The Flame and the Flower (29 page)

He found himself beside the bunk with his elbow braced upon a beam above his head, and gazing down, he saw her innocent and tender, still deep in slumber. He thought of the cruelty and violence that had bred such gentleness, like iron which, when subjected to extremes, blends and emerges finely-tempered steel. She had withstood the worst he could offer in anger and the abuse of Aunt Fanny, yet there was a naïve gentleness that seemed inborn to her.

Louisa came to mind, the full-blown woman awaiting his return. She was of a different mold from this slender girl occupying his bunk and not only in physical stature. Having had everything given to her at her asking by doting parents, she had never known cruelty nor violence. Her personality was open and easy, almost nothing could insult her. She was almost bold where men were concerned and enjoyed most thoroughly the pleasures that could be found in a bed, while Heather had expressed her complete contentment at not having to perform the more intimate duties of a wife. And it seemed strange, now that he thought of it, that all the times he had bedded Louisa she had never come with child. The direct opposite had been true here. The first time he had laid hand upon this unwilling creature before him his seed had struck fertile ground.

Now here he stood. All his worldly ways and high self-esteem had been set aside, and he was trapped by a guileless virgin like a young farm lad barely old enough to stroll alone from stable to store. And each day her unsought hold upon his very thoughts grew stronger, and he would before long be hard pressed to withhold his more amorous attentions.

In the bunk Heather stirred and began to shiver, no longer having his warmth beside her. She wrapped her arms about herself and huddled deeper under the quilt.

Brandon smiled wryly and removed his robe. Taking care not to wake her, he slid under the quilts again and took her into his arms to warm her. For this brief time he would forget his passions and his vengeance and just think of her as a little girl in need of someone to care for her.

He was gone from the cabin when Heather woke the next morning. Another quilt had been drawn over her, and noticing it, she smiled a little to herself, thinking how kind he could be sometimes. He came down for lunch in a quiet, thoughtful mood, and hardly a word was spoken between them as they ate. His face was reddened by the cold wind, and he wore a bulky seaman's sweater with a rolled collar, dark breeches and polished boots. He had put aside a knit cap on entering and had taken off a heavy wool coat. He was ruggedly dressed but Heather realized suddenly that clothes had little to do with his good looks. He was handsome in anything he wore, be they these or rich garments, and if anything these rough clothes seemed to accentuate his manliness.

Later that afternoon Heather left the cabin with a heavy cloak wrapped tightly about her and climbed to the quarter-deck. He was nowhere to be seen. She moved to the taffrail beside the helmsman, a sturdy youth with a fine fuzz of a youthful beard upon his face. Bashfully the young man kept his eyes upon the compass and pretended that she was not there. She almost had to shout to be heard above the wind.

"I thought the captain was on watch."

The helmsman raised his arm and pointed upward, and following his direction, she saw Brandon straddling the main topyard, closely inspecting the ropes that held it in place. She gasped and stepped backward, frightened at the dizzy height of his perch. To her the high mast appeared spindly, scarcely able to bear his weight. Her heart seemed to rise in her throat as she stood transfixed with sudden fear. She watched, unable to drag her eyes away. A gust of wind caught the sails and made them clap loudly. The ship heeled slightly and Brandon, caught unawares, grabbed for support. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, swallowing a scream, and bit into a knuckle.

Brandon, looking down toward the helmsman with a scowl, spied her and stopped his work immediately. He shinnied down the mast to the crosstree where he seized two back stays and wrapping his legs around them, slid slowly to the rail and then jumped lightly to the main deck. Coming aft, he climbed to the quarter-deck where he spoke rather gruffly to the young sailor at the helm.

"Let's watch those gusts, man. We'll be putting her through a test soon enough without straining her now."

"Aye, aye, sir," the seaman mumbled, shamefaced and quite put down.

Brandon swung his coat from the taffrail and shrugged it on as Heather found her breath.

"Oh, Brandon, what were you doing up there?" she asked, almost angrily. The scare had brought her near tears.

Somewhat surprised at her tone of voice, Brandon glanced at her and saw the distraught face. He stared at her for a moment in wonder at the emotion he saw and then he chuckled.

"Calm your fears, madam, I was in no real danger. I was merely inspecting the rigging."

She frowned in confusion. "Inspecting the rigging?"

"Aye, madam," he replied. Lifting his head, he squinted at the horizon. "Before three days are out we'll be in a good roaring storm, and I'd rather not be surprised by a parting cable then."

"But can't somebody else do that?" she quested worriedly.

His gaze dropped to her again and he grinned as he reached to snuggle her cloak about her chin. "It's a captain's worry, sweet, so therefore it's a captain's job."

Heather wasn't sure she was satisfied with his answer but she could not plead with him to stay from there. "You will be careful, won't you, Brandon?"

His eyes gleamed as he looked down at her. "I intend to, madam. You are far too lovely to be made a widow."

The next day dawned with a blood red sun, an ominous portent of the storm to come. The wind blew brisk but changeable and the men were sent again and again into the rigging to retrim the sails, to reef this one or let out that one. The sea ran choppy and contrary and the heavily ladened ship lurched and bucked. Low clouds boiled and raced. The sun shone through in fitful spurts, lighting the hazy gray sea with spots of translucent green. The night came ebony black and the only light on deck came from a lantern above the helmsman.

Heather ventured out once to the main deck. It was pitch black and she could hardly see her hand before her face. She stumbled across the lurching planks to the main mast and clung to it. She looked back toward the quarterdeck and gazed upon an eerie scene. The mate and the helmsman stood beneath the lantern by the wheel, and as the
Fleetwood
tossed, they seemed to float about against the darkness as if detached from the ship. She swallowed convulsively and hurried back to the cabin, determined to venture out no more until the storm had passed.

Before dawn the winds died and the new day was heralded only by a gradual lightening. Dense black gave way to shades of gray. The sails flapped loosely in the near calm wind, and the sea heaved smooth and glassy as if heavy grease floated upon its surface. No horizon was visible for the sea blended into the clouds, and occasional low layers of mist obscured the topsails. The ship barely made headway and rolled with a sickening motion on the low swells. Night crept in on silent feet and a tense air pervaded the
Fleetwood
as the men rested for the battle ahead.

The wind gained ground as the night grew old. It seemed a long and restless night, and several times as the wind grew stronger, the crew was roused and sent up to take in sail. The ship was tended carefully that she might be kept in the best possible trim as the storm built around her. When the morning watch came on deck the seas were running high and the craft ran gallantly before the ever stronger gusts, clawing through the crest of each wave, then sliding down into the troughs. To Heather the ship became a world unto itself, a small outpost cast adrift in the churning elements of a crashing, surging chaos. The final sails were set and lashed tightly in place, ropes were strung across the decks to provide hand holds for those who must venture upon them. The main topsail only was spread full and the topgallants were taken in to the last reef, a single sprit sail forward to keep her heels to the wind, and thus she would ride out the storm. From now until the gale was spent no man would dare climb the rigging.

The day wore on and the seas grew higher and the wind raked cruelly everything it could touch. Inside the ship the timbers creaked and moaned as the
Fleetwood
tossed upon this seething mass between sea and cloud.

Heather ceased to know where day began or darkness reigned. It seemed that every rag of cloth aboard was damp and cold, and she rarely saw Brandon except when he stumbled in shivering and chilled to the marrow of his bones. Getting little sleep, he ate and drank his coffee as if in a stupor. When he entered the cabin she would help him strip away his sodden clothes and wrap him in a blanket that she kept warm before the stove. His eyes grew red with strain and his temper jagged. She quietly did what she could to ease his hardship, and when he dozed she let him rest. Usually he soon roused himself to dress and go again on deck to guide his ship between the crushing blows of the rampant sea.

Several days so passed when rising to another angry dawn, she found the deck was thick with slippery slush. The wind blew snow and sleet upon the straining ship and great, long festoons of ice bedecked the rigging. Brandon came below with frost upon his brows. His cheeks were white and stiff and a long time thawing. He sat close to the stove, huddled in the blanket with his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of rum-laced coffee. The brew was finished before his joints began to soften and it no longer took a great effort to move.

Heather was turning the clothes spread to dry before the stove when she was startled by a loud thump and turned to see the mug rolling gently to and fro on the floor. Brandon sat slumped in exhausted slumber. Very carefully she drew another quilt over him, and when MacTavish entered to speak with his captain, she shushed the man and sent him out again. Only the creaking of the ship could be heard in the cabin as she sat with her sampler, jealously guarding her husband's sleep. It was several hours before he stirred and stared blankly about the cabin then finally rose to full awareness. He set himself somewhat refreshed to his duty and his ship, leaving Heather satisfied in knowing that he had rested.

Darkness had descended when George came to tell her the storm was finally beginning to abate and they were heading out of the worst of it. Brandon came in long after midnight to get some badly needed sleep, and waking, she made to rise from the bunk to help him undress, but he told her gruffly to stay where she was. A moment later he slid shivering under the quilts, and she pressed close to help warm him. Gratefully he accepted her efforts, drawing her even nearer as he shook with the cold. Gradually his trembling subsided and he drifted to sleep, too tired even to turn on his side away from her.

At dawn he woke and dressed while she still slept and once more returned to his work. Though the storm still raged that afternoon he came down to the cabin and did not hasten back. He sat before the stove, knees spread, coat wide, enjoying the heat, but Heather had sidled closer to the stove and stood now in her favorite stance, the back of her skirts raised high, exposing her pantalets to the warmth. Brandon casually watched her through half-closed eyes, feeling vaguely sorry he had bought her the underwear. At a knock on the door she dropped her hem and whirled to face the stove. Brandon called out for admittance and George hurried in with a fresh pot of coffee and several mugs on a tray. He poured his captain a cup and turned to her.

"I'll be brewing you some tea in a moment, mum."

Brandon scowled at the servant, thinking how the man pampered her, and turned the same expression on Heather. She felt his tacit disapproval and hurried to smooth his temper.

"I'll just have coffee this time, George."

The servant poured her a cup, looking at her doubtfully. He knew she did not favor the brew.

Conscious of both men's eyes on her, Heather stirred sugar into the coffee and bravely gulped a mouthful, then fought back the shudder that followed. Unthinkingly she looked at George with a distressed smile and asked:

"May I have cream, George?"

Brandon choked and blew a mouthful of coffee back into his mug as he came upright in his chair.

"What, madam?" he choked. "Do you think we'll find a herd of cows in the middle of the North Atlantic?"

She started at his brusque manner and turning away, bent her head low over the cup to hide the rush of tears that welled up within her. He had no right to speak to her in that manner, especially before a servant.

Brandon drained his cup in one long pull as George glanced from one to the other in confusion, wanting to comfort his mistress, yet not daring to. He decided it was time to beat a tactful retreat and picked up the tray and left. Brandon stood up and slammed his cup down on the table and as he followed his man from the cabin he buttoned his coat and muttered something about women under his breath.

When Heather heard the door slam behind him, she sniffed and glared at the offending portal, then snatched up her needlework and began to sew, venting her anger again upon the poor sampler.

"He treats me like a child," she fussed, her lips pouting. "The stupid oaf expects me to know all about his ships and seas! He rants and raves at me in front of others as if I were expected not to feel the jibe."

She threw her sampler aside, seeing that she was ruining it and came to her feet angrily, tears almost blinding her. She fought to control herself, realizing this was not the mood to have him find her in. She must learn to think of her child only and bear what hardships she herself might encounter.