Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

“I don’t give a damn. Eat.”

  Maggie pulled Brent’s favorite chair next to the bed and sat down, her fingers a tapping steeple. She said nothing, merely watched Brent’s wife take a few bites. She said, “I saw Mrs. Saxton this afternoon and she asked about you. I, of course, had no idea that you were burrowed in your bed like a mole. She’s a nice lady. Keep eating. As for Mr. Saxton, I believe he’s downstairs in the saloon, probably here at his wife’s request to see that you’re all right. Take another bite of beef. That’s it.”

  “Where is Brent?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

  “Go to Clay Street. That’s where Celeste lives.”

  “Your husband, Byrony, hasn’t visited Celeste since before your marriage.”

  “He was with her this morning,” she said. “I followed him.”

  “Oh, no,” Maggie said. Several possible scenarios flitted through her mind, each more lurid than the last.

  “He wasn’t doing anything, Maggie, or perhaps I was just a little early. He forced me back here.”

  “And?”

  Byrony said not a word.

  Maggie sighed. It really wasn’t any of her business. It was probable that Brent had been utterly furious, that he’d acted the domineering male and ripped up at his young wife. And then? Maggie suddenly became aware of the smells in the room. Dinner smells, the faint scent of gardenia, and sex. So, the idiot had forced her, punished her, then slammed out.

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes, love.”

  “I’m not much of a person, am I?”

  “What in heaven’s name do you mean?”

  “I’m not a good person, or a strong person.” Maggie watched her stare down at the tray. She hated the look of misery on Byrony’s face.

  “That’s bosh, and you know it, Byrony.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I’m boring you. And I’m acting like a whining child. I’ve always loathed people who carried on about their problems, burdening other people with them. I’ve always believed that one should act. Lord knows I managed to act, not at all wisely perhaps, with Ira. Now here I am a shivering—” Byrony leaned back against the head-board and closed her eyes. “Thank you for the dinner, Maggie. You’ve been very kind to me.”

  “You are not a whining person, Byrony. Felice is a whiner. I think perhaps you would act if you knew what action to take.”

  Byrony laughed. “There’s a good deal of truth in that, I suspect.”

  “I would say, though, that you’re very confused and unhappy with the present situation. Brent is occasionally the most stubborn, bullheaded man I’ve ever met. but he’s also kind and loyal. He’s so used to being alone, Byrony, to never giving himself completely to another. He’s twenty-seven; and he’s been alone for nine years. That’s a lot of years to depend only on yourself. I’m not defending him. But you need to understand him. I’ve seen him the angel and I’ve seen him the devil. I guess most of us have both in us. Now, would you like to tell me about it? I’m accounted a good listener.”

  She said, her voice calm, almost singsong, “I wish I’d never seen him in San Diego, never felt about him the way I did when I first saw him. But that’s all in the past now. I’m married to a man who doesn’t love me, who is afraid I’ll become pregnant so he’ll be tied to me.” She turned to face Maggie, her face white, her eyes swollen. “I only want someone to care about me. Is that so much to ask, Maggie? I don’t want to live my life without feeling some happiness, some sense of being important to another person. Oh drat, this is ridiculous. I swore I wouldn’t shed another tear, and just look at me. A weak woman crying her bloody head off because she’s too immature to take charge of her life. Just look at you, Maggie. You’re strong, independent, sure of yourself. I want to be like you.”

  Now, that is a revelation, Maggie thought, both touched and amused. “All right,” she said. “You want to know what I would do?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I would buy myself a whip, and when words failed, I would take it to his tough hide. Sometimes, I’ve found, it’s difficult to get a man’s attention.”

  Byrony stared at her. “You wouldn’t just pack up and leave?”

  “If I hated the man I would, and without a backward glance. However, if I thought I could salvage him, if I wanted to salvage him, I’d keep pounding some sense into his thick skull.”

  It sounded so logical, Byrony thought, so straightforward, and—yes, easy. But Brent wasn’t around. She laughed, nodding.

  Maggie felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. There was strength in her, strength, fire, and determination. Damn Brent anyway. Why did he have to be such a blind idiot? “Now,” Maggie said briskly, “I have some work to do. Shall I ask Caesar to have some bathwater sent up to you?”

  “Yes, please.” Byrony threw back the blanket and nearly bounded from the bed. She hugged the other woman tightly. “Thank you, Maggie.”

  “You just get that whip, my dear. It there are any wagers to be made, my money’s on you.”

  Byrony giggled, this time a pure, happy sound.

  “Heavens, this room is a mess. I must straighten it up.”

  Maggie left her rushing about, filled with purpose. It wasn’t until much later that Maggie learned that Brent was gambling with James Cora at the El Dorado, drunk as a loon, and itching for a fight, which he got. He was delivered to Maggie’s doorstep, bloodied, still drunk, a stupid grin on his battered face.

  “We didn’t want to take him to his new wife, ma’am,” said Limpin’ Willie. “Didn’t wanna scare the sh—the hell out of her.”

  So what am I? Maggie wanted to ask sarcastically, his mother?

  “Bring him in, boys.”

  She stood over Brent, hands on her hips, her lips pursed. A woman cries and a man gets drunk, she thought. Well, just maybe it was a good sign. He hadn’t gone to Celeste.

  Brent was singing, a very graphic ditty about a gambler and a saloon girl. She poured black coffee down him between choruses.

  “Now, do you want Saint? You’re a bloody mess, Brent.”

  He cocked a brow at her, and winced as he grinned. “You should see the other fellows.”

  “Yeah, I’ll just bet you won that one.”

  “Sure did,” Brent said. He felt like hell and he wanted another whiskey. Suddenly he felt so tired he couldn’t hold his head up. He fell asleep on Maggie’s sofa, snores filling the room.

  “Idiot,” she muttered as she covered him with a blanket. She sent for Saint.

  “You finally beat the hell out of him, Maggie?” were Saint’s first words upon his arrival some forty-five minutes later.

  “It appears I’ll have to line up for that,” she said. “Sorry it’s so late, Saint, but his face looks like chopped meat.”

  “Where’s Byrony?”

  “Asleep, I hope. The boys brought him here. They wanted to spare his wife.”

  Saint began to sponge the blood off Brent’s face. “Not as bad as it looks,” he said. “His handsome face is still intact. No need for stitches. Wouldn’t want anything to interfere with that romantic scar of his.”

  “Stop it, Byrony,” Brent protested, trying to push Saint away. “That hurts.”

  Saint grinned at the sound of Brent’s slurred voice, and shoved his hand back to his side. “I want you to know, my friend, that you interrupted a very pleasurable interlude. It’s bloody inconsiderate of you.”

  “Byrony,” Brent muttered. “Don’t do that, love. Come here and let me kiss you. Lord, you’re so beautiful—so beautiful.”

  “Now he remembers he has a wife,” Maggie said in some disgust.

  “Now, Maggie, he’s just a man,” Saint said. “A very confused man. He’ll realize soon enough, I imagine, that what he’s finally got is more than what most men ever have.”

  “Whatever he is, he’s going to feel like hell tomorrow.”

  He did, but Byrony, with new eyes and delighted with the fact that he hadn’t sle
pt with his mistress, merely said to him, “Here is some cocoa, Brent. Saint said the sugar would make you feel better.”

  He drank the cocoa.

  “Saint also said a big breakfast would help. Lots of eggs—”

  Brent groaned. “Please, Byrony, let me die in peace.”

  She placed a fresh damp cloth over his forehead, gently smoothing back his hair as she did so. “All right. You rest. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  He fell asleep again and Byrony stood over him, staring down at the rough black stubble on his jaws, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest. When Maggie and Saint had half-carried him into the bedroom some hours before, Byrony thought he’d been hurt.

  “No, no, love,” Maggie said, “he’s just stinking drunk. Maybe you won’t need that bullwhip for a while.”

  “Let him sleep, then mother him when he wakes up,” Saint said. “As for you,” he continued, his eyes searching her face, “you get some rest as well. And, Byrony, don’t you worry too much, you hear?”

  Byrony heard Maggie say to Saint as they left, “And you, I suppose, Dr. Morris, are back to continue your pleasurable interlude?”

  “Unfortunately not. Poor Jane, she was so sad when Limpin’ Willie came for me.”

  “Get yourself a wife, Saint, that’s my advice to you.”

  Saint said something Byrony couldn’t hear. Maggie’s bright laugh came back, clear and filled with fun. “Then,” she said, “let’s rouse Felice. The girl’s in love with you.”

  Byrony quickly closed the bedroom door. She had no intention of ever eavesdropping again in her life. She looked back at her sleeping husband, shook her head, and settled down with Lord Byron’s The Corsair.

  Thank God I’m young and strong and have a thick head, Brent thought. He felt no aftereffects of all the whiskey he’d drunk, but he was sore, damnably so. He flexed his fingers, looked at his raw knuckles.

  “Saint said there’s nothing broken,” Byrony said. “Did you give a good account of yourself?”

  Brent wasn’t certain how he’d expected Byrony to act—he hadn’t even thought about it—but this smiling girl somehow didn’t fit the image a man had of a wife who’d been deserted for drink and a bloody fight for most of the night. “Yes,” he said, “I did.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Four, maybe five. Then everyone got into it. I owe Cora a good three hundred dollars for damages. I’d be broke if most of the fight hadn’t happened in the street.”

  She said nothing about the money, merely pointed to the tub in the corner of the bedroom. “I’ve had bathwater brought up for you. In about an hour, Smiley from the stables is bringing over a landau. I’m taking you for that ride to the ocean. Saint said it would be great medicine for you. The fresh air and all.”

  Brent nodded and flung back the bedcovers. He was naked and Byrony found herself staring at the ugly bruise over his ribs. “Are you truly all right?”

  He gave her a cocky grin. “Nobody kneed me, it that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Back to normal, Byrony thought. She said, “I think I’ll go out for a while. I won’t be long.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She smiled at him. “I’m going to buy a bullwhip,” she said, and left him standing in the middle of the bedroom, a look of incomprehension on his face.

  The afternoon was cloudy, the fog thick and heavy as they neared the ocean. Brent said, “I won’t be able to see you in a moment. What are you going to do with that whip anyway?”

  He’d been eyeing it, surprised that she’d actually bought it.

  “For peace of mind,” Byrony said, her voice serene. “How do you feel?”

  “Just a bit sore, that’s all. What peace of mind?”

  “Mr. Hobbs told me it was quite efficacious, but never to use it on geldings. Just stallions.”

  “I see,” said Brent, who was beginning to. “I thought any kind of violence repelled you?”

  “It does.” She shrugged. “One must adapt, however.”

  “The fog is too thick,” Brent said and turned the horse around. “Let’s get out of here.” The breeze was stiff, whipping up whorls of gritty sand.

  “As you wish,” Byrony said easily.

  “Byrony,” he said, gazing at her profile, “I don’t think I like your tone.”

  “I suggest you wait until you have the horse doing what you want before you go after the mare.”

  She was laughing at him. He didn’t like it, not one bit. He said in his most affected drawl, “I intend to mount the mare, sweetheart. No bridle, of course, that’s not necessary, but perhaps a few nips on the back of her neck.”

  She gave a bright laugh that made him grit his teeth. “And you want the mare to try to buck you off? Or perhaps if the mare decides to let you ride her, you’ll decide to punish her by dismounting?”

  He was so hard that he hurt. “No,” he said, his eyes between the horses’s ears, “No more dismounting. After I nip her neck, I fully intend to ride her until she’s trembling and sweating.”

  “I wish you luck,” Byrony said lightly, “with your mare.”

  “I don’t need luck, just opportunity.”

  “Oh, incidentally, could you please just leave me at the Saxtons’ house? I promised Chauncey I’d come by.”

  “No chance. Didn’t you know that the stallion always herds his mares, keeps them under his watchful eye?”

  “Is that so? Well, perhaps the stallion had best come to the realization that there is the occasional mare who refuses to share him. Maybe you know of such a stallion, Brent?”

  That did it, he thought. “If the mare were more of a mare,” he said brutally, “perhaps she could keep the stallion content.”

  “Or,” Byrony said, manifestly amused, “if the stallion were more of a stallion, he could be content in his own pasture. I venture to say that there are some mares who are just as possessive as their stallions. Have you ever heard of a mare nipping her stallion’s neck?”

  “All right,” he roared, scaring the horse, “that does it. Enough of this ridiculous imagery. If you ever raise that whip to me, Byrony, I will make you very sorry.”

  “How, if you don’t mind my asking?” she said with great seriousness. “We mares like specificity, you know.”

  He ground his teeth. “I don’t know,” he said finally, “but you can be certain I will come up with something.”

  “Until you do, then I shall keep to my present course.”

  “Which is?”

  “Keeping my stallion to myself,” she said, “using whatever means are necessary.”

  “We stallions also appreciate specificity.”

  “Do you now?” she said, and very lightly trailed her fingers up his thigh. She felt his muscles tense, heard his sharp intake of breath.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “this stallion will shortly be too exhausted to leave his pasture.”

  “I will do just as I please, Byrony.”

  “So shall I, Brent. So shall I.”

  “You’d best remove your hand, else I’ll take you right here.”

  She laughed, and with great concentration straightened her bonnet. He gave her a black look as she began to hum, as if she hadn’t a care in the whole damned world.

  Brent fully intended to make love to her until she was utterly exhausted when they returned, but it was not to be.

  Caesar met him outside. “It looks important, Brent,” he said.

  Brent took the wrinkled envelope and stared down at it. “Oh no,” he said.

  “What is it, Brent?” Byrony asked.

  “A letter, and not from my brother, Drew. It’s from my father’s lawyer in Natchez.” His hand was trembling; he couldn’t seem to control it. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the neatly scripted two pages.

  Byrony watched his hands clench, watched the myriad expressions on his expressive face. She heard him curse very explicitly and very quietly.

  He turned to walk away fro
m her, but she grabbed his arm. “What is it, Brent?”

  “My father’s dead, and of all the insane things, he’s made me his heir.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Why shouldn’t you be your father’s heir?”

  Byrony followed her husband into the sitting room and firmly closed the door behind her. He looked utterly abstracted. She repeated her question.

  “Heir? I shouldn’t be, even though I’m the eldest. He kicked me off the plantation and out of his life nine years ago.”

  “Would you like a brandy, Brent?”

  “Yes.”

  She handed him a liberal dose and turned away to remove her pelisse and bonnet. She said over her shoulder, “Why did he do that?”

  “Because he caught me in bed fucking his wife.”

  Byrony felt as though someone had slammed a fist into her stomach. She turned incredulous eyes to his face. “What?”

  “I was eighteen, Laurel was only twenty-two. She wanted me and had me, for what it was worth in those days. My father came in, quite unexpectedly, of course.” Unconsciously he rubbed the scar along his cheek.

  So it had been his father who had punished him, she thought. Nine years, Maggie had told her, nine years completely on his own.

  “But you were only eighteen. What about your stepmother? Did your father kick her out?”

  Brent laughed, waving the letter at her. “That’s the irony of it, sweetheart. I was gallant at eighteen, so gallant that I took the blame for that fiasco. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. It would have spared my father later. Evidently he, poor besotted fool, finally realized that she’d only married him for money and position. He’s given me the plantation, Wakehurst, and also left me Laurel’s trustee. In other words, I will control all the money. I do wonder just how she feels about this.”

  “What about your brother, Drew?”

  “Father left him quite a bit of money in his own right, in addition to what our mother left him upon her death. Drew’s twenty-six now, and an artist. He lives in a bachelor apartment near the main house and has for over two years. When I was removed from my home nine years ago, Drew was readying to leave for Paris, to study art there. Actually, the only contact I’ve had over the years with my former home has been an occasional letter from my brother. Lord only knows what he thinks about all this.” Brent stopped abruptly, downed the remainder of his brandy, and eased into his chair. “Byrony, I’ve got to go back. The lawyers can’t do anything without me.”