One Perfect Flower

by Roberta C. D. DeCaprio

  Confused and now somewhat frustrated, he sighed. “How do you know, lass, unless he has a look at you?”

  She raised the cloth from her eyes again. “I already know there is nothing he can do. There is nothing anyone can do for what I have.”

  Her resignation unnerved him. “Mother of God, Raven, what do you think you have?”

  She motioned to the bed. “Sit, Braiton. We need to talk.”

  His heart froze, and a wave of panic washed over him. “What is it, my lady? What’s wrong?”

  Raven sighed. “I imagine this is something a wife should not keep from her husband.” Her own father always knew when her mother’s courses came. But their relationship was a genuine love, where her marriage only one of convenience.

  His mouth thinned. “You should keep nothing from me, lass, especially when it concerns your health.”

  “It is not all that bad,” she reassured him. “More an inconvenience, really, than anything else, though I suppose complications could arise if I did not rest.”

  “What complications?” The muscles at his jaw pulsed.

  She cast a glance at the compress she held in her hand. “My woman’s time has come, and it is the first one since...” she paused, the blush rising to heat her cheeks. “Since my illness aboard the ship,” she finally finished. It was a time she wished never to remember, but one she knew she would never forget. Agent Hall ruined her for all times, tainted her and left her a used woman. It was the reason Braiton would never consider their marriage anything more than a business deal.

  He remained silent.

  She raised her gaze to meet his, thinking she would see the disgust in his eyes, but instead he appeared distressed over her condition. “It did not come upon me like those I have had before, but Molly said it was to be expected,” she added. “Staying off my feet for a while will help.” She sighed. “Do you understand, Braiton?”

  “Aye, my lady, I do now.” Combing his fingers through his hair, he forced a smile. “I’m afraid I’m not use to such matters, so I ask you to forgive me for not knowing what to do, and then tell me what you will need.”

  “Just rest is all, my shikaa, and perhaps…” she glanced over at her meal tray sitting on a nearby table, “you could help me eat this breakfast. I do not know what Anna was thinking when she doled out such a large portion. This is way too much food for me to eat alone, especially this morning, when all I have a stomach for is dry toast and tea.”

  “’Twould be my pleasure, lass.” He stood, pulled the dressing table chair beside her, and helped himself to her meal.

  She munched half-heartedly on the dry toast as he talked about the fox hunt held each year at Glenview, the Lord of Bunratty’s mansion. “I remember you mentioning you’ve hunted, so I thought you’d like to join me.”

  She smiled. “I would love to join you.” She took a sip of her tea. “I have only hunted bear and mountain lion with my father, both being hard to bring down. But I suppose a lupan, gray fox could give a challenge as well.”

  He nearly choked on a piece of sausage he popped into his mouth. “Bears and mountain lions,” he repeated.

  She giggled. “Did you think I only hunted furry gahs, rabbits and bushy-tailed squirrels?” She batted her eyelashes. “Really, now Braiton, do I look that delicate,” she teased.

  “My dear woman, I’m hardly perceived as delicate, yet I’d consider carefully bringing down such animals as bears and mountain lions.”

  “Why so? One clean shot between the eyes does it every time.”

  He arched a brow. “What happens if you fail, lass? Surely you must have thought of that?”

  She frowned. “Well, not too hard or for too long or else you will fail. It is you against the animal—one the hunter, the other the prey. I choose to be the hunter.”

  His eyes roamed the length of her. “I sincerely believe you’d not fit in any other role.” He leaned forward in his seat. “And does the cat and mouse game you play with me also render me your prey?”

  She smiled. “I suppose the answer to that questions centers on which you want to be, the gidi, cat or the mouse.”

  He poured them more tea. “Which is the winner?”

  “That depends on how you play the game.” She took a sip of the tea, contemplating her next words. “If the mouse can get the cat boiling mad, then slips away, I would then say the mouse is the winner. But if the gidi frightens the mouse and then catches him, then the cat wins the day.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “I’m at a quandary to choose, either way I could lose.”

  “Or win, it all revolves around the stand you wish to take.”

  “The law of the wild, my lady?”

  “The law of life, my shikaa,” she countered.

  He searched her face. “You’re a most clever woman, Raven.”

  “Not a featherhead?”

  He laughed again. “Nay, definitely not a featherhead.”

  The cramps subsided while they talked, but now the pain returned, making its way to the lower part of her back. Stretching out in the bed would do wonders. “I think I need to rest now.” She pulled aside the throw covering her and swung her legs off the chaise, but when she stood, the room spun.

  He caught her before she hit the floor and carried her to the bed. Then wet the eye compress in a basin of cool water left on the bedside table. He swabbed her face and neck, pushing aside a strand of hair from her forehead.

  “Just stay quiet and rest, my lady.”

  He was so close; the musky scent of his cologne filled her senses. Before she knew it, she stroked his clean shaven cheek with the back of her hand. “You look so tired, Braiton.”

  He forced a smile. “Then perhaps I should also take a nap.”

  “Nap here with me,” she said, moving over to give him room.

  He was silent for what seemed to her an eternity, then he sat at the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots, and climbed in beside her. He lay back against the pillow and stretched his arm out to her.

  She rolled into his embrace, resting her cheek upon his shoulder, and placing a hand flat against his hard, muscular chest. It was heaven being in his arms. Peace engulfed her. She closed her eyes and slept the best she had in weeks.

  ****

  Four days in bed healed her body but did nothing for her mind. Bored to tears of reading and embroidery, she decided to make her way downstairs to have her nightly mug of milk, before Molly brought it up to her. Brawn declined her offer to come along with a large yawn, returning to his slumber before the fire.

  “You are becoming a lazy dog,” she scolded, slipping on her robe and slippers. “I will leave the door open in case you change your mind.” He yawned again.

  Molly and Anna sat at the table, chatting over tea. Brian was preparing a night tray for Braiton when she entered the kitchen.

  “I was just about to bring you your mug o’ milk, m’lady,” Molly said.

  She took the seat beside Molly. “I thought I would have my milk with you ladies, tonight.” She made a face. “I am growing tired of looking at the walls in my room.”

  Anna smiled. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re feelin’ better, lass.”

  “Me, too, Anna.” She cast a glance at Brian. “What is it you are bringing up to Lord Shannon?”

  “’Tis a snout of whiskey, m’lady.”

  She frowned. “I thought he drank warm milk before bed.”

  Brian sighed. “Nay, not anymore. He says the whiskey helps him sleep better.”

  “He has trouble sleeping, too?”

  Brian nodded. “Sometimes he sits by the fire till the wee hours of the mornin’.”

  She stood and took the tray from Brian. “Lord Shannon does not need the power of spirits to make him sleep.” She removed the tumbler of whiskey from the tray. “I remember my father saying, ‘when you ease the heart, the mind will rest.’ Besides, I know what will help much better.”

  “But he’ll not let me bring him anythin’ but the
whiskey,” Brian protested.

  She gave his arm a reassuring pat. “Then I will bring the tray to him tonight.”

  “But, m’lady…”

  “It will be fine,” she interrupted. “Lord Shannon will enjoy the best sleep he has had in a long time.” She turned her attention toward Anna. “Have we sleeping herbs, Anna?”

  “Aye, m’lady.” She rose from her seat and retrieved a tin canister from a nearby shelf. When she lifted the lid, it was filled with remedies. “I’ve some for fever, a few for consumption…”

  “Any for relaxing,” she broke in.

  Anna nodded and pulled a tiny gauze bag filled with herbs from the tin. “That would be this one, m’lady.”

  She opened the bag and dropped its contents into two mugs. “Tonight we will both get the rest due us.” Adding the tea already brewed, she placed the cups on the tray. “I would ask you all a favor now.” She smiled, glancing at each one. “Please, do not come to us unless one of us rings for you.”

  They nodded in unison.

  She mounted the stairs with more caution then usual, fearing she would spill the tea over the cup’s rim; or worse yet, she would drop the fine china. A new found respect welled in her heart for Brian’s talent of balancing the tray on just the palm of his hand. He made it look so easy.

  She rapped on Braiton’s bedchamber door, entering upon his request. She discovered him sitting with his back to her, in a chair by the fire, puffing on his clay pipe. The smell of spice and vanilla filled the room. She remained silent, placing the tray upon a large desk and bringing the cup over to the table beside his chair.

  He glanced at the tea and frowned. “Where is the whiskey?” He looked up with a scowl, his mouth ajar when he saw her instead of Brian.

  “Tea is much better for you.” Before he could protest, she pulled a chair up beside his. “I thought I would join you tonight.” She cast him a warm smile. “You do not mind, do you?”

  “Nay, my lady, I don’t mind,” he grumbled.

  She ignored his foul mood and retrieved her own cup from the tray, glancing around the room while sipping her tea. It was much bigger than her chamber, his done in deep blue and cream. The ornate carvings on the oak wardrobe and desk were done in detail and with quality craftsmanship. The huge bed, its elegant velvet drapery hanging down each post, was far grander than any she imagined.

  She set her cup down and made her way to it, running her hands over the plush coverlet that matched the canopy and drapery.

  Openly she admired the décor. “This room is magnificent.”

  He rose from his seat to stand beside her. “What pleases you about it?”

  “It is so much like you, strong, handsome, and bold, yet warm and comforting.” She turned around to look at him and was sure he blushed. She smiled and inhaled the tobacco’s aroma filling the room. “I like the scent from your pipe as well.” She moved to the veranda doors, caressing the soft velvet of the deep blue drapes. “What can you see from here?”

  “I’ll show you,” he offered, pulling aside the long curtains and unbolting the lock. He threw the double doors open and walked out onto the stone veranda.

  She followed, the brisk night air stinging her cheeks. She shivered, pulling the collar of her robe up around her neck, and looked out over the dark, silent expanse of the property. The moon’s reflection danced on the calm waters of the Shannon River in the distance. To one side of the estate, there loomed a building, half of it only a shell. It was outlined against the night sky. She pointed to the partial ruins. “What was once there?”

  “The first Shannonbrook mansion.” HisI voice was low and smooth. “The West wing was destroyed by fire when I was just a wee lad.” He sighed. “I have little memory of the time I spent there.”

  A chill ran down her spine, and she shivered again. “It looks scary.”

  “Nay, lass, ’tis just sad, I’d say.” He turned her way, concern edging his tone. “I think you’re growing as cold as our tea.” He gestured for her to precede him into his chamber.

  She reached for two large pillows and a throw from the bed and laid them out by the fireplace. Then she picked up her tea cup and sat cross-legged before the fire.

  “Come, join me.”

  He moved closer. “On the floor?”

  She nodded. “My people enjoy a fire in this fashion all the time.”

  He smiled and retrieved his own cup before sitting beside her. “Tell me more about your people.”

  “Well, as I said, they enjoy sitting by the fire and telling stories.”

  The reflection of the fire flickered in the center of his green eyes. He sat back and relaxed against the pillow. “What kind of stories do they tell?”

  She sensed his relaxation and was pleased with accomplishing her task. “Stories about the lupan, gray fox, and the baya, coyote, or the mato, bear, and the mountain lion,” she explained. “All the tales are meant to teach a lesson and bring forth much wisdom.”

  He sat forward, placing his cup on the floor beside him and pulled off his boots. He wiggled his toes beneath his socks. “And did you learn from these fables?”

  She smiled, fond memories of her childhood coming into her mind’s eye. “I learned my share.” She giggled. “My father would tell me I needed to listen harder than the others, because of my willful spirit.”

  Braiton laughed and lounged again against the pillow. “Your father is a wise man. His summarizing of you is perfect.”

  She placed her cup aside and lie back, too. “I hope I will be as good and wise a parent.”

  His eyes turned sad. “You wish to have children of your own?”

  “Oh, yes, children are such a gift. How else could family traditions and legacies be carried on?”

  He sighed and stretched his arms out to draw her close. “How, indeed; legacies both good and bad.”

  She snuggled into his embrace, the warmth of the fire and his body heat making her lids grow heavy. She yawned. “Can I stay here with you, Braiton?”

  “Aye, lass,” he whispered before they both fell asleep cradled in each other’s arms.

  ****

  He woke refreshed, ’twas the first good night’s rest he had in months. The whiskey never accomplished such results. She still rested in the hollow of his arm, their positions proving neither stirred a muscle all night. The fire had died, yet he was warm. She was warm in his arms.

  He glanced at her face; delicate lids shut in peaceful slumber, thick dark lashes curling away from high cheekbones. Her full lips, slightly parted, invited him to taste their sweetness. He covered her mouth with his, awakening the sleeping beauty with a kiss.

  Her hand moved to rest on the back of his neck, fingers playing with the hairs at the nape. His tongue wasted no time in claiming her, darting around in her mouth and exploring the soft corners. ’Twas as his dreams, though a thousand times better. She was warm, willing, and God he wanted her—all of her—to experience the pleasures of her body and cool the fires of passion burning within him.

  He swelled beneath his breeches; desire a surging current of molten lava. His hands roamed to her thighs, his kisses to her throat. She threw her head back, giving him more of her soft, slim neck to suckle.

  “Raven,” he whispered, his body trembling with ardor. “This cannot be.”

  She placed each of her hands on his cheeks, bringing his gaze to meet hers. Sapphire eyes burned with fervor, their depths reaching to his very soul.

  He grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. “This cannot be,” he repeated, and in one fluid motion he was upon his feet, looking down at her. “Leave now lass, while you are still the hunter.” He turned his back to her, moving to stand by the desk.

  “Go, Raven. Now,” he demanded.

  He heard her scramble to her feet. “What is it, Braiton?”

  He combed his fingers through his hair. “You need to return to your bedchamber, posthaste.” He felt the chill of the room now. It seeped to his bones, surrounded hi
s heart.

  “Please, tell me what troubles you,” she begged.

  He shut his eyes, the hurt and confusion in her voice increasing the guilt consuming him. “There’s nothing to tell, I just want you gone.” He turned to face her. “Leave, now.”

  He watched her fight back the tears filling her eyes. “If that is what you wish.”

  “’Tis,” he snapped.

  She ran to the door, slamming it shut behind her.

  “Damn,” he hissed, picking up a ceramic horse from the desk and throwing it across the room. It shattered against the mantle, much like his resolve. Exactly like his heart.

  He glanced over at the veranda doors. Morning’s light seeped into the room between the half-closed drapes. He took an audible breath and folded his arms across his chest.

  “It seems, once more,” he whispered, “I am destined to meet the approaching dawn alone.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Wee Lassie, Braiton’s private passenger ship, carried them over the Shannon River to Bunratty. The cabins were on a much smaller scale than his cargo ship, The Sweet Maureen, but Raven's quarters served her needs well enough for the short voyage.

  Raven watched from her bunk as Molly checked and rechecked the baggage, hoping nothing important was forgotten.

  “All will be fine, Molly,” she reassured the elder woman. “We have more packed for this trip then we need as it is.”

  “Nay, m’lady, ’tis not enough,” was Molly’s worried response. “You’ll be havin’ several formal dinners to attend, the opera, a ball or two, and the hunt. ’Twould not be proper for the Lady o’ Limerick to be caught wearin’ the same gown twice.”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “No, we must not let that happen. Wearing the yellow brocade twice would truly bring disgrace upon us all.”

  Molly frowned at her sarcastic tone and stopped fussing with the luggage, coming to sit beside her on the bunk and taking her hand.

  “Was this trip not in your favor, m’lady?”

  She sighed. “It was at first, but I am not so sure now.”

  “What has changed?”

  “Not a thing, Molly,” she lied, not wanting to explain what happened between her and Braiton in his chamber a few nights ago. She stood and made her way to the baggage, busying herself with arranging the compartments.