The Flame and the Flower

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  She almost laughed out loud in hysteria. He was right. She had seen a ghost or something out of her past that was as frightening as one. She was possessed with fear that she would see him again or have him talk to Brandon. He was such a horrible man—or was he a monster?

  She clung tightly to her husband as he sat beside her and tried to soothe her. The curtains went up again but neither watched the stage now. A few moments later he leaned over her.

  “Let’s go. I don’t want you fainting here.”

  He led her from their box to the lobby and from the theatre where he motioned for James to get the barouche and pull it around. When it drew up before them, he lifted her in and held her small, quivering form close as they rode home.

  Heather was frightened now, more than she had ever been before. She had something now that she loved too dearly to part with—her husband, her child. If she were accused of murder, they would be snatched from her arms without mercy and she would rot away her life in prison. It would matter little that she had been attacked. They would not believe her, not with Mr. Hint to say that she had gone with William Court willingly. And Brandon would be so hurt. Oh, sweet Lord, be merciful, she prayed.

  When they arrived home, Brandon carried her up to their bedroom and put her on the bed. He rolled her over to unfasten her gown and stripped it from her with her other garments. When she lay naked beneath the sheet, he poured a small bit of brandy in a glass and sat down on the bed beside her.

  “Drink this, sweet. It will put some color into your cheeks.”

  Obediently she sat up and taking the glass from him, drank a big gulp of it, for which she was instantly sorry. She choked on the fiery liquid and coughed as she tried to catch her breath.

  He laughed softly and took the glass, setting it on the bedside commode. “I should have warned you about the drink, but I thought you’d remember.”

  He began pulling pins from her hair, and soon the silky curls were cascading loosely over her shoulder. He smoothed them under his hand.

  “Before, when we were in London and on the Fleetwood, I used to watch you tend your hair. I could hardly keep my hands from it, it tempted me so. Do you remember when you were ill, Heather?”

  She nodded, watching him as he played with a curl.

  “You were very ill, my darling, but I took care of you. No one touched you but myself and when your fever raged, I was the one by your side. Not for an instant did I leave the cabin. You were mine and I needed you. I let no harm come to you.”

  Her brows drew together as she wondered why he was speaking so slow and deliberate.

  “Do you think that now, when I know you are my very life, that I would let anything happen to you. I’d fight man and beast for you, Heather. So would you trust me enough to let me help you as I want to do. I know you are frightened, sweet, and I believe I can help if you’ll only trust me.” He bent over her. “I am very strong, ma petite.”

  Heather’s eyes were opened wide. He knew something! Somehow he had found out! But how—and what? What did he know and who had told him?

  Fear set her hands atremble and she clutched them together to keep them from transmitting their weakness to the rest of her body. She sank further down in the bed, the brandy lending her no false courage. What could she say? What could she tell him? If she hurt him she’d never forgive herself and if he walked away in shock at her deed and never returned to her arms, she would die.

  Brandon smiled tenderly and drew the sheet up under her chin. “When you wish to tell me, my sweet, I’ll always be near.” He undressed and slid into bed beside her. Pulling her close, he kissed her troubled brow. “Go to sleep, my love.”

  In the security of his arms, she found comfort at last and she was able to sleep, but there was no peace in her dreams. She saw Mr. Hint, his misshapened body standing over her, his clawlike hands holding Beau. Then she was running—running after Mr. Hint—after Beau. She had to save Beau from him! She rose from sleep screaming and struggling in Brandon’s arms as he tried to wake her.

  “He has Beau! He has Beau! He’ll hurt my baby!” she sobbed.

  “Heather, wake up. It’s only a bad dream, sweet. Beau’s safe.”

  Her eyes lost some of their wildness as they focused upon the face above her, the dark, handsome face of her husband. It was a stable rock in a sea of swirling sand. With a cry of relief, she flung her arms about his neck.

  “Oh, Brandon, it was horrible! He took Beau and I couldn’t reach him and I ran and ran. It was horrible!”

  She shuddered in the arms that held her. He was kissing her hair, her wet cheeks and the long lashes that were salty with tears. She quieted in his embrace and felt secure again, knowing Brandon was there. When several moments later his lips traveled down her throat to her breasts, she became possessed by a different sort of emotion. She groaned with pleasure as his hands moved over her body, slipping over her limbs as softly as a butterfly’s touch and sliding between as smoothly as the flight of those winged wraiths. He was slow and deliberate in his caresses, making her forget everything but the two of them, until she writhed within his arms and pleaded with him to take her without delay. But he proceeded at a studiedly measured pace, sending her emotions, inflamed and thrilling, spiraling upward. Her passion mounted until she became like a wild thing, quivering, biting, clawing at him. Yet he only laughed, the sound swirling above their heads and mingling with her purring sighs, and nibbled with his teeth at her throat, the silky flesh beneath her breasts, the smooth, flat belly and a shapely thigh. She shivered with the passion he evoked as her hand moved downward and closed over him. He shuddered and took her fiercely, carrying her with him to frenzied, breathtaking heights that finally burst around them, shading them both in warm contentment.

  The following afternoon Heather could be found in the drawing room helping Hatti polish furniture and looking every bit like a servant girl in kerchief and apron. George was seated upon the floor entertaining Beau who had crawled onto his lap and was chuckling at the old man’s efforts. Brandon and Jeff had gone to Charleston on business and most of the household staff was busy with some task or another.

  All day Heather had thought of nothing else but Thomas Hint and of what would happen to her if he spoke of her sins. When she heard a horse gallop up the drive, she knew without a doubt it was he, and fear mounted tenfold.

  “Show him in, Joseph,” she told the servant nervously when he told her a man wished to speak with the mistress of the house.

  She rose from the floor where she had been kneeling at her task but left her apron and kerchief in place. A spark of surprise shown in Mr. Hint’s eyes when he saw her so attired.

  “You may go, George, Hatti,” she managed.

  They both frowned at the visitor and seemed reluctant to leave her with such an evil-looking man, but they did as they were told and left the room.

  “What do you want?” Heather questioned when she was sure both were well out of hearing range.

  “Done very well for yourself since we last met, haven’t you? Though the apron, it gave me a start. I thought you ladies of wealth never dirtied your little white hands.”

  Heather straightened her spine. “I often help clean this home, sir. It is my husband’s and I enjoy seeing it at its best for him.”

  “Ah-h, I see you’ve fallen in love with the bloke. Is that his babe you have there or my dear departed employer’s?”

  Heather snatched up Beau from the floor and held him tightly to her. “He is my husband’s child,” she snapped. “William never touched me!”

  “Aye, I can well believe that, I can. You killed Willy ‘fore he could do harm to you. But the babe be a bit old for you to have waited too long to get caught with him.” His eyes dropped to Beau. “But I can see now that the man you were with last night be the child’s father. ‘Tis no mistakin’ the look of the gentry nor the handsomeness of your spouse. I figure you met him in London shortly after you did poor Willy in.”

  “You’ve not come to
discuss my baby nor my husband, Mr. Hint, so will you please tell me why you have come. My husband is not at all fond of me entertaining strange men in his absence.”

  The man made his grotesque substitute for a smile. “Do you think your man would be jealous of me, Mistress Birmingham? Nay, I wouldn’t think it, but then he might ‘come suspicious of why you’re seeing such an ugly toad as me.” He gave her a look askance. “Now I’ve known you to be the one what killed poor Willy but I’ve said naught to no man. ‘Tis clear my holding my say has to make me a few shillings, eh, Mistress Birmingham?”

  Heather trembled before his cold, calcuating look. “What do you want?”

  “Just a few pounds now and then to keep myself cozy and content. I’ve a nice shop in Charleston now, but I’m a greedy man, liking what the rich do. A few of your jewels would do nicely or perhaps a nice sum of money. Your man is wealthy so I hear. He can afford it.”

  “My husband knows nothing of this,” she snapped. “And I didn’t kill William. He fell on the knife.”

  Mr. Hint shook his head sorrowfully, feigning sympathy. “I am sorry, Mistress Birmingham, but by any chance, did anyone see him fall ‘sides you?”

  “No, no one was there to see it but me. I have no proof.”

  He stepped closer to her and she became aware of a strong odor of cologne that seemed strangely familiar to her. She couldn’t place when or where but it had left an impression associated with overwhelming fear that she remembered and felt now. She stepped back, clutching Beau to her tightly. The baby let out a squeal of protest at being squeezed so. Thomas Hint laughed and ran a clawlike hand over his mouth. It gave Heather quite a start to see his hands and realize they were no different from those of her dream.

  “I have no money!” she whispered hoarsely. “I never have any need for it. My husband has always seen to my wants.”

  “Your man takes good care of you, eh? Would he pay to keep you from being hanged for murder?” he snarled.

  Heather flinched. She could not let him tell Brandon whatever she did. “I have a few jewels. I can let you have them.”

  Mr. Hint sighed with pleasure. “Ah-h, that’s more like it. What do you have? You wore some nice ones last night. Get them and what else you have, then I’ll tell you whether they’ll do or not.”

  “You want them now?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Aye, I’ll not be leaving without them.”

  She sidled around him cautiously and hurried from the room to quickly mount the stairs. She left Beau crying in disappointment in the nursery under Mary’s care and ran to the master bedroom where she threw open her jewelry case and snatched up the emerald pin and pearl necklace Brandon had given her and the diamond earrings that had belonged to the former mistress of Harthaven. She left the bulk of the jewelry untouched, feeling guilty at having to take the earrings. She couldn’t bring herself to give away any more of what had belonged to Brandon’s mother, knowing how fond he had been of her. The pain of parting with her own gifts was deep. She remembered too well when Brandon had given the pieces to her. She was not likely to forget even when she no longer had them to remind her, and Brandon would surely notice when she no longer wore the pearls. They were her favorite and she had worn them often. She brushed the tears from her cheeks as she dropped the items in her apron pocket and releasing a deep sigh, opened the door.

  Mr. Hint was waiting patiently for her, seeming at ease in his blackmailing schemes, and when she held out the pieces, he smiled and took them greedily.

  “Aye, these will do nicely—for now. Are you sure they’re all you have?”

  She nodded.

  “Not as much as I be thinkin’ you wealthy people had.”

  “That’s all I have,” she cried, tears springing forth again.

  “Nay, madam, do not upset yerself. And don’t you worry that I should talk freely of your deeds. I’ll be needing more trinkets.”

  “But I have nothing more!”

  “You best be getting more before I need them,” he threatened.

  “Please go now,” she pleaded tearfully, “before my husband returns. He’s not a man I can hide things from, and if he sees you, he’ll want to know why you’ve come.”

  “Aye, my face is not for the likes of a lady’s parlor,” he smiled bitterly.

  He gave her a distorted bow, then left without a backward glance, and Heather sank wearily into a chair and in part misery, part relief, sobbed into her hands.

  He would take all her possessions—except for the ones she valued above all—Brandon and Beau. But when she could no longer meet his demands, what would he do? Turn to Brandon then and tell him his tale? She shuddered as fear rose anew. She couldn’t let that happen.

  She must keep him satisfied above all so she could go on living—and loving.

  Mr. Hint swung down from his horse and limped to tie the reins to the hitching post before his shop. He patted the jewel-filled pocket, feeling extremely pleased with himself. He had made a goodly sum this day with no work involved.

  Wiping his drooling mouth on his coatsleeve, he opened the door to his shop, entered and turned to close it. He froze with a start as Brandon Birmingham removed his hat and greeted him from just outside the doorway of his shop.

  “Mr. Hint, we had a brief meeting last night at the Dock Street Theatre, if you’ll remember.”

  “Aye,” Thomas Hint choked, nervously clutching the pocket of his coat.

  “May I come in?” Brandon inquired. “There is a matter I wish to speak with you about.”

  “Speak with me, sir?”

  Brandon strode past him into the shop, standing a good head and shoulders above the man. Mr. Hint swallowed hard and closed the door behind him.

  “It has come to my attention that you possess the original of the gown Miss Wells wore last night. I’d like to see it, sir.”

  Mr. Hint almost breathed a sigh of relief. “Aye, sir. One moment,” and he hobbled off toward the back of his shop. He was back shortly, placing the gown in Brandon’s hands.

  “I bought it from a bartering man some few months back, sir,” he was careful to explain.

  “I know,” Brandon replied. “How much?”

  “How much what, sir?” Mr. Hint started.

  “How much are you asking for the gown? I desire to have it.”

  “But, guv’na . . .”

  “Name your price,” Brandon directed.

  Mr. Hint dared not hesitate and spoke the first figure that came to his head. “Three pounds—ah, sixpence, sir.”

  Brandon raised an eyebrow questioningly as he fished into his pocket for the necessary coins. “I find it hard to believe you procured this so cheaply from the drummer, Mr. Hint.”

  The cripple realized his mistake and stuttered a reply. “It’s your lady, guv’na. With her beauty she’s the only one what can do justice to the garment. It’s like a gift I’m giving her, a fellow countryman, sir.”

  Brandon gave the man a careful scrutiny. “You’ve not been here much longer than my wife, have you, Mr. Hint? A month longer, perhaps two? She . . .”

  “Nearly four, sir,” the cripple returned, then bit his lip.

  Brandon paid close attention to the bead work on the gown’s bodice. “Then you know when my wife arrived.”

  Mr. Hint wiped his perspiring brow. “Louisa, Miss Wells, mentioned it last night, sir.”

  “You must have left London about the time I met my wife,” Brandon pondered.

  “Could be, sir,” Mr. Hint strangled out.

  “Why did you leave London, Mr. Hint?”

  The man went pale. “My employer died, sir, and I lost me work, so I took the few shillings I saved, sir, and come here.”

  “You seem to be very talented in your profession, Mr. Hint. Miss Louisa has commented to that effect.”

  “I try hard, sir.”

  “I’m sure that you do,” Brandon replied, then handed the man the gown. “Would you mind wrapping this for me?”

  Mr. Hint
almost smiled. “Be happy to, guv’na.”

  Brandon strode into the drawing room of Harthaven and found Heather down on her knees polishing the legs of a table. On the floor beside her Beau played with a brightly colored ball, babbling sounds that only he could possibly know the meaning of. Brandon cleared his throat and Heather turned and with a glad cry leapt to her feet and flew into his arms. He laughed with pleasure as she embraced him fiercely and lifting her feet clear of the floor, swung her about in gay abandon. When he set her down again, she grinned up at him with bright eyes, straightening her kerchief and apron.

  “My Lord,” he swore, dropping his hands on his hips. “You don’t look old enough to share my bed. Four and ten would be my guess. You couldn’t be the same wench who threatened to wake the household last night while having her pleasure. Could it have been a witch who stole into my bed and clawed and bit at me?”

  She blushed and looked at him uncertainly. “You don’t think Jeff heard, do you? I’d never be able to face him if I thought he did.”

  The corner of Brandon’s mouth curved upward devilishly. “If he did, I’m sure the sound was not unfamiliar to him, so he’ll not speak of it, being the gentleman he is. But you have little to fear, my sweet. What escaped my kisses was hardly much more than purrs of contentment.”

  She laughed in relief and came into his arms again. “You make me forget myself, Brandon. And after a night like that I have trouble coming down to earth.”

  He kissed her brow and smiled. “Complaining, sweet?”

  “Never,” she sighed. After a moment she raised her head from his chest and caressed his beard with gentle fingers. “It’s always an adventure going to bed with you.”

  He chuckled and stepped away from her into the hall. He returned with a package and placed it in her hands.

  “This belongs to you and if you ever want to get rid of it again, burn it or cut it to ribbons, but don’t barter it away so someone like Louisa, who has a damnable way of irritating me beyond reason, can take it and make a copy of it again. I remember too well the sight of you in it, and I don’t want another bitch ruining what was to me a very sweet and glorious memory.”