Wild Star (35 page)

She turned on her side to face him and touched him. He was hard and warm, and she stroked the length of him. “Brent,” she whispered, her voice soft and desperate. “Please.”

She felt his finger ease inside her and tightened her own fingers around him. To her delight, he groaned, pushing against her. His fingers found her again and she lurched against him, arching her back. “That’s it, love. I want you to burst with pleasure just as I will inside you. I want to feel you do it, and admit to yourself that no other man could ever make you feel thus.”

She wanted to ask him if he would admit that no other woman could please him as she did, but his words sent her reeling, and she wasn’t aware of anything save the intense wash of sensation that made her cry out. But Brent was. He watched her closely, felt her body surge in climax, and knew such pleasure at her release that it frightened him. “Byrony,” he said. He quickly drew her beneath him and came into her.

“I can feel you.” Her body continued to convulse in small shocks of pleasure. “I can feel you inside me.” He arched upward, moaning deeply, and she felt his seed.

She wrapped her arms tightly around his back, buried her face against his shoulder.

Brent was still hard inside her. Her words had made him crazy. Suddenly her soft keening words, other words, crystallized in his mind. It was her pleasure that made her say them, he thought. He eased onto his side, bringing her with him. He remained deep inside her. He stroked her hair away from her face, still telling himself silently that she hadn’t meant those words. “Byrony,” he asked against her temple, unable to help himself, “did you mean what you said?”

She nestled closer against him, lightly rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

He pressed his hand against her buttocks, keeping her close. “Did you?”

She was asleep.

He drew a deep breath. I’m a fool, he thought. How could she possibly love him? He’d been her escape, that was all. He’d taught her woman’s pleasure, that was all. Passion made people say things they didn’t mean. He, of all people, knew that. No, she couldn’t have really meant to say it. She couldn’t really love him. Jesus, he’d certainly given her no reason to. He didn’t want her to. He felt her thigh move over his belly. No, he didn’t want that kind of feeling from her. But he did, of course.

Brent seated himself at his father’s desk, a huge oak affair that he remembered so well from his childhood. His father had looked larger than life seated behind that desk, with its neat piles of important-looking papers, the inkstand of black onyx, the gold antique French clock. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back in the well-worn leather chair, remembering.

“I trust you and your brother will treat your new mother with proper respect, my boy.”

By turns cocky and sullen, Brent had said, “Hardly a mother, sir. My mother is dead.” If his father wanted a girl who was only four years older than his elder son, what could he say? He wanted to demand why his father had married the bit of fluff, but wisely he didn’t.

“Yes, your dear mother is dead. For five long years now.” Avery Hammond sighed, stroking his fingers over his thick side whiskers. “I’ve been lonely, Brent, damned lonely. Do you understand?”

No, he didn’t, but he nodded. He wanted to go hunting with Russell Longston from a neighboring plantation.

Brent, startled from his memories by a knock on the library door, quickly rose behind the desk. “Come in,” he said. He wondered now, pain filling him, how he could have been so crassly insensitive to his father’s needs. And now it was too late to make reparations, nine years too late. You spawned a stupid ass for a son, Father, yet you left me my legacy. What am I to do?

Frank Paxton walked into the room. He’d used this room before Brent Hammond had come home. He’d sat behind the master’s desk. He smiled and extended the ledgers toward Brent. “Here you are, Brent. The records of our purchases, expenses, and profits for the past five years.”

“Sit down, Frank,” Brent said pleasantly, “and let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Byrony, in the sitting room down the hall, was speaking to Mammy Bath. Laurel was reclining gracefully on a rose-wood swivel chair, her look mildly inquiring.

“I want summer material—cotton, I think—to be distributed to all the house slaves, Mammy. I think it’s ridiculous that our people have to wear wool all year around.”

“So,” Laurel said, “the slaves have been crying all over you. They’d do the same if you gave them silk to wear. They—”

“Also,” Byrony said, ignoring Laurel, “we need to hire a seamstress. The sla—servants I’ve met haven’t the foggiest idea of how to sew anything but the roughest seams. Nor, with all their responsibilities, do they have the time. I’ll speak to Mr. Hammond about additional material for the field hands as well.”

“I should trust that you would. They’re all lazy, whining—well, it’s a waste of money. My husband would never have consented to such a ridiculous use of funds. Brent isn’t stupid. I doubt he will either.”

“If you don’t mind, Mammy, I should also like to meet with Cook. What is her name?”

“Mile, missis.”

“Mile? How unusual. Yes, well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just visit the kitchen and speak with her.”

Mammy Bath sent a sideways look at Miz Laurel. She looked fit to kill, at least her eyes did. “Yes, missis,” Mammy Bath said to Byrony.

Laurel rose suddenly in a swirl of pale yellow silk. “Mammy, have you made my perfume yet?”

“Yes, missis. It’s in your room.”

“It’s about time. Now, you may leave. I wish to speak to the—to Mrs. Hammond.”

Byrony wanted to say something, but she held her peace for the moment. Mammy Bath walked from the room, leaving the door open.

“Yes, Laurel?”

Before Laurel could vent her spleen, they heard raised voices coming from the library.

“I want an answer, Paxton, and I want it now.” Brent was speaking very quietly now, but was angry, very angry. Damned lying bastard.

“Look, Brent,” Frank Paxton repeated, also lowering his voice, “I’m not used to being questioned like this. I sold those slaves to Forrester because your father asked me to.”

The money transacted was neatly printed in the ledger. Brent realized he should have spoken to Mr. Milsom, his father’s banker, before confronting Paxton.

“What is your salary, Frank?”

Frank Paxton named the amount. It wasn’t at all outrageous.

Another thing to check with Milsom.

Brent closed the ledger. “I’ll study these later. This afternoon, I would like to visit the fields.”

“As you wish,” said Frank Paxton. Damn, he’d done nothing more than any other smart overseer. He drew in his breath. He would show no more anger. Hell, when he wished, he could simply leave Wakehurst; he had enough money now to buy his own plantation.

Laurel turned to Byrony after a few moments. “Well, it sounds as though Brent wants to squeeze some more money out of the estate. I doubt he’ll want to authorize any of your precious material for the slaves.”

“We’ll see,” Byrony said.

“Yes, we will, won’t we? Just how poor are you and Brent?” She shuddered. “I can’t believe Brent came down so far as to own a saloon. I can’t imagine what his father would say.”

Byrony rose from her chair to stand beneath the gilded bronze chandelier. “Brent isn’t at all poor, Laurel. We are both very proud of the Wild Star. He has financial interests in other ventures as well.”

“So that’s why you married him? For his money?”

“No, that’s not why I married him, but it is why you married Brent’s father, isn’t it?”

“I think, Byrony, that you—” She paused.
What was I supposed to do? Fade away in oblivion in my parents’ rotting mansion?
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, miss.”

Byrony sighed, raising her hand in silent apology. “It’s none of my business, Laurel. Nor is it any of your business why I married Brent.”

Brent paused at the open doorway. He smiled, a bit unwillingly, at Byrony’s words. She hadn’t been so calm the night before, he thought, and his smile became broader, until he remembered the words she’d cried to him when she climaxed. He’d left her before she’d awakened this morning, not wanting to, but knowing he must for his own peace of mind. He hadn’t wanted to see the lie in her eyes.
If
she even remembered what she’d said to him.

He walked into the sitting room. “Ready for lunch, ladies?”

Byrony couldn’t meet his eyes. Like an utter fool, she was—telling him she loved him. She’d given him unwitting power over her. Am I like my mother? Loving a man who only takes, who only hurts?
At least he doesn’t raise his hand to you in anger or when he’s drunk.

“Yes, of course, Brent,” Laurel said, walking gracefully toward him. “How did your meeting go with Frank? Is the plantation bringing in enough money to please you?”

“We’ll see,” he said.

Laurel continued, “Frank Paxton is an excellent overseer. It’s a pity that you two didn’t seem to be getting along. Indeed, we could hear your argument in here.”

“There are a great many things that are a pity,” Brent said. “Byrony, are you coming?”

“Yes,” she said.

“You have a worshiper, Brent,” Drew said over a lunch of baked catfish, fresh crunchy bread, and stewed sweet potatoes. At Brent’s raised eyebrow, Drew added on a smile, “Lizzie. The girl won’t shut up, so Mammy Bath tells me.”

Brent grunted.

Laurel toyed a moment with the slab of butter on her knife. “If you’re bound and determined to keep the girl out of Frank’s bed, then why not give her to Josh now?”

“So she can give birth to another slave?” Byrony asked. “To add to the profits?”

“That’s quite enough, Byrony,” Brent said. “Drew, I’m riding into the fields after lunch with Paxton. Would you like to come?”

“My dear brother, I will come with you if you cannot manage without me. Actually, though, I’d planned to ride into Natchez. I need to buy some paints so I can begin Byrony’s portrait.”

Brent said, “I’ll try to muddle through without you.”

“May I come, Brent?”

“A lady doesn’t venture into fields,” Laurel said, appalled. “It’s unhealthy and immodest.”

“Immodest?” Byrony said.

“The males slaves wear only short trousers, some even loincloths. I can’t imagine that Brent would want you eyeing his property.”

But Brent was thinking about the unhealthy part. He remembered well the conditions in the fields. There was a chance of infection, and he had no intention of allowing Byrony to expose herself.

“No, Byrony,” he said. “You will remain here, or visit the local ladies with Laurel.”

As they were walking from the dining room after lunch, Byrony laid her hand on Brent’s sleeve. “May I speak to you before you leave?”

“Very well. Shall we go into the library?” She was silent a moment, and he added in a deeply drawling voice, “Would you prefer the bedroom? Perhaps you would have another surprise for me?”

“The library.”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “What is your pleasure, sweetheart?”

“Did you not say that I have the responsibility for the house?”

“Did I? You seem so certain, that I must have.”

He saw the frustration in her eyes. “Yes, Byrony, you are the mistress of Wakehurst. Come, you didn’t need to ask me that.”

“I need to spend money for material for clothes. The servants have only one allotment of cloth a year, Brent, and it’s wool! It must be utterly wretched for them in the summer months. And I need to hire a seamstress. I wasn’t certain if I needed your permission. Laurel said that I would.”

“Yes,” he said, “you do need my permission.”

“Do I have it?”

He flicked a bit of lint from his coat sleeve. “Your request sounds reasonable enough.” He heard her sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Brent.”

“There is one thing, Byrony. Normally, in the South, expenses are handled through the overseer. However, I wish everything to be cleared through me. I do not want you ever to speak to Frank Paxton about any money needs you might have. Do you understand?”

“It would never have occurred to me to ask Frank Paxton for anything. Why may I not accompany you this afternoon?”

“Because I said so.” he knew he sounded curt, but he didn’t want her to worry, and he knew she would if he told her his reasons. “Now, my dear, if there’s nothing else, I will bid you a fond farewell.” He opened the door, then paused. “Oh, Byrony, if you take a rest this afternoon, think of me, all right?”

Again he paused, his eyes searching her face. “You might also think about anything you wish to say to me during your pleasure, that is. I truly would like to know what you think.”

He left her standing alone in the middle of the library, trying to fathom what was in his mind. He’s a man, you silly ninny, and a man doesn’t have to make sense.

Byrony didn’t nap that afternoon, though she thought about it. Word had gotten about that the new missis was providing the slaves with clothes. Several women slaves, so tired and miserable-looking that Byrony wanted to cry, approached her. She was still taken aback at their flow of outrageous flattery to the little missis, the beautiful, kind little missis. Ophelia, ebony-black and so bent she came to Byrony’s shoulder, begged for an allotment of meat for her six children. Shy, furtive Sabilla was pregnant and her back hurt her so badly from the field work that she was afraid she would lose the child. It was her first child and she was only fifteen. Old Die wanted relief from her work because of all the canker sores on her body. The list went on and on. Byrony felt helpless to the point of tears at their plight. To each she repeated that she would speak to the master. She was in her bathtub, thinking longingly of San Francisco and her friends. What would Saint say, she wondered, if he were confronted with all the misery? She would tell him about it when they returned home. Ah yes, home as Maggie, the Saxtons, the Newtons—