Brent intercepted Byrony’s look filled with warmth and gratitude. Did she think she was the only one who found the prospect repulsive? He could well imagine how the slaves greeted her that morning. Petitions, requests for cloth, food, easier work. He wondered cynically if it had made her feel like the lady bountiful.
Laurel said, “Are you certain you’re saving the girl for Josh? Or do you want her for yourself, Brent? Your father told me stories of all the slave girls you took to your bed.”
Brent reached over and calmly grasped Byrony’s hand in his. “Boys will be boys, right, Laurel? Now, enough. Byrony, did you know that the Spanish owned all this territory until 1795? I believe I mentioned that to you, didn’t I? Thus the Spanish influence at Wakehurst.”
“Yes,” Byrony said quietly, “you did.”
Brent continued talking of the different landmarks they passed. She felt again that he’d outflanked her. Why hadn’t he simply told her that he’d spent the night with a friend, a male friend? Would she never understand him? She understood well enough that Laurel was the reason for his distrust of women. Maybe too there had been others during the years before she’d met him. But he had to know that she hadn’t married him to use him, for heaven’s sake. She heard him ask Drew, “Do you intend to remain at Wakehurst or return to Europe?”
“I’ll probably return to Paris. I couldn’t leave, though, until I’d seen you again.”
“I am glad you stayed. So you wish to pursue your art and not become a plantation owner?”
Drew was thoughtfully silent for a few moments. “I believe that I can no longer tolerate slavery. Being gone for years changes one’s perceptions. Seeing a man or woman flogged for no greater reason than that it is what the master or the overseer wants turns my stomach. Odd how I didn’t react that way when I was a boy.”
“I trust neither of you will express those views to the Forresters,” Laurel said. “I should like to continue meeting my friends socially. This abolitionist talk won’t endear you to anyone, you may be certain.”
“I know,” Brent said.
“How grand to see you again, Brent,” Mrs. Amelia Forrester said again at the dining table. “So many years. I never did learn why you left Wakehurst so precipitately. A young man’s wanderlust, I believe your father said.”
Brent looked at his hostess, wondering if she had spoken facetiously, but she hadn’t. So his father had kept everything to himself. Brent couldn’t blame him for that. He’d regretted that day so often during the past nine years, regretted his boy’s lust and stupidity. Had he been his father, he probably would have done more than just strike him with a riding crop. He’d also wondered many times what would have happened to him if he hadn’t left Wakehurst. Probably he would be an indolent gentleman now, married, the proud father of heirs to carry on Southern traditions. He nearly traced his fingertip over the old scar, but caught himself. He forced a smile. “A difference of opinion between me and my father, ma’am—and wanderlust too, if you will. I understand that sort of thing frequently occurs. I suppose that a young man wants to accomplish things on his own.”
“I wish our Stacy had your attitude, although not to such an extreme,” said David Forrester. “The boy’s probably losing his shirt in New Orleans even as we speak.”
Byrony listened to them speak of people she didn’t know. She found the Forresters delightful people, thoughtful, kind, and charming. Their daughter, Melinda, however, gave her pause. She flirted with Drew one moment, and looked soulfully at Brent the next. She was quite pretty, with her black hair and her dark brown eyes, but so vapid. She wondered if Southern ladies were all so very pale and languid in their movements. If the weather became warmer, she imagined there was good reason.
“What are you doing now, my boy?” David Forrester asked.
“I own a saloon in San Francisco, sir. The Wild Star.”
Mr. Forrester seemed a bit nonplussed, but quickly recovered. He said comfortably, “An unusual enterprise, but now that you’re home, you’ve a plantation to run. An absentee owner is not at all the thing, my boy, as you well know. I myself bought a couple of field slaves from Paxton just before your father’s death. My overseer was pleased with the purchase, but I wondered why Paxton and your father would sell two such valuable slaves.”
“I’m certain to find out why very soon, sir,” Brent said, although he knew very well why. Old Frank was feathering his nest against an uncertain future. Had his father been too ill to realize what was going on? And what about Laurel?
“Wild Star,” Amelia Forrester mused aloud. “An unusual name for a saloon, isn’t it, Brent?”
Brent smiled. “A bit of whimsy, I guess, ma’am. The star I seemed to follow when I was younger was never of the tame sort.” Not quite the truth, but close enough.
“We’re giving a ball in two weeks, Mr. Hammond,” Melinda Forrester said brightly. “You will come, won’t you? And your wife, of course.”
“It will be our pleasure,” Brent said, and ate a bite of glazed ham.
Lizzie bounded to her feet when Byrony and Brent entered their bedroom a bit after midnight. She rubbed her fists over her eyes, just like a child. Which she was, Byrony thought, shuddering a bit at the thought of this poor girl being forced to bed Frank Paxton.
“Lizzie,” Byrony said, “go to bed, for heaven’s sake. I had no idea you would still be awake.”
“But missis, Mammy Bath say—”
“Lizzie, do as your mistress says. I am quite capable of unfastening all those little buttons.” Brent stopped the girl at the bedroom door. “Oh, another thing, Lizzie. You will sleep in the house, on the third floor. You may pick up your things from the compound tomorrow.”
Byrony saw the girl’s lips tremble, saw the wash of relief in her dark eyes.
“Yes, massa. Thank you, massa.”
“That is kind of you, Brent,” Byrony said.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t want her raped by Paxton.”
“I can’t believe he would really do something so despicable.”
“Believe it, Byrony. However, you are another matter entirely. Come here and let me assist you.” She moved toward him and presented her back. She felt his deft fingers working down the buttons on her gown. “I wonder,” she heard him say, “if Lizzie could be Paxton’s daughter. It’s possible you know. Her skin is lighter than usual. I can remember him taking Millie, Lizzie’s mother, to bed. In fact, I remember hearing that she fought him. It’s probably true, because he flogged the flesh off her back. My father was perturbed. He didn’t want her away from her tasks for too long a time.”
“That’s unbelievable. Barbaric.”
“Hold still. Yes, it would seem so.” Brent slowly slipped the gown off her shoulders. She felt his lips lightly brush the nape of her neck.
“Am I truly the mistress of Wakehurst?” she asked abruptly, turning to face him.
“You’re the massa’s wife,” he said.
“Is the house my responsibility? And the servants?”
“Oh, no,” he said, his frown becoming a grin. “Is there going to be domestic trouble shortly?”
“Brent, must you jest about everything? Can’t you see that—”
“Just remember, my dear, that I am the master. In the South, the master rules—everything. Do you understand?”
She searched his face, but he was looking over her shoulders and breasts. She clutched the loosened gown over her chemise.
“Do you understand?” he repeated.
She held her ground. “You’re a tomcat,” she said.
Brent stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed deeply. “And all little female cats are the same in the dark?”
“No, I think you enjoy comparing and contrasting all your women. And I’m just the new cat, one who happened to come into your house through the back door. It’s just a matter of time, isn’t it, until you want to go roving again?”
“Your metaphor is straining common sense, Byrony.
I think, if given the choice, that I’d prefer being the stallion. More noble than a ratty tomcat.” His voice hardened, all lightness gone from his eyes. “But since you are my own legal little cat, you are quite in this tomcat’s power. Take off your clothes. It’s late and I want to go to bed.”
Was he giving her outrageous orders because he couldn’t do so to Laurel? The complexities of his mind gave her a headache. She sank onto the soft feather bed, pulling only a sheet over her, and watched him strip off his clothes. Naked, he doused the lamps, then strode onto the balcony to smoke a cheroot. The moonlight outlined his body, the hard lines, the sculptured shadows, the smooth muscled planes. Why couldn’t he be a gnome? Why did he have to be so beautiful? She called out, “It’s a pity I have no comparisons to make. Who knows what I would learn?”
She saw him grind out the cheroot and walk back into the bedroom. “If you ever get the urge,” he said, standing over her, “I will tie you up and lock you away.”
“Why?” she asked, goading him. “Why shouldn’t the cat have the same options as the tomcat?”
“Some cats do, my dear, but not you. You are mine.”
“Does it not go both ways? Aren’t you then mine?”
He grinned at that and scratched his fingers over his chest. “My, but you’re in a feisty mood tonight, aren’t you?” He stared down at her, taking in her glorious hair, loose and full, framing her face. He felt lust and knew she was aware of it. Her eyes grew darker, falling to his groin. “I don’t think,” he said very quietly, “that I shall pull out of you tonight. I think I will fill you with my seed, watch your face while I do so. I think I will stay inside you even as you sleep.”
The words poured out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “You love me then? You want our child?”
But he only chuckled. “I am certain my feelings for you rival yours for me.”
“You don’t know what my feelings are,” she said.
Brent grasped the sheet and pulled it off her. He looked down at her. “Why don’t you tell me,” he said as he reached out his hand and laid it on her belly. He felt her quiver beneath his fingers. He watched her face as his fingers roved lower. “Tell me, Byrony.”
He eased down beside her, balancing himself on his elbow. “Tell me,” he repeated, his fingers now lightly caressing her. “Nothing to say? I would say, my dear, that your feelings are so soft right now as your woman’s flesh.” He deepened the pressure, and Byrony couldn’t help it. She moaned. “This tomcat knows what he’s about, doesn’t he? Many men don’t, of course. That is, they know perhaps, but they don’t care. You’re very lucky. I’ve always enjoyed a woman’s pleasure.”
She turned on her side to face him and touched him. He was hard and warm, and she stroked the length of him. “Brent,” she whispered, her voice soft and desperate. “Please.”
She felt his finger ease inside her and tightened her own fingers around him. To her delight, he groaned, pushing against her. His fingers found her again and she lurched against him, arching her back. “That’s it, love. I want you to burst with pleasure just as I will inside you. I want to feel you do it, and admit to yourself that no other man could ever make you feel thus.”
She wanted to ask him if he would admit that no other woman could please him as she did, but his words sent her reeling, and she wasn’t aware of anything save the intense wash of sensation that made her cry out. But Brent was. He watched her closely, felt her body surge in climax, and knew such pleasure at her release that it frightened him. “Byrony,” he said. He quickly drew her beneath him and came into her.
“I can feel you.” Her body continued to convulse in small shocks of pleasure. “I can feel you inside me.” He arched upward, moaning deeply, and she felt his seed.
She wrapped her arms tightly around his back, buried her face against his shoulder.
Brent was still hard inside her. Her words had made him crazy. Suddenly her soft keening words, other words, crystallized in his mind. It was her pleasure that made her say them, he thought. He eased onto his side, bringing her with him. He remained deep inside her. He stroked her hair away from her face, still telling himself silently that she hadn’t meant those words. “Byrony,” he asked against her temple, unable to help himself, “did you mean what you said?”
She nestled closer against him, lightly rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.
He pressed his hand against her buttocks, keeping her close. “Did you?”
She was asleep.
He drew a deep breath. I’m a fool, he thought. How could she possibly love him? He’d been her escape, that was all. He’d taught her woman’s pleasure, that was all. Passion made people say things they didn’t mean. He, of all people, knew that. No, she couldn’t have really meant to say it. She couldn’t really love him. Jesus, he’d certainly given her no reason to. He didn’t want her to. He felt her thigh move over his belly. No, he didn’t want that kind of feeling from her. But he did, of course.
TWENTY-SIX
Brent seated himself at his father’s desk, a huge oak affair that he remembered so well from his childhood. His father had looked larger than life seated behind that desk, with its neat piles of important-looking papers, the inkstand of black onyx, the gold antique French clock. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back in the well-worn leather chair, remembering.
“I trust you and your brother will treat your new mother with proper respect, my boy.”
By turns cocky and sullen, Brent had said, “Hardly a mother, sir. My mother is dead.” If his father wanted a girl who was only four years older than his elder son, what could he say? He wanted to demand why his father had married the bit of fluff, but wisely he didn’t.
“Yes, your dear mother is dead. For five long years now.” Avery Hammond sighed, stroking his fingers over his thick side whiskers. “I’ve been lonely, Brent, damned lonely. Do you understand?”
No, he didn’t, but he nodded. He wanted to go hunting with Russell Longston from a neighboring plantation.
Brent, startled from his memories by a knock on the library door, quickly rose behind the desk. “Come in,” he said. He wondered now, pain filling him, how he could have been so crassly insensitive to his father’s needs. And now it was too late to make reparations, nine years too late. You spawned a stupid ass for a son, Father, yet you left me my legacy. What am I to do?
Frank Paxton walked into the room. He’d used this room before Brent Hammond had come home. He’d sat behind the master’s desk. He smiled and extended the ledgers toward Brent. “Here you are, Brent. The records of our purchases, expenses, and profits for the past five years.”
“Sit down, Frank,” Brent said pleasantly, “and let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Byrony, in the sitting room down the hall, was speaking to Mammy Bath. Laurel was reclining gracefully on a rose-wood swivel chair, her look mildly inquiring.
“I want summer material—cotton, I think—to be distributed to all the house slaves, Mammy. I think it’s ridiculous that our people have to wear wool all year around.”
“So,” Laurel said, “the slaves have been crying all over you. They’d do the same if you gave them silk to wear. They—”
“Also,” Byrony said, ignoring Laurel, “we need to hire a seamstress. The sla—servants I’ve met haven’t the foggiest idea of how to sew anything but the roughest seams. Nor, with all their responsibilities, do they have the time. I’ll speak to Mr. Hammond about additional material for the field hands as well.”
“I should trust that you would. They’re all lazy, whining—well, it’s a waste of money. My husband would never have consented to such a ridiculous use of funds. Brent isn’t stupid. I doubt he will either.”
“If you don’t mind, Mammy, I should also like to meet with Cook. What is her name?”
“Mile, missis.”
“Mile? How unusual. Yes, well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just visit the kitchen and speak with her.”
Mammy Bath sent
a sideways look at Miz Laurel. She looked fit to kill, at least her eyes did. “Yes, missis,” Mammy Bath said to Byrony.
Laurel rose suddenly in a swirl of pale yellow silk. “Mammy, have you made my perfume yet?”
“Yes, missis. It’s in your room.”
“It’s about time. Now, you may leave. I wish to speak to the—to Mrs. Hammond.”
Byrony wanted to say something, but she held her peace for the moment. Mammy Bath walked from the room, leaving the door open.
“Yes, Laurel?”
Before Laurel could vent her spleen, they heard raised voices coming from the library.
“I want an answer, Paxton, and I want it now.” Brent was speaking very quietly now, but was angry, very angry. Damned lying bastard.
“Look, Brent,” Frank Paxton repeated, also lowering his voice, “I’m not used to being questioned like this. I sold those slaves to Forrester because your father asked me to.”
The money transacted was neatly printed in the ledger. Brent realized he should have spoken to Mr. Milsom, his father’s banker, before confronting Paxton.
“What is your salary, Frank?”
Frank Paxton named the amount. It wasn’t at all outrageous.
Another thing to check with Milsom.
Brent closed the ledger. “I’ll study these later. This afternoon, I would like to visit the fields.”
“As you wish,” said Frank Paxton. Damn, he’d done nothing more than any other smart overseer. He drew in his breath. He would show no more anger. Hell, when he wished, he could simply leave Wakehurst; he had enough money now to buy his own plantation.
Laurel turned to Byrony after a few moments. “Well, it sounds as though Brent wants to squeeze some more money out of the estate. I doubt he’ll want to authorize any of your precious material for the slaves.”
“We’ll see,” Byrony said.
“Yes, we will, won’t we? Just how poor are you and Brent?” She shuddered. “I can’t believe Brent came down so far as to own a saloon. I can’t imagine what his father would say.”
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