Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Byrony followed her husband into the sitting room and firmly closed the door behind her. He looked utterly abstracted. She repeated her question.

“Heir? I shouldn’t be, even though I’m the eldest. He kicked me off the plantation and out of his life nine years ago.”

“Would you like a brandy, Brent?”

“Yes.”

She handed him a liberal dose and turned away to remove her pelisse and bonnet. She said over her shoulder, “Why did he do that?”

“Because he caught me in bed fucking his wife.”

Byrony felt as though someone had slammed a fist into her stomach. She turned incredulous eyes to his face. “What?”

“I was eighteen, Laurel was only twenty-two. She wanted me and had me, for what it was worth in those days. My father came in, quite unexpectedly, of course.” Unconsciously he rubbed the scar along his cheek.

So it had been his father who had punished him, she thought. Nine years, Maggie had told her, nine years completely on his own.

“But you were only eighteen. What about your stepmother? Did your father kick her out?”

Brent laughed, waving the letter at her. “That’s the irony of it, sweetheart. I was gallant at eighteen, so gallant that I took the blame for that fiasco. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. It would have spared my father later. Evidently he, poor besotted fool, finally realized that she’d only married him for money and position. He’s given me the plantation, Wakehurst, and also left me Laurel’s trustee. In other words, I will control all the money. I do wonder just how she feels about this.”

“What about your brother, Drew?”

“Father left him quite a bit of money in his own right, in addition to what our mother left him upon her death. Drew’s twenty-six now, and an artist. He lives in a bachelor apartment near the main house and has for over two years. When I was removed from my home nine years ago, Drew was readying to leave for Paris, to study art there. Actually, the only contact I’ve had over the years with my former home has been an occasional letter from my brother. Lord only knows what he thinks about all this.” Brent stopped abruptly, downed the remainder of his brandy, and eased into his chair. “Byrony, I’ve got to go back. The lawyers can’t do anything without me.”

“Then we will go,” she said, her voice brisk.

“We?”

“Of course. Unless you don’t want to go back.”

“It appears I have no choice in the matter. It’s my intention, however, to sell the plantation.” But it sounded to Byrony as if he were hesitant.

“It was your home for eighteen years, Brent.”

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I know. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t missed it over the years. It’s a beautiful, graceful old place, Byrony, just south of Natchez, quite near the Mississippi, and just north of the Louisiana border. My grandfather built it before the turn of the century. There’s quite a bit of Spanish influence, of course.”

“Please tell me more about it.”

“The slaves. When I left nine years ago, there were more than five hundred Negroes at Wakehurst.”

“Doing what, for heaven’s sake? It sounds like a small army.”

“The majority are field hands, backbreaking work in the cotton fields from dawn to dusk, and there are artisans—blacksmiths, coopers, bricklayers, carpenters—and of course, house slaves, well over two dozen waiting on the white folk. Mammy Bath, old and wrinkled as a prune, was like a second mother to me. At Wakehurst, their existence was better than at most other plantations. That is to say, they got two meals a day, had a hospital of sorts, and for infractions could only receive twelve lashes from the overseer, or the head driver, a slave also, but a more intelligent one. Had I stayed, I probably wouldn’t have given it a great deal of thought. It’s simply a way of life, you see, and an economic necessity. But now—I don’t know if I could stomach seeing it again.” He laughed. “Now I’m the massa, and you, my dear, would be the missis.”

“Free them,” Byrony said without hesitation.

“To do what? They’re ignorant, appallingly so, thanks to the white man. Oh, hell, maybe you’re right. As for dear Laurel—”

“If nothing else, dear Laurel had excellent taste in men. But I don’t think it quite fair for her to seduce an eighteen-year-old boy.” And, as a result, make you so distrustful of women. Make you so distrustful of me. Byrony couldn’t wait to meet Laurel. She wanted to take the bullwhip to her.

“Lord, you’re probably right, but I was a horny little goat. I had my first taste of sex when I was fourteen, and was the scourge of the county by the time I was seventeen. Hell, I even bedded a couple of young Negro girls. Every man did it, you see, every white man, that is. The ladies called me the enfant terrible, and giggled behind their gloves. My father was quite proud of me, I think, until that day. Now you know my rather reprehensible past, Byrony, at least how it all got started.”

She grinned at him. “On the way to Natchez, you can tell me the really reprehensible parts, as in what you’ve done during the past nine years. Have the ladies called you homme terrible?”

“I imagine that some of them did. But no matter now. Are you certain you wish to go back with me, Byrony?”

“You did promise me a honeymoon, you know.”