were still not totally alert as they searched the small cabin for her. When they alighted on her at last, they were sleepily warm, with not the vaguest hint of suspicion.

“Come here,” he ordered, his voice husky from sleep. When Cathy made no move to obey, he shook his head a little as if to clear it, then propped himself up on one elbow.

“Did you hear what I said?” he demanded, the last softening traces of sleep vanishing.

“Oh, I heard you,” Cathy answered softly, smiling. Jon stared at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing.

“Then come here. I’ve a fancy for a little exercise this morning,” he said.

“No.” Cathy was really enjoying herself. It was all she could do to hold back a small chuckle. He was in for a surprise.

Jon’s eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe that he had heard aright. Then they narrowed again, the gray gleam of them hard as they rested on her flushed face.

“What—did—you—say?” he spaced the words out ominously. Cathy had to restrain herself from sticking her small pink tongue out at him.

“I said, no,” she returned with studied nonchalance. Jon stared at her for a long moment, his frown deepening. She looked like the proverbial cat that had swallowed the canary: her blue eyes were shining with excitement, and her small face was flushed pink with it. Her golden hair was swirling about her with a life of its own. His eyes made a quick survey of her small form, draped in that ridiculous cover. At a glance nothing appeared
amiss, but he had known Cathy long enough to know when she was up to something.

“If you put me to the trouble of getting up and fetching you, you’ll be sorry,” he threatened silkily, his eyes faintly wary as they watched her every movement.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” she told him, triumph lighting her eyes.

“But you’re not me,” he answered, and threw back the sheet.

“Stay where you are,” Cathy ordered as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk. As he looked up she drew back the edge of the cover wrapping her to reveal the gleaming silver snout of one of his own dueling pistols. The mouth was pointed right at his mid-section.

Jon stayed where he was, his eyes contemplative as he mentally reviewed the situation. Damn himself for leaving the blasted pistols out where she could get hold of them! He should have guessed, with his long knowledge of the way her mind worked, that sooner or later she would try something like this. But he’d been angry—so damned angry he hadn’t been thinking straight. And this was the result. But the more he thought about it, the more certain Jon became of one thing: Cathy wouldn’t shoot him. Beneath all that fire and temper she had the softest of hearts, and she had once had a fondness for him. No, he didn’t think she would go through with it. Besides, what else could he do but call her bluff?

He stood up. Her hand holding the gun wavered alarmingly, and her blue eyes widened until they were enormous sapphire pools.

“Stay where you are!” Her voice was high-pitched. “I mean it, Jon, I’ll shoot you! I will!”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” he quoted ironically, and took a step toward her. Cathy, alarm growing in her breast, jumped to her feet, knocking over the chair in the process. She paid no attention to it as it fell to the floor with a crash, her
eyes never leaving Jon. Both hands now held the pistol, and her aim never wavered. Blast him, he couldn’t mean to ignore a gun, could he? Cathy thought frantically.

Apparently he did. He advanced on her steadily, his hand outstretched for the pistol. Swallowing, Cathy backed. Her hands were sweating profusely.

“Jon, I’ll shoot!” she warned again desperately as her back came up against the paneled wall. He smiled tauntingly, his step never faltering.

“Shoot then,” he directed calmly, and reached for the pistol.

Cathy gasped, and dodged away from him. The pistol wobbled alarmingly in her hands. He was laughing now, and Cathy registered that fact with a sudden lift of her chin. As he moved toward her again, she raised the pistol, said a brief, silent prayer, and tightly shut her eyes. Then she pulled the trigger.

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