He sensed this, I know. For suddenly he had me pinioned; he held me against him.

He kissed me then and I felt an excitement which Felipe had never aroused in me.

He said: “I’ll not let the fact that you were a Spaniard’s whore stop our marriage.”

“Dare say that again.”

“Spaniard’s whore,” he said.

I lifted a hand to strike him, but he caught the hand by the wrist.

He bent me backward and again his mouth was on mine. He said: “Ah, Cat, ’tis good to have you back again. I was too kind to your Spaniard. I should have brought him back to the ship and had sport with him before I dispatched him to the torment of hell.”

I said, “I hate you when you speak of him. He was a good man.”

“We’ll forget him, for I have you back and to hold you thus and know that ’ere long you and I will be as one gives me such delight I have not known since you went away.”

When he said those words I felt a lifting of my spirits. I knew that I had missed him, that I had thought of him often, that although I hated him my hatred was in itself a fierce enjoyment. It was like coming out into keen fresh air after a long stay in prison. I was exultant, and I must be true to myself and admit that Jake Pennlyon had done that to me.

I knew that he would not allow me to escape him during the long voyage home. I knew he would force me to become his mistress within the next few days.

It was as inevitable as night following the day. Yet even as I mourned for Felipe I could not suppress a wild exultation.

For three days I held him off. I believe that was how he wanted it to be. He wanted to tease himself; to let me think I had a chance of winning in this battle, for battle it was. But it was inevitable that this would not go on. There he was in that floating world of which he was the indisputable master; he could have taken me at any time he wished. But he held off … just for three days.

He wanted to keep me in suspense. He enjoyed his verbal battles with me. Physically I was no match for him, but I was more than a match with my wits. I was trapped, of course. There was no way in which I could hide from him on his own ship.

For those three days the weather was ideal. There was enough wind to keep us on course. It was a wonderful sight to stand on deck and see those sails billowing out. Despite myself, I began to be proud of the Rampant Lion and admit that she had a quality which the stately galleon had lacked. The Lion was a faster vessel; she had less to carry; she was jaunty, confident; and I knew too that Jake Pennlyon was her master as the Captain had never been of his galleon. I guessed there would never be near mutiny on Jake Pennlyon’s Lion.

It was dusk. We had eaten and I came upon him in the alleyway near his cabin.

He barred my way and said: “Well met.”

“I am going to the children,” I told him.

“Nay,” he replied, “you are coming with me.”

He took my arm then and pulled me into his cabin.

The lantern swinging from the deck head gave a dim light.

“I have waited long enough for you,” he said. “Look, the wind is rising. It could mean stormy weather.”

“What has that to do with me?”

“Everything. You’re on the ship and the weather is of great concern to you. I could be occupied with my ship. I want time for dalliance with my woman.”

“I had thought you had begun to understand that I wished to be left alone.”

“You thought nothing of the sort.”

He pulled the comb from my hair so that it fell about my shoulders.

“That is how I fancy you,” he said.

I said: “If you are looking for someone on whom to satisfy your lust may I recommend you to the maid Jennet.”

“Who wants the substitute when the real thing is there for the taking?”

“If you imagine that I shall submit willingly … and eagerly … and that I am of a like mind to Jennet…”

“You lack the girl’s honesty. You suppress your desires, but you don’t deceive me into thinking they are not there.”

“It must be comforting I dare swear to have such a high conceit of yourself.”

“Enough of this,” he cried and at one stroke stripped my bodice from my shoulders.

I knew of course that the moment which I had resisted for so long had come. I was not the innocent girl I had been when I had first come to Devon. Already I had been taken in humiliation—for revenge not for lust—and later I had become accustomed to my life with Don Felipe. I had borne a child. Indeed I was no innocent.

But I fought as any nun might have fought for her virginity. I could not deny to myself that I experienced a wild exhilaration in the fight. My great concern was to keep my feelings from him. I was determined to resist for as long as I could as I knew the climax was foregone. He laughed. It was a battle which of course he won. I could not understand the wild pleasure that he gave me; it was something I had not experienced or imagined before. I was murmuring words of hatred and he of triumph; and why that should have given me greater satisfaction than I had ever experienced before I cannot say.

I broke free from him. He was lying on his pallet laughing at me.

“God’s Death!” he said. “You don’t disappoint me. I knew it was meant from the moment I clapped eyes on you.”

“I knew no such thing,” I said.

“But you do now.”

“I hate you,” I said.

“Hate away. It seems it makes a better union than love.”

“I wish I had never come to Devon.”

“You must learn to love your home.”

“I shall go back to the Abbey. As soon as I reach England.”

“What?” he said. “Carrying my son? You’ll not do that. I’m going to be gracious. I’m going to marry you, in spite of the fact that you’ve been a Spaniard’s whore and mine too.”

“You are despicable.”

“Is that why you can’t resist me?”

He was on his feet.

“No,” I cried.

“But yes, yes,” he said.

I fought him; but I knew that I could not resist. I wanted to stay; but I would not let him know it.

And so I stayed with him and it was late when I crept back to the cabin I shared with Honey.

She looked at me as I came in. “Oh, Catharine,” she whispered.

“He was determined,” I said. “I knew it would come sooner or later.”

“Are you all right?”

“Scratched, bruised. As one would expect after a fight with Jake Pennlyon.”

“My poor, poor Catharine! It’s the second time.”

“This was different,” I said.

“Catharine…”

“Don’t talk to me. I can’t talk. Go to sleep. It had to happen. He was determined. It is not as though I were a young inexperienced girl like Isabella…”

She was silent and I lay there thinking of Jake Pennlyon.

The journey was long and not uneventful. Was any voyage on the unpredictable seas? The storm Jake had prophesied came and we battled through it. It was not as violent as that which had hit the galleon; or was the Lion more able to withstand the elements? Was it due to her Captain, the undefeatable Jake Pennlyon? The mighty and imposing galleon was unwieldy compared with the jaunty Lion. The Lion defied the seas as she was tossed hither and thither; her timbers creaked as though sorely tried, but she stood up defiantly against the driving rain. The wind shrieked in the rigging and she was shaken by the seething waters as gust after gust caught her top-hamper.

Jake Pennlyon was in charge. He it was whose seamanship made the Lion turn toward the wind So that the upperworks gave shelter to the leeward side, where he was shouting orders above the roar of the wind. Did everyone on board feel as I did? We are safe. Nothing can stand against Jake Pennlyon and win—not even the sea, not even the wind.

So we rolled in the Bay and the storm persisted through two nights and a day and then we were calm again.

When the wind had subdued there was a thanksgiving service on deck. How different it was from that other. There was Jake Pennlyon actually giving thanks to God for the safety of his ship in a manner which suggested that it was the ship’s Captain rather than the Deity who had brought us through the storm. He talked arrogantly to God, I thought, and I laughed inwardly at him. How like him! How conceited he was, how profane! And how grand!