Sea Fire (39 page)

If the days were bad, the nights were nothing less than an endurance contest for Jon. After the sun went down, the air grew uncomfortably cold.
Lying beside Cathy, in the tiny shelter he had erected for the three of them, with her snuggled close against his side, her arms more often than not cozily around his neck and his arm wrapping her shoulders, it was all he could do not to pitch her over onto her delectable little backside and take her then and there. He could feel cold sweat pop out on his forehead with the force of his longing, and more than once long tremors racked his limbs until he felt as if he was afflicted with palsy. Through it all she slept on, blissfully unaware. Jon, gritting his teeth, fought to control his impulses, and so far he had succeeded. The one thing saving him was the fear that, while he was renewing his possession of her, the strength of his passion would make him lose control of his tongue and he would babble out his love for her. He meant to keep her—he had finally come to terms with the realization that, without her at his side, his life would not be worth the living—but on his own terms, not hers. Never again would he figuratively kneel at her feet, kissing the hem of her gown with the reverence more properly reserved for a celestial being. No, she was a woman, flesh and blood, with all a woman’s failings. And he had to accept the fact that to expect faithfulness from a woman was as useless as expecting it from the weather. Only as long as he kept her close under his eyes could he be assured of her fidelity. So that was what he meant to do. If ever they got off this infernal island, he would take her back with him to Woodham, as his wife or mistress, however matters worked themselves out. He would take Virginia too, and accept her as his daughter whether she was or not. After all, he and Cathy would have many more children, children whose paternity he meant to make damned certain was not in question. And of course, there was Cray. . . . Cray was, without a doubt, his son. The three of them had been happy as a family at Woodham before, and they could all be happy there again. He had been stupid to get so insanely jealous because of Cathy’s
liaison with Harold, stupid to expect more of her than she had it in her to give. . . .

Jon gritted his teeth. The thought of Harold in bed with Cathy was still enough to send him slightly out of his head. So he forced himself to dismiss the all-too-vivid images from his mind. What she had done, she had done. It was over now, and there was nothing either of them could do to change it even if they had wished to. Virginia existed as living proof of that. If he wanted Cathy—and he did, as he was grudgingly forced to admit—he had to accept her as she was. An imperfect, fallible human being, like himself.

While Jon was going through his own private version of hell, Cathy was lazily content. Their days on the island seemed to her like golden moments stolen from time. There was no past, no future, only the sun-drenched present. She was surrounded by miracles: plenty of food, shelter, warmth; the presence of her daughter, and the man she loved. The only cloud in her sky was Cray’s absence, but she refused to dwell on that. He was being well cared for, she knew. The thought that Jon had any further questions concerning Virginia’s parentage never even crossed her mind. She had heard him accept the child as his, and she never doubted that Virginia’s birth date had finally convinced him. And he was so careful of them both, fussing over them like a hen with two chicks. Making sure they were safe. . . .

He wanted her badly, she knew, yet still he held off out of concern for her health. Cathy was warmed by this evidence of his regard. Many men would have taken her regardless. After all, it had been over a month now since her lying-in, and it would have been easy for him to presume that she was well in the interests of gratifying his own desires. But he was prepared to wait, and she loved him for it. He was kind, and thoughtful . . . and she was in no hurry. They had time. All the time in the world.

The island was a constant source of delight to her, although Jon
had forbidden her to leave the beach without his escort and she had sense enough to know that, in this instance at least, his concern was well-founded. There were snakes in the forest, huge snakes capable of crushing and then swallowing someone as small as herself, but besides the snakes there were monkeys, with their funny little faces and hilarious ways, and birds of all sizes and descriptions, winging about through the trees, running along the beach, stalking proudly across the bay. Brilliantly colored birds, ranging from the gorgeous vivid blues and greens of the parrots to the scarlet macaws to the pink-crested white cockatoos to the pink and red flamingos. And there were flowers whose perfume wafted deliciously on the air. Banks of white, pink, and yellow jasmine contrasted against the mysterious dark green of tropical foliage around the perimeters of the forest. Sometimes Jon, with an almost sheepish smile, would bring her a large bunch of these along with the food he gathered, or escort her along the windy path up the cliffs to pick them for herself. On these occasions Cathy would reward him with a light kiss, and delight in the response that he found impossible to hide.

Parrot Island, as Cathy had laughingly dubbed it after its noisiest inhabitants, appeared to be devoid of any human life except for themselves. At least, for the present. Jon had found evidence that people did from time to time visit it, although nothing to indicate their purpose in doing so. Not that it mattered. If people came even occasionally to this tiny atoll just barely lifting its head from the Atlantic, then their chances of eventual rescue were greatly enhanced. Jon piled a huge amount of dry wood and brush on top of the tallest cliff, to be set afire as a signal when a ship should appear. Then, as there seemed nothing more he could do, he settled down to enjoy life on the island.

One bright morning perhaps two months after they had landed on the island, Cathy awoke to the noisy bird chorus that had become so much a part of her life. Jon had already left the shelter, which
wasn’t unusual. He was often gone when she awoke. Virginia still slept soundly on, and Cathy hovered for a fond moment over the tiny crib Jon had fashioned for their daughter out of wood whittled to size by his knife and lashings of vine. She was so small, so perfect in every respect, and yet already so much of an individual. Cathy touched the pink little cheek lightly, then as the baby didn’t stir she sighed, and left the shelter.

The morning sunshine was dazzling, and Cathy had to close her eyes for a moment against its glare. When she opened them again, she perceived Jon crouched down by the edge of the bay, seeming to peer intently into its depths. What on earth . . . ? she thought, amused, and walked toward him. He heard her soft footsteps on the sand behind him, and turned, smiling.

“Good morning, sweet slug-a-bed,” he teased lightly, quoting a nonsensical poem about a fashionable young lady. Cathy saw that a trickle of bright red blood flowed freely from his chin. Her eyes widened in consternation, and then she took note of the knife in his hand, and the half-bearded, half-not condition of his face.

“You’ve cut yourself,” she told him.

“I’m well aware, believe me,” he grimaced, putting a rueful hand to where the blood began. “And not just in the one place, either. The whole right side of my face is raw! And all to please my lady.”

Cathy grinned at that.

“Liar,” she said, making a face at him. “You probably just found out that a beard itches! Anyway, I rather liked it on you. You looked so wonderfully wicked!”

“You should have told me sooner,” he groaned, his gray eyes glinting humorously. “To think I’ve scarred myself for life to no purpose!”

“More fool you,” she retorted unsympathetically.

“Ah, hard-hearted!” he mourned, and stood up, his big body towering head and
shoulders above her. Cathy tilted her head way back to see his eyes, reminding him of a lovely but inquisitive small bird. He bent to place a quick hard kiss on her mouth, his action automatic. Cathy’s hand came up to rest, palm down, against his furry bare chest. He was as solid as a slab of granite.

“Let me finish the job for you,” she offered when he lifted his head, hating to think of him perhaps slipping and cutting his own throat with only the water for a very wavery mirror. Jon grinned down at her, his eyes twinkling.

“I was hoping you would offer,” he admitted, handing her the knife. She looked up at him, frowning.

“You’re too tall,” she complained. “You’ll have to sit down.”

“As my lady commands,” he replied, obligingly sinking down cross-legged on the sand. Cathy squatted in front of him, hesitated, and moved around behind him.

“Put your head on my lap,” she directed, thinking that this approach would be easier.

“Isn’t there some legend about a unicorn that I should be remembering about now?” he wondered aloud, his black head lowering to rest in her lap as she had directed. “Ah, yes, now I have it: to catch a unicorn, one must first provide oneself with a young maiden. The beast will lay his head on the lady’s lap, no doubt hoping for a tender reward, and while he is in that position he may be captured.”

“Stop talking,” Cathy advised severely, leaning over him so that her long golden hair brushed his bare chest. As she set the blade to the hard plane of his bearded cheek, she frowned, concentrating. Jon lifted a finger to gently smooth away the furrow between her silky brows.

“And hold still,” she added, moving her face back out of his reach. “Unless you want a matched pair of cuts. This is tricky business.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jon muttered half under his breath, and then was prudently silent
as Cathy painstakingly scraped the blade over his face. She worked as carefully as she could, but still she nicked him several times. When she was finished at last, Jon let out a sigh of relief.

“You can get up now,” Cathy told him, straightening. He grinned up at her, his teeth a mocking white slash in his brown face. His head was very dark against her white petticoat.

“I’m comfortable,” he demurred plaintively, his hand coming up to suggestively stroke her bare calf under the skirt of her petticoat. Cathy, looking down at him, saw something that was not laughter flare into life in his eyes at the contact. She shivered as they blazed hotly over her face, her breathing quickening. His hand was so hard, so warm, against the silkiness of her leg. . . . She held very still, scarcely breathing, as it slid higher, brushing intimately along her thigh. Then he was touching her as she had wanted him to for so long. . . .

“God,” she heard him mutter as she closed her eyes, gasping. Then suddenly his hand was removed and he was getting rather jerkily to his feet. Cathy, her eyes flying open, watched him with a disbelief that rapidly turned to frustration. He was carrying chivalry a bit too far!

“Jon,” she murmured achingly, then bit her lip. She would not beg!

At the sound of his name he turned to look down at her, his expression unreadable.

“Help me up,” she said, holding up her hand to him.

For the rest of that day, while she swam and fed Virginia and played, desire was like an ache inside her. She was beginning to understand the urgency that drove men to such rash acts. She wanted him with an intensity that was with her constantly. Even when he took himself off, as he did nearly every afternoon, there was no relief from the gnawing torment. She didn’t even have to close her eyes to picture his handsome face, his hard, strong body that she knew could take her to heaven and back. She felt as if her body were on fire.

When he came back,
shadows were lengthening over the bay. The sun would soon go down, and night would be upon them. When she thought of spending this night chastely at Jon’s side, Cathy clenched her teeth. It would be impossible!

Frustration made her cross, and the few looks and words she bestowed on him were snappish. That he was equally short with her she welcomed. She was spoiling for a fight, and by the way he was acting so was he.

“Oh, go to hell!” she finally screeched at him, when he demanded, most unreasonably, why she didn’t take her foul temper and go to bed.

“With pleasure!” he snarled, jumping to his feet from where he had been sitting not far from the entrance to the shelter. The remains of their fire still glowed redly, and his big body looked tall and menacing, silhouetted as it was against the smoldering flames. “At least I’d be free from your shrewish tongue!”

“Well, if it bothers you so much, I suggest you sleep elsewhere!” Cathy threw at him, incensed. With the firelight catching in her hair and her blue eyes flashing like swords, she looked like a very beautiful fishwife as she stood, fists on hips, hurling abuse at him. Jon was both aroused and infuriated by the sight.

“Bitch!” he grated, his hands reaching out of their own accord to grab her hurtfully by her shoulders and shake her. Cathy’s hands curved into claws and went for his eyes.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” He sounded really angry now, as his hands caught hers before they could inflict any damage, almost crushing them with the pressure of his grip.

“Let me go!” she cried furiously. Then, as his fingers tightened even more, she was betrayed into gasping out, “Oh, you’re hurting me!”

“I want to hurt you,” he said between clenched teeth. “I want to. . . .”

His words were cut off as he brought his mouth down on hers, hard, brutally grinding
against her soft lips. Cathy felt passion flare along with her anger. Not caring that his kiss was meant as a punishment, she swayed against him, feeling a flame race along her flesh where the softness of her body brushed the iron tautness of his. Groaning at the unexpectedness of her response, he released his vise-grip on her hands to slide his arms around her waist and back, pulling her tightly against him. Her own hands curling around his neck, Cathy rose on tiptoe to meet his kiss, her mouth opening submissively under his hungry onslaught. He was rough, his kiss a violent rape, and she loved it. She quivered in his hold, her knees feeling as if they would no longer support her. As if he felt her shudder, his hold tightened until she feared he might break her in two. His breath was hot in her mouth, his tongue a fiery torment. Cathy clung to him, pressing shamelessly against his big body, trembling.