The Flame and the Flower (30 page)

But it was not easy to play the docile wife when, her emotions raged as turbulently as the storm without. When he returned to the cabin late in the day, she was still smarting from the bite of his words. He shed his storm-soaked clothes and donned a robe, stretching himself in a chair before the stove to warm himself, while behind his back Heather glowered at him. Before him her manner was cool and uncommunicative. She hardly spoke to him, only to answer when he asked a direct question.

The evening meal came and went without a murmur from her, and George, seeing her untouched plate, for the first time in his captain's service, doubted the wisdom of the man he had so loyally served. The table was cleared away and she sat down again beside the stove and began to undo the havoc she had heaped on the sampler. Brandon contemplated this task with a sidelong gaze, watching her slender fingers pick the threads from the piece and wondered what had brought about this foul mood of hers.

Some time later she rose and went to her sea chest when he made no move to dress and go again on deck but sat instead before the stove reading a book. Turning away from him, she slid out of her gown and chemise, and Brandon's eyes lifted from the pages of the book and viewed her disrobing with a slow, unhurried regard. Her slender back was bared to the waist and there was a glimpse of a round breast when she bent to pick up her nightgown, and the flame within his eyes burned still brighter, then she quickly drew on the garment and wrapper and let the pantalets fall to the floor, and his eyes went back to the book.

She came back to the stove to brush her hair after turning down the covers on the bunk, and Brandon, losing interest in the book, closed it and put it aside. He watched her openly, enjoying this moment when she freed her hair and allowed it to fall in loose curls about her shoulders and down her back. The candles behind her on the desk silhouetted her slender shape as she stood in profile to him, and his attention was drawn to her abdomen, and for the first time he realized she was beginning to show her pregnancy. By the time they arrived home there would be no mistaking her condition, and questions would be aroused in people's minds, seeing her that far along with child. They would soon decide that he hadn't wasted any time getting her that way after reaching the port of London. He could just imagine their startled faces when he presented her to them. But those who were friends or acquaintances would not dare inquire about her for fear of tempting his anger. It was just family and fiancée who would ask, and what would he tell them, considering she had conceived within twenty-four hours of his arriving in port?

He chuckled over his thoughts and got up and went to her side, giving her a start. The brushing stopped and she turned wide eyes up to him. He grinned at her and put his hand on her belly, resting it there.

"You're rounding quite well, madam," he teased. "Charleston will know I wasted no time in mounting you. It will be most difficult explaining you to my fiancée.

Heather gave a quick, infuriated shriek, decidedly miffed at his words, and shoved his hand away angrily. "Oh, you beast!" she raged. "How dare you speak of explaining me to your fiancée! Had you a heart you'd be explaining her to me! I'm your wife, mother of your child, and you treat me like the dirt you tread upon!"

She brushed past him but whirled again to face him, her blue eyes flashing. "It matters little to me what you speak of to her. I'm sure your words will be soft and sweet as you tell how I forced you to wed me, a woman already breeding. You will paint yourself the innocent, taken advantage of by a scheming woman, and you will not care about your child. Be sure to say, too, my love, that you dragged me from the gutters and gave me your name only because you were blackmailed into doing so. Your words will be very convincing, I have no doubt; and before you end, you may have won her virginity too!"

He scowled at her and took a step forward, and Heather quickly skittered about to put a chair safely between her and him.

"Don't you lay a hand on me!" she cried. "If you do, I swear I will throw myself overboard."

Brandon reached out and sent the chair sliding away and Heather backed away fearfully as he advanced. She stopped only when she could go no further with the wall to her back.

"Please," she whimpered as he took her by the arms. "Please don't hurt me, Brandon. You must think of the child."

"I have no intentions of hurting you, madam," he growled. "But your waspish tongue does sting my anger. Be warned, wife. I have other ways to make you miserable."

Heather swallowed hard. Her eyes were wide and uncertain and her mouth quivered. Seeing her fear, Brandon turned her loose with an oath and went to the bunk.

"Come now to bed, madam. I have been too long without sleep, and I intend this night to get my rest."

Heather's head snapped up as anger replaced her fear. How dare he suggest she lie beside him after all he had said to her that day. She was not without some pride.

Though there were tears in her eyes she held her chin defiantly high and went to the bunk beside him and dragged her pillow and quilt from it. She took them to the stern gallery, and Brandon turned with a raised eyebrow and watched her over his shoulder as she spread them upon the window seat.

"Do you intend to sleep there, madam?" he inquired with disbelief.

"Yes," she murmured, taking her wrapper off. She settled herself down on the cushions and pulled the quilt about her.

"It's not a fit place for you to stay the night," he informed her quickly. "The storm is not over. The window is damp and cold. You'll not find comfort there."

"I will manage," she said.

Brandon swore under his breath and shrugged his robe off and threw it down in a chair. He turned and sat down on the edge of the bunk and stared at her. She twitched and turned, trying to get comfortable, and a sudden lurch of the ship almost deposited her on the floor. Brandon chuckled despite himself, and she glowered at him and snatched the quilt tighter about her. She wedged herself between the beams, bracing against them to hold her precarious perch. She achieved some security, but her position was anything but comfortable.

Brandon sat for a long time watching her before he finally turned to lie down. He saw the empty space where she had slept since the start of this voyage home, and he suddenly realized that he was going to miss her beside him. Just the night before she had shared her body's heat to take the chill from him.

He turned again to look at her and his voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Madam, there's precious little heat to waste aboard this ship. I suggest we combine ours beneath the blankets here."

She lifted her nose primly and settled her shoulders into the corner. "I am so dumb, sir, that I believe there are cows in the middle of the Atlantic and my poor simple brain does not prompt me to rise from this window seat and spend the night in bed with you."

Brandon threw the quilts back angrily. "Well then, my fine feathered lass," he retorted, "I'm sure you and the icy sea will find ample companionship on that oaken sill. I will not beg you again to join me. Just let me know when you've had enough of playing games and I will make room for you. You'll not last long there."

Heather seethed with rage. She would freeze to death before she'd crawl back to his bed and let him mock her.

The night aged and the quilt about Heather slowly soaked in the dampness that seeped in through the window. She began to feel the cold and she huddled deeper in the wet cover to seek warmth. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and every muscle in her body tensed to stop her trembling. She longed for the warmth of the bunk, but her pride whipped anew the memories of his cruelty and would not let her go to its comfort. Her nightgown was no protection against the sodden chill and soon was plastered to her body. Near dawn she finally dozed fitfully, but only because she was near exhaustion.

She roused with a jerk as the cabin door banged shut and through bleary eyes she saw the bunk deserted and her husband gone. She strained to sit up and the cabin rocked and pitched more violently than could be explained by the heavy seas without. She felt no coldness, indeed a dry warmth seemed to enfold her. She sought to fling the sodden quilt aside but it was caught beneath her and her arms began to tremble at the effort. She cleverly changed her tactics and slid her feet to the floor and there she sat while the cabin lurched and swung, then finally slowed to a gentle rhythm. She thought she could manage then. She fought to stand up and shrug away from the quilt, but it clung with the determination of a living thing, and she slid to her knees and found herself beneath its weight upon the floor. Breathing hard from the struggle, she lay still to regain her strength. A chill seeped through from the deck below and the quilt above and she began to shake and shiver violently. She raised her head wearily and spied the stove and thought of its warmth. There was a chair near it. If she could but stand erect, this icy weight would leave her. She dragged herself across the heaving deck. The chair seemed to swim in a fog and retreat before her. The struggle drained her hut she fought on, the quilt still clinging like a frosty mantle upon her back. She reached the chair and grasped its legs and painfully drew herself up until she could rest her head upon the seat, and there she lay panting with exhaustion. The room reeled about her and she saw it as if through a long, dark tunnel. She seemed to fall down that tunnel until only a pinpoint of light remained and then it too vanished with a startling abruptness.

Brandon came down from the quarter-deck, somewhat improved in mood. His luck had held and his gamble had paid off. The storm had pushed them south but gained them several days. Having vented its fury upon the ship, it passed beyond, leaving the weather cold and the seas rough but grudgingly breathing its winds upon their sails to speed them on. Yet for all his good fortune, he remembered the night before and his temper turned. He smiled darkly to himself. He'd not allow that stubborn twit to vent her wrath upon him and dance away. She had a lesson still to learn if wife to a Birmingham she sought to be.

He snapped at George to hurry the meal as he passed the galley, and stalked to the cabin door, determined to set her back upon her heels and lay the law before her. He pushed the door open, his face black with rage, then stopped short, all anger draining away as he saw Heather sitting on the floor with her head and arm lying limply in the seat of a chair, a quilt twisted about her hips and her other hand lying palm up upon the floor.

She opened her eyes as he gasped her name and saw him rush toward her. She lifted her head and tried to speak, but her shuddering made her speech incoherent. He dragged the heavy quilt from her and picked her up in his arms. Her head rolled listlessly before dropping on his shoulder. She heard him yell for George and then he was placing her in the bunk and drawing quilts over her. The servant came running in and Brandon turned and barked orders to him, but Heather's muddled mind heard only a jumble of words. Again he was bending over her, this time pushing the covers away. Still shaking violently, she whimpered and fought weakly to keep them over her, thinking he meant to punish her. He was always punishing her.

"Let me, Heather," he said hoarsely. "Your gown is damp. You will be warmer without it."

Her fingers relaxed their grip and she lay unresisting as he unfastened her gown and slid it from her shoulders and down her body. Then once more she was wrapped in the bedcovers.

Heather felt a hand placed to her brow and its coolness was to be treasured. She opened her eyes slowly to look at Brandon, but it was not he who stood above her with his hand on her brow. It was her father.

"Heather Brianna," he coaxed. "Finish your broth like a good child or papa will not be pleased."

"But I do not wish it, papa."

"How do you think you will grow into a fine young lady if you do not eat, Heather Brianna? You are much too thin for a child of six."

The vision blurred and cleared again.

"Must you go again, papa?"

He smiled at her. "You'll be all right here with the servants. This is your tenth birthday. What child that age fears to be left alone?"

She watched his receding back, and her bottom lip quivered and her eyes filled. "I do, papa. I do. Come back, papa. Please."

"Your father is dead, child. He died at the gaming tables. Don't you remember?"

"Don't take my mother's portrait. It's all I have of her."

"It must go to pay the debts. Your father's portrait, too. Everything must be taken."

"We've come for you, Heather. You're to live with your aunt and me."

"So you're the girl. 'Tain't likely you'll be doin' your share of work, lookin' as frail as you do. My dresses will do for you fine. You'll bear no bastards in my home. I won't be letting you out of my sight. You're a witch, Heather Simmons."

"No. I'm not a witch!"

"This is my brother, William. He's come to take you to London."

"How sweet looking you are, child. Meet my assistant, Thomas Hint. He's not the sort who tempts a woman with his beauty."

"Please stay away from me. Don't touch me!"

"I plan to have you, my dear, so there is no reason why you should fight me."

"He fell on the knife. It was an accident. He tried to rape me. Somebody is after me. He does not know I killed a man. He thinks I'm from the streets."

"Do you think I'm going to let you sneak away from me?"