Heather brushed a tear from her cheek and laughed in apology. “I seem to be in a mood today, crying over nothing. You mustn’t think unkindly of me, Leah. I don’t make a habit of doing this.”
Leah smiled gently. “On the contrary, Mrs. Birmingham, if anything I think more of you. A woman who sheds a tear or two for the love of her man is very sensitive to life.”
Later Leah made lemonade to serve the guests, children and the mill-workers and asked Heather if she might care to take the men each a glass of the refreshing drink. As she bore the tray carefully down to the mill, Heather caught her first glimpse of it in operation. Tall pines towered above the buildings, and the smell of pitch from the large boiling vat in the yard was heavy in the air. The logs lay thick in the millpond and beyond, the giant water wheel blurred as it spun. The busy saws hummed and snarled and set the key for a chaos of sound as a team of mules labored to pull the logs to its hungry maw. There were several men standing on a framework around the boiling vat, skimming pulp from the top of the sixfoot-wide kettle.
She found Mr. Webster outside the mill, discussing a problem with a few of the hands. He gave her a friendly smile when he saw her and offered to help with the tray, but she declined and served the men herself as he introduced her around as Mr. Birmingham’s wife. They nodded and acknowledged her greeting respectfully with a great deal of awe at her beauty and watched after her as she strolled toward one of the smaller buildings where Jeremiah had said her husband could be found. Then the foreman gave a brisk command for them to close their mouths, and they continued on with their work, casting a last furtive glance at her over their shoulders.
Heather stood for a moment in the open doorway of the dingy office. The room held the barest essentials of furniture, and rough wood walls had never seen signs of wallpaper or whitewash. Her husband sat upon a high stool at his desk with his back toward her. The day was warm and he had removed his shirt to catch every breath of breeze that now and then drifted in through the open windows. She watched with pleasure the play of muscles across his back and smiled as she thought of them beneath her fingertips, hard as oak. She shifted her weight and a board creaked under her foot. Brandon turned and seeing her silhouetted in the doorway, rose with visible relief at his rescue from the tedium of bookkeeping and came forward. Smiling, he drew her in, closing the door behind her, then took the tray to set it down on a rough table and raised the glass of lemonade to his lips to drain it without a pause.
“Ah-h,” he sighed. “Just what I needed to ease my boredom, a thirst quenching drink.” He reached out an arm to pull her into his embrace. “And a pretty wench to feast my eyes upon.”
She laughed and nuzzled her nose against his hairy chest. “I can remember once when you stormed at me for keeping you from your work. Have your labors grown less desirable or have I become more so?” she teased.
He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and grew serious. “Forgive me for that, my love. I was at my cruelest that day. Your refusal to share my bed taunted me into proving how big a jackass I can be.”
“My refusal!” she protested. “But, Brandon, I never did anything to deny you your rights. You were the one who refused to sleep with me on the Fleetwood after I was ill and rejected me the first night at Harthaven. Each time I would have gladly complied with your husbandly ways, but you turned from me to sleep in your solitary bed.”
“I see our marriage was full of misunderstandings,” he murmured. “You had the mistaken idea that because of our marriage my desire for you had lessened since that summer’s night I first took you, and I was sure you couldn’t bear my touch, that you’d fight me if I tried to have you. Strange, how our minds played against us. We should have followed our instincts.” He bent and pressed his lips against her white throat. “We’d have found love that much sooner.”
Heather tingled with delight and knew as long as she had breath in her body she would thrill to his touch. She could summon no resistance when he caressed her. Her very soul seemed to be his, and her body responded more to his will than her own. He had the power to make her life seem an enchanted dream or, as in the past, make hell appear a pleasant garden in comparison. She was his without reservation.
His lips traveled down her neck until they hovered above the hollow at the base of her throat where a froth of white ruffles hampered further descent. His hand went to the tiny buttons of her gown and toyed casually with them as he murmured softly in her ear, sliding to the second button, the third, the seventh and the last; A smile brushed his lips and with a simple unhurried motion that left her gasping, he raised both hands to spread the front of her gown and chemise and bare her breasts. He kissed the soft flesh that was now revealed to him, and she trembled under the fiery heat of each kiss.
“Someone might come in, Brandon,” she whispered breathlessly.
“I’ll kill the first soul who dares touch that door,” he returned casually without pausing in his caresses.
“But what if someone should just barge in?” she protested weakly, finding it hard to resist.
His hands slid under her garments to her back and pulled her against him until her breasts teased his chest with their peaks.
“There needs be a lock on that door,” he murmured huskily, kissing her brow. “And a bed in here would suit my mood. These chairs are not very accommodating.” He sighed and in some exasperation pulled away. “Very well, madam. I yield to your pleas.”
Still distraught, Heather pulled her chemise together. She sought to fasten it but found her fingers were like so many thumbs and proceeded slowly to disguise her clumsiness with the fasteners. Brandon had returned to his desk and now watched her intently yet with a gaze that was soft and loving. She looked up to find the green eyes holding her and blushed deeply, now fumbling in confusion with the many bows and buttons. Brandon laughed and came to her, brushing aside her hands.
“My love, you tempt the very saints. So before I take you here and now let’s get thee clothed again.”
When she left the building there was still a deep rosy glow to her cheeks, and she was so unaware of what she was doing that she almost stumbled over Alice, one of the Webster’s younger girls, who was down on all fours inspecting a toadstool.
“Oh, Mrs. Birmingham, look what I’ve found.”
Heather bent down beside the little girl. “Do you think it belongs to some elf who lives in the woods?” she inquired, smiling.
The girl looked up, wide-eyed and eager. “Do you really suppose so? Maybe he left it behind.”
“It’s very likely,” Heather replied, enjoying the little girl’s excitement.
“Can we go in the woods and look for him?”
“Of course. Perhaps we’ll find a whole fairy circle.”
“Oh, yes, let’s,” Alice cried, tugging at her arm.
Laughing, Heather let the girl lead her into the forest. It was so dense only an occasional ray of sunlight penetrated the lush green foliage. Soon they entered a small glade when a bird somewhere up above them called to its mate, and a squirrel sat scolding them from the limb of a tree. A live oak tree towered majestically over the clearing, and a few wild flowers peeped out of the earth where the mulch was not so forbidding. The pines gave off a scent as sweet as the brightly colored blossoms.
“This here is where I’d live if I was an elf,” Alice said as she spread her short arms wide and turned round and round.
Heather smiled. “Have you been here before, Alice?”
“Yes’m. Plenty of times.”
“It’s an enchanted place. I like it.”
“Oh, Mrs. Birmingham, I knew you would,” Alice cried happily.
Heather laughed and smoothed back the flaxen hair that had fallen into the little girl’s eyes, then gazed around.
“I don’t see any sign of elves though, do you?”
The girl frowned. “No’rn,” she said, then she grinned again. “But I think one is watching me. I can feel it.”
Heather smiled, enjoyin
g herself as much as the child. “That’s even better than finding where they live, isn’t it? Not everyone is fortunate enough to have an elf watch them. Perhaps we should pretend we don’t notice.”
The girl dimpled and her eyes gleamed. “What should we do?”
“We’ll pick flowers and make believe we don’t even know he’s around. Perhaps he’ll show himself then.”
“Oh, yes, let’s.”
Heather watched Alice walk away and knew the girl was trying for all she was worth to act nonchalant, as if she were more interested in the flowers than in the elf she was sure was observing her. With not so much interest in the unseen as the seen, Heather began to gather flowers to make a bouquet for Mrs. Webster’s table. Alice soon forgot both elf and flowers and ventured off to chase after a butterfly and finally wandered back toward the mill, but Heather remained, picking as many of the daisies and lilies as she could.
Busy with her task in the small clearing, it was a long time before she too began to have an odd feeling that she was being watched. The short hair on the nape of her neck rose on ends and her spine tingled coldly. As she began to turn slowly to see if her suspicions were correct, she was half expecting to see Alice’s imagined elf, for she was sure now that the girl had not been mistaken about being watched. Her eyes strained through the darkness of the trees and then she saw him. It was no elf but a man on horseback, not more than seventy-five yards from her. His shape was dark and sinister, for despite the warmth of the day he wore a black cloak that draped his entire body. The garment’s stiff, high collar covered half his face, and the black tricorn he wore came down so low that barely a slit for his eyes remained. He started moving forward slowly, menacingly, with his head slunk in the collar of his cape and Heather froze for a second, unable to turn and flee, then she began to back away cautiously. He urged his horse to quicken its pace, and she whirled with a frightened cry and raced across the glade to the weaving path that led back to the mill. The horse and rider gained ground and were almost upon her; the hoof beats seemed to pound like iron against metal in her ears. She screamed, dropping the flowers, and dodged through the trees. She glanced fearfully over her shoulder, but all she could see was the large, black gruesome shape of horse and rider that seemed inseparable. A hand was reached toward her, branching from the blackness of the man’s cape. Then from somewhere in front of her she heard her husband cry out her name. The horseman stopped, apparently to listen. A sound of thrashing came from ahead, and Heather fled in that direction sobbing Brandon’s name. Glancing back, she saw the horse rear straight up as the man pulled tight upon the reins and turned the animal back into the forest. She had a brief glimpse of his back before he disappeared into the dark shadows. There was something strangely familiar about the figure that she couldn’t quite put into words.
Brandon came racing through the trees, and she fell into his arms, sobbing.
“Oh, Brandon, he was horrible!” she cried. “Horrible!”
“My God, what happened! I was coming to get you for dinner, and I heard you scream.” His arms tightened around her. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“There was a man—on horseback,” she choked through tears. “He came after me. He almost caught me.”
Brandon held her away from him and looked into her face. “Who was he? Had you ever seen him before?”
She shook her head. “No. No. He wore a tricorn and a cloak, and I wasn’t able to see him clearly. I was gathering flowers and felt someone watching me. When I saw him, he started coming toward me and when I ran, he chased me.” A shudder ran through her. “He looked so evil, Brandon.”
He pulled her close again and held her tightly, soothing her fears as best he could. “It’s over now, sweet,” he murmured. “You’re safe here in my arms and I won’t let any harm come to you.”
“But who could it have been, Brandon? What was he doing here?”
“I have no idea, my love, but Sybil’s murderer has yet to be caught. It’s best that you don’t wander off alone anymore. We must warn the Websters too. If the man comes back, I wouldn’t want any of the women or children in his path. I’ll have a few lookouts posted. That should keep him from doing any harm.”
“He made me drop my flowers,” she sniffled tearfully, as if just realizing it. “I picked an armful for Leah’s table, and he frightened me so I dropped them.”
Brandon chuckled. “All right, sweet. We’ll go back and get them.” He lifted the hem of her gown and dried her tears with it. “Now stop your crying before you get your nose all red.” He gave her a kiss. “You’re not frightened anymore, are you?”
She leaned against him. “Not with you here.”
Heather’s fears rose anew at the front door of Harthaven when Joseph announced that Miss Louisa Wells had come to call and was waiting in the drawing room. She glanced up to her husband and saw his face take on a black scowl and the muscle begin to twitch in his cheek. She followed as he entered the drawing room, carrying their sleeping son in her arms.
Louisa reposed prettily in Brandon’s favorite chair, wearing a muslin gown of considerable beauty, and took a sip of the drink which she had prepared with Jeff’s bourbon and a sprig of mint. She smiled slowly over her glass at Brandon and leaned her head back against the chair.
“You’re looking well,” she commented in a lazy voice. “But then, darling, you always do.” Her eyes devoured him before she turned to Heather. “Poor dear, you must find Carolina’s heat a dreadful bother after your England. The little flower seems a little wilted.”
Self-consciously Heather sank into a chair and gave her hair a quick, nervous smoothing with her hand. Stone faced, Brandon went to the bar to fix himself a drink.
“To what do we owe this unexpected . . . pleasure, Louisa?” he inquired with a bit of sarcasm. He came to stand behind Heather’s chair with his drink. “We haven’t seen you since you brought us news of Sybil’s murder, and I’m wondering what you may have to report now. Not another murder, I hope.”
She laughed easily. “Of course not, darling. I’ve been away visiting my aunt in Wilmington, and I just returned and wanted to pay my respects to everyone. I’m disappointed that you didn’t miss me.” She sighed and rose from her chair. “But I’m sure you haven’t been allowed too much time to yourself.” She gave Heather a quick glance from behind lowered eyelids, and then handed her a gaily wrapped package. “This is for Beau, dear, a little something I picked up in Wilmington. I, ah-h,” she smiled smugly, “never donated to the cause before.”
Heather lowered her gaze and murmured her thanks, stumbling over the words. Her confidence was lagging badly. The scare she had had that afternoon had worn her nerves thin and now before Louisa she was tense and unsure. She unwrapped the present and a small silver cup emerged from the paper. Beau and the year 1800 had been engraved on the metal.
“Thank. you, Louisa,” she, said softly. “It’s very lovely.”
Louisa sensed her advantage over the moment and did not let it slip by.
“I wouldn’t have felt right not giving Brandon’s son a gift.” She looked down at Beau as he stirred in his mother’s arms, finally, opening his eyes. “After all, as close as we are—were,” she smiled. “It would have been in poor taste to ignore his son. Aren’t you glad though, Heather, that the boy looks so much like his father? I mean—it would have been a pity if he had taken after you, say, though I expected as much. I just knew the little darling would be the very image of his mother. Perhaps it’s because she looks so much like a baby herself.”
Words failed Heather. It was hard to sit calmly while the woman deliberately tried to antagonize her. Brandon was not so gracious.
“What in the hell do you want, Louisa?”
The woman ignored him and bent over Beau, displaying every measure of her bountiful bosom to both Heather and Brandon. She clucked the baby under his chin, but Beau was not in favor of being touched by strangers the minute he woke up. His bottom lip quivered and he began to squall
as he strained away, pulling on the neck of Heather’s gown.
Louisa stiffened and her expression for a moment was full of venom as she stared down at Heather trying to quiet her son. A brief smile crossed Brandon’s face as he regarded Louisa over his glass. But Beau would not be hushed, and Heather, glaring at Louisa from under her lashes, finally undid her gown and put Beau to her breast. The baby quieted immediately but kept a wary eye upon Louisa. Brandon chuckled and gave his son a pat on the rump before moving into a chair beside his wife’s.
Glancing up from Beau, Heather saw an uncertain frown flicker across Louisa’s brow. It was such a brief expression she wondered if she could have imagined it. Was the woman at last realizing what it meant to be the mother of Brandon’s child? Here was a bond that would not be easily broken. Brandon loved his son. It was plain to see. No one could believe that he would discard the child’s mother very readily for another.
Louisa felt herself losing ground and tried to regain it, but ineptly, in the wrong way.
“I think it’s perfectly adorable the way you take care of the business of feeding him yourself, Heather, instead of hiring a wet nurse. Most women would, you know. But I can see you’re the domestic type and enjoy doing things like that. Of course, it does demand a lot of a woman. I’m afraid I couldn’t be tied down like that.”
“No, I suppose you couldn’t,” Brandon returned. “That’s why we’d have never gotten along, Louisa.”
The woman took a step backward as if struck and then sought to turn her words around.
“What I mean is—I couldn’t give all my attention to a baby and ignore my husband.”
Brandon laughed sharply. “Do you think I’m ignored, Louisa? If you do, let me assure you I am not. Heather has a marvelous ability to make both her son and her husband feel loved.”
Louisa whirled and went back to her chair yet made no move to sit down. She spoke over her shoulder to Brandon.
The Flame and the Flower Page 42