Ashes and Ecstasy

by Catherine Hart

  Kathleen shook her head, smiling. “Thank you, no.” She tugged on her gloves and lifted her rapier. “Ready when you are!”

  They squared off in the traditional stance, though Kathleen knew that once the match was under way, formality would be left by the wayside. Their eyes locked, and Kathleen’s soft “en garde” announced the start of action.

  As she had planned, Kathleen let Jean take the offensive at first, parrying his first light thrusts. Gradually, the tempo of his attack increased, and she felt the strength behind his blows. They circled like dancers, warily measuring one another’s abilities and reactions, ever watchful of an opening. Kathleen was careful to keep her guard up, but try as she might, she could spot no flaw in Jean’s attack. He was a master at the art; this would surely be the most challenging duel she had ever fought.

  At length, they’d felt one another out long enough, and the bout began in earnest. It took all Kathleen’s concentration and strength to ward off Jean's swift lunges and powerful strokes. For a few minutes she did nothing but parry his thrusts, blocking him at every turn. When the moment felt right, she swiftly turned the tables, assuming the offensive herself. This was where she felt most confident, and it showed in her decisive lunges and skillful feints. A glimmer of respect glowed in Jean’s eyes as he silently acknowledged her expertise.

  For a quarter of an hour they fought steadily, the offensive changing sides several times, neither gaining the advantage they sought. Kathleen’s arm ached and her rapier seemed to weigh two tons. Her wrist felt as if it would snap under the strain each time she parried one of Jean’s expert blows. Round and round they went, thrusting, parrying and counter-parrying, feinting and side-stepping, lunging, recovering, and leaping out of the way of a lightning attack. Their blades whistled in the still room, and sang as they sliced through the air. The clash of steel on steel rang loudly in their cars. Their eyes never wavered from one another’s.

  Kathleen was tiring quickly under Jean’s ruthless onslaught, but she dared not let him see her weakness. One unguarded moment, one faltering step, would tell him the contest was his for the taking.

  Kathleen feinted to one side, bringing her rapier about to block his move. Accurately, he counter-parried, forcing her blade aside. So swiftly she barely saw it coming, his blade caught the lowest lacing of her vest, slicing neatly through it. Only her lightning reflexes saved her from feeling the prick of his swordtip on her skin.

  For just a fraction of a second, Jean’s eyes flickered downward to the portion of alabaster breast exposed by the severed lacing. It was all the time Kathleen needed. Before his gaze could return to hers and register her intention, she brought her rapier up and inward as hard and fast as she could, putting all her strength and weight into the blow. The edge of her blade caught his just below the hilt, jarring it loose from his hand and sending it skittering across the floor out of his reach. Like a cat stalking her prey, she took longer than she needed to bring her blade about. Then, with a flourish and a victorious smile lighting her emerald eyes, she touched the tip of her rapier to his chest where his open shirt exposed the skin below his throat. With a slight flick of the wrist, she lightly pricked his skin. One drop of crimson blood welled up on the surface. Softly, regret mixed with respect and triumph, she breathed a single word—“Touche. ”

  Following his initial expression of disbelief, a slow smile spread across Jean’s face. “Cherie, you are the first in many years to defeat me at my own game. I congratulate you. Your skill is matched only by your beauty.”

  Kathleen returned his smile. “Thank you, Jean. If I didn’t know you better, I would swear you gave the match away. If you hadn’t lost concentration for a moment, you would have won. I was tiring quickly.”

  Jean chuckled wryly. “The perils of facing an opponent as exquisitely formed as you, my dear. I simply could not help myself!”

  “I am sorry, Jean,” she told him sincerely. “I feel almost as if I had cheated, playing on my femininity to win the match.”

  With a shrug, Jean replied philosophically, “C'est la vie, Kathleen. Le bon dieu, in his infinite wisdom, has given us different strengths and weaknesses. To man he gives a muscled back and strong arms—and a weakness for beautiful women. To woman he gives soft curves and feminine wiles to lure man to do her bidding. It is up to each man and woman to decide when and where it benefits us to use these gifts He has bestowed so benevolently, and to guard against our weaknesses.

  “The moment my eyes strayed, I realized my mistake. It was my fault alone—you won the match fairly. I concede defeat without rancor, and with much respect for your skill. You have given me one of the best contests I have ever known. We should spar again sometime, if only to sharpen my wits and keep me on my toes.”

  “You, too, are probably the toughest opponent I’ll ever face,” Kathleen admitted. “I will gladly offer you a rematch, but only after I have recovered my strength.”

  “Beware, ma petite piratesse,” Jean warned, his hazel eyes twinkling merrily. “I will not fall for the same trick twice!”

  “Then you’d best keep your blade from my lacings,” Kathleen admonished saucily, “and your mind on the business at hand instead of my body.”

  Her tinkling laughter burst forth, joined by his hearty chuckle. “I shall try,” he promised, “but it will not be easy.”

  Kathleen sighed luxuriously as Jean drew the brush through her freshly washed hair. True to the terms of their wager, he had shampooed and bathed her. As his slippery hands had soaped her body, lingering where her desire was strongest, the cleansing had quickly become sweet torment. Now, while he dried her hair to an ebony lustre, Jean turned even the act of drawing the brush through her silken tresses into a sensual exercise that heightened her desire.

  Their eyes met in the mirror, his hot with promises of delights to come, hers wide and wondrous with the feelings he inspired. Bending, he kissed the exposed flesh of her neck and shoulder, gently biting at the sensitive cord just below the surface. Her quick quiver transferred itself to his lips, and he smiled lazily.

  Gently, he drew her to her feet. “Come, chatte, my beautiful little cat. Lie down on the bed and I will soothe your tired muscles and make you purr beneath my finger-ups.”

  “It sounds heavenly,” she agreed contentedly.

  It was heaven and hell combined. The oil lent an especially sensuous quality to his gliding touch. Her skin seemed unusually sensitive this evening, and Jean’s hands were both soothing and erotic in their play along her body. He took great pains to ensure that not one inch of her was left untouched; not one spot that was not endlessly craving his caress.

  In the end, she was writhing helplessly beneath him, begging him to take her, arching her body against his. When at last he complied, she was mindless with desire, his to command—a wild creature tamed only by his touch of fire.

  Chapter 16

  Once again Kathleen, Jean and their crews scoured the seas in search of British warships. They hunted them down like dogs, making certain there were no survivors to carry tales back to the enemy. They were ruthless, merciless, giving no quarter. Kathleen’s mission was one of fierce revenge, always uppermost in her mind.

  Jean had hoped that once Kathleen became his mistress, she would cease to take such reckless chances, but he was doomed to disappointment. If anything, she became even more daring. It was as if she were atoning for some sin, taking out her guilt on her hapless foes. She was like one pursued by a personal demon, trying to exorcise it with intense physical action and her singing sword. The Enchantress of Death was on a rampage, making her presence felt and feared on the seas. A whirlwind of seemingly limitless energy and resourcefulness, her goal seemed to be to sink every ship the British ill-advisedly put in her path, or die trying.

  By day, Kathleen was commanding and decisive, deftly manning the helm or slaying her enemies. Each night, she hung up her sword and became the sweet angel of Jean’s dreams. There was but one thing she refused him—her heart. As th
e weeks wore on and Kathleen did not show any signs of the love he craved, Jean began to despair. As willingly as she came to him, as generous as she was as a lover, an anger started to grow in him. How could she treat his feelings so lightly? True, he had agreed to accept her on her terms, but he was beginning to find them increasingly hard to abide by. How long could he stand the knowledge that she did not love him before he reached his limits? Jean felt caught in a trap, and could find no solution to his problem. He was not ready to give up hope, but he knew that if he pressed the issue now, Kathleen would run from him like a frightened doe from a hunter.

  Kathleen’s parrot, Peg-Leg, was another thorn in Jean’s side. The crazy bird was so accustomed by now to sharing Kathleen’s quarters, that he refused to be removed when Jean took up residence in Kathleen’s cabin aboard the Enchantress. On the first evening, they were preparing for bed, and Kathleen had just removed her vest, when from the corner of the room a raucous voice screeched, “Fry me feathers!”

  Taken by surprise, Jean nearly leapt to the rafters. “Mon dieu!” he swore. “That silly bird startled me out of ten years of my life!”

  When Kathleen had stopped laughing, she apologized. “I forgot to warn you about Peg-Leg. He has rather taken over my boudoir. We have spent many a lonely night together.”

  Jean eyed the bird spitefully. “As your nights are no longer lonely, he can find other quarters in which to perch, n'est-ce pas?"

  “Oh, let him stay, Jean. He is perfectly harmless, and he is used to my room. You’ll soon become accustomed to him—you’ll hardly notice he is here.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Jean muttered, “but we shall see.”

  They proceeded to undress, and just as Kathleen was climbing into bed, Peg-Leg let out a long, low whistle.

  Jean cocked an eyebrow in Kathleen’s direction. “You were saying?” he commented wryly.

  Kathleen shrugged, and grinned. “Ask Dominique where Peg-Leg picked up all his bad habits. He’s a dirty bird.”

  From his perch in the corner, Peg-Leg squawked, “Pretty bird! Pretty bird!”

  Kathleen frowned at him. “Make up your mind, will you?”

  For a while, everything quieted down, and soon Jean and Kathleen were absorbed in lovemaking. Suddenly Jean felt a familiar tingling along his spine—that same signal that always alerted him in battle that someone was watching him, planning an attack. Whipping about, he met two beady eyes and a sharp, curved beak. Peg-Leg was interestedly viewing their activities from a beam directly above Kathleen’s bunk.

  Kathleen watched in gleeful amusement as Jean let out a roar of outrage and swung his fist at the inquisitive bird. Peg-Leg scuttled out of the way just in time for Jean’s hand to connect with the beam with a resounding thwack. Another bellow split the air, this one of pain.

  Biting her lip to control her laughter, Kathleen rose to kneel beside Jean, carefully examining his hand. Luckily for Peg-Leg, she found no broken bones. Jean’s hand and pride were both bruised, but neither seriously.

  “Jean” she remonstrated, “you might have broken your hand!”

  “I was trying to break his beak!” Jean ground out. “If I wanted an audience, I would charge admission!”

  “Now there's a novel idea,” Kathleen laughed, tongue-in-check.

  “Kathleen,” Jean growled in warning, “I am trying to keep hold of my temper, and I must tell you, I am losing ground very quickly. Would you be so kind as to do something about that feathered voyeur, before I eliminate him permanently?”

  “Very well,” Kathleen soothed. “I will put him in his cage. Perhaps with a cover over him, he’ll go to sleep.”

  “With any luck, he will suffocate!” Jean grumbled.

  Peg-Leg had returned to his perch, and as Kathleen lifted him into his cage, he squawked, “Mercy me! Mercy me!”

  Quickly she tossed a cloth over the cage. “Will you pipe down, you dumb bird?” she whispered. “Don’t you know you’re about to become parrot stew?”

  Thereafter, Kathleen put the bird in his cage each night and covered him. Usually, Peg-Leg grouched a few minutes and went to sleep. But when occasionally she forgot, Peg-Leg would remind her with a lewd whistle or a crusty comment. A croak of “Kiss me, lovey!” or “On guard!” would bring a glare from Jean, and send Kathleen scurrying to cover the bird for the night. Sometimes the feisty parrot would eavesdrop as Jean was showering Kathleen with words of love and adoration. Kathleen would double up with suppressed laughter as the parrot mimicked Jean’s words, or squawked a sour “Bilge!” as if telling Jean that all his pretty poetic phrases were just so much nonsense.

  Once, in the middle of a particularly passionate moment, Peg-Leg, still wide awake, squawked. “Step lively, mate!” Kathleen collapsed with giggles, completely destroying the romantic mood.

  Jean was livid. “Either you find a way to keep that pesky pile of feathers quiet, or I will truss him up and feed him to the sharks mouthful by mouthful!” he warned. “Then I will do the same to Dominique for giving him to you in the first place—after I strangle my beloved brother!”

  Kathleen resorted to stiffer measures. Since the parrot kept everyone else awake squawking and throwing a fuss if she tried to house him overnight anywhere else, she finally stuffed his cage into her armoire each night. There he could neither see nor hear what went on in the room, and after a few choice curses, he would tuck his head under his wing and sulk himself to sleep. The problem was solved to Jean’s satisfaction, Kathleen’s relief, and Peg-Leg’s salvation.

  As the end of March approached, so did Katlin’s third birthday, and Kathleen found herself in a dilemma. Should she take time away from her venture and sail up to Savannah? The loving, motherly part of her desperately wanted to see her daughter and be with her son on his special day; yet warning bells went off inside her head at the very thought. Could she stand seeing the miniature Reed just as she was starting to enjoy life again? Was it time—or was it too soon—to go home again? Would seeing Katlin destroy her precarious happiness and bring her loss fresh to her heart with aching intensity just as it was beginning to fade?

  Ten days before Katlin’s birthday, Kathleen made her decision. By way of a captured British brig she was sending to Savannah, she sent a letter to her Grandmother Kate, in which she asked Kate to give her love to Katlin. Also, she sent money and instructions for Kate to purchase a pony and cart as Kathleen’s gift to her son. “Tell him his Mama misses him and loves him very much,” she wrote. “Wish him a happy birthday for me. Tell him I hope he likes his gift, and I will be home soon to see him drive his pony cart. Give both my darlings a hug and kiss for me, and tell them not to forget me until I get home.” Then she added, “I am finally starting to adjust and accept what Fate has dealt me, but I am not certain I can face Katlin just yet. The pain has lessened, and I fear renewing it. It is like waking from a bad dream, and I dare not think about the dream, or it might come back to haunt me again. I feel I am not strong enough to return to Chimera just yet.

  “Isabel has helped me so much. You would not recognize her now. The shy, fearful creature has been replaced by a confident, happy woman.

  “All my friends have been wonderful, Gram, but Jean most of all. He has drawn me out of my misery into the light of day again. Joy and laughter are his gifts to me. He has dried my tears with his healing love. I only wish I could return his feelings. Our mutual love for Reed is both a bond between us and a gap that separates us. Jean’s generous nature and selflessness heal and chafe at the same time. His attentions make me feel both happy and guilty, and I am helpless to know what to do. He would be so easy to love, Gram, but love brings so much pain, and I have had my fill of pain. In that, I am a coward. I would rather face a dozen foes, than risk that kind of pain again.”

  Dominique, in a fit of pique and despair over Isabel’s apparent reluctance to return his love, decided early in April that it was time to go off by himself for a while. Assembling his own crew, he sailed off on the Tigre to work out h
is problems and frustrations away from Isabel’s disturbing presence.

  Isabel suddenly found herself missing Dominique tremendously. Without his constant presence, life seemed empty, and her days ten times as long as before. Her confidence waned and her concentration flagged without his protective bulk next to her in battle. She moped about the ship, lost without his teasing humor, his infectious laughter, his tender looks of adoration.

  Kathleen watched her friend in silent commiseration, for who was she to advise anyone else about love? She could sense Jean’s growing frustration with their own situation, yet she could not bring herself to reveal her feelings, for she did not understand them herself. She could not promise him anything at this point, so she kept silent. Meanwhile, his discontent was becoming more evident, though he did not voice his disappointment. They continued as lovers and partners in piracy.

  So busy were they that Kathleen’s birthday would have slipped by unnoticed had it not been for old Dan Shanahan’s remarkable memory. Between them, he, Finley, Isabel and Jean put together a surprise party for her. Their carefully laid plans almost fell through at the last minute, for the seas were unusually rough that day, and the ship’s cook had a devil of a time trying to bake a decent cake aboard the pitching vessel. Then, late in the afternoon, they encountered a British ship that led them a merry chase and gave them tough opposition once they had boarded her.

  It was dark by the time the battle was finished, and everyone was tired and dirty. “All I want now is a quick wash and a good night’s rest,” Kathleen told Jean wearily.

  Had it not been her birthday, Jean would have readily agreed, but everyone had gone to great pains to prepare this small celebration. “You must have something to eat, cherie, ” he advised her. “Go clean up and meet us for dinner. Isabel is in need of cheer, and I believe Finley mentioned that he had a few things to discuss with you.”