Sea Fire (19 page)

“Need help?” That drawling voice spoke right behind her shoulder, making her jump involuntarily. Pride ordered her to refuse, but Cathy realized that she really did need help to get out of the blasted garment. Besides, as Jon said, he had seen her naked more times than either of them could remember. It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed now, but she did. Maybe it was because he was no longer her husband, but a bad-tempered, mocking devil of a stranger who seemed to think he could use her body as he chose. And he didn’t love her anymore—if he ever had, which she was seriously beginning to doubt. If you loved someone, you trusted them, and you certainly weren’t
cruel. Besides, she no longer loved him: she hated him now, and that made all the difference.

“Thank you,” Cathy’s voice was cold as she allowed him to take over. He struggled with the stubborn hook for a moment, then cursed.

“The problem is, you’ve got that damned mess all over your back. There’s only one thing for it.” With that his hands closed around her waist and he picked her up, carrying her bodily the few paces it took to cross the room. When he set her down, she saw that her feet were firmly placed in the center of the tin tub.

“Do you have any soap?” he asked brusquely as her eyes widened questioningly on his face.

“By the washstand,” Cathy nodded, then frowned. “But, Jon, I can’t take a bath in this dress. The water will ruin the silk!”

“At a guess I’d say it was ruined already,” Jon answered, moving to get the soap. When he came back Cathy took it from him mutely, knowing that what he said was true.

“Thanks to you,” she said bitterly, her mouth hardening.

“No, thanks to
you,
” Jon replied equably. “I told you not to throw tantrums on the deck. You deserved far worse than you got. You weren’t hurt—just had that haughty pride of yours dented a little. Would you have preferred a bout with the cat? Because that crossed my mind. You have to understand, these men aren’t seamen. They don’t obey me as captain because it’s natural to them to do so. They do as I say because they know I’ll knock their teeth down their throats if they don’t. Some of them are just waiting for me to show a hint of softness, and then they’ll try to close in. What you did today was damned stupid, and if I’d let it pass it could have been just the sign some of those jackals out there are waiting for. Besides, I warned you. And I’m warning you again: pull another stunt like that, and I really will take the cat to you. I swear it.”

“I’m
not afraid of you,” she spat, the hold she had on her temper dangerously slipping.

“Then you should be,” Jon said softly, and effectively curtailed any reply from Cathy by picking up the huge barrel and dumping a quarter of its contents over her head. When she opened her eyes again, sputtering, it was to find Jon peeling his stained shirt over his head. While she began to rather sulkily lather her hair with the soap, he sat down on a chair and pulled off his boots. Then he stood up again, peeling off his breeches.

Cathy’s eyes widened so much at this that she got soap in them.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, rubbing the stinging orbs with her fists.

“What does it look like?” he asked coolly, stepping into the small tub with her as he spoke. They were standing facing each other, so close that Cathy could feel his body heat, smell the musky male odor of him. His tall naked body towered over her small, still clothed one. Cathy felt curiously disturbed at his proximity.

“Let’s get you out of that dress,” Jon said before Cathy could speak. With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around. Obligingly she held her sudsy hair up out of his way while he grappled with her hooks.

Without the impediment of her greasy hair to hamper him, Jon managed to get her dress unfastened. Still standing in the tub, Cathy let him pull it over her head and toss it aside. She stood for a moment in her soaking petticoat, undecided about whether or not to remove it. To stand so close to him with both of them naked would only invite trouble.

The decision was taken out of her hands. Jon’s hands reached around her, coolly unlacing the ribbons that held the front of the petticoat in place. When that was done, he removed that garment too. When his hands came back to feel for the drawstring of her pantalets, Cathy pushed his fingers aside and mutely did
the job herself. While she was stepping out of them she felt his hands in her hair, gently massaging suds through the long strands.

“I can do that, thanks,” she said with chilling courtesy when she was naked at last. His hands obediently left her head. Cathy kept her back to him, but they were so close that she could feel every muscle and sinew in that long body. She knew when he lifted his hands to his own head, rubbing the soap vigorously into his hair. And she knew when his body began to harden with desire. . . .

At that unmistakable sign, Cathy made a hasty move as if to step out of the tub. Jon’s arms slipping around her waist forestalled her. Cathy strained futilely against their iron strength.

“Where are you going? You haven’t finished your bath yet.” His voice was disturbingly husky.

“Let me go. You’re bothering me,” Cathy said sharply, wanting to get out of his arms before she shamed herself as she had done last night.

“Is that what I’m doing? Bothering you?” The words were lazy, the tone seductive. “Now, I would have called it something quite different. . . .”

“You’re a conceited thing,” Cathy said on a note of desperation as one big hand began to work soap into the soft skin of her belly. He was arousing reluctant tremors of feeling inside of her, tremors that she knew she mustn’t, for the sake of her own self-respect, allow him to suspect.

“Am I?” he breathed in her ear, moving closer until his warm, hair-roughened body was pressed tightly against her soft, curved back. One hand moved up to gently soap her breasts, still holding her firmly against him. The other moved down between her thighs. . . .

After a moment of this, Cathy could no longer control the quaking of her treacherous body. She knew he had to feel the long shudders that racked her, just as he felt the swelling of her breasts beneath his
caressing hands. Only moments ago she would not have believed she could want him like this, not after the way he had treated her, the humiliations he had forced on her, and she would have been horrified to think that he was aware of her desire. But now, with his drugging hands on her quivering flesh, with his breath warm in her ear and his tall, hard body pressed so intimately against her buttocks, she was past thinking, past caring. She wanted him so badly that it was a physical pain in her belly. With a long, ragged sigh she relaxed back against him.

His arms tightened around her, his fingers pinching gently at the hard pebbles of her nipples. The hand between her legs was daring further, further. . . . Cathy’s eyes were closed, her head resting back against the hard cradle of his chest. Her breathing sounded labored in her ears.

Jon bent his head to kiss her neck, his mouth and tongue tracing the taut cord, his teeth lightly nibbling at it. Cathy felt her knees weaken until she could hardly stand. His hard strength was all that held her upright. If he had let her go, she would have fallen into an ignominious heap at his feet.

“God,” he gasped hoarsely in her ear; some recess of her being rejoiced that he was as much a victim of passion as she. Then he was turning her in his arms, gathering her against the steamy heat of his body, his hands sliding intimately down to close on her bottom and press her to him so that she could feel his throbbing need of her.

“You feel good,” he murmured, his eyes dark with passion as he looked down at her. His hands still clasped intimately around the soft cheeks of her behind, he rubbed her against him, grinding their flesh together. Cathy felt a tremor all the way down to her toes. His body was hard and hot and hairy, all rippling muscle and wet bronzed flesh. She half-closed her eyes, her hands sliding up to clasp his shoulders. She ached for him. Despite everything, he could still make her want him so much that her desire was like a physical pain. Soap still clung to him,
making his skin slippery to her touch. She loved the sensation, her hands moving of their own volition in seductive little circles along the width of his shoulders and down to his chest. She concentrated all her attention on that black-furred expanse, running her fingers through the soft curls, lightly scratching with her nails along its length. Finally, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted, she pressed her mouth to the warm, soapy wetness of it. Jon’s hands clenched convulsively on her buttocks. He groaned. Then he was lifting her, his hands still holding her bottom; they slid down along her thighs to wrap her legs around his waist.

Cathy was beyond thought. She was aware of nothing but the feel of his body entwined with hers, of the warm, soapy, musky man-smell of him, of her own spiralling desire. Deep in the recesses of her mind, a little voice was warning her that she would live to regret this total abandonment to passion. But Cathy was beyond heeding it. No matter the price, she wanted him as much as he plainly wanted her. If he did not take her soon, Cathy thought she would be consumed by the flames of her own throbbing need.

“Put your arms around my neck,” Jon directed hoarsely. Cathy did as he said without opening her eyes, clinging to him almost desperately. She could feel the heavy thud of his heart against her breasts, hear the harsh rasp of his breathing. Her own heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it beating against her ribcage. God, she wanted him! Would he never . . . ?

His big hands still cupping her buttocks lifted her a little. Cathy could feel the rock-hardness of him as he probed for her opening. She gasped with pleasure when he found it, the pulsating length of him thrusting upward until he was deep inside her. Then for a long moment he held her perfectly still, her softness pressed all the way down against the taut muscles of his belly. Cathy couldn’t stand it. She began to writhe, and moan, as she sought the pleasure he refused to give her. Her body undulated against
his, her long nails unconsciously digging into his strong nape. He was gasping, his breath rattling in his throat as though he were dying. Cathy looked up through heat-glazed eyes to see that his dark face was rigid with passion, his lashes laying like black fans along his cheeks, the muscles of his neck and shoulders and arms bulging as he sought his own release. He was thrusting deep inside her now, and Cathy matched his movements with her own. She was panting for air, her legs locked tightly around his waist, her head thrown back and her eyes closed. The whirlwind of passion within her was moving faster and faster, twisting and turning as it took her with it. Cathy felt him shudder against her, the hardness of him quivering as it spurted hot seed inside her. She cried out, falling spinningly into the vortex of her own ecstasy.

They clung together like that for some few minutes, slowly recovering their senses. His mouth was buried in the curve of her neck, and his breath was warm against her damp skin. Her own head rested wearily on his broad shoulder. Her hands were still clasped loosely around his neck, her legs hugged his waist. After what seemed like an eternity he lifted his head, his hands sliding from her buttocks to untangle her legs from about him. Gently he lowered her until she was standing somewhat unsteadily on her feet. Her hands clutched his shoulders for balance. Then, as she met his rapidly cooling gray eyes, she felt a hot tide of color begin to wash into her face.

“That was fantastic,” he said, his long mouth curling sardonically. “Did you learn that from Harold?”

Cathy felt as if he had struck her. She stiffened, her eyes beginning to glare.

“I hate you,” she whispered venomously. His sneer became more pronounced.

“My dear, I love the way you hate,” he taunted, and she stepped away from him, her hands clenched into impotent fists at her sides.

“You make me
sick!” she hissed, and he laughed, his gray eyes hard.

“You acted sick,” he leered, his eyes sweeping comprehensively down her body. “You were making sounds like you were dying. I bet they heard you all over the ship.”

“Why, you . . . !” Cathy lunged at him furiously, her nails going for his mocking face. He caught her easily, laughing softly as he held her off with one hand.

“I think you need to cool off, Lady Stanhope,” he said, and with his free hand swung the barrel up to rest on his shoulder and emptied the contents over Cathy’s unsuspecting head. Cool water poured over her in a sudden rush, rinsing away the last of the
soap, and with it her momentary weakening toward him.

“Bastard!” she called him ferociously when she could speak, her blue eyes with their spiky black fringe shooting daggers. Jon’s mouth was smiling, but his eyes were cold as they looked at her.

“Let’s not start calling names,” he said, his voice soft. “I wager I could come up with a few that would make any you could dream up for me seem pale.”

“Get out of here!” Cathy hissed furiously.

“Oh, I’m going, sweet. Now that you’ve served your purpose, do you think I’d spend the rest of my afternoon locked up with you? Not a chance!”

Cathy was so mad that she could have bitten nails in two, but she managed to preserve a seething silence. To scream at him as she longed to do was useless: her harsh words bounced off him like water off a duck’s back. To throw something at him, as she wanted to do even more, would be foolhardy in the extreme. So she said nothing, drying herself on a towel with hands that shook from temper. As she wrapped the towel around her head and moved across to the trunk for something to put on, she saw him sluice what water remained in the pitcher from her morning wash over his head to rid his hair of the last of the soap. Then he stepped from the tub and briskly toweled himself dry, stepping into his breeches and reaching for a clean shirt.

When he turned around Cathy had already donned fresh pantalets and petticoat, and was tugging a dull gold crepe afternoon dress over her head. Like all the clothes Harold had provided, it was far too grand for any but the most social of occasions. But the contents of that trunk were all she had.