Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Drew was thoughtfully silent for a few moments. “I believe that I can no longer tolerate slavery. Being gone for years changes one’s perceptions. Seeing a man or woman flogged for no greater reason than that it is what the master or the overseer wants turns my stomach. Odd how I didn’t react that way when I was a boy.”

“I trust neither of you will express those views to the Forresters,” Laurel said. “I should like to continue meeting my friends socially. This abolitionist talk won’t endear you to anyone, you may be certain.”

“I know,” Brent said.

“How grand to see you again, Brent,” Mrs. Amelia Forrester said again at the dining table. “So many years. I never did learn why you left Wakehurst so precipitately. A young man’s wanderlust, I believe your father said.”

Brent looked at his hostess, wondering if she had spoken facetiously, but she hadn’t. So his father had kept everything to himself. Brent couldn’t blame him for that. He’d regretted that day so often during the past nine years, regretted his boy’s lust and stupidity. Had he been his father, he probably would have done more than just strike him with a riding crop. He’d also wondered many times what would have happened to him if he hadn’t left Wakehurst. Probably he would be an indolent gentleman now, married, the proud father of heirs to carry on Southern traditions. He nearly traced his fingertip over the old scar, but caught himself. He forced a smile. “A difference of opinion between me and my father, ma’am—and wanderlust too, if you will. I understand that sort of thing frequently occurs. I suppose that a young man wants to accomplish things on his own.”

“I wish our Stacy had your attitude, although not to such an extreme,” said David Forrester. “The boy’s probably losing his shirt in New Orleans even as we speak.”

Byrony listened to them speak of people she didn’t know. She found the Forresters delightful people, thoughtful, kind, and charming. Their daughter, Melinda, however, gave her pause. She flirted with Drew one moment, and looked soulfully at Brent the next. She was quite pretty, with her black hair and her dark brown eyes, but so vapid. She wondered if Southern ladies were all so very pale and languid in their movements. If the weather became warmer, she imagined there was good reason.

“What are you doing now, my boy?” David Forrester asked.

“I own a saloon in San Francisco, sir. The Wild Star.”

Mr. Forrester seemed a bit nonplussed, but quickly recovered. He said comfortably, “An unusual enterprise, but now that you’re home, you’ve a plantation to run. An absentee owner is not at all the thing, my boy, as you well know. I myself bought a couple of field slaves from Paxton just before your father’s death. My overseer was pleased with the purchase, but I wondered why Paxton and your father would sell two such valuable slaves.”

“I’m certain to find out why very soon, sir,” Brent said, although he knew very well why. Old Frank was feathering his nest against an uncertain future. Had his father been too ill to realize what was going on? And what about Laurel?

“Wild Star,” Amelia Forrester mused aloud. “An unusual name for a saloon, isn’t it, Brent?”

Brent smiled. “A bit of whimsy, I guess, ma’am. The star I seemed to follow when I was younger was never of the tame sort.” Not quite the truth, but close enough.

“We’re giving a ball in two weeks, Mr. Hammond,” Melinda Forrester said brightly. “You will come, won’t you? And your wife, of course.”

“It will be our pleasure,” Brent said, and ate a bite of glazed ham.

Lizzie bounded to her feet when Byrony and Brent entered their bedroom a bit after midnight. She rubbed her fists over her eyes, just like a child. Which she was, Byrony thought, shuddering a bit at the thought of this poor girl being forced to bed Frank Paxton.

“Lizzie,” Byrony said, “go to bed, for heaven’s sake. I had no idea you would still be awake.”

“But missis, Mammy Bath say—”

“Lizzie, do as your mistress says. I am quite capable of unfastening all those little buttons.” Brent stopped the girl at the bedroom door. “Oh, another thing, Lizzie. You will sleep in the house, on the third floor. You may pick up your things from the compound tomorrow.”

Byrony saw the girl’s lips tremble, saw the wash of relief in her dark eyes.

“Yes, massa. Thank you, massa.”

“That is kind of you, Brent,” Byrony said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t want her raped by Paxton.”

“I can’t believe he would really do something so despicable.”

“Believe it, Byrony. However, you are another matter entirely. Come here and let me assist you.” She moved toward him and presented her back. She felt his deft fingers working down the buttons on her gown. “I wonder,” she heard him say, “if Lizzie could be Paxton’s daughter. It’s possible you know. Her skin is lighter than usual. I can remember him taking Millie, Lizzie’s mother, to bed. In fact, I remember hearing that she fought him. It’s probably true, because he flogged the flesh off her back. My father was perturbed. He didn’t want her away from her tasks for too long a time.”

“That’s unbelievable. Barbaric.”

“Hold still. Yes, it would seem so.” Brent slowly slipped the gown off her shoulders. She felt his lips lightly brush the nape of her neck.

“Am I truly the mistress of Wakehurst?” she asked abruptly, turning to face him.

“You’re the massa’s wife,” he said.

“Is the house my responsibility? And the servants?”