Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

I will not let her freeze up on me, he thought, and moved to take her into his arms. She made a small sound of protest and held herself stiff against him. He kissed her lightly on the forehead while his fingers sifted through her hair, easing out some of the tangles.

“It’s a mess. I usually braid it, or Mary does.”

“Never again, if you please.” He smiled against her ear, ignoring the embarrassed thinness of her voice. “You have the look of a woman who has . . . slept well.”

“I’m hungry!”

He stood back to look down into her face, not releasing her from the circle of his arm. “True,” he said sadly. “I didn’t see to your hunger properly last night.”

“You are speaking nonsense, Del,” she said, and pushed her hands against his chest. He was wearing a white shirt, open over his chest, and a pair of black trousers. His feet were bare.

“Always,” he said, his light brown eyes taking on the familiar teasing gleam. “Anything to ease you, love.”

She felt the dried stickiness on her thighs and flushed, annoyed with herself. “I have to . . . that is, I must go to . . .”

“Ah, certainly.” He released her and watched her hurry behind the screen on the far side of the room. “Lin brought you fresh water while you were still sleeping,” he called after her. He would ha

ve enjoyed bathing his seed and her virgin blood from her himself, but he wisely refrained from calling out that suggestion. He sat down beside the table and set himself to drinking the hot coffee.

Chauncey gasped, stared down at herself, her eyes wide with fear. Dried blood covered her inner thighs. Her blood! He had hurt her, killed her! She cried out, unable to help herself.

“Chauncey! Lord, what’s the matter?” He strode across the room, only to halt abruptly as he came around the dressing screen, and stared at her. She was clutching the bed gown to the front of her, and her eyes were wild with fear. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No,” she gasped. “You did it! I don’t understand. I don’t hurt, but all the blood!” She clutched the gown closer, not knowing what to do.

He wanted to laugh at her ignorance, but her obvious fear smote him. “It’s all right,” he said gently, walking slowly toward her. “It’s but your virgin blood, love, nothing more. It’s very natural the first time, when your maidenhead is ruptured. I promise it won’t happen again.”

She shuddered with relief, then felt ready to sink with mortification. “I . . . I didn’t know,” she stammered, feeling like an utter fool. “No one ever told me that this would happen.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” he said, his voice pitched low to soothe her. Damn, he thought, he should have told her what to expect, but it simply hadn’t occurred to him that she would be so appallingly ignorant. “Would you like me to help you, Chauncey?”

She shook her head, mute. Did he really expect her to say yes? To strip naked in front of him and let him bathe her? She shuddered at the image that came to her mind. “Please, just leave,” she muttered, her voice tight.

Delaney returned to the table and sat down again. He rubbed his hand over his brow. Damn him for a fool. He shouldn’t have left her to discover the blood for herself. He glanced over at the bed and saw more evidence of her virginity, dark splotches of blood stark against the white sheet.

“Chauncey,” he called out, “are you all right?”

“Yes, certainly.”

Ah, no more fear, he thought, amusement lacing his relief. Her voice was firm and aggressive, as if she expected him to make sport of her, and was ready to give as good as she got. He reluctantly gave up on the very pleasant notion of making love to her this morning . . . and this afternoon . . . Well, perhaps this evening . . .

“Ah,” he mused aloud, “the endless responsibilities of a new husband.”

“What does that mean?”

Delaney grinned up at her militant expression. “Sit down, Chauncey, and try one of these delicious croissants. Lin fetched them from the French bakery on Kearny especially for you.”

He watched her ease into the chair opposite him and reach for a croissant and butter. “You weren’t in the wrong, Chauncey,” he said, unable to keep the teasing gleam from his eyes. “There’s no need to become all sorts of defensive and mount an attack on my poor self.”

She took a vicious bite from the flaky croissant, swallowed it before she should have, and choked.

“Here, love,” he said, laughter lurking in his voice as he handed her a glass of orange juice.

Chauncey glared at him over the rim of the glass. When she got her breath, she said more calmly, “You have the knack of making me feel like a fool.”

“I?” He raised a mobile brow at her.

“You,” she said firmly. “Now, tell me what you meant by that obnoxious thing you said.”