The Flame and the Flower

  Bewildered by his sudden change of mood, Heather crept to her pillow and lay down. She did not know what she had done or said to cause him to want to hurt her so cruelly. He was so unpredictable. How could she understand him? One moment he was gentle and kind as he had been earlier, the next she was left speechless by his irascible disposition.

  Morning found Brandon in absence and Heather quickly jumped from the bed. She washed and threw on her clothes, leaving the red gown unfastened because she could not reach the hooks. Quite bravely she searched through Brandon’s duffle until she found a brush. Wondering what her chastisement would be if she dared use it, she bit her lip and almost put it back. But there was no other and her hair looked quite impossible. There was a likelihood he might never notice its use if she were quick, and in an effort to have the task done before discovery, she started brushing vigorously. But much to her dismay he came in just as she was giving her hair a few final strokes. She jerked around to face him, looking very guilty with the brush in her hand. She saw immediately that he was in a foul temper and that she had chosen a bad day to be brave.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have a brush of my own. My aunt has the few things that were mine.”

  “Since you took it upon yourself to use it without my permission,” he growled low, “you might as well have the pleasure of doing so.”

  She put the brush down hastily as he moved toward the window beyond her and she sidled away from him with caution. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder at him as she began braiding her hair, to assure herself he was staying by the window. Her look fled elsewhere when she saw that he was watching her. She began to tremble and with her fingers shaking it was difficult to plait her hair neatly. She had to start over several times before she was satisfied with the results, and always she was conscious of his green eyes on her. She managed somehow to double the heavy braids and tie them above each ear so that the loops hung freely and brushed her shoulders as she moved.

  “I’m taking you to a clothier’s this afternoon,” Brandon said flatly, turning away to stare out the window. “You’ll be needing gowns more modest than what you have on.”

  Holding the dress in place, Heather eyed him warily. He was dressed in a casual manner, not yet having donned his coat. His breeches were fawn colored and tightly fitting and he wore a waistcoat of the same hue. His shirt was white, as were his stockings, and full sleeved with a ruffle edged with lace falling over his brown hands. As always his clothes were immaculate and in excellent taste. She had noticed that once he dressed himself to suit his own personal high standards, he did not fuss nor bother about his attire. He was no mincing fop.

  His attention seemed now concentrated on the world outside their room, and she saw by his profile that his brows were drawn down in a heavy scowl. The sounds of carts and carriages rolling over cobblestones came now and then from the streets below, but it was mostly only the cries of beggars and urchins that drifted in.

  She went to the bed and made it up, moving as noiselessly as she could around it. After that task was done, she sat on its edge and waited for time to pass or for her husband to move or give her a command. She waited an eternity. Her back began to ache and she leaned her head against the bedpost. She closed her eyes, but they fluttered open again with nervousness. Her stomach gnawed at her backbone. Finally Brandon moved and she straightened, drawing the falling gown up over her shoulders again. His eyes raked over her dispassionately.

  “Are you intent upon going about in that manner till night or are you going to come here and let me fasten you? If you want to eat, you’d better come quickly.”

  She slid from the bed hastily, not daring to do otherwise, and went to him, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip. Her heart thumped heavily as she raised her eyes to his.

  “I didn’t mean to displease you about the brush,” she said uneasily. “My hair was so tangled from letting it go unbrushed last night. I couldn’t do anything with it.”

  He gazed down at her for a moment, his face void of any expression, then suddenly the scowl reappeared. “It is of no bother,” he said curtly. “Just turn around so I can hook the dress.”

  She obeyed as the color drained from her face, her eyes full of bewilderment. Disregarding his displeasure over the use of his brush, she sensed he was still vexed with her over last night though she possessed not the slightest reason why he should be.

  When they went down to eat, George gave her a quick bob and a “Hello, mum,” and pulled out a chair for her, then spoke to his captain briefly and hurried away. Heather’s eyes followed him to the door. Frowning slightly, she wondered how many of her husband’s men the servant had already told of her earlier presence aboard the Fleetwood and of everything that had followed. He seemed to know quite a lot of his captain’s business.

  But brief though her expression was, it did not escape Brandon’s notice.

  “You need not worry about George, my love,” he reassured her abruptly. “He is very discreet. It is enough to say that he knows that you were no woman of the streets and is regretful for the trouble he has caused you. And though you may wish to disagree, he is not a stupid man. He saw the stains of your virginity when he carried the bedclothes from my cabin that day. He safely assumed you had been deflowered.”

  Heather felt she would die of shame. There was nothing left to do. She could never face the manservant again, knowing this. A little groan escaped her as she hid her scarlet face in her hands.

  “Please do not distress yourself, my dear,” he said lightly, a one-sided grin curving his handsome mouth. “It is certainly nothing to be ashamed of. There are many women who wish they could offer such proof of purity to their husbands when they are first taken to bed by them. It pleases a man to know there have been no others before him.”

  “And were you pleased?” she snapped, her eyes flying to his face. He was laughing at her again and that riled her.

  His grin widened as his eyelids drooped lazily. “I am as other men, my pet. I was pleased. But I had no need to be shown proof of your virginity. You know yourself when I became aware of it. It gave me quite a shock, to say the least. I might have pulled away and begged for forgiveness if I had possessed any inkling that you were not willingly beginning in that business.” And he added with a soft laugh as if in apology, “But I’m afraid you made logical thinking impossible.”

  “Where was the need then?” she asked bitterly. “You had already done your damage.”

  He chuckled and his gaze devoured her as it had the previous day. “Not quite, my love. I had not then given you the part of me you carry with you now. If I had withdrawn from you then, there would have been no pregnancy. But as it happened, you have a life growing in you now, and I am to blame. Your aunt and uncle made it easy for me to be certain that the child is mine.”

  “I could, however, be lying about my condition,” she replied with bravado, wanting to shatter his cocksureness if just for a brief moment. She lifted her lovely little nose and dared to meet his gaze.

  “You’re not,” he said flatly, smashing her efforts without a moment’s hesitation.

  “You have no proof—” she began.

  “Don’t I?” he drawled, one mocking eyebrow raised.

  Then she knew she had charged fullbore into her own defeat.

  “You forget, ma belle,” he said lightly. “I have seen you in your natural state, and though it’s not at first apparent, you do have a lovely little stomach growing. In a month’s time it will be quite obvious.”

  She fell silent as the serving maid came to their table. There was nothing more to say anyway. How could she argue against the truth?

  After the meal, George came back again.

  “Would you be wantin’ me to hail a livery now, cap’n?” he asked.

  Brandon glanced at Heather. “If you are ready, my pet?”

  “I must beg to be excused a moment,” she replied softly, not wanting to look at him. He must surely be aware now that her nee
ds arose more often than his. With his almost constant companionship since the wedding, her many pleas to be excused must have struck him odd.

  He turned to George and spoke in a low voice. “We’ll be along in a moment.

  When the manservant had gone, Brandon stood up and helped her from her chair. “I’m sorry, my love,” he murmured, smiling. “I thought of other things and not of your delicate condition. Please forgive me.”

  So, he had noticed the frequency of her trips after all and related them as was due to her pregnancy. Was there nothing that escaped him? And was there nothing he did not know of women?

  She glanced up and saw his grin, and for a fleeting moment her eyes met his. But under his warm gaze her cheeks grew pink and she became flustered. He laughed softly when her look went chasing off and his arm slid behind her back. He squeezed her waist gently before his hand fell away again.

  She was walking back to the door where Brandon stood waiting when she heard her name spoken by a familiar voice. She turned with a start to see Henry Whitesmith rushing toward her holding a full tankard of ale in his hand and wearing the garb of a merchant seaman. Apparently he had entered with a group of sailors while she was out. Surprised at seeing him, she was unable to speak for a moment as he hurriedly set down the tankard and took her hands into his.

  “Heather, my love,” he cried happily. “I thought I would naught see you again afore I left. But what are you doing here, and where’s your aunt? Did you come to see me off?”

  “Off?” she said stupidly, not knowing what he meant. She frowned. “Henry, what are you doing here? Where’s Sarah? Why are you wearing those clothes?”

  “Don’t you know, Heather? I’ve signed onto the Merriweather of the British Tea Company. We sail within a fortnight for the Orient. I’ll be gone two years.”

  “But why, Henry?” she asked, stunned. “What has become of Sarah?”

  “I couldn’t marry her, Heather. I love you, and I won’t marry anyone but you. So I come here to London to seek my fortune and get rich like you said you’d have a man. I have a chance now to do it. When I return from the Orient, I’ll be gettin’ a full three an’ a half shares. Why, Heather, do you know I’ll come back a wealthy man. I could even have as much as five hundred pounds in my pockets.”

  “Oh, Henry,” she sighed miserably, dragging her hands from his.

  Once more he gazed upon her with adoration. His smile was broad and his eyes bright, with joy. He did not notice her distress.

  “You look grand, Heather. I’ve ne’er seen you looking so fit.” He reached out and touched her cheek gently and his hand trembled. “Will you wait for me, Heather? Will you say you’ll be mine? Would you even marry me now an’ send me off a happy man?” His gaze dropped to her breasts, and his voice was unsteady and the words seemed to catch in his throat as he spoke. “I want you, Heather. I love you, an’ I want you badly.”

  “Please—” she gasped. She glanced past him and saw Brandon coming toward them, a heavy scowl on his face. She looked back at Henry nervously and then he was upon them.

  “If you are ready now, my love, we must be going.” Brandon said, dragging his cloak over her shoulders to hide her bosom from Henry’s gaze. “The carriage is waiting.”

  Henry stared at Brandon incredulously and watched his arm go about Heather’s shoulders. He was filled with a sudden rage, seeing another man touch his beloved.

  “Heather, who is this man, this—this Yankee?” he demanded. “What are you doing here with him? Where’s your aunt? And why do you let this man put his hands on you like that?”

  “Henry, you must listen to me,” she begged. She did not want to break the news to him like this, not in this public place, not at this time, not so cruelly. Her insides were cold with dread. “I had not meant this to happen, Henry. Please believe me. You should have taken me at my word when I said I couldn’t marry you. It was impossible.” Her eyes lifted to her husband’s and in her own there was a plea for understanding. This boy must not be made to suffer from Brandon’s sharp tongue. “Henry, this is my husband, Captain Birmingham of the American ship, Fleetwood.”

  “Your husband?” Henry cried. He stared at Brandon in horror. “Oh, my God, you don’t mean it, Heather! Tell me you’re jesting with me! You wouldn’t marry a Yankee!” His eyes fell in dismay on the other man’s dress and richness of cloth. His own rough sea garb wouldn’t have been worth the man’s stockings. “Not a Yankee, Heather!”

  “I would not be so cruel to jest with you, Henry,” she replied softly. “He is my husband.”

  “When—when did you wed,” he choked out, tears brimming over in his eyes.

  “Two days ago,” Heather whispered, her gaze dropping. She could not bear his tears. If she had to stand much longer and talk with Henry she would lose control and run from them sobbing. Her whole body was rigid with her efforts to keep from doing so, and having Brandon’s arm around her did not help. It only reminded her that he was to blame for all this. But his silence was a blessing.

  “Can you tell me why you married him—a Yankee, an’ not me, Heather?” he questioned miserably.

  She raised her eyes to his. “What need is there of that, Henry? I am married now and it cannot be undone. Let us say farewell now and part. You will forget me soon.”

  “You won’t tell me?” he asked.

  She shook her head and tears blurred her vision. “No, I cannot. I must go now.”

  “I won’t forget you, Heather, you know that. I love you an’ no other woman will do.”

  Despite Brandon’s presence, she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to Henry’s cheek.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered, then she turned and let Brandon draw her away and lead her outside.

  In the carriage she stared out the window glumly and did not care at the moment that Brandon watched her and was in an angry mood.

  “When did this boy ask you to marry him?” he asked abruptly, after the carriage was on its way.

  She turned from the window and sighed. “After I met you,” she replied.

  His brows drew together in a fierce scowl, and he was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his voice had a sharpness to it that gave evidence of his irritation.

  “Would you have married him if you had still been a virgin?”

  She looked at him and caution made her speak the truth. “I had no dowry. His parents would have resented me for that reason. I wouldn’t have married him.”

  “You do not speak of love,” he said slowly.

  “Love has no place in marriage,” she said bitterly. “Marriages are arranged for profit or gain. Those who are in love go find their pleasures in haystacks or meadows. They throw caution to the wind to have each other. It is beyond me to know their reasons.”

  Brandon studied her leisurely. “Now I know you have never been in love, nor been tempted by it, and as I also know, you are still innocent of love’s joys, virginal as a matter of speaking.”

  She met his gaze. “I know nothing of what you speak of,” she said shortly. “I am no virgin. You are talking in riddles.”

  He laughed softly. “You almost tempt me to show you what I mean. But that would only be giving you pleasure, and you have yet to pay for your part in blackmailing me.”

  She glared at him. “You still speak in riddles,” she snapped. “And in lies. I am guiltless of the plan to blackmail you. Must I tell you again?”

  “Oh, please spare me,” he replied with a heavy sigh. “I have no use for mendacity.”

  “Mendacity!” she shrieked. “Who are you to accuse me of being mendacious, you—you—”

  He jerked her to him sharply. “Careful, Heather,” he warned. “Your Irish temper is showing.”

  She swallowed hard as his cold, green eyes bore into hers. It had not taken her long to throw good judgment aside and flare up at him. She must learn to control her feelings better.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured in a weak voice. She loathed herself for apologizing and f
or being a coward. Another woman might hiss insults at him anyway, or go beyond good thinking and slap his handsome face. But she couldn’t feature herself doing such a thing, and she hated to think what he might do to her if she tried. Even now, to be caught to him as she was with his hands biting into her arms, she was filled with a fear that made her quake. And his fierce, piercing gaze tore from her what little courage there remained. She was a pluckless female who quailed at a mere glance from him.

  He let her go and laughed scornfully. “You should take special care to bite your tongue sooner, my dear. You will grow tired of pleading for my pardon if you do not.”

  “It is difficult to be silent when you taunt and insult me as you do,” she murmured disconcertedly, dropping her gaze to her hands folded in her lap. “You leave me little pride.”

  “I never said I would,” he said sharply, turning to stare out the window. “I told you what to expect. Did you think I lied?”

  She shook her head slowly. A tear fell on her hand and then another, and she brushed them away.

  Not glancing around, Brandon swore and impatiently drew a handkerchief from inside his coat and handed it to her.

  “Here,” he said shortly. “You will need this. And if you insist upon weeping all the time, it would pleasure me beyond belief if you would remember to carry your own handkerchief. It annoys me considerably to find mine gone when I need it.”

  “Yes, Brandon,” she whispered faintly, not daring to remind him that she had no handkerchief to carry.

  For the continuation of the journey, Brandon sat and stared stonily out the window, leaving a cold silence to fill the carriage and a great dread crushing Heather’s chest.

  Madame Fontaineau greeted them at the door of her shop with a charming smile. Captain Birmingham was a regular customer when he was in port. She liked the tall Yankee. The handsome rascal had a way with women and she was still young enough to appreciate it.