Wild Star (15 page)

“Good day, Mrs. Butler,” he called to her, and doffed his black felt hat.

“What are you doing here?”

She sounded frightened and it surprised him. Was she afraid he would pull her off her mare’s back and ravish her on the sand?

“I’m riding, as you can see. Does your husband know that you’re out alone? This isn’t exactly a civilized city yet, ma’am.”

She was wearing a royal-blue velvet riding habit and a rakish little blue hat on her head. Her hands were gloved in the finest leather. She looked so beautiful, and so wary, that he had difficulty breathing.

“You don’t look particularly civilized, Mr. Hammond. But I am always careful, I assure you. You look more like a desperado than a fancy gambler.” It was true, she thought, staring at him. He was wearing black trousers, a full-sleeved white shirt, and a black leather vest. The black hat and black riding boots completed the picture. He looked like the devil, and so compelling that she wanted to ride toward him, and run away at the same time.

“And untrustworthy?”

She ignored him and forced herself to urge her mare away from him. His hand shot out suddenly and grabbed the reins. “I thought you were probably afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Excellent. Let’s walk along the beach for a while.”

He quickly dismounted and walked toward her. She stared down at him, her eyes wide and wary on his face. “I’m not certain—” she began, and licked her lips.

His hands clasped her waist and easily lifted her off her mare’s back. He didn’t release her, but gently and slowly slid her down his body until her feet touched the sand. Blood drummed loudly in his ears. His body reacted instantly, and he didn’t deny himself. He pulled her against his chest and kissed her. The plume in her riding hat brushed his cheek.

Byrony struggled, pushing her fists against his chest. His arms only tightened around her back. “No, please, Brent, no.”

Her words brought his head up. “God, you’re so bloody beautiful. Why you, dammit?”

“I don’t know.” She slipped away from him, turning her back to him. She wasn’t frightened of him. She wanted him. It was the oddest feeling, one that she had never before experienced. Was this desire? She stared blindly at the crashing waves.

His lust calmed, and he said brutally, “You want me and Lord knows I want to bed you. Just once, and I imagine you would be out of my mind for all time.”

He saw her stiffen but she didn’t turn to face him.

“One more man wouldn’t make any difference. I won’t leave you unsatisfied, I promise you that. And I won’t get you pregnant.”

Slowly Byrony turned to face him. Her heart was beating wildly, and no matter how many deep breaths she’d taken, it wouldn’t calm. She wondered vaguely if he could hear it.

“I don’t understand,” she said, staring him full in the face. “Why do you want me? You don’t know me, not at all. You hate me, I’d say.”

He pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.

“It’s strange,” she continued after a moment of silence. “I really thought you different from other men when I met you in San Diego. But I guess that was foolish of me, wasn’t it? Mr. Hammond, the truth of the matter is that—”

“Is what?” His voice was harsh.

She cocked her head to one side, and she looked so innocent, so sweet with that damned little feather arching over her cheek, that he wanted for a brief instant to beg her forgiveness.

“If I did what you wished, would you stop hating me?”

He stared at her, no words coming to mind.

“Please, I’m only trying to understand. I cannot think why you feel it necessary to insult me every time we meet. I really don’t understand why you would want me to—that is, what you want is so intimate. Why would a man want intimacy with a woman he despises?”

“I don’t despise you.”

“You’ve a strange way of showing liking then, Mr. Hammond.”

“Brent.”

She sighed. “Very well, Brent.”

“I don’t dislike you,” he said, trying to get a grip on himself, but failing. “Dammit, I despise what you’ve done. You talk about not understanding. Well, I don’t understand why women sell themselves, and why they lie and cheat. Why they feel they must play games and tease men. Does it give you a sense of power to know that men desire you?”

“I have no power at all,” she said. “As for what I’ve done, I had no choice. It was out of my hands.”

“Ah, yes. Once his seed was planted in your belly, it certainly was.”

Slowly she said, “Mr. Hammond—Brent—please, no more. As you once said to me, I’ve made my bed and now must lie in it. I sincerely doubt that happiness has anything to do with real life, but I would like peace. Won’t you please just leave me alone?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” He raked his fingers through his hair, his frustration mounting. “You’re like a wretched sickness, and I doubt I can be cured until I’ve had you in every sense a man can possess a woman.”

“So,” she said slowly, “if I give myself to you, you will leave me alone?”

He wanted to fling her onto the sand and rip off her clothes. He wanted to shake her and tell her to stop acting like a wanton. He wanted—

“Brent?”

“Go to hell, Byrony,” he said, rigid with fury, both at himself and at her.

“I’m already there,” she said, and turned to walk across the sand to her mare.

“It’s beautiful, Ira. Thank you.”

Byrony lifted the thick chignon at the nape of her neck to allow her husband to fasten the exquisite pearl-and-diamond necklace about her throat.

He kissed her gently on the forehead and said, “Merry Christmas, Byrony. You look lovely indeed.”

Byrony wanted to laugh when Ira presented Irene with a very similar necklace, one of sapphires and diamonds. Poor man. He tried so hard to keep his half-sister content. Yet with me here, it’s impossible, she wanted to tell him. She’d made Ira a shirt, her careful stitches small and exquisite, just as Aunt Ida had taught her. Irene had bought her brother a beautiful Spanish leather saddle. Her own gift, in comparison, was meager indeed, but she had no money.

Eileen and Naomi served them steaming mugs of buttered rum, and received, in turn, their presents. Byrony sat back to watch Irene playing with Michelle while she unwrapped the baby’s many gifts. The baby gurgled happily and waved pieces of the gay wrapping paper in her hands. Irene is an excellent mother, Byrony thought. How would I feel if I had to pretend to others that my child weren’t my own?

Ira laughed at the baby’s antics.

“She looks more and more like Irene every day,” he said, “except for that mop of blond hair.”

Yes, Byrony thought. The shape of the baby’s face was Irene’s, and the dark brown eyes.

Irene opened Byrony’s present to Michelle, a tiny hand-sewn ribboned petticoat.

“She is much too young, of course,” Irene said, and tossed the small garment aside.

So much for the goodwill at Christmastime, Byrony thought.

There were only the three of them for Christmas dinner. It was a delicious meal—a stuffed goose, fresh green beans, potatoes, and Naomi’s rendition of a Christmas pudding. Irene sat next to Ira, the baby on her lap.

Here I am alone in splendid solitude, Byrony thought, gazing down the long expanse of dining table. She supposed, honestly, that this Christmas was more pleasant than the previous one. Her father had gotten drunk and her brother had gone off with some of his worthless friends to gamble. And her mother, of course, had said nothing.

Ira had also given her a book for Christmas, a collection of Lord Byron’s poetry. “Your namesake, my dear,” he said.

She spent the remainder of the day curled on the small settee in front of the fire.

 

Brent and Saint shared Christmas dinner with the Saxtons.

“Your bulk, Chauncey, is charming,” Brent said, smiling at his hostess.

“Come now, I’m not that ungainly yet.”

As for Saint, he studied Chauncey for a long moment and said, “Go upstairs at once and loosen those stays of yours.”

Chauncey threw up her hands.

“Just do as you’re told, sweetheart, and you’ll get no orders from me,” said Del.

“What marvelous male ambiguity,” his wife said.

Brent said, “I fear, Chauncey, that it’s too late to change any of us blighted specimens. What do you think, Saint?”

“I think,” said Saint slowly, “that this is the happiest household in San Francisco.”

“What is this? You dismiss the Butler household?”

Saint gave him a long, thoughtful look, and Brent found himself squirming. Why the hell hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut?

Del, who’d just turned to them, added his two cents. “Yeah, Saint, and don’t forget the Stevensons.”

“All right,” Saint said agreeably. “Give me a drink, Del, and I’ll be mellow as a duck by the time Horace and Agatha arrive. They are coming after dinner, aren’t they?”

“Well after dinner,” Del said, laughing. “Don’t worry, you can give your greed full rein.” He added as he handed Saint his whiskey, neat, “What I’ve got to do is marry the both of you off.”

Saint choked on his whiskey.

Brent gave Delaney a raised eyebrow.

“I’ll have you know, Saxton,” Brent said, “that after Saint and I gorge ourselves here, we’re going back to the saloon, there to have a real Christmas party with Maggie and all the girls.”

“Oh, Lord, don’t have me guess what you two unworthies are getting for Christmas.”

Brent merely smiled. Celeste already gave me my Christmas present, he thought, two of them as a matter of fact, both this morning. He still felt pleasantly relaxed. I give her presents and she gives me her body. A fair exchange.

“It wouldn’t be the same thing with a wife,” he said, then realized he’d spoken aloud.

“What wouldn’t?” Saint asked.

“The entire system of barter,” Brent said easily. “If a man has money, he can buy his pleasure and not have to worry about it nagging at him.”

“Cynical bastard,” Delaney said to the blazing fire in the fireplace.

“He’s got a bit of a point,” Saint said, rubbing his ear. “Not everyone’s as lucky as you, Del.”

“Just look at that poor fool Butler. Lord knows he didn’t have to marry her,” Brent said.

Delaney leaned his shoulder against the mantel. “Ira is a lot of things, but he isn’t dishonorable. Byrony, despite your obvious dislike of her, Brent, is a lady. Whatever happened between them, well, Ira did the right thing. Women have so little power.”

Brent snorted. “They have what men want and are quite willing to pay for.”

“Who has what you men want?” Chauncey asked as she walked into the room.

“We were just talking generalities, love,” Del said.

“I just bet you were. Now that I’m in the room, your conversation will degenerate into proper nothings, fit, I’m sure you will tell me, for a lady’s delicate ears. Come, tell me what wickedness you were talking about.”

“We were talking about the fact that women have no power,” Brent said. “At least Del subscribes to that notion.”

Chauncey, to his surprise, stiffened a moment, then said, “It’s true, you know, very true indeed. A woman can’t go out and find a position, for example. Who would hire her? And if someone did—a man, of course—he wouldn’t have the slightest respect for her, and she would probably be open to whatever advances he chose to make. It isn’t fair, it really isn’t.”

“Coming from one of the richest ladies in San Francisco,” Saint said, “your words surprise me.”

“No, Brent,” Del said, “it wasn’t a case of barter. Chauncey had more money than I. I keep telling her that’s why I married her.”

“I wasn’t always rich,” Chauncey said. “Believe me, I understand powerlessness firsthand. It is not pleasant.”

“But if a woman is beautiful, she is immensely powerful,” Brent said. “She has but to pick her quarry and he will probably fall all over his feet giving her whatever she wishes.”

“I called him a cynical bastard already, love,” Del said.

“I would say rather that he was hurt quite badly by a woman,” Chauncey said.

“How about a whiskey,” Brent said.

 

Chauncey was feeling sated and lazy after one of Lin’s marvelous Mexican-Chinese dinners, tamales with ginger.

“I don’t think this wretched rain is ever going to end,” she said to Byrony. “I do thank you for spending the evening with me.”

Byrony nodded, listening to the steady downpour outside. She’d begun to feel dizzy and nauseous earlier in the evening, but had said nothing. She finally admitted to herself that she was sick.

“I hope Del comes home before midnight. But the gentlemen and their political meetings. Ira is at the Pacific Club this evening too, isn’t he, Byrony?”

“Yes. He was delighted that you invited me to spend the evening here with you. He doesn’t like me to be lonely.” Her throat was scratchy, and she felt very hot. Her head was beginning to pound.

Why should you be lonely? Chauncey wanted to ask. You’ve a baby and there’s Irene to keep you company.

“Here it is almost the end of February,” she said instead, “and May seems an indecent decade away. Did you feel as lazy and contented as I do? And as impatient?”

“What?”

“When you were pregnant.”

“Oh, well, yes, I suppose I did. It all seems a long time ago, actually.”

How odd, Chauncey thought, looking at Byrony from beneath her lashes. Here I am feeling so protective toward her, and she is far more experienced than I. “All Saint will tell me is that it hurts. Did you have a very bad time of it?”

Byrony cleared her throat and said carefully, “I suppose it wasn’t very pleasant.”

“Byrony, are you all right? You’re looking very pale.”