Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“I said, Saint, that my wife has her own doctor. She’s being well taken care of.”

“Marcus Farnsworth is a damned charlatan. He’s a quack. He knows as much about medicine as my horse. No, less. At least my horse doesn’t kill people.”

Ira rose from his chair. “I agreed to see you, Saint, because I thought you wanted something. I didn’t agree to have you attack me or my judgment.”

“Ira,” Saint said, “I want to see Byrony.”

“No. Marcus thinks she has brain fever. He believes that it’s some sort of female hysteria.”

“Bosh.”

Ira strove for patience. It would be stupid to lash out at Saint. Very stupid. “Listen, Saint, Marcus knows what he’s doing. I’m sorry you don’t approve of him, but I do. He’s helping her, I know it.”

“I want to see her,” Saint repeated.

He won’t budge, Ira thought, studying a man he respected, liked, and, now, feared a little. He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Very well. If you wish it, come by this afternoon about two o’clock. All right?”

At two o’clock precisely, Saint was ushered upstairs to Byrony’s room. Marcus Farnsworth wasn’t there, which was probably just as well, Saint thought. He’d like to take a strip off that fool. Female hysteria, indeed.

Byrony was asleep. A drugged sleep.

Saint sat beside her on the bed and gently felt for her pulse, then leaned down to listen to her heart. Pulse a bit thready, heart sounded all right. Her color wasn’t good. She was pale, fragile-looking.

“What’d he give her?” he asked Ira.

“Laudanum, I believe. I’d hoped she wouldn’t be asleep. I wanted you to speak with her, of course. But evidently, this morning, she had a bad time. Out of her head, almost violent.”

Dear God, Saint thought, frowning down at her, what the hell should he do? He brushed his fingers through his hair, his eyes never leaving Byrony’s face. Dammit, it was none of his business if Irene and not Byrony were Michelle’s mother.

“Tell me, Ira, what does Farnsworth think will happen?”

“He’s hopeful,” Ira said. “But he says this type of illness is difficult. He’s asked me if he can call in a doctor from Sacramento, a man who’s dealt with this kind of problem.”

I’m seeing things that don’t exist, Saint told himself as he rose from Byrony’s bed. He was on the point of leaving when there was a soft moan from the bed. He turned on his heel and swiftly strode back to the bed.

“Byrony?”

She felt a great weight resting on her mind and on her body. It was so hard to keep her eyes open. She wanted only to sleep. But she’d heard Saint’s voice. “Saint,” she whispered. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Of course you are, my dear,” he said, and quickly filled a glass of water from the pitcher on the bed table. “Here. Slowly, now.”

It took so much energy to swallow the water. “What are you doing here, Saint?”

“I was worried about you.” He gently closed his fingers around her limp hand. “How do you feel?”

“Weak. So very weak.”

“It’s the laudanum, I expect. You’ll be well in no time. Then—” He broke off. She was unconscious again. He rose, his jaw set, his mind made up. “Thank you, Ira,” he said. “I think she’ll be just fine soon. Yes, just fine.”

“It is my hope also, of course,” Ira said. He was sweating.

FIFTEEN

Byrony awoke to the sound of voices—indistinct, low, and upset. Her mind felt fuzzy, heavy, without focus. She tried to concentrate on those voices. It was Ira and Irene.

Ira’s voice, worried. “Saint is suspicious, I swear it.”

Irene’s voice, contemptuous, dismissive. “What can he do, for God’s sake? Nothing, I tell you, nothing at all.”