Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “She’s so young,” Byrony said. “I hope he doesn’t hurt her.”

  “He’s not an animal,” Brent said.

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “Oh? There isn’t too much difference between a virgin of fourteen and a virgin of nineteen, and as I recall, you didn’t experience too much pain.”

  She wanted to laugh. “Any pain I felt was worth it, just to see the look of utter chagrin on your face.”

  He grinned back at her. “You did take me by surprise, I’ll admit it.”

  “How many virgins have you experienced, Brent?”

  “Experienced? That’s a novel way of putting it. Not more than a dozen, I expect.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. He merely cocked a black brow at her. “Can I ask you something, Brent?”

  “Go ahead. You will anyway.”

  “Why is it you believe a woman is a trollop if she isn’t a virgin?”

  His hands tightened on his stallion’s reins. “I don’t,” he said. “What a ridiculous thing to say.”

  “You believed I was. Indeed, if I hadn’t been a virgin, I imagine you would still believe me to be a loose female.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Come on. Let’s gallop awhile.”

  “You are the most stubborn, inconsistent, arrogant man I’ve ever known,” she shouted after him.

  When they reached the long drive back to the house some thirty minutes later, Brent grinned over at her and said, “You want to race? Let’s see if your mare has as much conceit as her mistress.”

  They raced neck-and-neck up the drive. Byrony knew Brent was keeping a firm control on his stallion, to tease her. Sure enough, just as they came in sight of the house, he let the stallion go, leaving her to stare at his back.

  Laurel and Drew were seated on the front veranda when Byrony, laughing and shouting at Brent, reined in her mare. The mare skidded and Byrony suddenly felt herself falling sideways.

  “Byrony!” Drew shouted, leaping from his chair and running toward her.

  But Brent caught her easily and straightened her in the saddle. “Easy, I don’t want you eating dirt.”

  “Dammit, Byrony. What are you doing?”

  Both Brent and Byrony turned, startled, to face Drew.

  “She’s quite all right, Drew,” Brent said, his eyebrow inching up in question.

  “We were just racing.”

  “For God’s sake,” Drew shouted. “Both of you are idiots. You could have hurt the baby, Byrony.”

  Brent froze. He gazed from his wife’s suddenly flushed, guilty face to his brother’s worried expression. “Baby?” he said blankly.

  “Of course,” Drew snapped. “Byrony’s pregnant.”

  Very slowly Brent clasped his wife about the waist and lifted her from her mare’s back. “Are you pregnant?”

  She nodded.

  “Go inside. I will speak to you shortly.”

  She walked into the house. Brent was furious, just as she’d known he would be. He didn’t want the responsibility of a child, the commitment it would mean to her. Perhaps he was a bit worried that she could die. How had Drew known? It was still the very early days yet. She was more tired than usual, but she hadn’t had any nausea in the mornings.

  “What is the matter with you, Brent?” Drew asked, grabbing his brother’s arm and shaking it.

  “Just how, may I ask, did you know Byrony was pregnant?” Brent asked in a low voice.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “I’m an artist, Brent. I see things other people don’t. It’s part of my talent, I suppose. Are you telling me you didn’t know?”

  “No, my wife hadn’t seen fit to inform me. I suppose too that you can tell me just how far along she is.”

  “Around two months, I’d say.”

  Brent unconsciously patted his stallion’s nose when the horse whinnied for attention. He felt very peculiar, as if the proverbial carpet had just been jerked from beneath his feet. A father. He would be a father.

  He felt Drew’s hand on his arm. “I’ve heard that women many times keep such news to themselves for a while. Miscarriage is very common, you know, and they don’t want hopes to be raised—”

  “Byrony won’t have a miscarriage,” Brent said.

  “Probably not, but she must take better care of herself.”

  “Such as not dashing off like she did to save Lizzie?”

  “Look, Brent,” Drew began, only to pause at his brother’s expression. He followed Brent’s eyes upward to the second floor and saw his hands clench into fists at his sides.

  Byrony stood silently in the middle of the room, wondering where Brent was. She heard the door open and turned around to face her husband. But it wasn’t Brent. It was Laurel.

  “Well, my dear stepdaughter-in-law, what a surprise. Such a pity that Drew couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

  “It had to come out in any case,” Byrony said. “One does tend to gain flesh, you know, Laurel.”

  “Thank God I don’t know. I do wonder what Brent will do with you. Such a pity, as I said, that the proud papa couldn’t control his feelings and not speak out so precipitately.”

  Byrony simply stared at her.

  “Ah yes, and here I was beginning to like you, Byrony. Despite everything. I wonder, were you trying to lose the child, on purpose?”

  “What a stupid thing to say, Laurel. What do you want? I’m tired and sweaty and I want a bath.”

  “But first, my dear, you’ll have to face your husband. Another month and perhaps, just perhaps, you could have convinced Brent that it was his child you’re carrying.”

  Byrony laughed; she couldn’t help herself. “If ever you’d had a child, Laurel, you’d know how ridiculous you’re being! For heaven’s sake, we’ve been here at Wakehurst for only a month!”

  “I believe you can leave us now, Laurel.”

  Both women whirled about to see Brent standing in the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

  He looks so pale, Byrony thought. She wanted to laugh at her concern.

  “Yes, I’ll go,” Laurel said. “I believe you have a lot to say, don’t you, Brent?”

  He straightened abruptly, moving into the room as Laurel walked past him. Very slowly he turned to close the door. He said over his shoulder, “One really shouldn’t say private things when anyone passing can overhear.”

  “What Laurel said wasn’t particularly private. It was simply ridiculous.”

  “True. As you told her quite clearly, it’s beyond imagination that you could be pregnant by any other man than your husband.”

  “Ah well, Laurel was just being Laurel,” Byrony said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Byrony?” He walked swiftly toward her and clasped her shoulders in his large hands. She looked up at him with wide, calm eyes.

  Her eyes fell and he shook her. “Why? Don’t you think I’m entitled to know?”

  “I was afraid to tell you. I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

  “It? What do you mean, it?”

  “The child. I know you don’t want a child. But you’re right, regardless of what you would think, I should have told you as soon as I found out. I’m sorry.”

  Not want his own child. He closed his eyes a moment, hating the pain her words gave him.

  She said, her voice still quiet, utterly calm, “I know that you don’t love me, Brent. I know also that you distrust women, that you want to be free. I am not sorry that I’m pregnant, I must be honest with you about that. If you don’t want the child, he or she will be mine. I will leave. It is your decision.”

  “How very selfless you sound,” he heard himself say, his voice cold and remote. “But I know women aren’t selfless, Byrony. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that women take what they want or can from men. However, I am your husband. You belong to me, legally. You will take my child nowhere.”

  She looked at him with bitter eyes. “And when I am heavy with my child, and graceless and no longer able to accommo
date you, I will watch you go to other women? I suppose you are right, Brent. I’m not selfless. I won’t let myself be hurt that way. I’m very tired. Would you please leave me alone now?”

  He said nothing more, merely nodded at her and walked from the bedroom.

  Byrony came to her decision while she was soaking in her cool bathwater.

  Not want his own child. But what was she to think? He’d been flailing about like a trout on a fishhook, vicious one moment, withdrawing from her the next. Well, it was enough. He thought of her buying that whip, and grinned. Well, my dear wife, he thought, you’ve finally got my attention.

  He entered their bedroom early that evening before dinner. He drew up short.

  Byrony was packing.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “Packing some of my things,” Byrony said calmly, not turning to face him.

  “May I ask why?”

  Byrony sighed. She really didn’t want to look at him, it hurt too much, but she did. “I’m leaving, Brent. I can no longer live with your lack of trust, your cynicism. I thought you were coming to truly care for me on our trip here. But that changed, once you were faced with your boyhood indiscretion, with your own betrayal. If you cannot bring yourself to deal with it, how can you expect me to?” She waited, her back ramrod straight, her shoulders back.

  “No, Byrony, you’re not leaving. You belong to me. My child belongs with me. Look, we belong together, and you know it.”

  “No, Brent, you look. A child should be raised with loving parents. I should know. Because my mother’s husband is as he is, I was sent to Boston, to be raised by my mother’s sister. My child will at least know a mother’s love.”

  He drew a deep breath, knowing she was utterly serious. “You have no money,” he said.

  “I imagine that I can get some easily enough from dear Laurel. I imagine that she would sell her jewels to be rid of me.” She drew a deep breath, not looking at him. “After my child is born, I shall get a job. I’m young and healthy. I shall be just fine.”

  He cursed. Byrony turned to continue folding a petticoat.

  She heard him walk to her, felt his hands close around her shoulders. Slowly he pulled her back against him. “Listen to me, Byrony, please. I want you. I want our child. I want us to be together.”

  “No, I don’t believe you.”

  “Will you believe me if I tell you that I love you? That I’ve loved you probably from the first time I saw you, your face covered with flour?”

  She said nothing, and he sighed. “There’s so much I have to make up to you, love. So much between us that shouldn’t have been, had I not been so blind about you. And you’re right. of course. Coming back here was a mistake, and I’ve acted like an ass. Everything you said, it’s true. Forgiveness is tough. I do love you, Byrony.”

  He gently turned her around and looked into her face. “I love you,” he repeated. “I’ve said those words before,” he continued, almost as if speaking to himself. “To women I knew expected to hear them, but they were just words. I would ask that you try to forgive me. Will you stay with me? You can even keep your whip, just in case I backslide.”

  She wondered briefly if her father had said such things upon occasion to her mother, then shut out the thought. Brent was nothing like her father. “Why? You value your freedom highly, Brent. If that is the way you are, the way you want to be, then I don’t want you to change. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  He laughed at that. “I’ve been an unhappy bastard for as long as I can remember. Always something missing. That something was you, of course, and the feelings that fill up every part of me. You’re such a joy, Byrony. I want you to share yourself with me, always.”

  For the first time since she’d met him, she saw uncertainty in his eyes. There was really no question as to her feelings, as to what she would tell him. Love was like that, she supposed.

  “All right,” she said.

  She saw the flash of relief in his eyes and felt his arms close around her so tightly it hurt. She buried her face in his shoulder.

  “I love you,” he said against her temple. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his spirit. He felt warm and, oddly, complete somehow.

  She wanted to tell him some minutes later that she could imagine no man who could take a woman’s clothes off more quickly than he. But she said nothing. She felt too elated, too urgent.

  When he came down onto the bed next to her, she raised her hand and gently stroked her fingertips over his jaw. “You’re a most beautiful man, Brent.”

  “And you don’t look like you have a babe in your little belly.”

  “I will be fat enough soon enough.”

  His strong fingers were caressing her breast. “Does that hurt you?”

  She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his face.

  He gazed down her body, taking in the flat belly. He drew a deep breath, gently laying the palm of his hand over her stomach. “Give me a little girl, Byrony, one as giving and sweet and forgiving as you.”

  “I was thinking of a little boy, a hellion who would give you gray hair.”

  The look in his eyes changed, and she sucked in her breath, responding as if he had been caressing her.

  “Do you know something?” she whispered. “I would slay dragons for you, Brent.”

  “You would, would you? An easy promise, Byrony. I’ve never seen a one, at least not west of the Mississippi.”

  She laughed, punched his shoulder. He kissed her long, thoroughly, then pulled back. He gently parted her legs and sat back on his heels. “No,” he said as she tensed a bit, “I want to look at you. Don’t be embarrassed or shy. You’re mine, after all.”

  She closed her eyes at his words. Then his mouth covered her and she thought she would explode with the pleasure of it.

  He knows my body so well, she thought when he raised his mouth, and lifting her hips, came into her. Her own hands frantic on his back. His flesh was so warm, slick with sweat. She took his cries into her mouth.

  We are like two children, Byrony thought sometime later, when she and Brent, holding hands, laughing at nonsense, walked down the stairs.

  “Good grief,” Brent said, drawing to a halt in the doorway of the dining room. “You shouldn’t have waited for us.”

  “We didn’t know how long you would be,” Laurel said, searching their faces. “After all, there was so much for Byrony to do.”

  “Yes,” Brent said, “there was, wasn’t there?”

  Byrony gave him a dazzling smile that made him feel like a randy goat. “Are you hungry, wife?”

  “Amazingly so,” she said.

  Even though she was hungry, she scarcely tasted the delicious oyster-stuffed chicken. She was filled with Brent, attuned to his every movement, every nuance in his voice. He was discussing the future of Wakehurst with Drew, and for once Byrony couldn’t bring herself to attend to his words.

  Brent looked at her plate, then smiled at her. “Why don’t you and Laurel go into the drawing room. Drew and I will join you in just a few minutes.”

  “Just what was all that about?” Laurel said the moment they were alone.

  Byrony didn’t answer immediately, but walked slowly to the open window and breathed in the soft evening air.

  “Well?”

  “I’m not leaving Brent,” she said. “You’ll have to forget what Mammy Bath told you about me packing.”

  Laurel shook her head. “God, you’re a simpleton. He seduces you and you’re ready to forget everything. Oh yes, I well recognize the look. You’ll regret this, Byrony.”

  Brent had seduced her, she thought fairly, but she’d wanted him just as much. “He loves me,” she said simply. “Ever since he knocked me down and spilled my flour bag.”

  “Do you have any idea how many women he’s loved during the past nine years? I should probably make that fifteen years.”

  “Probably a battalion. But now he’s retired.”

/>   “I suppose he wants the child?”

  “Of course.”

  There was a moment of silence. Byrony turned back to the open window, aware of the swishing sound of Laurel’s silk skirts as she paced the drawing room.

  “Don’t you realize there’s no reason for him to love you? Listen to me, Byrony, you’re a sweet girl. You are even reasonably pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But consider all the women he’s known, women who are truly beautiful, women who very probably loved him as much as you do. Why you? It makes no sense. He’s got a reason. Perhaps it’s your child he wants. All men want a son—a question of their mortality and all that, I suppose.”

  “Brent told me he wanted a little girl.”

  “I tell you he’s lying to you! Or perhaps he’s lying to himself.”

  Laurel paused a moment, unable to find more words, more arguments. She wasn’t really certain what she believed. But she knew she didn’t want Brent leaving with his wife. If he did, he would probably sell Wakehurst and leave her to face all her neighbors with nothing but her charming smile. She remembered asking him some two weeks before just what she was supposed to do if he left. He’d merely grinned at her and told her to remarry. “So many besotted fools chomping at the bit,” he’d told her, and she’d wanted to hit him. She deserved to keep Wakehurst. It should be hers. After all, she’d given years to that damned old man. She felt a moment of dizziness and closed her hand over the back of a chair for support. She’d been so young, so very young when he’d discovered her with Brent. But even then he’d been too old to forgive her, to remember what it was to be young.

  She opened her eyes when she heard Brent and Drew come into the drawing room. She watched Brent’s eyes meet Byrony’s and wanted to scream. She turned to see Drew regarding the two of them with a smile.

  She jumped when Drew said, “I will be leaving next week to return to Paris.”

  “Oh no,” Byrony cried. “Drew, I’d hoped you would come back with us to San Francisco.”

  “I will visit you, my dear, I promise. But there’s so much for me to do, you see. Paris is where I belong, at least for a while. I trust you will keep me informed. I swear to send gifts to all my nieces and nephews.”