Island Flame

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  “Have you ever thought about giving it up?” she asked, deliberately offhand.

  “What, my life of debauchery and sin?” he mocked. “No, why should I? I like what I do.”

  “How can you like murdering and stealing?” Cathy snapped, straightening away from him.

  “It has its rewards,” he replied, joggling her up and down on his knee, as an adult would a fractious infant. Cathy glared at him, and he grinned. “I earn a good living, I call no man master, I sail my own ship, and—uh—I have a very pretty bedmate.”

  His eyes ran over her with exaggerated lasciviousness before twinkling down into her own.

  “I’m serious,” Cathy insisted, frowning at him irritably. “You can’t be a pirate forever. It’s against the law. One day you’ll make a mistake and you’ll be caught. Then you’ll hang.”

  “And does the thought bother you, my cat?” One silky black eyebrow twitched quizzically. “Not so very long ago, I could have sworn that if you had had access to a pistol or a knife, my life would have been abruptly terminated.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible!” Cathy stormed, struggling to get off his lap. His words made a mockery of the concern he must know she felt for him. Thank God he had no idea of the true state of her emotions where he was concerned! He would really have a field day if he knew that!

  “I wouldn’t want to see any man hang,” Cathy added with what dignity she could muster, still squirming to be free.

  “Not so fast, little cat,” he murmured, restraining her easily despite his injuries. Cathy could have affected her release by kicking or hitting his wounded thigh, she knew, but she didn’t. Her love for him was such that she wouldn’t willingly hurt him. “Why is it that you always want to leave just as the conversation gets interesting?”

  Reluctantly Cathy stopped struggling, aware that to insist on being set free might reveal more than he had any right to know. She rested back against him guilelessly, aware of the prickle of his wiry chest hair through her dress.

  “Would it matter so much to you, if I was hanged?” he persisted.

  Cathy lowered her lashes to screen her eyes, careful to let no hint of her emotions show in her face. He could read her expressions like a book, she knew. For a moment she was tempted to confess her love, but cool caution restrained her. It would be a powerful weapon in the hands of a man who was, after all, a rogue and a blackguard. Unless he was rendered similarly vulnerable, her confession would leave her wholly at his mercy. She decided to confound any suspicions he might harbor by skating as close to the truth as was possible without actually revealing it. He wasn’t stupid, after all. He must already know that her care of him meant something.

  “Of course I wouldn’t like to see you hang,” she answered coolly, her blue gaze untroubled and candid as it met his piercing gray one. “Against my better judgment, I’ve grown rather fond of you.”

  The flickering light in his eyes died at her words. They grew harder, unreadable. His teeth came down to nip punishingly at the creamy bare flesh of her shoulder.

  “So you’re ‘rather fond’ of me, are you?” he murmured silkily, his mouth resting on the pulse that pounded just beneath her ear. “Your heart’s beating mighty fast for mere fondness.”

  “You’re a conceited animal, aren’t you?” Cathy asked, her voice chill as she tried to get her wayward pulses under control. “You’re lucky to get fondness. I should hate you forever after the beastly way you’ve treated me.”

  “I’ve treated you like a queen, my cat, and you know it.” His voice had hardened to match his eyes. “Have I—starved you, hurt you in any way? Have you ever stopped to think how you would have fared, a prisoner in the hands of any other man? You should be grateful.”

  “Grateful?” Cathy flared disbelievingly, her eyes snapping sapphire sparks at him. “You kidnapped me and kept me prisoner! You raped me and humiliated me! And you think I should be grateful?”

  Her voice cracked indignantly on the last word. Jon looked down at her, bristling on his lap like a small ruffled hen, then smiled ruefully. For the past few days his she-cat had purred like a kitten for him, and he had grown to like it. Too much, as he now realized.

  “Oh, Cathy,” he murmured with half-amused resignation. He definitely was not in the mood for a quarrel. Indeed, he had something altogether different in mind. “I take it back. I was undoubtedly brutal to you, and I apologize.”

  “So you should,” Cathy told him severely, trying again to get up off his lap. He restrained her with ludicrous ease. From the hardening of the muscles beneath her, she could tell that her movements had merely succeeded in exciting him.

  “I seem to spend half my time telling you that I’m sorry for something or other,” he lamented in her ear. “This has to stop. I’m afraid it will go to your head, and then I’ll be spending the rest of my life apologizing for trifles.”

  “But I won’t be around for the rest of your life, will I, Jon?” Cathy asked sweetly, taking advantage of the opening. “Sooner or later you’ll have to let me go.”

  Jon’s eyes gleamed briefly. He buried his face in her bright hair, breathing deeply of its soft fragrance, without replying.

  “When are you going to let me go, Jon?” she prodded softly.

  “When I get good and ready.” His answer was clipped. “You weren’t so anxious to leave me in Cadiz, if you recall. You had the chance.”

  “The other prisoners were released in Cadiz,” she reminded him. “But you were planning to keep me even before you were hurt. Why weren’t you going to let me go with them?”

  “Because, my beautiful shrew, I have this strange craving for the taste of your skin. I don’t propose to let you go until I’ve had my fill of it.” His eyes leered down at her, but the rest of his face was guarded. Cathy began to feel that she was making progress.

  “Not my leg, sweet,” he grinned. “But other parts of my anatomy ache sorely.”

  “The cure is in your own hands,” she replied unsympathetically, catching his meaning. “Let me up.”

  “I prefer another solution,” he growled, his hands moving suggestively over her. Cathy shook her head at him, not bothering to evade his caressing fingers. She wasn’t in the mood for any more verbal sparring. Deliberately she curved a soft arm around the back of his neck, pulling his head down to plant a soft kiss on his sandpaper cheek. Let him think about that as well!

  “Your bark is much worse than your bite, Captain, as I know very well. Now let me up. I have things to do.”

  The look in Jon’s eyes warmed. That kiss was the first spontaneous gesture of affection she had ever given him, and it made his heart beat faster. He felt for all the world like some infatuated schoolboy. Somehow this soft, little female on his lap was succeeding in making him feel things he would have scoffed at in the past. The experience wasn’t to his liking at all, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. He had already tried to cast her out of his mind by every means he could think of, and failed.

  Cathy twisted in his hold, her eyes widening at his arrested expression.

  “Jon, is anything wrong?” she purred.

  His eyes glinted down at her rather dazedly for a moment, as if he was having trouble getting his bearings. Then his gaze focused on her face, and he bent his head to return her kiss right on her sweet little mouth. This wench was not like the others, he was certain. She was as innocent of guile and feminine schemings as a new-born babe.

  “Excuse me, Captain.” Harry’s voice was wintry as he spoke from just inside the cabin door. “I’d like to go over the charts with you.” He slanted a burning look at Cathy, pink-faced and cozily ensconced on Jon’s lap. “If you can spare the time.”

  Cathy frowned at Harry as Jon reluctantly released her, and pointedly ignored him as she turned away. Really, if he weren’t careful, Jon would get wise to his pursuit of her—for pursuit was what it had become—and then the fat would be in the fire for sure! Her pirate captain had a fierce temper and a strong s
ense of possessiveness where she was concerned. His eyes were already suspicious as they looked at Harry.

  The two men talked for some time, drawing lines on the charts and measuring the distance to various points. Their conversation was largely unintelligible so she soon stopped listening. She wandered over to one of the bookcases and selected one of the volumes, and then settled herself in the alcove beneath the window to read. The book was extremely dull, and eventually she put it aside, passing the time instead by looking out at the ever-changing sea. She was unaware that the afternoon sun had turned her loosened hair into a fiery aureole around her face, or that her averted profile had the sweet purity of a perfect cameo. Both men’s eyes wandered from time to time to feast on the enchanting picture she made, Jon’s openly and Harry’s whenever he thought his captain wasn’t aware of it. Their conversation became more and more desultory and finally ceased altogether. This cessation in the flow of talk attracted Cathy’s attention, and she turned to find both men eyeing her hungrily. She smiled warmly at Jon, ignoring Harry, and got to her feet, stretching a little as she rose.

  “Would you like me to leave?” Perhaps they had something to discuss that was not for her ears.

  “Not at all,” both men assured her at the same time. Jon turned a razor-sharp look on Harry.

  Cathy saw that look and crossed quickly to Jon’s side, placing a slender hand on his shoulder and smiling down at him.

  “It’s time you had a rest.” Her voice was caressing, partly for Harry’s benefit and partly because she couldn’t help herself. Jon was distracted, as she had meant him to be. His hand came up to cover hers, pressing it down into the hard muscles of his shoulder. Cathy felt a twinge of excitement run through her fingers. Harry watched them resentfully, and then abruptly stood up to go, his eyes hard.

  “We can finish this another time, Captain,” Harry said stiffly. Jon flashed him a glinting look as he stalked from the cabin.

  To Cathy’s uneasy surprise, Jon said nothing at all when they were once again alone. The silence was heavy as he hobbled across to the bunk and began to undress. A deep frown furrowed his brow and his mouth was tight as he tugged painfully out of his breeches. When he had levered himself into the bed Cathy could bear the ominous stillness no longer. She came to sit beside him, pulling a pillow out from under his head so that he was forced to lie flat, and tucking the quilts up around his chest. His eyes were fixed on her, broodingly, as she ministered to him. It was stupid, she knew, but she felt absurdly guilty under that dark gaze.

  “Cathy.” His hand caught her wrist as she would have turned away. “Has Harry been—pestering—you while I’ve been laid up?”

  She knew he must have felt the nervous start of her pulse under his hand, but there was nothing she could do about it. Damn Harry anyway, for putting her in this position! She didn’t want to lie, but on the other hand she didn’t want to cause trouble between Jon and one of his oldest friends.

  “No,” she answered coolly, not quite meeting his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  “He watches you like a gull after fish. I don’t like it. If he’s been making a nuisance of himself, tell me. I’ll put a stop to it mighty fast.” With an effort, Cathy smiled at him, hoping to lighten his mood.

  “If I were conceited, I’d think you were jealous, Captain,” she teased. Jon’s eyes held hers for a moment as if struck by what she had said. His voice was strangely husky when he replied.

  “And if I were, would I have reason?” His eyes burned into hers like hot coals. Cathy couldn’t suppress a tiny shiver of triumph. If he were jealous, and it seemed very much like he was, then he must be far down the road to being in love with her. Jon saw the brief flicker in her eyes, and frowned heavily, his hand tightening painfully around her wrist.

  “I said, have I reason to be jealous?” His voice was stark.

  Cathy grinned down at him, her eyes twinkling impishly.

  “I should let you stew,” she said reflectively. “I think it would do you good.”

  Jon’s face darkened thunderously as he glared up at her. His grasp on her wrist tightened so much that she winced.

  “Don’t play games with me, my cat,” he warned, eyes menacing her. “You might not like the consequences. I’ll ask once more: have I reason to be jealous?”

  Cathy would have been angry at his threat if the disquiet in his eyes hadn’t made her so happy. She pursed her lips, looking down at the floor as though dreading his reaction to what she had to tell him, then bent quick as a flash to whisper in his ear, “No, but I think you are anyway.”

  She could see the red come up under his skin as he absorbed the full import of her statement. His eyes flashed to hers as she straightened, their expression both wary and faintly sheepish. Cathy waited expectantly, but he was not yet ready to admit to feeling any tender emotion where she was concerned.

  “What I have, I keep,” was all he said. Cathy didn’t really mind. It might take a little time, but one day he would love her and admit it. She felt sure of it. In the meantime, she could wait.

  The next day was hot and airless, with the kind of heavy sultriness that presages a storm. It took all Cathy’s ingenuity to keep Jon amused. He was itching to be back in charge of his ship, fretting that Harry would not do a proper job of preparing for the bad weather that seemed to be ahead of them. Tactfully Cathy tried to discourage him, and when that didn’t work she told him bluntly that he was not yet strong enough to even stand on the quarterdeck. His wounds were healing nicely, but he still tired easily, and his appetite had not yet returned. Cathy scolded him roundly for leaving almost his entire portion of salted pork untouched at midday. He scowled up at her sullenly, like a thwarted small boy, and Cathy had to smile. She was still smiling as she called to Petersham to take the remains of the meal away, and then came back to sit beside Jon who was propped up in the bunk.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, her eyes running over him proprietorily. He had lost weight since being wounded, but not enough to mar the splendid lines of his body. His leanness only served to accentuate the strength of his corded muscles.

  “Like some puling infant,” he answered grumpily, his eyes resting on the swelling curves of her breasts. Cathy remained stoic under his rapidly warming perusal. Bedding him whenever he wished wasn’t getting her anywhere, she reflected. Perhaps it was time to try a new tactic. Let him go without her for a while, and his affections might suddenly blossom.

  Jon, undeterred by her indifference, stretched out a questing finger to follow the trail blazed by his eyes. Cathy slapped his hand away only to find herself dragged across his lap to lie half on him, half on the bunk. His mouth came down to twist across hers hungrily. Cathy returned the embrace for a moment before lightly biting her teeth down on his tongue. Jon yelped, jumping back, his hand going up to test the injured member.

  “It’s a pity you’re not as hungry for food as you are for me,” she said lightly. “You might regain your strength sooner.”

  “I’m strong enough to tame a vixen,” he grunted, his hands reaching for her purposefully. Cathy did her best to elude him, but she was hampered by her own desires. Eventually she surrendered to greater force of arms, and returned his kisses warmly. But when his hand groped behind her back for the fastenings to her dress, Cathy set it away from her firmly.

  “No,” she said. His eyes opened to stare at her.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to,” she told him haughtily, tilting her fine-boned little nose at him. “I’d—I’d rather talk.”

  “Talk!” Jon groaned, rolling over onto his back with a pained expression.

  “Yes, talk.” Cathy was determined not to surrender to him again, operating on the theory that abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.

  “Go ahead,” Jon sighed, crossing his hands behind his head. Cathy wriggled upward until she lay full upon his chest, her chin propped in her hands as she looked at him, her legs between his, so as not to jar his injured thigh.
His eyes warmed appreciatively at the method of her conversation, but when he would have kissed her again Cathy held him off, flickering her small tongue out at him playfully.

  “Have you ever been in love?” Cathy began when they were settled at last.

  “Oh, God!” he mumbled, closing his eyes as if pained. “She wants to talk about it, and I want to do it!

  “Many times.” He grinned devilishly, entering into the spirit of the conversation. “And each time lasted about half an hour.”

  “Very funny,” Cathy said sourly. “I meant, really in love?”

  “When I was sixteen I was totally infatuated with my stepmother,” he answered lightly, his eyes on the ceiling.

  “Really?” Cathy asked suspiciously.

  “Yes, really,” he replied. “She was twenty when my father married her, a beautiful black-haired wench with flashing dark eyes and all the right equipment. At the time I thought she was the loveliest thing in the whole world.”

  “What happened?” Cathy asked a trifle stiffly, not able to control a prick of jealousy. Yet how ridiculous it was to hate a woman she had never heard of before, and for something that had occurred almost twenty years before.

  “I was so infatuated that I followed her everywhere. I was just a boy, remember, and I worshipped her like a goddess. She didn’t even know I was alive, I don’t think. I certainly never remember her looking, let alone smiling, at me. I put her up on a pedestal, and never even thought of touching her. Such a thing would have seemed like a sacrilege. Anyway, I followed her to the dressmaker one August afternoon. She went to the dressmaker about twice a week, and usually I just hung around outside until she came out. This time, for no reason in particular, I happened to wander around back and saw her leaving by a rear entrance. Quite naturally, I was intrigued, and followed her. She walked to a little house set well back from the street, and went inside. I didn’t know what to think. In my innocence, I supposed that she must be visiting another dressmaker, or perhaps a milliner, for some reason. After a while, curiosity got the better of my sense of propriety, and I went up to the house and peeped through the windows. My dear stepmother was as naked as the day she was born on the floor of the library, mewling like a bitch in heat, while a man I’d never seen before in my life rode between her thighs.”