Wild Star (34 page)

“Well, my boy, welcome home. It’s been quite a long time.”

Brent shook the man’s outstretched hand. “Hello, Frank.”

I’ve grown or he’s shrunk, Brent thought as he stared down at the overseer.

Tough-looking bastard, Frank Paxton thought, his smile of welcome never wavering. “I’ve got all the records ready for you, Brent, when you’ve got the time. I met your little wife this morning. Charming lady, charming. She doesn’t understand the way we do things here in Mississippi, but—” His voice trailed off a bit, because he knew the terms of Avery Hammond’s will. What was Brent Hammond going to do about Wakehurst?

“We’re leaving shortly for Natchez,” Brent said. “I’d forgotten that in the South socializing always comes before work.”

“True enough,” Frank said.

“Tomorrow morning, Frank, if that’s convenient for you.”

“Certainly, my boy. Oh, incidentally, I’m looking for a little black gal—Lizzie’s her name. There are things I want her to do.”

Yeah, I’ll just bet you have
things
for her, Brent thought, disgusted. “She’s been assigned to my wife as her maid,” he said. For a moment he thought Paxton would object. His thin lips pursed and his pale gray eyes narrowed. But he held his peace.

“The girl’s awfully young to wait on your wife,” was all he said.

Young enough to be your daughter, Brent thought. She was even a bit young for Josh, but at least he loved her, wanted to marry her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Brent said, and turned away.

Two hours later, all the Hammonds left Wakehurst for Natchez, a carriage ride of ten miles along the bluffs overlooking the river.

“Did you enjoy your ride with Drew, my dear?” Laurel asked Byrony.

“It was informative,” Byrony said.

“Oh?” Her one drawled-out word carrying a wealth of innuendo.

“Indeed,” Drew said easily. “I had intended showing Byrony the lovely flora and fauna, but she wanted to see the slaves’ compound. She was greeted royally, since she is, of course, the mistress of Wakehurst.” Drew saw Laurel’s lips purse, and continued to his brother, “I understand you and Josh spent most of the night together, old man, talking over bygone days.”

Brent grinned at his wife. “Yes, that and current events, as it were. Josh is the headman,” he added for Byrony’s benefit. “We grew up together. Josh was fascinated by my stories of California. I hope he and Lizzie will accompany us when we return to San Francisco.”

“When you return to San Francisco,” Laurel repeated.

“I thought California was a free state,” Drew said on a frown.

“It is.”

“Surely you don’t mean to free him, Brent,” Laurel said. “Why, he’s worth at least three thousand dollars.”

“True enough,” Brent said.

“And Lizzie. She’s a strong girl and still a virgin—”

“I should trust so. She’s only thirteen years old.”

“Come, Brent,” Laurel said, anger surfacing now, “even though you’ve been gone awhile, you must know that the plantation can’t exist without slaves. And Frank Paxton wants Lizzie, if Drew doesn’t take her first.”

All eyes turned abruptly toward Byrony, whose incredulous gasp hung in the silence.

“No,” she said. “You can’t mean that, Laurel. Frank Paxton is a white man, and he’s old. Surely he doesn’t—”

She was cut off by Laurel’s high, patronizing laugh. She reached out a lavender-gloved hand and patted Byrony’s knee. “My dear, you have quite a bit to learn about our ways. Slaves are dealt with as one sees fit.”

“Laurel is perfectly right, Byrony,” Brent said. “And I’ve dealt with Lizzie as I deemed appropriate. She will remain your personal maid until we leave or until I decide otherwise. She will not share Paxton’s bed.”

Brent intercepted Byrony’s look filled with warmth and gratitude. Did she think she was the only one who found the prospect repulsive? He could well imagine how the slaves greeted her that morning. Petitions, requests for cloth, food, easier work. He wondered cynically if it had made her feel like the lady bountiful.

Laurel said, “Are you certain you’re saving the girl for Josh? Or do you want her for yourself, Brent? Your father told me stories of all the slave girls you took to your bed.”

Brent reached over and calmly grasped Byrony’s hand in his. “Boys will be boys, right, Laurel? Now, enough. Byrony, did you know that the Spanish owned all this territory until 1795? I believe I mentioned that to you, didn’t I? Thus the Spanish influence at Wakehurst.”

“Yes,” Byrony said quietly, “you did.”

Brent continued talking of the different landmarks they passed. She felt again that he’d outflanked her. Why hadn’t he simply told her that he’d spent the night with a friend, a male friend? Would she never understand him? She understood well enough that Laurel was the reason for his distrust of women. Maybe too there had been others during the years before she’d met him. But he had to know that she hadn’t married him to use him, for heaven’s sake. She heard him ask Drew, “Do you intend to remain at Wakehurst or return to Europe?”

“I’ll probably return to Paris. I couldn’t leave, though, until I’d seen you again.”

“I am glad you stayed. So you wish to pursue your art and not become a plantation owner?”

Drew was thoughtfully silent for a few moments. “I believe that I can no longer tolerate slavery. Being gone for years changes one’s perceptions. Seeing a man or woman flogged for no greater reason than that it is what the master or the overseer wants turns my stomach. Odd how I didn’t react that way when I was a boy.”

“I trust neither of you will express those views to the Forresters,” Laurel said. “I should like to continue meeting my friends socially. This abolitionist talk won’t endear you to anyone, you may be certain.”

“I know,” Brent said.

 

“How grand to see you again, Brent,” Mrs. Amelia Forrester said again at the dining table. “So many years. I never did learn why you left Wakehurst so precipitately. A young man’s wanderlust, I believe your father said.”

Brent looked at his hostess, wondering if she had spoken facetiously, but she hadn’t. So his father had kept everything to himself. Brent couldn’t blame him for that. He’d regretted that day so often during the past nine years, regretted his boy’s lust and stupidity. Had he been his father, he probably would have done more than just strike him with a riding crop. He’d also wondered many times what would have happened to him if he hadn’t left Wakehurst. Probably he would be an indolent gentleman now, married, the proud father of heirs to carry on Southern traditions. He nearly traced his fingertip over the old scar, but caught himself. He forced a smile. “A difference of opinion between me and my father, ma’am—and wanderlust too, if you will. I understand that sort of thing frequently occurs. I suppose that a young man wants to accomplish things on his own.”

“I wish our Stacy had your attitude, although not to such an extreme,” said David Forrester. “The boy’s probably losing his shirt in New Orleans even as we speak.”

Byrony listened to them speak of people she didn’t know. She found the Forresters delightful people, thoughtful, kind, and charming. Their daughter, Melinda, however, gave her pause. She flirted with Drew one moment, and looked soulfully at Brent the next. She was quite pretty, with her black hair and her dark brown eyes, but so vapid. She wondered if Southern ladies were all so very pale and languid in their movements. If the weather became warmer, she imagined there was good reason.

“What are you doing now, my boy?” David Forrester asked.

“I own a saloon in San Francisco, sir. The Wild Star.”

Mr. Forrester seemed a bit nonplussed, but quickly recovered. He said comfortably, “An unusual enterprise, but now that you’re home, you’ve a plantation to run. An absentee owner is not at all the thing, my boy, as you well know. I myself bought a couple of field slaves from Paxton just before your father’s death. My overseer was pleased with the purchase, but I wondered why Paxton and your father would sell two such valuable slaves.”

“I’m certain to find out why very soon, sir,” Brent said, although he knew very well why. Old Frank was feathering his nest against an uncertain future. Had his father been too ill to realize what was going on? And what about Laurel?

“Wild Star,” Amelia Forrester mused aloud. “An unusual name for a saloon, isn’t it, Brent?”

Brent smiled. “A bit of whimsy, I guess, ma’am. The star I seemed to follow when I was younger was never of the tame sort.” Not quite the truth, but close enough.

“We’re giving a ball in two weeks, Mr. Hammond,” Melinda Forrester said brightly. “You will come, won’t you? And your wife, of course.”

“It will be our pleasure,” Brent said, and ate a bite of glazed ham.

Lizzie bounded to her feet when Byrony and Brent entered their bedroom a bit after midnight. She rubbed her fists over her eyes, just like a child. Which she was, Byrony thought, shuddering a bit at the thought of this poor girl being forced to bed Frank Paxton.

“Lizzie,” Byrony said, “go to bed, for heaven’s sake. I had no idea you would still be awake.”

“But missis, Mammy Bath say—”

“Lizzie, do as your mistress says. I am quite capable of unfastening all those little buttons.” Brent stopped the girl at the bedroom door. “Oh, another thing, Lizzie. You will sleep in the house, on the third floor. You may pick up your things from the compound tomorrow.”

Byrony saw the girl’s lips tremble, saw the wash of relief in her dark eyes.

“Yes, massa. Thank you, massa.”

“That is kind of you, Brent,” Byrony said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t want her raped by Paxton.”

“I can’t believe he would really do something so despicable.”

“Believe it, Byrony. However, you are another matter entirely. Come here and let me assist you.” She moved toward him and presented her back. She felt his deft fingers working down the buttons on her gown. “I wonder,” she heard him say, “if Lizzie could be Paxton’s daughter. It’s possible you know. Her skin is lighter than usual. I can remember him taking Millie, Lizzie’s mother, to bed. In fact, I remember hearing that she fought him. It’s probably true, because he flogged the flesh off her back. My father was perturbed. He didn’t want her away from her tasks for too long a time.”

“That’s unbelievable. Barbaric.”

“Hold still. Yes, it would seem so.” Brent slowly slipped the gown off her shoulders. She felt his lips lightly brush the nape of her neck.

“Am I truly the mistress of Wakehurst?” she asked abruptly, turning to face him.

“You’re the massa’s wife,” he said.

“Is the house my responsibility? And the servants?”

“Oh, no,” he said, his frown becoming a grin. “Is there going to be domestic trouble shortly?”

“Brent, must you jest about everything? Can’t you see that—”

“Just remember, my dear, that I am the master. In the South, the master rules—everything. Do you understand?”

She searched his face, but he was looking over her shoulders and breasts. She clutched the loosened gown over her chemise.

“Do you understand?” he repeated.

She held her ground. “You’re a tomcat,” she said.

Brent stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed deeply. “And all little female cats are the same in the dark?”

“No, I think you enjoy comparing and contrasting all your women. And I’m just the new cat, one who happened to come into your house through the back door. It’s just a matter of time, isn’t it, until you want to go roving again?”

“Your metaphor is straining common sense, Byrony. I think, if given the choice, that I’d prefer being the stallion. More noble than a ratty tomcat.” His voice hardened, all lightness gone from his eyes. “But since you are my own legal little cat, you are quite in this tomcat’s power. Take off your clothes. It’s late and I want to go to bed.”

Was he giving her outrageous orders because he couldn’t do so to Laurel? The complexities of his mind gave her a headache. She sank onto the soft feather bed, pulling only a sheet over her, and watched him strip off his clothes. Naked, he doused the lamps, then strode onto the balcony to smoke a cheroot. The moonlight outlined his body, the hard lines, the sculptured shadows, the smooth muscled planes. Why couldn’t he be a gnome? Why did he have to be so beautiful? She called out, “It’s a pity I have no comparisons to make. Who knows what I would learn?”

She saw him grind out the cheroot and walk back into the bedroom. “If you ever get the urge,” he said, standing over her, “I will tie you up and lock you away.”

“Why?” she asked, goading him. “Why shouldn’t the cat have the same options as the tomcat?”

“Some cats do, my dear, but not you. You are mine.”

“Does it not go both ways? Aren’t you then mine?”

He grinned at that and scratched his fingers over his chest. “My, but you’re in a feisty mood tonight, aren’t you?” He stared down at her, taking in her glorious hair, loose and full, framing her face. He felt lust and knew she was aware of it. Her eyes grew darker, falling to his groin. “I don’t think,” he said very quietly, “that I shall pull out of you tonight. I think I will fill you with my seed, watch your face while I do so. I think I will stay inside you even as you sleep.”

The words poured out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “You love me then? You want our child?”

But he only chuckled. “I am certain my feelings for you rival yours for me.”

“You don’t know what my feelings are,” she said.

Brent grasped the sheet and pulled it off her. He looked down at her. “Why don’t you tell me,” he said as he reached out his hand and laid it on her belly. He felt her quiver beneath his fingers. He watched her face as his fingers roved lower. “Tell me, Byrony.”

He eased down beside her, balancing himself on his elbow. “Tell me,” he repeated, his fingers now lightly caressing her. “Nothing to say? I would say, my dear, that your feelings are so soft right now as your woman’s flesh.” He deepened the pressure, and Byrony couldn’t help it. She moaned. “This tomcat knows what he’s about, doesn’t he? Many men don’t, of course. That is, they know perhaps, but they don’t care. You’re very lucky. I’ve always enjoyed a woman’s pleasure.”