Midnight Star (13 page)

She raised her face and met his gaze. Unconsciously she moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. She heard him draw in his breath. “You are not a prig,” she said.

No, he thought, anything but. “Hold still, Chauncey,” he said.

She watched the man bend over the woman, as though she were apart from them, observing from across the room. Apart from him until she felt his lips gently caress her mouth. She drew back, startled.

“So sophisticated,” he murmured. “Has no man ever kissed you before?”

“Yes,” she muttered. “Owen. It was awful.”

“I dread to know what you did to him.”

“I kicked him the first time. The second, I bit his tongue.”

“Did the prig kiss you?”

“Of course not! He was a gentleman.”

“Why did Owen kiss you the second time? Didn’t the fellow ever learn?”

He watched the myriad expressions flit over her face as he awaited her response. He wasn’t really surprised when she evaded him by asking impishly, “Why did you kiss me?”

“That was not really a kiss, my dear,” he said, a devilish gleam lighting his eyes. “That was but a beginning . . . exploration.”

“I cannot slap you. It would hurt my ribs.”

“So I have you in my power. Doesn’t that alarm you?”

She chuckled and almost instantly regretted it. “Please,” she gasped, “don’t make me laugh. And you, sir, should remember that I have a saint protecting me.”

Delaney rose and stared thoughtfully down at her. He could see the laudanum drawing her into sleep, though there was still a pert challenge in her eyes. “Should I take my chances and kiss you again? After all, you didn’t try to destroy my manhood.”

She flushed, though he doubted she would have, had it not been for the laudanum dulling her control.

“Dare I believe I’ve had the last word?”

“I’m going to sleep,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Good night, Chauncey,” he said.

She didn’t open her eyes until she heard the door of the bedroom close very softly. Slowly she raised her fingers to her mouth. Her lips felt soft, somehow different. Tomorrow, she told herself, jerking her hand away, tomorrow I shall
begin to question him about his holdings. He will show his true colors. He must! With no laudanum dulling my mind, I will also ask him more about all the very interesting people he met in London.

Chauncey, bathed, her hair arranged in lazy curls falling from a topknot, sat up in her bed, waiting for him to come. When she finally heard a man’s footsteps in the corridor, she planted a dazzling smile on her face.

It was Saint Morris.

“My,” he said, whistling, “I feel like the sun just broke through the fog and is shining on my miserable head. Well, girl, you’ll not have need of me for much longer.”

Chauncey wanted to ask him where Delaney was. After he examined her briefly, she asked in her most offhand voice, “Have you seen my host, sir?”

“Del? Hasn’t he been up to see you, girl? He didn’t deliver all these beautiful flowers from your admirers?” He waved toward the half-dozen bouquets placed about the room.

“No,” she said. “Mary brought them all up yesterday.”

“Well, there’s a new batch downstairs. Doubtless Del will get around to bringing them up. He’s a busy man. You rest, girl. Take the laudanum only if you really need it. Don’t want you to become dependent on it.”

“Why do they call you Saint?”

He grinned at her and wagged a meaty finger. “Another time, girl. It’s an uplifting tale, and not one to be told lightly.”

Alone, Chauncey glared at the bedroom door. So the cad was here in the house and hadn’t deigned to come and see her! Oaf! Conceited, aloof swine! She suddenly pictured herself executing a series of daring accidents and Delaney Saxton shaking his head at her in exasperation. She started laughing.

When Delaney opened the door, it was to see his houseguest holding her sides and giggling. He raised a mobile brow at her. “I was only
thinking
the jest, Chauncey. Can you read my mind?”

She wiped her eyes. “I have tried, but there is naught there but a vast wasteland.”

“You don’t see any audacity lurking about in the wasteland? Ah, forgive me, ma’am, Penelope. Do come in. I’m sure Miss Jameson has been pining for feminine company.”

Chauncey sucked in her breath, and said blandly, her eyes on Penelope, “Indeed, Mr. Saxton. After your . . . continuous attentions, it is a pleasant change.”

“Miss Jameson,” Penelope said in a high, shrill voice. “How very . . . pulled you look.”

Delaney prepared himself to be amused, and moved well away to stand by the window, his hands thrust in the pockets of his trousers.

“Do I?” Chauncey said blandly. “It is doubtless all the late nights, Miss Stevenson.”

Mrs. Stevenson sailed to the bed like the
Eastern Light
under full sail. She proffered a tight smile. “On the contrary, love,” she said toward her daughter, “I believe Miss Jameson well enough to go back to her hotel. How do you feel, Miss Jameson?”

“Pulled, ma’am, but only on the inside.”

“Won’t you ladies be seated?” Delaney asked. But not too close, he thought as he arranged the chairs. He didn’t want them to leave scorched around the edges.

“Everyone is talking about your accident,” Penelope said, arranging her lovely yellow taffeta skirts around her. “Tony Dawson, the silly man, has been haunting the house, Del tells me.”

Chauncey gave Delaney a drawing look, but he merely smiled, saying nothing.

“How nice,” Chauncey said, “to have friends.”

“Agatha Newton wanted to come with us,” Mrs. Stevenson said, “but I told her it would probably overtire you to have too much company.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I hear that dreadful man Saint Morris is tending you,” Penelope said.

“My dear Penelope,” Delaney said, his voice sounding to Chauncey’s ears like a soft caress, “Dr. Morris is one of the few competent medical men we have in San Francisco. I do not understand your dislike of him.”

“He is . . . not refined,” Penelope said, tossing her head.

“Ah, that certainly puts him in his place.” More than likely, Saint’s only flaw was not paying sufficient masculine attention to Penelope.

Penelope blinked, uncertain how to take his words, but Delaney, knowing full well that Chauncey’s eyes were glued on him, lightly caressed Penelope’s hands. He straightened very slowly, wondering why he had done such a thing. He didn’t love Penelope, now had no intention of marrying her, yet here he was behaving like an utter cad, leading her to believe herself
important to him. He realized in that endless moment that she was even less important to him than just the day before. His eyes met Chauncey’s. Such expressive eyes; if only he knew her well enough to read her thoughts in them. What would she say, he wondered, if he were to tell her that he probably wanted her more than she did him?

“Lin,” he said, sheer gratitude in his voice, “the tea tray! I think, ladies, that Miss Jameson is a bit worn out. Why don’t we have tea downstairs and let her rest?”

The triumphant look Penelope shot her made Chauncey want to grind her teeth. Polite departing words were exchanged and Chauncey was left alone with her tangled thoughts.

Lin returned shortly with tea and crisp almond cakes for Chauncey. “Do you like your tea plain, missy?”

“Yes, Lin. Thank you.” Chauncey sipped at her tea. “The cakes are delicious. And all the other delicacies you’ve made for me. I appreciate it.”

Lin paused a moment, then gave her a wide smile. Her teeth look like polished pearls, Chauncey thought. “The ladies left,” Lin announced.

“Oh?”

“Mr. Saxton take Miss Stevenson to ride this afternoon.”

Chauncey spilled her tea, wincing as the hot liquid scalded her palm. Lin bustled about, wiping her hand in a soft cloth, all the while thinking happily that the lady did want her master. She was sure of it now, and couldn’t wait to tell Lucas.

Chauncey didn’t curse until Lin left her alone.

Delaney forked the bite of braised chicken breast into his mouth. He could heard himself chewing, for it was the only sound in the room. Chauncey hadn’t spoken above two words to him since he had come in with their dinner. He fancied he knew the reason for her snit, and was amused by it, and inordinately pleased.

“Don’t you care for the peas?” he asked. “They’re fresh from Lin’s garden.”

Chauncey didn’t raise her eyes from her still-full plate. She had formed three little mounds with the peas. “They’re very . . . green,” she said.

He cocked a mocking brow at her. “Green as in jealous green?”

She carefully laid her fork on the plate, wishing she could fling the peas in his miserable face. Jealousy be damned! She was frustrated, furious with him because she didn’t know what to do,
and he saw it as jealousy. She had no experience in the intricacies of men’s minds, and had obviously chosen the wrong way to behave toward him. Did he really believe her jealous? His show of conceit put her back on firm ground, and she said amiably, “You are an arrogant swine, you know.”

“That’s better. You become quite tongue-tied when you’re angry.”

“At least it’s a real emotion! I begin to wonder if you ever feel anything, beyond a joke, that is.”

“Ah, Chauncey, ripping up at me? You behold a simple man who thought only to enjoy your company during dinner.”

“You are so damned slippery!”

“But food is one of life’s pleasures, my dear. I was but trying to explain it to you.”

She regarded him closely and said abruptly, “You’ve a scar on your upper lip.”

“The result of a slippery ax my father gave me for Christmas when I was eight years old. I have other scars, in more interesting places.”

“You would doubtless be pleased to recount your bravery in the making of each one.”

“Only if it would secure your admiration and soften you up a bit.”

I can’t and won’t be soft around you! she wanted to yell at him. Instead she stifled an elaborate yawn and asked, “Did you enjoy your ride with Miss Stevenson?”

His mobile left brow shot up again. “Odd, isn’t it, how I guessed you knew about that?”

“Oh, and you feel I am jealous because of it?” Take that, you cad, she thought, watching his eyes gleam with her unexpected retort.

“Penelope is a rather . . . careful rider. Not hell-bent like you. Of course, she has kept her body intact as a result of her prudence.”

He was toying with her, like a big lazy cat with a rib-bandaged mouse. The vivid picture that brought to her mind doused her ire at him and made her giggle.

“That’s better. Will you share the jest with me?”

Why not? she thought. Nothing else seemed to work. “I imagined you a big furry cat pawing about a poor, helpless little mouse, one with bandaged ribs.”

He grinned at her. “I wonder if there were no bandages which of us would be viewed as the cat?”

The mark hit home and she bit down on her lower lip. “I don’t toy with you,” she said stiffly.

“Perhaps not, but you have certainly chased me about in a grand manner. I am thinking that I should probably collapse in a heap and see what you would do with my exhausted body.”

“That would certainly be a change,” she said.

“Is it difficult being bound in your—my—bed, unable to chase your prey to ground?”

“Your potatoes are likely cold. Won’t Lin be disappointed? You’ve hardly done justice to her delicious meal.”

Delaney gazed briefly at the lump of mashed potatoes, then back over at her. “What would you say, my dear, if I were to collapse beside you in bed?”

Should she react coyly? Tease him? “Oh, damn,” she said aloud, “I don’t know!”

He burst into laughter, nearly upsetting the
tray in front of him. “You are a delight, you know that?”

She felt his words spiral through her body, giving her a brief feeling of utter triumph, and something else that nibbled undefined at the back of her mind. She shied away. “This delight wants to know what you did with your time today. Saint told me you were a busy man. Before Miss Stevenson came, were you involved in business?”

Thrust and parry, he thought. “Actually I was,” he said, shoving aside the table and leaning back in his chair. “I’m expecting one of my ships to arrive from the Orient. It’s due anytime now.”

Shipping! How rich was he? “How many ships do you own, sir?”

“Three. My father was a shipbuilder back in Boston, as is my brother, Alex, in New York.”

“I see,” she said. “How . . . interesting.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stretched out his legs. “Is your question simply idle conversation, or do you want to know if I’m as rich as you are?”

“I’m very rich,” she snapped. Could the wretched man read her mind? He disconcerted her, left her flapping in the breeze like a loose sail.

“And like me, you’re a nabob. One of those deplorable specimens with pretensions to good breeding and good taste.”

“I was definitely
old
wealth until my father died. Then everything was . . . different.”

“Tell me how you came about your wealth.”

No harm in that, she thought. Perhaps such a recital would gain his trust, his sympathy. “My godfather died in India. Some years before, his wife and son were killed in a native uprising. He
made my father his heir. When my father died, he stipulated that all his money would come to me on my twenty-first birthday. He saved me, litterally. You see, I had no prospects save those of becoming a shop girl and garnishing bonnets, that or continue being a drudge in my aunt’s house in London and fending off her son, Owen. I . . . I much enjoy my freedom.”

“If that is the case, my dear, it would seem to me that the last thing you would want is a husband mucking about with your fortune.”

He was doing it again, she thought, utterly vexed. She said stiffly, “America is not England, Delaney. Everyone is free here, including women.”

“I suppose that is more true than not. You are a complex woman, Chauncey. Perhaps someday you will tell me why a very rich young Englishwoman decided to travel to this particular end of the earth.”

“Have you not sailed on one of your ships to the Orient?”

“Yes, but that is not the point, is it?”

“No, you are right of course. It isn’t the point.”

He watched her intently a moment beneath the sweep of his lashes. Her thick hair was braided and pinned atop her head, with curling wisps framing her face. Her bed gown was frothy pale yellow lace, billowing up about her white throat. Even her hands were soft, white and graceful, the fingers slender and beautifully tapered. He glanced at his own hands and winced. They still looked like laborer’s hands from the months spent in the mining camps.

He wanted her. It didn’t overly surprise him, for she was a lovely woman. He had known women
more beautiful, but none of them had drawn him like she did. It was that elusiveness about her that intrigued him. Thrust and parry, he thought again. She would lead him on shamelessly, then draw back abruptly.

“Have you any pain?” he asked.

“Just a bit,” she said truthfully.

“But you refuse laudanum, right?”

“I do not like to be drugged.”

“Chauncey, did your father die of an overdose of laudanum?”

She paled, her eyes dimming as if he had struck her. Yes, she wanted to howl in anguish at him.
Yours was the hand that thrust it into his mouth!
She closed her eyes, knowing that her fury and hatred of him were clear to see.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I did not mean to upset you. I will leave you now.”

He rose and stacked the plates on the tray. “Sleep well, my dear. I will see you in the morning.”

He left her in the quiet darkness, alone, to deal with her pain. Oddly enough, her last thought before sleep claimed her was that he was the complex one, an intricate puzzle whose pieces did not fit together to form the image of a man she must hate. She could not see shadows of corruption beneath his teasing smile.

Delaney spoke briefly with Lin and Lucas before retiring to his library to work. But concentration eluded him. He smiled, remembering Lin’s guileless words. “Missy likes you,” she had said slyly. “She’s a real lady, that one.”

He tried writing a letter to his brother, Alex, but realized after a good fifteen minutes that he
had succeeded in producing but one inane sentence. He cursed softly, knowing well what it was—who it was—that was distracting him. He doused the lamps and walked quietly up the stairs. He paused a moment in front of her bedroom door, knowing he should curse himself for his lustful thoughts, when a piercing scream froze his rampant desire.

“Chauncey!” He flung open her bedroom door and rushed into the dark room, expecting perhaps to see a villainous creature ravishing her. Instead, all he could make out was her writhing body on the bed. Her low, guttural sobs filled the stillness of the room.

“Chauncey,” he said again, more softly this time, realizing that she was caught in a nightmare. He sat on the side of the bed and clasped her shoulders. “Come on,” he whispered softly. “Wake up, Chauncey. Wake up!”

“No!” she moaned, trying to thrust him away. He could feel the power of her fear, and it shook him.

“Wake up, dammit!”

He drew her into his arms, tightening his arms about her back. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s all right now.”

The door to the adjoining room flew open, and Mary, still drawing her bed robe about her, rushed in, her fat braids flapping up and down on her shoulders.

“It’s all right, Mary,” Delaney said quietly. “She had a nightmare.”

Mary drew a deep breath, coming no closer. “It’s been a while,” she said. “I’d hoped it would leave her alone.”

“It’s the same nightmare?” He felt Chauncey stir in his arms, her sobs now dissolved into erratic hiccups. Instead of pulling away, she burrowed closer to him, as if trying to hide herself.

“Yes. Before we left England, she was nearly run down by a madman driving a carriage. A sailor saved her at the last minute.”

“I see,” he said. “Go back to bed, Mary. I’ll stay with her until she calms.”

Mary nodded and walked back into her room, closing the door behind her. It didn’t occur to Delaney at the moment that it was most unexpected for a maid to leave her mistress alone in the arms of a man who was not her husband. “Chauncey,” he whispered against her temple. Unintentionally his lips formed soft kisses. She nestled closer and he felt a shock of desire at the feel of her breasts pressing against his chest. His hands were stroking her hair, kneading the taut muscles of her neck. “Sweetheart,” he said, his lips forming the endearment against her cheek.

Chauncey felt the terror slowly drain away. She realized with something of a start that she felt quite safe tucked against him, his firm hands kneading away her fear. She struggled back, angered not by his holding her, but by her own thoughts. “I am not a weak fool,” she muttered. He loosed, but continued to keep her in the circle of his arms.

“No, of course you are not. Everyone has bad dreams.”

“It wasn’t just a bad dream,” she said sharply. “He tried to kill me. I’m not crazy.”

“The man who drove the carriage?”

She pressed her face against his shoulder,
nodding. Her movement made him suck in his breath. His hand longed to caress her breast.

Damned horny goat! He quickly untangled her arms and pressed her back into her pillow. She was in his house, in his bed, and he would not take advantage of her.

She seemed oblivious of his distress and his ragged breathing. “I’m all right now,” she said, barely a tremor in her voice. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. The dream does not come often now.”

“I was passing your room when I heard you scream.” He gently pushed a tendril of hair away from her forehead, his hand shaking slightly. “You scared the hell out of me.”

At that moment, Chauncey shook off her fear. She was utterly aware that he was alone with her, and she was wearing nothing but her nightgown. Should she pull him down to her? Ask him to stay? Stay and do what? She suddenly saw Owen, his intent to compromise her, and she sucked in her breath, her entire body stiffening, hating herself.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Chauncey,” he said quietly, misreading her reaction. “I would never harm you. Would you like a glass of water or milk?”

“No,” she said, her voice sounding suspiciously like a child on the verge of tears.

He rose and methodically straightened the covers. Say something, you fool! “If Saint says it is all right, would you like to take a carriage ride with me tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I would like that.”

She lay in the darkness, staring toward the closed door. She heard him down the corridor, pause, and retrace his steps. Then he was striding down the front stairs and out the front door. Where, she wondered, frowning, was he going?

Delaney spent the next three hours with Marie, giving his body exquisite relief. But not his mind. He was broodingly silent as he rode Brutus through the dark streets of San Francisco.

“Yes indeed,” Saint said, smiling at his patient’s obvious enthusiasm, “but mind you don’t gallop those horses of yours, Del! It’s a beautiful day, not a whiff of fog. Take her to see the ocean, but careful you don’t overtire her.”