Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

He drank the entire glass and set it down on a table. “Come here, wife. I want to kiss you.”

He must have no doubts, she thought, no doubts at all. She felt guilty and afraid, but walked quickly into his arms. She tried to detach herself from the outwardly warm and loving woman in Delaney’s arms.

Del was nuzzling her neck, his hands kneading her full hips. He felt a sudden wave of overwhelming fatigue wash through him, and yawned deeply. “I’m more tired than I thought,” he said, shaking his head.

“Come to bed then,” she said, drawing her hand through his arm.

“I’m sure to lose my fatigue once I’m on my back . . . or you’re on yours.”

But he didn’t. Tiredness drew down his lashes, numbed his mind and his body. The physical labor he’d done today on the dock shouldn’t have had such an effect on him, he thought, his mind hazy. He felt Chauncey’s warm body pressed against him, but his desire for her was fading as the deadening sleep overtook him.

Chauncey didn’t move for a good five minutes. She stared down at his sleeping face, listening closely to his even breathing. She waited another hour, until the clock downstairs chimed twelve strokes. Resolutely she slipped out of the bed.

She was trembling as she quickly dressed in an old muslin gown. She left off all her petticoats and pulled on stout shoes. Delaney mumbled something, and she froze. He turned onto his side, his sleep unbroken. She was being silly. The laudanum she’d put in his wine would keep him sleeping soundly all night.

She drew a deep steadying breath and stealthily slipped into the darkened corridor. Lucas’ room was downstairs. Surely by now he was sleeping nearly as soundly as his master. As for the Swede, Olaf had left earlier in the evening. She slipped out the kitchen door, careful to keep it unlocked for her return.

The stables were dark, but she’d studied her route this afternoon, and her steps were sure. Yvette nickered softly and Chauncey quickly rubbed her velvet nose, speaking to the mare quietly. “Come, girl, it’s a midnight ride for us. You must be surefooted and brave.” I’m talking to myself, she thought, trying to give myself courage and resolution.

She slipped a bridle over Yvette’s head and led her from her stall. No saddle this night. She hoisted herself onto her mare’s back and quietly urged her forward.

The night was overcast, with only a few stars glittering through when the clouds shifted. A thick fog blanketed the wharf area, making the air cold and damp. She pulled her cloak more closely about her, careful to keep the hood well over her head. She rode toward the Sansome Street wharf from the south, avoiding most of the still brightly lit gambling saloons. There were still men on the streets, and each one made her quiver with fear. Was that Hoolihan slouching in the ally between those two buildings? No, he was Chinese. But what about the man reeling into the road in front of her?

“Stop being a damned coward,” she said aloud, the sound of her own voice making her more confident. “Hoolihan would have no idea that you left the house. He might even be long gone from San Francisco. Concentrate on what you must do. Concentrate.”

Twenty minutes later, Yvette’s hooves were clomping loudly on the wooden wharf. It was ghostly quiet. The Jade rode high at anchor at the end of the wharf, her high bare masts looking eerie in the thick fog. The warehouse loomed up huge and dark. Chauncey slid off Yvette’s back, afraid to ride closer, and tethered her to one of the wharf posts. Her teeth were chattering with cold and fear as she drew into the shadow of the warehouse. Suddenly she stopped cold, rooted to the spot. There were two men wrapped in blankets slumped against the wall of the warehouse, obviously asleep. Of course there would be guards. How could she have been so stupid as not to realize that? She stood perfectly still, watching them and thinking. She didn’t want to hurt them. She drew a deep breath, loud and raspy in her own ears, and stealthily walked toward the large double doors, her back pressed against the building. Just a little farther.

There was a thick crossbeam holding the doors closed. She stared at it for a long moment, the snoring of the two men loud in the quiet. Slowly she tugged the bar upward, at the same time moving it to the side, in its slot. The bar creaked. One of the men snorted, then began a staccato series of loud snores.

Carefully, move very carefully, she told herself. At last one of the doors was free of the heavy bar. She slipped her fingers into the opening between the doors and gently pulled. It groaned on its hinges and she felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. “Please,” she whispered. “Just a few more inches.”

She slipped through the narrow opening. Huge crates loomed before her, covered with pale tarpaulins, like shadowy ghosts. She stopped and looked about her. The warehouse was nearly filled. Thousands upon thousands of dollars’ worth of goods were here. She pictured the shimmering bolts of Chinese silk, the exquisite vases and paintings. All of it belonged to Delaney Saxton, the man who had sent her father to his death. Her husband, the man who would give his life to protect her.

“Stop it!” she hissed aloud into the utter stillness.

I have to do it! I have to!

Angrily she pulled the matches from her cloak pocket and struck one. It made a harsh sizzling sound before illuminating the small area where where she stood.

Like an automaton, she walked down the narrow aisle to the middle of the warehouse. The match burned out, and she struck another. She held it outward over a tarpaulin that covered some goods on the floor. Her hand shook. “Oh God,” she whispered, “I can’t do it!”

The match light flickered and went out, burning her fingers.

“Delaney.” His name was a soft, agonized cry. She struck another match, willing herself to act.

I love him. The thought seared through her mind and body. I cannot betray him. But what of your father? He died because of this man! No, her mind screamed silently, he died because he couldn’t face what had happened.

She felt salty tears streaming down her face, felt a numbing pain, a pain so great that she moaned softly. But she couldn’t do it. The match flickered and she threw it from her. Home, she thought. She wanted only to go home. Home to Delaney; home to lie in his arms and accept his love. Suddenly she was surrounded by gunfire. Quick, loud reports cracked at her. She screamed, dashing toward the door. She whirled about, staring behind her. The tarpaulin was aflame and bright-colored sparks flew upward, popping, sizzling, making odd shapes before flickering away.

The damned match! She had to put out the fire! But the noise—what was it? Suddenly she heard men’s loud voices and the doors flew open. She lurched behind a large crate and sank to her knees. She couldn’t be found here!

“Jesus!” one of the men yelled. “Quick, Damon, we can beat it out. It’s those damned Chink fireworks!”

She watched the men rush to the flaming tarpaulin, ripping off their blankets as they ran. She quickly made her way behind the crates and slipped unseen from the warehouse. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain they would hear her.

She reached Yvette, sobbing for breath, when she heard a loud explosion. Oh God, no! She scrambled onto her mare’s back and whipped her down the wharf.

A dozen men were running toward her and she shouted, “Quickly! There’s a fire in the warehouse! Hurry!”