Wild Star (16 page)

Byrony forced a weak smile. “Do you know, I think I’m coming down with something. I haven’t felt quite the thing all day, and now, well, I think my head’s going to burst.”

Chauncey was at Byrony’s side in a moment. She laid her palm over Byrony’s forehead. “You’ve a fever. Shall we send Lucas for Saint?”

“Oh no, Chauncey. I think I’ll just go home and tuck myself into bed.”

“This dreadful rain. It’s a wonder that all of us aren’t sneezing and sniveling about. You just sit still, Byrony, and I’ll tell Lucas to bring the carriage around to the front.”

Byrony didn’t feel like doing anything else. In fact, she wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep for a year. She felt so hot, and the high collar of her gown was choking her. She pulled at it, then shuddered when a sudden chill raced through her. She could count on her fingers the number of times in her life she’d been ill, even with a cold. She hated the weakness, the feeling of helplessness.

“Come on, love. I’ll help you to the front door. Here, let me bundle you up.”

Byrony stood docile and quiet while Chauncey tied her scarf about her neck and helped her into her long cloak. “I’ll check up on you tomorrow, Byrony. If you’re not better, I’ll see to it that Ira fetches Saint. Ah, Lucas. Hold the umbrella high for Mrs. Butler.”

It was so cold. Her bones felt like they were shivering. Byrony huddled in the closed carriage, her eyes closed. She couldn’t see out the windows in any case because of the driving rain and the thick fog. Ira’s house was but a half-mile from the Saxtons’. When the carriage came to a stop, she drew on her reserves and allowed Lucas to help her to the front door. The house was dark.

“Thank you, Lucas. You needn’t see me in. I’ll be all right.”

But he waited, his eyes narrowed in concern, until Byrony had unlocked the front door and disappeared inside.

Where were Eileen and Naomi?

Byrony knew the house well and made her way up the stairs in the darkness. She supposed that Irene and the baby were both asleep. Good, she could be miserable in peace. Her hand was on the doorknob of her bedroom when she chanced to see a gleam of light from beneath Ira’s bedroom door. How odd, she thought, staring at the light. Could Ira be home already? He’d told her he would be quite late and not to come back early from her visit to Chauncey Saxton.

Perhaps she should ask Ira to fetch Saint. She walked toward his closed door. She raised her hand to knock, then paused, frowning. There were noises coming from within. Strange noises. Was that a moan? Could Ira be ill? She gripped the doorknob and turned it. The door opened easily, silently, and Byrony peeked into the room.

There was one lamp lit, casting dim shadows.

There was another moan, from the bed.

She started to call out his name. Nothing came out of her mouth. It wasn’t a man moaning, it was a woman. She stood frozen, shock and surprise holding her silent.

“Ira, please, please.”

“Yes, my love. God, yes.”

Bile rose in her throat and she stuffed her fist into her mouth. She saw Ira’s white body rise, saw Irene’s parted legs.

She heard Irene gasp for breath when Ira covered her.

They were lovers. No. Irene was his half-sister! No, it couldn’t be.
No.

Their bodies were entwined. They were one.

Byrony clutched her arms around her stomach as the truth burst into her mind. Dear God, no wonder Ira didn’t want her as a real wife. He already had a wife and a child.

Slowly she backed through the doorway. She gently pulled the door closed.

Michelle was their child. He’d married her to save his half-sister, to keep her and their child in his home. She was only for appearances. For show.

She was going to be sick. She ran back down the stairs and jerked open the front door. She fell to her knees in the thick mud and vomited.

She shuddered with dry heaves. Finally she quieted. Her body felt battered, her mind blessedly numb, but just for a moment. I can’t go back, I can’t go back.

She staggered to her feet, clutched her cloak about her, and started running. She saw the lights coming from downtown and kept running toward them. Across Market Street. She stumbled into deep pockets of mud, pulled herself up, and kept going, doggedly. She felt the rain soak through her cloak, to her skin.

I can’t go back there. I can’t.

Her mind focused on the lights. The new gaslights, installed just last month. Hazy lights with the fog shrouding them. She stumbled past saloons, past men who didn’t realize she was a female until she was well beyond them. She heard men calling to her but didn’t slow. She had to keep going. Keep going.

Some part of her mind knew exactly where she was going. To the Wild Star. To Portsmouth Square. To Brent Hammond. She wondered, briefly, why she didn’t go to Chauncey. Chauncey was her friend, she would take her in. But her feet didn’t slow. She saw Brent in her mind’s eye, and knew deep down that despite everything, he would take care of her. He would protect her. And she wanted his protection, no one else’s. God, she just wanted to see him, have him hold her, have him make the awful nightmare go away.

Her breath was jerky, she had a painful stitch in her side. Her head pounded in time with her heart. Her teeth chattered until her jaws ached.

She heard her shoes clattering on the wooden sidewalk on the east side of Kearny, a soggy, hollow sound. She wasn’t aware of time passing. She was conscious only of putting one foot in front of the other. Conscious only of escaping.

The Wild Star was brightly lit. Men gambled and whored in all kinds of weather. Suddenly she heard a man’s gruff voice, felt herself pulled to a stop by a strong arm about her shoulders.

“Jesus, Chad, lookee what I got. A little bird. A very wet little bird.”

“Let me go,” Byrony screamed, but the words were only a hoarse whisper. She didn’t have her derringer.

“I should say you’ve got yerself a prize, Neddie. What are ye doin’ out of bed, honey? You need yerself a warm man for the night?”

They were drunk and they were going to hurt her. “Please, let me go.”

She jerked away from the one man, but the other caught her and pulled her against him. She felt his hot, whiskey breath against her mouth.

She screamed, a thin, wailing sound that was muted by the pounding rain.

“What the devil is going on?”

“Help me. Please, help me.”

Brent stared at the bedraggled woman in the grip of the two drunks Nero had just assisted bodily from the saloon.

“We just found us a little whore out for a stroll,” Chad said, tugging Byrony against him.

“She doesn’t look particularly willing to me,” Brent said, watching the struggling woman with growing anger. “Let her go. Now.” Damnation. All he’d wanted to do was go to Celeste, and now this. He felt the rain trickling down the back of his neck, and strode forward.

“Lookee, Hammond, it ain’t none of yer business.”

Byrony found the strength to jab her elbow into Chad’s stomach. He yowled, and raised a meaty fist to strike her.

“You damned bastard.” Brent was on him in an instant, his fist connecting with Chad’s wet jaw. Jesus, he was thinking, was it one of Maggie’s girls? Chad dropped back, and Byrony stumbled toward Brent. He caught her against his side. She was trembling violently.

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” he said.

“There’s two of us, Neddie. High-and-mighty Hammond ain’t got no say out here!”

A shining derringer appeared as if by magic. “I suggest that you two leave, now. No,” Brent continued, his voice soft, almost amused, “don’t try it. I’ll blow your brains out.”

Byrony vaguely heard the argument, heard the two men cursing vilely. Then they were gone.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Brent asked, easing his derringer back into its small holster. “Didn’t Maggie teach you anything?” She felt herself being shaken. The hood to her mantle fell back.

Brent saw a sodden, tangled mass of hair, and impatiently shoved it back. He sucked in his breath, then cursed. “You. Jesus, Byrony, what the hell—”

He broke off abruptly. She was looking up at him with utterly blank eyes.

“What’s the matter with you? Where’s Ira?”

In bed with his half-sister.
She wanted to laugh, but the sound that emerged was a wet cough.

“Dammit, what are you doing out in this miserable weather?” He pulled her in under the wooden overhang and clapped his hand over her forehead. Fever. She was burning up with fever. He felt panic and fear. God, no, she mustn’t be ill. “Damn you, where is your precious husband? Come on, I’ll get you home!”

“No!” She jerked away from him so quickly, he didn’t have time to react.

“Byrony—” he yelled after her in fury.

He saw her stumble off the sidewalk, weave in the thick mud, and sprawl forward onto her side.

He cursed as much from fear as from anger. He walked after her, picking her up, nearly tripping into the mud with her.

He managed to stumble back to the sidewalk. What the hell was he supposed to do now? There was really no question, and he tightened his grip on her as he strode to the back of the Wild Star. “Don’t you dare be ill, you little twit.”

He managed to unlock the back entrance, and strode up the stairs to his rooms. Black-haired, sloe-eyed Felice saw him and he said, “Get me Maggie at once.”

Why was she unconscious? Had that bastard hurt her?

“What’s going on, Brent?” Maggie took in the wet, filthy bundle in his arms.

“It’s Byrony,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong. She has a fever. She’s unconscious.”

Byrony, Maggie thought. So it wasn’t some woman he’d known a long time ago. She became brisk. “She’s filthy and we’ll have to bathe her. I’ll have Caesar fetch Saint. Since Felice has already seen you, and the girl can be trusted to keep her mouth shut, I’ll have her help us. Don’t move, Brent.”

Byrony stirred in his arms and muttered something about a baby. He tightened his grip, whispering to her, “What about a baby? Your baby? Byrony?”

Her head fell back against his arm. So long, he thought, so long since he’d even seen her. Now she was ill. He realized after a moment that he was praying. He looked at Maggie like she was the angel of mercy when she came quickly back into the room.

“All right, Brent. Take her into your bedroom. Felice is heating water. No matter if she’s ill. She’ll be even sicker if we don’t get her out of those sodden clothes. Caesar’s off to get Saint. Pray that he’s home. But then again, nobody but an idiot would be out in weather like this.”

Brent carried her into his bedroom, a place he’d fantasized about having her. At his mercy. Having her want him and admit to it. Having her sprawled on his bed, her arms raised to him.

“Just put her here on the hearth. Get out your tub, Brent.” Maggie looked up at him, realizing he hadn’t moved. He was staring down at the girl, his face pale.

“Brent.”

Gently he eased her onto the cold floor in front of the fireplace. “She’s ill,” he said.

“I know. I’ll get her undressed, and you do the same for yourself. You’re as wet as she is”

He nodded, thankful that someone knew what to do. He didn’t leave his bedroom, merely stepped back and methodically began to strip off his wet clothes, dropping them on the floor at his feet.

He heard a gasp from the door, and turned to see Felice holding a bucket of hot water in each hand. He didn’t realize that he was quite naked.

“In the tub,” Maggie said. “Help me, Felice, and don’t gawk at Mr. Hammond. Lord knows, he’s just a man, and you’ve seen enough of them.”

Brent shrugged into a dressing gown. He stood helplessly as Maggie and Felice lifted Byrony into the tub.

“I hate to wash her hair, but we’ve got to,” Maggie was saying to Felice. “Quick, hand me the soap. I don’t want her in here any longer than necessary.”

“Why is she unconscious?” Brent asked.

“I don’t know. Don’t worry. Saint will be here soon.”

He’d wanted to see her body ever since the first time he’d met her, so long ago, it seemed. But he didn’t look. His eyes remained on her shadowed face. She was so damned pale. “I’ll kill that bastard,” he said.

“You’re not going to do violence to anybody, Brent. Get me another one of your dressing gowns. The burgundy velvet one.”

Felice wrapped Byrony’s wet hair in a thick towel while Maggie quickly dried her. Brent handed her the dressing gown.

“All right. Put her into bed, Brent.”

She’s thin, he thought as he lifted her into his arms.

They covered her with three thick blankets.

Felice removed the towel from her hair and began to untangle the strands, smoothing them away from her head onto the pillow.

“That’s fine, Felice. Thank you. Please see to it that Dr. Morris comes straight up when he arrives. And, Felice, not a word, all right?”

“But who is she, Maggie? What’s she doing here?”

“None of your business, Felice. Be on your way now.”

“Why is she unconscious?” Brent asked again when they were alone.

“For God’s sake, I don’t know. I do know she has a fever. It’s probably the influenza. Now, Brent, this is your Byrony. Who is she?”

My Byrony.
The Byrony whose name he’d yelled when he’d taken his pleasure with another woman. “Byrony Butler,” he said.

“Ira Butler’s wife?”

“Yes. Dammit, she’s nothing to me, Maggie. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a long time. I have no idea why she was alone and—”

“Obviously she was coming to you.”

“No,” he said. “She wanted me to leave her alone. She wanted peace. She told me to go to hell.”
No, you were the one to say that.