She followed him, weaving her way through the increasing numbers of tradesmen, wagon drivers, vendors, and workmen.
He walked quickly, turning onto Clay Street. She watched him walk up the steps to a narrow wooden house on the corner of Clay and Kearny.
She waited a few minutes, then crept up the steps. To her surprise, the front door was unlatched. She opened it quietly and looked inside. She walked into a small vestibule. Stairs leading upward were directly in front of her; there was a sitting room to the right, a dining room to the left. She heard a woman’s voice floating down to her, heard Brent’s voice.
“Damn you, Brent Hammond,” she said and stalked up the stairs.
She paused outside a bedroom door that was partially open, and listened.
“You come here at the break of dawn for what?”
“Celeste, look, I’m sorry to bother you but it is important. And it’s a long way from dawn, for God’s sake.”
“Do you want me to stay in bed?”
How seductive his mistress’s voice sounded. Byrony’s hands fisted at her sides.
Here I am eavesdropping again. But she couldn’t bring herself to move.
“Don’t you want to join me, Brent? It’s been such a long time.”
Long time, ha. Since last night.
“Look, Celeste, I need your advice on a very important matter.”
She heard him cross the bedroom. He was going to get in bed with her. Byrony felt pure rage flow through her. She flung the door wide and stomped in. She pulled up short. Brent was standing next to the fireplace, his shoulders resting against the mantel, fully dressed. But it was his mistress who drew Byrony’s eyes. Celeste was reclining in the large bed, a frothy pale yellow negligee tossed over her shoulders. One very shapely leg was bent at the knee and quite bare. Byrony could see the swirl of dark curls at the top of her thighs. She was beautiful, and Byrony wanted to tear her glossy black hair out. Why couldn’t she look like a crow in the morning? Her hair tied up in rags? her face covered with white cream?
“Byrony. What the hell?”
Brent stared at his wife, standing rigid as a statue in the doorway, her eyes on Celeste.
“My, my, what have we here? Isn’t it your little wife, Brent?”
“Shut up, Celeste. Byrony, what are you doing here?”
Byrony raised blank eyes to her husband’s face. “I followed you,” she said. “I wanted to be certain you were coming to her. You were, of course.”
“I want you to go home, Byrony, now.” He felt an utter fool. He wanted to throttle her, wanted to kick himself. “I will be back soon. We will talk.”
“Soon, Brent? I beg you won’t hurry on my account. I’m afraid I didn’t give you enough time to make yourself comfortable.” She turned away, saying over her shoulder, “Excuse me for interrupting you.”
He was across the room in an instant. He grabbed her shoulders and twisted her about to face him. He shook her until her head snapped on her neck. “No more,” he said. “I was not here to make—dally, dammit.”
“‘Make love.’ That is the strangest way of saying it. Let me go, Brent, now.”
“No.” He shook her again. “I’m telling you the truth, Byrony.” Why the hell was he explaining anything? She’d followed him, not trusted him. “We’re going home now, together.”
“But, Brent,” came Celeste’s amused voice, “what was it you wanted of me?”
“Later. Come along, Byrony.”
Byrony gasped at him. “Later? I don’t believe you. Why, I wouldn’t go to Sacramento with you.”
“You will do as I tell you.” He shook her again. “I will have no more scenes.” He pulled her from Celeste’s bedroom, his mistress’s laughter sounding in his ears. “I don’t believe this,” he said to himself as he dragged her out of the house. He felt her straining away from him. “Behave or I swear I’ll thrash you.”
Byrony was too furious to react to his threat. “You just try it, Brent Hammond. I’ll carve you up, I’ll shoot you.”
“Just shut up. And here I thought I’d married a lady.”
She whirled about and slammed her fist into his belly.
He grunted in surprise.
“I’m no lady,” she yelled at him. “I’m your wife.”
Brent was marginally aware that people had paused to stare at them. He tightened his jaw and his hold on her arm. By the time they’d reached the saloon’s back entrance, Byrony was silent and white. What have you done, you idiot? She’d embarrassed him, that’s what she’d done. Infuriated him. Made him look like a fool. The list went on in her head until Brent opened their apartment door and shoved her inside. She stood quietly, rubbing her arms.
“I won’t beat you,” he said as he very calmly closed the door, “for the simple reason that I promised you I would never hurt you. But you deserve it, Byrony. Now, I want you to tell me just what you were doing there.”
It seemed to Brent that she hadn’t heard him, and he said more sharply, “I told you that Celeste was none of your affair. She has nothing to do with you.”
“I’ll be gone by tomorrow,” she said, not looking at him. “I want nothing from you, Brent. I have the necklace Ira gave me. I intend to sell it. It will give me a start somewhere else.”
He ground his teeth. “You’re not going anywhere.”
She cocked her head at him, clearly puzzled. “You don’t want me. You only married me because—well, I’m not really certain why you did. Guilt, perhaps, because you seduced me—not the harlot you believed me to be, but a virgin? Or was it pity for a homeless waif?”
“I married you because I care for you, you little idiot.” He saw she didn’t believe him. Even to his own ears, his words sounded like gibberish from a confused man. It was pity, guilt, but not all, for God’s sake. There was more, so much more. It seemed like he’d wanted her forever.
“But you also care for Celeste.”
“It’s not the same thing.” He ran his hand through his hair, quite aware that he was digging himself in deeper and deeper. How dare she question him like this.
“And when you don’t care for Celeste any longer, there will be another woman, won’t there?”
“No. Byrony, listen to me. I didn’t go there to make—to sleep with her.”
“Oh? To have breakfast, then? To have a chat about your day’s activities? To ask her whether or not she wanted to go riding with you, tomorrow perhaps, when you’d be free?”
“No, I went there to ask her how to prevent conception.”
Byrony drew up short. “Prevent conception,” she repeated. “I don’t understand.”
“Because I don’t want you to get pregnant. Christ. It’s too soon, Byrony, much too soon. You’re too young, and I—well, I—”
“You what, Brent?” She went pale as the truth dawned on her. “If I became pregnant, you’d be truly tied to me, wouldn’t you? Your freedom would be well gone.”
“It’s not like that,” he said. “We need time to learn about each other, time to—”
“Time to see whether you get bored with me? And when you do, you hope I will still have the infamous necklace to sell so I will be gone from your life?”
“No, dammit.”
“I’m just another mistress to you, aren’t I, Brent? A mistress who dares not even look at another man because she belongs legally to you. I thought—Well, it’s no longer important.” Byrony whirled around, unable to face him further. She felt tears sting her eyes, and viciously wiped them away. She heard him coming toward her, and quickly moved to the other side of the bed. “Stay away from me, Brent.”
He was angry, tense with it, rigid with it. How dare she follow him, then accuse him of such things? He said, “It doesn’t really matter what you want. As you said, you belong to me legally. You will do as I tell you. Since you have such a vivid imagination and poisonous tongue, I think I will really give you something to rant about.”
She looked at him, then saw the purpose, the determi
nation in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Take off your clothes. As you almost said this morning, my dear, I much enjoy waking up to lovemaking. And you know it, don’t you? Perhaps you even enjoy me as much as I enjoy you?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t want you.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. I’ve heard it’s unusual for a wife to enjoy sex. Usually, I understand, a wife forces herself to bear it. Husbands are animals, the saying goes, thus wives are relieved if they take their dark lust elsewhere. But I am a faithful husband, Byrony, despite what you choose to believe. Now, take off your clothes.”
She searched his face for a brief moment. There was something else in his eyes now. It was desire. She ran to the door. The door slammed hard just as she opened it. He was behind her, his hand flat on the door, above her head. She heard his breathing, felt the heat from him.
She wanted to beg him not to humiliate her like this. But no, she wouldn’t be a weak, whipped puppy. Very slowly she turned to face him. She forced a cold smile. “Very well,” she said. “Shall I lie naked on the bed for you or shall I put on a negligee and pose with my knee provocatively bent, like Celeste?”
She’d surprised him; she could see it in his eyes. He was utterly taken aback. Damn him, he’d wanted her to plead, to cry. Well, she wouldn’t, ever again.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I want you naked, on your back. I will part your legs when I wish to.”
I haven’t the experience to fence with him, she thought. But she wouldn’t give up, not now. She shrugged with elaborate indifference. “All right. Odd, isn’t it, Brent? I feel particularly fertile now. Do you think I’ll become pregnant?”
His eyes narrowed, but it was the only sign that she’d shaken him again. He laughed. “My dear,” he said, stroking her hair, “you need to be taught so many things. No, don’t try to pull away from me. Just listen. I suppose you do know that it is my seed that creates a child. But it isn’t necessary that I spill my seed inside you. It is more pleasurable for me of course, but I shall survive. I’m an impatient man, sweetheart. Come now and do as I bid you.”
He wanted to laugh at her expression, but he didn’t. “You’re an intelligent girl, Byrony, and perhaps, just perhaps, you can best me in the future. The distant future.”
“I hate you.”
“No, no you don’t. You’re just being a poor loser.” His fingers were on the buttons on the back of her gown.
Please, she wanted to say, please don’t do this to me. But she remained mute. She felt the buttons part swiftly, and the thought that he’d had so much practice undressing women made her forget her indifference.
“No.” She jerked away from him. “No, I won’t let you do this, Brent.”
He paused a moment, stroking his long fingers over his jaw. Then he turned from her and locked the bedroom door. He could hear her frantic breathing. “I will master you, my dear,” he said very calmly, turning back to face her. “I will master you in all things. And no, Byrony, I won’t rape you, although I venture to believe that such violence on my part would please you in some twisted way, reaffirm that I’m a bastard like your father and that miserable brother of yours.”
“You are. All of you men are. No, stay away from me, Brent.”
But he didn’t. He held her very firmly and stripped off her clothes. She was wearing only her chemise and stockings when she went limp against him, worn out from her struggles.
“I’ll scream,” she said.
“If you do, I’ll gag you.” Once he had her on the bed he stripped off the rest of her clothes. “Now,” he said, stepping back, “please don’t move, Byrony. Go ahead and cover yourself if it makes you feel better.”
Byrony pulled the blanket over her and stared up at the ceiling. She heard him undressing, but she didn’t look at him.
Brent eased down beside her. She ignored him. So that was the game she was going to play now. She didn’t realize that a woman who’d known pleasure would have a difficult time being lifeless and without feeling. He slipped his hand beneath the blanket and found her breast. She tried to pull away from him. He tossed off the blanket and covered her, holding her still beneath him. Balancing himself on his elbows, he studied her face.
“I am your husband,” he said, “the man you willingly consented to marry. I am the man who took your virginity and taught you pleasure. Feel me, Byrony.” He was hard against her closed legs.
“No,” she said, turning her face away. “No, I won’t.”
“You’re such a child,” he said, and began to kiss her. “Be a woman for me, Byrony.”
She tried to lock out any feeling; she tried to concentrate on his lies, on his mistress. She felt him moving down her body, felt his mouth close over her nipple. She lurched up, unable to help herself. He was nibbling and licking at her, caressing the underside of her breast, his hands kneading her waist, her belly.
“No,” she whispered, to herself, not to him, but his hands, his magic fingers and clever tongue were roving over her. She felt the growing intensity, felt herself becoming warm and open. “No.”
She felt him open her legs, felt his warm breath against her belly. “You are so white and soft,” he said, and she knew he was looking at her, studying her, and it seduced her, she couldn’t help it. “And that soft curling hair, such pleasure for a man.” But he didn’t touch her there, only lightly caressed her with his fingers. He kissed the insides of her thighs, speaking to her between his kisses, telling her how lovely she was, how delightfully responsive. But he didn’t kiss her where her need had become so overwhelming, so shattering, that she began sobbing deep in her throat.
Brent had planned, in the beginning perhaps, to punish her, to bring her to the point of her release, then leave her. But he couldn’t. God, he wanted her, and he wanted her pleasure.
He waited until she was heaving upward against him. Then he closed his mouth over her. Dear God, the intense pleasure at the sweet taste of her, her openness, the incredible softness of her. He held her hips, feeling the spasms of pleasure course through her. He heard her moaning. He eased the pressure, then quickly reared over her and came into her. She cried out, shuddering, her thighs closing about his flanks.
You mustn’t, he told himself, even as his thoughts became blurred, but he didn’t want to stop himself. He didn’t think he could withdraw from her. He gritted his teeth, and with a cry of fury at himself, pulled out her, his seed flowing onto her belly.
Byrony was still shuddering from the waves of pleasure, the small shocks of intense feeling.
“You left me,” she said, her voice sad, defeated.
“Yes,” he said. He pulled himself away from her, his body weak and clumsy. He wanted to jerk her into his arms and kiss her and caress her until she slept against him. He drew a deep breath to steady himself, and her scent, Laurel’s gardenia scent, filled his nostrils. He rose and stood beside the bed, staring down at her.
“You’ve learned a valuable lesson, Byrony. Never again will you try to deny me. You will only lose.” But she’d won, he thought. She’d drawn him into her, made him want to lose himself in her. He stiffened, his eyes narrowing. He said in a lazy drawl, “No rape, was there?”
She raised weary, disillusioned eyes to his face. “No, there was no rape.” She slowly pulled the blanket over herself and turned away from him onto her side. She felt hollow, empty, discarded. She felt the stickiness of him on her stomach. She curled up, bringing her legs to her chest, and buried her head in her arms.
He had to get away from her, he had to regain his control. He dressed quickly, not looking at her again, but when he reached the bedroom door, he couldn’t help himself. He stared back. She hadn’t moved, nor was she crying.
He cursed very softly, and firmly closed the bedroom door behind him.
TWENTY-TWO
“Byrony, what’s going on here? What are you doing in bed?”
It was evening, Byrony realized vaguely. The bedroom was dark
. The light from the sitting room, silhouetted Maggie in its gleam.
“Come, what’s wrong? Do you feel ill?”
Yes, she felt ill, but she didn’t need Saint. She forced herself to unbend, and pulled herself up onto the pillow. She pulled the blanked to her chin. “No,” she said, “I’m not ill. Just tired, that’s all.”
Maggie, eyes narrowed, came into the bedroom. She lit the lamps, then came over to stand beside the bed. “Are you pregnant?”
Byrony laughed. “Pregnant? Me? I’m too young to be pregnant.”
“Stop it, Byrony.” What, Maggie thought, was going on? “Where’s Brent?”
“Brent? Brent who?” She started giggling again, her voice hoarse and raw. She stopped abruptly on a hiccup. “Have you asked Celeste?”
“Where is your dressing gown? Ah, here it is. Put it on. You don’t need to catch a cold. And comb your hair. I’ll have Caesar bring you up some dinner.”
When Maggie returned to the bedroom, Byrony still lay in bed, the dressing gown tossed across the blanket, her hair tangled around her face. What had that damned fool Brent done now?
“Even if you are pregnant,” Maggie said, “it’s too soon for you to be showing any signs. So why are you lying here in the dark?”
“I told you. I was tired.”
“You must have had a sublime argument with Brent.”
“Oh no. He just wanted to prove to me who was master, as he put it. It’s been proved. He is. There’s no doubt about it.”
Maggie heard Caesar’s knock on the outer office door. “You’re going to eat something,” she said.
When she returned, Byrony had put on the dressing gown. Maggie placed the tray on her lap. There were thick slices of roast beef drowned in brown gravy, mashed potatoes, and fresh peas. “I’m not hungry,” she said.
Wild Star Page 22
