Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

She felt him lurch against her at her words. He was trembling, and for a moment she was awed that she could bring him to such a point. Then his fingers became hot and deep, and she forgot everything.

“Let go, love. That’s it. Yes, open to me.” Delaney could feel her resistance. Her mind was fighting her pleasure. When she tensed, unable to control the rampant sensations coursing through her body, he saw a moment of wild fear in her eyes. He forgot his questions as her hands clutched his shoulders, and he plunged deep inside her, his own need overtaking him.

He held her until her breathing quieted, then rose, his body unutterably weary, to douse the lamps. When he eased beside her again, he felt her withdrawing from him. He clasped her to him and said, half in anger, half in frustration, “If you cry again, I’ll not let you sleep until you tell me why.”

“I won’t cry,” she said against his shoulder.

He raised his hand to push her hair back from her forehead. “Will you tell me why you fight yourself, then?”

She grew very still. His fingers were lightly exploring her face, even now exquisitely careful of her sore jaw. Her own hand, for want of anyplace else to go, lay open-palmed on his chest.

She felt him sigh deeply. “Do you realize how very odd your behavior is, Chauncey?”

She swallowed at his question, but no words of explanation or denial were forthcoming. She was relieved that it was dark and he couldn’t see her eyes. Damn him, he always saw too much!

“I suppose you do,” he continued after a moment of her silence. “It is likely, you know, that I would have gotten around to chasing you. But the fact of the matter is that I didn’t have to. You wanted me and made that quite clear from the moment I met you. You got what you wanted, my dear, and now you fight me and yourself. I would like to understand you. I am your husband. If you can’t bring yourself to trust me, then I wonder what is to become of us.”

“You . . . you are not what I expected!” she blurted out.

Delaney blinked. Slowly he eased onto his side, facing her. He held her close, aware of his body reacting again to her. Stop it, he told himself sternly. Jesus, now is not the time! “Just what did you expect?”

His voice was soothing, gentle, but her mind shied away from what she had unwittingly revealed to him. “You are an American,” she said.

“Well, that is certainly true, but you knew that, love.”

Think, you silly fool! “Del, I won’t become pregnant, will I?

She felt him tense and his hand stilled on her back. He said in blank surprise, “Is this . . . resistance of yours what this is about? This is why you fight me and yourself?”

“Yes,” she said baldly. “I do not wish to be pregnant . . . just yet. It frightens me.”

He could hear the ring of truth in her voice. He thought of the sponges and the vinegar solution in his trunk, and the instructions Marie had given him. Jesus, he thought, he hadn’t kept his word to Chauncey. In truth, he’d forgotten all about it. “I understand, love,” he said, gently kissing her temple. “Before we make love again, I will show you what to do.”

He heard her sigh of relief, felt her thick lashes brush against his throat, and wondered yet again if that were all of it.

He lay quietly after she slept, staring into the darkness, this time his thoughts more humorous, drawn to the scene with Marie.

“You what, mon cher?” She stared at him, her hurt for the moment quashed in utter surprise.

“I need your advice on contraception, Marie. My wife doesn’t wish to become pregnant too quickly.”

She burst into laughter, hugging her sides. “It is too funny,” she gasped. “You ask your mistress for help with your wife! Dieu! You men!”

He’d laughed too, appreciating the humor of the situation. He remembered Marie telling him about a woman’s cycle, and wondered if Chauncey were about to start her monthly flow. He counted in his mind the number of times they’d made love. “Damn,” he muttered into the darkness. He’d just as soon forget the whole business, but he had promised. He grinned suddenly, picturing how he would instruct Chauncey in the use of the sponge.

They spent the remainder of the return trip on deck, Delaney pointing out the sights. “This is the Carquinez Strait,” he said. “Soon we’ll be in the San Pablo Bay, then dead south to the San Francisco Bay.”

“At least there are trees lining the shores,” Chauncey said, eyeing the oaks, ashes, and willows. “Captain O’Mally told me how luxuriant and beautiful nature was here, but really, Delaney, look beyond! There’s nothing but sandy, dusty plains. Surely he speaks in comparison to San Francisco.”

Delaney grinned at her. “I suppose to some used to the civilized, tamed, and otherwise cosseted nature of England, you would think that San Francisco is rather desolate.”

“Harrumph,” said Chauncey. She tightened the bow of her bonnet against the stiff wind. “There are so many islands,” she observed after a moment. “Are they all uninhabited?”

“For the most part. Occasionally, Indians and trappers visit, but there aren’t enough vegetation and animals to support life.”

“It is certainly unlike England.”

“True. The first time I traveled by boat inland, I realized I’d never felt so free in my life. It was wide open, wild—uncivilized, if you will. The thousands of gold seekers have brought great change. I sometimes wonder how long this vast land would have remained untouched if gold hadn’t been discovered. Fifty thousand souls now live in San Francisco. When I arrived in 1849, there were but a thousand. You know that Mexico ceded California to the United States some five years ago. Our touted progress and men’s greed will shortly bring the Californios to extinction. Already their land grants are being tossed out of our corrupt courts, their cattle stolen and butchered, their acres taken over by squatters.”