Island Flame

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  A combination of fatigue, worry, and plain sexual frustration made his temper hair-trigger quick. Everyone from Petersham to the lowliest field worker felt the bite of his tongue at one time or another. Cathy was generally spared from these verbal attacks, but the glint in Jon’s eyes when he looked at her told her that she was the real target. She returned his flaying looks limpidly, and redoubled her efforts to attract him. As water eventually wears away rock, she felt that she was making slow but steady progress. One night soon he would abandon the struggle and come to her, and she would be ready. And from his bed it was a very small step to his heart.

  Jon was at first cynically amused and then infuriated by her transparent attempts to seduction. Soon after Cray’s birth he had commissioned a fashionable Charleston seamstress to replenish her almost nonexistent wardrobe, and now he realized that he had made a tactical error. In the gossamer thin, low-cut, sleeveless gowns that were best suited to South Carolina’s climate, she was as tempting to him as Eve must once have been to Adam. Just the sight of her slender, curvaceous figure as she flitted about the house or gardens was enough to send him up in flames. The soft smiles and provocative looks she lavished on him were pure torture. He lusted after her with a fierceness that left him time for thoughts of little else. Night after night he was reduced to taking moonlight swims in nearby Miller’s Creek in an effort to cool his ardor. It barely helped at all.

  As the weeks passed and he realized that she had had sufficient time to recover completely from Cray’s birth, his control was strained almost to the bursting point. There was no physical reason why she shouldn’t assume the intimate duties of a wife. Grimly Jon clung to his sanity. The bitch had stolen his heart once, and then callously trampled it. He’d see her in hell before he would give her the chance again!

  Word spread through Charleston’s plantation community that another generation of Hales had taken up residence at Woodham. Hardly an afternoon passed without a carriage rolling up the drive to disgorge two or three fashionably dressed ladies come to make the acquaintance of their new neighbors. Cathy, well-dressed and demure, served tea and macaroons and fielded probing questions diplomatically. When the ladies discovered that she actually possessed a title (Cathy suspected Martha of divulging this information), they fell over themselves in an attempt to make the new arrivals welcome. Mistress Gordon, the neighborhood matriarch, set the final seal of approval on them by revealing that she had been close friends with Jon’s mother, Virginia. After that, Cray was cooed over, Cathy pronounced “the sweetest thing,” and Jon described by the dazzled ladies as too romantic for words. Jon was cynical about this approbation, but directed Cathy to accept a few of the invitations that were showered upon them. If they were to make Woodham their home, it would not do to live like recluses.

  Cathy selected a ball given by a young couple named Ingrams for their social debut. Jon was unenthusiastic, but grudgingly consented to accompany her. Inwardly, he felt that it might do him good to be in the company of other beautiful women besides his wife. It was incredible that he, who had bedded scores of women over the years, had been reduced to wanting only one. Perhaps he needed to take a closer look at what else was available.

  Cathy, for her part, looked forward to the ball the way a cat anticipates its Sunday bowl of cream. She would dress to kill, and flirt judiciously with all the handsome men present. Jealousy would bring Jon around if nothing else would, she thought smugly. She knew he wanted her, it was plain in his eyes, but he was too damned stubborn to give in. A slight smile tilted at the corners of her mouth. When he had begged sufficiently for her favors, she would very sweetly submit. In the flaming of his passion, she hoped to touch his heart.

  Cathy’s mouth went dry when she thought of Jon’s lovemaking. It had been so long since he had possessed her—almost nine months. If she were honest, she would have to admit that she wanted him too. The lustful glances that had touched on her half-exposed bosom when he thought she wasn’t looking, the imperfectly concealed tremor in his limbs when she oh-so-accidentally brushed her body against his, excited her more than she had dreamed was possible. She had always thought that only men were subject to physical needs, but she was painfully learning her mistake. It would have been very easy just to go to his room one night and offer herself to him, but she wanted more than just sexual gratification. She wanted his love, and if he had to be driven to the point of madness before he could recognize or admit it, then that was what she had to do.

  The night of the ball Cathy made an elaborate toilette. Her ballgown was the most beautiful she had ever possessed, ordered especially for the occasion. It was cloth-of-gold, a whispering tale of enchantment as it shimmered in the candlelight. The tissue-thin bodice was suspended from two fragile straps that caressed her shoulders before widening to cross over her breasts in wide swaths of material. The material crossed again in back, then came around to hug her slender waist before billowing out into an enormous bell of a skirt. Her neck, shoulders, arms, and the gleaming upper slopes of her bosom were left deliciously bare. Perfectly plain yet daring in design, the dress was dependent for its effect on the wearer’s own beauty. On Cathy, it was superb.

  Martha styled her golden hair very simply, gathering it in a sapphire clasp at the crown of her head then coaxing it to stream down her back in cascading ringlets. Sapphire-and-gold earbobs swung coquettishly from her ears and a delicate matching necklace that had belonged to Jon’s mother was clasped about her neck. Tiny gold-heeled slippers and long golden gloves completed the outfit. With her wide, sapphire eyes and perfectly etched features, Cathy looked like a princess from a fairy tale.

  “Lovey, you look a real picture,” Martha said with satisfaction when Cathy was finally dressed. “Master Jon’s eyes’ll pop.”

  Cathy smiled ruefully at her nanny. Not much escaped Martha’s keen eyes. But she was too excited, too filled with anticipation to reprove her nanny as she supposed she should do. Instead, she pressed an impulsive kiss on the plump cheek nearest her as she caught up her spangled stole.

  “That’s the idea, Martha,” she twinkled roguishly, and then vanished out the door with a swish of her full skirt.

  Jon was testily pacing the downstairs hall as Cathy descended toward him, and she had an opportunity to study him unobserved. Dressed in charcoal gray velvet with a silver waistcoat, he was incredibly handsome. Her eyes ran over his lean, powerfully muscled frame with possessive pride. He was every inch the arrogant male, and just looking at him made her heart beat faster. His hair was neatly brushed for once, and gleamed blue-black in the light of the candles. His dark face was smoothly shaven, emphasizing the hawkish cast of his features. Silky black eyebrows met over his eyes in an impatient frown. Cathy smiled. He looked like he wasn’t in a very good mood, and, if her plan succeeded, he would be in a worse one before the night was out.

  He glanced at his pocket watch, then up the stairs, stopping dead as he saw her seemingly float down toward him. His eyes flickered over her, touching on her shining hair, her face, the nearly naked globes of her bosom, her tiny waist. His mouth tightened angrily, and he swung away from her, but not before she saw the raw hunger that blazed for an unguarded moment in his eyes.

  “Shall we go?” he asked with commendable coolness as she came up beside him, her head not quite reaching his shoulder. She laid her hand lightly on his reluctantly proffered arm, glancing up at him in time to surprise his eyes feasting greedily on the rounded flesh left bare by her gown. A dark flush spread over his cheekbones as she caught him out, but he said nothing more. Cathy was likewise silent as he escorted her out of the door and handed her up into the waiting carriage.

  The ball was a tremendous success from almost every viewpoint but Cathy’s. Dozens of candles lit the long ballroom, and an orchestra on a raised dais at the far end of the room played haunting melodies. Ladies, in floating gowns ranging in color from the demure pastels that were de rigueur for debutantes to the more daring scarlets and emeralds favored by dashi
ng young matrons, twirled about the highly polished floor in the arms of soberly clad gentlemen. After greeting their host and hostess, Jon swung Cathy into the laughing throng for a stiffly silent dance. He held her at the correct arm’s length, and vouchsafed not a single word to her. Nettled, Cathy hardly waited until the music stopped before pulling away from him to smile at a young man nearby. The boy, dazzled by her beauty and not deterred in the least by Jon’s monitory scowl, immediately asked her to dance. Cathy agreed with a little curtsey, and twirled away without a backward glance.

  After that, she was beseiged with invitations to dance from nearly every gentleman present. The young, unmarried ones were the most vociferous, and Cathy encouraged them with sparkling gaiety helped by the glasses of champagne punch that were constantly being pressed into her hand. From the corner of her eye she caught occasional glimpses of Jon dancing with this or that lovely lady. He seemed to have no interest in the blushing girls, preferring the older, more experienced women. Cathy felt real physical pain as she saw him smile with devastating charm down into the face of a lady who, all too plainly, knew what men-women games were all about. Slut, thought Cathy furiously, turning away to redouble her own efforts at flirtation.

  When supper was announced, Cathy allowed her partner of the moment, a handsome young man of twenty-five named Paul Harrison, to escort her. It was the custom for married ladies to dine in their husband’s company, but her last glimpse of Jon had found his dark head bent intimately over the auburn one of that sluttish female. Cathy had no inclination to wait for him after that. So she laughed and flirted with Paul as if she didn’t have a care in the world. No one would have guessed that her head hurt, or that her meal might have been sawdust for all the enjoyment she took from it. Finally, across the room she spied Jon—and his partner. It was the same woman, and she was looking at Jon with an avidity that positively sickened Cathy. Furiously she swallowed another glass of champagne punch, bestowing a dazzling smile on the bemused Paul as she begged sweetly to be taken back into the ballroom.

  Paul danced with her twice more after that, each time growing just a little bolder. His hands caressed her waist discreetly, and Cathy, instead of pulling away, smiled up at him with deliberate enticement. This night was not going at all as she had planned, but she had no intention of letting anyone guess her sick dismay. If Jon had no care for her—why, then, she would have no care for Jon! When Paul swung her in the direction of the veranda, she made no demur.

  The cool night air brought her to her senses. As Paul whirled her down the veranda she pulled back from him, and was just opening her mouth to tell him to take her back inside when she saw a long black shadow loom up over his shoulder. Jon’s hand descended on Paul’s shoulder with rather more force than was proper, and his voice had a steely ring to it.

  “Excuse me, Harrison, but I’d like to finish this dance with my wife.” The words were perfectly even, but Paul dropped Cathy like a hot coal. To his credit, he had forgotten until this moment that his enamorada had a husband. Now, confronted with Jon’s formidable strength, he sketched a quick bow before retreating with more haste than dignity.

  Cathy faced Jon boldly, tilting her chin at him as if daring him to make something of what she had done. Inwardly, she was not nearly so sure of herself. He had been furious enough to kill her that time with Harry—and this time she had deliberately invited another man’s attentions. Besides, she was now his wife. But at the moment she didn’t much care what he did. If he could bask under that predatory woman’s advances, then surely she was entitled to a little harmless enjoyment!

  To her astonishment, his voice when he spoke held none of the furious anger she had expected. Instead, he was icily controlled.

  “I suggest that we go back inside and finish this dance. Your behavior tonight has already caused quite enough talk. I don’t think we’ll provide the gossips with a brawl to further their entertainment.”

  He reached out and grasped her upper arm with long strong fingers that bit deep into her skin. Cathy peered at him through the darkness, trying to read his expression. It was impossible. The shadows were too dense to permit her to see anything more than a tall, dark silhouette.

  “What about your behavior?” Cathy hissed, trying to pull her arm free of his grasp. She was damned if she would let him intimidate her! If her actions had been reprehensible, his had been worse!

  “Jealous, my wife?” Cathy could see the brief gleam of his teeth as they showed in a mirthless smile. “You have no reason to be. I turned the lovely Annabella down—in favor of you. You see, tonight I’ve decided to give you what you’ve been wanting.”

  He was drawing her inexorably toward the ballroom as he spoke. As the light fell on his face, Cathy caught her breath sharply. On the surface was the urbane mask of a gentleman; only someone who knew him as well as she did could detect the savagery in his eyes.

  “Smile, wife,” he said almost pleasantly, swinging her through the wide doors and into the movement of the dance. “We wouldn’t want the good people to think we were fighting, would we?”

  Cathy glanced about her, saw the interested eyes on them, and smiled. Inside she was a trembling mass of nerves. She had never before seen him in such a quiet, terrible rage. But still, she thought, tossing her head and dimpling at him for the benefit of the onlookers, what can he do to me? He wasn’t a wife beater. If he proposed to share her bed, then that would fit in with her plans very nicely. Why then did she feel so frightened?

  When the music ended, her husband led her through the throng, his arm about her waist in a gesture of casual affection. Only Cathy could feel the iron hard muscles that kept her clamped to his side. Mechanically she smiled and called gay answers to the men who still pleaded for dances. To the disapproving looks bestowed on her by chaperones she responded with suitable penitence. Privately she rebelled. Damn the old cats, she thought, and continued to smile.

  When Jon went to fetch her wrap Cathy almost ran off and hid. The thought of being alone with her husband in a closed carriage for the half an hour or so it would take them to get to Woodham was unnerving. She had a feeling that he had some punishment in store for her—but what? As she considered the possibilities he returned with her wrap, and the chance for escape was lost.

  Jon held her arm lovingly as they bade smiling goodnights to the Ingrams. Cathy was frighteningly aware of the strength in the hand that held her. The polite smile dropped from his face like a mask as they left the house. She was right—he did intend some punishment for her. The angry glitter in his eyes made that plain. Cathy felt her heart quake as he lifted her silently into the carriage, folding the steps himself before giving the coachman the order to drive.

  The interior of the carriage was lit by a single stationary lantern. By its light Cathy watched the grim face of her husband as he took the seat opposite to hers. He met her eyes, and slowly smiled. The mirthless grimace gave him the look of a malevolent satyr.

  “Come here, wife,” he said very softly. When Cathy only stared at him, her eyes huge and wary, the smile left his face to be replaced by a snarling frown.

  “I said come here!”

  The command cracked like a whip. Cathy moistened her lips nervously with the tip of her tongue. Jon’s gaze centered on her mouth, his expression savage.

  “W-why?” she stammered, shrinking back against the velvet upholstery.

  “I’m going to give you what you’ve been wanting from me for weeks now. You’re surely not going to try to deny it?”

  “I—I— If you mean to make love to me, I have no objection. You are my husband, after all, and I realize that you have certain rights.” The words were meant to sound coolly reasonable. Instead they were pitiable. But she was inexplicably frightened of him. He knew it. She could see the brief flare of satisfaction in his eyes.

  “Yes, I do. And I mean to exercise them. Now.” His hand reached almost casually across the space between them and closed over hers, jerking her toward him, Cathy half fell a
cross his lap. He pulled her around until she was sitting on his knees, his hand around her throat. He stared down into her pale face, his own twisting angrily.

  “Jon, please …” Cathy whispered humbly as his face loomed closer to hers. “Wait.…”

  “Do you deny you’ve been trying to get me into bed for the past month!” The words were growled against her ear. “Or that your little act with that unfortunate youth tonight wasn’t designed to make me jealous? Well?”

  “It wasn’t like that …” Cathy protested feebly, responding despite her fear to the hardening of the muscles beneath her soft buttocks.

  “Wasn’t it?”

  His eyes glared down into hers, and then his mouth silenced all further talk.

  Sixteen

  Jon was lost. He had known it from the moment he had watched Cathy disappear onto the veranda with that swaggering pup. Jealousy, fierce and primitive, had ripped at his insides. He had wanted to kill, even though he knew full well that her whole performance had been designed for just that purpose. Well, she had succeeded in her aim: against his will he had come after her, and had only just stopped himself from making a furious scene. The thought of the triumph that would gleam in her eyes was all that held him back. For months she had been trying to wrest his heart from him. Tonight, he acknowledged with a furious anger, she had done just that. He loved the little bitch still, God help him. And God help him if she should ever find it out.

  His mouth as it twisted over hers was deliberately brutal, his tongue raping her mouth with no thought of her pleasure or even comfort. The feel of her soft little mouth opening under his, her arms twining around his neck, her small tongue caressing his lips and teeth lit the fuse of both his starved passion and his mounting rage. She was actually responding to a kiss that was intended to insult her! She thought she had won at last, he realized infuriatedly. The evening was ending just as she had planned—with him making love to her. Well, he would take her because he could no longer help himself. But my lady wouldn’t have everything her own way. Jon smiled savagely, his hand coming up to clench over the top of her extravagant ballgown before jerking downward with all his might.