The Flame and the Flower (32 page)

The new sleeping arrangements seemed to agree with Brandon. His eyes dropped the signs of strain. His face no longer appeared gaunt, and the shadows faded from beneath his eyes. His skin darkened under the sun and wind and turned a deep coppery brown, and Heather, being very much a woman, found herself watching him more and more.

They were nearing Bermuda and soon would be expecting to make a landfall on the island when a rain storm drenched them, and Brandon came up to the quarter-deck to find that George had lashed an empty barrel in the corner of the rail and was rigging a large piece of sail to funnel water into it.

"George, might you be going mad, man?" Brandon quested, shouting over the pounding of the rain. "What the hell are you doing with that up here?"

The servant came to attention and squinted up at him through the pelting downpour. "Your lady, sir. I thought she would be liking a bath what she would enjoy. Fresh rain water will be a relief from the salt, cap'n."

Brandon looked at the barrel with a critical eye and George rubbed his feet together in agony as he waited, hoping his captain would not order it from the quarterdeck. Brandon turned his gaze on the servant, then moved it again to the rain barrel and slowly back to George. His cold scrutiny held his man for several seconds, then an eyebrow raised and a half smile softened his face.

"Sometimes, George, you amaze me," he said, and strode off the quarter-deck.

George heaved a sigh of relief and whistling to himself, rechecked the lashing.

Heather eased herself into the warm water, taking great delight as the delicious heat crept up her body. Brandon sat at his desk, completely distracted by her hurried disrobing upon discovering the steaming tub. George had discreetly prepared it while she was on deck taking a breath of the refreshing evening air. On seeing it she had squealed with delight and kissed the old man upon his pate, and the servant had fled from the cabin, blushing in pleased embarrassment.

She breathed a great sigh and lay her head back against the rim of the tub. She dipped her arms into the water then lifted them up, letting the sweet fluid cascade over her shoulders. Brandon swore beneath his breath as he totaled a column of figures incorrectly for the eighth time. His wife was completely engrossed in her delightful interlude and missed his silently mouthed curse. He thrust the quill into its well as if this might relieve his agitation and closed the ledger. He rose from the desk to pace about the room and gaze out the windows upon the moonlit sea in an effort to redirect his attention to something less frustrating. He failed abjectedly, and found himself gazing down upon his wife, watching her breasts tease the water as she bathed. He ran his finger lightly around her ear and brushed the nape of her neck with his knuckles. She turned liquid eyes up to him and smiled and rubbed her cheek against his hand. Brandon groaned and gritted his teeth and withdrew to a safer sector of the cabin. And having grown accustomed to his unreliable moods, Heather ignored his plight and continued with her bath, unconcerned.

"Brandon," she sweetly plied to his ignoring back. "Will you pass that bucket of water from the stove?"

He turned eagerly, relieved to have some task to occupy his mind. He poured the water into the foot of the tub and stood clumsily holding the pail as he watched her luxuriate in this new warmth. She sank her shoulders beneath the water then rose again with rosy breasts agleam as if with a morning dew. Brandon turned abruptly, mumbled something about fetching more water, and retreated from this torture chamber.

Heather lay relaxing in the tub, almost purring with her contentment. She dribbled water from the sponge across her knees and splashed it on her face. The water seemed as satin against her skin, and she luxuriated in the feel of it, having long grown tired of sea-water baths.

A persistent sound from above drew her attention and for a long while she listened to the footfalls pacing back and forth across the quarter-deck. She recognized them as Brandon's and each time his shadow fell upon the small skylight above as he passed in front of a lantern hung alight on the quarter-deck, she wondered if he was impatient to be off the ship and at his home.

Her bath concluded and the water emptied from the tub, she sat now before the stove in a nightgown, the quilt she had wrapped about her having fallen away as she brushed her hair. She was still at this task when her husband returned, and she smiled warmly at him as he entered.

Seeing her thus Brandon paused at the door in indecision. The dainty night garment was like a hazy cloud over her body, holding little from his regard. Her round breasts swelled generously over the top of the gown, and seeing their softly veiled peaks, he was again at odds with himself, not knowing how to keep himself from staring at her. He began to pace about the cabin, finding its small space even more confining than usual. He ceased his agitated pacing by her sea chest and noticed her robe lying across it. He stared for a moment at its deep red hue and touched the soft velvet fabric, his fingers casually caressing it as if it held her within its folds. Suddenly he realized what he was doing, and stopped, muttering an oath. He took up the garment and went to her and spread it about her shoulders. She smiled up at him again, murmuring her thanks, but made no move to put her arms through the sleeves or pull it closed. He waited, chafing at her delay at doing so, and finally bent and drew it together himself.

"Heather, for God's sake," he groaned, "I'm not a suckling babe to think nothing of your scanty attire. I'm a man and I cannot bear to see you so displayed."

Obediently she slid into her wrapper and fastened it snuggly about her neck, keeping all emotion from her face, but inwardly she smiled.

As they neared Bermuda, Brandon grew restive and constantly rechecked his navigation. He and MacTavish compared notes and knew approximately when they would arrive, but neither would say a word for fear of being wrong. It was a week into December and the men discussed whether they would make port before Christmas. The two ships that had departed before them were due to dock around the New Year. If the
Fleetwood
could make Charleston before they did, she'd be the first ship from England in several months and her cargo would bring a high profit. The crew knew that Bermuda was not more than twelve days out, thus the islands would bring the end of the voyage in sight. It was nearly noon the next day, the eighth of December, when a lookout's voice rang from the top of the main mast.

"Land ho! Off the port bow."

From the deck nothing could be seen. Brandon glanced at his timepiece and made an entry in the log but held course until the islands were firmly in sight, then gave the long awaited order to bring the ship about on the last leg home.

The
Fleetwood
bucked and heaved to the new course and seemed to strain forward as the men leaped into the rigging and spread her last inch of sail to catch the gentle southern breezes.

One week before Christmas, after more than a month and a half at sea, they entered Charleston Bay. At sight of land they had hoisted signals, giving the word that the
Fleetwood
was coming into port, and Heather wrapped a cloak about herself and came up to have her first glimpse of this new land. Her first sight of the continent was a blue haze on the horizon and she had to squint to identify it as land at all. As they drew closer and could finally pick out features of the coast, it was apparent that they had made landfall some miles north of Charleston Bay and Brandon brought the ship several points aport to correct. This brought them angling down the coastline to the main channel and Heather viewed a vast panorama of what was to be her new homeland. From the books she had read and the people she had listened to she had formed a mental picture of a rather dingy settlement squatting in the midst of a steaming coastal swamp. She stood amazed at the clear blue water curling beneath the bow of the ship and the white sandy beaches stretching for miles. Beyond them stood great forests of mangrove and cypress, cottonwood and live oak, marching for endless leagues into the distance. When they finally rounded the point and entered the bay, she gasped at the sultry beauty of the whitewashed city sprawling before her like a handful of white pearls on the sunlit beach. A log fort on a small sand island swept by the port beam and sails were taken in and other preparations made to warp the ship into her berth.

As the
Fleetwood
dashed the last mile home, Heather saw that a large crowd had formed on the dock, and almost with a start she realized that in that throng were Brandon's brother, his friends, and—his fiancée. Her heart froze in her throat at the thought of facing them all, and she fled below to make herself as presentable as she thought fitting for a captain's wife. She dressed carefully, donning a pink wool gown and a highwaisted coat of the same hue, cut on the fashion of the Hussars and trimmed with silk braid and frogs. Her apprehension grew as she worried with her hair and finally coiled it about her head and stuffed it beneath a dark mink hat. At last she was ready, and with nothing else to do she sat in the familiar chair by the now cold stove and stared into the gloom of the cabin, her hands gripped tightly in her fur muff. Fear ran with spiked hooves across her nerves, and her composure became a matter of sheer will. She felt the ship grind against the dock and some moments later started when Brandon opened the door and entered the cabin. His eyes passed over her, and with face set he crossed to his desk. He removed the ledgers and tied them with a ribbon and then reaching back into the drawer, withdrew a bottle of brandy. Chewing her lip nervously, she rose and went to stand beside him as he tossed off a healthy portion. He glanced at her, frowning, poured himself another and gulped it down before setting the glass upon the desk. Feeling in need herself of something to barricade her wits against the scene so close at hand, she took the glass and raised it to him. His eyebrow lifted doubtingly, but she stared up at him until he finally poured a dainty draught into the tumbler. Aping his casual manner, Heather raised the glass to her lips and downed it all in a single swallow. Her eyes flew open in surprise, and she wheezed in air, trying to catch her breath against the searing, choking fire that burned its way into her stomach. She gasped and coughed and thought she would never be the same. But at last she was able to draw a deep breath as the fire died into a warming glow. She raised watery eyes to Brandon's amused expression and nodded bravely, ready now to venture forth and face the crowd that waited on the quay.

Brandon tucked the ledgers beneath his arm, replaced the bottle and riding his hand on the small of her back, guided her through the door and out across the deck to where the gangplank awaited. He handed her over the small step onto the plank and stepped up beside her. Their eyes met briefly before he presented his arm, and Heather, taking it and a deep breath, let him lead her down the gangplank. As they descended, a couple separated themselves from the crowd and hurried to meet them. The man was as tall as Brandon but of a slighter build. There was no mistaking him. He bore a great resemblance to his brother. And the woman, tall, buxom, beautifully blond, was undoubtedly the fiancée. Her warm brown eyes were filled with happiness, and as the couples drew near she rushed forward to fling herself upon Brandon and kiss him long and more lovingly than seemed proper for even engaged couples. He bore her affections with arms spread, determined to make no concession to her advances, and cast a glance awry at Heather who observed the whole thing rather brittlely. As her greeting subsided, Louisa looked into his face for a moment, somewhat taken aback by his coolness, then seizing his arm, hugged it close to her bosom. Finally she turned and her cold appraisal swept Heather.

The two women regarded each other for a moment with mutual and immediate hostility. Heather saw before her the well rounded, experienced woman of the world, at ease with men and determined in her goals, while Louisa viewed a young, exquisitely beautiful girl, barely attaining that full blossom of youth that she herself would soon be yielding. Each woman saw in the other the things she feared most, and in this first moment of meeting they became enemies.

Louisa completed her calculated assessments and turned again to Brandon. "And what's this you've brought back, my darling?" she questioned. "Some poor thing from the streets of London?" Her tone of voice carried the implications home.

With discerning eye, Jeff had drawn his own accurate conclusion and smothered a chuckle when Brandon made his reply.

"No, Louisa," he said rigidly. "This is my wife, Heather."

Louisa gasped as her eyes flew open and would have crumpled had she not still held Brandon's arm. The color drained from her face, and she stared at him, open mouthed.

Brandon hurried on, hoping to bypass the storm. "Heather, this is my brother, Jeffrey. Jeff, my wife."

"
Your wife
!" Louisa shrieked, regaining her tongue in a fury. "Do you mean to say you married this little bitch?"

Ignoring her outburst, Jeff smiled broadly and took Heather's hand into his. He bowed low over it and straightening, spoke. "I am most pleasured to meet you, Mrs. Birmingham."

Heather returned his smile, accepting him as a future ally. "I've looked forward to meeting you, Jeff," she murmured demurely. "Brandon has spoken of you."

Jeff cast a doubting eye to his brother. "Well, knowing him, I—"

"You roving bastard!" Louisa choked, glaring at Brandon. "You left me to twiddle my thumbs around your empty promises while you, the great hunting stud, strolled about the streets of London!" Her clenched fist flashed a large stoned ring in front of his eyes. "You bade me wait and cool my heels until you sailed this one last time, then you return and gift me with your wife! You present this common slut to take my place after you've played the round with my affections! Damn you, you crusty bull! You've pleased your brother fine. He stands there and drools and smirks as if he planned this underhanded act himself!"