Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

The sound of her own voice startled her. She lay back. She heard the night sounds: the tree branches lightly hitting the balcony, the chirping of crickets. Where was Brent? Was he still with Laurel?

It was warm. Byrony slipped out of bed and quickly pulled on her dressing gown. She walked to the French doors and opened them. The air was sweet with the smell of gardenias and magnolias and roses. She padded on bare feet to the edge of the balcony and leaned her elbows on the wooden railing. The gardens below were shadowy and mysterious in the moonlight. She wondered briefly if Drew were still awake painting. She couldn’t see his bachelor apartment from here. Bless Drew, she thought. He’d been on her side during dinner when Laurel had exploded with fury when Brent had announced of the Wakehurst slaves’ newfound wealth.

Her mind suddenly froze. She’d heard something, someone, moving about in the garden. She strained to see through the shadows. Was that a garbled cry? A man’s voice?

Without further thought Byrony gathered up her dressing gown and raced from the bedroom, along the long corridor, and down the stairs. The house was completely quiet.

She quickly unlocked the front door. She made her way to the side of the mansion toward the garden, walking carefully since she’d forgotten her slippers.

A gentle early-summer breeze ruffled her hair as she rounded the side of the house. She paused a moment by a magnolia tree, listening. Nothing. She continued her way through the garden toward the stables. Her toe hit a loose piece of gravel and she winced. She stopped cold at the sound of a woman’s cry and a man’s low curses. She began running toward the sounds.

She skidded to a stop at the far end of the garden. There was a man dragging a woman onto his horse. She saw the woman struggle, saw the man cuff her as he yanked her onto her stomach over the saddle in front of him.

It was Frank Paxton. She stared unblinking, not understanding, until he whipped up his horse. At the last moment, the woman managed to rear up, and she recognized Lizzie.

“Stop,” she said, running toward them. She tripped and went sprawling, breaking her fall with her hands. For a moment she lay stunned.

She forced herself up. Paxton hadn’t heard her. And now she could no longer see his horse. She hadn’t visited Paxton’s house, set by itself on a small rise near to the artisan’s compound. Would he take Lizzie there?

What to do? Where was Brent? There was no one else. Just her. Five minutes later, Byrony was running back downstairs toward the library and the gun case. She pulled a rifle from the case. There weren’t any bullets. She grabbed the rifle and slid open the casing. There were two bullets.

She ran outside toward the stables. She should stop by Drew’s apartment. She wasn’t stupid, though her rage at what Paxton had done, was doing, was formidable. She took time only to bridle her mare; then she was urging the horse to a canter toward Drew’s apartment. It was dark. She jumped off the mare’s back and ran to the door, pounding on it with all her strength. She called his name.

No answer. Nothing.

As she rode toward Paxton’s house, she wondered if the man were insane. Hadn’t Brent said anything to him? Hadn’t Brent had Lizzie move into the big house to protect her? And what was Lizzie doing down in the garden?

Frank Paxton’s house was a white man’s house. It was well maintained, its white paint fresh. It had an obvious air of prosperity. There was a light in the window.

She pulled up her mare at a short distance from the house and slid off her back. No, she realized as she rushed toward the house, Paxton wasn’t insane. He must have seen how Brent had drawn back from interfering with his power. He must not know that Brent had ordered new clothing for the slaves. He must feel that he was free again to do just as he pleased.

She wanted to beat the man’s brains. She slowed as she climbed up the front steps. Peering into the window, she saw Paxton ripping at Lizzie’s dress. Lizzie was fighting him, and he hit her, throwing her to the floor.

Byrony forgot everything but her rage at what he was doing to the girl. She rushed at the front door and flung it open. The sight that greeted her eyes would have been ludicrous in the extreme had s

he not been so furious.

Frank Paxton was on his knees between Lizzie’s open legs, his breeches open, one hand fumbled to hold Lizzie still, the other pulling out his thick sex. The girl was naked, her dress in rags beside her on the floor.

Paxton whipped about, staring toward Byrony, his mouth falling open.

“Missis,” Lizzie cried. “Help me.”

“Shut up, you silly little slut,” Paxton said, and slapped her face.

“Let her go, Mr. Paxton. Now.”

“Get out of here, Mrs. Hammond. You’ve no right—”

He broke off abruptly as Byrony lifted the rifle and aimed it at him.

“Get off her, you pig.”

Frank Paxton felt himself shrivel. He eased his hold on Lizzie and she scooted away from him.

Slowly he fastened his breeches and rose to his feet. The damned bitch. How dare she—He drew in his breath, knowing he had to get control of himself. Women, he knew, feared guns. He had to get it away from her before she hurt herself or did something stupid.

“I suggest, Mrs. Hammond, that you put down that weapon before you hurt yourself. Then, ma’am, I suggest that you leave.” There, he thought, satisfied, that should put her in her place.