The deck of the pirate ship was a swarm of activity. Men darted about, obviously in their element. The mongrel band of pirates turned before their eyes into experienced, disciplined seamen. Cathy caught an occasional glimpse of the captain, who seemed to be everywhere at once, shouting orders and lending a hand where needed. His men appeared to hold him in considerable respect. From all sides Cathy heard mutters of: “Cap’n will get us out of this. He ain’t never let us down yet!”
The Margarita was built for speed, and fairly flew through the water. The frigates lost ground behind her, but they were always there, just a little farther in the distance. The sun went down and a stiff wind began to blow. Cathy was shivering with cold in her place underneath the mast, and the old Duchess was turning blue around the lips. The merchant couple apparently had enough layers of fat to keep them warm.
The moon was a pale ghost floating high overhead when the captain came to stand before them. He looked them over in silence, a grim expression on his face. Cathy’s heart began to pound uncomfortably.
“You can all thank whatever God you believe in that the frigates didn’t open fire. It looks like they value your lives more than silver. If I were you, I’d pray that they don’t change their minds.”
He called sharply across the deck to Harry, who hastened to his side.
“Have a couple of the men take them below and lock them up. In the hold, I think. Tell them to make sure the man is chained—we have enough problems without him taking it into his head to be a hero.”
The hard, gray eyes rested for a moment on Cathy, who hastily looked away. She blushed hotly under his regard. He hesitated, staring at her as though he had something on his mind. Finally he spoke in a low voice to Harry.
“Take the girl to my cabin.”
“Sir?” Harry squeaked in surprise, unable to suppress his astonishment. Jon’s voice was rough when he answered.
“You heard me. Take her to my cabin. And see that she’s locked in.”
“Yes, sir!” Harry said woodenly, flustered by his own loss of control. The captain scowled blackly at him before striding away.
Harry carried out his orders quickly, unable to keep from wondering what was going on in Jon’s head. Jon liked women, but it wasn’t like him to resort to rape. And rape it would have to be with a girl as obviously innocent as this one was. In spite of her lovely face and seductive figure, she was little more than a child, and a frightened one at that. Besides, she was a lady! She wasn’t the type Jon could tumble casually, then just as casually dismiss when he tired of her. Her family would be out for blood!
Harry shuddered to think of what would happen to Jon if the Margarita were captured, the hostages rescued, and the girl were found to have been ravished! He doubted they would even wait to hang Jon properly. More likely shoot him down on the spot. Harry shook his head in disbelief. The girl was a beauty, no doubt about it, but, hell—no woman was worth dying for! As Jon would have been the first to agree less than twenty-four hours ago! But as Harry knew from experience, there was no stopping Jon once he had made up his mind to do something. And it certainly wasn’t for a member of the crew like himself to attempt to tell the captain what to do!
Still vaguely troubled, he saw to the safe movement of the other prisoners before returning to untie the girl. She was as cold and still as a piece of white marble, and his conscience smote him as he had to practically drag her to where the captain’s cabin nestled under the quarterdeck. She stopped stock still in the doorway, and Harry could feel her arm shaking under his hand.
“Don’t do this,” she breathed, her eyes wide as she looked at him.
“Captain’s orders, ma’am,” Harry replied uncomfortably, wishing the deck would miraculously open up and swallow him. He started as she placed one small hand on his arm entreatingly.
“Please put me in with the others. Please. My father is a rich man, he will pay well to have me back … unharmed. Or if I could just be lowered in one of those little boats.…” Her voice trailed off. Harry swallowed, unable to meet that beseeching gaze.
“There’s nothing I can do, ma’am. I’m sorry. Cap’n would have me clapped in the brig, or worse, if I was to disobey an order.”
He put a hand to the small of her back, urging her gently inside. She took a few reluctant steps into the room, then turned to face him. Harry was touched by the fright in those huge eyes.
“Look, ma’am,” he said almost desperately. “Captain Hale is no saint, but he’s not a fiend either. I’ve been with him for eight years, and I’ve never known him to hurt a woman. You’ll be all right.”
“No thanks to you,” she said, suddenly bitter, and turned her back, obviously waiting for him to go. Harry looked at her helplessly, then stepped back, closing the door and bolting it from the outside.
Cathy listened numbly as the bolt slid into place. She could not believe that this nightmare was really happening. She sobbed, a hoarse dry sound deep in her throat. But tears would not help her where there was no one to hear or care, she reminded herself grimly. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to examine the room for a possible means of escape. It was very dark and she could barely make out the outline of a box of matches on the table. Striking one with shaking hands, she lit a candle.
The cabin was small, so as to take up less of the precious cargo space. The walls were panelled in dark pine and had bookshelves built right into them. The shelves were fronted with glass, to keep, Cathy supposed, the books from flying about in case of rough seas. A bunk bed was neatly made up against one wall. Besides the bed, there was the round table and two chairs, a wardrobe, a coal stove, and a couple of sea chests pushed against the wall.
The only possible exit was a small, glass-paned window. Cathy rushed over to it, fumbling with the latch and then flinging it wide. Cold salt spray struck her in the face, and she saw to her disappointment that she was leaning out directly over the dark sea. The wind had whipped the water into tall, angry waves that pounded viciously against the hull. Cathy shuddered, drawing back a little. She was not that desperate yet.
In the distance she could see a dozen or so small lights bobbing up and down. The frigates! They were still out there, not daring to come too close. Cathy drew a relieved breath. If she could only hold on for a little while she would surely be rescued. The pirate ship could not outrun her pursuers forever!
The spray dampened her dress, and she drew back from the window, thoroughly chilled by the cold, moist air. She longed to undress and sooth her abused body in a hot bath, then put on a dry nightdress and crawl into bed. But there was no bath in sight, and no nightdress either. And even if both had been set before her she would have been hesitant about using them. She had no doubt of the captain’s purpose in having her locked in his cabin, and she hoped to keep him at arm’s length until the frigates came to her rescue. But if he were to come in and find her freshly bathed and tucked up cozily in his bed, she had no doubt about her fate. Innocent as she was, she knew that.
Cathy compromised, slipping off her wet gown and hanging it over a chair to dry. She would leave it there overnight and put it on again first thing in the morning, doing up the torn bodice with some straight pins she had found in a shallow dish beside the box of matches. She shivered in the torn chemise, and crossed hastily to the bed, dragging the heavy quilt from it and wrapping it around herself for warmth. Her eyes searched the room for a likely place to sleep, coming to rest on the cushioned alcove beneath the window. She took a pillow from the bed and settled herself as comfortably as possible in that small space. It was cramped, but that was all to the good. She had no intention of being fast asleep when the captain returned to his cabin.
Cathy twisted and turned in her nest, trying desperately to stay awake. Her mind went over the events of the day, and turned at last to the frightening man who held her prisoner. Unwillingly, she remembered his handsome face and broad shoulders and the way he had held and kissed her. Of course, the man was a pirate and a criminal and not fi
t to associate with a lady like herself. But still … His kiss had roused something deep inside her, something that made her wonder, with a kind of shivery fear, what would happen if he took her in his arms again, and kissed her, or did even more. Cathy was not certain exactly what “more” was, but she knew that it had something to do with the way the captain had stroked her breasts. The memory of that intimate caress both excited and shamed her. She could not understand herself or this partly suppressed longing for what she did not know.
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 Ca
thy 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.
Island Flame Page 4
