Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “Lookee, Hammond, it ain’t none of yer business.”

  Byrony found the strength to jab her elbow into Chad’s stomach. He yowled, and raised a meaty fist to strike her.

  “You damned bastard.” Brent was on him in an instant, his fist connecting with Chad’s wet jaw. Jesus, he was thinking, was it one of Maggie’s girls? Chad dropped back, and Byrony stumbled toward Brent. He caught her against his side. She was trembling violently.

  “That’s enough, gentlemen,” he said.

  “There’s two of us, Neddie. High-and-mighty Hammond ain’t got no say out here!”

  A shining derringer appeared as if by magic. “I suggest that you two leave, now. No,” Brent continued, his voice soft, almost amused, “don’t try it. I’ll blow your brains out.”

  Byrony vaguely heard the argument, heard the two men cursing vilely. Then they were gone.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” Brent asked, easing his derringer back into its small holster. “Didn’t Maggie teach you anything?” She felt herself being shaken. The hood to her mantle fell back.

  Brent saw a sodden, tangled mass of hair, and impatiently shoved it back. He sucked in his breath, then cursed. “You. Jesus, Byrony, what the hell—”

  He broke off abruptly. She was looking up at him with utterly blank eyes.

  “What’s the matter with you? Where’s Ira?”

  In bed with his half-sister. She wanted to laugh, but the sound that emerged was a wet cough.

  “Dammit, what are you doing out in this miserable weather?” He pulled her in under the wooden overhang and clapped his hand over her forehead. Fever. She was burning up with fever. He felt panic and fear. God, no, she mustn’t be ill. “Damn you, where is your precious husband? Come on, I’ll get you home!”

  “No!” She jerked away from him so quickly, he didn’t have time to react.

  “Byrony—” he yelled after her in fury.

  He saw her stumble off the sidewalk, weave in the thick mud, and sprawl forward onto her side.

  TWELVE

  He cursed as much from fear as from anger. He walked after her, picking her up, nearly tripping into the mud with her.

  He managed to stumble back to the sidewalk. What the hell was he supposed to do now? There was really no question, and he tightened his grip on her as he strode to the back of the Wild Star. “Don’t you dare be ill, you little twit.”

  He managed to unlock the back entrance, and strode up the stairs to his rooms. Black-haired, sloe-eyed Felice saw him and he said, “Get me Maggie at once.”

  Why was she unconscious? Had that bastard hurt her?

  “What’s going on, Brent?” Maggie took in the wet, filthy bundle in his arms.

  “It’s Byrony,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong. She has a fever. She’s unconscious.”

  Byrony, Maggie thought. So it wasn’t some woman he’d known a long time ago. She became brisk. “She’s filthy and we’ll have to bathe her. I’ll have Caesar fetch Saint. Since Felice has already seen you, and the girl can be trusted to keep her mouth shut, I’ll have her help us. Don’t move, Brent.”

  Byrony stirred in his arms and muttered something about a baby. He tightened his grip, whispering to her, “What about a baby? Your baby? Byrony?”

  Her head fell back against his arm. So long, he thought, so long since he’d even seen her. Now she was ill. He realized after a moment that he was praying. He looked at Maggie like she was the angel of mercy when she came quickly back into the room.

  “All right, Brent. Take her into your bedroom. Felice is heating water. No matter if she’s ill. She’ll be even sicker if we don’t get her out of those sodden clothes. Caesar’s off to get Saint. Pray that he’s home. But then again, nobody but an idiot would be out in weather like this.”

  Brent carried her into his bedroom, a place he’d fantasized about having her. At his mercy. Having her want him and admit to it. Having her sprawled on his bed, her arms raised to him.

  “Just put her here on the hearth. Get out your tub, Brent.” Maggie looked up at him, realizing he hadn’t moved. He was staring down at the girl, his face pale.

  “Brent.”

  Gently he eased her onto the cold floor in front of the fireplace. “She’s ill,” he said.

  “I know. I’ll get her undressed, and you do the same for yourself. You’re as wet as she is”

  He nodded, thankful that someone knew what to do. He didn’t leave his bedroom, merely stepped back and methodically began to strip off his wet clothes, dropping them on the floor at his feet.

  He heard a gasp from the door, and turned to see Felice holding a bucket of hot water in each hand. He didn’t realize that he was quite naked.

  “In the tub,” Maggie said. “Help me, Felice, and don’t gawk at Mr. Hammond. Lord knows, he’s just a man, and you’ve seen enough of them.”

  Brent shrugged into a dressing gown. He stood helplessly as Maggie and Felice lifted Byrony into the tub.

  “I hate to wash her hair, but we’ve got to,” Maggie was saying to Felice. “Quick, hand me the soap. I don’t want her in here any longer than necessary.”

  “Why is she unconscious?” Brent asked.

  “I don’t know. Don’t worry. Saint will be here soon.”

  He’d wanted to see her body ever since the first time he’d met her, so long ago, it seemed. But he didn’t look. His eyes remained on her shadowed face. She was so damned pale. “I’ll kill that bastard,” he said.

  “You’re not going to do violence to anybody, Brent. Get me another one of your dressing gowns. The burgundy velvet one.”

  Felice wrapped Byrony’s wet hair in a thick towel while Maggie quickly dried her. Brent handed her the dressing gown.

  “All right. Put her into bed, Brent.”

  She’s thin, he thought as he lifted her into his arms.

  They covered her with three thick blankets.

  Felice removed the towel from her hair and began to untangle the strands, smoothing them away from her head onto the pillow.

  “That’s fine, Felice. Thank you. Please see to it that Dr. Morris comes straight up when he arrives. And, Felice, not a word, all right?”

  “But who is she, Maggie? What’s she doing here?”

  “None of your business, Felice. Be on your way now.”

  “Why is she unconscious?” Brent asked again when they were alone.

  “For God’s sake, I don’t know. I do know she has a fever. It’s probably the influenza. Now, Brent, this is your Byrony. Who is she?”

  My Byrony. The Byrony whose name he’d yelled when he’d taken his pleasure with another woman. “Byrony Butler,” he said.

  “Ira Butler’s wife?”

  “Yes. Dammit, she’s nothing to me, Maggie. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a long time. I have no idea why she was alone and—”

  “Obviously she was coming to you.”

  “No,” he said. “She wanted me to leave her alone. She wanted peace. She told me to go to hell.” No, you were the one to say that.

  “Then where was she going?”

  “I don’t know. All right, something obviously has happened to her—”

  “Something awful, I should say, and she was coming to you because she had no place else to go.” Maggie fell silent a moment, then laid her palm on Byrony’s forehead. “She’s so young,” she said. “Are you going to send someone for her husband?”

  “Hell no. That is, when I told her outside that I was taking her home, she yelled at me that she didn’t want to go. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Well, let’s see what Saint has to say,” she said as he came through the door.

  “This better be good, Brent. Dragging a man out on a night like this—Hey, what’s this? Byrony.”

  Saint’s eyes flew to Brent’s face, but Brent only shrugged.

  “Maggie thinks it’s influenza. But she won’t wake up, Saint.”

  Saint had at least half a dozen questions, but he
said nothing as he shrugged out of his coat and hat and tossed them and his umbrella into the corner. He sat down beside Byrony and gently pressed his palm to her cheeks.

  “I’m going to leave now, Brent,” Maggie said. “We don’t want any talk, obviously. Call me if you need me.”

  “Maggie, thank you.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on here, Brent?” Saint asked, not looking up.

  Brent talked and Saint grunted.

  “So your guess is as good as mine,” Brent said. He watched Saint pull open the dressing gown and lean his cheek against Byrony’s breast. “Lungs are clear,” he said. Saint was on the point of closing the dressing gown, when he suddenly stopped. He stared at her white breasts with their small pink nipples. He shook his head, bemused.

  “What’s the matter?” Brent asked, moving closer to the bed.

  “Leave me alone for a while, Brent. I don’t think my patient would appreciate you being here while I examine her.”

  “To hell with what she thinks,” Brent said, but he did walk to the fireplace.

  Saint pulled open the dressing gown and studied her. She was on the verge of thinness. He asked, “When did Byrony have her baby?”

  “I don’t know. About six or seven months ago, I guess. Why?”

  “Just wondering,” Saint said. If Byrony had ever carried a baby, he was the president of the United States.

  “Pour me a shot of brandy, Brent. I want to bring her out of this.” What was holding her from consciousness? Shock?

  Saint forced the rim of the glass between her lips and tilted it. She choked, and Saint quickly lifted her.

  “Take it easy, Byrony. Here, drink a bit more. It’ll warm you up.”

  Byrony heard a man’s voice, and forced her eyes to open. He was a blur. A stranger. He was touching her, he was going to hurt her. “No.” She tried to get away from him.

  “Move, Saint.” Brent captured her flailing arms and brought her close to his chest. “Hush, Byrony. It’s all right. I promise you. It’s Brent. You’re all right.”

  “Brent.” Her eyes cleared and she stared up into his dark eyes. “I’m sick,” she said.

  “I know. Saint’s here. He’ll make you feel better in no time at all.”

  He started to ease her down, but she threw her arms about his neck and held on tight. “No, please—don’t go.”

  “All right, I promise I won’t go. I want you to lie down now. Just relax. That’s it. Close your eyes. Good girl.”

  Saint said not a word. He measured out a few drops of laudanum in a glass of water. “Make her drink this,” he said.

  He listened to Brent, his voice soft as he spoke to Byrony. He watched him gently stroke her hand as she drifted into drugged sleep.

  “I’d say, old son, that you’ve a problem the size of a house.”

  Brent forced his eyes from Byrony’s face. “I’ve got to find out why she ran away,” he said. “Will she be all right, Saint?”

  “Yes. She’s a strong girl. I gather you’re going to keep her with you tonight?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Nope. None at all that I can see, unless you want to get Ira. He is her husband, you know, and she’s his responsibility.”

  Brent rose and stretched out his hand to Saint. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

  “Keep her warm, and if and when she wakes up, give her lots of water.”

  Saint pulled his leather hat low on his brow, drew a deep breath, and thoughtfully walked down the back stairs and into the rain. So, it was Irene’s baby. However did that damned woman manage to get herself pregnant? Why did Byrony consent to go along with the charade? God, what a bloody mess.

  She mumbled in her sleep, meaningless sounds that made no sense to Brent. He sat in a chair beside the bed, his fingers steepled together, tapping softly, his eyes never leaving her face. She’d evoked emotions in him since the first time he’d ever seen her. Strong emotions that made him uncomfortable, made him want to strike out—at her. He saw perspiration beading on her forehead. He rose, dampened a cloth, and gently wiped her face.

  Always they’d fought. Rather, he amended to himself, he’d always insulted her. He studied her features, the delicate straight nose, the stubborn chin, the high cheekbones. Her lashes were dark, and fanned like tangled black shadows against her pale cheeks. Her brows were slightly arched, darker than her hair. He slowly reached out his hand and wrapped a hank of hair around his fingers.

  He told himself yet again that she’d sold herself to Ira Butler, borne his child. She’d made her bed, damn her, let her wallow in it. She had nothing to do with him.

  Why was she coming to him? She hated him. He knew she was very good friends with Chauncey. Why had she run like a madwoman in the rain all the way downtown? God, it was so dangerous, it made his blood run cold to think of it. What if he hadn’t been on his way to visit Celeste? What if those men—

  He jumped when the clock struck twelve strokes. Midnight. He’d been sitting silently watching her for two hours. Slowly he rose, locked the door, and turned off the lamps. He shrugged out of his dressing gown and slipped under the blankets beside her.

  He resolutely stayed away from her, forcing himself to close his eyes.

  He awoke in the middle of the night, alert, and aware of a warm body nestled against his chest. How many times he’d wanted her in bed with him, arching against him.

  Lightly he touched his palm to her forehead. She was cool to the touch. No more fever. His fingers clenched. He wanted to reach out and feel her. His sex was hard, his muscles rigid with tension.

  She muttered something in her sleep and twisted away from him.

  He flipped onto his back and stared up into the darkness. A first time for everything, he thought. You should take her and be damned. But he didn’t move.

  Byrony blinked at the bright sunlight that was warming her face. Slowly she opened her eyes. It wasn’t raining. Memory suddenly flooded her.

  “It’s all right. How do you feel, Byrony?”

  “Brent?” Her voice sounded low and gravelly, totally unlike her.

  “Yes.”

  “But what—Oh, I remember now. Where am I?” She tried to pull herself up.

  “You’re with me, in my rooms above the Wild Star. Do you remember coming here last night?”

  She closed her eyes, trying to rid herself of the vivid memory of Ira and Irene. “I remember running. I guess I was coming to you. I don’t know.”

  “Here,” he said. “Drink this. It’s barley water, a donation from Maggie.”

  Dutifully she drank, then lay back against the pillow.

  “You’re being nice to me,” she said, and stared at him.

  “Yes, a miracle of circumstance. I want you to tell me what happened to you.”

  Why I went home early, not feeling well, you understand, and just chanced to see my husband making love to his half-sister.

  Laughter welled up in her throat, not healthy laughter, but hysterical laughter. For an instant he saw the horror in her eyes.

  “Byrony.”

  The laughter was hot and fast. Then she choked. He held her, clapped her on the back.

  She breathed in deeply, trying to get hold of herself.

  “Did you have a fight with your husband? Is that why you ran away? Did he hurt you?”

  How angry he sounded. “No,” she said. “There was no fight.” She felt the headache worsening. I’m still sick, she thought, but I can’t stay here.

  “Then why?”

  Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? She could just imagine herself telling him exactly what had happened. He wouldn’t believe her, of course. He’d never believed anything she’d said to him. But that wasn’t the point, not really. She couldn’t, wouldn’t say anything until she decided what she would do. It was her problem, hers alone, no one else’s.

  “I have to leave now.”

  “Like hell you will.”

  “I must go home before I’m miss
ed.”

  Brent, furious with himself and with her, jumped up from the bed. “Did your dear husband push you too far? Demand too much? Sully your little lady’s ears?”

  His anger was, oddly enough, a relief. At least his anger was something she was used to, something she understood. She couldn’t handle his brief bout of gentleness.

  “Yes,” she said coldly. “He wanted to take me on the dining-room table and I resisted.”

  He turned away from her, and she watched, fascinated, as his hands fisted and unfisted at his sides. He was wearing a dressing gown. There was dark stubble on his jaws. He hadn’t shaved. It must still be early. Early enough. Her mind had already begun working through possible lies she could tell Ira.

  She realized suddenly that all she was wearing was one of his dressing gowns. It was warm and so very soft. It carried his scent. Slowly she eased her legs over the side of the bed. She felt weak, but the dizziness was gone. Her throat hurt still, as did her head.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “Ruined. Maggie will lend you something.”

  “The duchess.”

  “You insult her and I’ll thrash you silly.”

  She gave him a tired smile. “Please, Brent, I must leave, very soon. Could you please ask her for something? I promise to return anything she gives me.”

  She looked so bloody defeated and alone. He left the bedroom without another word. It was Maggie who brought her clothes a few moments later. She didn’t ask any questions.

  “Thank you,” Byrony said. “I appreciate your kindness.”

  The dove-gray wool gown was too short, but Byrony didn’t care. Brent came into the room just as she pulled a shawl over her shoulders.

  “Nero will take you home,” he said. “The carriage is hired, so your husband won’t recognize it. I suppose you have several believable lies to tell him?”

  “I hope so.”

  “After this, do try to keep to your bargain. I don’t relish being dragged into your sordid little adventures.”

  “No, it was unfair of me. I’m sorry.”