Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “Yes indeed. We will see you this evening, Captain.”

  Byrony followed Ira and Irene along the deck. She peeked quickly into the large dining salon that was enclosed with glass windows. I am indeed a princess and am aboard my own floating palace.

  Their cabin was small but luxuriously appointed. There was a soft blue carpeting on the floor and two narrow beds along the far wall of the cabin, two chairs, and a dressing table.

  “It’s lovely. Oh, Irene, come, you must rest. Would you like a cool cloth on your forehead?”

  Ira led Irene to the bed and helped her lie down. He sat down beside her and gently stroked her gloved hand. “Yes, Byrony, please,” he answered for his sister. “There should be washcloths in the armoire and cool water in the basin.”

  A silent Eileen appeared at the doorway, looking impassively toward Irene. Without saying a word, she took the damp cloth from Byrony and walked to the narrow bed. “I will see to her, sir,” she said, her voice a soft, hoarse drawl.

  Ira rose, his brow knit as he looked down at his sister. “You rest, Irene. Perhaps you will feel more the thing by dinner. Byrony, my dear, I will go along to my cabin now.”

  She walked him to the door and said, “Would it be all right if I explored, Ira?”

  “Certainly. You are a married lady now, Byrony. You do just as you please.”

  She felt a stab of guilt leaving Irene, but her sister-in-law, seeing her excitement, waved her away.

  “No need to worry, Miz Butler,” Eileen said. “I’ll stay with the mistress.”

  Byrony spent two glorious hours exploring the Scarlet Queen. She clung to the rail until the steamboat left the wharf and turned north. She waved to the masses of people on the dock, not caring that she knew none of them. They were never out of sight of land. Desolate land, from what Byrony could tell, and so many islands dotting the bay. She wished she could speak to someone who could tell her where they were going and what she was seeing. Several men looked hungrily at her, but she ignored them. In her short time in San Francisco, every man she’d seen had looked hungrily at her.

  “So few ladies, my dear,” Ira had said after several men had simply stopped in their tracks and stared at her. “And, of course, you are beautiful.”

  “But, Ira, I’ve seen many ladies.”

  “Not exactly ladies, Byrony. The largest part of the female population are—well, not ladies.”

  “Whores?”

  “Yes,” he’d said, looking startled.

  She didn’t enlighten him. How could she tell him that it was but one of the insults her father had hurled at her head?

  Byrony sneaked a look into a small salon that was obviously for men only. There was a thick cloud of smoke, occasional spurts of laughter, and, of course, gambling.

  She returned to the cabin to find Irene still abed, Eileen seated in a chair beside her mistress. Eileen placed her finger over her lips.

  “She’s asleep, poor lady. I’ll see that she gets some soup later when she awakens. Come, Miz Byrony, I’ll help you dress, but quiet now.”

  She met Ira outside her cabin, and his soft whistle of admiration made her feel wonderful.

  “Lovely, my dear, simply lovely.” He looked at the closed cabin door, a question in his eyes.

  “Irene is sleeping. Eileen thinks it best.”

  “Then come along.” Ira offered her his elegant black-coated arm.

  “We won’t be sitting with the captain this evening. There are several business friends of mine who requested a separate table. You will, I believe, enjoy them, my dear.”

  This proved to be the case. There was a Mr. Lacy, who owned a foundry, a Mr. Dancy, who was an investor from New York, and a Mr. Cornfield, who owned one of the newspapers. She was aware that Ira preened under their attention to her. I do look nice, she thought, straightening her shoulders and sending a smile to the balding Ezra Lacy.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “please continue your conversation. I am content to listen and learn.”

  The dining salon was brilliantly lit; the tables were covered with white linen, the cutlery was silver, the plates fine china. She took a tentative taste of the broiled scallops and found them delicious. She heard a man laugh behind her and turned slightly in her chair toward the captain’s table.

  She nearly dropped her wineglass. Staring at her, his eyes narrowed and so dark they appeared nearly black, was the gambler. She felt cold and hot at the same time. She shook her head, closed her eyes a moment. It was he, she was certain. She met his gaze again, and smiled. He raised his hand in salute.

  Dear God, she thought. She believed her imagination had probably enhanced his male beauty, but it wasn’t so. He was wearing black, a pearl-gray vest over his white shirt. His hair glistened as black as his coat beneath the chandelier, and he sported a thick black mustache.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Butler?”

  She got hold of herself and said easily, “Of course, Mr. Lacy. May I ask, sir, who is that gentleman there, at the captain’s table?”

  “Ah, that is Brent Hammond. He’s a new businessman in San Francisco. He’s opening a saloon next week, the Wild Star.”

  “I see,” she said. In the same city. Of course she knew he lived in San Francisco. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he look like a troll? Why did he have to stare at her with those dangerous, beautiful eyes?

  She forced her attention back to her table. She heard Mr. Lacy mention something about the “duchess” and her house in conjunction with Hammond. His wife? His mistress? What was this house they were talking about?

  Brent continued to stare; he couldn’t help himself. It was her, but the difference in her looks astounded him. She was gowned beautifully, quite expensively in fact, and he recognized Monsieur David’s handiwork. Her smooth shoulders met the soft white lace of her gown, hinting at the breasts beneath. Her honey-colored hair was piled high on her head and one thick ringlet fell lazily over her shoulder. Her neck was long, slender, exquisite as the rest of her. He glanced at the four men at the table with her, recognizing three of them. After a few moments he turned to Captain O’Mally. “Who is the lady, sir, over there with Ezra Lacy?”

  Captain O’Mally turned from Delaney Saxton. “That is the new Mrs. Butler, sir.”

  Brent, who had been flirting outrageously with Delaney Saxton’s bride, Chauncey, felt himself grow cold. Ira’s bride. God, the man was nearly old enough to be her father. He stared at the aristocratic, chisel-featured Ira Baines Butler, and felt a surge of sheer hatred for the man. Why the hell should he be so amazed, so disbelieving, after all? He’d known what she was; the filthy old man in San Diego had told him all about her. She’d married a rich man, just as he’d known she would. Another Laurel. His fingers tightened about his wineglass. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her neck. Perfidious bitch. The depth of his anger amazed him. Why the hell should he care what she was? It had nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.

  Byrony. Byrony Butler.

  Old cold-blooded Ira Butler probably made love to her in the dark.

  Brent wanted nothing more now than to finish the damned dinner and get out of the dining salon. Why? To go lick his wounds in private, that was why.

  Byrony ate nothing more. She tried to pay attention to the occasional gallant comments laid in her path by the gentlemen. She was aware the instant Brent rose from the captain’s table and strode from the dining salon. She watched every step he took. He was larger than she remembered, yet so graceful.

  “My dear, are you feeling just the thing?”

  “Oh yes, Ira. I guess I’m just a bit tired.” Did she sound the least bit guilty?

  “Then I shall see you to your cabin.”

  She bid good-nights to the other men, and gave Ira her hand. There was no sign of Brent Hammond. She felt relieved and, at the same time, disappointed. Ira entered the cabin with her to see Irene. She was still sleeping, Eileen still sitting motionless beside the bed.

  “Tomorrow, my dear,” he s
aid quietly, and gently kissed her forehead. “Sleep well.”

  Byrony tried to stay still, but couldn’t. She began pacing until she was aware of Eileen’s dark eyes burrowing into her back. Suddenly she grabbed her new cloak, sapphire blue to match her gown, and whispered, “I shall go on deck for a while, Eileen.”

  She needn’t worry about seeing him, she thought. He was more than likely gambling. It was, after all, his profession. She made her way along the wide deck, paying no attention to the gentlemen she passed, who all tipped their hats at her. She found a vacant spot, away from the other passengers, and leaned her elbows on the railing, staring at the calm dark waters.

  “We’ll be passing through the Carquinez Strait soon,” she heard a low deep voice from behind her. “We’ve just come through San Pablo Bay, in case you didn’t know.”

  She whirled about, and her eyes met his throat. Slowly she raised her face until she was looking into his eyes.

  “The Carquinez Strait,” she repeated.

  “Yes, we are now traveling due east, and shortly will be in the Sacramento River.”

  “There are so many rivers and bays and—so much water.”

  “Indeed, it would appear so.”

  “It is a surprise to see you again, Mr. Hammond.”

  A thick black brow arched upward. “You perhaps remembered that I lived in San Francisco. I should say that I am more surprised to see you. You are a long way from San Diego. I see you quickly discovered my name.”

  “Yes, yes, I did. I understand you are opening a saloon in San Francisco?”

  “Yes, I am,” he said, and his eyes glittered. “How lovely you look, ma’am.”

  She grinned. “A bit different from the first time you saw me, I suspect. I’ve tried to avoid flour.”

  “I understand you’ve married one of San Francisco’s wealthiest men.”

  His tone held barely disguised contempt, and she heard it.

  “Ira is rich, so I’m told,” she said.

  “With your looks and guileless charm, I expected nothing less than a rich man. But so old, Mrs. Butler, nearly old enough to have sired you.”

  Why was he angry? She searched his face in the dim light. She said nothing.

  “What, Mrs. Butler? Doesn’t your marriage please you? Have you already discovered that selling your body to a rich man involves less than pleasant duties?”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Hammond. Why are you—?”

  He cut her off abruptly, slashing his hand through the air in front of her. “There is no need, Mrs. Butler, to pretend anything to me. When I first met you, I thought—Well, no matter. It is not often that a woman is what she appears to be.”

  “And just what did I appear to you to be, sir?”

  “Sweet, untouched, innocent.” The words, honest words from the depths of him, were out before he could stop them.

  “Until you spoke with Jeb Donnally,” she said dully. “I understand now. He’s a filthy old sot, a crony of my father, who is equally despicable. You surprise me, Mr. Hammond. I would have thought that a gambler, a professional gambler, would be more discerning about people.”

  He searched her pale face, wondering at the bitterness in her voice, but he was not to be deterred. “He might be an old fool, but he did tell me that you’d have to search outside San Diego for a rich husband. I gather the Californio’s seed didn’t take root?”

  Without thought, Byrony slapped his face. He grabbed her wrist, feeling the delicate bones grind beneath his fingers.

  “You bastard. You know nothing. How dare you believe what you believe, all based on that old man’s lying tales?”

  He dropped her wrist. “A lady doesn’t strike a gentleman, now, does she?”

  “You are no gentleman.”

  “And you are no lady. A word of warning, my dear. You strike me again, or make the attempt, and I shall retaliate in kind.”

  Byrony said, furious, “Damn you, I had to marry him. Do you understand me? No, don’t say any more. It is obvious you’ll never understand anything. You are too stupid.”

  She turned on her heel, but he caught her arm and twisted her around. “So, it is his seed that grows in your lovely body? Well, isn’t that interesting. Since you are no lady, and since your dear husband isn’t about, why don’t we—” He broke off suddenly, bent down and kissed her.

  He held her arms tightly against her sides and she couldn’t move. His mouth was hard, alien. Just as suddenly, he eased the pressure and she felt his tongue on her lower lip, probing. His hand came up to cup her breast. She burst into motion.

  She pulled away, and wiped her hand across her mouth. “You—”

  “Bastard?”

  She saw red.

  “It appears your dear husband hasn’t taught you much about pleasing a man yet. You’ll learn, my dear. If you are nice to me, perhaps I’ll instruct you—”

  He yelped in pain, and clutched his groin.

  Byrony, shaking from shock and the vicious kick she’d given him, jerked about and ran from him, holding her skirts high.

  Brent felt the inevitable wave of nausea and remained crouched over until the worst of the pain passed. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. Slowly he straightened, and his eyes went down the deck. She was gone.

  “You will pay for that,” he said softly.

  Byrony ran full tilt to the cabin. She paused a moment, leaning her forehead against the door. Tears burned her eyes, and she rubbed them away. How wrong she’d been about him. No meanness in his eyes. What a fool she’d been. He was like all the other men, bullies and worse. She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth.

  Brent remained on deck, thinking of how to get back at her. Unfortunately, each of them ended with him having sex with her. He didn’t know how much time passed. When he heard a scream, his entire body stiffened. He jerked about to see a man trying to heave a woman overboard.

  For an instant his mind was a complete blank. Then he was running toward them, yelling at the man. He saw him try a final time to heave the woman overboard, saw her long mantle catch between his legs. He pushed her violently into the railing, clouting her back with his fists.

  “What’s going on here? Hey, stop.”

  He saw the woman drop to her knees on the smooth deck, gasping for breath.

  “Mrs. Saxton? Good God, ma’am. What the hell is going on? Who is that fellow?”

  “I’m all right,” Chauncey Saxton said, her body shuddering. She raised her white face to his. “He tried to kill me.”

  Brent cursed. The whole business was insane. Attacked by one woman, saving another. He got hold of himself. “Come, ma’am. He’s gone now.” Brent picked her up into his arms.

  “Del,” she said. “Please, my husband—”

  A man came rushing up to them. “What the hell?”

  “Your wife, Saxton,” Brent said. “She’s all right, thank God.” She began to struggle against him, and he set her on her feet. He watched her run to her husband.

  Brent watched Delaney calm his wife. He felt a twinge of perhaps jealousy at their closeness. He met Del Saxton’s eyes. “What happened?”

  “It appears that someone—a man—tried to throw your wife overboard.” Brent lowered his voice, adding, “Perhaps it was an attempted rape.” Brent saw the wild anger on Delaney Saxton’s face at his words. He heard him say soft, reassuring words to his wife.

  “Hammond, did you see his face?”

  Brent lit a cheroot, blowing out the smoke before replying. The incident had shocked him and made him wonder what the hell was going on. “He was dressed roughly, a wool cap pulled down over his forehead. When he heard me coming, he ran toward the steerage stairs.”

  Mrs. Saxton said, “I didn’t see him, Del. He was behind me, and I didn’t recognize his voice.”

  “What did he say, love? Do you remember?”

  “Something like ‘I’m sorry.’”

  “A criminal with regrets,” Brent said. Why the hell, he wondered,
would anyone want to kill Del Saxton’s wife? It made no sense, no sense at all. Unless the man was crazy—

  “Hammond, would you please ask Captain O’Mally to come to our stateroom?”

  Brent nodded, and watched Saxton lift his wife into his arms and walk away with her. He stared thoughtfully after the couple, then tossed his cheroot over the side into the still, dark water. She would have died, he thought, if he hadn’t been on deck. If he hadn’t been insulting Byrony, the man would have succeeded in murdering Chauncey Saxton. He felt a brief stab of pain at the memory of the words he had thrown at Byrony’s head. But they were true. But what if they aren’t? What if she is just what she appears—innocent, sweet? Damn, he felt as if the world had taken a faulty turn. He didn’t want to insult her; she meant nothing to him. It was none of his business in any case.

  He went to find the captain, knowing that the chances of tracking down the man who’d tried to kill Chauncey Saxton were next to nil.

  Brent helped in the search. He couldn’t identify any of the men they questioned. Not surprising, he thought, much later when he finally lay on his bed. Why would anyone want to kill Chauncey Saxton? Why would Byrony marry Ira Butler?

  Brent finally slept, but his dreams were of a man trying to push Byrony into the river. He tried to save her; she was screaming his name, but he wasn’t in time. He saw her blue mantle spread around her, pulling her under the black water.

  He jerked awake, his body covered with sweat. Damn her. He was hard, his body heavy with need. He suddenly remembered her bitter words: I had to marry him.

  What did she expect, anyway? A child usually resulted from sex. At least Ira had married her. He cursed her again, and turned onto his stomach.

  Early the following morning, Brent watched Chauncey and Delaney Saxton leave the Scarlet Queen. He didn’t blame Delaney at all. Were it he, he wouldn’t remain to see if the man tried again. He would protect what was his.

  He saw Byrony, flanked by her husband and her sister-in-law. She looked pale. He wanted to smash Ira in his handsome face.

  He turned on his heel, refusing to acknowledge her or her damned husband.