Wild Star (6 page)

“I should too,” Ira said, and moved to stand beside her. “Like to stay on deck and admire everything, that is. Our fellow passengers aren’t as hardy as we are. At least it’s quiet and peaceful now.” He made no move to touch her.

Her mother’s hesitant words of a few hours before flashed through her mind, and her terror grew. “Byrony, love, Ira is a good man. He won’t be rough with you. Just close your eyes and lie very still. Let him do as he wishes. It will be over soon enough.”

She’d wanted to yell at her mother, “If I don’t lie still, will he beat me?” But she’d said nothing. He was her husband, and he owned her. She wasn’t stupid; it was the way of the world where women were concerned. Only Aunt Ida hadn’t been owned because she’d had enough money to keep her independence, until her death. She hadn’t needed a man to support her. Did everything have to revolve around money? Silly question. In her case, Madison DeWitt’s lust for money had determined the course of her life.

She remembered her father’s words, ugly, obscene words, spoken to her in a low, leering voice before she’d left his home forever.

“If you have any sense at all, girl,” he’d said, “you’ll pretend to virginity. Cry out a bit when he takes you. I don’t want you thrown back to me like a discarded piece of garbage. Praise the saints you’re not carrying that greaser’s bastard.”

She stared at him a long moment, hatred welling up in her. “You are a filthy-minded old man,” she said coldly.

He raised his hand, glanced quickly around, and reluctantly lowered it.

“No,” she told him, drawing herself up very straight, “you’ll never strike me again.”

“Watch your mouth, girl,” he said, “or—”

“Or you’ll what? How about admitting the truth? Announce to the world that you sold me? That since you’re incapable of earning an honest dollar, you must have another man support you?”

“You worthless little slut!”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Worthless? Come, what an uncharitable and untrue thing to say.”

“You just make sure you keep your new husband happy, girl.”

“Or he’ll stop sending you money? Now, there’s a thought.” She struck what she hoped was an insolent pose. His heavy jowls quivered with rage, but Ira was coming toward them and he could say nothing more.

She thought now that she shouldn’t have enraged him. He might take it out on her mother. But no, he’d already drunk so much by the time she and Ira had left, he would be snoring now, sodden with whiskey. And he now had money.

“Our wedding was just as I wished it to be—no fuss and no gawking people. Private and simple.”

“The parson, Mr. Elks, hates my father. He only conducted the ceremony because of my mother.”

“Mr. Elks is a man of discernment. Don’t look so surprised, Byrony. I know well your father’s reputation, his character. Now you are safe from him.”

“And don’t, I pray, Byrony, feel concern for your mother’s welfare. That is why I am paying your father on a monthly basis. She too is safe now.”

She turned to face him, too startled to speak for a moment. “You are very kind,” she said at last.

“It is just that I despise injustice. I need to speak to you, Byrony, then you may judge just how kind I really am.”

She jerked at his words. “Yes, Ira?” Was he going to tell her that he wanted their wedding night to begin now? She held herself stiffly.

He remained silent for a few more moments, then said finally, “When I met you, I realized that you were, thankfully, a very kind person yourself. Understanding, I suppose. I know you did not marry me because you loved me, Byrony, just as I know you did not marry me for my wealth. As for myself, I am fond of you, very fond, but I wouldn’t have rushed both of us were it not for—”

He broke off, and she saw that his face was very pale and his hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides. She waited.

He turned to face her and smiled slightly. “You see, Byrony, I must ask you for a very large favor, and I pray that you will give me the answer I must have.”

“Yes?” She was more confused than ever.

“I’ve mentioned my half-sister, Irene, to you. I have practically raised her, our parents dying when she was but fourteen years old. I was all she had in the world. And I still am.”

He drew a deep breath and said, “Irene became involved with a man some months ago. I did not discover this liaison until it was too late. You see, the man is married. He lied to Irene, seduced her, and now she is with child.”

Byrony stared at him. She heard the anguish in his voice, realized his deep love for his half-sister. “I’m sorry, Ira. Your poor sister.”

“You are my wife now, Byrony. I know you are frightened of me as a husband, of my making demands on you. How could it be otherwise? Raised by a maiden aunt who distrusted every man, and a father who is a brutal tyrant. I will not force myself on you, I swear it. But the favor I ask will bind me to you, earn my unending gratitude to the day I die. I ask, Byrony, that Irene’s child be yours, that you save my poor sister from a scandal that would destroy not only her but also both of us. I ask that you pretend pregnancy, then, after the child’s birth, treat it as your own.”

“So,” she said quietly, “the only reason for our marriage is to save your sister.”

“Yes.”

Freedom from a man’s demands. Freedom to be myself, to remain untouched.
“How could this be done, Ira?”

How very reasonable and logical she sounded. She sensed the relief in him. “I own a home in Sacramento. I would escort you and Irene there as soon as we reach San Francisco. You will remain there for seven or so months, then return home. I fear you will be a bit lonely and confined during that time, but I can see no other alternative. No one must know that it is Irene who carries the child and not you.”

“I don’t know. It seems outrageous, impossible.”

“I also fear for Irene’s life,” he said. “She is writhing in guilt. I fear she might try to kill herself.”

Byrony looked out over the still water. The half-moon cast silver shadows over the gently cresting waves. Again, was there really any choice for her? Why had he waited until after they were married to tell her of this? It was not important, not really, and she had no choice. “You saved me from a wretched existence with my father,” she said finally. “I will do this for you and Irene. The money you are sending him each month will protect my mother from his rages. Yes, I owe you a great deal now, Ira.” She thrust her hand toward him and he clasped it.

“Thank you,” he said.

 

Brent ruffled Celeste’s soft black curls and kissed her lightly on her uptilted nose.

“Perhaps you remember my name now,
mon amour?
”

Before he rolled onto his back and pillowed his head on his arms, he gave her a glittering smile and said, “I know who you are, Celeste.”

He felt her fingers glide over his chest, then downward. “Celeste give you everything, yes? Who is this other
grisette
whose name you bleat at me?”

“Do French girls remember everything?” He tensed when her fingers closed over him.

“I think it is not at all polite what you did.”

“Forget it. She is nothing to me, a dream, a memory. Nothing.”

“Ha! A dream that lives in your mind is not a nothing. But Celeste will make you forget, yes?”

“In an hour, perhaps,” he said, his voice dry. “I am only a man, Celeste. Give me a while to garner my strength.”

Brent still couldn’t believe that he’d shouted her name at the height of his passion. Why? She was only a vague memory, a soft phantom. He hadn’t lied. She likely wasn’t the
grisette
Celeste painted her, but nonetheless, she would sell herself in any case. To a rich man, a foolish rich man who wanted a beautiful young wife. His jaw seemed to lock until the tension made him wince. He’d pictured an old man’s hands stroking her. “Damn all women to hell,” he said deep in his throat. Was it his fate in life to be drawn to women like Laurel? At least he’d learned over the past nine years to leave them before they could hurt him. Furious with himself, he turned to Celeste and began to return the deep caresses.

“Ah,” she whispered, drawing his mouth to hers. “You are not just a man, Brent. You do such nice things.”

“Yes,” he said, “I do.”

 

Maggie stood in the center of the opulent room, her gentleman’s receiving room she called it. Maggie’s was nearly completed, as was the Wild Star. Everything looked grand. She’d had the girls’ bedrooms done first, and the gentlemen hadn’t minded at all the smell of paint or the hazardous piles of lumber stacked about.

She frowned suddenly, remembering that Lisette was still suffering from violent cramps. She must ask Saint Morris to examine the girl. In fact, her thinking continued, though she was careful to ensure that the men who paid the exorbitant price to spend the night in her establishment were as clean as possible, it wouldn’t hurt to have Saint give the girls monthly examinations. She wanted no syphilis in her house.

She walked the length of the sitting room to the large black piano. She lovingly ran her fingers over the smooth finish, then sat down and began to strike a few chords.

Major chords. Only happy sounds. I’m twenty-seven years old, Maggie thought, and I’m going to be very rich and I’ll owe it to no one except myself. She smiled at the thought of her stern-faced father, a blacksmith, stepping into her establishment. Self-righteous prig. Horny demanding bastard. Her fingers suddenly settled on a minor chord. Her poor mother, every year of her married life spent pregnant until she’d had the good sense to die, leaving nine children. Maggie had stayed until her father had remarried. She’d then willingly sold her virginity to a rich tobacco planter from Virginia. The money had gotten her as far as Mississippi, where she’d spent seven years of her life as a man’s mistress. He’d beaten her only rarely, given her gifts equally as rarely, and hadn’t made her pregnant. When she’d read about gold being discovered in California, she’d known that was where she was going, where she belonged. She’d saved nearly every cent Thomas Currson had grudgingly paid her, and she traveled to San Francisco in style. Now I’m a businesswoman, she thought, her fingers moving smoothly to a lighthearted tune. I’ll never be a rich man’s mistress again.

Maggie looked up to see Brent standing quietly watching her. She nodded and placed her hands in her lap.

“Don’t stop, Maggie. You play very well.”

She laughed self-consciously and quickly rose from the stool. “I haven’t touched a piano in a long time, too long a time. My mother played beautifully, until—well, until she didn’t have the energy.”

“She was ill, your mother?”

Maggie gave a bitter laugh. “Ill? Yes, I guess you could say that. Now, Brent, what can I do for you? Have you come to admire?”

How closemouthed she was about her past. But it was an unwritten rule of the West. Everyone was entitled to begin again, to bury his past. Just like you, Hammond. “I’ve never seen such a fancy brothel,” he said. “Actually, I wanted to tell you that I’ve got to go to Sacramento to buy the brass railing for the mahogany bar. Can you believe there’s none to be had in San Francisco?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No. When will you leave?”

“Toward the end of the week. It shouldn’t take me more than three or so days. Then, Maggie, we’ll open, officially.”

The pleasure in his voice warmed her. She had never in her life really liked, much less trusted, a man, until she’d met Brent. He was, objectively, a beautiful man, virile as hell, if her girls were to be believed, but she didn’t want his body. She wanted his friendship. She wanted to be part of his dream. She’d seen the loneliness in him that first evening she’d met him in her brothel. The emptiness. He’d opened up to her, and she’d known she was the only person he’d really spoken to. That made her special to him. They complemented each other. A madam and a gambler. She giggled. “Yes,” she said, “officially. James Cora will gnash his teeth in envy.”

“Just so long as Belle doesn’t come in and tear the place down.”

“Doubtful. James and Belle are experiencing one of their marvelous disagreements at the moment. They’re not speaking. Incidentally, I’ve found you a bartender. He’s from New York, more honest than not, and can handle any scum who come in to make trouble.”

“Thank God,” Brent said. “What’s his name? How did you meet him?”

“It was Lucienne who bagged him, actually. His name, if you can believe this, is Percival Smith. He’s bigger than you, Brent, and built like a wine cask.”

“Send him over and we’ll strike a deal.” Brent paused, searching Maggie’s face. “We’ll make a go of it, Maggie, I swear it.”

“I know, Brent. I knew we were a winning team five minutes after I met you.” She felt a knot form in her throat and quickly said, lightly, “When are we going to have another game of chess?”

“Whenever you want to taste humiliation, you’ve got it, lady.”

They grinned at each other, in perfect accord.

“You never told me, Maggie, who taught you.”

Her eyes clouded, but just for a moment. “It was just someone I knew, a long time ago,” she said. Thomas Currson had taught her both poker and chess. He’d had his uses.

She shook her head at him and smiled. “You know, I never asked you why you’re calling the saloon Wild Star. My name, Maggie’s, is pretty straightforward, but Wild Star?”

“I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh at me,” he said.

She made a sign of a cross over her breast. “I promise.”

“It’s kind of silly, I guess, but I was riding out of Denver, at night, and there was this bright star overhead. I just kept riding toward it, thinking that it was like me in a way, always moving, never staying in the same place long, free, if you will, and wild. I decided then if I ever settled in one place, I’d harness that star, but keep the illusion that it was still free, still moving, still wild.”