Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  He laughed roughly, falling off into a near-moan. “God, I know that well enough—firsthand.”

  “It’s raining,” she said, staring toward the windows.

  “Who, Byrony?—And yes, I see it’s raining.”

  “My—my mother’s husband.”

  “Your stepfather?”

  “Father.”

  “Why?”

  “I couldn’t let him beat my mother,” she said calmly. “Not in front of me, at any rate.”

  It was that acceptance in her voice that shook him profoundly.

  “He’d hurt her so many times before, you see. That was why she sent me to live with her sister in Boston. To protect me. I’d only been back in San Diego for six months when I first met you.”

  He lay back, pillowing his head on his arms. She was still sitting up, her long hair rippling over her shoulder, the covers to her chin, her back naked. She looked so beautiful, so innocent, so accepting, that he wanted to yell.

  His hands clenched, but he kept them where they were. If he touched her, he’d make love to her again. He was hard. He raised his knees slightly under the cover so she wouldn’t see. She wasn’t ready for that. He had no intention of hurting her again.

  “I remember when I met you in San Diego,” he said finally. “I spoke to that old man, my thought at the time merely to learn your name. I told you about him and what he’d said.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “It was all a lie.”

  “Of course. I told you it was.”

  “Why would a girl’s father lie about her, Byrony?”

  She made a slashing movement with her hand, and now there were bitterness and anger in her voice. “He is an animal. He called me a slut, and much worse. I had only one friend, a young Californio, named Gabriel. My father accused me of sleeping with him and carrying his bastard. He went to see Gabriel’s father and extorted money from him.” She paused a moment, then continued, her voice very sad and soft. “Poor Gabriel was shipped off to Spain. He was a nice boy, a friend, someone I cared about.”

  She shifted, then bowed her head.

  “What, Byrony?”

  “I have no one to ask. There’s blood on me, and I was frightened. Is that natural?”

  He swallowed, a shaft of pain in his belly. “Yes, it’s natural. It won’t happen again. Come here, Byrony.” He saw the wary look in her eyes, and added quickly, “I won’t make love to you again. I just want to hold you.”

  Still wary, she watched him as she slipped onto her back to lie beside him. He brought his arms down, and very slowly, not wanting to frighten her, drew her against his side.

  She didn’t know what to do with her hand, and gingerly laid it on his chest. She felt him stroking her hair, and eased, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

  He said after a moment, “Then Ira Butler came to San Diego? No, Byrony, it’s time for the truth, all of it. I won’t let you be hurt again, I swear it. Please trust me.”

  He could practically feel her thinking, arguing with herself, weighing his words now against his past actions toward her. “Yes, Ira came then,” she said finally, her decision made. “He wanted to marry me. He is a distant cousin of my mother’s, and very rich. I agreed to it because he signed a document stating he would pay my father so much money a month. I did it for my mother. My father, I learned quickly, isn’t so violent if there is enough money for him to spend.” She sighed and fell silent for a moment. Brent said nothing, merely waited. “There was nothing for me in San Diego. I begged my mother to escape with me, far away from my father, but she refused. So I accepted Ira. I remember telling you once that I’d had no choice, and I suppose it’s true. At least I thought it would be, had to be, a calmer life. He was very kind to me. It was on the trip to San Francisco that he told me the real reason he’d married me. Irene was pregnant, he told me, the father of her child a married man. He’d married me to save Irene from a dreadful scandal. Her child was to be mine. I felt so very sorry for Irene and proud of Ira for being so caring of his sister. I agreed, of course.”

  “So that’s why Butler kept the both of you in Sacramento,” Brent said.

  “Yes. Michelle was born and we returned to San Francisco. There began to be problems, of course. Irene didn’t want me near her child. The situation was becoming dreadful. Ira tried to keep peace, but it wasn’t always possible. The servants’ loyalty was to Irene, not me. I was nothing more, really, than a boarder.”

  “That night you were ill, and I saved you from those two drunks—had you had a fight with Irene?”

  To his surprise, she began to shake. He eased her onto her back, balanced on his elbow, and stared down at her. “Tell me what happened. Byrony, tell me.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Tell me, Byrony.”

  It was as if the dam had burst, and she said, “Michelle is Ira’s daughter.”

  He didn’t understand her, not at first, and she continued, speaking quickly. “I was visiting Chauncey one evening, but I wasn’t feeling well—the influenza. Lucas drove me home. There was no one about, and I can remember being surprised that none of the servants were there. I heard noises coming from Ira’s bedroom. I remember thinking that perhaps Ira had the influenza too. I was worried about him. The noises—Oh God, he was in bed with Irene.”

  Incest, he thought, stunned, a subject never spoken of. He closed his eyes a moment, seeing in his mind’s eye what she must have seen, feeling what she must have felt. “You ran from the house and came to me.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I came to you.”

  “You came to me knowingly, because you trusted me.”

  She was nearly undone by the gentleness in his voice. She’d heard it so seldom since she’d known him. Tears stung her eyes. “Yes.”

  “You confronted Ira after that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I told him I knew the truth and I wanted to leave. My only demand was that he continue paying the money every month to my father. Otherwise I told him I would ruin him. I could think of no other way to protect my mother. I thought it was little enough to ask of him; considering what he’d done.”

  “Obviously,” Brent said, “he didn’t believe you’d keep your end of the bargain.”

  “It was Irene, I think, not Ira. That was when I became ill.”

  “Saint saved you.”

  “No, you did.”

  They both fell silent.

  Suddenly Byrony giggled. It was so unexpected that Brent jumped. “Here I am, in bed with you. I don’t have any clothes on and I can feel you.”

  Unconsciously he lowered his body a bit until her breasts were pressing against his chest. That elusive pain gnawed at his guts again. He closed his eyes, wishing he could also close his mind, but he couldn’t. “I won’t let him near you,” he said. “Never again.”

  Her low laughter turned into a sob. “I don’t know what to do now. Please, Brent, you must sell the necklace for me. I swear I’ll leave. You’ve helped me so much—”

  “Shut up. I’m getting up now,” he said in a very calm voice. “If I stay here with you, I’ll take you again.” He pulled away from her and rolled out of bed.

  He knew she was staring at him, and he was as hard as the floor beneath his feet. “Close your eyes.”

  For some odd reason, he was embarrassed. He’d never before had a hint of modesty with a woman, but now—“Oh, hell,” he said, and grabbed for his dressing gown.

  “I never thought that a man—well, you have a very nice back.”

  He smiled, but refused to face her. “And you, my dear, have the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen.” He heard her suck in her breath, and turned to face her. “You’re not going anywhere, do you understand me, Byrony? You’re staying right there until I can figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “But I must leave San Francisco.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Stay put.”

  He left her thirty minutes later, having said only, “I’ll be back so
on. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but Nero is downstairs. Continue reading my books.”

  He could only shake his head at his own stupidity. There was a driving rain and he felt water drip down his neck. It was a ten-minute walk to Saint’s house on Clay Street. His housekeeper, Lydia Mullins, ushered him into the small sitting room.

  Saint came into the room, wearing an old dark blue dressing gown. He merely stood in the doorway, a thick brow cocked at Brent. “Well?”

  “I need your help,” Brent said simply.

  “Not until I’ve had some coffee,” Saint said. “I was up half the night bringing a child into the world. The child died, dammit.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brent said.

  “Not anybody’s fault.”

  Brent found that the strong black coffee calmed him.

  “All right,” Saint said, seating himself comfortably across from Brent, “tell me all of it.”

  “You knew Byrony hadn’t birthed that baby,” Brent said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t any of your business. I am a doctor, you know, ethics and all that. Now that you’ve got that out of your system, tell me what’s happened.”

  “I made love to Byrony and discovered that she was a virgin. She isn’t now, needless to say.”

  “Ah.”

  “The child is Irene’s.”

  “I imagined as much.”

  “The father is Ira. I don’t think you imagined that.”

  Saint sucked in his breath. “Good God,” he said softly. “So that’s why—”

  “Yes, that’s why. It took me long enough to get the entire story out of Byrony, but there it is. She wanted to leave him, swore she wouldn’t say a word, but of course neither Ira nor Irene believed her. Now the question is: what to do?”

  Saint uncrossed his legs, stretched them out in front of him, and crossed his ankles. “An interesting problem,” he said.

  Brent drew a deep breath. “She still insists that she wants to leave.”

  “That doesn’t seem like such a good idea to me,” Saint said, his lashes nearly closing, making him look sleepy.

  “No, it doesn’t. Indeed, it’s out of the question. The girl has no more idea of how to survive than a puppy.”

  “And she has no money, does she? Of course, it’s conceivable that she is pregnant—now.” Saint grinned at his choice of words.

  Brent stared at him blankly. He hadn’t thought. “Shit,” he said.

  “There is that,” Saint agreed. “And she’s legally married. Quite a problem, I’d say.”

  “The marriage wasn’t consummated. It can be annulled.”

  “Hmmm,” Saint said. “I think, my boy, that we’d best go see Del Saxton. Among the three of us brilliant specimens, we ought to come up with a reasonable solution.”

  Del, when presented with the facts, turned to Saint.

  “The fact of the matter is, Del, that the marriage needs to be annulled. Byrony needs to be freed.”

  “Why?” Del asked.

  “So Brent can marry her, of course,” Saint said.

  Brent leapt up from his chair across from Del’s desk. “Marry her. Jesus, Saint, I never—”

  “Oh, I take it then that she, the deceitful, cunning woman, seduced you, Brent?”

  “No. I don’t want to get married.” Even as he shouted the words, he knew it wasn’t true. He’d wanted her for so long, and it wasn’t just lust. She stirred emotions and feelings in him that scared him to death.

  “Too late. It appears to me that you understand procreation well enough. You want your child born a bastard?”

  “Who said she’d get pregnant? It was just once, Saint.”

  “Calm down, Brent,” Del said. “Saint, stop poking him. The man’s a wreck already. Now, listen, both of you. I have a friend, a very powerful friend, in Sacramento. The marriage can be annulled there. There’s going to be a scandal, of course, no way around it. What bothers me is that Byrony will be the one to suffer the gossip—a wife deserting her husband and child. Unless—”

  “Unless,” Brent said, “we force Ira to admit that the child is Irene’s.” He turned to Saint. “I see no reason for the incest to come out, if Butler agrees to the annulment. Do you think anyone would draw that conclusion?”

  “Unlikely. Weren’t you shocked, disbelieving at first?” Saint asked.

  “So,” Del said, leaning back in his chair, “there will be a scandal all right, but the two of them won’t get what they really deserve.”

  “Of course,” Saint said, “Byrony could simply leave San Francisco, and the scandal wouldn’t touch her. She wouldn’t be here.”

  “No.”

  “Well, Brent, you don’t want to marry her, you just said so. Of course, even if she isn’t pregnant now, how could she ever marry? Women are funny about that, you know. They’re raised to believe they should be virgins when they marry. I suppose she could say she’s a widow—”

  Brent writhed in guilt. But it was more than feeling like a rutting bastard for taking her virginity. Oh no, he’d fine and fairly caught himself. He rose from his chair. “She’s not leaving,” he said, his decision made.

  “Good,” Saint said. “I suggest, gentlemen, that we waste no more time. Let’s track down Ira Butler.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Eileen reluctantly ushered the three men into the Butler drawing room. Both Ira and Irene were present, and it was her face that drew Brent’s attention. She’s scared silly, he thought. And they both know. Oh yes, they know why we’re here.

  “Gentlemen,” Ira said in a thin, calm voice. “May I ask why you have honored my sister and me with your visit?”

  Del Saxton moved forward. “Do you want your sister to remain, Ira?”

  It was Irene who walked forward, her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I will stay, Mr. Saxton.”

  “Very well then,” Del said.

  “We are here about Byrony,” Brent said.

  “So,” Irene said, “the little slut came running to you. What filth did she tell you?”

  “It’s no use, Irene,” Ira said. He sounded incredibly weary.

  “What do you mean?” Irene said. “For God’s sake, Ira, get a hold of yourself. These gentlemen know nothing.”

  Brent saw clearly what Byrony’s life had been like. But he also saw the fear, the desperation in Irene Butler’s face.

  “We happen to know everything, finally,” Brent said. “If you hadn’t tried to poison her, Butler, if you had but trusted her, she would never have said a word. Never.”

  “She ran to you, her lover,” Irene said. “I know her sort—a tramp, just like her silly mother. I knew she would betray me, I—”

  “That’s enough,” Brent said. He looked from Irene to Ira, then said, “It is time to end this farce. If you do nothing foolish, I doubt anyone will ever think that Michelle is a product of your union. But don’t doubt it, you will do exactly as we say, or you won’t survive.”

  “What is it you want?” Ira asked. He turned away as he spoke, and walked to the front windows. He appeared almost disinterested.

  Del said, “The marriage will be annulled, immediately. None of us feel it precisely fair that Byrony be considered a fallen woman—a wife who’s deserted her husband and child—thus you will bear the brunt of whatever scandal there is. You will admit that the child is Irene’s, that the child is the result of her relations with another man, a man who was tragically killed, if you wish. I’m certain that if you put your heads together, you’ll come up with a very affecting tale to justify what you did. As Brent said, I can’t imagine that anyone would draw the conclusion that Michelle is the result of incest. If you do it properly, I imagine that San Francisco society will forgive your charade in a very short time.”

  Saint spoke for the first time. “Ira, I’ve known you for several years. What you’ve done—I don’t refer to you and Irene, that’s none of my business—but what you did to Byrony, well
, that’s tough to swallow. You hurt her badly, and I don’t refer simply to your use of poison and your tale of her being insane. I have to admit that for the first time in my life I want to strangle another human being. You’ll do as you’re told, Ira.”

  “Yes,” Ira said, his back still to them, “I will do as you ask.” He turned then, slowly. “I would like to know one thing,” he said, his eyes on Brent. “I had no idea that Byrony even knew you, Hammond. Is Irene right? Has she been your mistress?”

  For a long moment Brent simply stared at him. Then he threw back his head and laughed deeply. “My God, man, did you know your—wife—so little? If you weren’t so pathetic, I’d knock your teeth down your throat.”

  “Please don’t do that, Brent,” Saint said. “Ira’s got healthy straight teeth.”

  “She was, wasn’t she, damn you, Brent Hammond.” Irene shouted. “God, that’s where she belongs. Running off with a gambler whose partner is a whore!”

  Brent’s expression became quite cruel, but his voice was an amused drawl. “You amaze me, Miss Butler, you truly do. You appear so determined to paint Byrony a slut—I would suggest that you look to yourself instead. As for Maggie, she is honorable and loyal and you aren’t fit to be in the same room with her. For your information, Butler,” he added, “your wife was trying to escape you that night. I was fortunate enough to be on hand to help her.”

  Ira felt ill. Indeed, he looked so white, Saint moved to him. “No,” Ira said quietly. “Living a lie—well, one isn’t always rational. So many things to regret—We will do as you wish. Don’t send Byrony back to her parents. Her father is cruel. He would abuse her endlessly.”

  Del said, slanting a look toward Brent, “Who knows? Perhaps it would be best for her to return home. After all, what does she have here?”

  Brent said very clearly, “As soon as the annulment is granted, I’m going to marry her.”

  Byrony sat in Brent’s favorite chair, her legs tucked beneath her, a book lying unread on her lap. Nero had come to check on her once, to make certain, she supposed, that she wasn’t preparing to bolt. Maggie had shared lunch with her. But now she was alone again.