Wild Star (26 page)

Byrony was stunned. She didn’t move. He was heavy on top of her, yet she didn’t want to shove him away. He was still inside her, and she marveled at the feel of him. You have been properly loved, she thought, and closed her eyes. She’d never imagined that such feelings existed. Feelings so strong, so powerful, that nothing else was important. She felt the relaxed muscles in his smooth back. Slowly she ran her hands down his back, then upward again. So different from her, she thought, so very different. He moved slightly and she felt a sharp jolt of pleasure. She blinked into the gray morning light, trying to quash it. But it wouldn’t stop. She wanted him. Again, yet for the first time.

Her body seemed to know what to do. She moved beneath him, arching upward, and she felt him grow inside her.

Brent responded quickly, for he’d wanted her so long, so powerfully. He reared up over her, nearly withdrawing, then thrust deeply, his fingers going between them to find her. He heard her sob, her face pressed against his neck. She nearly bucked him off her.

When he felt her stiffen and convulse in her climax, he kissed her deeply, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as his sex was thrusting inside her belly. Then he was beyond her, yet at one with her in his own pleasure.

“Ah, Byrony,” he said, and drew her tightly against him.

Byrony’s nose twitched away from the rough hair on his chest. Very slowly she raised her head and looked down at his sleeping face. His dark hair was messed, a thick lock falling over his forehead, his jaws covered with black stubble. He looked exquisite. She even admired his ears.

She realized that her leg was over his groin, one of his arms under her, even in his sleep holding her firmly, his fingers splayed on her hip.

My husband, she thought. He is my husband. She held herself very still, remembering the previous night—no, morning. He’d known she would be more cooperative if he waited until she slept. And she had. She was still stunned at her wild response to him. She’d had no idea, no inkling from Aunt Ida or her mother that such feelings existed. Byrony grinned, thinking of the look on Aunt Ida’s pleasantly thin face were she to say, “Yes, Aunt, and then I yelled and squirmed about and never wanted him to stop. Oh yes, Aunt, to have a man deep inside you, filling you, moving over you, kissing you—” She let herself marvel at it for a few moments before she set herself to thinking clearly again. She needed to get away from him now, physically, but was afraid to move. He would wake up and probably make love to her again. Make love. What a curious thing to say, but that is what he called their wild coupling. She felt sticky between her thighs. His seed. Inside of her. Never before in her life had she felt her womanness as she did now, now that she knew what it was men wanted of women, and, she added silently, still marveling, what women wanted of men. She lifted her leg, easing away from him. He muttered something unintelligible and tightened his arm about her back.

“Byrony,” he said suddenly, opening his eyes. He looked up into her face and smiled. “Good morning, wife. Come closer, you’re warm and soft, very soft.”

He brought her tight against his side again.

“Did you sleep well?” His question was filled with satisfaction. She felt the warmth of his breath against her temple.

“Yes,” she said.

He turned to face her and held her against him. She felt his sex swelling against her leg and drew in her breath. “Surely—” she began.

“Surely what?” He nibbled at her ear. She heard rich amusement in his voice. He knew he’d won, but she thought suddenly, hadn’t she won also? But what of last night? she wanted to ask him. Had anything changed?

“I don’t know.”

“Make you speechless, do I?” His grin was irresistible, and her mouth curved in response. She felt his hand glide over her stomach and cup her.

“Oh. Brent, surely you—”

“So warm,” he said.

“And sticky. From you.”

She was amazed when he closed his eyes a moment as his fingers probed, searched and found her. “Yes,” he said softly, “from me.” She felt him tremble and for a brief instant knew a moment of power over this man. Then she was on her back and he was easing into her. She gasped at the feel of him, and he stopped cold. “Am I hurting you, Byrony? Are you too sore for me?”

She looked into his eyes, seeing the sudden worry for her, and was lost. “No.” She arched up to take more of him.

But he was frowning, and for one of the few times in his adult life, concern for another took precedence over his own lust. Very slowly he began to ease out of her, but she locked her arms about his back, holding him to her.

“All right,” he said, looking down into her face, “but we’ll go easy, Byrony. You are unused to a man.” He dipped his face down and kissed her. “I am relieved that you enjoy me.”

She blinked, the wild urgency building slowly deep within her. “But you knew that I would. Doesn’t everyone?”

He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “No,” he said, “not everyone. We are quite good together.”

He was pressing down on her even as he moved more deeply. She groaned softly, arching upward. “Brent, please.”

He watched her face saw her eyes darken with pleasure, and increased his pace. When he slipped his hand between their straining bodies to find her, she cried out, and was gone in a maelstrom of nearly painful pleasure. He held himself in firm control until the spasms lessened, then drew her onto her side and took his own release.

“Now you’re
very
sticky,” he said against her throat.

“Yes,” she said, and he grinned at the pleased sound of her voice.

There was a knock coming from the outer office door. He lightly flicked his finger over her nose and pulled away from her. “Stay warm, I’ll be right back. It’s probably our breakfast.”

She watched him walk naked from the bed and pull on a dressing gown. “Don’t move, Byrony,” he said over his shoulder. Why had he said that? Was he afraid that she would leap from the bed and try to escape him?

He paused a moment in the doorway and almost unwillingly turned to look toward the bed. Her dark blond hair was tangled around her face. She looked so lovely that he wanted nothing more than to fling himself on her again. Rutting bastard.

When he returned to the bedroom, a tray on his arms, she was sitting up in bed, pulling her dressing gown around her.

He frowned in disappointment, but just for a moment. He would have preferred to see her naked, but of course she was unused to a man, even her husband, seeing her unclothed.

“I’ve a kitchen downstairs,” he said easily. “When I don’t feel like eating out, Caesar brings me food up here. Would you like some coffee?”

She nodded.

“Don’t tense up on me, all right? Here.”

She took the steaming cup of coffee and sipped it. It tasted better than any coffee she’d had in her life.

The bed dipped as Brent sat down beside her.

“And croissants, from Pierre’s bakery.”

“Thank you.”

“You can’t be embarrassed now,” he said, his voice warm. “After all, you’ve taken my poor body—what is it?—three times in less than—how many hours?” He bit into a flaky croissant. “You know, Byrony, we haven’t discussed where to go on our honeymoon.”

“Not Sacramento,” she said.

“No, certainly not.” He was silent a moment, watching her. “It would be wise, I think, if we did go somewhere, however. There will be talk, and unfortunately, even if Irene and Ira keep their respective mouths tightly closed, I think it likely that some people might not treat you as they should.”

“I know.”

“It occurred to me also, that being a married man now, I should probably build us a house. Living above a saloon and next to a brothel can’t be considered exactly respectable.”

“I like it here,” she said. “Really, Brent, I don’t want you to have to do anything you don’t wish to. And Maggie is a good friend.”

Her eyes were serious upon his face. “I don’t want you hurt anymore,” he said, his voice rough.

“That is kind of you,” she said, but her thoughts were of Celeste, his mistress. Wasn’t that considered hurt from his man’s perspective?

“Thank you.”

“May I ask you a question?”

He arched a black brow.

“I guess I’m rather ignorant,” she began.

“But very receptive.”

“Does a man want to make love all the time?”

“Not more than every hour or so.” She looked horrified, and he had to laugh.

Then she looked down, her expression all demure, and said, “Has it been an hour yet?”

He’d never seen her flirt before and he was enchanted. “Very nearly,” he said. He wondered briefly if he would ever have his fill of her. It was a heady thought, having a wife. It was also a commitment and a responsibility he’d never before considered, and that was scary as hell. He leaned toward her, delighting in the fact that she wanted him too, and took the tray from her lap.

“Now, sweetheart,” he said, “my hour is up and you can have your way with me again.” He cupped her face between his hands and began kissing her. He quickly forgot about their honeymoon, building a house, and an unknown future filled with responsibility. He’d also wanted to speak to her about their fiasco argument of the previous night, but not now. No, not now.

 

“You are looking quite splendid, Byrony,” Chauncey Saxton said, smiling at her friend. “I see that marriage agrees with you.”

“Brent is—” Byrony paused a moment. “He is, oh, I don’t know. Thank you for shopping with me, Chauncey.”

“My pleasure. I thank the elements it isn’t raining. Come, love, let’s have a cup of tea, and let me rest a moment.” She patted her growing belly. “This little brute is jumping about, and Saint told me tea—only mint tea, mind you—would calm him down.”

Byrony quickly agreed. They entered the small pastry shop called Mortimer’s on Market Street and the smiling, very rotund Timothy Mortimer led them to a small table. “Ladies,” he said.

After they’d ordered, Chauncey sat back in her chair and drew a contented sigh. “Oh course, Saint has no idea how to calm down this wild child of mine, but his suggestion of mint tea—with lemon, of course—I find delightful. You must give me your advice, Byrony, if you would be so kind. Del and I will be married a year next week and I haven’t the foggiest notion of what to give him.”

But Byrony was silent.

Chauncey looked up and saw Mrs. Stevenson and Penelope in the doorway to the shop. “Ignore them,” she said. “Besides, we don’t know which of us they disapprove of more. Dear Penelope has always been a mild thorn in my side. It’s all too silly, you know.” She nodded toward the two women.

“Ah, our tea. Thank you, Timothy.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Saxton. Tell Del that the new oven is working better than I ever dreamed it would.”

At Byrony’s questioning look, Chauncey said, “Del loaned him some money for the famous oven.”

“At least he spent it on an oven and not in Brent’s saloon.”

Chauncey laughed and toasted Byrony with her cup of tea.

“How is the new
bride?
”

Byrony slowly set her teacup into its saucer and raised her eyes to Penelope’s face. “Hello, Miss Stevenson.”

“The new bride looks marvelously happy,” said Chauncey, “doesn’t she, Penelope?”

Penelope considered this a moment. “Do you always look marvelously happy when you marry, Mrs. Butl—Mrs. Hammond? At least for a short time?”

Byrony locked her eyes on the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth.

“I saw your child the other day. What is the poor little thing’s name? Michelle?”

“Poor Penelope,” Chauncey said, shaking her head. “It must be so difficult to ignore facts and wallow in fiction.”

“I should say that most of the ladies in San Francisco think it appalling that a woman would leave her child and husband to marry her lover. Don’t expect to be greeted fondly, Mrs. Hammond.”

Brent had warned her, of course. Still, chilling looks were easier to take than this direct attack. I can’t allow Chauncey to continue protecting me, she thought, and raised her eyes to Penelope’s face. “I think, Miss Stevenson,” she said slowly, very precisely, “that you shouldn’t have any lemon with your tea. Your lips are pursed so tightly now, you just might find yourself permanently wrinkled.”

“Indeed, Penelope,” Chauncey said, “take yourself off and regale your mother with all your nasty little tales. Better yet, find yourself a husband, then you’ll be kept too busy to spread gossip about other people.”

“She’s so very pretty,” Byrony said as she watched Penelope flounce away from their table. “She seems to have everything a girl could want. Why is she so very nasty?”

“Saint thinks she needs to be beaten every morning. Clear her of evil humors, he says.”

“Oh no, not that.”

Chauncey frowned. “It was just a jest, my dear. Now, we must plan a small dinner party. I’m not bragging, mind you, but I fancy I have just as much social power as Mrs. Stevenson and her little group. And of course Agatha Newton could sway a battleship. Indeed, I’ll never forget—”

Byrony listened to Chauncey ramble on, not really attending, her thoughts on her very bizarre situation. She still didn’t know what to do about her mother. The money would continue to be sent to her father, of course. Ira had promised. She supposed she must write and tell her at least some of the truth. Dear Mother, she thought, I have a new husband, but I never really had a husband before, much less a child. No, you aren’t a grandmother, not really. . . .

“Everything will work out.”

Byrony tried to manage a smile. “Yes, of course.” She shrugged. “I think I should have left San Francisco. Brent really didn’t want to marry me, as I’m certain you realize. Perhaps I should simply—”

“Stop it, Byrony. You’re being a simpleton. Brent Hammond does nothing he doesn’t choose to do, believe me. He wanted to marry you.”