Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

“My God,” he said, cuddling the slippery little body against his chest, fierce joy filling him, “it’s a boy you’ve got, Byrony. A beautiful boy.”

Byrony was unconscious.

“Mammy, bathe our little fellow here. Ah, that’s it. A lusty cry. He’s ready for the world. Then wrap him in a warm blanket.”

“I know,” Mammy said, affronted, and Saint smiled. The old woman was as exhausted as he was, but still feisty as hell.

He worked over Byrony, more mechanically now, because she would be all right. He’d taken the risk and she’d survived. It was Jules who filled his thoughts. Had Brent found her? What had happened? “Damn,” he said softly. So many questions and no answers. He realized his hands were shaking, fear washing through him in great relentless waves.

Mammy Bath handed him the baby some minutes later. The child was a carbon copy of Byrony, not Brent. Honey-colored hair, fair-complexioned. Perhaps there was divine justice, he thought. Byrony had done all the work, suffered more than a human being should ever have to, so it was only fair that her child look like her.

He smiled down at the wizened little face, his finger under the tiny chin.

“I’ll brings a sugar tit for that little man,” said Mammy Bath. “His mama won’t have no milk for a while yet.”

“Good idea,” Saint said. And he began to pace the bedroom. He was still pacing when Brent Hammond burst through the door two hours later, his face drawn and tense, his eyes going immediately to his wife.

Saint said quickly, “She’s all right. You have a son and he looks like Byrony.”

“She’s all right?” Brent repeated slowly. His throat felt suddenly very scratchy, and tears burned his eyes. He gulped. “She’s not moving.”

“You wouldn’t be either. She’s asleep. Your son is in the next room with Mammy Bath.”

Brent dragged his fingers through his hair. “We’ve got trouble, Saint, dammit.”

“Tell me while you look at yo

ur son,” Saint said, forcing himself to remain calm.

31

The men rode steadily south, high on the cliffs above the ocean, Brent beside Saint at their head.

“Have you any ideas, Saint?” Brent asked.

Saint shook his head, his eyes straight between his horse’s ears. “None other than getting my hands around that bastard’s neck.” Why, Saint continued to wonder, did Wilkes want him? If it were revenge in the man’s mind, it was chilling. He had Jules, why him? Why the elaborate ruse?

Brent well understood his feelings, and merely nodded. They had plenty of time to devise some sort of plan. He said finally, “I thank you for saving Byrony.”

“She did all the work,” Saint said, drawing himself from his thoughts. He quirked an eyebrow at Brent. “She was pleased that the baby looks like her and not you, a swarthy pirate.”

“Gambler, not pirate. Hell, I wouldn’t have cared if the baby looked like you, Saint!”

“The perfect child indeed. Incidentally, Brent, go see Maggie before you begin relations again with your wife. I suggest contraception. Another child in perhaps three years, then I’d be satisfied and call a halt.”

“I don’t want her to go through that ever again,” Brent said, his face growing pale with remembered anxiety.

“That’s up to the both of you.” Saint fell silent, and Brent knew his thoughts had returned to his wife.

It was early afternoon when they reached the cliff.

“You can’t just go up there, Saint,” Brent said again. “He wants to kill you.”

“He won’t,” Saint said. For a moment he wondered why he’d said it with such confidence. Hell, he had no reason to be confident. It was just that he had this feeling . . . So many things about Wilkes didn’t make sense.

Brent sighed. “The two men he’s got, we’ll try to pick them off. Josh is the best shot I know, after Thackery.”

“Thackery can give him lessons in another week or so. That man’s as strong as an ox, thank God.”