He lifted her with infinite care, then bore her swiftly back along the hall to her bedroom. Gently he lowered her to the bed, then strode back to the open bedroom door. His bellow for Martha shook the house to its rafters.
Fifteen
Cathy was in labor for almost twenty-four hours. As the night wore on Martha saw that the delivery would be difficult, and sent word down to Jon asking him to summon a physician. (It was the custom for babies to be delivered by female members of the expectant mother’s household.) The message was unnecessary. Jon, white and shaken by the sounds that emanated from behind the closed bedroom door, had already done so.
The low moans were bad enough, but Cathy’s occasional piercing screams were well-nigh unbearable. Jon broke out in a cold sweat, and had to be physically restrained by Petersham and one of the new housemen from rushing upstairs and bursting into the room where his wife was enduring such agony.
Old Dr. Sanderson, arrived more than three hours after being sent for. He responded to Jon’s growling demand to know what the hell had kept him by pouring Jon a stiff whiskey and telling him brusquely to stay out of the way. As he mounted the stairs to the upper floor shaking his shaggy white head, the doctor was heard to mutter that he would rather deliver twenty expectant females than deal with one prospective father. The women were usually far more stoical.
To Jon’s intense annoyance and Petersham’s consternation, the whiskey helped only marginally. Jon downed great quantities of the stuff, but his mind was so desperately attuned to what was happening upstairs that oblivion eluded him. When Cathy’s screams rose to such a pitch that he was sure she must be dying, all he could do was stride about the hall outside her bedroom, cursing and praying in the same breath. The thought of her suffering tore at his vital organs like red-hot pincers, making a mockery of the cold contempt he had convinced himself he felt for her. Bloody fool, he castigated himself, as emotions he had thought long dead struggled for resurrection. Would you love her now, after all she’s done to you? No, his mind screamed in reply. Any love he might once have felt for her had been foully murdered by her treachery.
Another piteous moan from inside the bedchamber made Jon flinch. Petersham silently passed him another shot glass of whiskey, and Jon bolted it down. It didn’t help. With a great flash of insight it burst on him that his lust was solely responsible for Cathy’s pain. Shuddering with self-loathing, he remembered how he had callously ignored her pleas that first time on the Margarita, his own hungry passion driving him ruthlessly on until he had possessed her completely. And he had not been content with merely stealing her virginity. Oh, no! He had taken her time and again until the end result was the agony she was even now suffering. Listening to her anguished cries, he vowed never to touch her again as long as she lived. If she lived. He was hideously afraid that he might already have killed her.
All through the next day Jon refused to move from the vicinity of the bedroom, rejecting food with an impatient shake of the head. Petersham shook his head over him, thinking that Master Jon was drinking enough whiskey to fell a horse and hardly showing it. The valet did his best to coax Jon to lie down on the sofa in his study for a brief rest, or to step outside for a breath of fresh air, but Jon curtly dismissed all such suggestions. He continued to prowl the hall just outside the bedroom, swallowing shots of whiskey like water and morosely pouring himself more. Every time Cathy made the slightest sound he winced, and when she screamed he went as white as death. Martha, bustling from the room occasionally to fetch hot water or towels for Dr. Sanderson, was shocked at the state he was in and did her best to cheer him up. Really, the poor man seemed to be suffering almost as much as Miss Cathy!
Toward dusk Cathy’s screams grew to a shattering crescendo. Jon froze outside in the hallway, his eyes fixed fearfully on the closed bedroom door. Finally he could bear it no longer. With a frenzied rush he burst through the door only to stand transfixed just inside the threshold, one hand still on the knob. Dr. Sanderson was holding a tiny, blood-covered infant by the heels, and, even as Jon watched, administered a sharp slap to the miniscule buttocks. Jon’s mouth gaped open as the child let out a wailing cry, and then Dr. Sanderson was laughing and passing the baby to Martha, who was smiling with big glistening tears rolling down her plump cheeks. Jon felt his knees sag with relief. At last the ordeal was over!
“Cathy?” he questioned hoarsely. Both Martha and Dr. Sanderson turned shocked faces toward him, not having heard him enter. For a moment two sternly reproving sets of features regarded him, and then Dr. Sanderson’s old face quivered into a smile.
“Relax, Captain,” Dr. Sanderson said dryly. “From the looks of you, Mistress Hale is in better shape than you are.”
“You’ve got a son, Master Jon,” Martha put in joyfully, proffering the infant, wrapped in a blanket, for him to view. Jon glanced at it abstractedly, vaguely registering a red, wrinkled face and a thatch of black hair. It looks like a red Indian, he thought even as his gaze was leaving the sleeping bundle to fix hungrily on the girl in the bed.
“Wait until we get her cleaned up, Master Jon,” Martha urged softly, seeing where his eyes rested.
“I want to see her now,” Jon said stubbornly. At a resigned nod from Dr. Sanderson Martha discreetly withdrew a few paces.
“Cathy?” Jon’s voice was husky as he came to stand beside the bed, staring down with pained eyes at her small, pale face. Her bright hair was wet with sweat and wildly mussed, trailing in great snarled strands across the plump white pillows. Her lips and cheeks were practically bloodless. Jon was afraid for one shattering instant that she had died while everyone in the room had been taken up with the baby. Then her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled weakly as she saw who was looking down at her.
“Jon,” she murmured, her eyes great pools of tiredness. “I did it, Jon.”
Her way of putting it brought a slight, rueful smile to his lips. Dr. Sanderson was right. She did seem to be in better shape than he was, mentally at least. Giddy with relief, he took her hand, carrying it to his lips and pressing his mouth passionately against the softness of it.
“Thank you for a son, my love,” he murmured hoarsely, the endearment slipping past him before he could catch it.
Cathy smiled up at him tenderly, her sapphire eyes glowing. It was the first time he had called her that since the soldiers had come to Las Palmas. She badly wanted to hear more. He looked terrible, his eyes bloodshot and his jaw unshaven, his hair standing up wildly all over his head as if he had been running his fingers through it. He had been worried about her, she saw with satisfaction. Desperately worried, from the look of him. She took a deep breath, wanting to answer him, to encourage him to say other soft words. The unmistakable smell of stale whiskey hit her nostrils as she inhaled.
“You stink,” she mumbled, surprised, and then her eyelids fluttered down and she was asleep.
Jon’s mouth curved in a foolish grin at that, and he pressed another ardent kiss to her hand before tucking it reverently beneath the covers. He turned from the bed, still grinning, and walked on unsteady legs to the hall. No sooner had he reached it than his knees gave out and he collapsed with a crash. By the time Dr. Sanderson reached him, he was snoring loudly. The doctor shook his head, and called for Petersham to come and help him get the captain to his bedroom. The whiskey had finally, belatedly, had its effect.
Jon slept like a stone through the rest of that night and well into the next day. He finally surfaced, when the reedy cry of an infant pierced through his fogged brain. Frowning bemusedly, he shook his head to clear it, reaching for the water jug to rinse the stale taste from his mouth. What was a baby doing at Woodham? Then he remembered. The cry must be coming from his son! Why was no one seeing to the child? Groaning, he hoisted himself to his feet, running a hand over his wildly tousled hair as he walked very carefully out of the room and into the hall. The cry seemed to come from Cathy’s bedroom and he approached it with grim determination. Just as he made it to the door, it opened b
efore him. Martha’s startled face blinked at him, then moved over his crumpled form. She grinned, then quickly assumed a serious expression as Jon frowned at her.
“Good morning, or should I say, good afternoon, Captain,” the woman said demurely, squeezing around him as he stood swaying, blocking the doorway with his big body. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain.…” Martha’s words trailed off as she disappeared down the hall.
Leaning back against the doorjamb to recover his strength, Jon realized that the cries had stopped. Looking around the room, his slightly unfocused gaze came to light on the small figure that was regarding him with some amusement from the depths of the big four-poster. Cathy! Jon’s eyes went over her appreciatively, feasting on the lovely picture she made. Her golden hair had been neatly brushed and swirled into a top-knot, high on the crown of her head, from which little curling tendrils escaped enticingly. Her eyes were as clear and blue and serene as a pool of water on a summer’s day. Her cheeks were flushed rosily, and her lips were turned up in the smallest of shy smiles. As his gaze lowered, he found the reason for her shyness. Cradled against her bare breast was the tiny form of his son, the small head turned away as the infant suckled greedily. Cathy blushed even more rosily as she realized where Jon’s eyes rested, but the look she turned on him was warmly welcoming.
“How do you feel?” Cathy asked solicitously after a moment’s silence, her smile broadening as her eyes ran over his unshaven face, pale beneath its sunbronze. He looked as if he, and not she, had just passed through some death-defying ordeal.
Her question took a moment to penetrate the whiskey haze that still clung to him. When it did, he permitted himself a small groan.
“Like somebody tried to split open my skull with an axe,” he admitted, the slash in his cheek deepening humorously. “But more to the point, how do you feel?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she assured him, her mouth curving in a tender smile as she glanced down at the infant at her breast. “Won’t you come over here and meet your son?”
Jon stared from her to the baby and back again. His wife. His son. The fierce possessiveness that accompanied the thought rocked him back on his heels.
“I—I need to clean up,” he stammered, thinking desperately that what he really needed was a breathing space. “I must reek of whiskey.”
“You do,” Cathy answered frankly, her eyes warm as they twinkled over him. “But never mind. Neither Cray nor I mind in the slightest.”
“Cray?” Jon questioned absently as he moved almost against his will toward the bed. The tenderness in her huge eyes drew him like a magnet. During all those terrible weeks in prison, even under the lash of the whip that she had ordered, he had dreamed of her looking at him like this. … Despising himself as a weak fool, he nevertheless came to stand beside the bed. Cathy looked so small and helpless as she smiled up at him, almost as small and helpless as the infant in her arms. He wanted to stand between her and the world, and cursed himself for letting the lingering effects of the whiskey cloud his judgment.
“I thought we would name him Jonathan Creighton Hale, junior—Cray, to keep things from getting confusing around here as he grows older. Is that all right with you?”
Her eyes were caressing as they traveled over his lean face. Jon felt like he was being drawn helplessly into two deceptively limpid whirlpools. He didn’t have the strength at this moment to resist her blandishments. When she reached out and caught his long-fingered hand in her smaller one, tugging on it gently, he obediently sat on the edge of the bed beside her. Cathy and the child were so close he could feel the heat of their bodies, could hear the small sucking sounds that Cray made as he nursed. His eyes met Cathy’s, and he smiled at her against his will. She smiled back at him tenderly, and then his eyes traveled down to rest on the child at her breast. My son, he thought with amazement, and reached out a finger to wonderingly touch the tiny, perfect hand that kneaded Cathy’s breast. It closed over his finger with surprising strength. Jon stared at his son for a moment, then his eyes rose to meet Cathy’s. She laughed with a little catch in her voice at his astonished expression.
“Is Cray all right with you?” she repeated patiently, her eyes tender on his handsome face. Jon, dazzled by what he could have sworn was the genuine affection in her eyes, had to force himself with a strong effort of will to concentrate on what she was saying.
“Yes, of course,” he muttered, tearing his eyes away from hers before he drowned in them. He would have risen to his feet, but Cray still clutched his forefinger.
Jon stared at his son rather helplessly, not knowing how to free himself without hurting the child.
“He’s strong,” Jon said finally, unable to think of anything else to say. He was uncomfortably aware of her soft breast swelling warmly beneath the hand the baby held.
“Like his father.”
Cathy’s soft voice was deliberately seducing him, he thought desperately, urging him to abandon his distrust and fall once again victim to her spell. Her breast burned against his hand. His breathing quickened, and he had to grit his teeth against the impulse.
“Jon …” Cathy began, and the blue depths of her eyes, as he lifted his own to meet them, were his undoing. He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving hers, until his mouth was just scant fractions of an inch away from her soft lips. Some remaining instinct of self-preservation made him hesitate, but she defeated him. Her lovely, rose-colored lips moved up to press against his, warm and unbearably sweet, drawing from him a ragged groan. His mouth slanted over hers with starved passion, his free hand coming up to cup the back of her neck so that she couldn’t move away. He kissed her hungrily, urgently, his tongue hotly exploring the willing hollow of her mouth. Long denied need flamed with searing heat in his loins. He wanted her with a greedy passion that threatened to consume him. No other woman would do, and he acknowledged the fact with a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach.
Cathy’s hand came up to curve around the back of his neck, and she responded to his kisses with an ardor that matched his. Her fingers sensuously stroked his tense neck muscles, then curled wantonly into the cluster of black curls at the back of his collar. Jon realized with a fierce tightening of all his muscles that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. The trembling of her slight body made that plain.
Drawing a deep, ragged breath, he started to push her back down into the bed, his desire for her so hard and furious that he was oblivious to everything but his need for satisfaction. An indignant squall halted him on the brink of a total, unconditional surrender. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced down at his son, who was regarding him balefully. Apparently, the child did not take kindly to having his dinner interrupted. Thanking God fervently for Cray’s timely reminder, Jon determinedly drew back. Without his son’s intervention, Jon knew that the witch would have had him once again hopelessly in her thrall.
Cathy could only watch distressfully as Jon’s mouth hardened and his gray eyes iced over. She loved him so much, and had thought that he was beginning to soften toward her. But his eyes as they met hers were stony with hatred, his mouth cruel. Her own eyes filled with hurt tears as he stood up abruptly, almost jerking his hand free of Cray’s grip.
“You must really think me a fool,” he said softly, his eyes glittering maliciously down at her. “I may make a mistake once, but I’ll be damned if I do it twice. Beneath that sweet face you’re as hard-hearted and calculating as the worst of the waterfront whores. I’d sooner bed with a snake than you!”
Cathy gaped at him dumbly, tears overflowing her eyes to spill helplessly down her cheeks. With a savage curse Jon swung on his heel, striding furiously toward the door. Cathy collapsed with hurt sobs as he slammed out of the room. Cray’s frightened cries joined hers.
In the days and weeks following Cray’s birth, Cathy scarcely saw Jon. He was working harder than ever before at making Woodham a paying operation. In his mother’s time, free workmen had been hired to cultivate the fields, but when his father had mar
ried Isobelle she had insisted that money would be saved by buying and using slaves. Marcus Hale had given in to her demands as always. Jon himself had always despised the institution of slavery, but the economy of the south was now built around it. A large percentage of his money had been sunk into the plantation, and if it did not turn a profit with this year’s cotton crop he would be hard put to support his family. Of course, he could always return to the sea. But he considered this a last resort. For Cray’s sake, and Cathy’s, too, if he was honest, he wanted to provide a secure, stable home. But on this, he was adamant: free workmen it was.
To save money, he refused to hire an overseer and directed the field workers himself. He worked from sunup to sundown, driving himself as hard as he drove the men. When he had finished for the day he was usually too tired to do more than eat his supper in silence and fall into his lonely bed. Sometimes he slept immediately, but more often he was haunted by images of Cathy. The remembered silken texture of her bright hair, the softness of her flesh, the feel of her warm body trembling with passion in his arms, dogged the hours between dusk and dawn. Many times he was tempted to go to her room, to ease his lust by taking what was after all his by right. But he was afraid that she would coax him into surrendering more than just his physical self. She would never be content until he was groveling at her feet, he mused savagely. And he was damned if he would give her that satisfaction!
Other women were available and he was chagrined to admit that he didn’t want them. On his occasional trips to town he was the recipient of certain unmistakable signals from some very lovely ladies, but he could not rouse himself to more than a mild interest in their charms. It was ironic to reflect that the one woman capable of exciting him to the point of frenzy was his legal wife, the mother of his son, and yet he was afraid to take her. If she was bent on revenge, she was exacting more than she knew! And fiercely he vowed to keep it that way.
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