The Flame and the Flower (39 page)

"They say three's a crowd, Jeff," she smiled. "Would you care to sit beside me and make it a warm crowd?"

He complied with no delay and spread his blanket across their knees. Heather wiggled back between the two men, under Brandon's arm, and Jeff smiled down at her with amusement.

"Fie upon thee, madam." He feigned injury. "'Twas not my comfort that concerned you. You only sought to be warm on this side too."

Heather glanced up at him and giggled. Brandon smiled.

"Be careful, Jeffrey. This little Tory can charm the very warmth from your body." He turned a contemplative scrutiny down upon her. "I can't for the life of me imagine just whose side she would have fought on, being half Irish, half Tory, and married to a Yankee."

Jeff joined with a teasing banter in his voice. "It's her English accent I'm afraid that makes people wonder about her. Why, with speech like that she'll soon have the whole country in arms against us. Poor father would turn over in his grave to know we harbored a Tory in our midst." He grinned down at her and affected a simpering tone. "My dear Tory, you simply must learn to drawl like a Yankee."

She acknowledged his comment with a nod of her head and mimicked the best drawl she knew. "Why, yassah, Misser Jeff."

The two brothers roared with laughter and she glanced between them, a bit confused at this response. Then she realized she had used a servant's drawl, one quite different from those smooth, lazy voices of the women she had heard this morning, and she joined their hilarity, laughing at herself.

The servants had received their presents the night before when all of them had gathered in the Christmas spirit and enjoyed their master's generosity with food and drink and celebrated the holiday in their own happy way. Heather had kept her gift for Brandon until this Christmas morning to give to him in private. She had awakened early to await the sounds from his bedroom of his rising and finally heard him move about, a splash of water as he washed and then the slam of the wardrobe doors. It was then that she rose and took the gaily wrapped present and gently pushed open the intervening door. He did not note her entry into the room. He was busy digging through his wardrobe for a shirt and was only partially dressed, wearing a pair of breeches and standing in his stocking feet. She placed the gift upon the bed and crept to a chair by the fireplace, sitting in it and drawing her feet up under her. Brandon found his shirt and turned, putting it on, and noticed the open door. His eyes went about the room and found his wife curled up in the chair with a wide, impish grin sparkling upon her face.

"Good morning, Brandon," she said brightly. "Merry Christmas."

Her attitude was so much that of some puckish sprite, Brandon could not resist a smile. "Good morning, sweet, and may yours be merry too."

"I brought a present for you," she said, pointing to the bed. "Aren't you going to open it?"

He chuckled as he tucked the shirttail into the waistband of his breeches and did as she requested. With some surprise, he held the robe up and admired it, noting especially the family crest she had embroidered upon the left breast.

"Do you like it, Brandon?" she asked quickly. "Put it on and let me see."

He slipped it on to find the fit perfect. Smiling with pleasure over the gift, he tied the belt and examined the handiwork in the crest more closely.

"It's quite a handsome garment, Heather. You didn't tell me you were so talented." He glanced up with a devilish gleam in his green eyes. "And now that I know, you'll have to make all my shirts. I'm not an easy man to please. Even my mother found me a tiresome burden when it came to making my shirts." His voice became gentle and his eyes held something very strange as his look consumed her. "I'm glad to find my wife clever enough to please me."

Heather laughed happily and jumped up from the chair to circle him and admire both robe and man. "It does fit rather well," she admitted proudly, smoothing the fabric across his broad shoulders. "And you do look handsome in it." She stepped back and smiled brightly. "But then, I knew you would."

He chuckled as he went to his sea chest and obtained from it a small, black box which he brought back to her. "I fear my simple gift to you will be outshone by your radiant face and seem dull in comparison."

He stood beside her as she opened the gift. The large emerald stone and surrounding diamonds sparkled brilliantly in the morning light as she lifted the lid, and Heather stared at the brooch in wonder and disbelief, then slowly raised her eyes to his in amazement.

"This is for me?" she questioned.

He laughed softly and took it from her and removing the pin, tossed the box on the bed. "And who, madam, would I purchase such a gift for if not for you? I assure you, it is yours."

He slid his fingers under her wrapper and pinned the jeweled brooch to the burgundy velvet over her breast though his fingers trembled at the warmth of her soft flesh and it took him longer than seemed normal.

"Can you fasten it?" she questioned, watching his lean, brown hands at their task. The impish gleam in her eyes was gone, leaving behind a soft, warm glow which his touch had kindled. An old trembling possessed her.

"Yes," he replied, finally securing the catch.

She leaned against him, not wanting him to move away, and caressed the brooch. "Thank you, Brandon," she murmured. "I've never had anything so lovely."

His arm slid around her, and her heart pounded as he lifted her chin, but from the door came a knock and in frustration Brandon moved away. He pulled a chair from the breakfast table for her as Hatti came in with a tray of food, and Heather slid into the seat as he teased the old Negress.

"Where is that parasol I gave you, Hatti? I thought you'd be pounding it about the floors this morning to get everyone's attention. Mrs. Clark is bound to be jealous."

"Yassah, Master Bran," the woman grinned. "She sure is. She ain't never had one that pretty before. And that's a mighty fine coat you're wearing too." She glanced at Heather and rolled her eyes as she served them.

"Thank you, Hatti," he said, smiling to Heather. "My wife made it for me."

The old Negress served them with lips pursed and took her large shape to the door, but before leaving she turned and eyed his coat again.

"Yassah, that sure is a mighty fine coat." She paused, then continued with a bit of ire in her tone. "But it's too bad the missus got to trade her clothes off for the makings."

Brandon laid down his fork abruptly and looked at her, but she turned away with a self-satisfied grin and left the room. Brandon slowly turned his attention to his wife, leaning his elbows on the table, and clasped his hands before him. Heather had turned her gaze out the window and seemed to be staring thoughtfully at some distant object. He propped his chin upon his hands and spoke with deliberate slowness.

"Trading clothes off for gifts, Heather? What's this all about?"

She turned an innocent expression to him and shrugged her shoulders. "I had no money, and I wanted to surprise you with a gift. And it was just an old gown."

He frowned at her. "You had no old gowns."

She smiled brightly and quickly replied. "Yes I did."

He stared at her blankly for a moment, raking his memory, but could not remember her having an old gown. Except for her bridal dress, she had come to him virtually naked. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"And which gown did you consider old, my love?"

She met his stare and leaned back, smoothing her hand over her rounded stomach. "The one you met me in, remember?"

"Oh," he grunted. He raised his fork and took a bit of his breakfast and chewed rather irritably upon a piece of ham for a moment then swallowed it. There was disapproval in his tone when he spoke. "I wish you hadn't, Heather. I dislike the idea of my wife trading clothes with peddlers." A few more bites of pancakes downed and now stern admonishment in his voice. "There's usually money in the desk downstairs. I'll show you where later. It's there to be used when you need it."

She sipped her tea daintily and lifted her nose with a slightly injured air. "Sir, I understood quite well," she needled, "that your money was not mine to spend."

He dropped his fork and gripped the table and glared at her. "You traded off an object that was mine, madam, mine!" he ground out through clenched teeth. "Before we were married you took some money from me and left that piece in payment. To me, it was a trophy of a battle, so to speak, a keepsake of a comely wench I met, and I retained it for the memories I had of her and of a night gone by."

Heather frowned in confusion and regarded him. Tears came to her eyes as she thought of his displeasure with her. "I am sorry, Brandon," she murmured softly. "I didn't know you treasured the garment."

Her gaze dropped to her lap, and unconsciously she fingered the brooch, completely dejected now. Brandon looked at her and realizing it was Christmas day, softened and felt chagrined at having meanly snatched the joy from her gift. He hastened to set aright her spirits and rose and went to kneel beside her chair.

"My sweet," he murmured and tenderly took her hand. "I do like the robe and shall wear it with pride in your skill at joining the fabric so neatly, but I am not a niggardly man and would not have my wife trading clothes with peddlers like some farmer's hag. I have money and it is yours to use. Now come." Rising, he drew her to her feet and slipping his arms around her, held her close for a moment. "Let's have a gay Christmas and no more tears. You'll ruin your pretty face."

The day was rainy and the house was quiet and few servants about. Jeff had gone to Charleston to make his rounds with presents and wouldn't return until evening to join them for Christmas dinner. Brandon built a fire in the drawing room and sat on the floor beside her chair, leaning back against it with his legs outstretched before him, his arm resting across her knees, reading to her from Shakespeare's
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. She listened contentedly, sewing on a garment for the baby, and laughed lightly as he brought the characters to life. In front of the fireplace rested a huge birch Yule Log which Jeff and Ethan had wrestled in the evening before. It was gaily decorated with pine boughs, mistletoe and holly all twined about with red ribbons and two huge candles burned at either end.

The story at its end, he brought out a chess set and set about teaching her the game, though she grew a bit confused with the moves of the pieces as he continued to explain. She laughed over her many errors and drew chuckles from him with her ineptitude. Evening approached and she excused herself to change her gown and came downstairs wearing a deep green velvet to compliment the brooch. Her bosom swelled daringly above the décolletage, and as she curtsied, Brandon kissed her hand and devoured her with his gaze.

"The brooch is not one tenth so lovely as the one who wears it, madam," he murmured with a grin.

He poured her a glass of Madeira and she took it with a smile.

"I fear you are just being kind with me after I lost so badly at chess."

He laughed softly. "You're very suspicious, my dear. How can you distrust me when I only try to praise your beauty."

She smiled as she went to the window and looked out upon the stormy night. The wind howled about the corner of the house and drove the rain down between the trees and against the great mansion with a vengeance. But within the drawing room, a cheery fire burned and hearts were warm. It had been a most delightful day for Heather and one she would always treasure. As she stood there daydreaming, Brandon came to stand behind her and gaze out over her shoulder into the darkness.

"I love the rain," she murmured. "Especially when it's like this, stormy and with everything cozy inside. My father always stayed with me when the winds blew hard. I suppose that's why I like it so. I was never afraid of the rain."

"You must have loved him a great deal."

She nodded her head slowly. "I did. He was a good father and I loved him very much, but it always frightened me when he went away and left me alone." She laughed a little. "I'm not very brave. Papa always told me I wasn't. I was such a cowardly child."

He smiled softly and gently took her hand. "Little girls are not supposed to be brave, sweet. They are to be cuddled and protected and always kept safe from their fears."

She stared up at him in wonder at his reply, then finally dropped her eyes and laughed awkwardly as her face pinkened. "I've been boring you with my life's story again. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"I never said I was bored, sweet," he murmured.

He drew her with him to the settee, and they were there when footsteps pounded across the porch, and Jeff burst through the front door, accompanied by a gust of wind and a shower of rain. Joseph hurried from the back of the house to take his sodden hat and cape and produce a pair of low shoes as Jeff stepped to the boot jack beside the door and wrestled his tall boots from his feet. He slipped the shoes on and brushing droplets from his face, joined the couple in the drawing room.

"Good Lord, but it's a rotten day," he commented, pouring himself a healthy bourbon from the bar. He went to warm his backside before the fire and removed a long, slim case from his coat and presented it to Heather. "My most gracious little Tory, I've brought you a gift, though I declare its usefulness might be questioned on this day."