Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  Maggie watched her closely, a small smile tilting up the corners of her mouth. This affliction, as Brent acidly referred to Byrony Butler, appeared to be shared. Her smile disappeared. The girl was going to be badly hurt. Whatever women were in Brent’s past, they’d made him wary and untrusting. But he had saved her, twice. He must feel something for her.

  “What do you mean, he’s in a snit again?” Byrony asked as she chewed on a bit of roast chicken.

  “Did I say that? Oh dear, I should learn to keep my mouth closed.”

  Byrony gazed at her expectantly.

  “Oh well, after you left here the first time, he was like the proverbial bear with a thorn in his paw. You appear to have the ability to disturb him excessively.”

  “Yes, but it isn’t my fault, truly, Maggie. He thinks I’m an awful person. No, it’s true, he really believes that. He’s done nothing but insult me since I saw him again.”

  “Again?”

  “I saw him first in San Diego. We didn’t exactly meet, but we did speak for a little while. I thought he was a very nice man.” She sighed. “So much has happened since then.”

  Brent paused in the sitting room just beyond the open bedroom door. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but he was. He straightened, walked into the bedroom. “Ladies,” he said. “Maggie, you have some customers. I’ll stay with Mrs. Butler for a while.”

  Maggie rose and shook out her deep wine velvet skirts. “Never keep a customer waiting,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Byrony, I’ll send Caesar over with some hot water for your bath. Brent, try to maintain a veneer of civility, all right?”

  “Thank you, Maggie,” Byrony called after her. “She’s a very nice person,” she continued to Brent. “She’s been so kind to me.”

  “But surely you disapprove of her business?” He had to keep his distance from her, so he moved quickly to lean his shoulder against the mantelpiece.

  She continued eating her dinner. “I suppose,” she said at last, “that men are very different from women. Actually, I’d never really thought about things like that before.”

  “How odd, I would have sworn that it was one of your major concerns.”

  “You are in a snit,” Byrony said. She shrugged, and waved her fork at him. “Actually, I feel more comfortable when you act sarcastic. When you’re nice, I don’t know what to do or say.”

  He cursed.

  I thought only my father knew those kinds of words. And my brother, of course.”

  He frowned at her, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’ll see that your bathwater arrives. Do you need any help?” His question was innocuous to begin with, until his mind gave him a vivid picture of her naked in his bathtub with him looking on.

  “No, I’ll be all right.”

  “Good. I’m relieved that you’re looking so fit.”

  “Yes. I should be well enough to leave tomorrow.”

  “I doubt I’ll be that lucky. Do I next rescue you in San Jose?”

  Her chin went up. “I have only one favor to ask of you, Mr. Hammond. I have no money—”

  “What very poor planning on your part. I would have thought that you’d saved quite a bit by now. Married nearly a year, right? Ira wasn’t such a besotted fool, then?”

  “—but I do have a very valuable necklace that I will have to sell.”

  “So you did manage to get something out of him?”

  “Yes, a Christmas present. I would appreciate it if you would sell the necklace for me.”

  “Perhaps I can sell it back to your husband. Better yet, perhaps I should have a talk with your husband. Ask him why he came to detest his bride in such a short time. At least that’s the way it seems. He wants you back only to have you shut up away from the world.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Saint told me that your precious husband is spreading the tale that you’re suffering from delusions, female hysteria, that sort of thing. Says you’re a danger to yourself and should be confined for your own good.”

  She was silent for many moments, her eyes on the roasted chicken on her plate. “Irene,” she said. “It must be Irene’s doing.”

  “Is he right?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you are the most maddening female it has ever been my misfortune to meet. I’ll see you later, much later.”

  He walked from the bedroom without a backward glance. She heard the door to the sitting room slam.

  Brent stood by Nero, his assistant, a huge black man who’d lost his right ear at the hands of his owner in Georgia. He trusted Nero as much as Maggie trusted his brother, Caesar. Both men had managed to escape and make their way to California the year before.

  Business was good. But then, it always was. There was one fight, and the two combatants were quickly and efficiently hauled outside by Nero. Brent roamed about the huge room. He didn’t want to gamble, nor did he want to drink. He wanted to go upstairs and make love to Byrony. There, he’d finally admitted it to himself, brought it into the open. What difference could it make, anyway? He had saved her. Didn’t she owe him?

  He shook his head. He was being a crude bastard. He felt himself stiffen suddenly. Through the front swinging doors walked Ira Butler with Stephan Bannion, a lawyer and business associate. Brent’s eyes glittered. He walked to the table where the two men had just sat down.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to the Wild Star. Your first time here, Butler. Have you come to try your luck?”

  Bannion answered, “Old Ira needed some cheering up. How ’bout some of your whiskey, Hammond?”

  Brent signaled the bartender, then turned back to the two men. He studied Ira Butler. He did look depressed as hell. Brent’s eyes fell to Ira’s pale, narrow hands, an aristocrat’s hands, he thought, and saw those long fingers stroking over Byrony’s body. “What’s the problem, Butler?” he asked. “Oh, I forgot. It’s your poor wife, isn’t it?”

  Ira felt furious and utterly helpless. He wished he hadn’t allowed Stephan to drag him here. He’d gone over and over it in his mind. She obviously had escaped out her bedroom window. But where had she gone? She hadn’t taken her mare. Someone had to have helped her. But who? Why? He’d sent one of his men to Saint’s house, but she hadn’t been there. Was Saint hiding her somewhere? Had some of the city scum caught her and killed her? His head ached. He became aware that Hammond was talking about Byrony, and blinked. “My wife? Oh yes, my wife.”

  “The poor demented girl,” Stephan Bannion said, shaking his head. “We’ve looked everywhere. Still no sign, no word of her.”

  “I’ll find her,” Ira said. “I’ve got to find her.”

  “Such a pity,” Brent said. “Her illness came upon her so suddenly, didn’t it? Here is your whiskey, gentlemen.” He walked away, knowing that if he’d stayed, he would probably have baited Ira to the limit, perhaps made him suspect something. He also wanted to kill Butler with his bare hands.

  He went upstairs, unable to stay in the saloon. He locked the door to his office and walked through his sitting room into the bedroom. Byrony was looking healthy and scrubbed from her bath. She was wearing his dressing gown over her nightgown and was sitting up in his bed, reading one of his books.

  “How very comfortable you look,” he said furiously. “I see you’ve helped yourself to everything you wanted.”

  Slowly Byrony closed the book, a collection of Molière’s plays. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being very careful—”

  “Just shut up,” he said. “Your husband is downstairs looking the worse for wear, drowning his worries in whiskey, and swearing that he’ll find you.”

  She turned utterly white.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t announce that you were upstairs in my bed.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not really. Bannion did all the talking. You’re a poor demented girl, and Ira is obviously suffering tremendously with worry.”

  Byrony swal
lowed. He was downstairs. God, what was she to do? Brent was angry again, probably because he was in the middle of this damnable mess. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you say that word one more time, I’ll strangle you.”

  “All right,” she shouted at him, finally enraged. “What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?”

  “It’s really very simple. I want you to tell me the truth.”

  She fidgeted a moment with the bedspread, fighting the need to tell him everything. “I can’t,” she said finally, raising her eyes to his. “It doesn’t concern you, Brent. I refuse to involve you any further in this—”

  “This what?” he yelled. “I’m involved up to my neck.” Suddenly he paused, his eyes darkening. “You know, Byrony,” he said, watching her carefully, “you haven’t mentioned your child once. You plan to desert her?”

  He saw the flash of—what was it, horror?—in her eyes before her lashes came down. He pushed. “I see that you haven’t spared a thought for your child. You don’t care that she’ll be raised by that fool husband of yours? Don’t you care, damn you?”

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “Not like what? You’re as miserable a mother as you were a wife?”

  “Please, Brent, don’t—”

  “Don’t what? Lady, you’re a miserable human being from all I can see.”

  She wailed, a high, thin sound, her hands slamming against her ears to keep out his words. She was shaking, the horror and pain so dreadful that she felt she would die with it. Sobs broke from her throat. She stared at him, unaware that tears were streaming down her face.

  Brent cursed, sat down beside her, and drew her into his arms. “Stop it. Stop your bloody crying.” But she couldn’t.

  His face twisted with his own pain as he tried to calm her. He buried his face against her neck as he stroked his hands down her back, pressing her face into his shoulder. He felt her breasts heaving against his chest, felt her delicate bones beneath his probing fingers. God, he wanted her. Now. “Byrony,” he whispered, kissing her temple. “Hush, love. Hush.”

  She shuddered, even as she raised her face. His mouth closed over hers. He tasted her tears, felt her start of surprise. But she didn’t withdraw from him. He felt the moment she wanted him, but it wasn’t right, and he knew it. But he couldn’t stop himself. His kisses deepened, his tongue probed to enter her mouth. When she parted her lips, he thought he would explode from the sheer pleasure of it. She tasted so warm, so sweet, so yielding.

  She was his now, all his. His hands swept over her. He couldn’t get enough of her fast enough.

  She arched against his hands, pain, desire, astonishment, all mingling together as the urgent feelings whipped through her. His hands were on her breasts. How could that make her feel so wild?

  “Please,” she whispered.

  Brent tried to slow himself. He’d wanted her for so long.

  He wanted her pressed against him, naked flesh against naked flesh. He wanted to stroke her, kiss and taste every inch of her. Fill her with himself. He tried to pull her arms from around his back. “My clothes. I have to get off my clothes.”

  She didn’t want to let him go. He was her anchor. He was safety, he was the source of her passion. Her fingers fumbled wildly with the buttons on his vest.

  Brent managed to strip himself, despite her help. He had to rise to pull off his trousers and boots. He looked down at her and thought he would drown at the passion in her eyes. When he was naked, he yanked back the covers, slipped into bed beside her, and pulled her against him. “Oh, damn,” he said, and jerked off the dressing gown. Her nightgown presented many small buttons and he ripped the gown off her.

  What am I doing? The question came to her sharply, but she dismissed it, not caring. She cared only about this moment, having this man who’d haunted her since that long-ago day in San Diego. She didn’t care that he would continue to despise her. She pressed her hands against his chest. He felt warm, his flesh so smooth.

  She felt his rigid sex against her closed legs. He’ll come inside me, she thought. He’ll fill me with himself. Her body rippled with anticipation, and she whispered his name.

  He couldn’t get her close enough. When she said his name, helplessly, eagerly, he thought he couldn’t wait. He pulled his mouth away and drew several deep breaths. But it was no good. He’d wanted her for so long. His hand stroked over her breasts and downward to her flat belly. She felt him cup her, his fingers searching, then finding. She cried out, arching upward.

  She was warm, wet. She wanted him. He was shaking, he couldn’t wait. “Byrony—” He said her name as if in pain. He spread her legs, and moved over her. He should wait— give her pleasure—But he looked down into her face, saw that her eyes were glazed, saw her reach for him.

  He raised her hips in his hands and slid himself slowly into her. He felt her pain before he was aware of the cause. He realized only that she was very small and that her body was fighting him. She cried out, struggled against him. He pressed forward with difficulty. Then he felt her maiden-head.

  He went utterly still, his body frozen over her, his mind fighting against what he realized to be true. He stared down at her.

  She cried out his name.

  “No,” he whispered. “Oh God, no.” He tore through and seated himself to his hilt. He felt pain convulsing through her body, felt her shuddering beneath him. He reared back, beyond all reason, and let himself go. For many moments he was insensate. She didn’t move.

  Reality, with its enormous complications, reared its head.

  “Byrony,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows to relieve her of his weight.

  She opened her eyes and stared up at him. Her lashes were matted with tears. Her eyes were clear, her expression unreadable.

  He could think of nothing to say. He’d taken a virgin, a girl who was vulnerable, and he’d hurt her, badly.

  “You can’t be,” he said slowly, as if the words themselves would cancel out the truth.

  “I didn’t know it would hurt so much,” she said. “I thought it would be very nice.”

  “It is, just not the first time. I didn’t know, Byrony.”

  “No, how could you?” She spoke so calmly, but her mind was reeling with what had just happened between them. She waited for his guilt to turn to anger.

  “Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you tell me you’d never been with a man before?”

  “I didn’t want to stop you, and I did tell you. You simply didn’t believe me.”

  “You told me you’d never had a lover, Byrony, you had a husband and a baby.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he realized many things. Saint, when he had examined her, had known she hadn’t birthed a child. Obviously the child was Irene’s. Obviously her husband had married her to protect his sister. Brent tried to pull out of her, but she clasped her hands around his back.

  “No, please don’t leave me.”

  Her words made him instantly hard, and it shocked him, this instant and intense reaction to her. “I must,” he said. “If I stay inside you I’ll hurt you again. No.”

  He came out of her. “Are you all right?” He pulled her against him, his fingers massaging her shoulders and her scalp.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s much we have to talk about,” he said, wondering where to begin, what to say.

  He felt her head nod slowly against his shoulder, then felt her body go slack against him. She was asleep.

  Brent pulled the covers over them, and leaned over to douse the lamp beside the bed. He wanted to laugh, and it took all his will to keep still.

  “You randy fool,” he said to himself and the silent room. “You just took a virgin.” Life was made up of the unexpected, and certainly he’d had his share of surprises, but this floored him. He remembered everything he’d said to her, all the very graphic sexual images. He realized that he knew nothing about her, nothing at all. And all she knew of him was what he had shown her.
>
  He wasn’t a good man.

  What was he going to do?

  Tomorrow she would tell him the truth, all of it. And if she refused? He’d make love to her until she was crazy.

  Would she withdraw from him? Remember the pain and be afraid of him? He drew her closer. “Byrony,” he whispered against her temple, “I’m sorry.”

  She mumbled something in her sleep and pressed closer, her hand fisting against his chest.

  SEVENTEEN

  Byrony awoke suddenly, disoriented, and aware of soreness between her legs. She frowned a moment, not remembering. She felt the warmth of him, felt his hand touching her hip. Brent moved closer to her, and she slowly turned her head to look at him.

  His dark hair was tousled, his cheeks covered with dark stubble. There was a slight smile on his lips in his sleep.

  I’m a woman now, she thought, and swallowed, easing slowly away from him. She felt sore and sticky. She jerked up, lowering the covers. There was blood on her thighs and on the sheet beneath her. My blood, she thought. She remembered the pain when he’d entered her. She wondered if blood signified her passage into womanhood. No one had ever told her about that. She remembered at the age of fourteen she’d begun her monthly flow. Aunt Ida had merely nodded when Byrony had told her, fear thick in her young voice, and told her, her eyes not quite meeting Byrony’s, it was something she would have to bear for many years.

  “What the hell happened to your back?”

  She’d pulled her hair over her shoulder and unconsciously begun to weave her fingers through it to get out the tangles.

  “Byrony, answer me.”

  She felt his fingers lightly touching her and shivered. She grabbed the covers and pulled them to her chin, but of course her back was bare to his eyes. Slowly she turned her head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “There are scars on your back, faded, but there. Who the hell beat you?”

  She’d expected his anger, indeed, was ready for it. But his anger was directed against another this time. “It was a long time ago,” she said.

  “Who, Byrony? That husband of yours?”

  “No, Ira never touched me.”