Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

When the bed gave under his weight, she held her breath. He rolled against her, cursed long and fluently under his breath, and struggled back to his side of the bed.

The next morning, it was Chauncey who awoke first. She struggled to a sitting position and gazed over at her husband. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward her on the pillow. His soft honey-colored hair was tousled, and the angry lines she’d become accustomed to seeing the past couple of days were smoothed out, making him look younger and as vulnerable as a boy. Without her conscious volition, her hand reached to touch his jaw lightly. Light brown stubble scratched against her fingers. Dear Lord, she loved him so much! But it was too late, much too late. It had been too late before she had ever met him.

She wondered vaguely when she had begun to love him. She could still picture his twinkling eyes when he had danced with her that first night at the Stevensons’ ball, when she hadn’t yet known who he was. He had baited her, mocked her, and teased her. He had made her laugh. She thought of his hands on her body, stroking her, giving her such pleasure, and she shuddered. She had long forgotten the pain and mortification of her wedding night, but even then, she thought now, he had been tender and careful with her, careful not to offend her, careful not to hurt her. She felt a wave of utter hopelessness wash through her, and lowered her head.

“Don’t cry, damn you!”

She sniffed, not looking at him. “I’m not crying.”

“Good, for I’ve given you nothing concrete to weep about!” He thrust back the covers and slid out of bed. He was naked. “You like what you see, wife?”

She recoiled from his sneering voice. “Yes,” she said, raising her face, “I do. I always have. You are very beautiful.”

Delaney turned his back to her, unable to think of a retort. He did not bother dressing until he’d shaved and washed. “Well,” he said, turning to her, “it’s time to get up. We’re leaving within the hour. And wear your sturdy clothes.”

She did as he bid her. Once they were both dressed, they regarded each other with surprise. He was garbed as she’d never seen him: buckskin pants, black boots, and a full-sleeved white shirt with vest and jacket. He strapped a gunbelt about his waist.

“You look so different,” she said.

“And don’t you look the perfect little prairie maiden,” he said coldly, but secretly he thought she looked beautiful dressed in her wool split skirt, white blouse, her hair braided into a thick plait down her back.

“I trust it will be appropriate,” she said.

“Keep your jacket out. It will get chilly in the mountains.”

“Very well,” she said.

They packed their valises in silence, then made their way downstairs to eat in the small dining room in the hotel. “Eat up,” he said. “From now on we’ll be cooking for ourselves. Since you know nothing about it, I’ll be the chef.”

The old man who had been at the counter served them a platter of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a pile of dry toast.

“Yer goin’ inland?”

Delaney nodded. “To Downieville.”

“Chancy weather, I heard. Long ride.”

“A good seventy miles overland. Any Indians about?”

“Always are. Bloody beggars are always gettin’ their dander up and causin’ trouble. Yer missus travelin’ with ye?”

“Yes.”

“Awful purty, beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. Don’t see too many ladies like ye about. Ye dress warm, ma’am.”

Chauncey smiled at him, for his were the first kind words she’d heard in many days.

“Buy yerself some gloves, else you’ll regret it.”

Delaney frowned. He’d forgotten about gloves. He looked at her soft white hands.

“It’s all right, Del,” she said quickly. “I know you want to get an early start. I don’t need gloves.”

“Of course you do. I’ll wake up old Joe Cribbs at the general store. Now, finish your breakfast. It will be the last good meal you’ll have in about three days.”

She lowered her head and ate.

Why, he asked himself yet again, had he brought her? And why did he want to travel overland to Downieville? More time alone with her, you ass.