The moon was high in the Bahamian sky before Cat realized she had laughed so hard that she hurt. The music died down, and the conversation turned to instructions from Clay to Sam about the following day. Cat yawned as she listened to Clay talk, hardly able to keep her eyes open as she rested lazily against his shoulder, her feelings those of complete well-being.
She was almost asleep, her eyes closing dreamily, when she felt him shake her shoulder. “Go on in to bed,” Clay told her gently.
Cat started to see that they were alone on deck. Clay smiled with tender patience. “Peter and Ariel have already gone in. Are you awake enough to walk?”
Cat nodded drowsily and managed to stand, looking at him with confused hesitancy. “Aren’t you coming?”
Clay shook his head. “I’m first watch. I’ll be with you in a few hours.”
“First watch?” Cat murmured. “But we’re protected—”
His eyes were very dark and fathomless as he interrupted her. “In circumstances like these, we always hold watch on our boats. Now go in to bed. I’ll join you shortly.”
Cat nodded mutely and turned to go, feeling a certain misery, as she was sure their possible difficulties were her fault. Clay caught her hand and spun her around, easing the terseness of his curt explanation with a gentle kiss upon her brow. “It’s just a safety precaution, Cat,” he said softly. “Now go and get some sleep.”
Cat gave him a rueful smile, then moved to obey him. In the cabin, she stripped off her clothing to scrounge through her things for a negligee, but then her eyes lit upon the navy velour robe of Clay’s she had worn previously. If she couldn’t sleep beside him on their still-rumpled bed, she would feel a bit more secure wearing his soft and comfortable robe.
Without Clay, Cat suddenly discovered that she wasn’t quite so drowsy. She was, in fact, a little high-strung. Pacing the small cabin, she stuck her hands into the pockets and walked to the porthole window to look out upon the darkness of the night, the silver play of the pale moon upon the water.
She was reaching happiness, she thought, if not thorough contentment. But then, contentment and the security they both needed would take time to come.
She frowned suddenly as her fingers curled around something they had been idly touching in the pocket of the robe. It was a paper of some sort, yet did not have the actual feel of paper. Cat clutched her fingers and brought it out. Her heart seemed to take an immediate leap to her throat. It didn’t feel exactly like paper because it was a picture, the type taken by an Instamatic camera. It was folded and frayed, as if it had perhaps been in the pocket of the robe through several washings. But the subjects of the picture were still clear—painfully clear.
As Cat stared at it, she felt the rise of hot moisture in her eyes. She had guessed all along, so she shouldn’t be shocked. But she had never really wanted to know.
The picture showed Clay, standing on the deck of a boat. His hair was long and wind-tossed; he wore his full beard. He was dressed in his customary cutoffs, and as usual his strong lean body looked damp and salty from the sea. He faced the camera, and he was laughing ruefully, as if he had objected to the picture being taken and then resigned himself to its inevitability.
He wasn’t alone. His arm was protectively and tenderly around a woman, a tiny, very pretty woman who looked up at him with adoration in her eyes. The woman was Ariel.
I’ve known that they were together at some time, Cat thought sickly, so what difference does proof make? It must be over, long over. But why had it ended, Cat wondered. With pain clawing viciously at her stomach, she thought of the gentle tenderness with which Clay always treated Ariel. And then her question changed to one that hurt even worse. Had it really ended? Did a special kind of love remain despite Peter, despite herself?
It was a long time before Cat could force herself to lie in bed. She couldn’t confront Clay with the picture, not when she remembered his words when she asked about Ariel. Ariel is Peter’s wife, had been his firm reply.
Haunted by doubt, Cat lay awake for hours, until she heard the knob of the door twist with Clay’s return to the cabin. Then she closed her eyes and curled far to her side of the bed, feigning a deep sleep as her heart pounded.
She heard Clay disrobe in the darkness, felt him as his weight lowered next to hers. And she couldn’t control a flinch as he reached out to touch her. A silence followed. Then he muttered, “What’s the matter with you?”
Cat attempted to ignore his question, but it was repeated with his muttering rumbling to a hushed roar.
“Nothing!” she hissed.
“Then why are you pulling away from me? There’s something wrong, damn it,” he said, rolling her by the midriff to face him in the dim moonlight.
“No, there isn’t,” Cat lied stubbornly.
He stared at her intently, his taut expression unreadable in the darkness. “Talk to me, Cat, or straighten out. I won’t sleep with a distance of two feet between us.”
She said nothing, but saw his anger as he tightened his jaw. His head bent low and his lips claimed hers, his tongue probing a firm entrance to the fullness of her mouth; she knew there would be no turning away from her husband this time. His hands raked a rough exploratory course over the curves of her body, and she knew it made no difference that he refused to allow her to turn away. She couldn’t force herself to turn away anyway.
CHAPTER TEN
IT WAS DARK IN the bowels of the Santa Anita, dark in an eerie green way that even now, after four days of continual exploration, still sent goose bumps rising over Cat’s arms. She could control the instinctive fear the ghost ship called from her spirit, but she never lost the haunted feeling. And sometimes, although they had already brought numerous priceless artifacts to the surface with the very delicate and tedious use of air hoses and gentle fingers—fine porcelain, silver- and goldware, crystal that had miraculously survived the ages—Cat felt as if her victory were also a lesson in humility and sadness. Tears would ridiculously singe her eyes as she wondered if she should have left her ghost ship alone, buried with poignant memories of lost lives beneath the erosion of the sand and sea.
Soon the barges and cranes would move in. Encrusted cannons would be raised, the huge and heavy anchor with its iron fittings. The ocean would become a vortex as she was forced to release her suction upon the treasures she had claimed. And still they hadn’t found the Aztec crown jewels. Cat was sure they were here, deep within the lower decks. The true treasure was always carried deep.
The tobacco the ship had carried had long since disintegrated, as had the llama wool prized in Portugal and Spain. But the ship’s manifest had also listed a cargo of gold and silver, all yet to be found.
They were in a counting room, Cat decided, surveying the bracketing on the walls and the remains of a heavy desk and chair, almost entirely eroded. Her light flared upon darting sea life, tiny fish that clung to the green darkness for safety and secrecy. For an instant her light caught upon her husband’s mask, and she saw Clay’s eyes, deep and pensive as they always seemed to be when he looked at her now. His stare caught hers for a just a second, questioningly. Then the question was gone, the fathomless and businesslike jet returned. He signaled to the right; Cat shrugged.
His glance was icy, but there was also pain in his eyes. Cat was well aware that he didn’t know what truly haunted her; she couldn’t bring herself to try to talk about Ariel. She had simply retreated, and although she couldn’t deny his touch, and made no attempt to prove other than that she was perfectly content to share his bed, it was now she who was holding back.
Clay didn’t know why she had retreated, and strangely, at this absurd point, she had stumbled upon the answer to totally frustrate and dismay him. In his terms, she had finally beaten him at his own game. He could hold, take, and claim her time and time again, and although they were both rewarded with sweet ecstasy, he knew he was reaching for something elusive. It couldn’t be caught with the power of his strong hands.
I have to talk to him, Cat thought now. She knew that the foundations for anything they might have, had to be laid with honesty. But she was so afraid to be honest. She had wanted to discuss Jules, air her feelings first of guilt, then of pain, disillusionment, and disgust. But she couldn’t even put those things into words with Clay. He was possessive and jealous, and her own heartsick worry caused her to want him to continue to feel that way. Because she was jealous, and it wasn’t a simple emotion. She could have accepted that women had drifted through his life. What she was finding so unbearably hard was that he hadn’t had meaningless affairs. He had engaged in an affair that had meant very, very much.
Cat abruptly ceased her mental wandering as she noticed a sheaf of half-rotted planking that appeared out of place. A sixth sense suddenly seemed to tug at her and Cat swam slowly to the softened timbers. She tugged at the ragged end, feeling dizzy and giddy as it gave immediately and revealed a hatchway they had previously overlooked. A hole that appeared black as night beckoned to her, compellingly. Cat tugged at her cord, waiting with impatience for Clay to come to her. She felt his touch, possessive and proprietary even in the water, yet so strangely comforting because she wanted to be possessed and possess in return—and then, together, they flared their lights below.
The decking beneath them was almost entirely destroyed. Offshoots of coral tore through the hull like strange stalagmites, creating a scene that might be the work of a modern; impressionistic artist. Nature and man merged together in a crazy scramble.
Clay moved cautiously downward, then waited for Cat to follow. Carefully they floated through age-old litter and wreckage, exploring dark crevices with caution. Cat fluttered backward in panic as one of their first forays revealed an evil and terrifying moray eel. She was sure she stopped breathing, as did Clay, when the startled creature lunged with lightning assurance for his hand, luckily catching only the thick glove that shielded it. And of course they hadn’t quit breathing. The bubbles that were their lives continued to rise.
Then Clay was waving at her madly, a brilliant smile radiating beneath his mask. Cat saw what exhilarated him so, a three-by-five-foot casket so encrusted and tarnished she would have thought it part of the ocean floor. He beckoned her to keep her light steady, signaling that he wished to raise the object before opening it. But it was heavy, too heavy for even Clay’s considerable strength. Cat was sent to the deck above to retrieve Peter, and then she and Ariel were following the men in a slow ascent to the surface, going half crazy with their anticipation as they forced themselves to take the proper decompression time. But eventually they reached the surface, and Sam was able to use hooks and leverage to bring the casket aboard the Sea Witch II.
“It’s been corked somehow,” Clay said excitedly as he carelessly tore away his equipment. “We need to go carefully … very carefully. We may find whatever this holds in perfect condition.”
Cat and Ariel were left to stare as the men slowly and cautiously wedged with their knives at the seal of the metal, painstakingly careful so as not to damage any precious relic inside. It looked rather like the opening of a clam, Cat thought, and then she realized she was about to keel over because she had been holding her breath so long. She forced herself to breathe, taking great gulping breaths, her body trembling, her heart pounding tumultuously. Now! she kept thinking, ready to scream. Surely they had it. Open it! Open it!
But her husband’s eyes suddenly turned to her, a soft light hazing their glitter as he lifted a hand toward her. “It’s to you, Mrs. Miller,” he murmured.
Dry-mouthed and weak-kneed, Cat made her way to the casket. Everyone aboard had stopped breathing, she thought ridiculously. She couldn’t hear a sound, just the sensation of air and breeze.
Her fingers trembled convulsively as she touched the black, encrusted metal. The men’s efforts were applaudable. With a ferocious screech, the rusty hinges gave. Cat lifted the top. …
Not even the ravages of time could mar the intricate beauty of the Aztec crown jewels. Their light, beneath the warm Bahamian sun, was so dazzling as to blind. Brilliant rainbow hues created a kaleidoscope of unearthly enchantment: blood-red rubies, skyburst sapphires, amethysts, diamonds, emeralds. …
“Oh, my God!” Cat breathed, and then she was touching the gems, trailing their blackened gold chains, gaping at the exquisite settings.
She felt the others as they knelt beside her, felt the awe each of them experienced as their fingers touched, trembling, upon the treasure.
Clay rose first. Cat lifted her eyes to her husband’s and saw a soft query in them. “Well?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Instinctively she knew what he asked. “Oh, Clay,” she murmured. His smile broadened, and then he was reaching for one of the signal flags.
Moments later the Bahamian patrol boat was alongside them. Cat saw the men aboard were grim and heavily armed. Her heart took another flutter.
It had all been prearranged. Clay knew she believed the pieces belonged in the museums of the country of their origin. And that’s where they were going, before a gold or gem fever could insert itself in any of them.
Cat glanced uneasily at the crew, but all wore a secret smile of satisfaction. They had found the jewels; that was enough.
Cat lowered her lashes. “Thank you,” she said huskily, and it wasn’t until later, much later, when she and Clay were confined in their cabin, that she asked the question plaguing her.
“Clay, you run a salvage business. These people work with you for the profits—”
“Cat!” he interrupted her, laughing as he gently cradled her head to his chest. “The Santa Anita will still bring plenty in rewards. We will all profit. But we’re not straight pirates, you know. The sea and her treasures are ours because we also love and respect them. The Aztec crown jewels belong to those whose ancestors broke their backs and lost their lives in pursuit of their creation. And they belong to the world. In the museum, they do belong to all men.”
“Thank you, Clay,” Cat said thickly. For the first time in days she realized she was being open with him. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. …”
“Then how about showing me?”
“Pardon?” she murmured. His fingers, light upon her shoulders, tightened. Cat tilted her head back and stared into his eyes. A flame of intensity flared in the deep jet recesses that obliterated all but the edges of deepest brown. His facial muscles were taut; his lips were a thin line that barely twisted into a grim, bittersweet smile of poignancy.
“You won’t talk to me, Cat,” he said huskily. “And the one thing I can’t force is your mind. I reach for you, and I hold you, but you’re not really there. You keep so much in, Cat. We should have talked about DeVante. I don’t know what you were feeling, I don’t know how deeply you cared, whether his betrayal cut like a knife, whether he keeps you from me now more than before—”
“No,” Cat protested with a strangling sound. “I’m over Jules. I told you that.”
“Then talk to me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then come to me, Cat.” His fingers tangled into her hair, his voice, deep and rich and husky as night, caressed and tantalized and demanded as it whispered with soft heat close to her lips. “When I reach for you, you are not really there. And you haven’t reached for me. Come to me now, Cat. Come to me, you make love to me. …” For a moment his fingers clenched so tightly into her hair that her throat was forced into an arch that held her face not an inch from his. Dark eyes held hers, searching with that strange poignant heat that curled just the edges of his lips.
Cat closed her eyes. She felt so weak, her will sapped, taken by his strength, by the desire to still her own fears, to envelop herself in the heavenly security of the magic world that obliterated all else, the magic of his touch.
She never opened her eyes. Her lips crossed the infinitesimal space to his, parted and touched, and then she was sliding against him, mouth, teeth, and tongue beginning a slow torment that would cover hi
s length as she melded, against him, into his arms, and the sleek cushion of his body and the bed. …
Magic had done its trick nicely. Cat slept deeply, exhausted from the considerable exertions of the workday, and cocooned in a marvelous feeling of comfort and well-being, her husband’s body heat keeping her warm and secure as she curled against him.
He had been muttering groggily a long, long time before the sound permeated her consciousness, bringing her slowly from the inner web of that deep, deep comfort.
She was rudely jostled as he began to toss, and she awakened fully, realizing that he was in the throes of a bad dream, gutturally protesting … fighting.
Cat frowned and touched his shoulder, shaking it lightly and whispering his name over and over. Her words had no effect; he didn’t hear her. He shook off her touch and his tossing became more fevered, as did his incomprehensible ramblings. As she watched him in the moonlight with growing alarm, she saw a sheen of sweat break out across his shoulders and chest, drip in tiny rivulets down the rugged lines of his profile.
“Clay!” she exclaimed, attempting to catch his flailing arms as her concern began to rise to a bewildered panic.
His muscles tensed, balling into tight knots. She could clearly see the cords in his strong neck stand out. His flailings became more and more vehement and erratic. She began to comprehend one of the words he whispered louder and louder with increasing fervor, and the word that he shouted was no!
“Clay!” Cat exclaimed again, desperate now to awaken him. He was such a large man, and with his muscles powerfully tensed against whatever it was that he fought, her own strength was inadequate. Avoiding his unaimed blows, Cat rolled against his body until she could straddle him, then attempted to get a steady grip on both his shoulders so that she could give him a good shake as she gasped out his name and all the inane assurances she could think of.
Hours to Cherish Page 19
