Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Brent ignored Laurel and said to Drew, “Paxton has taken her, that damned bastard.”

What an ambiguous way to say it, Brent thought. He became aware of a roar of voices and looked around to see all the house slaves clustering on the veranda, all of them talking at once. He shook his head. He barked at Jemmy, one of the stableboys, “Go fetch me Josh, at once.”

“What will you do, Brent?” Laurel asked.

“I’m going to find the bastard and kill him. Slowly. Drew, come with me to the study.”

The two men pored over a map. “I bet he’s not left Wakehurst property,” Brent said. “Nor can I see Paxton sleeping under a maple tree. He’s somewhere here, I know it, probably in an abandoned shack.”

Drew, who realized all too well the extent of the Wakehurst lands, closed his eyes a moment. They might as well find a haystack and search it.

Josh appeared some ten minutes later, his face calm, his brown eyes as cold as a winter’s night. “Tell me what’s happened,” he said, his eyes locked on Brent’s face.

Frank Paxton felt like all the demons in hell were cavorting in a mad dance through his head. He lurched to his feet, nearly knocking over the table, and rushed outside to be vilely sick.

He groaned and cursed and clutched his belly.

Byrony heard him and knew time was short. She gave a mighty tug, using the strength of her shoulders, and one of the rotted bedposts broke off.

Frank Paxton staggered into the shack, wishing he’d never seen that damned peddler who’d sold him that raw whiskey. Poison, that’s what it was. He’d forgotten entirely about Byrony Hammond until he managed to lurch through the door.

He looked through bleary eyes toward the bed. How the hell was he supposed to rape her when all he wanted to do was die? His gaze sharpened. She was gone.

He spewed out curses in surprise, and in the next instant he felt a blow on his head. He crumpled to the floor.

Byrony stared down at him and tried to calm her breathing as she lowered her bedpost club. What a pitiful sight he was. She carefully set the thick bedpost on the table and bent down beside him, feeling for his pulse. Oh no, she whispered to herself. The wretched man was in a bad way. She straightened, a frown on her face. What was she to do? At least he was in no condition to harm a mosquito. It took all her strength, but she managed to pull him to the bed. She shoved and heaved until he was sprawled on his back. She stepped back to think. She must get Brent. But Brent would probably kill him. He was a miserable excuse for a man, but she didn’t want to see him dead.

There was a lump on the side of his head the size of an egg now from her blow. “Stupid man,” she said.

There was no choice. She had to go for help.

She pulled a blanket over him and left the shack.

Brent gazed about at the three different groups of men in the search party. But it was getting late, soon it would be dark. He felt rage sear through him as he again saw Paxton’s words in his mind.

Suddenly one of the blacks let out a shout.

Brent turned from Josh to see Byrony riding like a wild woman toward him. She nearly jumped into his arms before she’d stopped the horse. He caught her, holding her so tightly that she thought her ribs would crack. “I’m all right,” she said over and over against his shoulder.

He eased his death grip on her and became aware of her appearance. Her hair was flying about her face and down her back. Her riding habit was dirty and ripped. He felt his blood run cold.

“Byrony,” he said.

“I’m all right, Brent,” she said, seeing the shock in his eyes. “I’m all right, I swear it.”

“Where is Paxton?” Drew asked.

“How did you know about Paxton?” she asked.

“He was obliging enough to send me a note attached to your mare’s saddle. He said he’d raped you.”

“Poor stupid man,” Byrony said.

“What?”

Never had Byrony heard such outrage in one word. “He didn’t touch me, Brent,” she said.

“How the hell did you get away from him?”