Wild Star (25 page)

He heard her panting, saw her raise his volume of Voltaire to hurl at him. “That’s enough, dammit.” He dashed toward her, ducking Voltaire. He dropped the candlestick and lunged at her. He grabbed her arms, forcing them to her sides.

“I hate you. You miserable, lying—”

He shook her until her head snapped back. “Stop it. What the devil is the matter with you?”

He was too strong for her, but still she struggled. Brent said nothing more, merely waited for her to exhaust herself. “Now,” he said finally, his voice more puzzled than angry, “you will tell me why you suddenly hate me.”

“Let—me—go.”

“No. If you don’t give a good damn about my belongings, I do.” He shook her again as he stared down at her face. Tears were in her eyes, eyes wide and dark and filled with anger and something else. He gentled his voice just a bit. “What is wrong? Why am I a miserable, lying—” He stopped dead in his tracks. Damnation, she’d overheard his foolish discussion with Maggie; he knew it. “You are my wife,” he said, holding her so tightly that she thought her ribs would crack. “You are my wife,” he repeated again.

“Why?”

The one small word was anguished, her anger gone, buried in a haze of misery. He closed his eyes a moment, trying to remember all the stupid things he’d said.

“It was all a mistake,” he began. “I didn’t mean—Maggie was preaching and I—”

“Why did you marry me? Why did you lie to me and tell me that you cared for me? You had a choice, Brent, what you said to Maggie wasn’t true. You had a choice.”

“That isn’t what I meant. You heard us talking.”

“Yes. Wasn’t it ill-bred of me to have woken up and eavesdropped? I suppose one deserves to hear the truth about things when one does that.”

Such a short time ago he’d promised her he’d never hurt her. He’d meant, of course, that he would never hurt her as her father had—but somehow, this seemed just as bad, maybe worse.

“Let me go,” she said again. “I promise I will leave
your
belongings alone.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I didn’t mean that, precisely. They’re your things too now. Even my
Aristophanes.
”

“And what about Celeste? Just what is hers?” Good God, could she be jealous? He supposed that wives should be angry to overhear their husbands talking about their mistresses. And she wasn’t really a wife yet. She was a bride. It was her wedding night and she’d heard him talk about his mistress.

“Celeste,” he said very precisely, “is absolutely none of your concern. She has nothing to do with you. Nothing. Now, if I let you go, will you stop acting like a wild thing?”

“Yes,” she said.

Brent released her. She stepped back from him, rubbing her arms. He wondered if he’d bruised her, and frowned.

“Good,” he said. “You will now remember that you are a lady and my wife.”

The numbness evaporated. She looked at him, her lips thin. “And what of you, Brent? Are you not a gentleman and my husband?” She didn’t wait for him to reply, her fury too powerful. “Why is it you used to accuse me of all sorts of awful things? Why is it that I, a woman, am to be called a slut, a harlot, a—and you, a man, can bed as many women as you like, and still hurl your vile insults at me? Why?”

He’d never before thought of a man’s physical desires in that light before. Hell, he’d never before been married. “Women,” he began, trying to sort through a logical explanation, “are different. They don’t seem to want—that is, they are more—”

She achieved a creditable sneer. “Ah, so if I am different, then why did you think me like you—a harlot and a—”

“That isn’t what I meant, exactly.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Look, Byrony, I was wrong about you, completely wrong. When I was young, there was a woman who, well, taught me things that weren’t exactly correct.”

“You’re telling me that you were seduced? But women don’t like that sort of thing, Brent. Or did you pay even then, as a young man?”

“No,” he said, and she heard the ripple of remembered pain in his voice, saw the bitterness in his eyes. “She was my stepmother.”

Byrony refused to feel sorry for him. “So you paint all women with the same brush, is that it, Brent?”

“I suppose that I have,” he said slowly. “It was wrong of me. Particularly when it came to you. It’s just that I was drawn to you from the very first, Byrony. I won’t lie to you. Maybe I wanted to believe that old man’s lies in San Diego. It kept the world sane for me. It kept me intact and whole. When I saw you again, so beautiful, so sweet, I thought—Well, never mind what I thought because it didn’t last long. You had married Butler, a rich man, and were pregnant. And I laughed at myself for believing you were different.”

“And you hurt me.”

“Yes, and I was wrong.” She was still looking at him with incredulity, and something else. Anger, more than likely. She was probably remembering his words to Maggie. He didn’t owe her any explanation, none at all. He was a man and her husband. He could do precisely as he pleased. With discretion now, of course.

“Enough of this foolishness. I want to make love to my bride.”

She stared at him, disbelieving. “Go to Celeste. Go to your mistress.”

He turned away from her and began to pull off his clothes. When he’d stripped to his breeches, he said over his shoulder, “Would you like me to assist you out of your
wedding
gown?”

“No. I am sleeping in the sitting room.”

He whipped around at that. “The devil you are.” He unfastened the buttons on his trousers.

“Stop that.”

“No.” He stepped out of his trousers and methodically folded them and laid them over the back of a chair with his other clothes.

He straightened, his hands on his hips. “Look well, Byrony. I hope you like your husband’s body, because I am the only man you will ever see naked.”

“No,” she said. “Maybe not.”

He drew on his patience. “Byrony, you are my wife and I fully intend to make love to you. We can do this one of two ways. You can fight me or you can enjoy me. Which is it to be?”

Her head fell and her shoulders slumped.

He said nothing, merely walked behind her and began to unfasten the myriad small satin-covered buttons down her back. He wanted to kiss the nape of her neck. The smooth flesh with the tiny wispy curls. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to make her forget his ill-chosen words, he wanted—

“There,” he said, pulling the gown downward. “Would you like me to help you with the rest?”

“No,” she said. “Please, Brent, just leave me alone.”

He shook his head, and said aloud, “No. But I will have a bit of brandy while you finish.”

He forced himself to walk away from her.

Byrony wondered if all women were born under an unlucky star, then thought of Chauncey Saxton, and sighed. Delaney Saxton was handsome, clever, and terribly kind. And she, fool that she was, cared for this man, a man who looked upon her as a possession, as a thing to do with just as he pleased.

“I don’t intend to drink brandy all night,” she heard him say from behind her. “You have five minutes, Byrony.”

She jerked off her chemise, petticoats, and underthings. She was reaching for her nightgown when she felt his hand on her bare arm.

“No,” he said. “I want you now.”

Something inside her snapped at his tone of utter and absolute command. He turned her to face him. She brought up her fist and smashed it with all her strength into his stomach.

Brent sucked in his breath, grunting more in surprise than in pain. When he felt her fingernails rake his shoulder, he grabbed her about the waist and flung her onto the bed on her back. He landed on top of her, jerking her arms above her head and holding her wrists together with one hand.

“Enough,” he said, staring down at her. He saw the wild fury in her eyes, and grinned. “So, I’m to ride a wild mare on my wedding night?”

Byrony tried to squirm away from him, and quickly realized that her movements only excited him all the more.

“I hate you.”

He was still grinning. “I will make you forget those words. And no, I’m not going to rape you. Now, I suggest that since you are quite ignorant, you simply lie still and let me teach you.” He dipped his head down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “And you will enjoy it, Byrony, oh, you surely will.”

She felt the length of him swollen against her belly, felt his chest against her breasts. “No,” she said, “I won’t.”

That startled him, and for a moment he merely stared down at her. “So that’s the way it is to be. We will see, Byrony. We will see.”

He released her wrists, but she did nothing, merely lay there looking up at the ceiling. He rolled off her and balanced himself on his elbow beside her. He took his time to study her. “You will fill out,” he said, hoping to get a rise from her. He touched her breast, gently stroking. He cupped her, felt her heartbeat. It quickened under his palm, and he smiled. She had such beautiful breasts—he’d told her that already. He continued to stroke her as he looked downward. She was a bit on the thin side, it was true. Lord, he’d be thin too if he’d lived the way she had the past weeks. Her skin was soft, and very smooth. He kneaded her belly and felt her muscles tighten beneath his fingers. Lightly he brushed his fingertips over her dark blond curls. He heard her indrawn breath, felt her stiffen.

“You have nice legs,” he said, thinking that an understatement. They were long and very white and shapely. Quickly he cupped her breast again and felt her heartbeat soar to a gallop.

“Please,” Byrony said. “No.”

“Yes, sweetheart. Now, I want you to open your legs.”

“No,” she said again.

He wedged his hand between her thighs and parted them slightly.

Byrony closed her eyes tightly. She knew he was looking at her, studying her. His fingers stroked the insides of her thighs, drawing ever nearer. He bent her legs and parted them. She didn’t fight him. She felt strangely languid, but no longer apart from him. No, she was beside him, feeling him touch her.

He moved quickly between her legs, pressing up against her.

Byrony jerked upward.

“No, I won’t let you! I—”

He pressed his full weight on her and kissed her. His body was already moving against her rhythmically, and she was frightened, remembering the pain from before. She felt his urgency and began to fight him in earnest.

“Byrony,” he said into her mouth, “stop it. Love, lie still.”

“No.” She turned her face from side to side to avoid his mouth. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me. You’re a liar, like all men, you’re—”

He rolled off her and drew her against him. “Hush,” he said, stroking his fingers through her hair. “I won’t hurt you. I’m not a liar.” He shook his head at himself. Lord, he’d lost control. The last thing he wanted was for her to fear his lovemaking. He held her gently. He kissed her hair and did nothing else. When she quieted, he eased her away so he could see her face.

“Let’s go to sleep,” he said. “All right?”

She blinked, not understanding him. He rose and doused the lamps, then returned to the bed and eased them both under the covers. “Come here, Byrony. I want to hold you. That’s all.”

She came to him, knowing he would force her to if she didn’t obey him. She lay stiffly against his side, her cheek on his chest, her thoughts desolate and bitter. To Brent’s surprise, he heard her breathing quickly even into sleep.

He cursed, then smiled into the darkness.

It was still and calm and very dark when he awoke, a smile still on his lips. She was lying relaxed and yielding against him, her palm open on his chest. Very slowly he eased her onto her back. She mumbled something in her sleep, but didn’t awaken. He lightly stroked down her belly, found her. She was soft and warm. He stroked her slowly, felt her woman’s dampness and felt as if he would shout with the pleasure of it. He eased his finger inside her. He closed his eyes a moment, almost feeling himself coming into her.

Slowly, he thought, very slowly. He began caressing her again and heard her moan softly. Oh yes, Byrony, let me invade your dreams.

He had invaded her dream. She was standing atop a hill, a barren hill with a wide green valley beneath her. Strange, intense feelings were welling up inside her, making her squirm, making her breathless, making her want to move closer to the edge of the hill. Her hips moved, and in her dream she was looking down into that green valley, crying, not knowing what to do.

Brent deepened the pressure and her hand came up to touch his shoulder. She hovered between dream and reality, wanting to keep the softness and ambiguity of sleep, yet her body sought consciousness, sought the unbelievable pleasure. Suddenly her eyes flew open, and she felt her body convulse. She cried out, not understanding what was happening to her, only feeling and wanting more.

Brent could see her face now in the dim light of dawn. He saw her look of utter bewilderment as she reached her climax. “That’s it,” he said, coaxing her to feel more and more. Before her pleasure subsided, he eased between her legs and came into her. He felt her muscles tighten about him, drawing him deeper.

Byrony came abruptly awake. She stared up at him, felt him deep inside her. She cried out, the feelings still streaking through her, and wrapped her arms about his back. She wondered if she would die from the pleasure of it.

Brent felt her passion swirl around him, felt her giving, her need. He drove his full length and let himself go. He fell on her, straining, panting.

He closed his eyes, felt the deep-seated sensation of belonging, a need so long buried inside him that he’d forgotten its existence. I’ve come home, he thought, somewhat dazed by his insight.

“Byrony,” he said, her name sounding wonderful to his ears.

He kissed her face, eased his tongue into her mouth, felt her arms still tight around his back. “Byrony,” he said again, and fell asleep, sated, his head on the pillow beside her.