Sea Fire

Book by Robards Karen

one


In the waning days of the summer of 1844, Lady Catherine Hale was more beautiful than she had ever been before in her life. Her shining red-gold hair, a thick mass of waist-length curls when she loosed it, was worn for coolness’ sake in a soft chignon. It formed a shimmering golden nimbus about her small face when caught by the rays of the hot South Carolina sun. Her face was hauntingly lovely, an almost perfect oval dominated by a pair of incredible sapphire eyes, dark silk fringed and slanting at the corners, which added a touch of the exotic to her golden beauty. For the rest, she had high cheekbones flushed a warm peach by the sun, a delicate, straight nose, full, rosy-red lips that her husband teased her about by saying they were made expressly for kissing, and a willful little chin that just hinted at her underlying strength of character.

She was a small girl, with fragile bones, but her body was as exquisite as her face. Her breasts were high and full and just the right size to fit into the palm of a man’s hand (this, too, she had from her husband). Her waist was narrow, her hips deliciously curved above legs that were slender but shapely.

On this particular day in August, Cathy had dressed rather casually because of the heat. But the very simplicity of her low-necked muslin afternoon dress, full-skirted with the tiny puffed sleeves that were all the rage, became her vastly, while its pale yellow color set off the porcelain smoothness of her complexion.

Only nineteen, she was more woman than girl. Her naturally sweet expression softened even more as she glanced out of the back parlor window just as the man who had made her so strode into view. Clearly Jon had just left the fields. A fond smile hovered on Cathy’s lips as she saw that her husband was filthy, his dark face sweat-streaked and his black hair urged by the afternoon’s humidity into the deep waves that were the bane of his existence. His buff-colored breeches and white shirt were coated with a fine layer of grit, as were the high leather boots he wore and the wide-brimmed hat he carried in one hand. Jon worked hard, overseeing the cultivation of Woodham’s vast cotton crop. Cathy knew that he did it solely for herself and their fifteen-month-old son, Cray. Secretly she guessed that Jon sometimes hankered after the wild, roving pirate life he had enjoyed before their marriage and Cray’s birth had prodded him into respectability. But good as he had been at pirating, as she had often told him, it could have only one end: a hangman’s noose. Jon had escaped it twice, and Cathy had no intention of allowing him to tempt the devil again.

Cathy’s smile widened as she saw, rounding the corner of the house, Cray in the arms of Martha, his plump, grandmotherly nurse. Martha had been Cathy’s nurse, too, almost from the moment of her birth. After Cathy’s mother, Lady Caroline Aldley, had died when Cathy was only seven, Martha had completely taken over the job of raising the girl. Cathy loved the woman dearly, and Martha in turn was fiercely protective of both her and Cray. After some initial distrust on both sides, Jon had also been allowed into the magic circle of her devotion. Martha would have willingly laid down her life for any of the three of them, Cathy knew. But of them all, Cathy suspected that Cray was closest to Martha’s heart, and she was glad.

“Daddy!” Cray shrieked happily upon seeing Jon. Cathy had to shake her head at the rather vulgar Americanism. Despite her own thorough Englishness, Cray was every inch an American, his father’s true son. He even looked like Jon! The child’s black curls, gray eyes, sturdy frame, and even occasional mulish expression were his father’s all over again. Cathy sometimes wondered how on earth she was going to deal with another obstinate male when Cray was grown, then shrugged her shoulders. Needs must, as Martha was fond of saying.

“Daddy, Daddy!” Cray was struggling imperiously in Martha’s arms. The woman obligingly set him on the ground. Jon hunkered down, laughing, opening his arms wide, as the little boy toddled across the smooth green lawn toward him. Reaching his goal at last, Cray gurgled with joy as he was caught and swung up high in his father’s strong arms. Cathy felt her heart turn over with love as she watched the two of them. They meant more to her than all the world, and she thanked God every day for the twist of fate which had given them to her.

Jon tossed Cray high in the air and caught him while the baby shrieked with glee. Cathy shook her head, smiling as she watched her tall, muscular husband tussle with his tiny son. Then she hurried out of the house and onto the back lawn before anything untoward could occur. Cray had just finished his supper, and when over-excited had a tendency to lose it in a most disconcerting fashion.

“All right, you two, that’s enough of your foolishness,” she reproved with mock sternness as she walked across the grass to join them. Jon grinned at her cheekily. Cray, watching his father, did likewise. Cathy had to laugh. They were as alike as two watermelons!

“Yes, ma’am,” Jon said meekly as he set his son down.

“Yes, ma’am,” Cray piped an echo, clutching Jon’s long leg for balance. Cathy laughed again, scooping the child up and giving him a quick hug. Cray cuddled into her neck while Jon’s arm slid around her waist, pulling her close as he planted a quick hard kiss on her soft lips. Cathy returned it lovingly, feeling the familiar quickening begin inside her. It never failed to amaze her how, after more than two years together and the birth of a son, Jon’s touch could still make her go weak at the knees. At first she had considered it shameful, thinking that a lady of her breeding, daughter of an earl and descendant of one of England’s most illustrious families, should find a man’s physical attentions coolly distasteful at best. “Close your eyes and think of England,” was the way most ladies of her class described their approach to the marital act. For a long time Cathy had wondered a little fearfully at her own very different response, but repetition had accustomed her to it. Besides, she knew that Jon found her ardor in bed extremely exciting, and exciting Jon had very definite rewards.

“Hungry?” she asked her husband prosaically, to cover thoughts that were rapidly beginning to get out of hand.

“Starving,” Jon replied with a devilish gleam, then leaned closer to murmur in her ear, “for you.”

Cathy blushed, shooting him a laughing, reproving glance. Martha watched this little piece of by-play indulgently. For all Master Jon’s wild ways, he made Miss Cathy happy, and that, in Martha’s opinion, was the important thing.

“It’s time the young master here was abed,” Martha told Cathy stolidly, reaching out her hands for Cray.

“Don’t want to go to bed!” Cray announced mutinously, then looked surprised as his small pink mouth opened wide in an involuntary yawn. Cathy chuckled, passing him over to Martha.

“You’re tired, precious,” she said, bending close to kiss his plump baby cheek. When he still looked unhappy, Jon leaned over to whisper something in his son’s ear that made the child chortle with glee. To Cathy’s amazement, there were no more protests as Martha bore him off, Cray’s arms clutched contentedly around the woman’s neck.

“What on earth did you say to him?” she demanded of her husband bemusedly as she watched Martha carrying the still beaming child away.

“Man talk,” Jon answered with an aggravating grin. Cathy could only shake her head as Martha disappeared with Cray onto the long verandah that ran along the back of the pillared brick plantation house.

“Alone at last!” Jon breathed, his eyes teasing. Before Cathy could guess what he was about he snatched her off her feet and swung her around in a wide circle, then proceeded to kiss her with a thoroughness that left her breathless.

“Jon!” Cathy protested laughingly when she could again speak. “The servants!” She looked meaningfully toward the half-dozen or so opened windows which looked out onto the back lawn.

Jon’s answering grin was wolfish.

“What do you mean, you shameless hussy, keeping me from my supper by your wiles?” he roared, his eyes dancing with amusement as they took in Cathy’s discomfiture. When she would have opened her mouth to remonstrate with him, he whirled her about so that she was pointing in the direction of the house, administering a sharp slap to her rounded posterior. Cathy jumped, giggled helplessly, then allowed herself to be propelled toward the house by the hard arm that curved close around her slim waist.

They strolled for a moment in silence. Cathy breathed in deeply, loving the smell of the waxy white blossoms of the magnolia trees that stood sentinel by the back door. Pressed close against her side she could feel the sweat-dampness of Jon’s shirt, and beneath it the work-hardened muscularity of his ribcage.

“You work too hard,” she remarked seriously, stretching up on tiptoe to press a soft kiss to his sandpaper cheek. His arm tightened around her waist at the loving little gesture.

“So reward me,” he advised her, looking down with a smile at the lovely little face turned up so earnestly to his. At what he saw there one eyebrow quirked upward and he chuckled.

“You’ve got dirt on your nose,” he said, flicking it with his forefinger. Cathy wrinkled the maligned member, her eyes crossing as she tried to see the offending streak for herself.

“It’s no wonder. You’re filthy. What have you been doing, wallowing in the dirt?”

“Just about. The ground is so dry from this drought that we kick up clouds of dust just walking through the fields. If we don’t get some rain soon the cotton will be burnt to a crisp.”

His tone was unusually serious. Cathy looked up at him, her expression troubled. She knew that making Woodham, inherited two years ago in deplorable condition from his estranged father, a paying proposition again was vitally important to Jon. Although she was a wealthy woman in her own right, Jon obstinately refused to touch a penny of her money, insisting on supporting her and Cray and the plantation on what capital remained from his years as a pirate captain and on what the plantation itself could produce. He had never said so, but Cathy was aware that Jon was determined that she, used to every luxury before her marriage, should not have any the less because of it. It was useless to try to persuade him that expensive dresses and jewelry and furnishings meant less than nothing to her compared with him or Cray. His fierce pride refused to let him believe her. His hardheadedness exasperated Cathy mightily. Still, she was deeply proud of him for his never-ending struggle to bring Woodham back to life again.

At Cathy’s extended silence, Jon glanced down at her, his brow wrinkled inquiringly. Noting her concerned expression, he mentally damned himself for worrying her, and promptly attempted to distract her attention by giving her luscious bottom a playful pinch.

“Forget about the drought,” he advised as she squealed protestingly. “Woodham has survived worse, believe me. We’re not quite at the point where you’ll have to do without all your pretty gew-gaws. However, it would help if you could eat a bit less. . . .”

Cathy chuckled at his banter, and proceeded to repay his impertinence by digging him in the ribs with her sharp little elbow. He grunted as she made painful contact, then grabbed for her, intent on administering suitable punishment. She twisted away adroitly, giggling as she picked up her skirts and sprinted for the house. Jon followed close on her heels.

“You’ll pay for that, minx,” he threatened, coming up behind her as she dodged through the back door and scampered for the parlor. She shrieked as his warm breath on the back of her neck warned her of his closeness. But it was too late. His strong arms were around her, snatching her high against his chest.

“Mercy! Have mercy, oh captain pirate!” she gurgled between helpless peals of laughter as he growled with mock ferocity and bore her off toward the stairs.

“Never!” he hissed evilly, starting up the wide, curving staircase with Cathy still imprisoned securely in his arms. She struggled in mock fright, squirming and kicking up her legs in a froth of white petticoats. Happening to glance back down into the hall, her movements stilled abruptly. Petersham, Jon’s wiry little valet and the household’s mainstay, was looking up at them with amused resignation.

“Shall I tell Cook to put dinner back, Master Jon?” he asked in an extremely dry voice.

“Yes!” Jon tossed the word at his old friend with a twinkle, already halfway up the stairs with his now-quiet burden.

“No!” Cathy countermanded quickly. “Petersham, don’t you dare! Jon, we’re having guests, don’t you remember?”

Then, in a muttered aside to Jon, she added, “For heaven’s sake, put me down! What on earth must Petersham be thinking?”

Jon grinned. “I’m sure Petersham’s thinking is right on the money, as usual,” he replied, not even bothering to lower his voice, and continued on up the stairs without making any kind of move to suggest that he would comply with Cathy’s demand.

Cathy, looking back down into the hall with pinkened cheeks, saw that Petersham had permitted himself an answering grin. With an indignant snort she glared at him. Really, these males! When it came to dealings with the fairer sex, they stuck together as if glued!

“Uh—the guests are scheduled for half past eight, if I remember correctly, and it is now gone seven,” Petersham called after them, wiping the offending grin from his face as he encountered Cathy’s darkling look. “Shall I have water for a bath sent up, Master Jon?”

“Later, Petersham, much later,” Jon answered shamelessly, gaining the upper landing and striding off down the hall with his crimsoning prisoner.

“Now, Petersham,” Cathy wailed over Jon’s shoulder, already resigning herself to the inevitability of being disobeyed.

To her surprise, she wasn’t. Jon had no sooner shouldered his way into their bedroom and snatched a lusty kiss than there was a discreet tap on the door.

“Who the hell . . . ?” Jon muttered belligerently, eyeing the offending portal with smoldering eyes. The tap sounded again, and he very reluctantly set Cathy on her feet, striding across to the door and flinging it open.

“Yes?” Jon snapped. The unaccustomed shortness of his tone nearly caused Tyler, the young black houseboy who stood there, to drop the steaming buckets he held in either hand. As it was, the sight of his tall, awe-inspiring master, clearly displeased at being disturbed, glowering down at him, made Tyler gulp, and take a hasty step backward. He was brought up short as he stumbled into Micah, the other houseboy who stood, similarly laden, behind him. Petersham, standing behind them both, clucked disapprovingly as the water in all four buckets sloshed alarmingly. Jon’s eyes fastened themselves on Petersham.

“Sorry, Master Jon, but you did look dirty,” Petersham explained hastily, shooing the boys into the room before Master Jon could explode, as he looked on the verge of doing. Jon looked his valet over slowly as the boys proceeded to fill the dainty porcelain tub that stood, discreetly shielded by a silk-upholstered screen, in one corner of the room.

“This isn’t the first time my wife has incited you to mutiny, old friend. I’m getting rather tired of it.” Jon sounded menacing. Cathy hastily muffled a smile. It was still something of a sore point with him that his pirate crew, of whom Petersham had been one, had been wo...