Island Flame

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  “Jon, I had never known another man,” she began, her eyes searching his skeptical face. “And if you remember, I didn’t surrender to you willingly. You had to force me, didn’t you?”

  It was a measure of his hurt that he didn’t even argue the point, but merely nodded curtly.

  “What makes you think that I would be any easier for anyone else?” she questioned seriously. “I’m not a slut to fall into bed with any man who wants me. I was brought up respecting a certain moral code. You took my innocence, but my principles haven’t changed.”

  Her eyes were steady as they looked into his. Jon began to feel better. What she said was true. She was born and bred a lady, and she’d been a virgin when he took her. It was unlikely that she could have developed a whore’s tricks so soon. His hands tightened around hers, his hard mouth curving in a slightly rueful smile. Cathy smiled back at him, her eyes glowing up at him warmly. Despite his faults, or perhaps even because of them, her love for him remained unchanged.

  “It seems I owe you an apology yet again,” Jon sighed, carrying her hands to his mouth one at a time. “But you shouldn’t have lied to me. Did I hurt you, sweet?”

  “No,” Cathy answered. “Not really. Just scared me half to death.”

  “Now that I don’t believe,” Jon murmured, smoothing the hair he had mussed away from her brow. “You spat at me like a she-tiger on the hunt. You weren’t scared a bit.”

  “I didn’t think you would hurt me.” Cathy lowered her eyes demurely. “Was I wrong?”

  Jon grinned at her, a teasing light chasing away the last traces of suspicion from his eyes.

  “You’ll never know, my cat, will you? Now, enough of this nonsense. I want my supper!”

  “Yes, sir, master. Right away, master,” Cathy teased back, bowing before him like a Chinese coolie. Jon rewarded her with a slap on the rear, and she went to tell Petersham to bring in the evening meal.

  The subject was dropped until they had finished eating. Petersham cleared the dishes, and when they were alone once more Jon coaxed her into playing a game of chess. Cathy laughingly told him that the only reason he liked to play with her was because she was so bad. It was while her hand was hovering undecidedly over two different pawns that he brought the topic up again.

  “Has Harry ever bothered you before?” His voice was casual, and his attention was on the chessboard.

  “He’s never kissed me before, if that’s what you mean,” Cathy answered, moving a pawn at random.

  “But he’s been bothering you in other ways?” Jon persisted, his eyes lifting to fix searchingly on her face.

  Cathy bit her lip, not wanting to cause more trouble between the two men, but realizing that the time had come for truth.

  “He thinks he’s in love with me.”

  Jon’s eyes darkened as they stared at her fixedly. Cathy held her breath, braced for another explosion.

  “And you—do you think you’re in love with him?” The question sounded almost idle, but Cathy knew better.

  “Now what do you think?” she replied lightly, while inwardly she rejoiced. From the tone of that last question, it would not be long before he was in love with her—and would admit it. For the time being, though, she was careful to hide her jubilation. The last thing she wanted was for him to get the idea that she was trying to manipulate him. He didn’t trust women anyway, and, if he thought that she was setting her cap for him, he would probably run in the opposite direction.

  Jon’s eyes flickered, and his attention turned back to the game. He checked her move easily before replying.

  “I’ll see to it that he doesn’t bother you again,” was all he said, but Cathy read a wealth of meaning into the promise.

  Jon was as good as his word. He stuck to her side like a large, lame shadow until the Margarita sailed into the bay at Las Palmas. Harry was kept busy on the forecastle at the opposite end of the ship. Jon resumed command the morning after the contretemps, disregarding Cathy’s worried protestations. By the time the threatened storm had blown itself out he was almost back to normal. He still limped slightly, but he was able to get about without the aid of the crutch. Once the weather had cleared enough for her to venture out on deck again, she was careful to remain on the quarterdeck under his eyes. If, for some reason, his duties took him elsewhere, he detailed Petersham to act as her bodyguard. Cathy was both amused and touched by these elaborate precautions for her safety. The captain took good care of his possessions, it seemed.

  It was the first of August when the Margarita reached her home port at last. By that time Cathy was so sick of ships and the sea that she would have welcomed hell itself if it would only not rock up and down. And Las Palmas was genuinely beautiful. She was entranced with the small island, set like a tiny, perfect emerald in its nest of blue ocean. The coconut palms that had given it its name were everywhere, swaying with the breeze, and making gentle music. Gleaming white sand formed a perfect crescent beach up to a line of trees, and large, exotic birds made brilliant splashes of color as they fluttered about the thick foliage. The sultry perfume of lush tropical flowers floated on the air.

  Jon’s house was set on a small cliff overlooking the beach, about a quarter of a mile away from the cluster of thatched buildings that served as a town. Cathy loved it on sight. It was a long, low, rambling building, built of shell-studded brick that caught the sun and sparkled like thousands of tiny diamonds. Inside, the rooms were large and airy, whitewashed to maximize coolness, and equipped with a minimum of furnishings. Huge windows, looking out over the sea in front and the vividly colored garden at the rear, made the interior as light as the outdoors. There were two native servants, the housekeeper Juta and her husband Kimo. They were almost comically respectful of the new “mam,” and assured both Cathy and Jon, in their pidgin English, that every care would be taken of her. Jon was carelessly offhand as he showed her through the house and surrounding grounds, but Cathy could tell that he was anxious for her to like it. So she smiled at him and told him that everything was simply beautiful. Jon grinned at her, swinging her up in his arms and bestowing a sound kiss on her sweet mouth. His exuberant tenderness made her feel like a cherished bride instead of his paramour, and Cathy relished the sensation.

  About two hundred Europeans lived on the island, and Cathy was shocked to learn that they all earned their living in the same way: through piracy. A very few of the men had European wives or mistresses, but the rest contented themselves with casual couplings with native girls. Cathy wondered, with a sidelong glance at Jon, if this was his usual practice when he was in residence, but didn’t say anything. Petersham had told her that she was the only woman he had ever had in his home, and with this she was content. After all, the man was thirty-four years old; he was certainly lusty, and she couldn’t expect him to have lived like a monk. So she banished the faint stirring of jealousy with determination.

  Cathy was amazed when Jon pointed out a white-haired, grandfatherly looking man to her and identified him as Red Jack, so called because of the blood of his victims that was said to stain his hands. When Cathy stared after the man with shocked horror and then turned wide, doubting eyes on Jon, he laughed out loud.

  “You should see him at sea,” Jon said, grinning.

  Cathy could believe it, after seeing the change Las Palmas made in Jon himself. Once away from the Margarita, the hard mantle of authority dropped like a cloak from his shoulders, and he seemed years younger—almost boyish. He laughed a lot, and bent over backward to amuse and please her. She loved him even more in this new guise, and was beginning to be afraid that he would be able to read her secret in her eyes. Determined not to speak of her love until she thought he felt the same, she was in constant fear of giving herself away. Jon thrived on her affection and Petersham told Cathy, privately, that the captain seemed a changed man.

  The pristine beach and sparkling sea invited exploration, and Cathy spent her first morning on Las Palmas stretched with Jon on the sand, and paddling in the
bay. For swimming, Jon wore only a pair of shortened breeches that left his powerful torso and long, muscular legs bare. The long, jagged tear on his thigh showed brightly red in the brilliant sunlight, and the scars of his other wounds nestled like gleaming medals of valor on his chest. Cathy gave way to compulsion and pressed her mouth consolingly on these reminders of pain, making Jon catch his breath sharply. The rest of that day was spent in their big brass bed.

  Cathy found, to her pleasure, that she was the better swimmer. Jon had been around the water for years, swimming in a rough and ready style that took him where he wanted to go, but Cathy’s lessons had given her a polished form that he could not match. He was first piqued then proud of her ability, and quickly learned not to wager anything he didn’t care to lose on the outcome of a race with her across the bay.

  One hot afternoon, about a month after the Margarita docking, Jon was lying on his side on the sand, propped up on one elbow while he studied Cathy’s sleeping face. She was about a foot away from him, stretched out flat on her back, eyes tightly closed. Her breath rattled in her throat in a little snore. Jon grinned, admiring the dark crescent of lashes that lay on her cheeks. Their lovemaking had been long and impassioned the night before, lasting until the morning sun was sending crimson feelers across the dark sky. Plainly, it had been too much for the wench. She had fallen asleep as soon as she had hit the sand.

  Her creamy skin had taken on the golden bloom of a ripe peach, he saw, and her tumbling hair had been kissed into even more glorious brightness by the tropical sun. Her figure, clearly outlined beneath the knee-length, bleached muslin dress she wore for swimming, had matured in the months since he had known her; her lovely breasts had grown fuller, her waist and thighs longer and more lissome. She was more woman now than girl. Jon felt his heart speed up as he looked at her. She was so exquisite that he sometimes didn’t believe she was real.

  Even more important than outward beauty, he reflected, was the warmth and sweetness of the girl. Her tenderness was like oil calming the stormy waters of his previous dealings with the so-called gentler sex. She was one in a million, he thought, a woman to be guarded against all comers. She was his, and he meant to keep her.

  His thoughts turned broodingly to Harry, eyes darkening as he pictured the moment on the Margarita’s deck when he had found Cathy in the other man’s arms. God, he had felt murderous, and Cathy’s taunts afterward, though maddening at the time, had admittedly been right on target. He had been jealous—pure and simple. Even the memory of that scene was enough to make the green demon rear its ugly head.

  Jon could never remember feeling jealous over any other woman he had bedded, and he could come up with only one explanation: jealousy was the by-product of love. He toyed with the idea that he might actually have fallen in love with the golden-haired little shrew, but then dismissed it as ridiculous. He had received his inoculations against such folly at the hands of experts long ago. Although she was undoubtedly comelier and more tender than most, there was nothing about her to cause him to abandon the hard-learned tenets of a lifetime. Was there?

  He sniffled, and patted around the thought like a bear wanting meat but scenting a trap. Was it possible that the fierce possessiveness he felt toward her had its roots in a softer emotion? Jon shied quickly away from the idea, but then sidled reluctantly back. If he was honest with himself, he would admit it: he was head over ears in love with a seventeen-year-old chit; her slightest smile could make his heart beat faster.

  Jon turned to lie on his back, staring sightlessly up at the cerulean sky, and considered the facets of his unprecedented predicament. From the first moment he’d set eyes on the little jade, looking like a small, golden wildcat, bright hair cascading around her half-naked body and sapphire eyes snapping fire, he’d been in deep water. He had wanted her badly, and had taken what he wanted. And that, as the saying went, should have been that. But later, as she had defied him with a courage that had amazed him, his desire had deepened and become mixed with admiration. Here was no shrinking, timid wench, frightened out of her few wits by a fearsome pirate. Instead, he had found a woman of fire and passion who quickly learned to match him, kiss for kiss, and blow for blow.

  Jon’s mind wandered further, remembering other telltale signs. God, the worry she’d caused him that night in Cadiz when he realized that she had fled into town. He had almost gone out of his mind thinking of the dangers she was prey to in that degenerate city! And then, when he had walked into the Red Dog and seen her, eyes wide with fright and humiliation and her lovely breasts bared, rage had burst like a red bomb before his eyes. He had wanted to kill all of them immediately, but had restrained his temper until she was safe. He had promised himself, though, that the man who had dared to strike her would die—and he had kept his promise. His one bullet had found its way into the cur’s brain.

  He must have loved her even then, he thought, and not known it. The question was, did she love him? She was fond of him, he knew, and sometimes, when his lovemaking had excited her to the point of shivering ecstasy, she was more than fond of him. But he had pleased many women, and he knew how little their impassioned adoration really meant. His pride shrank from declaring outright that he loved her without some assurance of her feelings for him. If she didn’t love him, confessing his passion would be tantamount to handing her a whip she could use to flail him with at will. Much better to charm her into loving him, he decided, supremely confident of his ability to do so. Eventually he might even marry her.…

  Jon’s new tenderness plunged at the thought. Marriage was for fools and lapdogs, he had always maintained. There was no woman on earth worth losing his freedom for! But how else could he keep Cathy with him? He would have been perfectly content to keep her as his chit. His lips tightened as he thought of Cathy being shamed. What would marriage be, anyway, but his vow to protect and provide for her, and her vow to keep herself only for him? If she wanted it, he conceded, he would marry her. At least that way he could be assured that she would never leave him.

  Jon frowned a little, thinking of Cathy as his wife. As contented as she seemed to be on Las Palmas, she was accustomed to a totally different mode of life. She was a titled lady, the daughter of an earl, and was entitled to a place in the highest circles of society. Every care and luxury had been hers until now. If fate had not intervened by pushing her into his arms, she could have married whom she chose. With her beauty and background, even royalty would have been within her reach.

  But she’s mine now, Jon thought defensively, and what is mine I keep. He was wealthy enough to support her stylishly, and, if it would make her happy, he would even give up his present way of life. England was closed to him—he had preyed on too many English ships—but he could take her back with him to South Carolina. Despite everything that had happened there, it was still his home. It was not quite what she was used to, but Jon felt that it might be enough. If she loved him.…

  A handful of cool water splashed down on his sunwarmed midriff, jolting Jon abruptly out of his reverie. The subject of his musings stood giggling at his feet, her blue eyes alight with laughter and her golden hair curling wildly about her slender body. Her hands were cupped, and even as he stared at her she sprinkled more water on his chest.

  “I’ll teach you to throw water on me,” he growled with mock anger, springing to his feet and grabbing for her. She eluded him easily, as light and quick on her feet as a young gazelle, her teasing laugh floating behind her as she sprinted for the safety of the sea.

  “You’d better run, vixen,” Jon called threateningly after her, and followed at a more sedate pace to frolic with her in the waves.

  Jon was very quiet that evening, and Cathy found herself casting him anxious looks from time to time. Could he possibly be angry with her about something? His gray eyes, when they rested on her, were brooding, and his manner was distracted. He drank several glasses of wine with his meal, but left his food practically untouched. Was he sickening for something, Cathy worried.
Or maybe his leg was hurting him and he didn’t want to own up to it.

  Finally she could contain herself no longer.

  “Jon, do you feel well?” she asked anxiously.

  He looked up, his eyes vague. It took him a minute to focus on her.

  “What? Yes, of course I do. Why?”

  “Does your leg hurt?” she persisted, his lack of attention puzzling her even more. Lately he had listened with great interest to her every word. What was wrong with him? Was it possible that he was beginning to tire of her?

  “My leg feels fine. Why suddenly so worried about my health?” His eyes were lazy, his tone desultory. He still seemed to be about a million miles away.

  “Then what’s wrong with you?” she burst out. She had to know, even if the answer was unpleasant.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me, so far as I know. Should there be?” he asked with faint interest.

  “You’re so quiet. Are you angry with me about something?” Cathy hadn’t meant to sound quite so abject, but she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t bear it if he was even now thinking of a way to break it to her gently that he no longer wanted her.

  Jon laughed, his gray eyes suddenly warm as they rested on her.

  “I was only thinking, my love.”

  “About what?” Cathy asked suspiciously.

  “You’ll find out. One day.” He was being deliberately mysterious, she thought crossly.

  Jon grinned at her annoyance, standing up and moving away from the table.

  “Juta, we’ve finished,” he called to the housekeeper, then walked around to Cathy’s chair and pulled it out for her with a gallant gesture. Cathy stared up at him, then looked suspiciously down the table at the half-empty decanter of wine. Could he be drunk? He certainly didn’t look it, but then maybe he carried his drink exceptionally well. Some men did, she had heard.