Brent continued to stare; he couldn’t help himself. It was her, but the difference in her looks astounded him. She was gowned beautifully, quite expensively in fact, and he recognized Monsieur David’s handiwork. Her smooth shoulders met the soft white lace of her gown, hinting at the breasts beneath. Her honey-colored hair was piled high on her head and one thick ringlet fell lazily over her shoulder. Her neck was long, slender, exquisite as the rest of her. He glanced at the four men at the table with her, recognizing three of them. After a few moments he turned to Captain O’Mally. “Who is the lady, sir, over there with Ezra Lacy?”
Captain O’Mally turned from Delaney Saxton. “That is the new Mrs. Butler, sir.”
Brent, who had been flirting outrageously with Delaney Saxton’s bride, Chauncey, felt himself grow cold. Ira’s bride. God, the man was nearly old enough to be her father. He stared at the aristocratic, chisel-featured Ira Baines Butler, and felt a surge of sheer hatred for the man. Why the hell should he be so amazed, so disbelieving, after all? He’d known what she was; the filthy old man in San Diego had told him all about her. She’d married a rich man, just as he’d known she would. Another Laurel. His fingers tightened about his wineglass. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her neck. Perfidious bitch. The depth of his anger amazed him. Why the hell should he care what she was? It had nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.
Byrony. Byrony Butler.
Old cold-blooded Ira Butler probably made love to her in the dark.
Brent wanted nothing more now than to finish the damned dinner and get out of the dining salon. Why? To go lick his wounds in private, that was why.
Byrony ate nothing more. She tried to pay attention to the occasional gallant comments laid in her path by the gentlemen. She was aware the instant Brent rose from the captain’s table and strode from the dining salon. She watched every step he took. He was larger than she remembered, yet so graceful.
“My dear, are you feeling just the thing?”
“Oh yes, Ira. I guess I’m just a bit tired.” Did she sound the least bit guilty?
“Then I shall see you to your cabin.”
She bid good-nights to the other men, and gave Ira her hand. There was no sign of Brent Hammond. She felt relieved and, at the same time, disappointed. Ira entered the cabin with her to see Irene. She was still sleeping, Eileen still sitting motionless beside the bed.
“Tomorrow, my dear,” he s
aid quietly, and gently kissed her forehead. “Sleep well.”
Byrony tried to stay still, but couldn’t. She began pacing until she was aware of Eileen’s dark eyes burrowing into her back. Suddenly she grabbed her new cloak, sapphire blue to match her gown, and whispered, “I shall go on deck for a while, Eileen.”
She needn’t worry about seeing him, she thought. He was more than likely gambling. It was, after all, his profession. She made her way along the wide deck, paying no attention to the gentlemen she passed, who all tipped their hats at her. She found a vacant spot, away from the other passengers, and leaned her elbows on the railing, staring at the calm dark waters.
“We’ll be passing through the Carquinez Strait soon,” she heard a low deep voice from behind her. “We’ve just come through San Pablo Bay, in case you didn’t know.”
She whirled about, and her eyes met his throat. Slowly she raised her face until she was looking into his eyes.
“The Carquinez Strait,” she repeated.
“Yes, we are now traveling due east, and shortly will be in the Sacramento River.”
“There are so many rivers and bays and—so much water.”
“Indeed, it would appear so.”
“It is a surprise to see you again, Mr. Hammond.”
A thick black brow arched upward. “You perhaps remembered that I lived in San Francisco. I should say that I am more surprised to see you. You are a long way from San Diego. I see you quickly discovered my name.”
“Yes, yes, I did. I understand you are opening a saloon in San Francisco?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, and his eyes glittered. “How lovely you look, ma’am.”
She grinned. “A bit different from the first time you saw me, I suspect. I’ve tried to avoid flour.”
“I understand you’ve married one of San Francisco’s wealthiest men.”
His tone held barely disguised contempt, and she heard it.
“Ira is rich, so I’m told,” she said.
“With your looks and guileless charm, I expected nothing less than a rich man. But so old, Mrs. Butler, nearly old enough to have sired you.”