Wild Star (30 page)

“It does.” She shrugged. “One must adapt, however.”

“The fog is too thick,” Brent said and turned the horse around. “Let’s get out of here.” The breeze was stiff, whipping up whorls of gritty sand.

“As you wish,” Byrony said easily.

“Byrony,” he said, gazing at her profile, “I don’t think I like your tone.”

“I suggest you wait until you have the horse doing what you want before you go after the mare.”

She was laughing at him. He didn’t like it, not one bit. He said in his most affected drawl, “I intend to mount the mare, sweetheart. No bridle, of course, that’s not necessary, but perhaps a few nips on the back of her neck.”

She gave a bright laugh that made him grit his teeth. “And you want the mare to try to buck you off? Or perhaps if the mare decides to let you ride her, you’ll decide to punish her by dismounting?”

He was so hard that he hurt. “No,” he said, his eyes between the horses’s ears, “No more dismounting. After I nip her neck, I fully intend to ride her until she’s trembling and sweating.”

“I wish you luck,” Byrony said lightly, “with your mare.”

“I don’t need luck, just opportunity.”

“Oh, incidentally, could you please just leave me at the Saxtons’ house? I promised Chauncey I’d come by.”

“No chance. Didn’t you know that the stallion always herds his mares, keeps them under his watchful eye?”

“Is that so? Well, perhaps the stallion had best come to the realization that there is the occasional mare who refuses to share him. Maybe you know of such a stallion, Brent?”

That did it, he thought. “If the mare were more of a mare,” he said brutally, “perhaps she could keep the stallion content.”

“Or,” Byrony said, manifestly amused, “if the stallion were more of a stallion, he could be content in his own pasture. I venture to say that there are some mares who are just as possessive as their stallions. Have you ever heard of a mare nipping her stallion’s neck?”

“All right,” he roared, scaring the horse, “that does it. Enough of this ridiculous imagery. If you ever raise that whip to me, Byrony, I will make you very sorry.”

“How, if you don’t mind my asking?” she said with great seriousness. “We mares like specificity, you know.”

He ground his teeth. “I don’t know,” he said finally, “but you can be certain I will come up with something.”

“Until you do, then I shall keep to my present course.”

“Which is?”

“Keeping my stallion to myself,” she said, “using whatever means are necessary.”

“We stallions also appreciate specificity.”

“Do you now?” she said, and very lightly trailed her fingers up his thigh. She felt his muscles tense, heard his sharp intake of breath.

“Perhaps,” she said, “this stallion will shortly be too exhausted to leave his pasture.”

“I will do just as I please, Byrony.”

“So shall I, Brent. So shall I.”

“You’d best remove your hand, else I’ll take you right here.”

She laughed, and with great concentration straightened her bonnet. He gave her a black look as she began to hum, as if she hadn’t a care in the whole damned world.

Brent fully intended to make love to her until she was utterly exhausted when they returned, but it was not to be.

Caesar met him outside. “It looks important, Brent,” he said.

Brent took the wrinkled envelope and stared down at it. “Oh no,” he said.

“What is it, Brent?” Byrony asked.

“A letter, and not from my brother, Drew. It’s from my father’s lawyer in Natchez.” His hand was trembling; he couldn’t seem to control it. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the neatly scripted two pages.

Byrony watched his hands clench, watched the myriad expressions on his expressive face. She heard him curse very explicitly and very quietly.

He turned to walk away from her, but she grabbed his arm. “What is it, Brent?”

“My father’s dead, and of all the insane things, he’s made me his heir.”

“Why shouldn’t you be your father’s heir?”

Byrony followed her husband into the sitting room and firmly closed the door behind her. He looked utterly abstracted. She repeated her question.

“Heir? I shouldn’t be, even though I’m the eldest. He kicked me off the plantation and out of his life nine years ago.”

“Would you like a brandy, Brent?”

“Yes.”

She handed him a liberal dose and turned away to remove her pelisse and bonnet. She said over her shoulder, “Why did he do that?”

“Because he caught me in bed fucking his wife.”

Byrony felt as though someone had slammed a fist into her stomach. She turned incredulous eyes to his face. “What?”

“I was eighteen, Laurel was only twenty-two. She wanted me and had me, for what it was worth in those days. My father came in, quite unexpectedly, of course.” Unconsciously he rubbed the scar along his cheek.

So it had been his father who had punished him, she thought. Nine years, Maggie had told her, nine years completely on his own.

“But you were only eighteen. What about your stepmother? Did your father kick her out?”

Brent laughed, waving the letter at her. “That’s the irony of it, sweetheart. I was gallant at eighteen, so gallant that I took the blame for that fiasco. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. It would have spared my father later. Evidently he, poor besotted fool, finally realized that she’d only married him for money and position. He’s given me the plantation, Wakehurst, and also left me Laurel’s trustee. In other words, I will control all the money. I do wonder just how she feels about this.”

“What about your brother, Drew?”

“Father left him quite a bit of money in his own right, in addition to what our mother left him upon her death. Drew’s twenty-six now, and an artist. He lives in a bachelor apartment near the main house and has for over two years. When I was removed from my home nine years ago, Drew was readying to leave for Paris, to study art there. Actually, the only contact I’ve had over the years with my former home has been an occasional letter from my brother. Lord only knows what he thinks about all this.” Brent stopped abruptly, downed the remainder of his brandy, and eased into his chair. “Byrony, I’ve got to go back. The lawyers can’t do anything without me.”

“Then we will go,” she said, her voice brisk.

“We?”

“Of course. Unless you don’t want to go back.”

“It appears I have no choice in the matter. It’s my intention, however, to sell the plantation.” But it sounded to Byrony as if he were hesitant.

“It was your home for eighteen years, Brent.”

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I know. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t missed it over the years. It’s a beautiful, graceful old place, Byrony, just south of Natchez, quite near the Mississippi, and just north of the Louisiana border. My grandfather built it before the turn of the century. There’s quite a bit of Spanish influence, of course.”

“Please tell me more about it.”

“The slaves. When I left nine years ago, there were more than five hundred Negroes at Wakehurst.”

“Doing what, for heaven’s sake? It sounds like a small army.”

“The majority are field hands, backbreaking work in the cotton fields from dawn to dusk, and there are artisans—blacksmiths, coopers, bricklayers, carpenters—and of course, house slaves, well over two dozen waiting on the white folk. Mammy Bath, old and wrinkled as a prune, was like a second mother to me. At Wakehurst, their existence was better than at most other plantations. That is to say, they got two meals a day, had a hospital of sorts, and for infractions could only receive twelve lashes from the overseer, or the head driver, a slave also, but a more intelligent one. Had I stayed, I probably wouldn’t have given it a great deal of thought. It’s simply a way of life, you see, and an economic necessity. But now—I don’t know if I could stomach seeing it again.” He laughed. “Now I’m the
massa
, and you, my dear, would be the
missis
.”

“Free them,” Byrony said without hesitation.

“To do what? They’re ignorant, appallingly so, thanks to the white man. Oh, hell, maybe you’re right. As for dear Laurel—”

“If nothing else, dear Laurel had excellent taste in men. But I don’t think it quite fair for her to seduce an eighteen-year-old boy.”
And, as a result, make you so distrustful of women. Make you so distrustful of me.
Byrony couldn’t wait to meet Laurel. She wanted to take the bullwhip to her.

“Lord, you’re probably right, but I was a horny little goat. I had my first taste of sex when I was fourteen, and was the scourge of the county by the time I was seventeen. Hell, I even bedded a couple of young Negro girls. Every man did it, you see, every white man, that is. The ladies called me the
enfant terrible
, and giggled behind their gloves. My father was quite proud of me, I think, until that day. Now you know my rather reprehensible past, Byrony, at least how it all got started.”

She grinned at him. “On the way to Natchez, you can tell me the really reprehensible parts, as in what you’ve done during the past nine years. Have the ladies called you
homme terrible
?”

“I imagine that some of them did. But no matter now. Are you certain you wish to go back with me, Byrony?”

“You did promise me a honeymoon, you know.”

“What about the whip?”

“My constant companion,” she said. “I’m sorry about your father, Brent.”

“So am I. I don’t know why he didn’t write to me himself before he died. I would have come back.”

“I suspect it probably had something to do with pride.”

He twisted around to look at her. “You’re pretty smart, you know that?”

“I bought a whip, didn’t I?”

 

The next evening, the Hammonds, dressed formally, arrived at the Saxtons’ home for dinner. Horace and Agatha Newton were there, as well as Saint Morris and Tony Dawson.

“How lovely you look, Byrony,” said Chauncey, giving her a brief hug. “Del is delighted you came. He told me he’s forgotten how a normal woman is supposed to look. I think he wants to add me to his shipping line.”

“You look noble, Chauncey,” Brent said, “a clipper, perhaps, under a sail of blue silk.”

“Tony’s my dinner partner?” Saint said to Del as they strolled into the dining room.

“Sorry, old man. Bear up. Tony here can be quite amusing when the muse strikes him.”

“Chauncey isn’t due for another month. I wonder you invited me at all.”

“She’s so big, I’d forgotten,” Del said. “Excuse me, Saint, but you can’t compete with this vision.” Del turned to Byrony, who was seated at his right. “The gold silk becomes you, my dear. As for this village idiot,” he continued at Brent, “I’m delighted he isn’t dead. I heard about your fight.”

“Just a mild difference of opinion,” Brent said easily. “Actually, it wouldn’t have mattered if that other fellow ever had the same opinion. In fact, I don’t even remember any opinions being exchanged.”

“Nothing like a good fight to reaffirm your manhood,” Byrony said to Chauncey and Agatha.

Agatha sent a fond look toward her husband. “The days aren’t too far past when Horace got drunk to the gills and raised a little hell.”

“Poor Saint,” said Byrony. “I don’t know how you manage to keep your male image intact. You’re too large for anyone to want to fight you.”

“The good missionaries used to tell me that God always balanced the scales. A huge fellow like myself is gentle as a lamb. It’s only the scrawny little ones, like Brent, who are constantly trying to prove themselves.”

“Missionaries?” Brent said, quirking a dark brow. “Where the devil did you find that sort?”

“On a little island called Maui. It’s part of the Hawaiian Islands in the Pacific. I was a doctor on a whaler. When I first traveled to the main town on Maui, Lahaina, I decided to stay for a while. It’s a constant battle between the missionaries and the sailors.”

“I say, Saint,” Tony said, “I didn’t know about that. A great story for the
Alta
, I think. What do you say? All the gory details?”

“Later, my boy, later. There are ladies present.”

Byrony turned to say something to Chauncey, but she seemed lost in thought.

It was Agatha who drew Chauncey’s attention. “My dear, what is to be the name of this prince or princess?”

“How about Beauregard Saxton?” Tony said.

“Or Percival?” said Brent. “After the fellow who was supposed to be my bartender but didn’t show up. We mustn’t forget he’ll be half English.”

“Actually,” Chauncey said, “we can’t agree on a name. Del is digging in his heels and simply won’t be reasonable.”

Saint said, “What is this? What name do you want, Del?”

Delaney shook his head, and calmly continued eating his baked chicken.

“This is ginger, isn’t it?” Brent asked. At Delaney’s nodding grin, he added, “Amazing. Never a predictable moment in this house.” He said to his wife, “I think I’m beginning to like it when things aren’t just as one expects them to be.”

“They will continue not to be what you expect, too,” Byrony said.

“She wants to keep me happy,” Brent said.

“So that’s what she meant,” Agatha said.

Later, as the guests were all seated in the Saxton sitting room, Chauncey suddenly jumped and dropped her cup of coffee. “Oh dear,” she said, looking toward her husband.

Saint smiled and rose from his chair. “I’m glad you waited until after dinner, my dear.”

“The baby’s coming?”

Agatha laughed at Del’s stunned expression. Saint was bending over Chauncey, his large hand splayed over her belly. When he felt her tense with a contraction, he gently patted her shoulder. “How long have you felt the pains, Chauncey?”

“Since this morning. Nothing impressive, until now.”