The Flame and the Flower (19 page)

"But you trade with us," she said in much astonishment. "You sail here and do business with the people you once fought."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I am a man of business. I sell my cotton and goods to the English for a profit. They sell me what my people will buy for more profit. I never hold grudges if I think it will interfere with the business of making money. Besides, I do a service for my country in bringing back the things that are needed and are not yet obtainable."

"Do you come here every year then?"

"I have been for the last ten years, but this will be my last year. I have a plantation to run. I can't neglect it any longer. And now I have other responsibilities on the way. I'll be selling the
Fleetwood
when I get home."

Something caught at Heather's heart. Was it possible he meant never to sail again, to settle down and be a father to their child? Perhaps she would even be allowed a nominal position in his household. The very thought flooded her being with warmth and she almost relaxed against him. But cold reality and doubt chilled the dream.

"Will I live on your plantation too?" she asked, almost fearing the answer.

"Of course," he replied, rather amazed at her question. "Where did you think you would live?"

She shrugged her shoulders nervously. "I—I didn't know. You didn't say."

He chuckled. "So now you know. Now do be a good girl and get into bed and go to sleep. Your chattering has worn me out."

She crawled into bed again as he stood up and began to undress. When he had stripped, he motioned her across the bed.

"It's best I sleep nearest the door," he said.

She quickly moved to the other side of the bed and did not ask why she must. It was clear he expected something to happen.

He blew out the candle and lay down beside her. A dingy lantern hung aglow in the courtyard below and in the gusty evening breeze, cast its bouncing shadows dimly into the room. To her dismay, Heather found that her hair was streaming across Brandon's pillow and was caught beneath him. She waited for him to free her, but a long time passed and he did not and then she knew he would not for he had fallen asleep with his cheek against her soft curls. With a sigh of resignation, she settled herself to pass the night in bondage, but with his presence close beside her, she found security and she sank into the nether realms of slumber.

From the depths of sleep she struggled with terror's spurs goading her to full awareness. A hand pressed tightly over her mouth, smothering screams bred of panic. Her eyes flew open and in frenzied reaction she clawed at the hand. Then her husband's face loomed up close above hers in the darkness, and with senses returning, her fear passed and she sank back to the pillow. She stared up at him in confusion, her eyes wide and searching.

"Lie still," he whispered softly. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. Pretend to be asleep."

She nodded her head to let him know she would obey. His hand slid away and he sank down again beside her. His breath came slow and even, as if he were asleep, and from beyond the door she could hear a muffled voice and an odd picking and scratching at the door itself. The bar slowly began to lift, and she struggled to control her own breathing. With the fluttering in her chest it was no easy task.

A dim thread of light appeared and grew wider as the door swung open. Through slitted eyes she watched and saw a head appear. She heard a whisper.

"They're asleep. Come on."

Two dark figures stole into the room, and the door was pushed shut. Heather gritted her teeth as the men moved forward and almost jumped when the floor creaked beneath their feet. An angry whisper came.

"Do not wake the bloke, you fool, or we may not get the girl. He's not a wee one."

"She's across the bed," the other whispered a little louder.

"Sh-sh," the first hissed. "Don't you ken, I kin see that with me own two eyes."

They approached almost to the foot of the bed when Brandon snaked the pistols from beneath the sheets and sat up.

"Hold your pace, lads," he demanded. "You've been found out. And do stand very still for these worthy pieces have two leaden balls to hole your hides."

The two froze in mid stride, one half turned as if to flee with the other holding his companion's arm.

"Heather, light the candle that we might set faces to our midnight visitors," Brandon urged.

She crawled behind him quickly and lit the candle on the commode. The glow of its flame spread over the room softly and touched on the men's faces, proving them to be the same two who had huddled across the room from them at mealtime.

"We meant no real 'arm," one spluttered. "We wouldn't 'urt the girl."

The other intended kidnaper was bolder. "We can guarantee you a tidy sum for 'er, cap'n. She'll bring more'n 'er weight in gold from a certain duke we know. It won't matter that she's no virgin even." His eyes went to Heather and he grinned, showing badly rotted teeth. "She's well worth the price, cap'n. We'll split three ways, we will."

Trembling, Heather pressed closer to her husband and drew the bedcovers up under her chin. She disliked the way the men leered at her. She knew if they had been successful in taking her she would have been used many times by both of them before she'd have ever been presented to the duke. They were akin to William Court, intent upon satisfying their own lusts first.

Brandon laughed dangerously as he stood up and faced the men. He was casually unconcerned with his state of undress and bore the pistols with a careless swagger which did not ease the two thieves' nervousness.

Heather felt the heat rising to her face. It was one thing to be alone with Brandon when he was naked, but to have others present—it was something else entirely. His male nudity seemed all the more startlingly bare to her with these men here.

"I must disappoint you good gentlemen," he said lightly. "This girl carries my child, and I am a selfish man."

"It won't matter about 'er, cap'n," the timid one interrupted. "The dukie will bed 'er in the ninth month, and seeing she's so comely, it won't be difficult for him. 'E'll give her a few hours to whelp, then 'e'll be on her again. 'E'll pay the same for 'er now, an' we'll give you half seeing you'll be needing to find another wench to warm your bed."

Brandon's eyes burned coldly and his knuckles grew white about the pistols. A small tic began to show itself in his cheek.

"There's a foul odor in this room that almost smothers me," he drawled, a forced grin twisting his lips. "Step over to the window, laddies, and open it for me. And do be gentle as you go, for my hands grow weary."

The two men scrambled to obey, then turned again to the Yankee smiling.

"And now, my hearties, I must once more explain before you take your departures," Brandon began in a slow, precise way, almost gently. Then his voice became very menacing and dreadful with his rage apparent in each separate word. "This girl is
my
i wife and carries
my
child. She belongs to
me
, and what is
mine
, I
keep
!"

The last words seemed to blast all thoughts of gain from the brigands. Their jaws dropped, their eyes widened in fear, and small beads of sweat dappled their brows. They now became deeply concerned with their continued longevity.

"But, cap'n, she—we—"

They both stuttered in their attempts to placate him. The bolder one finally managed to speak clearly.

"But, cap'n, we didn't know. No common wife would seem so fine to bed. I mean, sir—"

"Be gone with you," Brandon roared. "Take your leave before I throttle you both!"

They started toward the door, but were halted as Brandon chuckled wickedly.

"Oh no, laddies. The window will do sufficiently well."

They gawked and spluttered at him. "But, Cap'n, would ye 'ave us break our necks on the cobblestones?"

"Out!"

The pistols threatened and the two men scrambled to comply. They scuffled briefly and the bolder one plunged through the window, whether aided or not was uncertain. A meaty thud, then strangled curses and groans were heard from below.

"I think I've broken both my poor legs, you sea scurvy bastard!" was the man's cry.

The meeker one gazed backwards, but Brandon gestured and the man made his reluctant departure. Upon his arrival below, a cacophony of angry shrieks, oaths and moans became an original account of the many possibilities of what might have occurred on Brandon's family tree. But their shrieks only drew an amused chuckle from the second-story window as Brandon closed it. He barred the door again and secured the bar so it could not be lifted again from without. The sounds outside dwindled off as the two thieves hobbled away.

Still chuckling, Brandon slid into bed beside Heather who now sat in the middle of it, watching him quietly, her eyes a little wide. He grinned at her.

"I wonder what damage befell the last one. He screamed the loudest, don't you agree, my pet?"

She met his gaze, then as she nodded, a soft ripple of musical laughter escaped her.

"Oh, I do indeed agree," she laughed. "And I suppose I must feel honored that they lied about what I should bring. No man would pay such a price for a woman."

He looked at her for a moment in a queer manner, listening to the sound of her voice, watching the bright, happy smile. His gaze fell to the smooth, silky breasts rising full and tantalizing above her gown and to the soft transparency of her dress which concealed very little of her slender body. Moisture broke from his brow as he experienced once again a familiar tightening. A muscle in his cheek flexed as he turned away, and a sudden impulse to hurt her surged upward within him.

"Considering what you must weigh it wouldn't have been very much," he said harshly before he blew out the candle, and in the dark he added coldly, "If they had offered more I might have been tempted."

Bewildered by his sudden change of mood, Heather crept to her pillow and lay down. She did not know what she had done or said to cause him to want to hurt her so cruelly. He was so unpredictable. How could she understand him? One moment he was gentle and kind as he had been earlier, the next she was left speechless by his irascible disposition.

Morning found Brandon in absence and Heather quickly jumped from the bed. She washed and threw on her clothes, leaving the red gown unfastened because she could not reach the hooks. Quite bravely she searched through Brandon's duffle until she found a brush. Wondering what her chastisement would be if she dared use it, she bit her lip and almost put it back. But there was no other and her hair looked quite impossible. There was a likelihood he might never notice its use if she were quick, and in an effort to have the task done before discovery, she started brushing vigorously. But much to her dismay he came in just as she was giving her hair a few final strokes. She jerked around to face him, looking very guilty with the brush in her hand. She saw immediately that he was in a foul temper and that she had chosen a bad day to be brave.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't have a brush of my own. My aunt has the few things that were mine."

"Since you took it upon yourself to use it without my permission," he growled low, "you might as well have the pleasure of doing so."

She put the brush down hastily as he moved toward the window beyond her and she sidled away from him with caution. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder at him as she began braiding her hair, to assure herself he was staying by the window. Her look fled elsewhere when she saw that he was watching her. She began to tremble and with her fingers shaking it was difficult to plait her hair neatly. She had to start over several times before she was satisfied with the results, and always she was conscious of his green eyes on her. She managed somehow to double the heavy braids and tie them above each ear so that the loops hung freely and brushed her shoulders as she moved.

"I'm taking you to a clothier's this afternoon," Brandon said flatly, turning away to stare out the window. "You'll be needing gowns more modest than what you have on."

Holding the dress in place, Heather eyed him warily. He was dressed in a casual manner, not yet having donned his coat. His breeches were fawn colored and tightly fitting and he wore a waistcoat of the same hue. His shirt was white, as were his stockings, and full sleeved with a ruffle edged with lace falling over his brown hands. As always his clothes were immaculate and in excellent taste. She had noticed that once he dressed himself to suit his own personal high standards, he did not fuss nor bother about his attire. He was no mincing fop.

His attention seemed now concentrated on the world outside their room, and she saw by his profile that his brows were drawn down in a heavy scowl. The sounds of carts and carriages rolling over cobblestones came now and then from the streets below, but it was mostly only the cries of beggars and urchins that drifted in.

She went to the bed and made it up, moving as noiselessly as she could around it. After that task was done, she sat on its edge and waited for time to pass or for her husband to move or give her a command. She waited an eternity. Her back began to ache and she leaned her head against the bedpost. She closed her eyes, but they fluttered open again with nervousness. Her stomach gnawed at her backbone. Finally Brandon moved and she straightened, drawing the falling gown up over her shoulders again. His eyes raked over her dispassionately.