The Flame and the Flower (26 page)

He leaned toward her and peered intently at her face. "But I'll teach you, my lusty vixen," he ground out, jabbing his finger at her. "I'll take you when and where my little heart desires." His eyes raked over her and his voice deepened. "By damned, I'll take you now."

He lunged across the bed, his hands outstretched, intending to seize her by the waist. Heather squealed in fright and scrambled away from him, leaping to her feet in a flurry of nightgown. There was a rending tear, and Brandon lay sprawled across the bed, staring stupidly at a handful of fabric clenched tightly in his hand. He raised on an elbow and lifted his eyes to her in bewilderment and stared at her nakedness, her flesh gleaming white in dawn's light. Then slowly he sank to the bed as his alcoholic stupor overcame him. His hand relaxed and the gown fell to the floor.

Heather watched him cautiously for a moment, expecting him to rise again and come after her. When he did not she came a step closer and peered over his arm at his face half buried in the quilt. His eyes were closed and his breathing regular.

"Brandon?" she said, distrustfully.

He did not move. His eyes remained shut. She reached out gingerly and touched his hand, ready to spring away if he made to catch her. It swung limply as his arm dangled over the bed. She came still closer and stared down at him and moved his arm onto the bed, realizing that she was quite safe now. She bent and picked up her gown from the floor and laid it over the end of the bed, then turned again to him and tried to pull off his coat. It was not as simple as it appeared. He was too heavy to be moved by her alone. There was only one thing left to do and that was to get George. She put on her shift and threw her cloak about her and leaving their room, went down the hall a short way to the servant's. At her knock she heard some dire mumblings from within, then a stumbling. The door creaked open and George appeared, rubbing his eyes. His great nightshirt almost masked the bandy legs thrusting from the bottom. His toes curled away from the chill floor, and from his head a long knit nightcap dangled. His eyes widened when he saw her through his drowsiness, and he hurriedly placed his lower half behind the door. He cast a jaundiced eye to the dawn streaming through the window, then looked at her again.

"Mum! What be you doing this hour?"

"Will you come, George?" she asked softly. "The captain has taken ill of spirits and I need your assistance in moving him."

He frowned his confusion at her but replied, "Aye, mum. Be but a moment."

Heather returned to the room and George followed a short time later with his trousers properly in place. He saw Brandon sprawled on the bed and his eyes widened in surprise.

"Oh, the cap'n's really outdone himself this time," he gasped. He cast a glance awry at his mistress. "It's not a normal thing for 'im, mum, I assure you."

She didn't reply but turned to Brandon and began easing a shoe from his foot. George's gaze went past her to the torn gown tossed over the foot of the bed, and he hurriedly attended his captain without another word. He straightened him about and together they removed his coat, stock and waistcoat. Except for an occasional groan or sigh, Brandon did not wake from his drunken dreams. Only his breeches remained when Heather's eyes met George's in indecision, and they silently agreed to leave him thus. They pulled the sheet over him and before George left he set the night bucket beside the bed, close to Brandon's head. He paused at the door.

"It will be nigh on to noon before he rouses, mum. I'll bring you a little something to ease his head before then." And with a quick glance out the window at the broadening day he murmured, "Good day, mum."

Heather closed the door behind him and returned her cloak to the peg. Dragging a quilt from the bed she went to the large chair in the room and curled into it, tucking her feet under her, and began working on her sampler. Slowly the shock of Brandon's return wore off and in its stead came rising anger. The sampler no longer was stitched with slow, calm motion. The needle was jabbed in it and jerked through as if in vengeance upon the cloth.

"He roams the streets and finds no purchased paramour lively enough to meet his taste," she hissed to herself, "And then he stumbles here and seeks to make me again his nanny goat!"

She glared at Brandon as he slept soundly on his pillow, looking as innocent as a well fed baby, and stabbed the needle through the sampler again.

"You horny fool!" She yanked the thread. "It's only when you've sacked the town you turn to me. And then you posture
me
the villain who tempted your soul!"

His lack of response drew her courage further out. It was rare indeed that she had a chance to display her anger and sarcasm without fear of retribution. She whipped the needle through again.

"You curse all virgins now but not so long ago you found it met your mood to take me."

She flew out of the chair, throwing the sampler on the floor and in a highly agitated state began to pace the room.

"What does he think me? That I would wait humbly and when he snaps his fingers, fall into bed like a well-trained bitch?"

Her eyes fell on the coat hanging over the back of a chair, the shoulders broad, the waist narrow.

"Does he think I dote upon him and plan to spend my life serving his whimsy?"

She whirled and strode to the side of the bed to look down at him, still uncommunicative in his dreams.

"You blithering ninny, I am a woman. What I had I was holding for the man I'd have chosen and you stripped me of even that. I'm a living, breathing human being, and I do have some pride."

With an infuriated groan she spun about and stormed to her chair again, flinging the quilt about her as she sat down. A small snide smile twisted her lips as she gazed at his handsome face. Ah, but he was a magnificent man!

It was past ten of the morning when she woke from a nap in the chair. Brandon still slept soundly, and as she rose she gave him a contemptuous sneer before going about the business of getting dressed. George brought her a cup of tea and a muffin, and after she ate she tidied the room and returned to her sampler to wait the waking of her husband. Noon had long since passed when the first groan was heard from the bed, and in a calm way she continued stitching, watching him as he sat up cautiously on the side of the bed. He put his tousled head in his hands as if it were a weight too burdensome for his shoulders and moaned. Then he caught a glimpse of her shoulders of the corner of his eye and he straightened painfully.

"Get my robe," he growled.

She put her sampler down and went to the wardrobe. He glared at her as she came to him and took it from her. Refusing her help, he put it on and stood up slowly. In agony he walked toward the door and opened it.

"Have my bath ready when I get back," he snarled. "And it best be hot or I'll chew your little rump."

After he closed the door behind him she allowed herself a smile of satisfaction at his discomfort, but she hurriedly saw to his bath, knowing it was safer to obey him. When he came back he was paler, but he was walking a little easier as though he thought his head might stay on. He shed his trousers, handed them to her without a glance and stepped carefully into the steamy bath. He drew in his breath as he eased himself into the hot water and gave a long sigh when he settled comfortably against the back of the brass tub. He sat quite still for the longest time, his eyes closed, his head resting back on the rim, then there was a knock on the door and his eyes flew open angrily.

"Blast it, stop that hammering!" he bellowed, then he grimaced and in a lower voice continued. "Come in if you must!"

Carrying a small tray bearing a snifter filled with a liberal portion of brandy, George tiptoed gingerly into the room with his head slunk low on his shoulders. He exchanged a hurried glance with Heather to see how she was faring and decided she was weathering the storm very well. He handed his captain the drink and beat a hasty retreat.

Brandon swallowed half the contents of the glass in one gulp and eased his head back to the tub again, feeling the brandy spread its glow. Heather readied his towel and clothes, then moved to the side of the tub to help him bathe. For a moment she stood staring down at him, holding the sponge and soap in her hands. Sweat rolled from him freely as he sat in the hot water, taking the evening's poisons with it He had his eyes closed and his arms lay on the rim of the tub, and he looked almost content. Too content. Feeling an urge to interrupt his reverie, she reached out and dropped the soap and sponge into the water. He started slightly as water splattered on his face, and he opened one eye and peered at her. The water trickled down his face and into his beard but he made no move to wipe it away. The eye bore into her as if he contemplated her slow dismemberment, and Heather lost courage when he opened the other. She quickly glided away to a safe distance and busied herself with inconsequential chores as he stared at her.

She returned, though somewhat cautiously, to help when he finally sat up to bathe. He saw her reaching for the soap and lost his temper.

"Get the hell out of here, you blasted wench!" he yelled. "Get out of my sight! I can wash myself. I never could stand a she-cat scratching at my back anyway!"

Heather dropped the soap with a start and hurriedly skittered away. She went to the door and had opened it when he inquired snidely:

"And where do you think you're going like that?"

Her hand went over her shoulder to the back of her dress; she had forgotten her half-dressed state. She raised her nose into the air. "I'm going down the hall to have George fasten my gown," she replied with a stately air.

She quickly closed the door before he could comment, but she gathered from the outburst of oaths and curses coming through that he was none too pleased with her. As it happened, a chambermaid passed as she moved down the hall, and Heather requested her assistance in hooking the gown.

It was the Sabbath and the inn was quiet, the common room almost empty. Heather ordered tea as she sat down at their usual table and spoke casually with the innkeeper's wife. She had not long to wait before Brandon joined her. He scowled as he came in and took his seat without a word. It was only after the mistress of the inn served them their meal and went again about her business that he growled at her in a low voice.

"Unless you want me to turn you across my knee, madam, and throw up your skirts to paddle your bare backside, I suggest that you take care with what you do."

She turned round, innocent, blue eyes to his, feigning complete ignorance to the cause of his anger. "Whatever is it, my love, that makes you want to beat your wife, and she carrying your child?"

His jaw twitched. "Heather," he ground out. "Do not play coy with me. You would see I am not in a jesting mood."

Heather swallowed hard and turned her attention to her plate. Just that small movement in his cheek was enough to dissuade her. Again she was completely cowed.

It was only when they were retiring for bed that night that he noticed the torn gown hanging in the wardrobe. He fingered it lightly and frowned, then watched Heather climb into bed in her shift. He blew out the candle and undressed in the dark and lay for a long time staring at the ceiling with his hands under his head. There was a slight movement beside him and he glanced Heather's way. She lay on her side with her back to him as far away as she could manage without falling off the bed. She had pulled the quilt over her shoulders as if it would give her protection against him. With a silent oath he turned from her, deciding that nothing had happened after all because she seemed too well pleased with herself and he did not feel relief within his body.

The next morning Brandon hauled his wife out of bed before dawn, giving her no time to protest.

"Hurry up, wench, I have not time to delay. We're bringing the
Fleetwood
in this morning and I must get out to her."

He helped her dress as he threw on his own clothes, then pulled her along with him downstairs and ate a hurried meal as she drank tea and tried not to yawn. Afterward he escorted her outside through the darkness to the convenience behind the inn and waited until she was done. He deposited her safely in their room and gave George his orders. Then he left and didn't return until the wee hours of morning, and as before, he undressed in the dark and crawled into bed beside her, taking care not to wake her. The following days the schedule was the same, and except for those moments in the morning Heather did not speak to Brandon. She stayed in their room while he was gone and occupied her time as best she could. She ate her meals there or, if few sailors were about, in the common room under George's guard.

It was the fourth night of the week when Brandon came back early. She was in the bath, not expecting him at that hour of the evening, and when the door opened she gasped.

Brandon hesitated a moment at the door, surveying with pleasure this charmingly domestic and most attractive scene. She sat upright with her arms folded demurely across her, her blue eyes wide and only now recovering from surprise. Her skin glistened wet and shimmered in the soft candlelight, and with her hair piled on her head, a few loose curls dropping coyly to her shoulders, she was a fetching sight, by far the loveliest thing he had seen that day.

A small stool stood beside the brass tub to assist in entering and upon it sat a bottle of bath oil and a large bar of scented soap. He smiled tenderly and leaned against the door, closing it. With measured tread he crossed to the tub and placing one hand on the far side, leaned down as if to kiss her.