Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  For many moments Irene merely looked at her, saying nothing. Then, very softly, bitterly, she said, “Don’t you already have everything? Why must you have what is mine?”

  “I have nothing,” Byrony said without thinking, then realized she meant it.

  “You little fool. You have all the pretty clothes you want, you have nothing to worry your empty head about. You have the Butler name.”

  “So do you.”

  “Hardly the same thing. God, I wish Ira had never married you.”

  So do I, Byrony thought. “Ira married me for you, Irene,” she said, surprised at how very calm and detached she sounded. “I am trying to fulfill my end of the bargain, but you are making it difficult. Why can’t we be friends?”

  “I am going to take Michelle out for a while,” Irene said.

  “What?” Byrony asked, a bit of irony lacing her voice, “I thought she was so very ill with a cold.”

  “You little slut, what do you know about anything?”

  The viciousness of her attack left Byrony breathless, but just for a moment. Cleansing anger shot through her. “Slut, Irene? I wasn’t the one who got pregnant. I wasn’t the one who was stupid enough to have relations with a married man.”

  She regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth. She said quickly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Surely we can live in the same house without so much discord.”

  Irene said not another word. Byrony left the nursery and went to her room. I am twenty years old, she thought, and I was right about something—I don’t have anything, except a mockery of a marriage and the reputation of having become pregnant before I married. I live a lie and I hate it. She felt further alienated that evening when she followed the sound of Ira’s voice and found him and Irene in the nursery playing with Michelle. She crept away before they’d noticed her presence.

  The house was quiet now, the quarter-moon outside her window nearly obscured by dark clouds. She tried to imagine her life in this house in five years, but couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine her life continuing in this vein for another month. She was a well-treated boarder, nothing more. Eileen was kind to her, she supposed, in her matter-of-fact way, but it was to Irene she went for her orders. As did Naomi.

  She walked to her bedroom window and leaned her face against the glass. Her thoughts went to Brent Hammond. He wouldn’t stay out of her mind and she’d given up trying to keep him out. She hadn’t seen him for two weeks, not since that lunch with Del and Chauncey Saxton. Surprisingly, he’d stopped baiting her after his initial remarks. In fact, the lunch had been enjoyable. She hadn’t wanted it to end even though she knew he was being pleasant only because he had to be in front of Delaney and Chauncey. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to agree with Chauncey that she wanted to see Brent’s saloon.

  They’d only peeked inside, of course. Ladies didn’t venture into such male lairs. She found that she was just as interested in the other half of the large building. The brothel. Did she expect to hear seductive laughter? See scantily clad women?

  Because he’d been so nice and proper during lunch, very much the gentleman in fact, Byrony was held speechless when Brent whispered in her ear, “Shall I ask Maggie if she’d allow a very proper little lady to use one of the very nice bedrooms upstairs? I could meet you there, of course. Should you like that? The mystery of it? Just imagine, my dear, what I should do to you.”

  “I will not listen to you, Mr. Hammond.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, keeping his voice so soft she could barely hear him. “I would much enjoy having you. You can’t begin to imagine the things I’d do to you.”

  “Stop it,” she said, wanting to strike him, but knowing she couldn’t, not with Del and Chauncey standing so close.

  “Stop? Why, I haven’t even begun. I’ll bet you taste very sweet, Byrony, between your lovely legs. Do you have lovely legs? It’s so difficult to tell with all the damned clothes you women wear. Perhaps I could write to some of your former lovers—talking to Ira wouldn’t be too very prudent—and ask them what you like. Or were they fumbling young boys?”

  Byrony whirled about and said in a high, thin voice, “Chauncey, I must get home. Michelle—she must be hungry.”

  “Ah, I’d forgotten about your breasts,” he said. “Perhaps soon you’ll share your warm milk. I would like to taste you, you know.”

  Even after two weeks, she remembered every one of his hateful words. Irene had called her a slut, and obviously Brent believed her to be one. Suddenly she started laughing, softly, then more loudly. It was all too ridiculous. She should tell Brent Hammond that he was the only man who had ever kissed her. What would he say to that? She laughed so hard she hugged her aching sides. She wasn’t certain when the laughter turned to sobs.

  “Well, since my two very best friends are here, I will tell you my news.”

  Byrony and Agatha looked at Chauncey. She looked ready to pop, she was so excited.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense!” Agatha said.

  “Very well, I’m going to have a baby.”

  Agatha hugged Chauncey and patted her back. “I am so happy for you, my dear, so happy indeed.”

  “Yes,” Byrony said. “Is Del pleased?”

  “Oh yes,” Chauncey said. “He acted like a wild Indian, shouting and whooping about last night. Mary and Lin and Lucas came rushing in wondering what was going on. At that point, Del was waltzing me around the room. Among the five of us, we drank two bottles of champagne.”

  “What wonderful news, my dear. Have you seen Saint?”

  “He visited me yesterday and confirmed what I’d hoped. You should have seen Mary hanging over him, telling him what she thought and giving him instructions. He just laughed at her and told her to get herself married to Lucas so he’d have another baby to deliver in the future.”

  “He said everything was just fine?” Byrony asked.

  “Saint assured me I was as healthy as any horse he’d ever seen. With this twinkle in his eyes, he told me to continue everything I was doing until he told me to stop.”

  “I’ll wager Del was happy to hear that,” Agatha said.

  Chauncey flushed a bit, then laughed. “What my dear husband said, Agatha—his exact words were, ‘Ah, at last there will be fruits to my labors.’”

  “Has he been working too hard, Chauncey?” Byrony asked.

  Both women stared at her, then broke into gales of laughter.

  Chauncey saw that Byrony didn’t realize what they were laughing about, and quickly said, “You must bring Michelle to visit. It’s time I got used to babies, and she is so sweet. I’d hoped you would bring her today.”

  “She has a cold. Irene didn’t think it would be a good idea to take her outside.”

  “Has Saint seen her?” Agatha said.

  “No. I didn’t think it was necessary.”

  How very curious, Chauncey thought, after the two women had left. Byrony had truly not understood their jest. Indeed, so many things about Byrony simply didn’t fit together. She said as much to her husband that evening over dinner.

  “And she simply didn’t understand, Del. It’s true, I suppose, that our jesting was just a bit improper, but we are all married women, for heaven’s sake.”

  Delaney laid down his fork and raised his eyes to her face.

  “And her child, Del. She’s never brought her here to our house. In fact, the only times I’ve ever seen Michelle are with Irene hovering about. It’s all rather odd.”

  “Perhaps you’re reading too much into this, love.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did I tell you that Ira’s becoming a total bore? He’s always been reticent, I guess you’d say, except when he talks about his child. Do you think I’ll become like him?”

  He raised his hand quickly when he saw the twinkle in her eyes. “All right, I guess I’m already a total bore about my wife, so my friends will believe me much more interesting after the baby comes.”

  “I shoul
d be so lucky.”

  Later that night, when Chauncey was settled in for the night, her cheek pressed against her husband’s shoulder, she murmured, half-asleep, “I am worried about Byrony, Del. There’s something wrong, I’m certain of it. Sometimes I think if I invited her, she’d move in with us.”

  “A very pretty girl. I shouldn’t mind.”

  Brent hadn’t been at all gentle in his lovemaking with Celeste. But then, she liked him to be fierce and demanding. She’d already curled up against his side and was fast asleep. He lay on his back, his head pillowed on his arms, and stared up at the dark ceiling, reviewing the day’s events in his mind. He thought about Delaney Saxton’s proposition to buy into his shipping business. The Orient, he thought. I’d like to go there.

  “You’ve got to do something smart with all the money you’re raking in,” Del had said over lunch. “All you’re doing is piling it up in my bank.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Brent fell silent a moment, his thoughts going to his father’s plantation, Wakehurst. It would have been his, had he not been such a bloody fool. He unconsciously rubbed his fingertip over the scar on his cheek. So many years had passed, yet he still remembered those terrible few minutes so vividly. He had betrayed his father. But you were only eighteen, a stupid boy, he’d tell himself, but the guilt was still there. Damn, but he missed his father. All because he’d been a randy boy, all because Laurel had wanted him—

  “If you don’t take me up on it, Brent,” Del had said, “I think I’ll talk to Maggie. Now, there’s a lady with ambition.”

  “I think every man who gambles in my saloon pays her girls a visit. They lose fifty dollars to me, then pay her a hundred.”

  “That’s one thing I’ve always admired about San Francisco,” Del said, swirling the beer about in his glass. “Men are men and don’t apologize for it. It isn’t at all that way back where I grew up.”

  “It had to be worse in the South,” Brent said. “Everyone wanted to be wicked, and indeed everyone was, but so discreetly, and with such hypocrisy.”

  “You’re originally from Natchez? Don’t look surprised, Brent. I asked Maggie. She told me you are a planter’s son.”

  “Yes, I am. Or was. My father disinherited me.”

  Del raised a brow, but asked no more questions. He said after a moment, “That’s another thing I like about the West and San Francisco in particular. A man’s—or a woman’s—past is nobody’s business. You are, out here, what you make of yourself. I sometimes believe my own father would have booted me out if it hadn’t been for my older brother, Alex. He was always the great peacemaker.”

  “Is your brother in the shipping business?”

  “He builds ships, in New York. And like me, he’s married to an Englishwoman. Therein lies a tale, but unfortunately, I don’t see him and Giana, his wife, often enough to weasel it out of them.”

  “Speaking of tails—” Brent broke off and grinned.

  “I’ve got the spelling, go ahead.”

  “I understand you very nearly tied the matrimonial knot with Penelope Stevenson.”

  Delaney rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell you, Brent, that girl needs to be thrashed, probably about three times a day. Even before Chauncey arrived, I’d decided I would rather slit my wrists than marry her. Why? You’ve got ideas in that direction?”

  Brent shrugged. “The lady’s persistent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was my body she was after, and not my noble heart. The dowry’s tempting, you must admit.”

  “I suppose so, if a man was willing to give up his peace for dollars.”

  “And power. Hell, Del, you could keep her pregnant and out of your hair easily enough.”

  “I wouldn’t wager fifty cents on that. I’d think carefully, Brent, before I shifted toward Penelope.”

  Brent grinned and tossed down the rest of his beer. “I’m just spouting nonsense. Don’t listen to me. I have no intention of marrying—any woman.”

  “You’ll change your mind, once you meet the right lady. Incidentally, you can congratulate me. Chauncey’s pregnant.”

  To Delaney’s surprise, Brent became utterly still. What the devil was wrong? Then Brent seemed to get hold of himself, and smiled. “I’m happy for you. Is Chauncey feeling well?”

  “She has so much energy, it’s terrifying. Saint assures me she’ll slow down a bit. I’ll tell you something, though,” Del added, “I won’t say anything to Chauncey, but I’m terrified. I was in New York in fifty-one when my sister-in-law went into labor. I’ve never felt so utterly helpless in my life. Hell, I’d be willing to pay Saint any fee he asked. Thank God, he’s here in San Francisco.”

  What if Byrony becomes pregnant again? Was she in danger with her first child?

  “Yes,” Brent said, his voice clipped. He couldn’t bear the thought of Ira even touching her hand, much less possessing her. Get used to it, you fool. That, or leave San Francisco.

  “Well, it’s time for me to get back to the grindstone,” Delaney said. “Think about my proposition, Brent. But don’t take too much time, all right?”

  “Tell you what, Del. I think I’m going to go riding this afternoon myself—no Penelope—it’ll clear my head. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

  Brent stabled his horse, an Arabian stallion, whose unlikely and unaristocratic name was Curtis, at Jem Bradley’s stable on Kearny. The afternoon was clear, fortunately. The rainy season was nearly upon them, and then, he knew, Curtis wouldn’t get too many workouts. He rode beside the plank road to the Mission Dolores, then headed Curtis toward the ocean. This part of the peninsula was barren, nothing but whirling sand and high, shifting dunes. The constant wind off the ocean whipped the sand inland, covering trails and paths within twenty-four hours. He remembered stories of the miners newly arrived in San Francisco. They’d pitch their tents and go to bed, only to awake the next morning sanded in.

  Sea gulls squawked overhead, the only noise of life around him. It was desolate land, savage land, yet comforting, and he loved it. He urged his horse over the last rise, holding his reins tightly so he wouldn’t slip in the sand, and the Pacific came into view. God, it was beautiful. He’d been raised inland, and had never before seen the ocean until just two years ago. The tide was coming in, and the stiff ocean breeze was whipping up the sand on the beach. He looked north, to the raised, jagged cliffs. It was then he saw the other rider.

  It was a woman seated on a mare some hundred yards up the coast. She was sitting very still. For a moment he frowned, for he wanted to be alone. Then, after what seemed to be hours, the woman turned and click-clicked her mare toward him. Brent froze.

  What an unlucky bastard you are, he thought, laughing at himself. It was as if he’d conjured her up. She was never far from his conscious thoughts, and he wondered briefly what she’d do when she saw him. Then he didn’t care. He nurtured the seed of contempt, realizing vaguely it was his only and last defense against her.

  He urged George forward, keeping him but a couple of feet beyond the encroaching tide. At least the wet sand was firm and his stallion wouldn’t stumble.

  “Good day, Mrs. Butler,” he called to her, and doffed his black felt hat.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She sounded frightened and it surprised him. Was she afraid he would pull her off her mare’s back and ravish her on the sand?

  “I’m riding, as you can see. Does your husband know that you’re out alone? This isn’t exactly a civilized city yet, ma’am.”

  She was wearing a royal-blue velvet riding habit and a rakish little blue hat on her head. Her hands were gloved in the finest leather. She looked so beautiful, and so wary, that he had difficulty breathing.

  “You don’t look particularly civilized, Mr. Hammond. But I am always careful, I assure you. You look more like a desperado than a fancy gambler.” It was true, she thought, staring at him. He was wearing black trousers, a full-sleeved white shirt, and a black leather vest. The black hat and black riding b
oots completed the picture. He looked like the devil, and so compelling that she wanted to ride toward him, and run away at the same time.

  “And untrustworthy?”

  She ignored him and forced herself to urge her mare away from him. His hand shot out suddenly and grabbed the reins. “I thought you were probably afraid of me.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Excellent. Let’s walk along the beach for a while.”

  Damn you for an idiot. Why didn’t you just let her ride away?

  He quickly dismounted and walked toward her. She stared down at him, her eyes wide and wary on his face. “I’m not certain—” she began, and licked her lips.

  His hands clasped her waist and easily lifted her off her mare’s back. He didn’t release her, but gently and slowly slid her down his body until her feet touched the sand. Blood drummed loudly in his ears. His body reacted instantly, and he didn’t deny himself. He pulled her against his chest and kissed her. The plume in her riding hat brushed his cheek.

  Byrony struggled, pushing her fists against his chest. His arms only tightened around her back. “No, please, Brent, no.”

  Her words brought his head up. “God, you’re so bloody beautiful. Why you, dammit?”

  “I don’t know.” She slipped away from him, turning her back to him. She wasn’t frightened of him. She wanted him. It was the oddest feeling, one that she had never before experienced. Was this desire? She stared blindly at the crashing waves.

  His lust calmed, and he said brutally, “You want me and Lord knows I want to bed you. Just once, and I imagine you would be out of my mind for all time.”

  He saw her stiffen but she didn’t turn to face him.

  “One more man wouldn’t make any difference. I won’t leave you unsatisfied, I promise you that. And I won’t get you pregnant.”

  Slowly Byrony turned to face him. Her heart was beating wildly, and no matter how many deep breaths she’d taken, it wouldn’t calm. She wondered vaguely if he could hear it.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, staring him full in the face. “Why do you want me? You don’t know me, not at all. You hate me, I’d say.”