Island Flame Part 18

When she closed her eyes it was easy to picture him, feet braced wide apart, on the "Margarita's" quarterdeck, while a warm wind ruffled through his thick black hair. By now he could be sailing any sea in the world, preying on weaker ships and making love to a procession of willing women. Cathy felt a long-denied rage begin to build inside her as she imagined him slanting his mouth across the eager lips of some sloe-eyed Polynesian beauty. b.a.s.t.a.r.d, she thought vindictively, as she remembered how he had deserted her when he had found out about the child. He wasn't worth wasting a single tear on-not that she had any intention of crying over him. It was bad enough that he could abandon her, his wife, whether thewedding had been of his design or not. But that he could so coolly leave their coming child bore out every harsh word her father had ever said about him. Jon Hale was a heartless, merciless brigand who had taken advantage of her inexperience to make her think she loved him. His own actions condemned him in Cathy's mind."Sorry, Miss Cathy."

Martha's subdued tone brought Cathy back to the present. The woman was looking as if she wished she had bitten out her tongue before reminding Cathy of the author of all her problems. Cathy smiled at her nanny with sudden warm affection, because it grieved Martha to see her so unhappy.

"What dress shall I wear today?" The question was designed to shift Martha's mind to more mundane matters, and it succeeded admirably. Martha was visibly delighted to see her charge taking an interest in her appearance at last. Ever since the girl had been rescued from that heathenish pirate she had been dull and apathetic, totally unlike herself. Usually she allowed Martha to choose what she would wear for her, not even bothering to glance in the cheval gla.s.s in the corner of the room when she was ready for the day. Not that there was much to choose amongst her dresses, Martha had to admit. The ridiculous story of Cathy's widowhood sentenced the girl to wearing black, unrelieved by so much as a ribbon or an ornament. Indeed, the only jewelry that it was considered proper for her to wear was the plain gold wedding band that Sir Thomas had procured for her in London. Looking -with disfavor on the dreary selection in the wardrobe, Martha didn't wonder at the lowness of her charge's spirits. Such gloomy dresses would be enough to depress any young lady.

"The silk is very pretty," Martha said, not betraying her true opinion of the garment byso much as a flicker of an eyelid. Cathy was undeceived.

"For a crow, maybe," she groaned, swinging her legs out of the bed and allowing Martha to help her with her toilette.

Special care had to be taken on this particular day to give the impression of sorrowing rect.i.tude. It was the custom on New Year's Day for friends, relatives, and acquaintances to exchange calls. Lady Stanhope had decreed that, since Cathy could obviously not be allowed abroad in her present condition, she must remain in the drawing room to receive any visitors. Besides, Cathy could do much to aid herself by appearing sweetly innocent and brave in the face of her husband's untimely demise. To hide the girl away from callers would only give rise to more talk, as Lady Stanhope had sharply informed both Cathy and Sir Thomas.

With Lady Stanhope's instructions in mind, Martha carefully arranged Cathy's long golden hair in a demure coronet on the top of her head. The girl's own paleness and ladylike demeanor should be convincing. If anyone were not convinced and dared to directly question Lady Catherine, Martha planned to ever-so-accidentally overturn a pot of hot tea in the impertinent one's lap. She had made up her mind to remain at her lady's side throughout the day, and no one, not even Lady Stanhope herself, was going to make her do otherwise!

"Martha, I look awful!" Cathy's voice was a strange mixture of dismay and awe as she regarded her image in the long mirror. Her unaccustomed hairstyle made her appear unexpectedly meek, and the paleness of her face and hands seemed to speak of consumption. The severe black dress, high at the throat and sleeved to the wrist, hid every hint of her shape while emphasizing the bulge of her belly. Cathy could hardly believe that thegirl who stared back at her, her blue eyes dulled by inactivity, could really be herself. I look ill, she thought with the faintest glimmer of alarm, and turned quickly away from the gla.s.s.

"You look like a proper widow," Martha reproved briskly, and caught up a light shawl as she prepared to follow her mistress downstairs. It would never do for the girl to catch a chill. As thin and peaky as she had become, even so slight an illness as that could be enough to carry her off.

The day pa.s.sed with dragging slowness. Seated on an uncomfortable horsehair sofa that was all the rage, Cathy tried to school her itching limbs to proper stillness, while she neatly fielded the questions of the curious. Martha hovered at her side like some black-uniformed vulture, never straying from the room.

The woman was unusually clumsy, and Cathy began to wonder if she might be sickening from something. Not once but four times had she overturned a pot of tea on a visitor's lap.

The last callers of the day departed at precisely four-fifteen. Cathy stood up with a sigh of relief, scratching her outraged legs vigorously. Her face still burned with anger at some of the prying questions that had been addressed to her. "And what was your dear husband's name?" one sharp-eyed old bat had asked her. When Cathy had answered with perfect truth, seeing no need to withhold such fundamental information, the woman had said "Ahhh!" as though she had just caught out her young hostess in some monumental he. Her beady little eyes had gleamed, and she was just opening her mouth for another prying question when Martha knocked over the silver teapot once again. The Countess of Firth left immediately afterwards, as outraged as if the deed were deliberate. Cathy shook her head, smiling faintly. Knowing Martha, it might have been.

Cathy expressed a wish to take supper on a tray in her room, mendaciously saying that she felt tired after her ordeal. Truthfully, she felt better than she had in days. But she could not face the prospect of dinner, with her aunt and cousin quizzing her about who had called, what questions had been asked, and what she had replied. She was certain that, discreet as her answers hadbeen, either one or the other of them would manage to find fault with her. If she had had only herself to consider, she would have told them to go to the devil long ago, but her father was almost pathetically eager for her to achieve a respectable place in society. For that, she acknowledged, she needed her aunt's help. Obnoxious as Lady Stanhope was, her reputation was unimpeachable.

Unfortunately, her retreat to her bedroom was ill-timed. Harold was in the entryway, being helped out of his coat by the obsequious Sims. Without the butler's a.s.sistance, it was doubtful if Lord Stanhope would have been able to free his stocky arms from the too-tight sleeves of his coat. He reminded Cathy of a sausage being skinned, and she did her best to stifle a giggle. She was unsuccessful. Harold heard the small, m.u.f.fled sound, and turned toward her. When he saw who it was that had dared to laugh at him, his small eyes grew even smaller, almost disappearing in the puffy mound of pale flesh that was his face.

"Good evening, cousin," he said with dreadful affability, strolling toward her. Cathy inclined her head in haughty acknowledgment of his greeting, then turned away and walked with dignity in the direction of the curving staircase.

"Don't run away, cousin," Harolddrawled, his affected voice grating on Cathy's ear. "You've become so quiet andmouselike of late, I declare, I find it hard to believe that you could be the same female who engaged in acts of such unspeakable depravity. But then, your- ah-condition is no doubt responsible for your meekness. Once you whelp your b.a.s.t.a.r.d, the innate weakness in your character will come out again, I feel sure."

Cathy whirled on him, clenching her fists. Temper sparked from her eyes, making her look more alive than she had in all the weeks she had lived in London. Harold eyed her with dawning interest. It might be amusing to have her in the house after she was free of the pirate's sp.a.w.n. He began to toy with the idea of making her his mistress. It was a certainty that, with the reputation she had acquired, no gentleman would offer to take her to wife. Her flesh would begin to itch for a man sooner or later, he calculated. When the time came, he would be on hand.

"My child is not a b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she spat furiously, every hair on her head seeming to crackle with temper. Harold smiled slightly. He was beginning to see how she had managed to attract the attention of a pirate. With a little spirit showing, she was quite something.

"I beg your pardon if I said something to offend you, cousin," he said in a bewildered fashion which Cathy knew was deliberately a.s.sumed. She seethed, longing to verbally a.s.sault him, but decided to restrain herself. If Harold discovered that he could wound her with his barbs, he would take fiendish delight in doing so.

Without another word Cathy turned her back, on her cousin and walked gracefully up the stairs. Harold's high-pitched laughter followed her, making her grit her teeth. Place in society or not, she was moving out, she promised herself grimly. Not even for her dear papa would she endure Harold.

Cathy was still angry when Martha came in with her supper tray. The old woman took heart at the unaccustomed spark in her charge's eyes. Not since before the capture of the "Anna Greer" had she seen the girl display such animation. It was a healthy sign.

Martha prepared Cathy's bath and laid out her night things while Cathy ate her meal. She was quite hungry for a change, and it was no hardship to finish the entire portion of tender lamb. The baby gave a little kick as she put her fork aside, and Cathy smiled, touching the mound of her stomach.

Martha helped her to undress, tying up her long hair with ribbons. Cathy stepped into the bath, sinking down in the perfumed water with some surprise. She had not put any scent in the water herself, and Cathy eyed Martha questioningly.

"Rosesis a good, decent scent," Martha said, defending herself stoutly in response to Cathy's unspoken question. Cathy smiled at her nanny affectionately.

"You knocked that tea over deliberately, didn't you, Martha?" she asked softly, her eyes teasing.

"Certainly not, Miss Cathy," the woman replied primly, pausing in the act of turning back the bedcovers. "I just must be getting a touch of arthritis. My hands are getting clumsy."

"Lying'sa sin, Martha," Cathy mocked, but Martha was too pleased with the girl's liveliness to take offense.

When Cathy was finished she stepped from the tub and was enfolded in a warmed towel. Martha dried her thoroughly and then slid a pretty pink nightgown over Cathy's head; at night, in the privacy of her bedchamber, Cathy had her only chance to wear colors, and she took shameless advantage of it. Her nightgown was trimmed with yards of lace and ribbon; it was a frivolously feminine garment. With her hair brushed and braided into two long plaits for the night, Cathy felt almost attractive again.

Martha settled her in the large four-poster, pulling the covers well up around Cathy's chin. Cathy submitted patiently to the woman's ministrations. Despite all that had befallen her, Martha persisted in treating her like a child. But her devotion was total, and Cathy found the woman's care oddly comforting.

When Martha had gone, blowing out the bedside candle, the room was lighted only by the dim glow of the fire. It cast strange, leaping shadows across the room. Cathy watched them, fascinated, and fell asleep.

She had no idea what it was that woke her.The popping of a burning ember, perhaps, or the mournful bark of a dog. The room looked strange to her sleep-weighted eyes, and not quite real. The fire-shadows looked longer, and vaguely sinister. Cathy's eyes gradually widened as she stared at one in particular that seemed to be moving stealthily toward her. Finally she realized that it wasn't a shadow-it was a man! His tall frame was silhouetted by the light of the dying fire as he crept toward the bed. Cathy opened her mouth to scream, terrified, but only a tiny squeak emerged. Immediately the man was upon her, his big hand stilling further cries.

Instinctively Cathy fought, kicking and writhing in a hopeless bid for freedom. She bit down hard on the hand that covered her mouth. The man cursed, s.n.a.t.c.hing his hand away, but before Cathy could draw breath for a shriek he thrust a rag between her dry lips.

Oh, G.o.d, what did he mean to do to her? First, he bound her hands in front of her with a strip of cloth torn from the sheet. Then, pulling back a little, he jerked the bedcovers down around her feet and hauled her upright. She stood swaying before him, trembling with fright. He struck a match, lighting the candle, and Cathy's eyes widened as he turned to face her. It was Jon! Her heart sang with thanksgiving. He had come for her, after all this time! But then she frowned, her forehead creasing in puzzlement. Why tie her up? He must know that she would be glad to see him! He was her husband, after all!

Cathy looked at him more closely, and she caught her breath in surprise. His handsome features were almost completely obscured by a full, black beard. His skin was yellow, as if hewere ill, and he was thin to the point of emaciation. Cathy caught a faint whiff of his unwashed flesh, and her nose wrinkled in distaste. Jon saw her reaction, and smiled very slowly. The smile was a terrifying sight.

Jon looked as if he hated her-as if he might even kill her! Perhaps he had picked up a fever somewhere, and was delirious. That would explain his revolting appearance, as well.

Jon was making an inspection of his own. His eyes traveled slowly over her face, and a light began to glow in them. His gaze moved down over her throat, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and then froze on her belly. He stared at the bulging mound with the same horror he might have shown toward an abomination. His grip on her wrists tightened almost to the breaking point.

"My G.o.d!" he cried. A muscle in his jaw worked furiously. He seemed to be exercising control over some fearsome emotion. Cathytrembled a little as she sensed his force. Jon felt her quiver, and that terrifying smile returned to his lips.

"You're right to be afraid of me, wife." His use of that last word struck Cathy as being ominous initself . Was it possible that he sought some type of vengeance on her for forcing him into an unwelcome marriage? Then why had he troubled to seek her out at all? On the "Margarita" he could had been as free as the air, andun.o.bliged to recognize the bond that tied them together.

"I've been planning this meeting for months, wife. Ever since our last one, in fact," he said softly, his eyes trapping hers as he loomed over her. Cathy instinctively shrank away, and he laughed in a way that made her blood run cold. "You think you've defeated me, don't you? Well, partly right. Not even the thing that I have become would stoop toharming my own child. So I've decided to take you with me, and you'll stay with me until after the child's birth. Then, wife, we'll settle the score. You'll suffer. . . ."

The words trailed off menacingly. Cathy's eyes were frankly terrified. She was convinced that he had gone mad, and was raving like the poor lunatics in Bedlam.

"Where is your cloak?" he muttered, as he turned to look about the room. He spied the wardrobe, and dragged her in his wake as he strode toward it. She stumbled after him, afraid to resist, lest she should further inflame hismaniacalrage.

He flung open the wardrobe door, and stopped short at the sight of her collection of mourning dresses. She heard him suck in his breath as at a mortal blow.

"Thusvanishes my last doubt," he muttered cryptically, jerking on her wrists with a violence that would have sent her stumbling to the floor if he had not held her upright. His eyes seared hers with hatred, and then he thrust his hand into the closet, tearing the dresses from their hangers in his search for her cloak. He found what he was seeking at last, and wrapped it roughly about her, lifting her clear off her feet and up into his arms. She could feel the bones of his chest and shoulders as he held her in a fierce grip that told her he enjoyed hurting her.

"Unfortunately for you, wife, your widowhood was a touch premature.A fact which I'm sure you bitterly re-gret.

Cathy squirmed in his arms, deathly frightened of being borne away by this dark, terrifying stranger. Dear G.o.d, he was not the man she knew and loved! He hated her, and he looked like the devil himself with all the fires of h.e.l.l burning out of his eyes! This must be some strange, twisted nightmare. . . . Cathy prayed that she was having a nightmare, and writhed desperately in an effort to wake herself up.

"Lie still!Lie still, b.i.t.c.h, or by G.o.d I'll. . . ."

The threat trailed off as he crushed her to him. Cathy went limp, convinced by the violence of his tone that he was no apparition. Her heart was beating in frightened bursts, and she suddenly knew how a rabbit must feel in a snare when the hunter approaches. Was he going to killher. . . ?

The bedroom door creaked open, sending a quivering circle of light spilling over the floor. Cathy could feel him freeze. She froze, too, in terror for the person coming into her room. He was mad, and violent. He was capable of murder. . . .

"Miss Cathy?" Martha said, venturing a step or two into the room, the candle she carried held high as she peered toward the bed. When she perceived a candle already burning by the bed, she faltered, and then looked around searchingly.

"Miss Cathy?" The voice was aquavery whisper. Cathy could feel Jon's heart beating in slamming thuds against her ear. He fumbled at his waist with one hand, and Cathy realized with a sickening sense of helplessness that he was carrying a pistol. She tried to scream, to warn Martha, but was able to force only a strangled groan through the gag. It was enough. Martha swung toward them, her eyes widening as she dropped the candle with a crash, her mouth opening for a scream.

"Make a sound and I'll kill her."

Jon's voice sounded hoa.r.s.e and menacing as he threatened Martha. The woman froze, the cry of alarm dying in her throat as she saw the pistol pressed to Cathy's head.

"Come over here."

Martha stared at him with growing horror.

"You're . . . the pirate!" she gasped painfully. She went paper-white, as if she might faint.

"I said, come here!"Jon's voice, low though it was, cracked like a whip. Martha obeyed jerkily, like a puppet on a string. Cathy met her nanny's frightened eyes. Be calm, she willed silently. Do as he says. He's gone mad.

When Martha was within touching distance, Jon set Cathy on her feet, holding her with one arm around her waist so that she could not run away. The pistol was now pointed squarely at Martha. It didn't waver as he reached out to pull the sash of the woman's wrapper free. He deftly looped it into a hangman's noose with one hand and then slipped it over Martha's head to rest around her neck. He turned her around so that her back was to them, taking up the slack in the sash and tying it to his belt. Cathy could only stand by numbly, waiting to see what he would do next. So far, he hadn't actually harmed either of them. Perhaps if they were docile he would relax his guard long enough to give them a chance to escape. Martha had neither moved nor spoken since Jon had turned her around.

"When I give the word, we're going to walk very quietly out of the house. If one of you makes a false move, or a sound, I'll kill you both. Do you understand?"

Cathy nodded, hoping he could feel the movement of her head against his chest. She believed him. He was mad enough to do exactly as he had said. Martha's head bobbed in the same a.s.senting gesture. Cathy looked around her wildly, searching for anything that might be used to delay or impede him until they could be rescued. There was nothing.

"Move!"

The command wasLike a bullet next to Cathy's ear. Martha took a tentative step forward, and Jon pushed Cathy after her. She stumbled over one of her crumpled dresses that he had pulled from the wardrobe and thrown to the floor. He swore furiously, kicking it out of the way, but the memory of it and the others lying like silent witnesses in front of the wardrobe comforted Cathy slightly. Her father would realize that they had been kidnapped when he saw such traces. She prayed he would be in time to rescue them. Jon was clearly not sane, and she and Martha were helpless in his hands. He could do with them what he willed.

Thirteen.

Jon's cabin aboard the "Margarita" was unchanged. Martha and Cathy had been thrust roughly through the door, which was then slammed shut behind them. There was the sound of a key grating in the lock. The cabin was pitch dark, and icy cold, but Cathy at least was thoroughly familiar with it. Shivering slightly with cold, relieved to be rid of Jon's demonic presence, she crossed to the table and lit the candle that stood there. By itshght , she could see that Martha was trembling, her arms hugging her plump body. Her bare feet were blue from having walked barefoot through the snow to the closed carriage that had been awaiting him further down the street. Cathy supposed she could attribute the fact that Jon had carried her to the child burgeoning inside her. His arms about her had felt heart-breakingly familiar- with one enormous difference: he had held her as if he hated her. Cathy was more than ever convinced that he had gone mad.

Martha's teeth chattered audibly, and with a little cry Cathy ran clumsily to embrace her nanny. The older woman's arms came around her to hug her tightly.

"Oh, Miss Cathy," she murmured brokenly. "Do you think he means to harm us?"

"I don't think so, Martha," Cathy denied, although she was far from sure herself. As she spoke she turned away to strip two quilts from the bed, wrapping one around Martha and one around herself.

"If he meant to hurt us, surely he would have done so already," Cathy argued, as much to convince herself as Martha. She knelt before the coal stove and stuffed a few sticks of kindling inside before striking a match and setting it ablaze. After a few moments the coals began to glow, and Cathy sank back on her heels, pleased with herself.

Martha's eyes were closed, and her head was flung back when Cathy turned around. The woman's face was pasty. Cathy was afraid that the experience they had justendured, had been even more frightening for Martha than for herself. For Martha was totally unfamiliar with Jon. Perhaps it had brought on some sort of attack. She got laboriously to her feet, weighted down by the seven-month fetus inside her, and walked to Martha's side.

"Why don't you lie down, Martha?" she asked gently. "The bed's quite comfortable. I can guarantee it."

Cathy smiled as she spoke, hoping to lighten the fear that clogged the very air. Martha opened her eyes and stared at the bed as one would at a poisonous snake.

"Is that where . . . did he bring you here after . . . my poor lovely, you must have been frightened to death. I never realized. . . ." Martha's words trailed off, and she regarded Cathy with loving pity. Cathy smiled at her.

"Yes,that is where . . ." she echoed teasingly, hoping to buck Martha up a little by a deliberately light touch. "But at the time I must admit that I was as much curious as frightened. I wondered what it was like, you see. Besides, Jon was . . . was . . . different then."

She bit her lower hp as she spoke, her eyes clouding over. Martha reached out to clasp her hand.

"Has he gone mad, Miss Cathy?" the woman whispered. Cathy shut her eyes. This was what she feared herself, yet to admit as much to Martha would only terrify the woman further. She returned the pressure of the hand, but then tugged at it briskly.

"Come on," she said, avoiding a direct answer. "Let's both get into bed.I,for one, am frozen, and we won't do ourselves any good by sitting here worrying."

Martha obediently got to her feet and followed Cathy across to the bunk. Cathy urged her between the sheets, then spread the two quilts back over the bed and got beneath themherself . They huddled together, their body heat gradually warming them, and at last Martha drifted off to sleep. Cathy smiled wryly at the woman's slight snores. Martha had always been able to sleep through anything. Something to do with a hardy Scots ancestry, she supposed, although Martha herself would doubtless attribute it to a clear conscience.

Try as she would, Cathy could no longer avoid thinking about Jon. He had not said a word to her since that tersely voiced "move!"-not even when he had roughly removed her bonds during the long ride to the coast.Obviously, he had come to repay her for some wrong she had supposedly done him. His whole att.i.tude made that clear. But what could it be? Surely he was not enraged over the manner of their marriage! No, he was too violently angry to be nursing a grievance about something so unimportant to him. Then what had she done? She tried frantically to remember any injury she had caused him, but could think of nothing.Which left her first terrifying conclusion intact. He was, quite simply, mad. It was the only explanation.

Cathy shivered, pulling the quilts more securely around her. The thought of being helpless in the hands of a madman was unnerving in the extreme. What had befallen him to turn his brain in such a way? Would he, perhaps, recover his senses? Or maybe her father would manage to rescue them before anything too horrible could happen. She hoped so. She prayed so. The memory of Jon's gray eyes gleamingLike the fires of h.e.l.l made her sweat with fear.

The chance of rescue was becoming more remote every second, she realized. Above her she could hear the flapping of the "Margarita's" sails as they were run up the masts. The sudden plunging of the ship beneath her said that they were beginning to move toward the sea. Once away from the coast, they could head anywhere. It might be weeks, months even, before a rescue party could overtake them. Dear Lord! Her eyes widened with horror. This time there could be no rescue! The man who had stolen her away was her husband in the eyes of the law, and she was absolutely subject to his wishes. He owned her, like a slave, and any man who attempted to come between them would be legally in the wrong. The thought so stunned Cathy that she could only stare blankly into s.p.a.ce. Her heart pounded as she realized that Jon had her well and truly trapped. And the hysterically funny part about the whole thing was that the web was ofher own making!

Cathy drifted off despite her fear, and, the next thing she knew, she was being jerked awake to the sound of the key turning in the lock. Her eyes widened fearfully as the door opened and Jon strode into the room. Instinctively she pulled the covers high around her neck. His eyes ran over her derisively, jeering at the action, and then he turned back to whoever had followed him to the door.

"I want a bath," he said abruptly to the unseen person. The reply was unintelligible, although plainly affirmative. Jon swung back to face Cathy.

"Get her the h.e.l.l out of here," he growled, brusquely nodding at Martha who was coming groggily awake."Now!"

"W-why?"Cathy stammered, clutching instinctively at the older woman. Martha sat up, her gray hair in a wild frizz around her head, her arm going protectively about her charge.

"Don't worry,lovey . No one's sending me away from you!

It was an unmistakable challenge. Martha, up in arms like a lioness protecting her one cub, glared at Jon ferociously. He scowled back, his thick black brows rushing together ominously over his nose. The rest of his expression was hidden by that fierce-looking beard. Cathy trembled, and Martha's arm tightened around her shoulders.

"I said get out." Jon's voice was even, but it had an underlying tinge of menace."Unless you want to watch me bathe. It's your choice."

He shrugged indifferently, turning back to open the door forPetersham who struggled in with the porcelain bath that Cathy had used in happier times. Cathy's spirits picked up a little at the sight of her old friend. She was not to be entirely at Jon's mercy, it seemed!

"Oh,Petersham !" she exclaimed. "How are you?"

The joy in her voice made Jon's eyes narrow.Petersham glanced at her, his expression stony.

"Very good, ma'am," he answered, his voice like ice. Cathy fell back against the pillows. Good G.o.d, Petersham hated her too! What was it that she had done? Would no one tell her? Or did they suppose she already knew?

Jon's lips curved in the ghost of a satisfied smile. Cathy stared at him. The murderous light was gone from his eyes, and except for that revolting beard and his filthy clothes, he looked almost normal. Was he insane? Or was there something going on that she simply didn't understand?

Jon started to unb.u.t.ton his shirt asPetersham filled the tub. His eyes never left Martha. Color rushed into the woman's cheeks as she realized that he would have no inhibitions about doing just exactly as he had threatened. Cathy saw her consternation, and pushed her gently toward the foot of the bunk.

"It's all right, Martha," she said softy. "You can go. He won't do me any harm."

Jon did not contradict her statement, and continued undressing lazily. Martha scrambled from the bunk as he freed his shirt from the waistband of his pants. Then she turned back to Cathy.

"Shut your eyes,lovey ," the woman said fiercely. "It isn't right,your seeing him like that."

Jon's lips lifted in a humorless smile. He shrugged free of the shirt, throwing it casually to the floor.

"He is my husband, Martha," Cathy said quietly. Martha's mouth widened in a soundless "Oh!" and she clapped her hand to it as Jon began to unb.u.t.ton his breeches. He gave every indication that he was prepared to strip to the skin regardless of who was watching.