The Flame and the Flower (22 page)

"Why so frightened, my little rabbit?" he grinned. "All I intended to do was fasten your gown."

In a nervous reaction she tried to shield her breasts from his gaze by spreading her hands across them above the neck of the gown, but he only drew them away and grinned mockingly.

"There is no need to cover yourself, my love. No eyes but mine are here to see."

"Please," she whispered breathlessly. "Madame Fontaineau will come."

He laughed softly. "If you will oblige me by turning around, all she will see is a man fastening his wife's gown. Otherwise—"

She spun around quickly and heard his amused chuckle as he lifted his hands to her gown. He was still fastening it when Madame Fontaineau returned.

"I have brought all the sketches that I have. There are many to choose from, as you will see."

The woman swept a low tabletop clear and dropped the stack of drawings on it then pulled the table before them, imprisoning Heather between Brandon's knees. When he finished hooking her dress, she sank to the floor and began to study the drawings. These were more to her taste, but she doubted that her husband would want to spend on her the amount these gowns would cost. She looked at them longingly, then sighed.

"Do you not have sketches of plainer gowns, less costly than these?" she asked the woman.

Madame Fontaineau stuttered in surprise and Brandon quickly sat forward in his chair and leaned over his wife, dropping a hand to her bare shoulder.

"My love, I'm quite capable of buying these for you," he said, glancing at the sketches.

Madame Fontaineau breathed a sigh of relief. The captain had excellent—and expensive—taste in clothes. He was not going to let his wife think of pennies at a time like this. And since he was able to purchase a more costly wardrobe, what was the girl's purpose? If the positions were reversed, she would be grabbing the finest clothes she could.

"Since you appear timid of spending my money," Brandon said softly to his wife, "I will help you select the wardrobe—if you have no objections."

Heather shook her head quickly, feeling jittery with his hand on her. His long fingers seemed like tongues of fire on her bare flesh. Yet they rested on her casually, over her collarbone and the beginning swell of her breast, not seeming to know what they did to her, not seeming to feel her labored breathing under their grip.

"But he must be aware of it and is only tormenting me. He knows I fear him," Heather thought.

She was surrounded by him, his thigh was a hard rock against her shoulder blade, his hand a lead weight holding her at his feet, his head and shoulders looming above her to keep her from rising. She was caught in his trap like a fly in a web, yet to all outward appearances she sat lovingly at his feet and was happy to have his hand on her.

Brandon pointed to one of the sketches. "This will go well in a blue silk the exact color of my wife's eyes. It must match. Do you have the shade?"

Madame Fontaineau first studied Heather's eyes as they lifted to her, then she smiled broadly. "Oui, monsieur, it is the color of sapphire blue. It will be as you wish."

"Excellent," he replied, then gestured to another drawing. "Take that away. She would be lost in all those ruffles."

"Oui, monsieur," Madame Fontaineau agreed. As always he was choosing well. But then, when did he not? The man knew how to dress a woman in the best.

Another drawing was passed over with an explanation that the gown was too gaudy. Five more were chosen. Another two declined.

Heather watched, fascinated, unable to speak. Everything he selected she more than agreed with, and those discarded she had prayed would be. His sense of color astounded her. The man was gifted. She had to admit he chose better than she.

Many more gowns were decided upon at a rapid pace and swatches of material were tagged to them. Nothing went undone. Silks, woolens, velvets were chosen, brocades, muslins, voiles. Heather lost count. Ribbons, jets, beads, furs were accepted for trim and adornments. Laces were carefully examined and ordered. She was aghast at the amount of clothes he bought for her, certainly a great deal more than she had expected. She would never have selected so many for herself if given a free hand, and she found it hard to believe he could be this generous with her. Yet, the gowns were ordered.

"Does everything meet with your approval, my dear?" he asked lightly, and she knew he wouldn't have cared if they had not. He had bought the gowns to please himself, to have her dressed the way he wanted her to be. But everything did meet with her approval, How could it not when it had been chosen so well?

She nodded. "You have been more than generous," she murmured.

Brandon glanced down at her. His position above permitted him the unrestricted view of her bosom as the gown gapped away from her. His hand ached to move downward under the garment and caress that silky flesh.

"My wife is in need of another gown that she may wear now," he said, dragging his eyes from her once again. "Do you have something to fit her that is more conservative than the gown she has on?"

Madame Fontaineau nodded. "Oui, monsieur. There is a little dress I finished just the other day. I'll get it now. It might be what you have in mind."

She hurried from the room and returned shortly with a gown of blue velvet. It had long snug sleeves and a very demure white satin collar which fitted closely about the throat. White satin cuffs trimmed the wrists.

"Is this what you had in mind?" she' asked, holding it up.

"Aye," Brandon replied. "Wrap it up and we'll take it with us. Now we must attend to the accessories. You will, of course, have everything ready in ten days."

The woman's mouth dropped open in surprise. "But, monsieur, it is impossible! A month at least, please."

"I am sorry, madame. In a fortnight I set sail. In five days I shall return with my wife for fittings and in ten I want everything delivered to me finished aboard my ship. There will be an extra profit for you if they are ready and well sewn. If not, it is your loss. Can you do this?"

Madame Fontaineau couldn't let such an order go. Even if she had to share some of the profits with other couturières, she would still make quite a large sum. She would have all her friends and family sewing from now until that time, but she would have them ready. The man struck a hard bargain, yet he was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. He was to be admired, for he would accept nothing but the finest work.

"It will be as you wish, monsieur," she said.

"It is settled then," Brandon said. He gave Heather's shoulder a quick squeeze. "We must go now, my love, and see to finishing your wardrobe."

He helped her rise and drew his cloak over her shoulders again. A few moments later they were leaving. Madame Fontaineau stood at the door of her shop watching them go.

"La petite madame is smarter than I," she concluded silently. "By asking first for less she was given more. And he is happy to have purchased the best for her. All women should be so wily."

Then she turned and clapped her hands loudly. "Claudette, Michele, Roaul, Marie. Come quick. We have work to do."

Well dressed ladies and fine gentlemen crowded the shops of London and pushed and shoved to get where they were going. Remembering her childhood pleasure of going with her father to these same shops, Heather felt her spirits rise. She chatted gaily with shopkeepers, tried on silly bonnets, giggled at herself in mirrors, danced about and completely charmed those persons who could be charmed. Brandon stood back and watched her and was silent. He only nodded to the shopkeepers when she tried on something that met with his approval and paid out the necessary coin. Even when unthinkingly she dared to catch his hand and pull him along with her into a shop, he allowed it and did not rebuke her. But never did she ask for anything nor expect it. She had fun in just looking. She had not been able to do so for a long time. She watched as grand ladies paraded in front of her and laughed to see fat, little husbands trying to catch up. Her eyes shone and her smile was quick and easy. She swirled gaily and turned her head with a carefree air, making her braids swing and causing men to follow her with their eyes.

It was only toward dusk, when her eyes fell on a wooden cradle in a shop, that she suddenly became very quiet and thoughtful. She touched the tiny cradle with trembling fingers and ran her hand over the smooth wood. As her teeth tugged at her bottom lip her eyes raised slowly to his. She was again uncertain.

Brandon came to her side and studied the crib as if considering its purchase. He tested it for sturdiness.

"There is a finer one in my home," he said at last, still inspecting it. "It was mine but it is yet strong and capable of supporting a child. Hatti has been wanting to see it used for a long time."

"Hatti?" she inquired.

"She's the Negress in charge of my home," he answered. "She was there before I was born."

He turned and walked slowly from the shop, and Heather followed and came to his side as he motioned for a livery. His voice was gruff when he spoke again.

"Hatti has been waiting impatiently at least fifteen years for me to wed and sire children." He peered at her obliquely. "I'm sure she'll be overjoyed to see you on first sight considering you'll be quite rounded when we arrive home."

Self-consciously Heather overlapped the cloak in front of her. "You were to be married when you returned. What is to happen? Hatti will surely resent me for taking your fiancée's place."

"No, she won't," he replied brusquely and glanced toward the approaching carriage.

His manner didn't allow further questions and Heather was left wondering why he was so positive the Negress would not resent her. It did not seem right.

The livery stopped before them and Brandon gave the name of their inn to the driver, then tossed the packages in and handed her up. Heather sank wearily to the seat, feeling suddenly very tired and exhausted. The shopping had sapped her strength and now she longed to crawl into bed and drift into restful slumber.

Brandon studied the small, dark head on his shoulder a long time before he slipped his arm around his wife and eased her head to his chest. She sighed contentedly in her sleep as her hand moved to his lap. The breath caught in Brandon's throat. He went pale and suddenly began to shake. He cursed himself for letting a mere girl affect him this way. She played havoc with his insides. He felt as if he were again a virgin, about to experience his first woman. He was hot and sweating one moment, cold and shaking another, a sensation not normal for him, a man who had always enjoyed a woman casually, had her at his whim, made love to her for his pleasure. Now this girl needed to be taught a lesson and he could hardly keep his hands off her. Where was his cold, logical wit, his easy self-control? Had it all flown out the window when he swore to her never to treat her as his wife, then knowing that he mustn't touch her, she had suddenly become the one thing he must have? But he had desired her all along, even when he thought she would never be seen again.

What, pray, was the matter with him? She was barely a woman, hardly old enough to be carrying his child. She should have been somewhere safe with someone mothering her, instead of being here with him and soon to become a mother herself.

But the fact was undeniable. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to take her immediately, did not want to keep himself in restraint another moment. How much more could he endure of having her near and seeing her in various stages of undress without throwing her down and satisfying himself with her?

Yet he couldn't let himself make love to her, no matter how much he wanted to. He couldn't let his threats slide. He swore she would pay for intimidating him and, by damned, she would! No one could blackmail him, then be happy and content after doing so. It was the devil in him that wouldn't let him be bested, and pride was the devil's name.

She was just a woman and women were all alike. She could be forced from his mind. He had never known one who couldn't be.

But Heather
was
different and it wasn't fair for him to say that she wasn't. The others had all been willing and eager partners in the games of love, knowing well what they were about. This girl was an innocent whose virginity he had taken by force and who knew nothing of men and romance. Now she was his wife, and pregnant with his child. That alone made her different. How was he to forget his own wife? He hadn't been able to forget her when she left him. If she were homely, perhaps it could be possible to push her from his mind. But how could he when she was so beautiful, so completely desirable, and now always so close under his hand?

Before he could answer his own question, the carriage drew up in front of the inn. It was night now and gay laughter and singing could be heard from within, and in his arms his wife still slept.

"Heather," he murmured quietly with his lips against her hair. "Do you wish me to carry you to our room?"

Her head moved on his chest.

"What?" she asked in her sleep.

"Do you want to be carried through the inn?"

Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, but she was drugged with drowsiness.

"No," she replied sleepily. She made no effort to rise.