The Flame and the Flower (27 page)

"Good evening, sweet," he murmured softly.

Confused by his gentle manner and feeling trapped, Heather sank slowly into the tub until the water was about her shoulders. She made an attempt to return his smile but her lips were unsteady. He chuckled softly at her effort and straightened and his face was replaced by his hand holding a bar of soap. The soap hit the water in front of her face and the drenching splash left her spluttering and gasping for breath. She opened her eyes to find a towel being held close to her.

"Wipe your face, sweet," he chided. "It's all wet."

In a rage she snatched the towel and pressed it to her eyes. "Oh, you—you—" she choked angrily.

He laughed softly and walked away, and when she again looked at him he was sitting in a chair with his feet stretched out before him, watching her with a contented smile on his face. She glared at him and his smile only deepened.

"Enjoy your bath, love," he said, then he leaned forward as if to get up. "Would you care to have me scrub your back?"

She gritted her teeth in frustration and started to rise from the tub, but he settled back in his chair and waved her back down.

"Do relax, Heather, and enjoy it," he admonished more seriously. "It's likely to be the last good one you'll have for some time to come."

She sat back and turned to him with a bewildered look, thinking that he had chosen a new way to discipline her. "Brandon—I beg of you. My pleasures are small and this one I particularly cherish." She looked at him pleadingly. "I beseech your kindness, Brandon, not to take this from me. Oh, please. I do enjoy it so."

She bit a quivering bottom lip and dropped her gaze. The grin faded from Brandon's face and he rose and came to the foot of the tub. He leaned his hands upon it and stood looking at her. She sat with her eyes cast down, dejected, like a child expecting to be chastised. When he spoke it was most gently.

"You do me grave injustice, Heather, to imply that I, in spite, would deny you such joy. I spoke only of this: that tomorrow we go aboard the ship as we will sail some three days hence."

She raised her head to meet his gaze and her breasts caught the glow of the candles and glistened in the light.

"Oh, Brandon, I am sorry," she murmured humbly. "It was shrewish of me to underrate you so."

She paused, noticing that his gaze no longer met hers but was directed lower. His lips were white and the tic returned to his cheek as she watched. She blushed deeply, and with an inarticulate murmur of apology drew the large sponge to her breasts. Brandon turned away abruptly and went to stand before the window.

"If you will extract yourself from the tub, madam," he said gruffly over his shoulder, "we might dine in more civilized circumstances. And you'd best hurry. I sent George to fetch a small supper."

Heather complied with considerable haste.

It seemed only a few moments after she had gone to sleep that Brandon was shaking her awake. It was still dark outside, but he was already dressed. He pulled her from the bed and handed clothes to her. She slid into her gown and he helped her yank it down into place and began hooking it while she brushed her hair into order. He wrapped her cloak about her and stood by the door as she rubbed the last traces of sleep from her face with a damp cloth. Then they descended to eat a quick meal and a short time later were walking the few blocks to the ship.

The crew was already astir, making the ship ready for the day's loading, and the men paused to watch the captain and his lady board, and their eyes followed them until they disappeared through the door under the quarterdeck.

Once in the captain's cabin, Heather discarded her cloak and curled up in his bunk and went back to sleep, not even waking when Brandon drew a quilt over her. After finishing a small lunch which he brought her at noon she climbed up to the deck and stood by the rail to watch the activity of the sailors and the port. Vendors swarmed about the docks selling fresh fruit and vegetables to sailors craving a break in their monotonous diet of salt pork, beans and sea biscuits. Rich merchants, dressed nattily in their finery, rubbed shoulders with beggars and thieves who tried to reduce the size of their purses. Sailors strolled along with harlots, caressing them openly, and liveries with their straight-backed drivers were waiting for hire. Vivid colors mixed with the dull to dress the seaport in its every day splendor. Ships were being loaded and unloaded and the sound of sailors' swearing mingled with peddlers' cries and the voices of merchants' bargaining. Two seamen from the
Fleetwood
kept the dock area clear where the wagons drew up to unload their supplies. She had never seen a place so bustling with activity, and she watched a little breathlessly, leaning over the ship's railing to get a better view of the things that went on below her. She could hear Brandon's deep, authoritative voice every now and then, from different parts of the ship, giving orders to his men as they laid cargo aboard. At intervals she would see him talking with Mr. Boniface or the bo'sun or the mate. On other occasions he would be down on the dock speaking with merchants.

It was late afternoon when she saw George drive up in a horse-drawn cart loaded down with her trunk, Brandon's duffle bag and, to her surprise, the brass tub from the inn. Confused, she watched him unload the items from the cart and bring them aboard. When he set the tub down, he turned to smile up at her, and then she knew that Brandon had bought the tub for her. Her eyes went past George to her husband who stood beyond him with Mr. Boniface. He had glanced around to watch the servant bring the tub aboard and now his eyes lifted to hers. Their gaze met across the space between them, and Heather felt suddenly very happy and alive. No gift of greater beauty or fortune could have pleased her so well as this old brass tub. The corners of her mouth lifted and the smile was soft and warm and beautiful, and gazing up at her, Brandon was held for a moment in its spell, then James Boniface cleared his throat and repeated his question.

It was evening before Madame Fontaineau and two of her assistants brought Heather's clothes. After they had found everything satisfactory, Brandon brought an iron strongbox from his sea chest and began counting out the necessary sum. The couturière sidled around to look over the top of the box at the contents and gasped audibly at the great amount of money which it contained. Brandon raised an eyebrow at the woman, sending her back to her place across the desk, then continued with his counting.

Madame Fontaineau glanced at Heather, who was kneeling beside her trunk packing the gowns and other items away, then turned again to Brandon, smiling with a calculating gleam in her eye. The sight of money always made her a little reckless.

"Will the madame be returning with you next year, monsieur?"

"No," Brandon answered.

Madame Fontaineau's smile broadened and she smoothed her hair. "When you return you will of course come to my shop to buy her new clothes, will you not, monsieur? I will be looking forward to sewing again for her." And then she cooed. "My talents will be at your disposal, monsieur."

The remark passed Heather's innocent ears without notice, and she didn't glance up from her task, but Brandon understood clearly the woman's intent. His eyes raised slowly to Madame Fontaineau and he regarded her for some moments passively, then very coldly his gaze traveled down her as if appraising her for her worth, stopping momentarily on the somewhat matronly bosom and the broadening hips. His eyes dropped again to the money.

"You misunderstand me, madame. I mean that I will not be returning to England again. This is my last voyage here."

The woman stepped back in shock. Brandon reached across the desk a moment later and handed her the money due in a pouch and Madame Fontaineau didn't stop to count it. She whirled and left without another word.

Brandon was preoccupied with other things at the evening meal so that there was hardly a word exchanged between them, and long after Heather retired to the bunk he worked at his desk with ledgers, receipts and bills. It was past the hour of midnight before he blew out the candles, undressed in the dark and climbed in beside her. Still awake, Heather rolled over to make room for him but there was not much space to spare. Brandon turned on his side away from her and she on hers away from him, and each for different reasons tried not to think of what had taken place when they had last occupied the bunk together.

The next two days passed quickly. The loading was finished, the provisioning completed, the last hatch battened down and final farewells spoken. Long boats came to tow the
Fleetwood
out into the harbor where she could spread her sails and catch the evening's offshore breeze. All aboard grew quiet and thoughtful, yet the ship seemed to cluck impatiently for that fresh zephyr to set her on the way home.

It was a calm evening, the water glassy smooth. The ship sat with her topsails and topgallants spread but hanging slack, waiting for the first breath of wind. The sun was half down behind the rooftops of London when a topsail flapped loudly in the quiet. All eyes drew immediately aloft. The sun was gone now, and a chill breeze stirred against Heather's face as she stood beside Brandon on the quarter-deck. The sails flapped again, and then filled as the breeze strengthened and Brandon's voice rang out.

"Weigh anchor. Look lively, hearties, we're sailing home."

The anchor winch began to clank from the forecastle and Brandon's voice took on an almost gay note.

"Ease off those port tacks. Take in the starboard."

The anchor splashed free of the Thames, and the ship began to gather headway. Heather watched the lights recede in the darkness and there was a tightness in her throat.

It was the wee hours of the morning before Brandon came to the cabin to sleep, and at breakfast he told her what was expected of her on the voyage.

"As far as I'm concerned, Heather, the decks belong to the men until a reasonable hour of the morning. If you venture out too early, you might find yourself blushing. I advise you to stay in the cabin until a late hour."

She murmured an obedient answer, keeping her gaze fixed on her plate, and her cheeks took on a rosy hue.

"And below decks is completely off limits to you," he continued. "The living quarters of the men are there, and you are too tempting a prize for a man on a long voyage. I wouldn't want to have to kill any of my men because they forgot themselves. Therefore, you will stay from there and out of their way."

He glanced up at her over his cup of coffee as she picked up her own cup of tea and stared down into it, her face still flushed. Her slender hands were wrapped around the cup and the gold wedding band, sliding loose on her finger, caught the light of the morning sun. He frowned slightly and his gaze dropped.

Late afternoon, shortly after four, Heather heard the lookout call.

"Land's end, ahoy. Fore quarter starboard."

The day was wintry gray with low clouds scudding across the sky. The wind was blowing a brisk nor'easter as she climbed to the quarter-deck. Brandon stood beside the wheel watching the south of England sweeping by and when land's end stood behind them, he turned to the man at the wheel.

"Helmsman, bring her about. Steady on due west." And then he bellowed to the tops. "Watch those gallants, lads, and take another reef in the mainsail."

He stood for some time with his hands behind him and his feet braced apart, feeling the deck beneath him and watching the rigging, masts and sails until satisfied his ship stood neatly trimmed with the wind on her heels. The sun sat low and red upon the horizon, painting the clouds a golden hue and splattering the sea in red. Land's end stood behind them now, all black and gold beyond the mists. With an aching in her chest, Heather watched the last of England fade from view and from her life.

The sun rose cold and bleak on the fourth day out and the easterly winds began to pick up. The first two days had been relatively mild and with every inch of canvas spread the
Fleetwood
had plowed along over lightly rolling seas. Now the rigging sang in the wind and the ship strained as it chopped its way through frothy white caps. The ship was heavily laden and rolled low in the water, yet she handled well and responded smoothly to the helm.

Brandon cast a weather eye ahead to a low bank of clouds on the horizon, stowed his sextant and folded away his charts. The wind was biting cold this morning and boded ill weather ahead, yet he smiled to himself as he went below for they were making good time, almost forty leagues a day. He entered the cabin, put away the charts and sextant and poured himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the small stove. As he sipped the hot brew he looked at Heather still asleep in his bunk. Her hand, partly concealed by the lace on the sleeve of her gown, lay across his pillow and her softly curling hair was caught beneath it. He thought of her warm and soft against him, and he wondered briefly how much of a fight she'd put up if he tried to take her now. She stirred slightly as if aware that she was being watched, and he forced the thought from his mind. She stretched lazily under the quilts, and her eyes fluttered open slowly. She saw him and smiled a timid morning greeting.

At that moment George knocked gently on the door, and she flew out of the bunk, giving Brandon a glimpse of a slender thigh before she snatched the gown down and hurriedly pulled on a wrapper. At Brandon's call the servant entered with a tray bearing their morning meal. From his pocket George passed Heather an orange, and she thanked him graciously. Brandon, seeing this movement over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow, wondering if the servant was becoming enamored with his wife's beguiling innocence.