Sea Fire (12 page)

F
ive days later Cathy was growing more than a little tired of her pretense. Staying in bed when one felt perfectly well was boring in the extreme; besides, it gave her too much time to think, and her thoughts inevitably centered on Jon and little Cray. By now Jon must know that he was not to be hanged, and she wondered if he knew how his reprieve had been achieved. She hoped desperately that he did; the memory of his last anguished cry, after Harold had told him that they were wed, tortured her. At least, if he knew, he would also know that her seeming betrayal had been prompted by her love of him. Perhaps it would serve to take away some of his hurt.

Thinking of Jon was too painful, so Cathy tried not to. But thinking of Cray was nearly as bad. Poor baby, how he must be missing her! Her heart constricted as she pictured him crying for her, not understanding why she wasn’t there. As soon as they had boarded the
Tamarind
, she had dashed off a quick note to Martha, explaining what had happened as concisely as she could. She knew that Martha would care for Cray as well as, or better than, she could, but still that didn’t help. Her arms ached to hold him, and her eyes filled with tears as she imagined his bewilderment at the sudden changes in his life. He wouldn’t understand what had happened to her, or Jon. He would think they had abandoned him!

And then, too, there was her father. Cathy greatly feared that the shock of hearing what had befallen her would kill him. She could only trust that Mason had broken it to him gently, and try to put it from her mind. At present, a mere two days from the coast
of Spain, there wasn’t a thing she could do for anyone except herself.

It was on a sunny day in early November that the
Tamarind
dropped anchor at La Coruña. Cathy had dared to get out of bed for just long enough to peep out at the harbor. From where they lay in a line of ships docked close to the wharf, she could see the town through the porthole. It looked very gay and colorful, with brightly dressed men and women milling with donkeys and pushcarts as they tried to market their wares to the people just getting off the ships. Cathy opened the porthole slightly, unable to resist the lure of the scene. Immediately the sweet smell of bananas and mangoes reached her nostrils, while the sounds of laughing, Spanish-speaking voices assailed her ears. It was almost evening, yet the sun was still a bright yellow ball above the horizon.

“You’ve been playing me for a fool, haven’t you, Cathy?” Harold’s ominously lowered voice behind her sent her spinning guiltily about. He was regarding her in a way that boded no good, his small eyes made even smaller by anger and his loose mouth for once clamped into a tight line. Cathy could find no words to answer him. She was well and truly caught out. Only an hour ago she had moaningly told him that she was too sick to even think of getting out of bed, much less sally forth to explore the town.

“You haven’t been sick at all, have you?” he continued in that frightening voice. “What you thought to gain, I don’t know. All your little pretenses can’t change the fact that you’re my wife, however much you may dislike it. And I’m sick of being the butt of jokes from every man on this ship. I intend to take what I married you for, now.”

“You mean my money?” Cathy sneered, realizing that the showdown had come. In a way, it was a relief to let her loathing show at last. Harold’s ugly face grew uglier at her taunt.

“I mean your body,” he corrected crudely. Cathy’s chin came up as he moved toward her, her muscles tensing for fight or flight. If Harold
thought that bedding his sweet little bride was going to be a pleasure, then he had better think again!

“I’m going to make you very sorry that you tried to trick me, my dear,” he promised in a guttural tone as he continued to advance.

“You mean succeeded, don’t you?” Cathy dared recklessly, uncaring of how she was infuriating him. Her eyes cast surreptitiously about for a weapon as she spoke.

“Why, you little bitch, you’ll pay for that!” Harold bellowed, incensed, and leapt for her. Cathy dodged nimbly to one side. His reaching fingers caught the fragile silk of her tangerine wrapper as she twirled away, tearing it down the back from neck to waist. Cathy let it drop to her feet and then kicked it aside as she sprinted toward the door. Harold, cursing under his breath, was right behind her.

“You’re going to be sorry,” he told her as he caught her by her flying hair, winding it hurtfully around his fist as he pulled her back to him. “I’m going to teach you a lesson once and for all. You’re going to beg me for mercy. . . .”

“Poor Harold,” Cathy gasped breathlessly as she was dragged backward. “Does it hurt your little pride to know that I loathe and despise you? That your touch makes me sick to my stomach? When you kiss me, I want to throw up!”

With an inarticulate cry of pure rage, Harold yanked viciously on her hair, forcing Cathy to her knees. She went because she couldn’t help herself, but her face as she turned it up to him mirrored her continued defiance. His chin quivered as he stared at her, a slender, fragile figure lightly clothed in a peach silk nightdress that revealed more of her charms than it concealed. She was glaring at him, her blue eyes blazing their contempt. It stung him, feeding his anger. With an oath he raised his hand, slapping her viciously across the cheek. Her head snapped back at the force of his blow. Tears of rage and pain filled her eyes, but Cathy refused to let them fall. She would never give the filthy little toad that satisfaction!

“Does it make
you feel like a man, Harold, to hit a woman?” Cathy taunted softly, knowing that she was inviting more of the same but too angry to care.

“You God-forsaken whore!” The words weren’t much more than a furious whisper. Cathy’s eyes instinctively followed the movement of his hand as he clenched it into a fist, raising it in apparent readiness to knock her senseless. As it began to descend she couldn’t control a flinch.

The blow never fell. Cathy was saved by a brisk knock on the door. Cursing, lowering his fist, Harold stared balefully at it.

“What is it?” he called, giving Cathy a warning look. She was silent simply because it would do her no good to be anything else. As Harold’s legal wife, he was entitled to do anything he cared to do to her, including beating her if he felt so inclined. There wasn’t a man on board who would lift a hand to stop him. All she would achieve by calling attention to Harold’s brutality was her own humiliation.

“It’s the steward, with your supper, sir,” came the voice from the other side of the door.

“Take it away,” Harold ordered harshly.

“But, sir, Cook’s going ashore with most of the rest of the crew. If you don’t eat now, you won’t be able to get anything else until morning.”

“I said, take it away!” Harold screamed. Cathy moistened her lips as she heard the scurry of retreating footsteps.

“Now, you whore, where were we?” Harold muttered. Cathy closed her eyes, expecting him to hit her and not wanting to see the blow as it fell. Instead, he released her hair to grasp her upper arm, hauling her to her feet.

He shoved her toward the bed. Cathy half-fell, hoping to slow him by her weight, but he dragged her ruthlessly forward. As they neared the bed, he released his hold on her arm to grab her around the waist, his stubby hands digging into her soft flesh. Cathy, seeing what he meant to do, began to struggle; but despite Harold’s
girth and lack of height he was more than a match for her.

Picking her up, he flung her onto the mattress. Cathy bounced back against the wall, hitting her head so hard that she saw stars. Momentarily, she was stunned. Harold took advantage of this lull in her defenses to fling off his clothes. Cathy could only watch dazedly as he undressed.

In a kind of frenzy he threw aside his peacock blue coat, his lace-laden shirt and cravat, and stepped out of his pale blue breeches. Cathy stared with horrified fascination at the pasty mound of flesh thus exposed to her view. The muscles of his arms and shoulders, if muscles they were, sagged loosely; his puffy chest was as white as her own, its center adorned by a single tuft of reddish hair. His breasts were as large and pendulous as many a woman’s, while his belly protruded grotesquely. As he peeled off his long underdrawers, Cathy could only watch, transfixed. Automatically she compared his pale, flaccid body with Jon’s hard, muscular strength. For just an instant she was conscious of a crazy desire to giggle.

At least it restored her to full consciousness. Still, she lay supine, thinking to gull Harold into over-confidence. Her lip curled slightly with contempt as he strutted toward her, ostentatiously displaying his nudity. Apparently he felt no lack in himself.

The cabin was dark now except for a faint gray light filtering in through the open porthole. Through it Cathy could smell the sweet scent of fruit, hear the faint splash-splash of a boat being rowed. . . .

Then Cathy’s seeking eyes spied what they had been looking for. On the bedside table stood a heavy metal bust of the Queen. Cathy smiled, reaching for it. Victoria, with her known views on the subservience of a wife to her husband, would surely frown on the use to which Cathy intended to put her likeness; but at the moment Cathy didn’t particularly care.

Reaching for the bust, she had momentarily taken her eyes off of Harold.
That was a mistake. With a triumphant grunt he flung himself upon her, knocking her head back against the wall while his weight pinned her to the mattress. Cathy, taken by surprise, turned into a tigress. She kicked and clawed and bit him, no longer thinking of anything except the fact that this loathsome creature was doing his best to violate her body. That he was her legal husband weighed with her not at all. She hated and despised him, and not all the vows in the world could change that.

He was biting at her breasts, making disgusting noises deep in his throat as his hands roamed her body. Cathy gave up trying to fight him frontally; instead, she reached over her head, feeling for the bust. If she could just get it in hand, she would give her bridegroom a night to remember!

Harold took advantage of her seeming acquiescence to push the hem of her nightdress up around her waist. Cathy felt his naked flesh touch hers, and shook with revulsion. Her hands abandoned their quest for the bust to fly to her nightdress, trying desperately to cover herself. She clamped her thighs so tightly together that they hurt; she would not give in! She would not. . . .

He bit viciously at her breast. Cathy gasped, pain bringing tears to her eyes. Her hands curved into claws which reached for his eyes, but he caught them in his, holding them so that they were helpless. His knee began inexorably to part her thighs.

“Dear God,” Cathy prayed mindlessly. “Help me. . . .”

As Harold brutally forced her legs apart, his mouth sucking and biting on her breasts, she fleetingly remembered her first time with Jon; she had accused him of raping her, had held it over his head for months. Only now was she coming to realize the true horror that rape meant.

With a grunt Harold spread her legs wide. Cathy tensed all her muscles, hoping to hold off his entry for as long as she could. She felt him probe her softness, and in an instinctive reaction opened her mouth
to bite him viciously on the neck. Suddenly, through the darkness behind Harold’s head, she caught a blur of movement. Something silver gleamed faintly as it descended in a long arc. There was a muffled thud; Harold gasped, then went limp.

For just a moment Cathy lay there, stunned. What had happened? Then a sense of her own possible danger began to penetrate. Frantically she shoved at Harold’s shoulders, trying to squirm out from under his dead weight.

From somewhere above her came the sound of a hard, unamused laugh. Over Harold’s shoulder loomed the outline of a man’s head. Cathy stared fearfully through the darkness at the apparition; her breath caught in her throat as she met a pair of very familiar, very icy gray eyes.

five

J
on!” she gasped, barely able to summon her voice at all.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Lady Stanhope!” he drawled with awful affability. “Pray forgive me for interrupting your honeymoon, my lady.”