He turned again to look at her and his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Madam, there’s precious little heat to waste aboard this ship. I suggest we combine ours beneath the blankets here.”
She lifted her nose primly and settled her shoulders into the corner. “I am so dumb, sir, that I believe there are cows in the middle of the Atlantic and my poor simple brain does not prompt me to rise from this window seat and spend the night in bed with you.”
Brandon threw the quilts back angrily. “Well then, my fine feathered lass,” he retorted, “I’m sure you and the icy sea will find ample companionship on that oaken sill. I will not beg you again to join me. Just let me know when you’ve had enough of playing games and I will make room for you. You’ll not last long there.”
Heather seethed with rage. She would freeze to death before she’d crawl back to his bed and let him mock her.
The night aged and the quilt about Heather slowly soaked in the dampness that seeped in through the window. She began to feel the cold and she huddled deeper in the wet cover to seek warmth. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and every muscle in her body tensed to stop her trembling. She longed for the warmth of the bunk, but her pride whipped anew the memories of his cruelty and would not let her go to its comfort. Her nightgown was no protection against the sodden chill and soon was plastered to her body. Near dawn she finally dozed fitfully, but only because she was near exhaustion.
She roused with a jerk as the cabin door banged shut and through bleary eyes she saw the bunk deserted and her husband gone. She strained to sit up and the cabin rocked and pitched more violently than could be explained by the heavy seas without. She felt no coldness, indeed a dry warmth seemed to enfold her. She sought to fling the sodden quilt aside but it was caught beneath her and her arms began to tremble at the effort. She cleverly changed her tactics and slid her feet to the floor and there she sat while the cabin lurched and swung, then finally slowed to a gentle rhythm. She thought she could manage then. She fought to stand up and shrug away from the quilt, but it clung with the determination of a living thing, and she slid to her knees and found herself beneath its weight upon the floor. Breathing hard from the struggle, she lay still to regain her strength. A chill seeped through from the deck below and the quilt above and she began to shake and shiver violently. She raised her head wearily and spied the stove and thought of its warmth. There was a chair near it. If she could but stand erect, this icy weight would leave her. She dragged herself across the heaving deck. The chair seemed to swim in a fog and retreat before her. The struggle drained her hut she fought on, the quilt still clinging like a frosty mantle upon her back. She reached the chair and grasped its legs and painfully drew herself up until she could rest her head upon the seat, and there she lay panting with exhaustion. The room reeled about her and she saw it as if through a long, dark tunnel. She seemed to fall down that tunnel until only a pinpoint of light remained and then it too vanished with a startling abruptness.
Brandon came down from the quarter-deck, somewhat improved in mood. His luck had held and his gamble had paid off. The storm had pushed them south but gained them several days. Having vented its fury upon the ship, it passed beyond, leaving the weather cold and the seas rough but grudgingly breathing its winds upon their sails to speed them on. Yet for all his good fortune, he remembered the night before and his temper turned. He smiled darkly to himself. He’d not allow that stubborn twit to vent her wrath upon him and dance away. She had a lesson still to learn if wife to a Birmingham she sought to be.
He snapped at George to hurry the meal as he passed the galley, and stalked to the cabin door, determined to set her back upon her heels and lay the law before her. He pushed the door open, his face black with rage, then stopped short, all anger draining away as he saw Heather sitting on the floor with her head and arm lying limply in the seat of a chair, a quilt twisted about her hips and her other hand lying palm up upon the floor.
She opened her eyes as he gasped her name and saw him rush toward her. She lifted her head and tried to speak, but her shuddering made her speech incoherent. He dragged the heavy quilt from her and picked her up in his arms. Her head rolled listlessly before dropping on his shoulder. She heard him yell for George and then he was placing her in the bunk and drawing quilts over her. The servant came running in and Brandon turned and barked orders to him, but Heather’s muddled mind heard only a jumble of words. Again he was bending over her, this time pushing the covers away. Still shaking violently, she whimpered and fought weakly to keep them over her, thinking he meant to punish her. He was always punishing her.
“Let me, Heather,” he said hoarsely. “Your gown is damp. You will be warmer without it.”
Her fingers relaxed their grip and she lay unresisting as he unfastened her gown and slid it from her shoulders and down her body. Then once more she was wrapped in the bedcovers.
Heather felt a hand placed to her brow and its coolness was to be treasured. She opened her eyes slowly to look at Brandon, but it was not he who stood above her with his hand on her brow. It was her father.
“Heather Brianna,” he coaxed. “Finish your broth like a good child or papa will not be pleased.”
“But I do not wish it, papa.”
“How do you think you will grow into a fine young lady if you do not eat, Heather Brianna? You are much too thin for a child of six.”
The vision blurred and cleared again.
“Must you go again, papa?”
He smiled at her. “You’ll be all right here with the servants. This is your tenth birthday. What child that age fears to be left alone?”
She watched his receding back, and her bottom lip quivered and her eyes filled. “I do, papa. I do. Come back, papa. Please.”
“Your father is dead, child. He died at the gaming tables. Don’t you remember?”
“Don’t take my mother’s portrait. It’s all I have of her.”
“It must go to pay the debts. Your father’s portrait, too. Everything must be taken.”
“We’ve come for you, Heather. You’re to live with your aunt and me.”
“So you’re the girl. ‘Tain’t likely you’ll be doin’ your share of work, lookin’ as frail as you do. My dresses will do for you fine. You’ll bear no bastards in my home. I won’t be letting you out of my sight. You’re a witch, Heather Simmons.”
“No. I’m not a witch!”
“This is my brother, William. He’s come to take you to London.”
“How sweet looking you are, child. Meet my assistant, Thomas Hint. He’s not the sort who tempts a woman with his beauty.”
“Please stay away from me. Don’t touch me!”
“I plan to have you, my dear, so there is no reason why you should fight me.”
“He fell on the knife. It was an accident. He tried to rape me. Somebody is after me. He does not know I killed a man. He thinks I’m from the streets.”
“Do you think I’m going to let you sneak away from me?”
“It was the Yankee who took me. It’s his child I carry. No one else has laid hand upon me. He thinks to make me his mistress and have me bear his bastard child while he weds another in his land. He is so pompous. Let it be a girl. I did not mean to cry out. You startled me. Please don’t hurt me. He left his hat, George. Will he be back soon?”
“The captain is a good man.”
“Oh Brandon, what were you doing up there? He treats me like a child. He pats my belly, then talks of his fiancée.”
The heat was unbearable. She thrashed about to escape it. Something cool and wet slid over her body again and again with slow, unhurried motion. She was turned by strong yet gentle hands and her back exposed to the cooling caresses.
“Swallow,” she heard a voice. “Swallow.”
She saw her father again holding a cup to her lips as he held her up, and always obeying his slightest wish, she drank the warm broth.
Aunt Fanny appeared before her and she screamed as she saw
the woman holding her dead brother in her arms, a knife plunged firmly in his chest. She tried to explain that it was an accident, that she really didn’t kill him, that he fell on the knife. Thomas Hint came to her aunt’s side and shook his head and pointed a finger at her accusingly. She saw the executioner’s axe and saw his hooded head and his bared chest. He pressed her head down on the block and smoothed her hair from her neck. The cooling movements returned and her father brushed her long hair up from the back of her neck.
“Swallow. Swallow.”
“Is she any better, cap’n?”
She was possessed by shivering. She was cold. Something warm was placed around her, and she was weighted down once more by heavy quilts.
“Papa? Don’t leave me, papa. Henry, I cannot marry you. Please don’t ask the reasons. There is so much blood. It was only a small wound.”
William Court laughed and leered drunkenly at her. Mr. Hint was by his side and they were coming for her. Their claws reached out to catch her, and she whirled and ran from them straight into the Yankee’s arms.
“Save me, please! Don’t let them take me! I’m your wife!”
“You’re no wife to me.”
She tossed about in suffocating heat and the cooling motion began again. She saw Brandon above her and he stroked her body with a cool, wet cloth.
“Don’t let my baby die, Brandon!”
His large hand slid over her belly and he looked at her. “It lives, my love.”
Aunt Fanny laughed behind him. “Do you hear that, missy? Your bastard still lives.”
The faces of William Court, Thomas Hint, Aunt Fanny and Uncle John bore down on her, all laughing loudly with their mouths gaping wide.
“Murderess! Murderess! Murderess!”
She flung her hands over her ears and thrashed about wildly. “I’m not! I’m not! I am not!”
“Swallow this. You must.”
“Don’t leave me, papa,” she whimpered.
The fields were green with spring grass, and she laughed as she ran from the person behind her. She was caught and swung upward in sturdy arms, and laughing gaily she looped her arms about the man’s neck in gleeful abandonment, and his face pressed close as he bent to kiss her. A scream was torn from her as she recognized Thomas Hint. She fought the arms about her waist and turning, saw the figure of a man retreat across the brow of a distant hill.
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here with him! Don’t leave me!”
She was being drawn down into darkness, peaceful, peaceful darkness. She floated, she glided, she swayed, and a mist rolled upward around her and consumed her.
Heather opened her eyes and saw the timbers of the bunk above her and everything was calm and peaceful, only the slight creaking of the ship could be heard. She lay unmoving for a moment, trying to recall what had happened. She had been trying to reach the bunk, but she must have fallen. She moved slightly and winced. She felt bruised, as if every inch of her had been beaten, and she was so weak. She turned her head on the pillow and saw Brandon. He was asleep in a hammock hung between the quarter-deck beams.
A hammock? Here? In the cabin? And he looked so gaunt. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was badly mussed and shaggy. Strange, he usually took great pains with them.
Her frown deepened as her eyes went about the room. It lay in complete disorder. Clothing was flung over chairs and boots lay askew on the floor. There was a pan of water near the bunk and rags hung on lines above the stove. She mused vaguely at what disaster had swept the place and why George had not tidied up.
With a painful effort she rose on an elbow and instantly Brandon’s eyes flew open. He swung himself from the hammock and hurried toward the bunk but slowed when she looked up at him with sanity in her eyes. He smiled broadly and came to sit down on the edge of the bunk. He reached to feel her brow.
“The fever is gone,” he said, as if in relief.
“What has happened?” she asked softly. “I feel so tired and I ache all over. Did I fall?”
He smoothed her hair from her face. “You’ve been ill, sweet, for several days now. This is the sixth day.”
“Sixth day!” she gasped. Everything was a flurry of confusion with her. Six days had gone by. It seemed but a few hours.
Suddenly her eyes widened with fright and she grabbed for the quilt over her belly. “The baby! I’ve lost the baby, haven’t I?” she cried. Frightened tears sprang to her eyes and panic bleached her soul. “Oh, Brandon, tell me true. Oh, Brandon!”
He smiled gently and placed his hand upon hers. “No,” he murmured. “The child is still with us. He moves often.”
She choked on tears and would have hugged him for his answer had she not caught herself. She brushed the wetness from her cheeks and smiled at him as she relaxed and lay back in the bunk, feeling relieved but exhausted.
He grinned. “I’d never have forgiven you, madam, if you had lost my son after all I’ve been through with you,” he teased. “I have great plans for him.”
She searched his face, hardly able to believe what her ears had heard. “You have plans for him?” she questioned. “You will be proud of him—of my child?”
“Of our child, my dear,” he corrected warmly. “Did you think I would not be—my own son? Fie on you, madam, for believing otherwise. I told you once I was fond of children—and of my own I will be doubly so.”
She continued to stare at him, her eyes wide and uncertain, then for the first time her lips spoke of a matter which had haunted her of late.
“Brandon, am I the first—” she began hesitantly. “Is this your first—I mean, have you ever sired a child before by another woman?”
He sat back and raised a startled eyebrow at her, making her flush scarlet. She quickly dropped her gaze and murmured an apology.
“I’m sorry, Brandon. I didn’t mean to pry. I don’t know why I asked, really I don’t. Please forgive me.”
He chuckled suddenly and her eyes met his again as he drew her chin up. “For a man five and thirty years, I can’t very well say I’ve never bedded another woman, can I?” He grinned. “But with reasonable certainty I can assure you that no woman before you has ever borne a child of mine. I pay no support for bastard children to any woman. Does that please you, my sweet?”
She smiled brightly. For some strange reason it pleased her very much. “Yes,” she replied happily.
Feeling much better now, she struggled to sit up, and he quickly slid his hands behind her back to help her, and she clung to him as he drew her up and fluffed the pillows behind her.
“Are you hungry?” he questioned softly, still holding her. The quilt had fallen from her, leaving her bare to the waist with her hair streaming wildly over her shoulders and breasts. He was reluctant to turn her loose. “You should try to eat. You’ve lost a little flesh.”
Her eyes lifted to his face. “So have you,” she whispered.
He chuckled then and helped her back to the pillows as she drew the quilt over her breasts. “I’ll tell George to prepare us both a lunch. He’ll be quite pleased to see that you’re better. He has become quite attached to you, and I’m afraid you worried ten years off his lifetime.” His eyes sparkled. “Needless to say, my sweet, you won’t be sleeping in the window again.”
She giggled. “I’ve never had a more horrible night,” she admitted.
“You have a most stubborn nature, madam,” he grinned. “But next time you’ll have little chance to prove it.” He grew serious again. “From now on I shall allow my better judgment to dictate, and will enforce it accordingly.”
She smiled uncertainly, knowing he was not jesting. Another thought crossed her mind as he rose and turned to leave. Halfway to the door she stopped him.
“Brandon?”
He turned and waited for her to continue. In confusion she wrung the quilt in her hands, not wishing to broach the subject, fearing his reaction, yet knowing she must. Again she murmured.
“Brandon—I—” She summoned
her courage and looked straight at him. “Will you tell your family that you were forced to marry me?”
He stared stonily at her for several seconds, then without word or nod, turned on his heels and left. Heather rolled her head to face the wall in embarrassment at having asked the question. He had not answered her and the reply was now most clear. She wondered if she could bear the shame she would suffer.
When Brandon returned she had recovered herself and had vowed never to reopen the subject. He took one of her nightgowns from her sea chest and brought it with him to the bunk.
“Heather, if you will allow me, I’ll help you put this on.”
She let him draw it over her head, and as he pulled it together over her breasts and fastened it her eyes moved over his face. He looked so tired and so ill kept. His hair had always been neatly trimmed before, and the dark circles under his eyes were deep. He hadn’t taken care of himself at all, and now she longed to reach out and touch his face and smooth away the lines of fatigue.
“George hasn’t been taking care of you,” she murmured softly. “I must speak with him about that.”
He ducked his head away from her hand, embarrassed by his unsightly state, and stepped away from the bunk. He turned his back, but his attention returned again when she moved in the bunk, trying to get comfortable. He saw her wince.
“Ugh,” she grimaced. “This bed has made me sore.” She raised her eyes to his. “May I sit up please, Brandon?”
He took a quilt from the bunk and smoothed it upon a chair by the stove, bringing back her slippers which he placed upon her feet. He gathered her up into his arms, and Heather did not resist this time, looping her arms about his neck. She was rather sorry it was such a short distance to the chair. He was just tucking the quilt about her when George knocked on the door. The servant entered, carrying a tray of food and smiling broadly.
The Flame and the Flower Page 23