Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “Ah, Laurel,” Brent said, “I still find myself wondering if there is such a thing.”

  Byrony flung her napkin onto the table. She wanted to scream curses at him, but she gained control of herself. Not in front of Laurel or Drew. She smiled and rose. “If you will excuse me,” she said in a voice that was so calm it could have been dead, “I think I shall retire now.”

  She left the dining room without a backward glance. When she entered the bedroom, she looked at the door, wishing there were a lock.

  She was so tied up with her own thoughts, she didn’t at first hear the strange sound coming from the corner of the room, near the balcony.

  “Lizzie?”

  There was another hiccuping sob. Byrony walked quickly to the glass doors and saw Lizzie huddled down in the corner.

  “Lizzie,” she said, falling to her knees to face the girl, “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  Lizzie rubbed her fisted hands over her eyes, thinking furiously. She’d heard that the massa had refused to let the missis give food and clothing to the field hands. So had Frank Paxton. He’d caught her near the house, telling her that he’d have her soon, very soon.

  But the missis couldn’t do anything. Paxton was a white man, the overseer. “Nothing, missis,” she said, refusing to look at Byrony.

  Byrony sat back on her heels. “Are you certain you don’t want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Lizzie’s head shook from side to side.

  Byrony rose slowly, feeling utterly helpless and useless.

  “Very well, Lizzie,” she said finally. “Help me undress, then go to bed. If you wish to speak to me tomorrow, I will be here.”

  Toward midnight, Brent walked quietly into the bedroom. Moonlight streamed through the undraped windows. He saw Byrony lying on her side, her cheek pressed against her hand. Slowly he walked to the bed and stood staring down at her. He felt a powerful tug, and laughed at himself silently. Lust, he thought. I still feel lust for her. He leaned down and lightly clutched a curl that lay over her shoulder. He closed his eyes a moment as he felt the texture of her hair. She stirred but didn’t waken. He’d thought of all the things she’d said. She was right, of course. But being right didn’t always change things for the better. He knew only that he wanted her now.

  He stripped off his clothes and eased into bed beside her. He pulled up her nightgown to her waist, turning her onto her back. He eased her legs apart and slid gently and deeply into her.

  Byrony came awake with a jerk at the feel of him.

  “No.”

  “Hold still,” he said. “God,” he groaned, and lost his control.

  She saw the cords standing out taut in his neck as his head went back and he moaned his pleasure.

  Brent fell panting on top of her.

  Byrony didn’t move. She couldn’t have moved in any case.

  “Are you through with me?”

  He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down at her face, pale and washed-out in the stream of moonlight. Her words sounded like a monotone, like she didn’t care.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Then again, perhaps not. I like being in your body. You’re warm and soft.”

  “And you won’t have to pay me.”

  Something deep within him stirred. It was hurt, bad hurt.

  “Of course you’ve been drinking. That excuses a man everything, doesn’t it, Brent? And of course, now that your lust is slaked, there’s nothing more for you.”

  He stirred the embers of hurt into anger at her. “Next time I’ll ensure that your lust is slaked also, wife. You’re always so cuddly and affectionate after I’ve given you pleasure.” And you tell me you love me.

  He pulled out of her, pausing a moment on his knees between her wide-spread thighs.

  “It’s not worth it, Brent. I wish to go back to sleep now. Please, leave me alone.”

  He fell onto his side, his back toward her.

  She didn’t move. He would have heard her had she moved. He pictured her in his mind, lying on her back, her nightgown rumpled at her waist. He had an overwhelming urge to take her into his arms and hold her close to him and tell her—Tell her what, you fool?

  TWENTY-NINE

  Byrony handed the necklace to the fussy Mr. Dubois. She knew he was thinking it a beautiful piece, but of course he couldn’t say that to her, since she wanted to sell it to him.

  Aloud Mr. Dubois said, “The workmanship is not quite what one would expect, but of course with stones of mediocre quality, I suppose it is adequate.”

  She said nothing, merely cocked her head at him and waited. Please, she thought, let him offer me more than the others did.

  Mr. Dubois continued to study the pearl and diamond necklace, then sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you more than three hundred dollars, Mrs Hammond. The current market for—”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Dubois,” Byrony said, and held out her hand. “May I have my necklace?”

  She saw him clutch it tight in his fist.

  “Perhaps, ma’am, I can go a bit higher,” he said. “Say, four hundred dollars?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Dubois,” Byrony said again, her hand still held open toward him.

  “How much do you want?” he asked at last, his voice a whine.

  “I can accept nothing lower than five hundred.”

  He began a diatribe that lasted a good three minutes, but Byrony, having experienced three other jewelers in all their bargaining glory, simply allowed him to demonstrate his art.

  “No, ma’am, I simply can’t do it—why, I can’t sell it for more than—”

  She cut him off. “It’s your decision, sir. May I please have my necklace?”

  He cursed very softly, and she wanted to dance with joy.

  Ten minutes later, she joined Lizzie in the landau, a wide smile on her face.

  “Where to now, missis?” Oscar asked.

  Byrony drew a deep breath, still surprised by her success. “To a clothing warehouse.”

  “Where have you been hiding?”

  Byrony looked up at her husband standing on the bottom step of the veranda, his hands on his hips, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “Well? All Mammy Bath could tell me was that you and Lizzie drove into Natchez early this morning. It is now near to sunset. Where have you been, Byrony?”

  Suddenly she wasn’t certain that she should tell him. Could he stop the warehouse from delivering all the cotton trousers, shirts, and skirts? The barrels of salted meat were already on their way to the field slaves’ compounds, so that part was safe. Or was it?

  Not only could he stop it, she realized, he, as the master, could confiscate everything. Could he be that cruel?

  She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips “I’ll tell you,” she said, knowing she had no choice. He’d find out soon enough.

  “Well, I’m waiting.”

  “I sold the necklace, Ira’s necklace, and bought clothing and meat for the field slaves.”

  Brent felt as though he’d been struck in the belly by someone the size of Saint Morris. Never, during the long day, had he imagined her doing that. He’d gone from indifference to her whereabouts, thinking she was angry at him for his taking of her so callously the previous night, to gnawing worry, to rage that she would simply leave and not inform him. Hell, he’d felt every damned emotion experienced by man.

  “I see,” he finally said.

  “You did tell me I should provide the funds myself, if you remember.”

  “Damnation, Byrony—” He broke off, plowing his long fingers through his hair. Suddenly he saw the entire situation as an outsider might see it, a hilarious, cross-purposed argument with no real foundation. He threw back his head and laughed.

  “What is going on here? Brent, why are you carrying on like this?” Laurel looked from Brent to a stiff-backed Byrony.

  “The little missis make him laugh,” Mammy Bath said complacently as she scratched her scraggly bun with a very long f
ingernail.

  Brent got control of himself and said to his wife, “Won’t you come with me into the library? I think we should discuss this privately.”

  He sat on the corner of his father’s desk, watching her as she came into the room. She’d taken off her plum-colored bonnet and was dangling it by its ribbons. Her lovely hair was tousled. He wished at this moment that her expression would be as winsome as her appearance. He mentally stripped off her pale blue gown, remembering how he’d bunched her nightgown around her waist, coming inside her. He closed his eyes for a moment, surprised at himself for the shot of desire that went through him.

  “What is it you wish to say, Brent?”

  Her challenging voice brought him to alertness in an instant. He grinned at her. “I simply wanted to tell you that our people will be the best-garbed slaves in the entire South. I met with a Mr. Cranford here at Wakehurst this afternoon. He will be delivering many different items of clothing the end of the week. Not only for the field slaves, but for our artisans and house slaves as well, and, of course, all the children.”

  Byrony could only stare at him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you make me think that you didn’t care?”

  He gave her a long measuring look. “As I recall, you were very busy telling me what was wrong with me. And I—well, I do like to keep some things to myself.”

  “Yes, I was, wasn’t I? I wonder if it did any good at all.”

  He walked to her, and was appalled at her wary look and her quick dodging step back. “Why are you running from me?”

  “I’m not running,” she said. His long fingers lightly stroked over her jaw. She watched his blue eyes darken to almost black.

  “Unrequited lust again, Brent?”

  “There’s nothing unrequited about you, Byrony. And I’m not touching you, at least not yet.”

  She slowly turned back to face him, her eyes fastened on the top button of his white shirt. “No,” she said, “It doesn’t matter. It’s just that you make me so angry.”

  “Or so happy?”

  She raised her eyes to his face. “I don’t understand.”

  “My dear Byrony, I was thinking about all those meaningless endearments you spout to me when you’re happy.”

  Her gaze was steady, her voice very calm as she said, “Love can be quashed, Brent. I used to believe—girlish romantic foolishness, of course—that once one fell in love, it was forever. But maybe that isn’t always true.”

  “I should think it had to exist first,” he said, his voice mocking, but he felt trapped and bitterly uncertain. Of her and of himself.

  “If you don’t mind, I should like to bathe before dinner.”

  He automatically stepped back, allowing her to leave the library. He listened to her light footsteps on the marble entranceway as she walked toward the stairs.

  Lizzie was back to her old self again, Byrony thought as she listened to her chatter happily as she helped her off with her clothes and into the tub.

  “Josh look so manly in new clothes,” Lizzie said as she laid out Byrony’s evening gown and underthings.

  “And you will look very pretty in a new dress,” Byrony said. Several new dresses, if Brent were to be believed. But what would happen when they left? All the new clothes in the world would make not one whit of difference. All five hundred souls would remain the property of Wakehurst. If they left, would Brent leave Frank Paxton in charge? If only she owned Wakehurst. Yes, and what would you do? Myriad considerations flashed through her mind. Why, she wondered, was life never so simple as it was when one was a child?

  Byrony came awake with a start and sat up in bed. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Brent wasn’t beside her. The sheets and pillow were smooth. He’d never come to bed.

  Fine, she thought, let him do just as he wishes. “Oh, damn.”

  The sound of her own voice startled her. She lay back. She heard the night sounds: the tree branches lightly hitting the balcony, the chirping of crickets. Where was Brent? Was he still with Laurel?

  It was warm. Byrony slipped out of bed and quickly pulled on her dressing gown. She walked to the French doors and opened them. The air was sweet with the smell of gardenias and magnolias and roses. She padded on bare feet to the edge of the balcony and leaned her elbows on the wooden railing. The gardens below were shadowy and mysterious in the moonlight. She wondered briefly if Drew were still awake painting. She couldn’t see his bachelor apartment from here. Bless Drew, she thought. He’d been on her side during dinner when Laurel had exploded with fury when Brent had announced of the Wakehurst slaves’ newfound wealth.

  Her mind suddenly froze. She’d heard something, someone, moving about in the garden. She strained to see through the shadows. Was that a garbled cry? A man’s voice?

  Without further thought Byrony gathered up her dressing gown and raced from the bedroom, along the long corridor, and down the stairs. The house was completely quiet.

  She quickly unlocked the front door. She made her way to the side of the mansion toward the garden, walking carefully since she’d forgotten her slippers.

  A gentle early-summer breeze ruffled her hair as she rounded the side of the house. She paused a moment by a magnolia tree, listening. Nothing. She continued her way through the garden toward the stables. Her toe hit a loose piece of gravel and she winced. She stopped cold at the sound of a woman’s cry and a man’s low curses. She began running toward the sounds.

  She skidded to a stop at the far end of the garden. There was a man dragging a woman onto his horse. She saw the woman struggle, saw the man cuff her as he yanked her onto her stomach over the saddle in front of him.

  It was Frank Paxton. She stared unblinking, not understanding, until he whipped up his horse. At the last moment, the woman managed to rear up, and she recognized Lizzie.

  “Stop,” she said, running toward them. She tripped and went sprawling, breaking her fall with her hands. For a moment she lay stunned.

  She forced herself up. Paxton hadn’t heard her. And now she could no longer see his horse. She hadn’t visited Paxton’s house, set by itself on a small rise near to the artisan’s compound. Would he take Lizzie there?

  What to do? Where was Brent? There was no one else. Just her. Five minutes later, Byrony was running back downstairs toward the library and the gun case. She pulled a rifle from the case. There weren’t any bullets. She grabbed the rifle and slid open the casing. There were two bullets.

  She ran outside toward the stables. She should stop by Drew’s apartment. She wasn’t stupid, though her rage at what Paxton had done, was doing, was formidable. She took time only to bridle her mare; then she was urging the horse to a canter toward Drew’s apartment. It was dark. She jumped off the mare’s back and ran to the door, pounding on it with all her strength. She called his name.

  No answer. Nothing.

  As she rode toward Paxton’s house, she wondered if the man were insane. Hadn’t Brent said anything to him? Hadn’t Brent had Lizzie move into the big house to protect her? And what was Lizzie doing down in the garden?

  Frank Paxton’s house was a white man’s house. It was well maintained, its white paint fresh. It had an obvious air of prosperity. There was a light in the window.

  She pulled up her mare at a short distance from the house and slid off her back. No, she realized as she rushed toward the house, Paxton wasn’t insane. He must have seen how Brent had drawn back from interfering with his power. He must not know that Brent had ordered new clothing for the slaves. He must feel that he was free again to do just as he pleased.

  She wanted to beat the man’s brains. She slowed as she climbed up the front steps. Peering into the window, she saw Paxton ripping at Lizzie’s dress. Lizzie was fighting him, and he hit her, throwing her to the floor.

  Byrony forgot everything but her rage at what he was doing to the girl. She rushed at the front door and flung it open. The sight that greeted her eyes would have been ludicrous in the extreme had s
he not been so furious.

  Frank Paxton was on his knees between Lizzie’s open legs, his breeches open, one hand fumbled to hold Lizzie still, the other pulling out his thick sex. The girl was naked, her dress in rags beside her on the floor.

  Paxton whipped about, staring toward Byrony, his mouth falling open.

  “Missis,” Lizzie cried. “Help me.”

  “Shut up, you silly little slut,” Paxton said, and slapped her face.

  “Let her go, Mr. Paxton. Now.”

  “Get out of here, Mrs. Hammond. You’ve no right—”

  He broke off abruptly as Byrony lifted the rifle and aimed it at him.

  “Get off her, you pig.”

  Frank Paxton felt himself shrivel. He eased his hold on Lizzie and she scooted away from him.

  Slowly he fastened his breeches and rose to his feet. The damned bitch. How dare she—He drew in his breath, knowing he had to get control of himself. Women, he knew, feared guns. He had to get it away from her before she hurt herself or did something stupid.

  “I suggest, Mrs. Hammond, that you put down that weapon before you hurt yourself. Then, ma’am, I suggest that you leave.” There, he thought, satisfied, that should put her in her place.

  “You’re doing quite a bit of suggesting, Mr. Paxton.”

  Her cool, mocking voice made him quake with renewed rage at her damned interference. He raised his fisted hand. “See here, you’ve no right to interfere. She’s nothing, do you hear? Nothing, merely a dirty little slave.”

  “And you, sir, are a dirty pig.”

  “I can do just as I please with the slaves. The girl was waiting for me in the garden. She wanted it.”

  “No, missis, no. It was Josh.”

  Byrony ignored the girl’s pitiful cry, her eyes fastened on Paxton. “Now, sir, I have a suggestion for you. You will be gone from Wakehurst by morning.”

  He drew himself up to his full height. “You giving me orders, Mrs. Hammond? A woman doesn’t give orders. And from what I’ve heard, you and your precious husband are about as friendly as birds and cats. I fancy Mr. Hammond just might give me this little trollop for my trouble. He likely wants to take her himself first. Why else would he move her into the big house?”