Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

Delaney gulped. Still half-asleep, she was oblivious of her nakedness. “What time is it?” she asked on a yawn. Suddenly her eyes widened and she flushed. She yanked at the covers, drawing them to her shoulders. “Oh dear,” she gulped, eyeing him from beneath her lashes.

“English tea,” he said abruptly, and she took the saucer. She sipped at the blessedly hot tea, flavored with lemon, just as she liked it.

“What time is it?” she asked again, forcing her eyes to her husband’s face. He was seated in a chair next to the bed, wearing a deep burgundy velvet dressing gown, his long legs stretched out in front him, crossed at his bare ankles.

“About nine o’clock. Do I take it that you slept well?”

“You must know that I did!” Memory in exquisite detail filled her now clear mind, and she took another gulp of her tea. How could she have acted so . . . Her mind sought a sufficiently insulting word to apply to her appalling behavior, but failed. Her response to him the second time he had taken her was bad enough, but this!

“Do you know that I can tell what you’re thinking now?” he asked, his twinkling eyes in the dim morning light of the cabin more golden than light brown. “Now, that is, that I know you so much better,” he added. He saw that she would argue with him, and quickly raised a quieting hand. “Nah, darlin’,” he said in his best Southern drawl, “yah’ll just shut yah pretty mouth an’ forget all those wicked thoughts.”

“I can barely understand you!” she snapped, knowing he was teasing her and hating it. But only for a moment. Very carefully she set her empty cup into its saucer and laid it on the side of the bed. “I am afraid,” she said, looking at him straight.

“Yes,” he said, equally as serious as he sat forward, clasping his hands between his thighs. “So am I. I think it’s time we had a very detailed discussion. Are you up to it?”

For a brief moment she was drawn to his hands, strong and brown, his fingers long and tapered. She could for that brief instant feel the calluses of his fingertips stroking over her. Stop it, Chauncey! This is ridiculous! She forced herself to nod.

“Good. Now, first, tell me again about that fellow who tried to run you down in England.”

She did, quite calmly, for it was months in the past and the terror had faded. As she talked, she was aware of his mobile brown brows arching or drawing together as if they mirrored his thoughts.

“You have no idea who he was?”

“No, as I said, he wore a black handkerchief over his face.”

“All right. Now, last night.”

Chauncey ran her tongue over her lips. “Can I have some more tea, please?”

He obliged, and Chauncey thought vaguely that it looked odd to see his strong tanned hand pouring tea from the delicate china teapot. Her thoughts veered sharply again to his hands on her body, and she squirmed.

This time he read her thoughts easily, and frowned slightly. He gently cupped her chin in his hand, stroking his forefinger along her jaw. “Sweetheart,” he said very calmly, “what happened between us last night was perfectly normal . . .” Not really, you fool! “You are my wife and I want you to realize that it is your duty to feel pleasure with me, your husband.”

“I . . . I acted so wild,” she burst out.

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I loved every minute of your wildness.” He drew a deep breath and moved back to his chair. “I think it best that we set that aside for the moment. Tell me again what happened.”

This was more difficult for her, but finally, after many questions from Delaney, she finished. She sighed and leaned back against the pillow, watching him.

“What we have is someone who wants you removed,” he said quite emotionlessly, “someone from England, not here. Your aunt and uncle would inherit your fortune were you to die?”

“Yes, but it can’t be them, Del! Aunt Augusta is greedy and really awful, but I can’t believe she would try to murder me!”

“All right. Tell me about your father.”

She shook her head numbly, knowing full well that she could say nothing about her father or about Paul Montgomery or about Delaney’s now deceased solicitor, Mr. Boynton.

“Chauncey!”

His voice was sharp, and she blinked at him. “My father was involved in some rather shaky business dealings,” she said finally, giving him as much of the truth as she dared. “But he was a good man, a very good man.” Her voice broke. Here she was defending her father to the man responsible for his death! It was too much. She turned her face away on the pillow and sobbed softly.

Before Delaney could move to take her into his arms, she stiffened and whirled about to face him. “What about you?” she demanded harshly. “You are my husband now. It is you, not anyone else, who would have all my money were I to die! Not my aunt or uncle!”

He felt a muscle jerk in his jaw. He immediately clamped down on his anger at her ridiculous accusation, and realized that once again she was presenting him with a puzzle. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “But I didn’t know you in England, wife,” he said with precise calm. “You believe there are two people out to remove you? Me and some other luckless fool?”

But what about my father?

She shook her head numbly. “I . . . I’m sorry,” she muttered.