Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

When he finally reined in, they were in front of a small shack, a rickety excuse for a house, which looked as if no one had come near it for a decade.

She didn’t fight him as he pulled her down from the horse’s back.

“Ain’t exactly Wakehurst, but it’ll do,” Paxton said more to himself than to her. “Come along, Byrony.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the pain as he twisted her arm up behind her.

The door was hanging on its hinges, and Byrony wondered why it didn’t fall off when Paxton kicked it open.

He released her, and she stood quietly for a moment, getting her breath, trying to think. It was a single room. Rotted wooden planks heaved upward or sank down into the dirt foundation. There was a single bed, a rough wooden table, and two chairs. There were two windows, one of them without glass, and the door.

Byrony drew a deep, steadying breath and turned to face Frank Paxton.

“Why did you bring me here?”

He didn’t pay any attention to her. He walked to the table, picked up a jug, and raised it to his mouth. She watched, her stomach knotting, as the raw-smelling whiskey dribbled down his chin.

He slammed the jug down on the table, then turned to her, a wide grin on his face.

“I brought you here, my fine little lady, to plow you until you beg me to stop. That or you beg me to continue.”

For a moment she didn’t comprehend what he’d said. When she did, she wasn’t afraid, oddly enough. She was furious.

“Don’t be a damned fool,” she shouted at him, hands on her hips. “Look, Mr. Paxton, my husband will be very worried about me. I don’t like you, but I don’t want you to be killed. And he will kill you if you attempt to touch me. Now, I’m leaving.”

“Like hell you are.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her around, pressing her against him. “I used to look at you, you know, and wonder what you had for me underneath your pretty little dresses. Now I’m gonna see for myself. Oh yes, I’m gonna see for myself now.”

His words were slurred, and although his grip on her was strong, she knew he was very drunk. She felt his hands all over her.

“You like it already,” he said, kissing her cheek, biting her neck. Suddenly his entire body seemed to go slack, and she heard him curse.

He released his hold on her and shoved her over to the sagging bed. “I need me some time,” he said, and pushed her down onto her back. Byrony bounced up, ready to fight, but all she saw was his fisted hand. It hit her jaw, and she saw nothing more.

She opened her eyes very slowly, aware of an odd ringing in her head. She wanted to sit up, but couldn’t. She jerked on her arms, only to realize that he’d tied her wrists above her head to the rough wooden bedposts. She wanted to yell at the top of her lungs for help. Then she stopped, realizing that she was still clothed. He hadn’t raped her.

Very slowly she turned her head, ignoring the pain in her jaw, and saw Paxton slouched at the table, the jug beside him, his head pillowed in his arms. He was snor

ing loudly.

She lay back and gave an experimental tug to the ropes about her wrists. They tightened painfully, but she heard the bedposts give a creaking, straining sound.

She tugged again, her eyes on Paxton’s back. She heard him groan, and froze.

Drew ran up the walk, shouting to Brent, “Wait. Her horse just came back to the stable.”

Brent quickly dismounted and turned toward his brother. He saw Byrony thrown in his mind’s eye, saw her lying in a pool of blood after she’d lost the child. Her face was waxen and she was dying. Like Joyce Morgan had died all those years ago while he’d held her hand, watching, helpless.

“Look, Brent.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A note,” Drew said, drawing up beside his brother.

Brent grabbed the single piece of paper. “I already took her, Hammond,” he read. “She loved it. She wants to go away with me.”

It was signed Paxton. “No!” It was a howl of rage.

“What is it? What’s happened to Byrony?”