Wild Star (31 page)

“Chauncey,” Del shouted at his wife, “why didn’t you tell me? Jesus, you stubborn—”

“Now, Del, if I’d told you, you would have been in an absolute panic all day.” Another contraction seared through her and she gulped. “I think you can panic now.”

“No need,” said Saint calmly. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me now, my dear. My, my, a month early. The little beggar is eager to see the world.”

“Wait. That is, shouldn’t I do something?”

“My dear Del, you’ve done quite enough,” Saint said. “After all, you did invite me to dinner. Agatha, why don’t you come with us. You can help Chauncey into her nightgown. Del, have a drink. The rest of you hold his hand and keep him amused, all right?”

Byrony jumped to her feet. “I’ll help you,” she said.

“No, my dear. You stay downstairs.”

“But—”

“Byrony,” Brent said sharply, “sit down.”

Delaney helped Chauncey to her feet, and held her when she doubled over. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll be with you.”

“Lord, that’s all I need,” Saint said, “a husband who won’t obey me.”

Tony, Byrony, Brent, and Horace were left in the sitting room to stare at each other. Brent felt Byrony’s hand close over his sleeve. “Shouldn’t I go up and be with her? I am a woman, after all.”

“You haven’t had a child,” he said.

“What would you know about it?”

To her utter surprise, Brent paled a bit. “Unfortunately, I didn’t know much of anything. If I had, perhaps Joyce Morgan might still be alive. As it was, I buried her and the child.”

“I say, Brent, what are you talking about?” Horace Newton asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“It was a long time ago,” Brent said. “In the wilds of Colorado. I was riding to Denver and overtook this wagon. A very young woman was driving, and in great pain. She was alone and in labor.” Brent stopped, aware that he’d begun to sweat. He forced himself to shrug. “That’s all. I tried, she tried, but nothing was good enough.”

“Where was her husband?” Byrony asked, her throat dry.

“He was in Denver, selling cattle. When I found him, he’d gotten into a fight and been killed. It was probably just as well. The way I was feeling, I might have killed him myself. He’d left her close to her time, you see, with no one to help her.”

The fury he’d felt, the utter hopelessness that had paralyzed him for weeks thereafter, returned in full measure. He wasn’t aware that his face mirrored that nearly forgotten pain. He bounded to his feet and began to pace. “Chauncey will be all right,” he said, looking upward for a moment.

“Of course she will,” said Horace.

Brent paused a moment, and wiped the sweat from his brow. It occurred to him that this was the real reason he didn’t want Byrony to be pregnant. She could die. He’d buried the memory just as he’d buried the young woman and her baby, so deep that he’d hoped never to remember it again. He shot a look at Byrony, but her head was bowed, her eyes on her folded hands.

Tony began to talk, to everyone’s relief, of David Broderick. “He just gets more and more powerful. To say that California is the land of opportunity is an understatement. Here was Broderick, a New York saloon keeper and a Tammany henchman, and now he’s a United States senator.”

“Careful, Tony,” Horace Newton said. “He’s so powerful, I think he has spies everywhere. I just hope Del doesn’t get it into his head to go against him.”

“Del isn’t stupid,” Tony said. “Our dear mayor, Garrison, keeps Del informed of what is doable and what isn’t.”

There was a scream.

Everyone froze.

“That’s it, love, yell,” Del was saying to his panting wife. “As loud as you want.”

Chauncey was clutching his fingers so tightly they were turning white. “It hurts so much,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t, of course. He met Saint’s eyes.

“Move aside a minute, Del. I want to talk to your wife.”

At first Chauncey wouldn’t let him go. When she did, he backed up only two steps. Saint sat down beside her. “You’re doing quite well, Chauncey,” he said calmly. “Quite well indeed. The baby’s not at all large, since he’s a bit early. In fact, I think you’ll have your son or daughter by midnight. Incidentally, that was a fine dinner. I noticed you didn’t eat much. Just as well.”

“Midnight?” Delaney nearly shouted. “That’s three hours away.”

“This is also your first child,” Saint continued, lightly stroking Chauncey’s hand. “Not a long time at all, actually. Now, practice breathing as I taught you to. That’s it, pant, and don’t fight the pain.” Saint stood and moved away to wash his hands again in the basin of hot water Lin had brought up. “Now,” he said, moving to the foot of the bed, “let’s see where the little fellow is now.”

Chauncey felt his fingers slip inside her just as a strong contraction made her feel as if she were being torn apart. “Pant, Chauncey.”

Close to an hour later, Agatha came into the sitting room. “I’m here to reassure everyone,” she said, eyeing the faces staring at her. “Chauncey’s just fine. Delaney’s even alive, but barely. A round of whiskey for everyone, Horace. Byrony, come with me a moment. I’d meant to speak to you this evening. Now’s as good a time as any.”

Byrony followed Agatha from the sitting room to the entrance hall. “Is she really all right?”

“Yes, my dear. I promise. Saint is telling her jokes right now. She’s smiling, but poor Delaney is looking ready for execution. Now, I just wanted to tell you that I’m relieved you and Brent are leaving San Francisco for a while. The end of the week?” At Byrony’s mute nod, she continued. “It’s Irene, of course. She didn’t institute the gossip, but on the other hand, she didn’t actively try to stop it. She doesn’t play the martyr well, let me tell you, but Sally Stevenson and that snit daughter of hers don’t care. You may be certain that while you’re gone, Chauncey and I will do our best to obliterate all the nastiness and innuendo. I think that when you return, everything will have blown over. Who knows? Maybe some intelligent person might even strangle Penelope.”

“Thank you, Agatha.”

The older woman smiled gently and patted Byrony’s hand. “Everything will work out, my dear, you’ll see. Now, I’m going to go back upstairs. I’ve never thought it reasonable that a woman in labor should be surrounded by men. Lord, what do they know?”

Chauncey felt Saint’s fingers kneading her belly. “Come here, Del. Feel your child.”

Delaney tentatively placed his palm over his wife’s stomach. He felt the contraction, and winced. “Can’t you ease the pain, Saint?”

Saint shook his head. “Not yet, we don’t want the contractions to slow or stop. We want the baby born as soon as possible. I’ll give her chloroform when it’s time.”

Chauncey screamed, a high, thin wail that made Delaney shudder. “Oh, shit,” he said frantically.

“I think we’re there,” Saint said. “The baby’s coming now, Chauncey. Keep pushing. That’s it. Del, help me, and don’t faint. No time now to give her anything.”

Delaney saw the blond mop of hair. Saint quickly moved aside, and watched with a pleased smile as the baby girl slipped out into her father’s waiting hands.

“Oh, my God.”

“A real beauty, isn’t she?” He kept talking as he quickly clipped the umbilical cord. “Now, Del, give her to Agatha and Lin. Listen to those lungs. She’s not too small at all.”

Delaney Saxton felt as though he’d just run a mile. He stood very still, watching Saint speak to Chauncey as he pressed her belly to remove the afterbirth, watching Agatha and Lin wash his little girl and wrap her in a soft blanket.

The clock downstairs chimed twelve strokes.

“Are you never wrong, Saint?” Chauncey asked.

“Never about babies. Now, say something to your poor wretch of a husband. He looks ready to collapse.”

But Chauncey said, “I forgot to ask you where you got your nickname. Now you’ll probably never tell me.”

It was Saint who brought Alexandra Aurora Saxton downstairs to the assembled group.

“I am so relieved,” Byrony said to her husband sometime later as she climbed into bed beside him. “Such a beautiful child. She looks like the female counterpart of Del.”

“Chauncey’s labor was blessedly short,” Brent said, as if in surprise. “Of course she had a doctor and her husband with her.”

He turned beside her and took her into his arms. “What is this thing? A nightgown on my bride?”

“It’s cold.”

“I can guarantee you’ll be sweating soon enough.”

“So, the stallion is ready to mount his mare?”

The hand stroking the nape of her neck stilled. I won’t fill her with my seed, Brent thought. I can’t. He released her abruptly and turned onto his back, his arms pillowing his head.

“What is this?” Byrony asked, balancing herself on her elbow above her husband. “You wish the mare to mount the stallion?”

“I’m tired,” Brent said, not looking at her. “Let’s go to sleep. There’s a lot to be done tomorrow if we want to leave for New Orleans on Friday.”

She moved closer and he felt her breasts against his chest. He gritted his teeth. “No, Byrony.”

Byrony realized what was on his mind. He was afraid she would become pregnant. He was afraid she might die, and he would hold himself responsible. She was utterly relieved to learn that his wish for her not to become pregnant was because of his terrible experience and not because he didn’t want to stay with her. At least that’s what she thought were his motives. “Very well,” she said. She slowly, gently spread her fingers over his chest, tangling them in the soft tufts of black hair. “You feel so warm.” He was very still beneath her hand. Her fingers drifted downward.

“No, Byrony.” He sounded like a drowning man even to his own ears.

“Why, Brent? If you are worried that I’ll become pregnant, I will accept that. But why shouldn’t I give you pleasure?”

Her fingers closed over him at that moment, and he trembled with the shock of it. She felt him swell in her hand. “Felice told me that men liked this,” she said, her warm breath on his belly. He felt her hair streaking over his chest, down over his groin, and then he felt her mouth close over him. He nearly leapt off the bed.

He thought he’d die.

“I love how you feel and how you taste.”

His fingers were in her hair, and he knew it was nearly over for him. Her inexperience and her obvious interest in what she was doing to him were an exhilarating combination. “Byrony.” He moaned again. “Oh God.”

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to control. “Stop it, Byrony, now.” His chest was heaving as he pulled her off him and onto her back. He felt her legs close about his hips, felt her tremble as his fingers found her. “You’d make a saint forget himself.” He went deep into her. His control was nearly gone and when he would have pulled out of her, she closed her thighs tightly about his flanks and arched upward.

“I’m giving you nothing,” he panted. “Byrony, you’re my wife.”

There was a wealth of possessiveness in his voice, and to her surprise, Byrony felt her body respond. She was enjoying her power over him until that moment. She wrapped her arms around his back. When his tongue was inside her mouth just as his sex was in her body, she cried out, unable to help herself. He took her soft, keening wails into his mouth, and forgot his fear, forgot everything but her, his wife, her pleasure, and his.

She raised her face and kissed him. She nestled close, and said sleepily, “There’s so much to be done tomorrow if we’re to leave on Friday.”

“I can’t believe it,” he said more to himself than to her as he fitted her against the length of his body. “Seduced by a very proper little lady.”

Laurel Hammond breathed in the sweet scent of magnolia blossoms as she walked from her small music room at the back of the house into the garden. A glorious day, she thought, neither too warm nor too humid. She walked slowly through the garden toward the gardenia bushes. She would pick the blossoms for Mammy Bath, bossy old crone, to make her more perfume. The meager supply Drew had dutifully bought her from Paris was gone. The thought of Drew brought a frown. He was a grown man, damn him, yet he was so slippery—no, elusive. If she dared question him, he called her “Stepmama.” She hated that.

As she plucked the gardenias and laid them in her small wicker basket, her thoughts went inevitably to Brent. No word, nothing. It had been well over six months since his father’s death. She had to assume that he’d been notified by the lawyers, for after all, Drew knew he was in San Francisco. Why hadn’t he written? She’d wondered so many times what kind of a man he’d become. What did he think of her? Did he hate her? After nine long years? Of course he couldn’t. It had been he who had seduced her, after all. It hadn’t been her fault, not really. She’d just been so lonely, so unhappy with her husband, cold, domineering Avery.

The will, that wretched document. Laurel shivered under the shade of a huge moss-strewn oak tree, and walked into the bright sun. Drew, insolent bastard, had dared to laugh when that pompous, bewhiskered old fool Mr. Jenkins had read it aloud to them in the library two days after the funeral. She’d been too surprised to say anything, too surprised and too frightened. She dropped a gardenia onto the green grass. The fear was still there.

“You must be more careful, Laurel.”

She watched Drew lean gracefully down to pick up the blossom. He looked like an aesthete and a well-bred Southern gentleman who had never lifted his hands in work—slender, pale-skinned, his light brown hair swept back from a broad, clear forehead. None of the look of his brother, she thought, with his thoughtful brown eyes. But of course, she really didn’t remember all that well what Brent did look like, except for his midnight-blue eyes, penetrating eyes, so compelling and intense, even when he was only eighteen. Drew straightened and handed her the blossom with a flourish.

“Thank you,” she said. “Why aren’t you painting?”