Island Flame

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  “Miss Cathy?” Martha said, venturing a step or two into the room, the candle she carried held high as she peered toward the bed. When she perceived a candle already burning by the bed, she faltered, and then looked around searchingly.

  “Miss Cathy?” The voice was a quavery whisper. Cathy could feel Jon’s heart beating in slamming thuds against her ear. He fumbled at his waist with one hand, and Cathy realized with a sickening sense of helplessness that he was carrying a pistol. She tried to scream, to warn Martha, but was able to force only a strangled groan through the gag. It was enough. Martha swung toward them, her eyes widening as she dropped the candle with a crash, her mouth opening for a scream.

  “Make a sound and I’ll kill her.”

  Jon’s voice sounded hoarse and menacing as he threatened Martha. The woman froze, the cry of alarm dying in her throat as she saw the pistol pressed to Cathy’s head.

  “Come over here.”

  Martha stared at him with growing horror.

  “You’re … the pirate!” she gasped painfully. She went paper-white, as if she might faint.

  “I said, come here!” Jon’s voice, low though it was, cracked like a whip. Martha obeyed jerkily, like a puppet on a string. Cathy met her nanny’s frightened eyes. Be calm, she willed silently. Do as he says. He’s gone mad.

  When Martha was within touching distance, Jon set Cathy on her feet, holding her with one arm around her waist so that she could not run away. The pistol was now pointed squarely at Martha. It didn’t waver as he reached out to pull the sash of the woman’s wrapper free. He deftly looped it into a hangman’s noose with one hand and then slipped it over Martha’s head to rest around her neck. He turned her around so that her back was to them, taking up the slack in the sash and tying it to his belt. Cathy could only stand by numbly, waiting to see what he would do next. So far, he hadn’t actually harmed either of them. Perhaps if they were docile he would relax his guard long enough to give them a chance to escape. Martha had neither moved nor spoken since Jon had turned her around.

  “When I give the word, we’re going to walk very quietly out of the house. If one of you makes a false move, or a sound, I’ll kill you both. Do you understand?”

  Cathy nodded, hoping he could feel the movement of her head against his chest. She believed him. He was mad enough to do exactly as he had said. Martha’s head bobbed in the same assenting gesture. Cathy looked around her wildly, searching for anything that might be used to delay or impede him until they could be rescued. There was nothing.

  “Move!”

  The command was like a bullet next to Cathy’s ear. Martha took a tentative step forward, and Jon pushed Cathy after her. She stumbled over one of her crumpled dresses that he had pulled from the wardrobe and thrown to the floor. He swore furiously, kicking it out of the way, but the memory of it and the others lying like silent witnesses in front of the wardrobe comforted Cathy slightly. Her father would realize that they had been kidnapped when he saw such traces. She prayed he would be in time to rescue them. Jon was clearly not sane, and she and Martha were helpless in his hands. He could do with them what he willed.

  Thirteen

  Jon’s cabin aboard the Margarita was unchanged. Martha and Cathy had been thrust roughly through the door, which was then slammed shut behind them. There was the sound of a key grating in the lock. The cabin was pitch dark, and icy cold, but Cathy at least was thoroughly familiar with it. Shivering slightly with cold, relieved to be rid of Jon’s demonic presence, she crossed to the table and lit the candle that stood there. By its light, she could see that Martha was trembling, her arms hugging her plump body. Her bare feet were blue from having walked barefoot through the snow to the closed carriage that had been awaiting him farther down the street. Cathy supposed she could attribute the fact that Jon had carried her to the child burgeoning inside her. His arms about her had felt heart breakingly familiar—with one enormous difference: he had held her as if he hated her. Cathy was more than ever convinced that he had gone mad.

  Martha’s teeth chattered audibly, and with a little cry Cathy ran clumsily to embrace her nanny. The older woman’s arms came around her to hug her tightly.

  “Oh, Miss Cathy,” she murmured brokenly. “Do you think he means to harm us?”

  “I don’t think so, Martha,” Cathy denied, although she was far from sure herself. As she spoke she turned away to strip two quilts from the bed, wrapping one around Martha and one around herself.

  “If he meant to hurt us, surely he would have done so already,” Cathy argued, as much to convince herself as Martha. She knelt before the coal stove and stuffed a few sticks of kindling inside before striking a match and setting it ablaze. After a few moments the coals began to glow, and Cathy sank back on her heels, pleased with herself.

  Martha’s eyes were closed, and her head was flung back when Cathy turned around. The woman’s face was pasty. Cathy was afraid that the experience they had just endured had been even more frightening for Martha than for herself. For Martha was totally unfamiliar with Jon. Perhaps it had brought on some sort of attack. She got laboriously to her feet, weighted down by the seven-month fetus inside her, and walked to Martha’s side.

  “Why don’t you lie down, Martha?” she asked gently. “The bed’s quite comfortable. I can guarantee it.”

  Cathy smiled as she spoke, hoping to lighten the fear that clogged the very air. Martha opened her eyes and stared at the bed as one would at a poisonous snake.

  “Is that where … did he bring you here after … my poor lovely, you must have been frightened to death. I never realized.…” Martha’s words trailed off, and she regarded Cathy with loving pity. Cathy smiled at her.

  “Yes, that is where …” she echoed teasingly, hoping to buck Martha up a little by a deliberately light touch. “But at the time I must admit that I was as much curious as frightened. I wondered what it was like, you see. Besides, Jon was … was … different then.”

  She bit her lower lip as she spoke, her eyes clouding over. Martha reached out to clasp her hand.

  “Has he gone mad, Miss Cathy?” the woman whispered. Cathy shut her eyes. This was what she feared herself, yet to admit as much to Martha would only terrify the woman further. She returned the pressure of the hand, but then tugged at it briskly.

  “Come on,” she said, avoiding a direct answer. “Let’s both get into bed. I, for one, am frozen, and we won’t do ourselves any good by sitting here worrying.”

  Martha obediently got to her feet and followed Cathy across to the bunk. Cathy urged her between the sheets, then spread the two quilts back over the bed and got beneath them herself. They huddled together, their body heat gradually warming them, and at last Martha drifted off to sleep. Cathy smiled wryly at the woman’s slight snores. Martha had always been able to sleep through anything. Something to do with a hardy Scots ancestry, she supposed, although Martha herself would doubtless attribute it to a clear conscience.

  Try as she would, Cathy could no longer avoid thinking about Jon. He had not said a word to her since that tersely voiced “move!”—not even when he had roughly removed her bonds during the long ride to the coast. Obviously, he had come to repay her for some wrong she had supposedly done him. His whole attitude made that clear. But what could it be? Surely he was not enraged over the manner of their marriage! No, he was too violently angry to be nursing a grievance about something so unimportant to him. Then what had she done? She tried frantically to remember any injury she had caused him, but could think of nothing. Which left her first terrifying conclusion intact. He was, quite simply, mad. It was the only explanation.

  Cathy shivered, pulling the quilts more securely around her. The thought of being helpless in the hands of a madman was unnerving in the extreme. What had befallen him to turn his brain in such a way? Would he, perhaps, recover his senses? Or maybe her father would manage to rescue them before anything too horrible could happen. She hoped so. She prayed so. The memory of Jon’s gray eyes gleaming
like the fires of hell made her sweat with fear.

  The chance of rescue was becoming more remote every second, she realized. Above her she could hear the flapping of the Margarita’s sails as they were run up the masts. The sudden plunging of the ship beneath her said that they were beginning to move toward the sea. Once away from the coast, they could head anywhere. It might be weeks, months even, before a rescue party could overtake them. Dear Lord! Her eyes widened with horror. This time there could be no rescue! The man who had stolen her away was her husband in the eyes of the law, and she was absolutely subject to his wishes. He owned her, like a slave, and any man who attempted to come between them would be legally in the wrong. The thought so stunned Cathy that she could only stare blankly into space. Her heart pounded as she realized that Jon had her well and truly trapped. And the hysterically funny part about the whole thing was that the web was of her own making!

  Cathy drifted off despite her fear, and, the next thing she knew, she was being jerked awake to the sound of the key turning in the lock. Her eyes widened fearfully as the door opened and Jon strode into the room. Instinctively she pulled the covers high around her neck. His eyes ran over her derisively, jeering at the action, and then he turned back to whoever had followed him to the door.

  “I want a bath,” he said abruptly to the unseen person. The reply was unintelligible, although plainly affirmative. Jon swung back to face Cathy.

  “Get her the hell out of here,” he growled, brusquely nodding at Martha who was coming groggily awake. “Now!”

  “W-why?” Cathy stammered, clutching instinctively at the older woman. Martha sat up, her gray hair in a wild frizz around her head, her arm going protectively about her charge.

  “Don’t worry, lovey. No one’s sending me away from you!”

  It was an unmistakable challenge. Martha, up in arms like a lioness protecting her one cub, glared at Jon ferociously. He scowled back, his thick black brows rushing together ominously over his nose. The rest of his expression was hidden by that fierce-looking beard. Cathy trembled, and Martha’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

  “I said get out.” Jon’s voice was even, but it had an underlying tinge of menace. “Unless you want to watch me bathe. It’s your choice.”

  He shrugged indifferently, turning back to open the door for Petersham who struggled in with the porcelain bath that Cathy had used in happier times. Cathy’s spirits picked up a little at the sight of her old friend. She was not to be entirely at Jon’s mercy, it seemed!

  “Oh, Petersham!” she exclaimed. “How are you?”

  The joy in her voice made Jon’s eyes narrow. Petersham glanced at her, his expression stony.

  “Very good, ma’am,” he answered, his voice like ice. Cathy fell back against the pillows. Good God, Petersham hated her too! What was it that she had done? Would no one tell her? Or did they suppose she already knew?

  Jon’s lips curved in the ghost of a satisfied smile. Cathy stared at him. The murderous light was gone from his eyes, and except for that revolting beard and his filthy clothes, he looked almost normal. Was he insane? Or was there something going on that she simply didn’t understand?

  Jon started to unbutton his shirt as Petersham filled the tub. His eyes never left Martha. Color rushed into the woman’s cheeks as she realized that he would have no inhibitions about doing just exactly as he had threatened. Cathy saw her consternation, and pushed her gently toward the foot of the bunk.

  “It’s all right, Martha,” she said softly. “You can go. He won’t do me any harm.”

  Jon did not contradict her statement, and continued undressing lazily. Martha scrambled from the bunk as he freed his shirt from the waistband of his pants. Then she turned back to Cathy.

  “Shut your eyes, lovey,” the woman said fiercely. “It isn’t right, your seeing him like that.”

  Jon’s lips lifted in a humorless smile. He shrugged free of the shirt, throwing it casually to the floor.

  “He is my husband, Martha,” Cathy said quietly. Martha’s mouth widened in a soundless “Oh!” and she clapped her hand to it as Jon began to unbutton his breeches. He gave every indication that he was prepared to strip to the skin regardless of who was watching.

  “It’s all right, Martha,” Cathy repeated rather wearily, and, with one last horrified glance at Jon, Martha scuttled from the cabin. Petersham, finished with his task, followed Martha without another glance at Cathy. Cathy stared after him, perplexed, and then her eyes swung back to Jon. He was stepping rather stiffly from his breeches.

  The thick black hair that covered his body was dull now and matted. Cathy caught her breath at the sight of bones showing through the swarthy flesh. Before he had been a lean, finely honed animal with smooth, powerful muscles. Now he looked like the survivor of a famine. The only thing about him that was unchanged was his manhood, standing tautly away from the surrounding black bush. Its burgeoning fullness looked obscene amidst all that wasted flesh. Cathy averted her eyes hastily.

  “A little late for maidenly modesty, isn’t it, wife?” Jon commented sardonically. The way he said the last word made it an unspeakable insult. Cathy flinched from the hatred that still licked like flames through his voice.

  “Don’t call me that!” she protested sharply, automatically. Jon leaped toward her, snarling, and Cathy cowered back against the pillows. His hands closed over her shoulders, tightening cruelly on the fragile bones. Cathy gasped with pain and fear. Jon’s lips parted in a feral smile and he dragged her up so that her face was level with his.

  “Do you know how close you came to being strangled, last night?” he asked almost conversationally, his face not more than three inches from hers. The crazed glitter had returned to his eyes. Cathy shook her head fearfully. Anything to placate him.

  “Very close. In fact, if not for my child, you wouldn’t be alive today. So don’t try telling me what to do. I might decide that the child isn’t worth enduring your bitchy ways.”

  His hands dropped away from her as if she had suddenly become distasteful to him. Cathy slumped back down in the bed, her eyes following his every move, her breath coming fast and shallow. He turned his back to move stiffly toward the steaming bath, and Cathy gave a little shocked cry of horror.

  “Your back!” she breathed. “What happened to it?”

  Jon swung around, the glow in his eyes so bright that Cathy felt scorched by its intensity.

  “Don’t pretend with me, slut,” he growled. “I find I’m extremely short of patience where you’re concerned. It wouldn’t take much to persuade me to show you just how excruciating a whipping can be.”

  Cathy stared at him. He looked mad, and yet spoke with the confidence that his attitude was justified. Petersham, too, had treated her with scathing contempt. Conjecture crystallized into fact: they were both blaming her for something of which she had no knowledge.

  “Jon, I realize you’re angry with me,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving the blazing gray ones. She was going to add, “Won’t you tell me why?” when he interrupted with an enraged bellow.

  “Angry? Angry! You bitch, I could cheerfully cut you up for bait with a dull knife, and I may do it yet if you don’t keep your goddamned mouth shut!”

  His fists were clenched as if he were having great trouble restraining himself from hitting her. Cathy recoiled from the taut menace in his face. When she remained silent he gradually relaxed, and, turning away, crossed to the tub. He stepped into it, sliding down into the steaming water gingerly. A grimace of pain crossed his features as the hot water touched his raw back. From the bed Cathy could still see the suppurating sores. It looked like he’d been beaten not once, but many times. Where had he been, she wondered feverishly. What had happened to him?

  “Jon, won’t you tell me what happened?” she ventured after some minutes. His head snapped around, and he fixed his burning eyes on her. The bristly black beard made him look like a fearsome stranger.

  “You have a very soft voice,”
he drawled in reply. “Soft and twining. It almost persuaded me that you were like that too. But you taught me better, didn’t you, wife? You taught me that beneath that distracting exterior beats a heart of pure flint, and a selfish, grasping mind. Do you think you can play the same trick on me twice? I warn you now, don’t try. Killing you would give me more pleasure than anything in my life, and if you tempt me I may not be able to deny myself even until the child is born.”

  Cathy gaped at him, feeling sick with shock. There was no mistaking the venom in his tone. Hatred stared implacably from his eyes. She started to protest her total bewilderment, then thought better of it. Plainly he was determined to despise her. Besides, there was no way she could properly defend herself until she knew of what she stood accused. But if she couldn’t tell her innocence in words, she could express it in deed. Swinging her legs over the side of the bunk, she struggled laboriously to her feet. Her swollen belly surged against the clinging pink nightdress and her plaits swung rhythmically against her breast as she moved toward him. Jon watched her warily, his eyes veiled. His gaze moved first to her delicately etched features then traveled as if drawn by a magnet to her surging middle.

  “God!” he muttered, closing his eyes as if he could no longer bear the sight of her. Cathy flushed, thinking that he must find her pregnancy repulsive, but she refused to be deterred. She walked forward steadily until her thighs just touched the cool porcelain rim of the tub. Jon’s mouth set grimly, but he still refused to open his eyes. Cathy stared doggedly down at his overlong black hair.

  Jon opened his eyes at last, glaring ominously up at her.

  “What do you think you’re doing, bitch?” he grated.

  Cathy’s eyes sparkled at the expletive, but she bit her tongue and said nothing as she bent to scoop the soap and cloth from the water. Her fingers just brushed his chest, and his hands flew up to capture hers, tightening cruelly around her wrists.