“Tell me, Lady Cabot, how do you like my attire? If you view this with pleasure, you must see the gowns my aunt gave to me.”
Laughing, she whirled and threw open the doors of the wardrobe to inspect the assortment of gowns within, deciding William wouldn’t mind if she feasted her eyes on them. She had always enjoyed beautiful clothes and it had been hateful wearing those old dresses of her aunt. She selected a few gowns to admire further, took them to hold before her in front of the mirror, dreaming a little of owning such fine clothes.
She did not hear the door open behind her, but as it was pushed wide she spun around with a start and saw William standing on the threshold, wearing a dressing gown. Doubt grew rapidly to sweep away her confidence. It dawned on her why he was there and it came as a great surprise, having associated him with Aunt Fanny and her rigid views of such matters. She stood staring at him, stunned, feeling the weight of the trap he had sprung upon her. She had fallen into it like a lamb for slaughter. His eyes burned bright in his ruddy face and a repulsive smile twisted his thick lips. He turned and locked the door behind him and leisurely held the key to tantalize her before he dropped it into his pocket. His gaze roamed over her and he seemed to enjoy the fear he saw in her face.
“What do you want?” she breathed.
He leered. “I’ve come to collect my due for taking you away from that dreary life in the country. You are such a tempting wench I couldn’t resist you. And you were so trusting it was easy to snatch you from my poor sister. When I tire of you I shall allow you to join Lady Cabot’s lovely group. You’ll not find boredom there. And in time perhaps I’ll even let you wed some rich soul who fancies you.” He came a step closer. “There’ll be no need for you to worry, child. Your husband will be a bit disappointed when he takes you to his bed, but he’ll not complain too loudly.”
He moved forward and Heather backed fearfully against the table by the bed.
“I plan to have you, my dear,” he said smugly. “So there is no reason why you should fight me. I’m a very strong man. I do enjoy force if that is what it is to be, but I prefer willingness.”
She shook her head. “No,” she choked through her fright. “No! You’ll never have me! Never!”
William laughed in a terrifying way and Heather braced herself to flee. He was deeply flushed from the great amount of wine he had consumed and the fire raging through his veins. His raking gaze unclothed her and she pressed her hand to her bosom as if to ward off his penetrating gaze. She made to dart past him, but he was quick despite his fleshy bulk and he caught her round the waist. He pressed her backward over the table, enfolding her in a bone crushing grip. His lips, wet and sticky with wine, sank to her throat, and a sick feeling of nausea rose within her. She struggled with him, but her strength was no match for his. As his lips traveled upward she strained her face from him and tried to kick out, but his weight increased, pinning her legs against the table. She was held in an iron grip that left her breathless, and she wondered if her ribs could stand the pressure without cracking. In a panic she remembered the candelabrum on the table behind her and reached for it to protect herself with. She almost had it within her grasp but she was too hasty and it fell to the floor. Then her hand brushed the knife and she clutched at it in desperation.
William was intent on spreading his hot, moist kisses over her throat and bosom, paying little heed to what she did until he felt something sharp press against his side. Glancing down he saw the knife and with a startled oath snatched at her arm. She winced in pain as his fingers closed cruelly about her wrist, yet she held on in blind desperation. His anger soared that this small slip of a girl should dare threaten his body. Heather fought back with all the strength she could muster. His obesity forced her backward until it felt as if her back would break. Her hand grew numb and she knew she must soon yield the blade to him. Pressing his weight against her, William freed his other hand and, reaching across, twisted the small knife from her. Fearing the worst, Heather ceased her struggle and fell to the floor at his feet; deprived of her support, less than agile William Court staggered forward and fell headlong upon the polished planks. He gave a growl with the impact. Heather had risen and stood poised to flee when William slowly rolled over. The small hilt of the fruit knife protruded from a slowly blooming spot of red on the shoulder of his gown.
“Pull . . . it out . . .” he gasped.
She bent and put a cautious hand to the knife but shuddered and recoiled from him, twisting her hands against her mouth in blinding fear.
“Please,” he croaked. “Help me.”
She sank her teeth into her hand in panic and looked wildly about the room. He groaned, louder now; confusion shook her every fiber and fear and hatred raged within her body. If he were dying . . .
“Heather, help me. . . .”
His voice trailed off and his chin quivered as if with the effort of drawing another breath.
From some inner source, strength welled forth and calm returned. She leaned forward and drawing a ragged breath, took the knife with greater determination. Now she braced her other hand against his chest and pulled.
The blade resisted a moment then slowly came out with a grating feel to it. Blood welled forth and with a gasp William fell back unconscious. Heather snatched a towel from the table, opened his robe and pressed it to the wound. Absently she laid her hand upon his chest and could detect no movement. Now she searched for some sign of life in earnest. Holding her hand beneath his nostrils she could feel no breath, and laying her ear to him she could hear no beat of his heart. Her own began pounding in her ears. She felt panic rise again and now could find no reason nor strength to battle it.
“Dear Lord, what have I done?” she murmured.
“I must get help!” The thought flared across her mind. But who would believe her, a stranger in this city now? Newgate was crowded with women who claimed men had tried to assault them—and the block got its share too. They’d not believe it was just an accident! In her mind she held a picture of a stern judge in a long wig sneering down from his high bench, and then the face beneath the white hair became that of Aunt Fanny, sternly pronouncing sentence.
“. . . and at sunrise the next day following shall be taken to Newgate Square and there . . .”
Her mind would go no further, yet the echo of the stentorian voice fanned the flames of terror until they seared her very soul. Her body shook and had she not been kneeling she would have fallen. Her head slumped and for a long time she sat not even thinking, then at last she looked up and a thought came to her.
“I must get away from here.”
It was as simple as that. She must escape. She musn’t be here when they found William’s body. She must flee.
Still gripped in panic, she forced herself to search his pockets for the key. She trembled, but it had to be done. Her own fear now fed her strength.
She wrapped her own clothes in a scarf she found and clutching it to her, hurried to the door. She paused there for a moment without opening it, picturing the scene behind her. Again fear gripped her. She flung open the door and began to run as fast as her legs could carry her, through the parlor, the hall doorway, down the stairs, and toward the curtained doorway to the shop. As she put out her hand to fling open the draperies her panic increased. Someone was there behind the curtain. Her already fast pace was quickened by sheer terror. Someone was after her. She ran swiftly, not daring to turn, her heart pounding hard in her bosom.
She tore down the street, fearful of glancing back. She had no idea where she was going. Perhaps if she lost herself she could lose whoever was behind her. But why couldn’t she hear anyone running after her? Was her own heart beating so loudly in her ears that she could hear nothing else?
Through the streets of London she raced, past shops of business, past great houses that loomed large and menacing in the darkness, past houses of lesser importance. She did not pay any attention to the people who stopped and stared after her.
Soon she wa
s exhausted, and in spite of her fear she stopped to lean against a rough-hewn stone wall. Her lungs burned with the effort of each breath she sobbed. Gradually she became aware of the tang of salt in her nostrils and the fetid smell of the waterfront. She raised her head and opened her eyes. Dense fog lay close upon the cobblestone street and the darkness pressed in until she could hardly breathe. A torch burned on a distant corner and she sought its light and could not bring herself to leave the small circle and go again into the dense black-grey night that surrounded her. Had she the courage, she knew not which way to flee. There was no hint of direction. She could hear the slow lap of water against the pier and the measured creaking of masts and an occasional muffled voice, but the sounds came to her from all around and she could see no spark of light anywhere.
“There she be, by Jove! That’s the one! That’s her! Come on, George. Let’s get her.”
Heather started and whirled about and saw what appeared to be two seamen coming toward her. They knew about her and were coming for her. They were the ones who had been following her. For some reason she had thought it was Mr. Hint. Her legs could not move. She could not flee. She had to wait there for them to take her.
“Hello, miss,” the older one said and smiled at his companion. “’Tis sure the cap’n will like ‘er, eh Dickie?”
The other one passed his tongue over his lips and lowered his gaze to Heather’s bosom. “Aye. This one will suit him fine.”
Heather trembled under the scrutiny of the men, but from the present time on she knew she would have no liberties. The only thing left her was to be brave.
“Where are you taking me?” she managed.
Dickie laughed and punched the other in the ribs. “Kind o’ receptive, ain’t she? He’ll like her all right. Makes me wish I was him an’ could afford such.”
“Just a little ways, miss,” the older one replied. “On board the merchant ship, Fleetwood. Come on.”
She followed the man and the younger fell in behind, giving her no chance to escape. She wondered why they must take her on board a ship. There must be a portreeve there. It didn’t matter. Her life was nothing now. Meekly she climbed the gangplank after the fellow and received his hand as he helped her down from it. He led the way across the deck to a door which he opened and she was ushered through a short companionway and after a light knock, through the door at its end.
As they entered the captain’s cabin, a man rose from the desk where he had been sitting and had it not been for her bruised state of mind, Heather would have noticed his tall, muscular build and piercing green eyes. Fawn colored breeches were fitted snug about his narrow hips and a white ruffled shirt, opened to the waist, revealed a chest wide and firmly muscled beneath a mat of crisp black hair. He had the look of a pirate about him, or even Satan himself, with his dark, curly hair and long sideburns that accentuated the lean, handsome features of his face. His nose was thin and straight except for a slight hook in its profile just below the bridge. His hair was raven black and his skin darkly tanned. White teeth flashed in contrast as he smiled and came forward, sweeping her with a bold gaze from top to toe.
“Aye, you’ve done a handsome night’s work with this one, George. You must have searched hard and wide for her.”
“Nay, cap’n,” the old man returned. “We found her walking the streets of the waterfront. She came most willingly, cap’n.”
The man nodded and walked slowly, deliberately, completely around Heather as she stood rooted to the floor, not touching her with anything but those emerald eyes and they were enough, boldly, rudely evaluating every angle of her visible assets. A coldness grew deep inside her and she clutched her small bundle to her bosom. She felt naked in the thin gown and wished for some sack of heavy black that would cover her from neck to wrist to toe. He paused before her for a moment, smiling, but her eyes would not meet his. She kept them cast downward and stood humbly awaiting some indication of her fate. Behind her the two men grinned, extremely pleased with themselves.
The tall man moved aside with them and the fellow, George, spoke in a low voice. Heather’s eyes moved about the cabin but saw nothing. Outwardly she appeared calm, but the emotional strains raging within her further sapped her strength. She was exhausted, bone tired, confused. She found it difficult to reconcile a magistrate of the law on board a ship, but knowing little of the processes of justice, reasoned that she was probably to be sent to some penal colony, for in her own mind she was guilty of murder.
“Oh God,” she thought, “that I should be raised from a sty by the temptation of a life of ease and for my sin plunged into a prison. I killed a man and I’ve been caught and I must now accept whatever fate decrees for me.”
Her mind stopped and held and was trapped by these final facts. She was guilty. She was caught. Justice had done with her and she had no further word. She did not hear the door close behind her as the seamen left, but words from the man who stood before her roused her from her thoughts. He laughed gently and made a sweeping bow.
“Welcome back, m’lady, and I repeat, what is your name.”
“Heather,” she murmured softly. “Heather Simmons, sir.”
“Ah,” he sighed. “A small, tempting flower from the moors. It’s a most lovely and fitting name, m’lady. Brandon Birmingham is my name. Most of my friends call me Bran. Have you dined this evening?”
She made a small nod.
“Then perhaps some wine—a very fine Madeira,” he’ commented, lifting one of several decanters from a small table.
She shook her head slowly, dropping her gaze to the floor. He laughed softly and came forward to stand close before her. He took the bundle she clutched and tossed it in a nearby chair as he stared down at her, dazzled by her youthful beauty and the gown that seemed only a sparkling veil over her body. Her ivory skin glowed softly in the candlelight, and by the golden flames he saw before him a small woman, gracefully slender with breasts full and round, generously and temptingly swelling above her gown. They rose and fell slowly with her breath.
He moved closer and in a rapid movement slipped his arm about her narrow waist, nearly lifting her from the floor, and then covered her mouth with his, engulfing Heather in a heady scent, not unlike that of a brandy her father had been fond of. She was too surprised to resist and hung limp in his embrace. She saw herself as if from outside her body and felt with mild amusement his tongue parting her lips and thrusting within. From a low level of consciousness there grew a vague feeling of pleasure and, had the circumstances been different, she might have enjoyed the hard, masculine feel of his body against hers. He stepped back, still smiling, but with a new fire kindled in his eyes. As he took his hands from her she gasped in stunned surprise for her gown fell in a heap about her ankles. She stared at him for a split second before she hurriedly bent to retrieve the garment, but those hands caught her shoulders and straightened her and she was again enfolded in his arms. This time she fought, for with sudden clarity it dawned on her just what he had in mind. She realized her disadvantage as her exhausted body struggled weakly against him. If William Court’s grip had been of iron, this man’s entire being was of finely-tempered steel. She could not free herself and her hands pushed in vain against his chest. Her struggles pulled his shirt loose and then his furred chest lay bare against her with only the thin film of the chemise between them. She was left breathless each time his mouth took hers and passionate kisses seemed to cover her face and bosom. She felt his hands go up her back and with an easy tug he separated the shift and snatched it from her. Her naked breasts were crushed against his chest and in fearful panic she pushed hard and for a moment was free of him. He gave a deep throaty laugh and used the interlude to rid himself of boots and shirt and as he shed his breeches he grinned.
“A game well played, m’lady, but have no doubts as to the winner.”
His eyes burned with passion’s fire as he stood enjoying her now unbridled charms, far lovelier than he had imagined or even hoped, and she stared in h
orror at her first sight of a naked man. She stood fixed to the floor until he stepped forward and with a frightened squeak she turned to flee but found her arm seized in a grip that was gentle yet as unyielding as a band of steel. She ducked under his arm and sank her teeth into his wrist. He grunted in pain and she jerked away, but in her haste she stumbled and fell full length into his bunk. Almost immediately he was on top of her, pinning down her writhing body, and it seemed that every move she made only abetted his intent. Her hair came loose and seemed to stifle her in its mass.
“No!” she gasped. “Leave me alone! Let me be!”
He chuckled and murmured against her throat. “Oh no, my bloodthirsty little wench. Oh no, not now.”
Then he moved upward and she was relieved of his heavy weight, but only briefly. She felt his hardness searching, probing between her thighs, then finding and entering that first tiny bit. In her panic to escape she surged upward. A half gasp, half shriek escaped her and a burning pain seemed to spread through her loins. Brandon started back in astonishment and stared down at her. She lay limp against the pillows, rolling her head back and forth upon them. He touched her cheek tenderly and murmured something low and inaudible, but she had her eyes closed and wouldn’t look at him. He moved against her gently, kissing her hair and brow and caressing her body with his hands. She lay unresponsive, yet his long starved passions grew and soon he thrust deep within her, no longer able to contain himself. It seemed with each movement now she would be split asunder and tears came to her eyes.
The storm at its end, a long quiet moment slipped past as he relaxed against her, once more gentle. But when he finally withdrew, she turned to the wall and lay softly sobbing with the corner of the blanket pulled over her head and her now used body left bare to his gaze.
The Flame and the Flower Page 3