“Get my robe,” he growled.
She put her sampler down and went to the wardrobe. He glared at her as she came to him and took it from her. Refusing her help, he put it on and stood up slowly. In agony he walked toward the door and opened it.
“Have my bath ready when I get back,” he snarled. “And it best be hot or I’ll chew your little rump.”
After he closed the door behind him she allowed herself a smile of satisfaction at his discomfort, but she hurriedly saw to his bath, knowing it was safer to obey him. When he came back he was paler, but he was walking a little easier as though he thought his head might stay on. He shed his trousers, handed them to her without a glance and stepped carefully into the steamy bath. He drew in his breath as he eased himself into the hot water and gave a long sigh when he settled comfortably against the back of the brass tub. He sat quite still for the longest time, his eyes closed, his head resting back on the rim, then there was a knock on the door and his eyes flew open angrily.
“Blast it, stop that hammering!” he bellowed, then he grimaced and in a lower voice continued. “Come in if you must!”
Carrying a small tray bearing a snifter filled with a liberal portion of brandy, George tiptoed gingerly into the room with his head slunk low on his shoulders. He exchanged a hurried glance with Heather to see how she was faring and decided she was weathering the storm very well. He handed his captain the drink and beat a hasty retreat.
Brandon swallowed half the contents of the glass in one gulp and eased his head back to the tub again, feeling the brandy spread its glow. Heather readied his towel and clothes, then moved to the side of the tub to help him bathe. For a moment she stood staring down at him, holding the sponge and soap in her hands. Sweat rolled from him freely as he sat in the hot water, taking the evening’s poisons with it He had his eyes closed and his arms lay on the rim of the tub, and he looked almost content. Too content. Feeling an urge to interrupt his reverie, she reached out and dropped the soap and sponge into the water. He started slightly as water splattered on his face, and he opened one eye and peered at her. The water trickled down his face and into his beard but he made no move to wipe it away. The eye bore into her as if he contemplated her slow dismemberment, and Heather lost courage when he opened the other. She quickly glided away to a safe distance and busied herself with inconsequential chores as he stared at her.
She returned, though somewhat cautiously, to help when he finally sat up to bathe. He saw her reaching for the soap and lost his temper.
“Get the hell out of here, you blasted wench!” he yelled. “Get out of my sight! I can wash myself. I never could stand a she-cat scratching at my back anyway!”
Heather dropped the soap with a start and hurriedly skittered away. She went to the door and had opened it when he inquired snidely:
“And where do you think you’re going like that?”
Her hand went over her shoulder to the back of her dress; she had forgotten her half-dressed state. She raised her nose into the air. “I’m going down the hall to have George fasten my gown,” she replied with a stately air.
She quickly closed the door before he could comment, but she gathered from the outburst of oaths and curses coming through that he was none too pleased with her. As it happened, a chambermaid passed as she moved down the hall, and Heather requested her assistance in hooking the gown.
It was the Sabbath and the inn was quiet, the common room almost empty. Heather ordered tea as she sat down at their usual table and spoke casually with the innkeeper’s wife. She had not long to wait before Brandon joined her. He scowled as he came in and took his seat without a word. It was only after the mistress of the inn served them their meal and went again about her business that he growled at her in a low voice.
“Unless you want me to turn you across my knee, madam, and throw up your skirts to paddle your bare backside, I suggest that you take care with what you do.”
She turned round, innocent, blue eyes to his, feigning complete ignorance to the cause of his anger. “Whatever is it, my love, that makes you want to beat your wife, and she carrying your child?”
His jaw twitched. “Heather,” he ground out. “Do not play coy with me. You would see I am not in a jesting mood.”
Heather swallowed hard and turned her attention to her plate. Just that small movement in his cheek was enough to dissuade her. Again she was completely cowed.
It was only when they were retiring for bed that night that he noticed the torn gown hanging in the wardrobe. He fingered it lightly and frowned, then watched Heather climb into bed in her shift. He blew out the candle and undressed in the dark and lay for a long time staring at the ceiling with his hands under his head. There was a slight movement beside him and he glanced Heather’s way. She lay on her side with her back to him as far away as she could manage without falling off the bed. She had pulled the quilt over her shoulders as if it would give her protection against him. With a silent oath he turned from her, deciding that nothing had happened after all because she seemed too well pleased with herself and he did not feel relief within his body.
The next morning Brandon hauled his wife out of bed before dawn, giving her no time to protest.
“Hurry up, wench, I have not time to delay. We’re bringing the Fleetwood in this morning and I must get out to her.”
He helped her dress as he threw on his own clothes, then pulled her along with him downstairs and ate a hurried meal as she drank tea and tried not to yawn. Afterward he escorted her outside through the darkness to the convenience behind the inn and waited until she was done. He deposited her safely in their room and gave George his orders. Then he left and didn’t return until the wee hours of morning, and as before, he undressed in the dark and crawled into bed beside her, taking care not to wake her. The following days the schedule was the same, and except for those moments in the morning Heather did not speak to Brandon. She stayed in their room while he was gone and occupied her time as best she could. She ate her meals there or, if few sailors were about, in the common room under George’s guard.
It was the fourth night of the week when Brandon came back early. She was in the bath, not expecting him at that hour of the evening, and when the door opened she gasped.
Brandon hesitated a moment at the door, surveying with pleasure this charmingly domestic and most attractive scene. She sat upright with her arms folded demurely across her, her blue eyes wide and only now recovering from surprise. Her skin glistened wet and shimmered in the soft candlelight, and with her hair piled on her head, a few loose curls dropping coyly to her shoulders, she was a fetching sight, by far the loveliest thing he had seen that day.
A small stool stood beside the brass tub to assist in entering and upon it sat a bottle of bath oil and a large bar of scented soap. He smiled tenderly and leaned against the door, closing it. With measured tread he crossed to the tub and placing one hand on the far side, leaned down as if to kiss her.
“Good evening, sweet,” he murmured softly.
Confused by his gentle manner and feeling trapped, Heather sank slowly into the tub until the water was about her shoulders. She made an attempt to return his smile but her lips were unsteady. He chuckled softly at her effort and straightened and his face was replaced by his hand holding a bar of soap. The soap hit the water in front of her face and the drenching splash left her spluttering and gasping for breath. She opened her eyes to find a towel being held close to her.
“Wipe your face, sweet,” he chided. “It’s all wet.”
In a rage she snatched the towel and pressed it to her eyes. “Oh, you—you—” she choked angrily.
He laughed softly and walked away, and when she again looked at him he was sitting in a chair with his feet stretched out before him, watching her with a contented smile on his face. She glared at him and his smile only deepened.
“Enjoy your bath, love,” he said, then he leaned forward as if to get up. “Would you care to have me scrub your back?”
“Do relax, Heather, and enjoy it,” he admonished more seriously. “It’s likely to be the last good one you’ll have for some time to come.”
She sat back and turned to him with a bewildered look, thinking that he had chosen a new way to discipline her. “Brandon—I beg of you. My pleasures are small and this one I particularly cherish.” She looked at him pleadingly. “I beseech your kindness, Brandon, not to take this from me. Oh, please. I do enjoy it so.”
She bit a quivering bottom lip and dropped her gaze. The grin faded from Brandon’s face and he rose and came to the foot of the tub. He leaned his hands upon it and stood looking at her. She sat with her eyes cast down, dejected, like a child expecting to be chastised. When he spoke it was most gently.
“You do me grave injustice, Heather, to imply that I, in spite, would deny you such joy. I spoke only of this: that tomorrow we go aboard the ship as we will sail some three days hence.”
She raised her head to meet his gaze and her breasts caught the glow of the candles and glistened in the light.
“Oh, Brandon, I am sorry,” she murmured humbly. “It was shrewish of me to underrate you so.”
She paused, noticing that his gaze no longer met hers but was directed lower. His lips were white and the tic returned to his cheek as she watched. She blushed deeply, and with an inarticulate murmur of apology drew the large sponge to her breasts. Brandon turned away abruptly and went to stand before the window.
“If you will extract yourself from the tub, madam,” he said gruffly over his shoulder, “we might dine in more civilized circumstances. And you’d best hurry. I sent George to fetch a small supper.”
Heather complied with considerable haste.
It seemed only a few moments after she had gone to sleep that Brandon was shaking her awake. It was still dark outside, but he was already dressed. He pulled her from the bed and handed clothes to her. She slid into her gown and he helped her yank it down into place and began hooking it while she brushed her hair into order. He wrapped her cloak about her and stood by the door as she rubbed the last traces of sleep from her face with a damp cloth. Then they descended to eat a quick meal and a short time later were walking the few blocks to the ship.
The crew was already astir, making the ship ready for the day’s loading, and the men paused to watch the captain and his lady board, and their eyes followed them until they disappeared through the door under the quarterdeck.
Once in the captain’s cabin, Heather discarded her cloak and curled up in his bunk and went back to sleep, not even waking when Brandon drew a quilt over her. After finishing a small lunch which he brought her at noon she climbed up to the deck and stood by the rail to watch the activity of the sailors and the port. Vendors swarmed about the docks selling fresh fruit and vegetables to sailors craving a break in their monotonous diet of salt pork, beans and sea biscuits. Rich merchants, dressed nattily in their finery, rubbed shoulders with beggars and thieves who tried to reduce the size of their purses. Sailors strolled along with harlots, caressing them openly, and liveries with their straight-backed drivers were waiting for hire. Vivid colors mixed with the dull to dress the seaport in its every day splendor. Ships were being loaded and unloaded and the sound of sailors’ swearing mingled with peddlers’ cries and the voices of merchants’ bargaining. Two seamen from the Fleetwood kept the dock area clear where the wagons drew up to unload their supplies. She had never seen a place so bustling with activity, and she watched a little breathlessly, leaning over the ship’s railing to get a better view of the things that went on below her. She could hear Brandon’s deep, authoritative voice every now and then, from different parts of the ship, giving orders to his men as they laid cargo aboard. At intervals she would see him talking with Mr. Boniface or the bo’sun or the mate. On other occasions he would be down on the dock speaking with merchants.
It was late afternoon when she saw George drive up in a horse-drawn cart loaded down with her trunk, Brandon’s duffle bag and, to her surprise, the brass tub from the inn. Confused, she watched him unload the items from the cart and bring them aboard. When he set the tub down, he turned to smile up at her, and then she knew that Brandon had bought the tub for her. Her eyes went past George to her husband who stood beyond him with Mr. Boniface. He had glanced around to watch the servant bring the tub aboard and now his eyes lifted to hers. Their gaze met across the space between them, and Heather felt suddenly very happy and alive. No gift of greater beauty or fortune could have pleased her so well as this old brass tub. The corners of her mouth lifted and the smile was soft and warm and beautiful, and gazing up at her, Brandon was held for a moment in its spell, then James Boniface cleared his throat and repeated his question.
It was evening before Madame Fontaineau and two of her assistants brought Heather’s clothes. After they had found everything satisfactory, Brandon brought an iron strongbox from his sea chest and began counting out the necessary sum. The couturière sidled around to look over the top of the box at the contents and gasped audibly at the great amount of money which it contained. Brandon raised an eyebrow at the woman, sending her back to her place across the desk, then continued with his counting.
Madame Fontaineau glanced at Heather, who was kneeling beside her trunk packing the gowns and other items away, then turned again to Brandon, smiling with a calculating gleam in her eye. The sight of money always made her a little reckless.
“Will the madame be returning with you next year, monsieur?”
“No,” Brandon answered.
Madame Fontaineau’s smile broadened and she smoothed her hair. “When you return you will of course come to my shop to buy her new clothes, will you not, monsieur? I will be looking forward to sewing again for her.” And then she cooed. “My talents will be at your disposal, monsieur.”
The remark passed Heather’s innocent ears without notice, and she didn’t glance up from her task, but Brandon understood clearly the woman’s intent. His eyes raised slowly to Madame Fontaineau and he regarded her for some moments passively, then very coldly his gaze traveled down her as if appraising her for her worth, stopping momentarily on the somewhat matronly bosom and the broadening hips. His eyes dropped again to the money.
“You misunderstand me, madame. I mean that I will not be returning to England again. This is my last voyage here.”
The woman stepped back in shock. Brandon reached across the desk a moment later and handed her the money due in a pouch and Madame Fontaineau didn’t stop to count it. She whirled and left without another word.
Brandon was preoccupied with other things at the evening meal so that there was hardly a word exchanged between them, and long after Heather retired to the bunk he worked at his desk with ledgers, receipts and bills. It was past the hour of midnight before he blew out the candles, undressed in the dark and climbed in beside her. Still awake, Heather rolled over to make room for him but there was not much space to spare. Brandon turned on his side away from her and she on hers away from him, and each for different reasons tried not to think of what had taken place when they had last occupied the bunk together.
The next two days passed quickly. The loading was finished, the provisioning completed, the last hatch battened down and final farewells spoken. Long boats came to tow the Fleetwood out into the harbor where she could spread her sails and catch the evening’s offshore breeze. All aboard grew quiet and thoughtful, yet the ship seemed to cluck impatiently for that fresh zephyr to set her on the way home.
It was a calm evening, the water glassy smooth. The ship sat with her topsails and topgallants spread but hanging slack, waiting for the first breath of wind. The sun was half down behind the rooftops of London when a topsail flapped loudly in the quiet. All eyes drew immediately aloft. The sun was gone now, and a chill breeze stirred against Heather’s face as she stood beside Brandon on the quarter-deck. The
sails flapped again, and then filled as the breeze strengthened and Brandon’s voice rang out.
“Weigh anchor. Look lively, hearties, we’re sailing home.”
The anchor winch began to clank from the forecastle and Brandon’s voice took on an almost gay note.
“Ease off those port tacks. Take in the starboard.”
The anchor splashed free of the Thames, and the ship began to gather headway. Heather watched the lights recede in the darkness and there was a tightness in her throat.
It was the wee hours of the morning before Brandon came to the cabin to sleep, and at breakfast he told her what was expected of her on the voyage.
“As far as I’m concerned, Heather, the decks belong to the men until a reasonable hour of the morning. If you venture out too early, you might find yourself blushing. I advise you to stay in the cabin until a late hour.”
She murmured an obedient answer, keeping her gaze fixed on her plate, and her cheeks took on a rosy hue.
“And below decks is completely off limits to you,” he continued. “The living quarters of the men are there, and you are too tempting a prize for a man on a long voyage. I wouldn’t want to have to kill any of my men because they forgot themselves. Therefore, you will stay from there and out of their way.”
He glanced up at her over his cup of coffee as she picked up her own cup of tea and stared down into it, her face still flushed. Her slender hands were wrapped around the cup and the gold wedding band, sliding loose on her finger, caught the light of the morning sun. He frowned slightly and his gaze dropped.
The Flame and the Flower Page 20