Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“I will visit you, my dear, I promise. But there’s so much for me to do, you see. Paris is where I belong, at least for a while. I trust you will keep me informed. I swear to send gifts to all my nieces and nephews.”

“I see,” Laurel said. She walked out of the drawing room.

Byrony walked around in dazed satisfaction for the next couple of days. Lizzie was once again her maid, but she was no longer chatting. She looks as dreamy as I do, Byrony thought. Even all the problems of Wakehurst, both present and future, didn’t intrude. She knew her first bout with morning sickness, and was taken aback at Brent’s pale face when she dashed from their bed to the chamber pot. And pleased. He loved her; he loved the child she was carrying. He left Wakehurst in the mornings, and returned only late in the afternoons. When she asked him what he was doing, he merely told her he was trying to come up with a surprise to rival hers. And no more would he say.

She rode in the open carriage with Laurel to visit neighbors. She supposed Laurel was quieter than usual, but neither Laurel nor any of the very charming neighbors intruded into her magical world.

And Brent couldn’t seem to get enough of her. “Your endurance is amazing,” she said to him one late afternoon.

She felt so protected, so cherished, that when Frank Paxton came upon her one afternoon when she was alone, riding at a very sedate walk on her mare, she couldn’t at first grasp that it was he and that he was ugly drunk.

THIRTY-TWO

“What do you want?” Byrony asked as she reined in her mare.

Frank Paxton swept off his hat and bowed. “You could say, my dear Mrs. Hammond that it’s unfinished business. I’ve been waiting here for days for you to ride out.”

“And drinking for days too, it appears. You have no business here, finished or unfinished. Now, Mr. Paxton, if you will please leave—”

He grabbed her mare’s rains as he laughed, a laugh that scared her to her toes. Like a villain in a silly melodrama. No, her father sometimes sounded like that. Before he became violent. This was real, all too real. Her mind cleared suddenly and she stared at him. Before, he’d always looked the gentleman at least, well-dressed, outwardly polite. But now he looked as though he hadn’t slept or bathed in weeks. His face was covered with scraggly whiskers, and his eyes were rimmed in red.

“Byrony.” He said her name, savoring it. “Odd name, but it’ll do, I suppose. We’re going to be too close for last names, my dear.”

“Mr. Paxton, you’re behaving with no sense at all. I suggest that you take your leave. My husband wouldn’t be pleased were he to discover you on his property.”

“You’re right, of course,” he agreed as he swiped his hand across his mouth. “I’m glad that you feel so strongly about me, Byrony. Most women do. Come along, now.”

She could only stare at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said slowly, calmly. “Indeed, I’m going to continue my ride alone, then return home. Now, give me the reins.”

She stretched out her gloved hand, but he made no move, merely smiled at her. She swallowed, thought of her child.

“I prefer white women,” he said. “But I wanted that little Lizzie. So young, and a virgin. But not any longer, is she? You married her off quickly enough to that brute Josh.” His eyes narrowed and his voice grew venomous. “I wanted to plow that girl, and oh yes, Byrony, she would have loved it. A white man taking her, not some stupid brute.”

“Josh is not a brute. He loves Lizzie. And you’re drunk, Mr. Paxton.”

“Not that drunk, my dear,” he said, and leaned over toward her.

Without conscious decision, Byrony raised her riding crop and brought it down with all her strength against his arm. He yelped in pain and jerked back. At that moment, Byrony kicked her heels into her mare’s sides and grabbed for the reins as Paxton dropped them. But she missed them.

She leaned over her mare’s neck, stretched for the dangling reins. She knew she must turn the mare back, back toward the house.

She heard Paxton behind her, and swiveled in the saddle to see him gaining on her.

I shouldn’t be riding at a gallop, she thought, I might hurt the baby. The mare stumbled. Byrony clung to the pommel, feeling more helpless than she ever had in her life. She felt Paxton’s arm close around her waist and lift her. Her first thought was that he’d saved her from falling, saved her child.

He slammed her face down in front of him, and she smelled horse and sweat and dirty leather. She felt his fingers on her hips, pressing against her through her layers of clothes.

“You damned fool,” she shouted, trying to rear up. “Get your hands off me.”

“Shut up, you little bitch.”

She did. If it weren’t for the child, she knew she’d be fighting him wildly. Instead, she lay quietly, hoping the galloping horse wouldn’t harm the child.

To her surprise, Paxton suddenly jerked his horse to a stop. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she heard her mare snort, heard Paxton slap the mare’s rump.

“There,” he said, and she wondered at the satisfaction in his drunk voice.

They rode for what seemed an endless period of time to Byrony. She tasted dirt.