The stilted form of address told Cathy, more clearly than a diatribe would have, that Martha felt that she had been ill-used. Cathy sighed again, not feeling up to the task of placating anyone. It took a great deal of effort just to maneuver herself into a sitting position against the pillows.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” she coaxed as Martha arranged the tray of chocolate and warm croissants on her lap. “You and my father are the only friends I seem to have left. If you desert me, I’ll have no one.”
“There’s no talk of anyone deserting you, Miss Cathy.” The woman responded to the sadness of Cathy’s tone just as she had been meant to do. “It’s only natural that you should be a bit peevish now and again, what with the baby and you not being in good health. When I see how you’re changed, I could kill that pirate myself if I knew where to lay hands on him. What he’s done to you is criminal!”
“Martha, please!” Cathy cried, biting her lip. Any mention of Jon was excruciatingly painful, and, as a rule, Martha and Sir Thomas were careful never to allude to him in any way. Although Cathy had done her best to banish his lean image from her thoughts, it was impossible to do so, with his child moving so strongly inside her. The man was beginning to haunt her night and day like some earth-bound ghost.
When she closed her eyes it was easy to picture him, feet braced wide apart, on the Margarita’s quarterdeck, while a warm wind ruffled through his thick black hair. By now he could be sailing any sea in the world, preying on weaker ships and making love to a procession of willing women. Cathy felt a long-denied rage begin to build inside her as she imagined him slanting his mouth across the eager lips of some sloe-eyed Polynesian beauty. Bastard, she thought vindictively, as she remembered how he had deserted her when he had found out about the child. He wasn’t worth wasting a single tear on—not that she had any intention of crying over him. It was bad enough that he could abandon her, his wife, whether the wedding had been of his design or not. But that he could so coolly leave their coming child bore out every harsh word her father had ever said about him. Jon Hale was a heartless, merciless brigand who had taken advantage of her inexperience to make her think she loved him. His own actions condemned him in Cathy’s mind.
“Sorry, Miss Cathy.”
Martha’s subdued tone brought Cathy back to the present. The woman was looking as if she wished she had bitten out her tongue before reminding Cathy of the author of all her problems. Cathy smiled at her nanny with sudden warm affection, because it grieved Martha to see her so unhappy.
“What dress shall I wear today?” The question was designed to shift Martha’s mind to more mundane matters, and it succeeded admirably. Martha was visibly delighted to see her charge taking an interest in her appearance at last. Ever since the girl had been rescued from that heathenish pirate she had been dull and apathetic, totally unlike herself. Usually she allowed Martha to choose what she would wear for her, not even bothering to glance in the cheval glass in the corner of the room when she was ready for the day. Not that there was much to choose from among her dresses, Martha had to admit. The ridiculous story of Cathy’s widowhood sentenced the girl to wearing black, unrelieved by so much as a ribbon or an ornament. Indeed, the only jewelry that it was considered proper for her to wear was the plain gold wedding band that Sir Thomas had procured for her in London. Looking with disfavor on the dreary selection in the wardrobe, Martha didn’t wonder at the lowness of her charge’s spirits. Such gloomy dresses would be enough to depress any young lady.
“The silk is very pretty,” Martha said, not betraying her true opinion of the garment by so much as a flicker of an eyelid. Cathy was undeceived.
“For a crow, maybe,” she groaned, swinging her legs out of the bed and allowing Martha to help her with her toilette.
Special care had to be taken on this particular day to give the impression of sorrowing rectitude. It was the custom on New Year’s Day for friends, relatives, and acquaintances to exchange calls. Lady Stanhope had decreed that, since Cathy could obviously not be allowed abroad in her present condition, she must remain in the drawing room to receive any visitors. Besides, Cathy could do much to aid herself by appearing sweetly innocent and brave in the face of her husband’s untimely demise. To hide the girl away from callers would only give rise to more talk, as Lady Stanhope had sharply informed both Cathy and Sir Thomas.
With Lady Stanhope’s instructions in mind, Martha carefully arranged Cathy’s long golden hair in a demure coronet on the top of her head. The girl’s own paleness and ladylike demeanor should be convincing. If anyone were not convinced and dared to directly question Lady Catherine, Martha planned to ever-so-accidentally overturn a pot of hot tea in the impertinent one’s lap. She had made up her mind to remain at her lady’s side throughout the day, and no one, not even Lady Stanhope herself, was going to make her do otherwise!
“Martha, I look awful!” Cathy’s voice was a strange mixture of dismay and awe as she regarded her image in the long mirror. Her unaccustomed hairstyle made her appear unexpectedly meek, and the paleness of her face and hands seemed to speak of consumption. The severe black dress, high at the throat and sleeved to the wrist, hid every hint of her shape while emphasizing the bulge of her belly. Cathy could hardly believe that the girl who stared back at her, her blue eyes dulled by inactivity, could really be herself. I look ill, she thought with the faintest glimmer of alarm, and turned quickly away from the glass.
“You look like a proper widow,” Martha reproved briskly, and caught up a light shawl as she prepared to follow her mistress downstairs. It would never do for the girl to catch a chill. As thin and peaky as she had become, even so slight an illness as that could be enough to carry her off.
The day passed with dragging slowness. Seated on an uncomfortable horsehair sofa that was all the rage, Cathy tried to school her itching limbs to proper stillness, while she neatly fielded the questions of the curious. Martha hovered at her side like some black-uniformed vulture, never straying from the room. The woman was unusually clumsy, and Cathy began to wonder if she might be sickening from something. Not once but four times had she overturned a pot of tea on a visitor’s lap.
The last callers of the day departed at precisely four-fifteen. Cathy stood up with a sigh of relief, scratching her outraged legs vigorously. Her face still burned with anger at some of the prying questions that had been addressed to her. “And what was your dear husband’s name?” one sharp-eyed old bat had asked her. When Cathy had answered with perfect truth, seeing no need to withhold such fundamental information, the woman had said “Ahhh!” as though she had just caught out her young hostess in some monumental lie. Her beady little eyes had gleamed, and she was just opening her mouth for another prying question when Martha knocked over the silver teapot once again. The Countess of Firth left immediately afterward, as outraged as if the deed were deliberate. Cathy shook her head, smiling faintly. Knowing Martha, it might have been.
Cathy expressed a wish to take supper on a tray in her room, mendaciously saying that she felt tired after her ordeal. Truthfully, she felt better than she had in days. But she could not face the prospect of dinner, with her aunt and cousin quizzing her about who had called, what questions had been asked, and what she had replied. She was certain that, discreet as her answers had been, either one or the other of them would manage to find fault with her. If she had had only herself to consider, she would have told them to go to the devil long ago, but her father was almost pathetically eager for her to achieve a respectable place in society. For that, she acknowledged, she needed her aunt’s help. Obnoxious as Lady Stanhope was, her reputation was unimpeachable.
Unfortunately, her retreat to her bedroom was ill-timed. Harold was in the entryway, being helped out of his coat by the obsequious Sims. Without the butler’s assistance, it was doubtful if Lord Stanhope would have been able to free his stocky arms from the too-tight sleeves of his coat. He reminded Cathy of a sausage being skinned, and she did her best to stifle a giggle. S
he was unsuccessful. Harold heard the small, muffled sound, and turned toward her. When he saw who it was that had dared to laugh at him, his small eyes grew even smaller, almost disappearing in the puffy mound of pale flesh that was his face.
“Good evening, cousin,” he said with dreadful affability, strolling toward her. Cathy inclined her head in haughty acknowledgment of his greeting, then turned away and walked with dignity in the direction of the curving staircase.
“Don’t run away, cousin,” Harold drawled, his affected voice grating on Cathy’s ear. “You’ve become so quiet and mouselike of late, I declare, I find it hard to believe that you could be the same female who engaged in acts of such unspeakable depravity. But then, your—ah—condition is no doubt responsible for your meekness. Once you whelp your bastard, the innate weakness in your character will come out again, I feel sure.”
Cathy whirled on him, clenching her fists. Temper sparked from her eyes, making her look more alive than she had in all the weeks she had lived in London. Harold eyed her with dawning interest. It might be amusing to have her in the house after she was free of the pirate’s spawn. He began to toy with the idea of making her his mistress. It was a certainty that, with the reputation she had acquired, no gentleman would offer to take her to wife. Her flesh would begin to itch for a man sooner or later, he calculated. When the time came, he would be on hand.
“My child is not a bastard!” she spat furiously, every hair on her head seeming to crackle with temper. Harold smiled slightly. He was beginning to see how she had managed to attract the attention of a pirate. With a little spirit showing, she was quite something.
“I beg your pardon if I said something to offend you, cousin,” he said in a bewildered fashion that Cathy knew was deliberately assumed. She seethed, longing to verbally assault him, but decided to restrain herself. If Harold discovered that he could wound her with his barbs, he would take fiendish delight in doing so.
Without another word Cathy turned her back on her cousin and walked gracefully up the stairs. Harold’s high-pitched laughter followed her, making her grit her teeth. Place in society or not, she was moving out, she promised herself grimly. Not even for her dear papa would she endure Harold.
Cathy was still angry when Martha came in with her supper tray. The old woman took heart at the unaccustomed spark in her charge’s eyes. Not since before the capture of the Anna Greer had she seen the girl display such animation. It was a healthy sign.
Martha prepared Cathy’s bath and laid out her night things while Cathy ate her meal. She was quite hungry for a change, and it was no hardship to finish the entire portion of tender lamb. The baby gave a little kick as she put her fork aside, and Cathy smiled, touching the mound of her stomach.
Martha helped her to undress, tying up her long hair with ribbons. Cathy stepped into the bath, sinking down in the perfumed water with some surprise. She had not put any scent in the water herself, and Cathy eyed Martha questioningly.
“Roses is a good, decent scent,” Martha said, defending herself stoutly in response to Cathy’s unspoken question. Cathy smiled at her nanny affectionately.
“You knocked that tea over deliberately, didn’t you, Martha?” she asked softly, her eyes teasing.
“Certainly not, Miss Cathy,” the woman replied primly, pausing in the act of turning back the bedcovers. “I just must be getting a touch of arthritis. My hands are getting clumsy.”
“Lying’s a sin, Martha,” Cathy mocked, but Martha was too pleased with the girl’s liveliness to take offense.
When Cathy was finished she stepped from the tub and was enfolded in a warmed towel. Martha dried her thoroughly and then slid a pretty pink nightgown over Cathy’s head; at night, in the privacy of her bedchamber, Cathy had her only chance to wear colors, and she took shameless advantage of it. Her nightgown was trimmed with yards of lace and ribbon; it was a frivolously feminine garment. With her hair brushed and braided into two long plaits for the night, Cathy felt almost attractive again.
Martha settled her in the large four-poster, pulling the covers well up around Cathy’s chin. Cathy submitted patiently to the woman’s ministrations. Despite all that had befallen her, Martha persisted in treating her like a child. But her devotion was total, and Cathy found the woman’s care oddly comforting.
When Martha had gone, blowing out the bedside candle, the room was lighted only by the dim glow of the fire. It cast strange, leaping shadows across the room. Cathy watched them, fascinated, and fell asleep.
She had no idea what it was that woke her. The popping of a burning ember, perhaps, or the mournful bark of a dog. The room looked strange to her sleep-weighted eyes, and not quite real. The fire-shadows looked longer, and vaguely sinister. Cathy’s eyes gradually widened as she stared at one in particular that seemed to be moving stealthily toward her. Finally she realized that it wasn’t a shadow—it was a man! His tall frame was silhouetted by the light of the dying fire as he crept toward the bed. Cathy opened her mouth to scream, terrified, but only a tiny squeak emerged. Immediately the man was upon her, his big hand stilling further cries.
Instinctively Cathy fought, kicking and writhing in a hopeless bid for freedom. She bit down hard on the hand that covered her mouth. The man cursed, snatching his hand away, but before Cathy could draw breath for a shriek he thrust a rag between her dry lips.
Oh, God, what did he mean to do to her? First, he bound her hands in front of her with a strip of cloth torn from the sheet. Then, pulling back a little, he jerked the bedcovers down around her feet and hauled her upright. She stood swaying before him, trembling with fright. He struck a match, lighting the candle, and Cathy’s eyes widened as he turned to face her. It was Jon! Her heart sang with thanksgiving. He had come for her, after all this time! But then she frowned, her forehead creasing in puzzlement. Why tie her up? He must know that she would be glad to see him! He was her husband, after all!
Cathy looked at him more closely, and she caught her breath in surprise. His handsome features were almost completely obscured by a full, black beard. His skin was yellow, as if he were ill, and he was thin to the point of emaciation. Cathy caught a faint whiff of his unwashed flesh, and her nose wrinkled in distaste. Jon saw her reaction, and smiled very slowly. The smile was a terrifying sight.
Jon looked as if he hated her—as if he might even kill her! Perhaps he had picked up a fever somewhere, and was delirious. That would explain his revolting appearance, as well.
Jon was making an inspection of his own. His eyes traveled slowly over her face, and a light began to glow in them. His gaze moved down over her throat, her breasts, and then froze on her belly. He stared at the bulging mound with the same horror he might have shown toward an abomination. His grip on her wrists tightened almost to the breaking point.
“My God!” he cried. A muscle in his jaw worked furiously. He seemed to be exercising control over some fearsome emotion. Cathy trembled a little as she sensed his force. Jon felt her quiver, and that terrifying smile returned to his lips.
“You’re right to be afraid of me, wife.” His use of that last word struck Cathy as being ominous in itself. Was it possible that he sought some type of vengeance on her for forcing him into an unwelcome marriage? Then why had he troubled to seek her out at all? On the Margarita he could have been as free as the air and unobliged to recognize the bond that tied them together.
“I’ve been planning this meeting for months, wife. Ever since our last one, in fact,” he said softly, his eyes trapping hers as he loomed over her. Cathy instinctively shrank away, and he laughed in a way that made her blood run cold. “You think you’ve defeated me, don’t you? Well, partly right. Not even the thing that I have become would stoop to harming my own child. So I’ve decided to take you with me, and you’ll stay with me until after the child’s birth. Then, wife, we’ll settle the score. You’ll suffer.…”
The words trailed off menacingly. Cathy’s eyes were frankly terrified. She was convinced that he had gone mad,
and was raving like the poor lunatics in Bedlam.
“Where is your cloak?” he muttered, as he turned to look about the room. He spied the wardrobe, and dragged her in his wake as he strode toward it. She stumbled after him, afraid to resist, lest she should further inflame his maniacal rage.
He flung open the wardrobe door, and stopped short at the sight of her collection of mourning dresses. She heard him suck in his breath as at a mortal blow.
“Thus vanishes my last doubt,” he muttered cryptically, jerking on her wrists with a violence that would have sent her stumbling to the floor if he had not held her upright. His eyes seared hers with hatred, and then he thrust his hand into the closet, tearing the dresses from their hangers in his search for her cloak. He found what he was seeking at last, and wrapped it roughly about her, lifting her clear off her feet and up into his arms. She could feel the bones of his chest and shoulders as he held her in a fierce grip that told her he enjoyed hurting her.
“Unfortunately for you, wife, your widowhood was a touch premature. A fact which I’m sure you bitterly regret.”
Cathy squirmed in his arms, deathly frightened of being borne away by this dark, terrifying stranger. Dear God, he was not the man she knew and loved! He hated her, and he looked like the devil himself with all the fires of hell burning out of his eyes! This must be some strange, twisted nightmare. … Cathy prayed that she was having a nightmare, and writhed desperately in an effort to wake herself up.
“Lie still! Lie still, bitch, or by God I’ll …”
The threat trailed off as he crushed her to him. Cathy went limp, convinced by the violence of his tone that he was no apparition. Her heart was beating in frightened bursts, and she suddenly knew how a rabbit must feel in a snare when the hunter approaches. Was he going to kill her … ?
The bedroom door creaked open, sending a quivering circle of light spilling over the floor. Cathy could feel him freeze. She froze, too, in terror for the person coming into her room. He was mad, and violent. He was capable of murder.…
Island Flame Page 25
