Late afternoon, shortly after four, Heather heard the lookout call.
“Land’s end, ahoy. Fore quarter starboard.”
The day was wintry gray with low clouds scudding across the sky. The wind was blowing a brisk nor’easter as she climbed to the quarter-deck. Brandon stood beside the wheel watching the south of England sweeping by and when land’s end stood behind them, he turned to the man at the wheel.
“Helmsman, bring her about. Steady on due west.” And then he bellowed to the tops. “Watch those gallants, lads, and take another reef in the mainsail.”
He stood for some time with his hands behind him and his feet braced apart, feeling the deck beneath him and watching the rigging, masts and sails until satisfied his ship stood neatly trimmed with the wind on her heels. The sun sat low and red upon the horizon, painting the clouds a golden hue and splattering the sea in red. Land’s end stood behind them now, all black and gold beyond the mists. With an aching in her chest, Heather watched the last of England fade from view and from her life.
Chapter 6
The sun rose cold and bleak on the fourth day out and the easterly winds began to pick up. The first two days had been relatively mild and with every inch of canvas spread the Fleetwood had plowed along over lightly rolling seas. Now the rigging sang in the wind and the ship strained as it chopped its way through frothy white caps. The ship was heavily laden and rolled low in the water, yet she handled well and responded smoothly to the helm.
Brandon cast a weather eye ahead to a low bank of clouds on the horizon, stowed his sextant and folded away his charts. The wind was biting cold this morning and boded ill weather ahead, yet he smiled to himself as he went below for they were making good time, almost forty leagues a day. He entered the cabin, put away the charts and sextant and poured himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the small stove. As he sipped the hot brew he looked at Heather still asleep in his bunk. Her hand, partly concealed by the lace on the sleeve of her gown, lay across his pillow and her softly curling hair was caught beneath it. He thought of her warm and soft against him, and he wondered briefly how much of a fight she’d put up if he tried to take her now. She stirred slightly as if aware that she was being watched, and he forced the thought from his mind. She stretched lazily under the quilts, and her eyes fluttered open slowly. She saw him and smiled a timid morning greeting.
At that moment George knocked gently on the door, and she flew out of the bunk, giving Brandon a glimpse of a slender thigh before she snatched the gown down and hurriedly pulled on a wrapper. At Brandon’s call the servant entered with a tray bearing their morning meal. From his pocket George passed Heather an orange, and she thanked him graciously. Brandon, seeing this movement over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow, wondering if the servant was becoming enamored with his wife’s beguiling innocence.
“We’ll be having guests for dinner tonight, George,” he said abruptly, turning round. He felt Heather’s surprise but he didn’t look at her. “I have asked Mr. Boniface and the mate, Tory MacTavish, to join us. You will attend to it please.”
“Aye, cap’n,” the servant replied as he cast a quick glance at Heather. She had already turned away and seemed intent now on warming her hands above the stove. But there was no mistaking that she was upset, and George shook his head in consternation at the younger man’s boorish manner. The captain could not stubbornly maintain his independent bachelorish ways as a family man.
The night seemed colder and Heather stood arrayed in one of her new gowns with her back to the little stove, waiting for Brandon to finish dressing. She had chosen the gown more for warmth than anything else. It was of a burgundy velvet with long sleeves and a high, close fitting neck and a bodice embellished liberally with black jets and tiny sparkling beads. She had swept her hair into a fashionable coiffure, and she presented now a most enchanting contrast in this otherwise totally masculine setting. As he gave her a critical appraisal Brandon decided she made a very fetching sea captain’s wife. He smiled with amusement as she sidled closer to the stove and lifted her skirts to let the heat rise under them.
“The way you’re hugging that stove, madam, I doubt if you’ll favor the weather that lies ahead.”
He glanced down at her slim ankles appearing beneath the lifted hem and thought of the icy winds that would ruffle her skirts and send her shivering to find warmth. Her daintily made chemises would be little protection when the wind billowed under them and touched on her bareness. He made a mental note to himself that he’d do something about that later.
“Will it be that much colder, Brandon?” she inquired, a little forlornly.
He laughed softly. “Indeed, madam. We are taking the northern route just south of Newfoundland so that we may gather time lost in our delay at leaving England. As it is, I do not expect to be home before the new year, though I have reasons to hope that we might make it before then.”
The mate and the purser seemed to enjoy the evening and in particular her presence aboard the ship. If they were aware of her circumstances they gave no indication. Upon entering the cabin they had presented her with a tiny replica of the Fleetwood and thanked her graciously for her invitation. Brandon was somewhat taken aback by their assumption that the invitation had come from her and stood aside half mockingly as she accepted the gift, saying that she would cherish it.
The evening progressed smoothly as they entertained her with amusing tales from the English Court. They seemed eager to make the event gay and engaged in lighthearted buffoonery as they made mock battle of retrieving a napkin she had dropped and positioning her chair at the table. Occasionally she felt Brandon’s scowl upon her as she giggled her delight with their humor and sensed his strange possessiveness. Under cover of the meal she glanced often to his face and pondered on his moods. His rage at a boy in a dressmaker’s shop, his cold anger with two thieves who would steal her from him and with herself when she would have a servant fasten her gown. Yet on every turn of hand he left no doubt that he felt no great love for her. Indeed that he sorely felt the bite of ball and chain. What reason then? Greed? Hardly. She had ample proof of his generosity. The lavish wardrobe, the food they dined upon. The best wines graced the table, the best cigars waited to be smoked. No. It was not greed. But some strange anger grew when other men enjoyed her gay companionship and lightest repartee. What manner of man was she wed to? Would life with him ever be a normal thing, or just a game of guess with her always wrong?
The meal was over, the table cleared, the cigars now lit with profuse apologies to her, and the talk turned to business. Mr. Boniface asked if it would not be safer to take a southern route. Brandon sipped his wine thoughtfully for a moment and then replied.
“A week before we lifted anchor,” he told the younger man, “two merchant vessels left for Charleston with their holds full. Each took the southern route. If they reach port before us our cargo will be worth half of what it will be if we can beat them. It is my hope that we reach our destination prior to their arrival. This is my last voyage and I plan to make a good profit from it for all concerned.”
“That’s fair thinking, captain,” Tory MacTavish grinned, being a man fond of money.
Jamie Boniface nodded his agreement.
“Jeff and I both invested heavily in the cargo,” Brandon continued. “I’d like to see our money doubled. If we make it back in time it will be.”
Mr. MacTavish fingered his heavy, tawny mustache. “Aye, captain. It’s worth the gamble. My own share will be a lot bonnier if we make it on time.”
“As mine will be,” the purser admitted, smiling.
“Will Jeffie be settling down now that you’ve taken yourself a bride, captain?” MacTavish inquired with a lively sparkle in his blue eyes.
Brandon quickly glanced across the table at Heather before he chuckled and shook his head. “As far as I know, MacTavish, he prefers to lead the bachelor life despite Hatti’s constant nagging for him to do otherwise.”
“Seeing that you’ve
done so well for yourself, captain,” Mr. MacTavish replied, turning a warm, friendly smile upon Heather, “he may be tempted to change his mind.”
Her cheeks pinkening, Heather returned the smile. She felt Brandon’s gaze fall on her and stay as if he were contemplating this statement and studying her for its truth. Her hands began to tremble and finally her eyes raised to his, and their gaze met across the table.
Mr. Boniface and Mr. MacTavish exchanged knowing grins. The two men silently agreed not to delay their departure. But when the door was closed behind them, Brandon once more returned to his desk and his books and Heather to her sampler, sitting as close to the heat as she could. The small iron stove was insufficient, and she shifted her position often in an effort to keep all parts at a reasonable temperature. Her movements finally distracted Brandon, and putting away his quill, he turned away from his work. For a while he sat glowering at her with his elbow on the desk and his other hand upon his knee. Finally he rose and came to stand over her, and with his hands folded behind his back, his feet braced apart, he stood for some time while Heather grew increasingly apprehensive at this undue attention. She laid aside the sampler and looked up at him.
“Is there something wrong, Brandon?” she questioned, no longer able to bear his perusal.
He didn’t seem to hear her. He turned on his heels and went to his sea chest and raised the lid. He began to remove bundles from within, placing them carelessly on the floor until he came to a small one with which he rose and returned to her.
“You may find these uncomfortable at first, madam, but I think their refinements will soon become apparent.”
She opened the bundle cautiously and stared in complete confusion at the contents. Grinning at her dumbfoundedness, Brandon reached down and lifted one of the lightly quilted garments from the stack and held the piece up for her inspection.
Totally bewildered, she asked, “M’lord, you doubt my chastity? You’d bind me up in these?”
His shoulders shook with laughter. “They’re like a pair of men’s breeches, but they’re to be worn under your gowns to keep you warm.”
She just stared at them.
“You don’t know the difficulty I had getting these made for you,” he grinned. “Every tailor thought me mad when I described what I wanted, and no one believed that I desired to put them on a woman. I had to pay a good sum to have them made.”
“You say I’m to wear these under my gowns?” she inquired incredulously.
He nodded, amused at her dismay. “Unless you prefer to feel the cold wind up your skirts, madam. I assure you I had these made with all good intentions in mind. You need not fear that I make sport of you. I wish only to see you warm.”
She touched the garment in wonder and finally a timid smile shaped her lips. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Another five days went by and as each day passed the weather grew colder. Heather no longer doubted the comfort of the odd garments Brandon had given her. She was more than grateful for them now. The first day she had worn them she laughed quite hard at herself when she put them on, never having seen anything so strange before. They reached to her ankles and were tightened at the waist with a drawstring. To her they looked quite ridiculous. She had still been laughing when Brandon came down for lunch, and she had lifted her skirts to show him while he admired the sight with glowing eyes.
It was only where she was now, in bed, that she did not wear the undergarments, and there was no need with Brandon’s warmth near. His body heat was like a magnet, drawing her close while she slept, and often she found herself snuggled against his back if she woke during the night. Several times she had awakened to find him lying on his back and she with her head on his shoulder or her knee raised and resting across his legs. This caused her some shock and dismay, that she could abandon herself so completely to sleep. He was on his back now, but they were both awake. They had retired early to combat the coldness in the cabin, finding the bunk a cozy haven they could share when the little stove was not enough to warm them. This night she had told him of her life before they met, though she suspected he had learned a great deal about her from Lord Hampton, but he listened with interest and asked questions now and then to make the story more complete in his own mind.
“But how did you come to be in London that night we met?” he inquired when she had concluded her story. He turned his head on his pillow to gaze at her and lifted a glossy curl from her shoulder to play with it.
Heather swallowed hard and averted her eyes. “I came with my aunt’s brother,” she murmured. “He was going to help me get a position at a school for girls, but I got lost when he took me to see a fair the night we arrived in London.”
“What manner of man was he that your uncle let you go with him?” he asked abruptly.
She shrugged her shoulders nervously. “A prosperous one, Brandon.”
“Blast it, that’s not what I mean, Heather. Was your uncle the fool to let this man take you with only his word that he would find you work? Don’t you know he could have sold you to men or even used you himself? It is perhaps best he lost you.”
Heather lay very still beside him, listening to his anger. She began to wonder if he might be the one person to understand about William Court. She was safe from England now and prison. But would he take kindly to the thought that his wife was a murderess?
Fear chased the thought of confiding in him away, and the truth of that awful night stayed within her. What more could one expect of a coward?
“We just put into port that morning,” he murmured softly, winding his finger through a curl. “I might have thought more clearly if it had been otherwise. But I was feeling restless so I bade George find me a little sport. His choice has been full of surprises—a very fertile virgin with influential friends.”
Heather blushed profusely and turned her face from him, and Brandon’s eyes ran to the nape of her neck where the fairness of her skin shone against her dark hair. It was a most tempting spot and one he craved to press his mouth to. It was difficult to think coldly at times and forget that she was his. He owned that soft, delicate spot he wanted very much to caress, to kiss.
“Now I will have to explain you to my brother,” he said softly.
She turned back to him with the surprise of learning she possessed a brother-in-law.
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” she said.
Brandon raised an eyebrow and regarded her for a few moments impassively. “I’m quite aware of that, madam. There is yet a lot you have to learn of me. I do not blurt out my life’s story as you seem fond of doing.”
Heather did not take kindly to the insult. Letting out an infuriated groan, she snatched her hair from his grasp and rolled from him as far as she could go. She lay seething while he laughed at her, and tears of rage filled her eyes. She cursed him silently.
Brandon came awake slowly, as if swimming upward from the bottom of a deep pool. His mind was filled with the feel of Heather warm and soft against him. Those tender breasts seemed to bore holes in his back. Her thighs were snuggled under his buttocks and her silken limbs were bare against him. His manhood rose as he thought of taking her, not with force, but with gentle coercion. Her face swam in a vision before him with eyes dark and sultry, and small tongue darting about moist lips. In his half dream her hair seemed to beckon him closer and caress him as he kissed her. Her arms were open and welcoming and her fingers caressed him as his hands found those sensuous breasts and titillated them to excited peaks. He pressed his entry home and she arched her back and writhed in ecstasy as their fervor mounted.
His manhood and mind linked to betray him. Honor, pride, vengeance became as wisps of grass before the whirlwind of his passions. He started to roll over, determined to relieve his masculine persuasion. His hip pressed against her small, rounding belly and there a faint movement caught his attention. He slid his hand over her abdomen and felt it again, this time stronger. His baby kicked within her as if in protest to his thoughts. The
hot blood waned and a cold consciousness replaced it. He recoiled with some distaste at having nearly lost his self-control.
He rose from the bunk, taking care not to disturb Heather and donned his robe. The moon was bright and there was no need of a candle to show him his way. He poured himself a brandy and began to pace the room, now wide awake and greatly disturbed. His body commanded him where his mind did not, and lately these dreams were recurring with more and more frequency. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to wake one night after the thing was done.
He found himself beside the bunk with his elbow braced upon a beam above his head, and gazing down, he saw her innocent and tender, still deep in slumber. He thought of the cruelty and violence that had bred such gentleness, like iron which, when subjected to extremes, blends and emerges finely-tempered steel. She had withstood the worst he could offer in anger and the abuse of Aunt Fanny, yet there was a naïve gentleness that seemed inborn to her.
Louisa came to mind, the full-blown woman awaiting his return. She was of a different mold from this slender girl occupying his bunk and not only in physical stature. Having had everything given to her at her asking by doting parents, she had never known cruelty nor violence. Her personality was open and easy, almost nothing could insult her. She was almost bold where men were concerned and enjoyed most thoroughly the pleasures that could be found in a bed, while Heather had expressed her complete contentment at not having to perform the more intimate duties of a wife. And it seemed strange, now that he thought of it, that all the times he had bedded Louisa she had never come with child. The direct opposite had been true here. The first time he had laid hand upon this unwilling creature before him his seed had struck fertile ground.
Now here he stood. All his worldly ways and high self-esteem had been set aside, and he was trapped by a guileless virgin like a young farm lad barely old enough to stroll alone from stable to store. And each day her unsought hold upon his very thoughts grew stronger, and he would before long be hard pressed to withhold his more amorous attentions.
The Flame and the Flower Page 21