The Flame and the Flower (8 page)

"You're hardly bigger than a mite."

"Some people say I'm thin," she commented softly, remembering some of her aunt's insulting remarks.

Brandon laughed, "I can imagine the jealous old crones who said that. They were probably wallowing in their own fat."

A small smile broke across Heather's features as he seemed to describe her aunt, and then it was gone, almost as quickly as it had come, but it did not go unnoticed.

"Ah-h," he grinned. "I knew I could make you do that sooner or later."

Heather turned away and lifted her nose high in the air. "Because of you, I have little to be happy about."

"Now it's that again, is it?" he chuckled. "Your moods are very changeable, m'lady." He rose and came to stand behind her. "Now let us see if some of that ice has thawed from your lips. I wish to feel some warmth for a change. Come, kiss me as a mistress should. I've not time for more."

Heather released a quivering sigh of relief at not having a repeat performance of his lovemaking. She concluded a bit of effort on her part, as if yielding to his protestations, would do much to allay whatever fears or suspicions he might be harboring over leaving her. She turned and with a new determination, slid her arms behind his neck and pulled his head down to hers. His brows lifted as if he were considering this new change in her and Heather, not wanting him to dwell too long upon the matter, pressed moist, warm lips upon his and seizing upon her meager experience, kissed him long and in a loving fashion, arching her body against his.

Brandon savored the honey taste of her lips and the intoxicating nearness of her body and all logical thinking fled his mind. His arms went around her and held her tightly as he enjoyed the unexpected warmth of her response. His body demanded he do more with her. She was too tempting, this slight wisp of a girl. Her lips were too warm, her body too desirable. It was becoming extremely difficult to think of leaving her. Damned if it wasn't.

With an effort he set her from him.

"I will be hard put to go anywhere if you kiss me like that," he said huskily.

Heather's face pinkened. The kiss had held some surprises for her, too, for she had not found it such a loathsome task.

"And now I fear my departure will be delayed after all. These tight breeches leave nothing to the imagination," he grinned.

Her eyes traveled downward innocently to his pants. She was instantly sorry. Her face flooded with color and she jerked around with a moan, mortified.

Brandon chuckled behind her and then with a pensive sigh, turned to the business of dressing, mumbling wistfully, "Had I but the time, madam—"

Seething, Heather began stacking dirty dishes at the table, thinking many ill thoughts of the man behind her. She decided he was more than detestable.

Brandon was giving a last adjustment to his stock when Heather turned to him again, her temper somewhat abated. For all the hatred she felt for him, she could not deny what a fine specimen of a man he was. His garments were immaculate and well chosen, in the height of fashion, and they fit his tall, broad shouldered frame superbly. His breeches were tailored so well they clung nearly as tightly as his skin. They did nothing to disguise the bulge of his manhood.

"He's so handsome he probably has to fight the women off," she thought bitterly.

He came forward and, in a casual but possessive and intimate manner, pressed a light kiss upon her lips and gave her buttock a fond pat.

"I'll be back soon, sweet," he smiled.

Heather could hardly hold her tongue, wanting to scream at him in rage. She watched him leave, all too confident of himself for her state of mind, and then heard the click of the lock on the door. With frustrated anger rising in her veins, she whipped her arm across the table and sent the stacked dishes flying.

Heather wasted no time in her determination to flee the ship. If Captain Birmingham returned before she left, her opportunity would be greatly diminished. She tried to think of ways George could be tricked and wondered if he could be bribed with money? But what would she use for that scarce item? Her beige gown was the only thing of value she possessed and she pondered whether it would be sufficient temptation to bring him over to her side. Then she thought of the man who had used her body for his pleasure and her ideas of bribery died away. The servant would either be too loyal to that pompous cad of a sea captain or too afraid of him to endanger himself with any temptation of bribery. No, that would not do at all. She'd have to think of something better.

Many plans flickered through her mind, but none would take finite shape. She could not bribe him, so she would have to use force. But what could a mere girl do against a man who was without a doubt much stronger than she? His stringy muscles could easily keep her detained for his captain.

She began searching the cabin for anything that would help persuade the man to hand over the keys to the cabin door, jerking open the desk drawers, frantically searching through papers and books, even in Brandon's sea chest. She found only a bag of coins. Wearily she sank into the chair behind the desk. Her eyes wandered about the cabin, hunting through each corner and shadow of the room.

"He must have some weapon here," she bit off, disgruntled because time was against her.

Her eyes fell on the locker, and leaping from the chair, she dashed across the room and flung open its doors. She searched frantically through every garment hung within but again she found nothing. With a despairing sob, she began yanking the contents from the closet until her eyes fell on a box wrapped in cloth upon the floor of that tiny compartment.

"Probably his jewels," she thought testily as she picked it up.

She pulled the box from its protective cloth. She had no interest in his jewels, if that was what the box held, but the container itself interested her. Made of fine-grained leather, it was elaborately tooled and inlaid with gold with a large "B" dominating the top. It wasn't a very deep or large box, but she was sure it held something of value. Curiosity began spreading within her, and she couldn't stop her fingers from opening the catch and lifting the lid.

Heather gasped in surprise, and she gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving. There, lying in a bed of red velvet, were two of the most beautifully executed flintlocks of French design she had ever seen. She knew little of firearms, but her father had possessed one of this type, only not so finely made. Their butts were of smooth English oak, oiled to a rich luster and bound with heavy brass rings to blue steel barrels. The trigger guards and butt plates were of lightly worked brass, and the locks were of hand-wrought iron, well oiled against the ravages of time.

She examined the pistols, failing to fathom their mechanisms. Her father had never shown her how. She knew the lock pulled back to cock it, yet how it was loaded was a complete mystery. Silently she damned her ignorance and closed the cover on those fine weapons, trying to think of some way to even her odds with George. She cast glances about for anything. Perhaps something to hit him over the head would do. But she realized as she searched that she probably couldn't hope to more than daze him. Unless he was restrained in some fashion, she wouldn't have time to get away.

Opening the box again, she took out one of the heavy pistols and examined it again. Would he know that she didn't have the slightest idea how to use the pistol? Just as long as she pretended how, it might frighten him enough to hand over the key to the door.

She began to take heart now and a smile broke upon her face. Going to the desk and sitting down, she took out pen and paper and began scratching out a note to Captain Birmingham. She would have need of money, but she would never allow herself to be accused of selling her body for it. She would take one pound from the bag of money she had found earlier and leave in its stead the beige gown. It was more than a fair trade.

She folded the note and left it on top of the gown and then carefully hid one of the pistols beneath the pile of maps and papers where it would be easily accessible to her when George returned with the tea she had requested as he cleaned up the broken dishes from the floor. He had seemed anxious to please despite the mess and said there would only be a small delay while he sent a man to buy the leaves. It had worked perfectly, giving her time to search the cabin in his absence. Now she hid the monogramed box in a desk drawer and straightened the cabin so the servant wouldn't become suspicious when he entered and found it had been searched. After doing this, she sat and read from a book she found on the desk. It was the least she could do, since she had promised. She would show Captain Birmingham she was not a person to be kept against her will. She laughed, anticipating the rage that would descend upon George, for whom she could feel nothing but hatred. After all, he had brought her to this disgrace. A fitting reward, she thought.

Shakespeare's
Hamlet
was not very quieting to her already frayed nerves. She began to feel apprehensive at the delay of George's return and at times would put the book aside to pace the floor. After a few moments, she would snatch up the book again and force herself to read. When he finally did unlock the door and rap, she dropped the book and shot out of her seat in pure nervousness. She made herself sit again and calmly called admittance. He opened the door, stepped in and turned to lock it. In his hand was a tray bearing her tea.

"I brought you the tea, miss. It's good and 'ot." He smiled and started to come forward to bring it to her.

Now was her chance. She raised the pistol from the desk and pulled back the lock.

"Don't move, George, or I shall have to shoot," she said. Her voice sounded strange to her ears.

George glanced up from the tray and found the huge bore staring at him. He didn't think a gun in a woman's hand was a laughing matter. They never realized the full danger of one. He turned a few shades paler.

"Please drop the keys on the table, George, and do be careful," she pleaded. She watched as he did so, leaning against the desk to ease her shaking limbs.

"Now very carefully walk to the window seat," she directed and did not take her eyes off him as he made his way hence.

He moved slowly, deliberately, and with a great deal of caution across the room. He knew when to be careful. When he stood in front of the window, Heather's breath slipped from her in a long sigh.

"Please sit," she commanded, feeling a bit of confidence return.

She moved to the table, picked up the keys, not taking her eyes from the old man facing her and backed to the door. Without turning, she felt for the lock and thrust the key in and turned it. The feeling of prison slid away with the latch.

"Please, George, to the locker and inside. And don't try anything for I'm quite nervous and the pistol is really very delicate."

George dropped his idea of quick assault. It was true, she was nervous. She had trouble holding the gun steady in her hands and she had her lip tightly clenched between her teeth. She would shoot if he made a move to stop her, he concluded. He wondered if the pain of his captain's rage would be less than that of a shot from the pistol the girl held in her hands. He knew the man's anger could burn to great heights when provoked. He had been with him for a long time. He was fond of his captain and admired him; he was also afraid of him at times. But he doubted if Captain Birmingham would kill him and he was sure the pistol could easily send him to his grave if he tried to take it from the frightened girl. He walked to the locker, stepped into the cramped space and pulled the door closed behind him.

Heather had stood watching the servant, ready to run if he made a move toward her. She breathed a sigh of relief when he was safely closeted and crept to the door of the locker and pushed it closed until she heard a click. It had no latch on the inside so she would have time to get away before an alarm could be sounded. She went to the desk and opened the drawer where she had found the bag of money and took her one pound, leaving the empty pistol on top of the desk.

It didn't take her long to reach the door. It opened very quietly. No one was about in the companionway and she hurried to the door at its end. She had not thought about getting off the deck of the ship, and when she cracked the door a slit, her escape looked impossible. There were many people aboard, and she would not go without notice. These must be merchants inspecting the cargo, she presumed, for quite a few prosperous looking gentlemen wandered about.

Closing the door, she rested her head against the cool wood of the ship, feeling despair.

What would happen when she tried to leave the ship? Only the captain and a couple of his men knew that she was aboard. What did these men here know of her? Why not be brave for a change, she argued with herself. Just walk out in the midst of them.

Fledgling hope returned. This time without hesitation she opened the door. Her heart beat so, it threatened to burst within her breast. Forcing a smile, she passed into the crowd with an air of queenly grace. She held her head high, nodding it ever so slightly to the men who turned to gape at her. They grinned at her and brought her to the attention of their companions. A hushed quiet fell over the deck of the ship as the men followed her openly with admiring stares. They were interested, but none made a move to stop her. When she lifted her skirts a small degree, their eyes went to the pretty ankles and dainty small slender feet. A tall, middle-aged gentleman with dark skin, white hair and goatee offered his hand to her. She smiled sweetly at him and took it and as she walked away from him down the plank, felt his eyes upon her. Before she stepped off she turned and smiled again. He returned her smile and bowed gracefully, sweeping his hat before his chest.