The Flame and the Flower (18 page)

He glanced up at her. "You are very agreeable, my love," he flung with a short, scornful laugh. "But it is I who make the decisions here. The inn will be more suitable to your needs."

She had not thought of this, that he would so cruelly leave her behind. She felt a coldness begin to grow in the depth of her body.

"Is this truly to be my fate?" she wondered forlornly. "To be left on the waterfront to fare as I might in childbirth at the hands of midwives who know nothing more than filth and squalor? Is my son to have a name and still to live his life as an urchin in a gutter?" She turned and a shiver of apprehension went through her.

Was there no mercy in this man? If he wanted her to beg, she would gladly go down on her knees before him and plead for her child's life. But he did not seem to want that. He had made up his mind coldly and without emotion. She was to go to an inn.

Trying to calm her fears, she drew the red gown up over her shoulders and went to where he sat. His attention fell on her and a strange expression crossed his face. The deep rich color of the gown had darkened her eyes until they appeared as midnight blue, and the flawless skin shone startling white against the red. Her bosom was generously and beautifully displayed, the gown barely covering the pinkness at its peaks.

Terribly afraid and unsure of how he would react to doing this small labor for her, Heather turned her back to him.

"I'm not able to fasten it," she murmured softly as her stomach fluttered and her consternation grew. "Do you mind?"

She felt his fingers on the back of the gown, and she bent her head forward and waited, scarcely breathing, until he finished, then she moved away, casting an uncertain glance over her shoulder at him as she did. He was again studying the books, but now there was a black scowl on his face.

As she went quietly about the room, putting her bridal cape away, gathering the clothes she would need at the inn, and hanging his discarded coat on a peg inside his locker, she eyed him covertly, fearing that she would do some small thing to irritate him, but he seemed absorbed in his books and oblivious to her.

The time dragged slowly and silently by. There was only a moment's respite when George brought coffee and tea. But he served his captain with hardly a murmur and brought the tea to her where she sat in the gallery behind her husband's chair. Then the servant was gone again, leaving her to listen to the gentle sighing of the ship and the dull thud of her heart.

The time was nearly ten of the hour when Brandon pushed his chair from the desk and looked at her once more. His eyes dropped to her bosom and he frowned again.

"You had better wear my cloak to the inn," he said brusquely. "I have no desire to be waylaid once we're ashore by some petty whoremonger who thinks you'll bring him a pretty price."

The color flew to Heather's face and her eyes fell from his gaze. She murmured an obedient answer, slid from the cushions and brushed past him to get the cloak.

A few moments later they were in the boat waiting for George to descend. The servant dropped her bundle and a duffel bag to the boat, then climbed down and gave orders to the sailors to push off. On shore he walked behind them, looking cautiously over his shoulders for would-be thieves or other dangerous characters.

They arrived at the inn without incident and entered to the strains of a melancholy tune a sailor was singing. The man was small and thinly fleshed, but his voice was a full baritone of gentle touch. Near him, a few men sat quaffing ale and listening, enthralled by the magic of his voice. A fire crackled in the hearth and an aroma of roast pig rose into the air, making Heather's mouth water. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of the hunger that gnawed at her stomach.

Brandon murmured something to George and the servant went off quickly to talk with the innkeeper as Heather followed her husband to a table in the corner. She slid into the chair he held for her, and a moment later they were being served food and drink which Heather accepted gratefully as her stomach growled for nourishment.

She did not notice the stares she drew from the men nor the cloak slipping away from her shoulders nor two seedy-looking men who sat across the room from them talking in low whispers to one another. Her attention was divided between her food and listening to the song of "Greensleeves" the tar was singing. With a start she felt her husband lean over her. He drew the cloak again over her shoulders and her face flamed as she lifted her eyes to his.

"I bought the gown for my private admiration, my love," he said softly. "I didn't mean to have you pleasure other men with the sight of your lovely bosom. It is not wise to do so either. You are causing a stir among these men."

Heather pulled the cloak together and glancing about cautiously, she realized what he said was true. She seemed the center of attention. Even the sailor had stopped singing for a moment as he gazed at her. Shortly he began again.

Black is the color of my true love's hair

Her looks are something wondrous fair,

The purest eyes and the softest hands

I love the grass on where she stands

I love my love and well she knows,

I love the grass on where she goes.

If she on earth no more could stay

My life would quickly pass away
.

Heather glanced at her husband and saw that he was irritated with the sailor's song. His eyelids had lowered over his eyes as he attended his meal, but in his cheek a small muscle twitched. As before, she grew silent and fearful when she sensed his anger.

After dinner, the innkeeper showed them to the room for which George had made arrangements. The servant carried the bundles in, then removed himself with the innkeeper. For a few moments Heather waited for Brandon to leave also, never to be seen again, but he lounged in a chair and seemed in no hurry to go, so she went to him and had him unfasten her gown, and she began to undress as if she expected him to stay. She took down her hair and ran her fingers through it to smooth the curls because she possessed no brush or comb. Aware of her husband's eyes on her, she slipped out of her gown and shift and laid them over a chair and donned a nightdress Lady Hampton had given her.

The gown was of a thin white batiste with inserts of lace over the bosom, and a neckline cut round and very low. Beneath the breasts a narrow ribbon was drawn through lace and tied. The sleeves were full and long and a ruffle edged with lace fell over her hands. Though less filmy than the gown of her wedding night, this one, like the other, was meant to give a man pleasure, but as she moved in front of a candle's glow, it brought an angry oath from Brandon's lips. Heather glanced up with a start to see him striding toward the door.

"I'll be back in an hour or two," he growled, opening the door. Then he was gone and Heather sank to the floor as tearful, frightened sobs choked her.

"He cannot even speak the truth," she gasped. "He will never return."

Each moment then that passed was longer than the one before. She paced the floor, wondering what she was to do and where she was to go. She could not go again to her aunt's and allow her child to grow up under the woman's hateful hand, nor could she go to Lord Hampton and ask him to help her. She had too much pride to cast her troubles upon them again. Perhaps if life were merciful she would find work as a maid here at the inn. She would ask tomorrow, but for the night she would sleep if she could.

The night aged and try though Heather may to calm her fears and push her doubts aside, sleep did not come. It seemed an eternity had passed when she heard a bell toll the hour of one. With a cry she jumped from the bed and ran to the window to slam it closed. She dropped her head against its frame and her slender shoulders shook with sobs. Just outside her door she heard a man's voice and another in reply. Her fear doubled, and when the door opened, the color drained from her face. But the light in the hall touched on George's face and silhouetted her husband's tall, broad-shouldered frame.

"You came back!" she breathed.

His face turned her way before he closed the door and they were again lost in blackness.

"Why aren't you in bed?" he asked, moving in the darkness toward the bed. There was a scratch of flint and steel. The tinder caught and he lit a candle on the table then looked at her. "Are you ill?"

She came toward him from the shadows and the candlelight made the tears sparkle in her eyes. "I thought you had left me," she murmured. "I thought I would never see you again."

For a moment he gazed at her with some surprise, then he smiled gently and drew her near. "And you were frightened?"

She nodded her head piteously and tried to choke back a sob but it ended sounding like a hoarse croak. He brushed her hair from her face tenderly and touched his lips to her brow to quiet her trembling.

"You were never alone,
ma petite
. George was outside the door all the time, guarding it. He's just now gone to get some sleep, but do you think me the cad to leave you, not assured of your safety?"

"I didn't know what to believe," she whispered. "I feared you would never come back."

"My God! You are not very complimentary to me—nor to yourself. I would not leave a lady to her own defense in such a place and more certainly my own wife and she heavy with my child. But if it will calm your fears, I'll not leave you again while we're here."

She lifted her eyes to his and saw a kindly warmth in them. "No, there is no need," she murmured. "I'll not be frightened again."

He cupped her chin in his hand. "Then let us go to bed. The day has been long and I am tired."

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she climbed into bed on the side nearest the door and watched him quietly as he opened the bundle George had carried in with her own. Her eyes widened as he took out the box of Flintlock pistols with which she had once threatened the servant. He brought it with him to the bed where she lay, and dropping down beside her, took out the pistols and began to load them.

"Do you expect trouble?" she questioned softly, sitting up.

He glanced at her and smiled. "It's just a precaution I sometimes take when I'm not at ease with things around me. You needn't worry, my love."

She watched curiously as he loaded one, remembering her own distress when she had tried to determine how and had not been able to. Seeing her interest, Brandon laughed softly.

"Do you wish now to learn how to load these?" he asked, smiling. "You do very well as it is with them empty. George was quite embarrassed when he found that you had tricked him. The fact that a mere wisp of femininity had made him quake with fright before an empty gun injured his pride. He was impossible for some time after. So was I for that matter," he added gruffly, remembering the way he had viciously hurled a string of oaths at the servant when he had returned to the
Fleetwood
and found the girl gone. His disposition had not improved any when he also found that she had disappeared without a trace.

He took her arm and pulled her to the edge of the bed beside him. "But it is of no importance now. If you desire to learn how a pistol is loaded, I will teach you." Then he looked into her eyes and warned, "But don't ever make the mistake of thinking you can turn these on me and not use them. I am not George and you would have to kill me before you could escape." He laughed again softly. "And as for that, I doubt that you have it in you to kill a man, so I think I would be safe in taking these from you."

Heather swallowed hard. She stared up at him silently, with eyes round as moons. She believed every word he said. He was not one to make idle threats.

They sat very close together on the edge of the bed, so close their bodies touched—her thigh against his, her arm pressed to his side. His arm was braced behind her, his hand resting on the bed very near her buttocks. Her composure was sorely strained. Nervously she dropped her gaze and pushed the hem of her gown demurely over her thighs and knees, realizing it had slid up almost to her hips when he pulled her to him.

"May I try to load this one," she asked, hesitantly touching the pistol he held in his other hand.

"If you wish," he replied, handing it to her.

The Flintlock was heavy and meant for a man's hand. She found it uncomfortable in hers. Laying it across her knees, she took up the powder horn and lifted the muzzle of the pistol to pour the gun powder down it.

"Turn it away from your face," Brandon directed.

She obeyed and poured a small amount of the gray powder into the muzzle. As she had seen him do, she stuffed a piece of paper in and with the rod rammed it down the barrel, then wrapped a lead ball in a patch of oiled cloth and pushed it down the muzzle also. It was done.

"You learn very quickly," Brandon murmured as he took the pistol from her and laid it with the other on the table. "Perhaps you will be another Molly Pitcher."

Glancing up at him, she frowned slightly. "Who is she, Brandon?" she asked softly, not realizing that she had spoken his name for the first time.

He smiled and reached up to touch one of her glossy curls. "It was a name given to women who helped carry water to American soldiers in battle and to one woman in particular who helped to hold the line against the British at Monmouth."

"But you are English too, Brandon, are you not?" she asked, gazing up at him with curious eyes.

He laughed, "Indeed no, madam. I'm an American. My family came from here, it is true, but long before they died they considered themselves loyal Americans. My father helped fight the British and as a boy so did I. You will have to get used to the idea that your beloved England is not so beloved where we're going."