The Flame and the Flower (23 page)

He laughed softly as he reached down to cover her hand with his. "If you insist, my love, we can go for another ride through the city."

With a strangled cry Heather came awake instantly and snatched her hand from him, jerking upright. His leering grin sent the color burning deeper into her face and made her want to die. She stumbled over him to get out of the carriage and almost fell out head first as she flung open the door. It was only his quick action that saved her when he saw her begin to tumble. With a cry he caught her and swooped his arm around in front of her and hauled her back into the carriage and onto his lap.

"What were you trying to do?" he barked. "Kill yourself?"

She flung an arm over her face. "Oh, leave me be!" she cried. "Leave me be! I hate you! I hate you!"

Brandon's face went rigid. "I'm sure that you do, my dear," he sneered. "After all, if you hadn't met me, you'd still be living with that fat aunt of yours, taking her abuse, trying to hide your nakedness with gowns twelve times your size, scrubbing and scouring until your back broke, taking what bit of food she threw at you, content to hovel in your corner and grow old with your maidenhood still intact, never knowing what it means to be a mother! Yes, I have been cruel to take you from that pleasant life. You were happy there and I should be damned for forcing you from it." He paused only a second before he went on more brutally. "You don't know how sorely I regret letting myself be tempted by your woman's body without first learning that you were still a child. Now I have you slung around my neck for all eternity and it doesn't please me one damned bit when I think of it. Oh, but to have been gelded long ago and allowed to live in peace forever!"

Heather's shoulders slumped forward suddenly and she began to cry as though all the misery in the world was pent up inside her. Her whole body shook with her weeping, and she squalled in her arm as any child would who is lost and forlorn. She didn't want to be a yoke around anybody's neck. She didn't want to be a burden, a dead weight to be endured, hated and unwanted. She had not meant to be such.

Watching her slender body quiver with sobs, Brandon lost all desire to hurt her more. His face was grim and his mouth was drawn downward at the corners. A great heaviness lay upon his chest as he searched unsuccessfully in his coat for his handkerchief.

"Where did you put the kerchief?" he asked with a heavy sigh. "I can't find it."

She shook her head in her arm and caught her breath as she sat upright on his lap. "I don't know," she muttered miserably, not able to think clearly.

She wiped her tears on the hem of her gown as he searched her dress for pockets. As he did so the driver of the livery stepped cautiously to the door and peered in.

"Is there anything I can do for the lady?" he offered uncertainly. "I heard her crying, and it breaks me heart to hear a woman weep."

Brandon frowned at the man slightly as he continued the search for his handkerchief. "There is no need for your assistance, sir," he replied politely. "My wife is just a little upset with me because I won't let her mother come live with us. She'll be all right when she learns her tears haven't changed my decision."

The driver grinned. "In that case, sir, I'll be leaving you to her. I know what it's like to have your wife's mother living with you. I should have been as strong as you when I first married my wife. Then I wouldn't be having the old witch in my house now."

He wandered back to his horses as Brandon finally located his handkerchief between Heather's breasts. He drew it out and wiped her tears and held it as she blew her nose into it.

"Are you feeling better?" he questioned. "Can we go to our room now?"

A sigh escaped her as she nodded and he stuffed the handkerchief down her dress again and gave her a little pat on the rump.

"Let me get up then, and I'll help you out of the carriage."

The inn was noisy and alive with drunken tars and bawdy women whose shrill laughter rang out over the coarse, ribald humor of the sailors. Holding Heather's hand behind him and walking just ahead to hide her tear-streaked face from the stares of the curious, Brandon led her through the room. George had been sitting by the fire but jumped up when he saw them and followed behind to their room. As Brandon opened the door for Heather and allowed her to slip in, the servant listened attentively to his orders and went off again to do as bidded when his captain stepped into the bedroom. Brandon closed the door behind him and glanced at his wife who was bending over the washbowl splashing water on her face.

"George has gone to fetch a tray of food. I won't be staying to eat. And I would prefer that you not leave the room while I'm gone. It wouldn't be safe for you without my escort. If you want anything, George will be just outside the door. Tell him what you want."

She cast an uncertain glance over her shoulder at him. "Thank you," she murmured.

Then he was gone without another word, leaving her to stare dejectedly at the closed door.

The fluttering was like a movement of a butterfly's wings, seeming unreal because of its faintness. She lay very still under the quilt, afraid to move lest it would go away and never come again that night. And in the dark she smiled a little to herself. Once more it came, this time more insistent. Her hand slid to her belly as if beckoned and her thoughts suddenly cleared.

"It does not make it easier knowing he's right. It would have been impossible to get from the cottage unseen, no matter how desperately I planned and hoped. They watched me too closely. I would have spent a lifetime there if he had not already taken me to him and given me his baby."

The stirring was felt beneath her hand.

"So now I am to be a mother, and he is to be hated and cursed because he made me so. But must it be this way? Is it too difficult to show him kindness and gratitude though I know he loathes the ground on which I walk and would prefer to be no man at all than have me chained to him. He has been kind despite his hatred of me. Now I must show him I am not a child and I am thankful. But it will not be easy. He frightens me and I am such a coward."

The sounds of his returning came in the deep darkness of night. He moved quietly about the room as he disrobed and only the lantern outside in the courtyard showed him his way. He eased into bed beside her, turning on his side to face the door. And again the room was still. There was only the sound of his breathing that came to her ear.

Before she opened her eyes the next morning, she heard the rain, a heavy, pouring rain that drove the peasants from the streets and the birds from the air, a clean, drenching rain that washed everything anew. It was the season for rain and sometimes one thought it would never end.

The man beside her moved and she opened her eyes as he pushed away the sheet and sat up. She did likewise and slid out of bed, drawing his attention to her. He frowned heavily.

"There's no need for you to get up now," he said irritably. "I must see to a few last things about the cargo, and I won't be able to take you with me."

"Are you going right away," she asked uncertainly, fearing his frown.

"No. Not immediately. I'll bathe and breakfast before I go."

"Then if it would not displease you," she said softly, "I would prefer to rise."

"Do whatever you wish," he growled low. "It makes no difference to me."

Hot water for his bath was carried in, and he lowered himself into the brass tub when the two of them were alone again in the room. He was in a black, untalkative mood and as Heather came hesitantly to the tub, she was fearful of offering him her services. She was so nervous she couldn't speak, and her hands trembled as she reached out to take the sponge from his hand. He looked up with some surprise when she did.

"What is it you want?" he asked impatiently. "Do you have a tongue in your head?"

She took a deep breath and nodded her head. "I—I wish to help you bathe," she managed.

His scowl deepened. "It is not necessary," he growled. "Go dress, and if you so desire, you may breakfast with me downstairs."

She stepped back from the tub nervously and turned away. He wanted nothing to do with her this morning, it was plain to see. To keep from aggravating him more she must stay out of his way and not bother him with her presence.

Moving quietly about the room, she gathered the underclothing she had washed after her bath the night before and folded it away, still a little damp. She took off her nightgown in a corner behind him and dressed, putting on the new blue gown he had bought for her. But as the red gown, it fastened down the back, and though she tried she could not manage more than a few of the hooks.

"It will just have to go undone," she decided stubbornly. "I am not going to him. I won't be a nuisance."

She was trying to comb the tangles out of her hair with her fingers when he finished his bath and got out. He toweled himself off briskly without a glance in her direction and began to dress. He only turned her way when he came after a fresh shirt from a table behind her, and with her heart in her throat Heather glided away from him cautiously, fearing he would notice her. The movement, however, brought not only his attention but his anger as well.

"Do you have to be so damned skittish?" he snapped. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Heather stood trembling before his glare. "I'm—I'm sorry," she murmured fearfully. "I just didn't want to get in your way."

He swore under his breath and snatched up his shirt. "I don't mind you getting in my way nearly as much as I do seeing you scurrying out of it. I assure you I won't give you the back of my hand as your aunt was fond of doing. I have yet to hit a woman."

She looked at him uncertainly, not knowing now whether to move or stay where she was. He was tying his stock, jerking at it in his anger and not doing well in the mood he was in. On an impulse, she went to him and pushed his hands aside. He stared down at her warily, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. With nervous fingers she rewrapped the stock about his neck and tied it as she had done many times for her father. When it was neat and in place she picked up his waistcoat from the chair and held it up, while he, still scowling, slid his arms into it. Bravely she went even further and buttoned it for him, though she sensed he was restless and would have preferred doing it himself. When she started to get his coat he waved her away.

"Never mind," he said hoarsely. "I can put it on myself. Get the brush and do your hair."

She obeyed quickly and as she was brushing it he came up behind her and fastened her gown. When he was done, she thanked him, smiling timidly as he gazed down at her, and both the day and her heart grew considerably lighter.

In the several days that followed she spent most of her time in their room, knowing that George was somewhere near. She saw her husband in the mornings when he rose to bathe and dress, and they would descend to breakfast together. He would then leave and be gone until late at night, long after she had retired. He always came in quietly and disrobed in the dark, being careful not to awaken her, but each time she would rouse for a few moments and feel secure in knowing he was back.

It was the fifth morning hence and the usual routine had become relaxed, almost second hand. His dour rising temper was softened by the hot bath each morning and he would even sit still for long moments while she scrubbed his back, a dear concession indeed. These early interludes were gentle and peaceful for Heather. She enjoyed the almost silent companionship they shared. An occasional spoken word and these small services performed one unto the other started her day easily and made them bearable. Even Brandon proved tractable, and on parting after breakfast below he would place a husbandly peck upon her brow and leave about his affairs.

This late October morning began the same, and with her hand upon his arm they went down to the common room to have their meal. He seated her at the familiar table in the corner and placed himself beside her. As went the rote, the bovine mistress of the inn yawningly brought them French coffee to sip before their meal. Brandon swallowed his black while Heather heavily creamed and sugared the vile brew. Soon the morning's fare was placed before them. A large bowl of cold pork pudding and two ample plates of potatoes hashed with eggs and ham comprised the meal. There was also soft warm bread with newly-churned butter and honey, rich and mellow, to spread upon it.

Heather faced the pudding and plate and shuddered as she pushed them away. She chose instead a small crust of bread to spread and nibble. The coffee served to soothe her uneasy stomach though she was not fond of the drink, and she sipped it slowly.

"Your fitting is set for this afternoon," Brandon said, breaking his bread. "I'll be here to take you at two hours after noon. Ask George to have a carriage waiting for us."

She murmured an obedient answer as he glanced at her and bent her head over her cup of coffee when his gaze caressed her casually. Her composure always slipped a little when his eyes fell on her, leaving her feverish and awkward under his careless regard. When he was near she usually found her tongue tied and intelligent answers came hard.

She sat quietly as he ate, watching him covertly. He was clothed in dark blue, and the high, stiff collar of his coat was embroidered with gold thread. His shirt and stock, almost painfully white, were freshly donned and held only the lightest hint of cologne. He was impeccably groomed, as always, and so handsome he made a woman feel weak just looking at him. Heather realized with some surprise that even she was not unaffected.