Wild Star (17 page)

“Then where was she going?”

“I don’t know. All right, something obviously has happened to her—”

“Something awful, I should say, and she was coming to you because she had no place else to go.” Maggie fell silent a moment, then laid her palm on Byrony’s forehead. “She’s so young,” she said. “Are you going to send someone for her husband?”

“Hell no. That is, when I told her outside that I was taking her home, she yelled at me that she didn’t want to go. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Well, let’s see what Saint has to say,” she said as he came through the door.

“This better be good, Brent. Dragging a man out on a night like this—Hey, what’s this? Byrony.”

Saint’s eyes flew to Brent’s face, but Brent only shrugged.

“Maggie thinks it’s influenza. But she won’t wake up, Saint.”

Saint had at least half a dozen questions, but he said nothing as he shrugged out of his coat and hat and tossed them and his umbrella into the corner. He sat down beside Byrony and gently pressed his palm to her cheeks.

“I’m going to leave now, Brent,” Maggie said. “We don’t want any talk, obviously. Call me if you need me.”

“Maggie, thank you.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on here, Brent?” Saint asked, not looking up.

Brent talked and Saint grunted.

“So your guess is as good as mine,” Brent said. He watched Saint pull open the dressing gown and lean his cheek against Byrony’s breast. “Lungs are clear,” he said. Saint was on the point of closing the dressing gown, when he suddenly stopped. He stared at her white breasts with their small pink nipples. He shook his head, bemused.

“What’s the matter?” Brent asked, moving closer to the bed.

“Leave me alone for a while, Brent. I don’t think my patient would appreciate you being here while I examine her.”

“To hell with what she thinks,” Brent said, but he did walk to the fireplace.

Saint pulled open the dressing gown and studied her. She was on the verge of thinness. He asked, “When did Byrony have her baby?”

“I don’t know. About six or seven months ago, I guess. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Saint said. If Byrony had ever carried a baby, he was the president of the United States.

“Pour me a shot of brandy, Brent. I want to bring her out of this.” What was holding her from consciousness? Shock?

Saint forced the rim of the glass between her lips and tilted it. She choked, and Saint quickly lifted her.

“Take it easy, Byrony. Here, drink a bit more. It’ll warm you up.”

Byrony heard a man’s voice, and forced her eyes to open. He was a blur. A stranger. He was touching her, he was going to hurt her. “No.” She tried to get away from him.

“Move, Saint.” Brent captured her flailing arms and brought her close to his chest. “Hush, Byrony. It’s all right. I promise you. It’s Brent. You’re all right.”

“Brent.” Her eyes cleared and she stared up into his dark eyes. “I’m sick,” she said.

“I know. Saint’s here. He’ll make you feel better in no time at all.”

He started to ease her down, but she threw her arms about his neck and held on tight. “No, please—don’t go.”

“All right, I promise I won’t go. I want you to lie down now. Just relax. That’s it. Close your eyes. Good girl.”

Saint said not a word. He measured out a few drops of laudanum in a glass of water. “Make her drink this,” he said.

He listened to Brent, his voice soft as he spoke to Byrony. He watched him gently stroke her hand as she drifted into drugged sleep.

“I’d say, old son, that you’ve a problem the size of a house.”

Brent forced his eyes from Byrony’s face. “I’ve got to find out why she ran away,” he said. “Will she be all right, Saint?”

“Yes. She’s a strong girl. I gather you’re going to keep her with you tonight?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope. None at all that I can see, unless you want to get Ira. He is her husband, you know, and she’s his responsibility.”

Brent rose and stretched out his hand to Saint. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Keep her warm, and if and when she wakes up, give her lots of water.”

Saint pulled his leather hat low on his brow, drew a deep breath, and thoughtfully walked down the back stairs and into the rain. So, it was Irene’s baby. However did that damned woman manage to get herself pregnant? Why did Byrony consent to go along with the charade? God, what a bloody mess.

She mumbled in her sleep, meaningless sounds that made no sense to Brent. He sat in a chair beside the bed, his fingers steepled together, tapping softly, his eyes never leaving her face. She’d evoked emotions in him since the first time he’d ever seen her. Strong emotions that made him uncomfortable, made him want to strike out—at her. He saw perspiration beading on her forehead. He rose, dampened a cloth, and gently wiped her face.

Always they’d fought. Rather, he amended to himself, he’d always insulted her. He studied her features, the delicate straight nose, the stubborn chin, the high cheekbones. Her lashes were dark, and fanned like tangled black shadows against her pale cheeks. Her brows were slightly arched, darker than her hair. He slowly reached out his hand and wrapped a hank of hair around his fingers.

He told himself yet again that she’d sold herself to Ira Butler, borne his child. She’d made her bed, damn her, let her wallow in it. She had nothing to do with him.

Why was she coming to him? She hated him. He knew she was very good friends with Chauncey. Why had she run like a madwoman in the rain all the way downtown? God, it was so dangerous, it made his blood run cold to think of it. What if he hadn’t been on his way to visit Celeste? What if those men—

He jumped when the clock struck twelve strokes. Midnight. He’d been sitting silently watching her for two hours. Slowly he rose, locked the door, and turned off the lamps. He shrugged out of his dressing gown and slipped under the blankets beside her.

He resolutely stayed away from her, forcing himself to close his eyes.

He awoke in the middle of the night, alert, and aware of a warm body nestled against his chest. How many times he’d wanted her in bed with him, arching against him.

Lightly he touched his palm to her forehead. She was cool to the touch. No more fever. His fingers clenched. He wanted to reach out and feel her. His sex was hard, his muscles rigid with tension.

She muttered something in her sleep and twisted away from him.

He flipped onto his back and stared up into the darkness. A first time for everything, he thought. You should take her and be damned. But he didn’t move.

 

Byrony blinked at the bright sunlight that was warming her face. Slowly she opened her eyes. It wasn’t raining. Memory suddenly flooded her.

“It’s all right. How do you feel, Byrony?”

“Brent?” Her voice sounded low and gravelly, totally unlike her.

“Yes.”

“But what—Oh, I remember now. Where am I?” She tried to pull herself up.

“You’re with me, in my rooms above the Wild Star. Do you remember coming here last night?”

She closed her eyes, trying to rid herself of the vivid memory of Ira and Irene. “I remember running. I guess I was coming to you. I don’t know.”

“Here,” he said. “Drink this. It’s barley water, a donation from Maggie.”

Dutifully she drank, then lay back against the pillow.

“You’re being nice to me,” she said, and stared at him.

“Yes, a miracle of circumstance. I want you to tell me what happened to you.”

Laughter welled up in her throat, not healthy laughter, but hysterical laughter. For an instant he saw the horror in her eyes.

“Byrony.”

The laughter was hot and fast. Then she choked. He held her, clapped her on the back.

She breathed in deeply, trying to get hold of herself.

“Did you have a fight with your husband? Is that why you ran away? Did he hurt you?”

How angry he sounded. “No,” she said. “There was no fight.” She felt the headache worsening. I’m still sick, she thought, but I can’t stay here.

“Then why?”

Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? She could just imagine herself telling him exactly what had happened. He wouldn’t believe her, of course. He’d never believed anything she’d said to him. But that wasn’t the point, not really. She couldn’t, wouldn’t say anything until she decided what she would do. It was her problem, hers alone, no one else’s.

“I have to leave now.”

“Like hell you will.”

“I must go home before I’m missed.”

Brent, furious with himself and with her, jumped up from the bed. “Did your dear husband push you too far? Demand too much? Sully your little lady’s ears?”

His anger was, oddly enough, a relief. At least his anger was something she was used to, something she understood. She couldn’t handle his brief bout of gentleness.

“Yes,” she said coldly. “He wanted to take me on the dining-room table and I resisted.”

He turned away from her, and she watched, fascinated, as his hands fisted and unfisted at his sides. He was wearing a dressing gown. There was dark stubble on his jaws. He hadn’t shaved. It must still be early. Early enough. Her mind had already begun working through possible lies she could tell Ira.

She realized suddenly that all she was wearing was one of his dressing gowns. It was warm and so very soft. It carried his scent. Slowly she eased her legs over the side of the bed. She felt weak, but the dizziness was gone. Her throat hurt still, as did her head.

“Where are my clothes?”

“Ruined. Maggie will lend you something.”

“The duchess.”

“You insult her and I’ll thrash you silly.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Please, Brent, I must leave, very soon. Could you please ask her for something? I promise to return anything she gives me.”

She looked so bloody defeated and alone. He left the bedroom without another word. It was Maggie who brought her clothes a few moments later. She didn’t ask any questions.

“Thank you,” Byrony said. “I appreciate your kindness.”

The dove-gray wool gown was too short, but Byrony didn’t care. Brent came into the room just as she pulled a shawl over her shoulders.

“Nero will take you home,” he said. “The carriage is hired, so your husband won’t recognize it. I suppose you have several believable lies to tell him?”

“I hope so.”

“After this, do try to keep to your bargain. I don’t relish being dragged into your sordid little adventures.”

“No, it was unfair of me. I’m sorry.”

“Stop acting like a whipped dog.”

Byrony smiled for the first time. “Don’t you mean ‘bitch’?”

She turned to Maggie, whose eyes were narrowed on Brent’s face. “Thank you again.”

She wanted to laugh when, twenty minutes later, she crept silently into the house. No one was about. There was no one to see her. She went to her room, carefully removed Maggie’s clothes, and folded them away. She pulled a warm nightgown over her head and crawled into her bed.

She wondered if Ira and Irene were sleeping together on the other side of the adjoining door.

I’ve got to do something, she thought yet again.

The answer was so simple, really.

She pulled the covers to her chin and slept.

Byrony paused in the doorway of Ira’s study, then forced herself to pull the door quietly closed behind her and walk forward. She studied him a moment, seated behind his oak desk, before he saw she was there. He was reading a newspaper, totally absorbed. There was a quietness about him, a serenity that used to soothe her, calm her, just being in his presence. No more. Did she somehow imagine that he would look different? Now that she knew? But he didn’t, of course. His fair skin, pale blond hair, only two shades darker than his daughter’s, the beautifully sculptured aristocratic bones. An angel indeed, she thought. His hands had always drawn her admiration—long, narrow, the fingernails perfectly shaped. Gentle hands, hands that caressed his half-sister’s body. Oh, God.

“The idiots can’t really mean to do that,” Ira said to the newsprint. He sensed her presence then, and slowly began to fold the paper before he looked up. “How are you feeling, my dear?” he asked, rising from his chair. “You’re still looking just a bit pale. I was worried about you, you know.”

“I’m fine now, Ira. Thank you.” How very normal we both sound. She drew a deep breath and said, “I must speak with you, Ira.”

“Of course, my dear.” He was tired today, having dealt with labor disputes at the foundry the past two days. The last thing he wanted or needed was another damned household fight. “Here, sit down.”

“No, I don’t want to, really.” How many times during the past three days she’d gone over and over in her mind exactly what she’d say to him. He touched her hand, and she jerked away.

He frowned, but said nothing.

“Ira,” she said very calmly, “I know.”

He remained silent, his expression telling her nothing. He knew exactly what she meant, understood her perfectly, but he said, nonetheless, “What do you know, Byrony?”

“I know about you and Irene and Michelle.”

“I see.” It was over, and he felt an odd surge of relief, then a coursing of fear. They’d been so careful. Had Eileen said something? No, of course she wouldn’t. “May I ask how you know?”

“I saw you. Both of you, in your bed.”

There was distaste in her voice, and he suddenly hated her, wanted to strike her for despising something she could never understand. But of course he couldn’t hit her, he’d never struck a woman. His father had taught him very early that women were to be cherished, to be protected. Long-buried memories raced through his mind. His father and Irene’s mother were dead, killed in that unexpected winter storm. They were alone in the house, and his grief had overwhelmed him. Then Irene, only fourteen but so wise, had come to him. Held him. He’d not had many women in his twenty-eight years, and never a virgin. She’d given herself to him completely, suffering her virgin’s pain in silence, loving him. Forever, she’d whispered.