Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“I want you to listen to me, Chauncey, very carefully. I care for you quite a bit, you know, otherwise I would not have married you. You are . . . keeping things from me, things from your past. You can be certain that I will do my damnedest to protect you, but for God’s sake, you must be completely honest with me! I don’t want us having to spend our lives looking over our shoulders wondering who the hell is trying to kill you.”

He had never before spoken to her so coldly. There was no lurking laughter in his voice, no soft warmth in his narrowed eyes.

“I’m waiting,” he said, his voice even more ferociously calm and cold.

“Please, Del, there is nothing more I can tell you.” Her voice broke, not purposely, but it gained her time from his relentless demands.

“All right,” he said, sighing. Dammit! What was she keeping from him? “Now, we’re going to pack our things. We’ll be stopping at Marysville early this afternoon. You and I are returning to San Francisco.”

She blinked at him.

“The man who tried to kill you is in all likelihood still on board. We’ll take no more chances. We’re going home.” And I am going to make inquiries, my love. But Lord, he thought, it would take months to get any answers, if there were any to be had!

* * *

Marysville, Delaney told her, was a much newer place than Sacramento, but already there were a good six thousand inhabitants. Chauncey thought it looked like a dismal place, but the setting was lovely, the town lying at the fork of the Feather and Yuba rivers.

Their return trip was on the steamer Wildfire, a rather antiquated vessel that had been refitted to carry the continual stream of passengers into the gold country and back to San Francisco. Their cabin was small and sparsely furnished.

Delaney did not leave her side for a minute, and she was aware that he was watching her, questions in his eyes. She wanted to yell at him that even if she did tell him all the truth about herself, it wouldn’t solve the puzzle of who wanted to kill her.

They dined in their cabin. Chauncey, who had expected the food to be as dreadful as their accommodations, was pleasantly surprised at the delicious broiled trout. Would the questions never leave his eyes? she wondered as she chattered on about inconsequential things. Eventually she became as silent as her husband, her mind forcing her back to England. She thought of her “Uncle” Paul, of Frank Gillette, of Thomas Gregory, the only three people outside of her relatives who knew of her fortune. But they had nothing to gain, nothing whatsoever! It made no sense, and she wanted to scream with frustration.

“Chauncey.”

Delaney’s voice broke her tumbled thoughts and she stared at him blankly.

“Time for bed, my dear.”

There was no screen in the cabin and Chauncey was forced to undress in front of him. She eyed the bed. It was lumpy and quite narrow. She could practically feel his amusement when she slipped her nightgown over her head over her shift. She knew he was laughing at her during her contortions to remove the shift and keep herself covered at the same time. She didn’t once look at him, for if she did, she knew she would likely blush.

She crawled to the far side of the bunk and pulled the covers to her chin. She closed her eyes tightly, not opening them even when she felt the mattress give under Delaney’s weight.

“Come here.”

She started at the curt sound of his voice.

“I . . . I’m awfully tired,” she managed to say in a thread-thin voice.

“I’m not, and I promise you that you won’t be in a few moments. Come here.”

She didn’t move. She jumped when she felt his fingers lightly stroke over her still-sore jaw. Slowly his fingers explored her in the darkness, her lips, the line of her nose, her throat. When his mouth sought hers, she forced herself to lie quietly. I will not become a wild thing again, she swore to herself. I will not let him make me feel . . .

She gasped when his hand lightly settled on her breast. She held herself rigid, fighting the growing response. She locked her legs together, wishing that the interesting ache between her thighs would disappear. Fool that she was, she’d believed she was hungry! “No,” she whispered against his lips.

His tongue lightly stroked hers, and he said very softly, “I will not let you fight me, Chauncey, not when I know the passion you have for me.” She felt his hand ease beneath her nightgown and move gently upward. “So soft,” he said, stroking her inner thighs. When he cupped his hand over her, she tried desperately to ignore the sheer feeling that was taking over her mind. She arched up, trying to pull away from his hand, but he eased his finger inside her, testing her, probing her.

His eyes darkened in a satisfied gleam, for she was growing wet from his caressing fingers. “You see,” he said as he nibbled her ear, “your body knows the pleasure I can give you. Stop fighting me. More important, stop fighting yourself.”

“I don’t want . . .”

She moaned, shamelessly raising her hips to press closer to his fingers.

“Ah, yes you do. Touch me, love. Touch me as I’m touching you.”

Her fingers obeyed his command. They glided tentatively down his chest to his flat belly, then lower to tangle in the bush of hair at his groin. She sucked in her breath when lightly her fingers touched his manhood. His flesh was hot, swollen, and throbbed in her hand. He moaned softly into her mouth as she explored him.

“You feel like hard velvet,” she whispered.