Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)
“Unfortunately not. Poor Jane, she was so sad when Limpin’ Willie came for me.”
“Get yourself a wife, Saint, that’s my advice to you.”
Saint said something Byrony couldn’t hear. Maggie’s bright laugh came back, clear and filled with fun. “Then,” she said, “let’s rouse Felice. The girl’s in love with you.”
Byrony quickly closed the bedroom door. She had no intention of ever eavesdropping again in her life. She looked back at her sleeping husband, shook her head, and settled down with Lord Byron’s The Corsair.
Thank God I’m young and strong and have a thick head, Brent thought. He felt no aftereffects of all the whiskey he’d drunk, but he was sore, damnably so. He flexed his fingers, looked at his raw knuckles.
“Saint said there’s nothing broken,” Byrony said. “Did you give a good account of yourself?”
Brent wasn’t certain how he’d expected Byrony to act—he hadn’t even thought about it—but this smiling girl somehow didn’t fit the image a man had of a wife who’d been deserted for drink and a bloody fight for most of the night. “Yes,” he said, “I did.”
“How many were there?”
“Four, maybe five. Then everyone got into it. I owe Cora a good three hundred dollars for damages. I’d be broke if most of the fight hadn’t happened in the street.”
She said nothing about the money, merely pointed to the tub in the corner of the bedroom. “I’ve had bathwater brought up for you. In about an hour, Smiley from the stables is bringing over a landau. I’m taking you for that ride to the ocean. Saint said it would be great medicine for you. The fresh air and all.”
Brent nodded and flung back the bedcovers. He was naked and Byrony found herself staring at the ugly bruise over his ribs. “Are you truly all right?”
He gave her a cocky grin. “Nobody kneed me, it that’s what you’re worried about.”
Back to normal, Byrony thought. She said, “I think I’ll go out for a while. I won’t be long.”
“Where are you going?”
She smiled at him. “I’m going to buy a bullwhip,” she said, and left him standing in the middle of the bedroom, a look of incomprehension on his face.
The afternoon was cloudy, the fog thick and heavy as they neared the ocean. Brent said, “I won’t be able to see you in a moment. What are you going to do with that whip anyway?”
He’d been eyeing it, surprised that she’d actually bought it.
“For peace of mind,” Byrony said, her voice serene. “How do you feel?”
“Just a bit sore, that’s all. What peace of mind?”
“Mr. Hobbs told me it was quite efficacious, but never to use it on geldings. Just stallions.”
“I see,” said Brent, who was beginning to. “I thought any kind of violence repelled you?”
“It does.” She shrugged. “One must adapt, however.”
“The fog is too thick,” Brent said and turned the horse around. “Let’s get out of here.” The breeze was stiff, whipping up whorls of gritty sand.
“As you wish,” Byrony said easily.
“Byrony,” he said, gazing at her profile, “I don’t think I like your tone.”
“I suggest you wait until you have the horse doing what you want before you go after the mare.”
She was laughing at him. He didn’t like it, not one bit. He said in his most affected drawl, “I intend to mount the mare, sweetheart. No bridle, of course, that’s not necessary, but perhaps a few nips on the back of her neck.”
She gave a bright laugh that made him grit his teeth. “And you want the mare to try to buck you off? Or perhaps if the mare decides to let you ride her, you’ll decide to punish her by dismounting?”
He was so hard that he hurt. “No,” he said, his eyes between the horses’s ears, “No more dismounting. After I nip her neck, I fully intend to ride her until she’s trembling and sweating.”
“I wish you luck,” Byrony said lightly, “with your mare.”