Sea Fire (29 page)

The sun was beginning to hover over the horizon like a pigeon over its nest. Cathy surmised that it must be early evening. Already the air was growing noticeably cooler. Vaguely she remembered learning that nights in the desert states were often bitterly cold. Still, she felt that a chill would be more than welcome after the stifling temperatures she had lately had to endure aboard the
Cristobel
. Idly she seated herself on the taffrail, breathing deeply of the freshening air.

“Pretty full of
yourself, aren’t you?” a sneering voice hissed in her ear. Cathy stiffened, recognizing Sarita’s far from dulcet tones. She had barely exchanged a word with the woman since they had shared a cabin during the storm, but she had been aware of Sarita casting her venomous glances from time to time. Why, she didn’t know. Surely the woman wasn’t jealous. After all, possession was nine-tenths of the law, and by that reckoning Jon was surely all Sarita’s!

“Thought you were real smart, lettin’ him get you with child, didn’t you?” Sarita continued, when Cathy refused to respond to her first taunt. “But it backfired on you, didn’t it? Now you’re fat as a pig, and he wants me! And my fine lady will be left to bear a bastard child with no man to claim it!”

Cathy could feel the hair begin to prickle on the back of her neck. Sarita, whether she knew it or not, was treading on dangerous ground. The bare mention of the word “bastard” in connection with Cray had long been enough to make Cathy see red. She found that she was equally protective of this new child.

“If you don’t watch your tongue, I’ll pull it out,” she said with a saccharine smile, turning to look at the older woman for the first time since the one-sided conversation began. Sarita looked clearly taken aback. Then, as her eyes ran over Cathy’s small form, clearly swollen with Jon’s child, her expression turned ugly.

“Oh, is that right?” Sarita snarled, and reached out a hand to give Cathy’s braid, which hung casually over one shoulder, a hard yank. Cathy, outraged, leapt to her feet, and gave the larger woman a shove which sent her reeling. Then, as Sarita fell heavily onto her amply-padded rear end, Cathy favored her with a long, cold look, and turned away. Head held high, still seething with anger, she marched along the deck toward her cabin.

She was so furious that she failed to note the little group of men standing just to the left of her path until she was almost upon them.
Running her fingers through her hair, partially unbound by Sarita’s yank, she sought to separate the long strands, all the while muttering angrily under her breath. It was not until she felt the force of several pairs of interested eyes that she happened to glance around.

Three white-robed Berbers were regarding her closely, but Cathy hardly saw them. Her attention was entirely focused on a pair of furious gray eyes. Meeting them, she swallowed convulsively. From the look of him, it was clear that Jon was in a fine rage. And she didn’t have to be psychic to guess that its focus was herself!

eleven

T
he setting sun, sending out one last vanguard of rays before retiring for the night, caught Cathy in its sights. The orangey brilliance was trapped in her bright hair, making it glitter like living fire. The Berbers, used to only dark-haired, dark-skinned women, visibly gaped. Jon, impaling Cathy with his eyes, was nevertheless aware of his companions’ reactions. Silently he ground his teeth.

“Who is this?” breathed the white-robed man at his left. Mustafa Kemal was his name, and he was the Sheikh’s trusted servant. Jon glared at Cathy one last time, then turned courteously to the speaker. As desperately as they needed the Sheikh’s help, it would never do to offend his man, and through him the Sheikh himself.

“She is my woman,” he said, his eyes meeting Cathy’s, daring her to deny it. She had halted uncertainly several paces away. Her eyes widened at his words, but for once in her life she was prudently silent.

“Very beautiful,” Kemal approved, while the other two Berbers nodded their heads in vigorous agreement, their eyes never leaving Cathy. One of them said something in Arabic to Kemal, and the other
apparently seconded it. Kemal replied in the same tongue, then turned back to Jon.

“It is permitted that we touch?” he asked, his eyes gleaming darkly beneath the corded white headdress. Jon was nonplussed for a moment, then following the direction of their eyes, realized that they were referring to Cathy’s hair. He had known that if the Berbers ever got a glimpse of that golden glory they would be entranced, which was why he had ordered her to stay in the cabin. Damn her for a disobedient bitch, and damn himself for a fool! He should have known that she would defy him the minute his back was turned! Next time he would lock her in. But for now the only thing to do was brazen it through.

“Certainly. I will tell her what it is that you desire, so that she will not be frightened.” With a polite nod to Kemal, Jon detached himself from the men at the rail and took the few steps needed to bring him directly in front of Cathy. Standing with his back to the Berbers, he completely blocked her from their view. Cathy, looking up at him guiltily, was left in no doubt of his wrath.

“They want to touch your hair,” he hissed between tight lips. “And you’re going to let them. You’re going to cast your eyes modestly to the ground, and not look at them. And you’re not to speak. They’re used to a very different sort of female than you, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to offend them. Understand?”

Cathy didn’t much like his tone, or the hot anger in his eyes, but she knew that in this instance Jon had to know best. Already she had been disturbed by the intensity with which the strangers were regarding her. Moistening her lips with a quick flick of her tongue, she nodded.

“Good. Stay behind me.” With a last warning look at her he turned on his heel and moved back toward the three men. Cathy followed meekly in his wake.

He stopped and stood slightly to one side of the men, his hand reaching around to
draw Cathy forward. She was grateful for the hard reassurance of his touch as one after the other the Berbers began to finger her hair.

As Jon had directed, Cathy kept her eyes cast modestly down and said nothing as she endured this odd inspection. Talking volubly amongst themselves, the men first touched her long tresses reverently, as if afraid they might vanish before their eyes. Then, as nothing happened, they began to run their fingers through the silken strands, pulling painfully at Cathy’s scalp. She winced, but conscious of Jon’s warning grip on her arm remained quiescent. Finally they touched her smooth white skin with their brown fingers, appearing to find its soft paleness marvelous.

“She is most unusual, most beautiful,” Kemal said to Jon at last, signaling the others to call a halt to their exploring fingers. Cathy shivered with relief as they stood a little away from her. For a short while she had been almost frightened, nervous of where all this might lead. Vividly she now understood why Jon had told her to stay in the cabin.

One of the Berbers said something in Arabic to Kemal, who pursed his lips, then slowly nodded. Kemal turned to look at Jon, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face as he smiled.

“The Sheikh would be most pleased with such a woman. We will buy her for him,” he stated. Cathy, horrified by this calm pronouncement, looked up. Jon met her appalled gaze with hard purpose for just an instant before smiling urbanely at the man. His hand tightened on Cathy’s arm, and he pulled her around so that she stood in front of him. One hard arm slid around her waist, pulling her back against him. His long-fingered hand spread possessively over her rounded stomach.

“I would be most honored to make a gift of her to the Sheikh,” Jon told Kemal politely, “were it not for the fact that the woman carries my son. I am sure that you and he will understand if I am reluctant to part with her under the circumstances. Please
accept my deepest regrets, and believe that, were it otherwise, she would grace the Sheikh’s seraglio this very night.”

Kemal, with an inquiring glance at Jon which was answered by a slight nod, reached out a hand to pat Cathy’s stomach, as if testing the truth of Jon’s claim. What he felt appeared to satisfy him. With a gesture of regret he removed his hand, while Cathy shrank as close against Jon as she could. Being pawed about like a slave on the block was not only humiliating, it was terrifying.

“She is with child, as you say,” he sighed, then said something to his companions. They looked sad.

“Go back to the cabin, and stay there,” Jon said in Cathy’s ear, his arm slowly releasing her. Cathy cast him a quick, grateful look as she slipped away. To save her, he had claimed the child he was convinced was Harold’s as his own. It had cost him a great deal of pride to do so, she knew, and yet he had not hesitated. Perhaps he was coming to believe it himself, or perhaps he was, despite everything, fonder of her than he’d admit. Whatever his reason, he had done it. Cathy resolved to accept the harsh strictures he would doubtless rain down on her head for her disobedience without protest. She had to admit that they were richly deserved. If Jon had not had the wit to use her pregnancy as an excuse, it was very likely that she would now be well on her way to becoming a member of the Sheikh’s harem. At the thought, Cathy shivered. Angry and disillusioned as she was with Jon, at least he was familiar.

Shaken by what had occurred, Cathy meekly stayed in the cabin until Jon came to her. It was some hours later, and she had begun to feel truly nervous. What if the Berbers, after thinking the matter over, decided that their Sheikh would want her despite her pregnancy? Outnumbered at least one hundred to one, with no guarantee that the
Cristobel
’s crew would even be willing to raise a hand in her defense, what could Jon do but
hand her over? Butterflies flitted about in her stomach as Cathy realized how completely at the mercy of these strange people they were. In her battered condition, the
Cristobel
would not last another week at sea. If Jon were faced with a choice between herself and the lives of the eighty-some others in his care, what could he do but fall in with the Sheikh’s wishes?

She was in such a state by the time he entered the cabin that she was trembling. Wide-eyed, she looked up at him with mute appeal. He was regarding her strangely, yet he did not seem particularly angry.

“What—what happened?” she quavered when it appeared that he wasn’t going to speak. Jon’s mouth twisted.

“The Berbers were much impressed,” he said dryly. “They carried word of your beauty back to the Sheikh, who was likewise awed by the idea of a female with hair the color of the sun and skin as white as goat’s milk. When he learned you were with child—a child I was forced to claim, I might add, lest they decide that you were an adulteress and stone you to death, as is their custom—he expressed much solicitude for your well-being. In fact, he offered me the use of one of the houses in his complex while the
Cristobel
is refitted, so that you would no longer be forced to endure the discomfort of life aboard ship.”

“A house?” Cathy gasped, sifting through this information for the part that most appealed to her. “How wonderful!”

“Isn’t it?” Jon grimaced. “The last time I was here I was offered no such courtesy. It seems that you are not totally useless, after all.”

Cathy smiled at him, relief and pleasure combining to form twin imps in her eyes. It would be so marvelous to actually live in a house for a while, even if the thing was just four mud walls and a roof! She was sick to death of this squalid ship!

Her obvious delight touched
Jon, when he had sworn that he would never permit himself to be moved by her again. In consequence, his voice was harsh when he spoke.

“It won’t be as much fun as you seem to think,” he warned, his eyes narrowing on her excitement-flushed face. “You will have to live very much retired, not even so much as showing yourself out-of-doors without my company. And even then you’ll have to behave as their women do: covering yourself from head to toe at all times; keeping a respectful pace behind me when we go out; and never looking a man—who is considered a superior creature—in the face. Is that clear?”

Cathy looked at him doubtfully, her joy dimming noticeably. “Are you serious?” she asked, chewing her lower lip. Such servility was humiliating even to contemplate.

“Absolutely,” Jon told her, and his tone left her in no doubt that he meant it. “And I warn you, their laws are very severe: if they decide a woman is immoral—and flouting any of their conventions could bring about such a decision—she is immediately put to death.”

“I think you’re trying to frighten me,” Cathy accused after a long moment.

“Think what you like,” he said coldly, turning away. “But you’ll do as I say.”