Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “And you hurt me.”

  “Yes, and I was wrong.” She was still looking at him with incredulity, and something else. Anger, more than likely. She was probably remembering his words to Maggie. He didn’t owe her any explanation, none at all. He was a man and her husband. He could do precisely as he pleased. With discretion now, of course.

  “Enough of this foolishness. I want to make love to my bride.”

  She stared at him, disbelieving. “Go to Celeste. Go to your mistress.”

  He turned away from her and began to pull off his clothes. When he’d stripped to his breeches, he said over his shoulder, “Would you like me to assist you out of your wedding gown?”

  “No. I am sleeping in the sitting room.”

  He whipped around at that. “The devil you are.” He unfastened the buttons on his trousers.

  “Stop that.”

  “No.” He stepped out of his trousers and methodically folded them and laid them over the back of a chair with his other clothes.

  He straightened, his hands on his hips. “Look well, Byrony. I hope you like your husband’s body, because I am the only man you will ever see naked.”

  “No,” she said. “Maybe not.”

  He drew on his patience. “Byrony, you are my wife and I fully intend to make love to you. We can do this one of two ways. You can fight me or you can enjoy me. Which is it to be?”

  Her head fell and her shoulders slumped.

  He said nothing, merely walked behind her and began to unfasten the myriad small satin-covered buttons down her back. He wanted to kiss the nape of her neck. The smooth flesh with the tiny wispy curls. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to make her forget his ill-chosen words, he wanted—

  “There,” he said, pulling the gown downward. “Would you like me to help you with the rest?”

  “No,” she said. “Please, Brent, just leave me alone.”

  He shook his head, and said aloud, “No. But I will have a bit of brandy while you finish.”

  He forced himself to walk away from her.

  Byrony wondered if all women were born under an unlucky star, then thought of Chauncey Saxton, and sighed. Delaney Saxton was handsome, clever, and terribly kind. And she, fool that she was, cared for this man, a man who looked upon her as a possession, as a thing to do with just as he pleased.

  “I don’t intend to drink brandy all night,” she heard him say from behind her. “You have five minutes, Byrony.”

  She jerked off her chemise, petticoats, and underthings. She was reaching for her nightgown when she felt his hand on her bare arm.

  “No,” he said. “I want you now.”

  Something inside her snapped at his tone of utter and absolute command. He turned her to face him. She brought up her fist and smashed it with all her strength into his stomach.

  Brent sucked in his breath, grunting more in surprise than in pain. When he felt her fingernails rake his shoulder, he grabbed her about the waist and flung her onto the bed on her back. He landed on top of her, jerking her arms above her head and holding her wrists together with one hand.

  “Enough,” he said, staring down at her. He saw the wild fury in her eyes, and grinned. “So, I’m to ride a wild mare on my wedding night?”

  Byrony tried to squirm away from him, and quickly realized that her movements only excited him all the more.

  “I hate you.”

  He was still grinning. “I will make you forget those words. And no, I’m not going to rape you. Now, I suggest that since you are quite ignorant, you simply lie still and let me teach you.” He dipped his head down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “And you will enjoy it, Byrony, oh, you surely will.”

  She felt the length of him swollen against her belly, felt his chest against her breasts. “No,” she said, “I won’t.”

  That startled him, and for a moment he merely stared down at her. “So that’s the way it is to be. We will see, Byrony. We will see.”

  He released her wrists, but she did nothing, merely lay there looking up at the ceiling. He rolled off her and balanced himself on his elbow beside her. He took his time to study her. “You will fill out,” he said, hoping to get a rise from her. He touched her breast, gently stroking. He cupped her, felt her heartbeat. It quickened under his palm, and he smiled. She had such beautiful breasts—he’d told her that already. He continued to stroke her as he looked downward. She was a bit on the thin side, it was true. Lord, he’d be thin too if he’d lived the way she had the past weeks. Her skin was soft, and very smooth. He kneaded her belly and felt her muscles tighten beneath his fingers. Lightly he brushed his fingertips over her dark blond curls. He heard her indrawn breath, felt her stiffen.

  “You have nice legs,” he said, thinking that an understatement. They were long and very white and shapely. Quickly he cupped her breast again and felt her heartbeat soar to a gallop.

  “Please,” Byrony said. “No.”

  “Yes, sweetheart. Now, I want you to open your legs.”

  “No,” she said again.

  He wedged his hand between her thighs and parted them slightly.

  Byrony closed her eyes tightly. She knew he was looking at her, studying her. His fingers stroked the insides of her thighs, drawing ever nearer. He bent her legs and parted them. She didn’t fight him. She felt strangely languid, but no longer apart from him. No, she was beside him, feeling him touch her.

  He moved quickly between her legs, pressing up against her.

  Byrony jerked upward.

  “No, I won’t let you! I—”

  He pressed his full weight on her and kissed her. His body was already moving against her rhythmically, and she was frightened, remembering the pain from before. She felt his urgency and began to fight him in earnest.

  “Byrony,” he said into her mouth, “stop it. Love, lie still.”

  “No.” She turned her face from side to side to avoid his mouth. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me. You’re a liar, like all men, you’re—”

  He rolled off her and drew her against him. “Hush,” he said, stroking his fingers through her hair. “I won’t hurt you. I’m not a liar.” He shook his head at himself. Lord, he’d lost control. The last thing he wanted was for her to fear his lovemaking. He held her gently. He kissed her hair and did nothing else. When she quieted, he eased her away so he could see her face.

  “Let’s go to sleep,” he said. “All right?”

  She blinked, not understanding him. He rose and doused the lamps, then returned to the bed and eased them both under the covers. “Come here, Byrony. I want to hold you. That’s all.”

  She came to him, knowing he would force her to if she didn’t obey him. She lay stiffly against his side, her cheek on his chest, her thoughts desolate and bitter. To Brent’s surprise, he heard her breathing quickly even into sleep.

  He cursed, then smiled into the darkness.

  It was still and calm and very dark when he awoke, a smile still on his lips. She was lying relaxed and yielding against him, her palm open on his chest. Very slowly he eased her onto her back. She mumbled something in her sleep, but didn’t awaken. He lightly stroked down her belly, found her. She was soft and warm. He stroked her slowly, felt her woman’s dampness and felt as if he would shout with the pleasure of it. He eased his finger inside her. He closed his eyes a moment, almost feeling himself coming into her.

  Slowly, he thought, very slowly. He began caressing her again and heard her moan softly. Oh yes, Byrony, let me invade your dreams.

  He had invaded her dream. She was standing atop a hill, a barren hill with a wide green valley beneath her. Strange, intense feelings were welling up inside her, making her squirm, making her breathless, making her want to move closer to the edge of the hill. Her hips moved, and in her dream she was looking down into that green valley, crying, not knowing what to do.

  Brent deepened the pressure and her hand came up to touch his shoulder. She hovered between dream and reality, wanting to keep the so
ftness and ambiguity of sleep, yet her body sought consciousness, sought the unbelievable pleasure. Suddenly her eyes flew open, and she felt her body convulse. She cried out, not understanding what was happening to her, only feeling and wanting more.

  Brent could see her face now in the dim light of dawn. He saw her look of utter bewilderment as she reached her climax. “That’s it,” he said, coaxing her to feel more and more. Before her pleasure subsided, he eased between her legs and came into her. He felt her muscles tighten about him, drawing him deeper.

  Byrony came abruptly awake. She stared up at him, felt him deep inside her. She cried out, the feelings still streaking through her, and wrapped her arms about his back. She wondered if she would die from the pleasure of it.

  Brent felt her passion swirl around him, felt her giving, her need. He drove his full length and let himself go. He fell on her, straining, panting.

  He closed his eyes, felt the deep-seated sensation of belonging, a need so long buried inside him that he’d forgotten its existence. I’ve come home, he thought, somewhat dazed by his insight.

  “Byrony,” he said, her name sounding wonderful to his ears.

  He kissed her face, eased his tongue into her mouth, felt her arms still tight around his back. “Byrony,” he said again, and fell asleep, sated, his head on the pillow beside her.

  Byrony was stunned. She didn’t move. He was heavy on top of her, yet she didn’t want to shove him away. He was still inside her, and she marveled at the feel of him. You have been properly loved, she thought, and closed her eyes. She’d never imagined that such feelings existed. Feelings so strong, so powerful, that nothing else was important. She felt the relaxed muscles in his smooth back. Slowly she ran her hands down his back, then upward again. So different from her, she thought, so very different. He moved slightly and she felt a sharp jolt of pleasure. She blinked into the gray morning light, trying to quash it. But it wouldn’t stop. She wanted him. Again, yet for the first time.

  Her body seemed to know what to do. She moved beneath him, arching upward, and she felt him grow inside her.

  Brent responded quickly, for he’d wanted her so long, so powerfully. He reared up over her, nearly withdrawing, then thrust deeply, his fingers going between them to find her. He heard her sob, her face pressed against his neck. She nearly bucked him off her.

  When he felt her stiffen and convulse in her climax, he kissed her deeply, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as his sex was thrusting inside her belly. Then he was beyond her, yet at one with her in his own pleasure.

  “Ah, Byrony,” he said, and drew her tightly against him.

  TWENTY

  Byrony’s nose twitched away from the rough hair on his chest. Very slowly she raised her head and looked down at his sleeping face. His dark hair was messed, a thick lock falling over his forehead, his jaws covered with black stubble. He looked exquisite. She even admired his ears.

  She realized that her leg was over his groin, one of his arms under her, even in his sleep holding her firmly, his fingers splayed on her hip.

  My husband, she thought. He is my husband. She held herself very still, remembering the previous night—no, morning. He’d known she would be more cooperative if he waited until she slept. And she had. She was still stunned at her wild response to him. She’d had no idea, no inkling from Aunt Ida or her mother that such feelings existed. Byrony grinned, thinking of the look on Aunt Ida’s pleasantly thin face were she to say, “Yes, Aunt, and then I yelled and squirmed about and never wanted him to stop. Oh yes, Aunt, to have a man deep inside you, filling you, moving over you, kissing you—” She let herself marvel at it for a few moments before she set herself to thinking clearly again. She needed to get away from him now, physically, but was afraid to move. He would wake up and probably make love to her again. Make love. What a curious thing to say, but that is what he called their wild coupling. She felt sticky between her thighs. His seed. Inside of her. Never before in her life had she felt her womanness as she did now, now that she knew what it was men wanted of women, and, she added silently, still marveling, what women wanted of men. She lifted her leg, easing away from him. He muttered something unintelligible and tightened his arm about her back.

  “Byrony,” he said suddenly, opening his eyes. He looked up into her face and smiled. “Good morning, wife. Come closer, you’re warm and soft, very soft.”

  He brought her tight against his side again.

  “Did you sleep well?” His question was filled with satisfaction. She felt the warmth of his breath against her temple.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He turned to face her and held her against him. She felt his sex swelling against her leg and drew in her breath. “Surely—” she began.

  “Surely what?” He nibbled at her ear. She heard rich amusement in his voice. He knew he’d won, but she thought suddenly, hadn’t she won also? But what of last night? she wanted to ask him. Had anything changed?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Make you speechless, do I?” His grin was irresistible, and her mouth curved in response. She felt his hand glide over her stomach and cup her.

  “Oh. Brent, surely you—”

  “So warm,” he said.

  “And sticky. From you.”

  She was amazed when he closed his eyes a moment as his fingers probed, searched and found her. “Yes,” he said softly, “from me.” She felt him tremble and for a brief instant knew a moment of power over this man. Then she was on her back and he was easing into her. She gasped at the feel of him, and he stopped cold. “Am I hurting you, Byrony? Are you too sore for me?”

  She looked into his eyes, seeing the sudden worry for her, and was lost. “No.” She arched up to take more of him.

  But he was frowning, and for one of the few times in his adult life, concern for another took precedence over his own lust. Very slowly he began to ease out of her, but she locked her arms about his back, holding him to her.

  “All right,” he said, looking down into her face, “but we’ll go easy, Byrony. You are unused to a man.” He dipped his face down and kissed her. “I am relieved that you enjoy me.”

  She blinked, the wild urgency building slowly deep within her. “But you knew that I would. Doesn’t everyone?”

  He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “No,” he said, “not everyone. We are quite good together.”

  He was pressing down on her even as he moved more deeply. She groaned softly, arching upward. “Brent, please.”

  He watched her face saw her eyes darken with pleasure, and increased his pace. When he slipped his hand between their straining bodies to find her, she cried out, and was gone in a maelstrom of nearly painful pleasure. He held himself in firm control until the spasms lessened, then drew her onto her side and took his own release.

  “Now you’re very sticky,” he said against her throat.

  “Yes,” she said, and he grinned at the pleased sound of her voice.

  There was a knock coming from the outer office door. He lightly flicked his finger over her nose and pulled away from her. “Stay warm, I’ll be right back. It’s probably our breakfast.”

  She watched him walk naked from the bed and pull on a dressing gown. “Don’t move, Byrony,” he said over his shoulder. Why had he said that? Was he afraid that she would leap from the bed and try to escape him?

  He paused a moment in the doorway and almost unwillingly turned to look toward the bed. Her dark blond hair was tangled around her face. She looked so lovely that he wanted nothing more than to fling himself on her again. Rutting bastard.

  When he returned to the bedroom, a tray on his arms, she was sitting up in bed, pulling her dressing gown around her.

  He frowned in disappointment, but just for a moment. He would have preferred to see her naked, but of course she was unused to a man, even her husband, seeing her unclothed.

  “I’ve a kitchen downstairs,” he said easily. “When I don’t feel like eating out, Caesar brings me food up here. W
ould you like some coffee?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t tense up on me, all right? Here.”

  She took the steaming cup of coffee and sipped it. It tasted better than any coffee she’d had in her life.

  The bed dipped as Brent sat down beside her.

  “And croissants, from Pierre’s bakery.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can’t be embarrassed now,” he said, his voice warm. “After all, you’ve taken my poor body—what is it?—three times in less than—how many hours?” He bit into a flaky croissant. “You know, Byrony, we haven’t discussed where to go on our honeymoon.”

  “Not Sacramento,” she said.

  “No, certainly not.” He was silent a moment, watching her. “It would be wise, I think, if we did go somewhere, however. There will be talk, and unfortunately, even if Irene and Ira keep their respective mouths tightly closed, I think it likely that some people might not treat you as they should.”

  “I know.”

  “It occurred to me also, that being a married man now, I should probably build us a house. Living above a saloon and next to a brothel can’t be considered exactly respectable.”

  “I like it here,” she said. “Really, Brent, I don’t want you to have to do anything you don’t wish to. And Maggie is a good friend.”

  Her eyes were serious upon his face. “I don’t want you hurt anymore,” he said, his voice rough.

  “That is kind of you,” she said, but her thoughts were of Celeste, his mistress. Wasn’t that considered hurt from his man’s perspective?

  “Thank you.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  He arched a black brow.

  “I guess I’m rather ignorant,” she began.

  “But very receptive.”

  “Does a man want to make love all the time?”

  “Not more than every hour or so.” She looked horrified, and he had to laugh.

  Then she looked down, her expression all demure, and said, “Has it been an hour yet?”