“I’ll find her,” Ira said. “I’ve got to find her.”
“Such a pity,” Brent said. “Her illness came upon her so suddenly, didn’t it? Here is your whiskey, gentlemen.” He walked away, knowing that if he’d stayed, he would probably have baited Ira to the limit, perhaps made him suspect something. He also wanted to kill Butler with his bare hands.
He went upstairs, unable to stay in the saloon. He locked the door to his office and walked through his sitting room into the bedroom. Byrony was looking healthy and scrubbed from her bath. She was wearing his dressing gown over her nightgown and was sitting up in his bed, reading one of his books.
“How very comfortable you look,” he said furiously. “I see you’ve helped yourself to everything you wanted.”
Slowly Byrony closed the book, a collection of Molière’s plays. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being very careful—”
“Just shut up,” he said. “Your husband is downstairs looking the worse for wear, drowning his worries in whiskey, and swearing that he’ll find you.”
She turned utterly white.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t announce that you were upstairs in my bed.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Not really. Bannion did all the talking. You’re a poor demented girl, and Ira is obviously suffering tremendously with worry.”
Byrony swal
lowed. He was downstairs. God, what was she to do? Brent was angry again, probably because he was in the middle of this damnable mess. “I’m sorry.”
“If you say that word one more time, I’ll strangle you.”
“All right,” she shouted at him, finally enraged. “What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?”
“It’s really very simple. I want you to tell me the truth.”
She fidgeted a moment with the bedspread, fighting the need to tell him everything. “I can’t,” she said finally, raising her eyes to his. “It doesn’t concern you, Brent. I refuse to involve you any further in this—”
“This what?” he yelled. “I’m involved up to my neck.” Suddenly he paused, his eyes darkening. “You know, Byrony,” he said, watching her carefully, “you haven’t mentioned your child once. You plan to desert her?”
He saw the flash of—what was it, horror?—in her eyes before her lashes came down. He pushed. “I see that you haven’t spared a thought for your child. You don’t care that she’ll be raised by that fool husband of yours? Don’t you care, damn you?”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“Not like what? You’re as miserable a mother as you were a wife?”
“Please, Brent, don’t—”
“Don’t what? Lady, you’re a miserable human being from all I can see.”
She wailed, a high, thin sound, her hands slamming against her ears to keep out his words. She was shaking, the horror and pain so dreadful that she felt she would die with it. Sobs broke from her throat. She stared at him, unaware that tears were streaming down her face.
Brent cursed, sat down beside her, and drew her into his arms. “Stop it. Stop your bloody crying.” But she couldn’t.
His face twisted with his own pain as he tried to calm her. He buried his face against her neck as he stroked his hands down her back, pressing her face into his shoulder. He felt her breasts heaving against his chest, felt her delicate bones beneath his probing fingers. God, he wanted her. Now. “Byrony,” he whispered, kissing her temple. “Hush, love. Hush.”
She shuddered, even as she raised her face. His mouth closed over hers. He tasted her tears, felt her start of surprise. But she didn’t withdraw from him. He felt the moment she wanted him, but it wasn’t right, and he knew it. But he couldn’t stop himself. His kisses deepened, his tongue probed to enter her mouth. When she parted her lips, he thought he would explode from the sheer pleasure of it. She tasted so warm, so sweet, so yielding.
She was his now, all his. His hands swept over her. He couldn’t get enough of her fast enough.
She arched against his hands, pain, desire, astonishment, all mingling together as the urgent feelings whipped through her. His hands were on her breasts. How could that make her feel so wild?
“Please,” she whispered.
Brent tried to slow himself. He’d wanted her for so long.