Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

So what am I? Maggie wanted to ask sarcastically, his mother?

“Bring him in, boys.”

She stood over Brent, hands on her hips, her lips pursed. A woman cries and a man gets drunk, she thought. Well, just maybe it was a good sign. He hadn’t gone to Celeste.

Brent was singing, a very graphic ditty about a gambler and a saloon girl. She poured black coffee down him between choruses.

“Now, do you want Saint? You’re a bloody mess, Brent.”

He cocked a brow at her, and winced as he grinned. “You should see the other fellows.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet you won that one.”

“Sure did,” Brent said. He felt like hell and he wanted another whiskey. Suddenly he felt so tired he couldn’t hold his head up. He fell asleep on Maggie’s sofa, snores filling the room.

“Idiot,” she muttered as she covered him with a blanket. She sent for Saint.

“You finally beat the hell out of him, Maggie?” were Saint’s first words upon his arrival some forty-five minutes later.

“It appears I’ll have to line up for that,” she said. “Sorry it’s so late, Saint, but his face looks like chopped meat.”

“Where’s Byrony?”

“Asleep, I hope. The boys brought him here. They wanted to spare his wife.”

Saint began to sponge the blood off Brent’s face. “Not as bad as it looks,” he said. “His handsome face is still intact. No need for stitches. Wouldn’t want anything to interfere with that romantic scar of his.”

“Stop it, Byrony,” Brent protested, trying to push Saint away. “That hurts.”

Saint grinned at the sound of Brent’s slurred voice, and shoved his hand back to his side. “I want you to know, my friend, that you interrupted a very pleasurable interlude. It’s bloody inconsiderate of you.”

“Byrony,” Brent muttered. “Don’t do that, love. Come here and let me kiss you. Lord, you’re so beautiful—so beautiful.”

“Now he remembers he has a wife,” Maggie said in some disgust.

“Now, Maggie, he’s just a man,” Saint said. “A very confused man. He’ll realize soon enough, I imagine, that what he’s finally got is more than what most men ever have.”

“Whatever he is, he’s going to feel like hell tomorrow.”

He did, but Byrony, with new eyes and delighted with the fact that he hadn’t sle

pt with his mistress, merely said to him, “Here is some cocoa, Brent. Saint said the sugar would make you feel better.”

He drank the cocoa.

“Saint also said a big breakfast would help. Lots of eggs—”

Brent groaned. “Please, Byrony, let me die in peace.”

She placed a fresh damp cloth over his forehead, gently smoothing back his hair as she did so. “All right. You rest. I’ll be here if you need me.”

He fell asleep again and Byrony stood over him, staring down at the rough black stubble on his jaws, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest. When Maggie and Saint had half-carried him into the bedroom some hours before, Byrony thought he’d been hurt.

“No, no, love,” Maggie said, “he’s just stinking drunk. Maybe you won’t need that bullwhip for a while.”

“Let him sleep, then mother him when he wakes up,” Saint said. “As for you,” he continued, his eyes searching her face, “you get some rest as well. And, Byrony, don’t you worry too much, you hear?”

Byrony heard Maggie say to Saint as they left, “And you, I suppose, Dr. Morris, are back to continue your pleasurable interlude?”