The Flame and the Flower (6 page)

She shook her head in agony. He didn't know. He didn't know about her at all. He was just a seaman from a foreign country. She choked on her tears, vowing he must never know of her greater sin.

"I thought they were sent after me. I became separated from my cousin and lost my way. I thought your men were from my cousin's."

Her head fell back against the wall and tears made wet paths down her face and plunged to her naked bosom which quivered with her silent crying. He watched those pale round breasts and his frown deepened as he wondered what repercussions there would be for this deed. Perhaps she was kin to some high official. He could almost feel the cold steel of the ax biting into his neck. He rose from the bed and stood by its edge, his back turned to her.

"Who are your parents?" he asked hoarsely. "Someone as beautiful and well bred as you must have many friends at court or come from a very influential family."

Her head rolled wearily back and forth against the wall. "My parents are dead and I've never been to court."

He walked to her gown where it lay on the floor. He picked it up and turned to her holding it. "You must have wealth. This gown cost no few pence."

She looked at him and laughed, a bit amused. "I'm without a farthing, sir. My cousin gave me the gown. I work for my mere existence."

He looked down at the sparkling beads on the gown. "Won't this cousin be worried about you and be out trying to find you?"

Heather grew silent as her eyes dropped to her nakedness. "No," she murmured. "I doubt that now. My cousin isn't one to worry long over the matter."

Brandon smiled in relief and draped the gown over the back of a chair. He walked to the washstand where he began to wash. He turned a few moments later to watch the girl rise from his bunk, and his eyes moved over her body slowly, taking in every detail of her alluring curves. She felt his gaze and clutched her arms before her to shield her womanhood from him, and he laughed softly and turned back to the mirror and prepared to shave while she hurriedly sought her old chemise from her bundle.

"There's no reason then, Heather, why you can't stay with me and be my mistress. I'll find you a house in town where you may live in comfort and where I may take my leisure. I'll furnish you with a goodly sum so you will not have to seek out other men nor would I allow you to do that. There'll be times in the future when I'll want to return and will need feminine companionship while I'm here. I'd like to think that matter is taken care of."

For a moment Heather was almost overcome by her hatred of the man. The emotion was beyond anything she had ever felt for anyone before. His casual attitude toward her and the whole affair infuriated her so much she wanted to shriek in rage and fling herself upon him and claw his handsome face to ribbons. But she thought better of it as she saw, now that he had his back to her and the door, her chance to escape. Wearing nothing more than her shift, she bit into her lip to keep it from quivering and eased her gown from the chair. She clutched her bundle to her. She stepped toward the door cautiously, her heart in her throat, and took another step.

"Heather!" he said sharply, startling her and sending all hopes of escape fleeing. She turned fearfully and found his fierce green eyes upon her as he casually stropped his razor, and she knew terror—horrible, soul-shaking terror.

"Do you think I'm going to let you sneak away from me? You're too unique to find a replacement for and I have no intentions of letting you slip through my fingers."

The deadly calm in his deep voice was more frightening than Aunt Fanny's violent shrieks had ever been. She trembled before him as the color drained from her face. He picked up the strop and the pounding of her heart almost drowned out the noise the leather made as he sharpened his razor. Her eyes grew round and she cringed fearfully away. A small, satanic smile curved his lips and he snapped his fingers and pointed to the bunk.

"Now get back in that."

She was well conditioned to taking orders and she did so now, terrified of what he might do if she didn't. Still clutching her bundle and gown, she sat down on the bunk and stared up at him as if she expected to be flogged. He dropped the strop on the table and wiping his face on a towel, came to the bunk and stood for a moment looking down at her. Then he threw the towel in a chair and took the things from her. He pointed to her shift.

"Get that off."

Heather swallowed hard. Her eyes flew down his body and widened even more. She was fast losing her innocence.

"Please—" she gasped.

"I'm not a patient man, Heather," he said and his voice was very menacing.

Her fingers shook as she untied the ribbons and unfastened the tiny buttons between her breasts. She caught the hem and raised it over her head. Her eyes lifted shamefully to his as she felt his fiery gaze upon her body.

"Now lie down," he directed.

She slid down into the bunk and her whole being quaked with fear of him and of what was to come. She tried to cover herself with her hands, feeling the awful humiliation of being naked and a coward.

"Don't," he said and slid in beside her and drew her quaking limbs to his.

"Please," she whimpered. "Aren't you satisfied that you've taken the one thing that was only mine to give. Must you keep torturing me again and again?"

"You might as well accept your lot as a paramour, my sweet, and become aware of the finer arts of the profession. The first thing I'm going to show you is that it doesn't necessarily have to be painful. You fought me twice now and the last time caused your own misery. This time you will relax and let me do as I want without a struggle and though you may not enjoy it yet, you'll see what I say is true."

"No! No!" she cried, trying to struggle free, but he clamped his hand tightly on her waist.

"Be still."

Again he commanded, again she obeyed. She hated him but her fear was greater by far. She trembled violently with it.

"Is this the way you treat your wife?" she asked miserably.

He smiled and bent over her lips. "I'm not married, sweet."

She had no more to say when his kiss ended but lay tense and waiting. He made no move to mount her. Instead he played gently with her, caressing, softly titillating, cupping her breasts and pressing kisses over her body.

"Relax," he murmured against her throat. "Just lie still and don't fight me. Later you can learn what pleases a man, but for now just lie still."

Her mind tumbled over itself in its frenzy and no words sought her tongue. As she lay and submitted to his pawing, her life passed before her as if she were dying, and she wondered what great evil she had done that the past years should have abused her so cruelly. Yet even Aunt Fanny's endless heckling would be better than having to lie here under this man's hands while he pleasured himself with her. Trapped! Caught! Like a bird in a snare and now, plump and roasted, she must wait on the platter while he whetted his knife for the carving. And when the feast was done, what then? The same table? The same dinner? Again and again? Surely no simpleminded fowl ever suffered its fate but once.

Her thighs were parted and she could not suppress a gasp as he drove home.

"Easy, sweet," he breathed.

She closed her eyes tightly and stilled her careening fears. There was nothing to do now but let him have his way. When he lay finished above her, he whispered against her hair.

"Any more bruises, m'lady?"

She kept her eyes shut and turned her head aside. She loathed the very thought of him. He moved against her, urging her answer.

"Did I hurt you this time?"

"No," she choked out.

He laughed softly and freeing her from his embrace, sat on the berth beside her and drew the sheet over her.

"You don't appear to be a cold wench,
ma petite
," he said, running his hand over the curve of her thigh and waist, "only for the moment a reluctant one. Soon you'll learn to enjoy it. For now just learn to accept it."

"Never!" she half sobbed. "I hate you! I loathe you! I despise you! Not in a million years!"

"You'll change your mind," he laughed. He stood up. "Someday you'll be begging for it."

She turned in a huff, presenting her back to him and jerked the sheet over her shoulder. He chuckled again and reaching down, caressed her buttock.

"Just wait, Heather, and we'll see which one of us is right."

Anger shook her. He was so confident of himself, of her, of the future. He had it all neatly planned. And what did she have to say in the matter? All she could do was beg for mercy and that would fall on deaf ears. But given the opportunity she would escape.

She smiled to herself, thinking of that, and her spirits rose if only slightly. Her chance would come sooner or later and she would not hesitate to take it. The mere thought of escape soothed her frayed nerves and she relaxed into the pillows, listening to Brandon move about the cabin behind her. Her eyelids grew heavy and sleep pushed aside even those more requitable thoughts.

When Heather woke, she opened her eyes without moving. The room was still and quiet and she thought herself alone at last, but when she rolled on her back she saw Brandon at his desk with quill in hand, reading over his ledgers. He was dressed and seemed for the moment to have forgotten her, engrossed in his work as he was. She might have been some stick of furniture for as much attention as he paid her. She watched him quietly. There was no denying that he was handsome, physically magnificent. She might have even dreamed once of such a man. But never in those innocent dreams of romance did she imagine that her love would fly to her on the wings of violence, or that she would be kept against her will to fulfill base desires.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, looking up to find her eyes on him. He smiled and rose from the desk. "I hope you're hungry. I waited to breakfast with you."

She sat up in the corner of the bed, clutching the sheet over her bosom, and her hair fell in soft disarray over her shoulders.

"I want to get dressed," she murmured, watching him cautiously as he came forward to lean against a timber above the bunk.

He smiled warmly. "If you must, my love." His eyes went over her. "Do you want any help?"

Heather almost climbed the wall to escape from him. "Don't you touch me!" she cried.

"Ah-h, I see my little kitten has her claws bared." He looked deep into her eyes. "Shall I make you purr, my sweet?"

"I'll scream," she whimpered. "So help me I will."

His white teeth flashed as he reached out and took her by the wrists and pulled her to him. His eyes held hers prisoner.

"Do you think that would do you any good?" he asked, as if amused. "Unless called for, my men stay away from this cabin when I'm entertaining. Besides, my dear, I can stop your screams quite easily with my kisses."

She shrank from him and a shudder of revulsion passed through her as his gaze went down her body, but he only laughed. Catching her around the waist, he swung her to her feet.

"You're very tempting, m'lady, but it isn't time for your second lesson yet. My servant is waiting to serve us our meal."

He left her to open a locker by the bed, and drew out a man's dressing gown which he handed to her.

"It's a trifle large, but it's the best I can offer at the moment." He smiled. "I'll take you this afternoon to purchase some clothes. If you're like most other women that should perk you up."

She quickly wrapped the robe around her and found herself lost in it. There was no doubt it was his and it was far too big for her. The sleeves trailed below her hands and the bottom dragged the floor, so she had to gather in a good foot of it to walk.

A smile played lightly about Brandon's lips and his eyes gleamed as he observed her. He helped her fold back the sleeves.

"If it's possible to be jealous of a simple garment, m'lady, then I am of this one, and if it had life I'd warrant it would be aquiver now with its good fortune."

She glanced away nervously. "May I be allowed privacy to wash, sir?" She clutched the robe tightly at her throat and whispered, "Please."

He made a sweeping bow and grinned. "Your slightest wish is my command, m'lady. There are matters concerning the cargo that need my attention anyway so you may have some time."

She eyed him covertly as he walked to the door and before he opened it he glanced back at her and grinned quite devilishly, then made his exit with a laugh.

Heather released a small sigh of relief and went to the washstand where she poured water in the bowl. She scrubbed every inch of her body until her skin glowed a healthy pink. She longed for a steaming tub bath so that she could soak in it and remove from her body every trace and remembrance of him, of the fine mist of sweat that had moistened his body and then hers, the feel of his hands upon her, the memory of his smothering kisses. Everything. Every tiniest bit of evidence that she had been his.

The cool water helped a little to revive her downtrodden spirits, and she donned her shabby shift and pink gown, feeling a trifle better. She raked her fingers through her hair, combing it as best she could in that manner, then returned his robe to the locker, noting as she did so the well chosen and obviously costly clothes within. It was irritating to think that she couldn't secretly laugh at his choice of apparel.