Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Brent closed his eyes a moment. He wished he hadn’t asked. “Go back to sleep,” he said again, and left.

She fluffed up her pillow and leaned back. What was she to do? Leave San Francisco now. But something deep within her rebelled. That was the coward’s way. And Brent had told her that he disliked her so-called whipped-puppy routine. Very well. He’d soon see just how submissive she really was. She threw back the covers and bounded out of bed. As she bathed, she thought he would at least have breakfast before he visited his mistress. She splashed more of the gardenia scent into her tub. Why, she wondered blankly, had he asked her about her monthly flow? She would never understand him.

Forty-five minutes later Byrony stood in the shadow of the saloon, waiting for Brent to come out. The air was heavy with fog, and she drew her cloak more closely about her. Had she been wrong? Of course you’re not wrong, you silly fool. But she continued to dither and argue with herself. Then she heard his voice. She swallowed, watching him walk out of the saloon and down the street.

She followed him, weaving her way through the increasing numbers of tradesmen, wagon drivers, vendors, and workmen.

He walked quickly, turning onto Clay Street. She watched him walk up the steps to a narrow wooden house on the corner of Clay and Kearny.

She waited a few minutes, then crept up the steps. To her surprise, the front door was unlatched. She opened it quietly and looked inside. She walked into a small vestibule. Stairs leading upward were directly in front of her; there was a sitting room to the right, a dining room to the left. She heard a woman’s voice floating down to her, heard Brent’s voice.

“Damn you, Brent Hammond,” she said and stalked up the stairs.

She paused outside a bedroom door that was partially open, and listened.

“You come here at the break of dawn for what?”

“Celeste, look, I’m sorry to bother you but it is important. And it’s a long way from dawn, for God’s sake.”

“Do you want me to stay in bed?”

How seductive his mistress’s voice sounded. Byrony’s hands fisted at her sides.

Here I am eavesdropping again. But she couldn’t bring herself to move.

“Don’t you want to join me, Brent? It’s been such a long time.”

Long time, ha. Since last night.

“Look, Celeste, I need your advice on a very important matter.”

She heard him cross the bedroom. He was going to get in bed with her. Byrony felt pure rage flow through her. She flung the door wide and stomped in. She pulled up short. Brent was standing next to the fireplace, his shoulders resting against the mantel, fully dressed. But it was his mistress who drew Byrony’s eyes. Celeste was reclining in the large bed, a frothy pale yellow negligee tossed over her shoulders. One very shapely leg was bent at the knee and quite bare. Byrony could see the swirl of dark curls at the top of her thighs. She was beautiful, and Byrony wanted to tear her glossy black hair out. Why couldn’t she look like a crow in the morning? Her hair tied up in rags? her face covered with white cream?

“Byrony. What the hell?”

Brent stared at his wife, standing rigid as a statue in the doorway, her eyes on Celeste.

“My, my, what have we here? Isn’t it your little wife, Brent?”

“Shut up, Celeste. Byrony, what are you doing here?”

Byrony raised blank eyes to her husband’s face. “I followed you,” she said. “I wanted to be certain you were coming to her. You were, of course.”

“I want you to go home, Byrony, now.” He felt an utter fool. He wanted to throttle her, wanted to kick himself. “I will be back soon. We will talk.”

“Soon, Brent? I beg you won’t hurry on my account. I’m afraid I didn’t give you enough time to make yourself comfortable.” She turned away, saying over her shoulder, “Excuse me for interrupting you.”

He was across the room in an instant. He grabbed her shoulders and twisted her about to face him. He shook her until her head snapped on her neck. “No more,” he said. “I was not here to make—dally, dammit.”

“‘Make love.’ That is the strangest way of saying it. Let me go, Brent, now.”

“No.” He shook her again. “I’m telling you the truth, Byrony.” Why the hell was he explaining anything? She’d followed him, not trusted him. “We’re going home now, together.”

“But, Brent,” came Celeste’s amused voice, “what was it you wanted of me?”

“Later. Come along, Byrony.”

Byrony gasped at him. “Later? I don’t believe you. Why, I wouldn’t go to Sacramento with you.”