“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope. None at all that I can see, unless you want to get Ira. He is her husband, you know, and she’s his responsibility.”
Brent rose and stretched out his hand to Saint. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Keep her warm, and if and when she wakes up, give her lots of water.”
Saint pulled his leather hat low on his brow, drew a deep breath, and thoughtfully walked down the back stairs and into the rain. So, it was Irene’s baby. However did that damned woman manage to get herself pregnant? Why did Byrony consent to go along with the charade? God, what a bloody mess.
She mumbled in her sleep, meaningless sounds that made no sense to Brent. He sat in a chair beside the bed, his fingers steepled together, tapping softly, his eyes never leaving her face. She’d evoked emotions in him since the first time he’d ever seen her. Strong emotions that made him uncomfortable, made him want to strike out—at her. He saw perspiration beading on her forehead. He rose, dampened a cloth, and gently wiped her face.
Always they’d fought. Rather, he amended to himself, he’d always insulted her. He studied her features, the delicate straight nose, the stubborn chin, the high cheekbones. Her lashes were dark, and fanned like tangled black shadows against her pale cheeks. Her brows were slightly arched, darker than her hair. He slowly reached out his hand and wrapped a hank of hair around his fingers.
He told himself yet again that she’d sold herself to Ira Butler, borne his child. She’d made her bed, damn her, let her wallow in it. She had nothing to do with him.
Why was she coming to him? She hated him. He knew she was very good friends with Chauncey. Why had she run like a madwoman in the rain all the way downtown? God, it was so dangerous, it made his blood run cold to think of it. What if he hadn’t been on his way to visit Celeste? What if those men—
He jumped when the clock struck twelve strokes. Midnight. He’d been sitting silently watching her for two hours. Slowly he rose, locked the door, and turned off the lamps. He shrugged out of his dressing gown and slipped under the blankets beside her.
He resolutely stayed away from her, forcing himself to close his eyes.
He awoke in the middle of the night, alert, and aware of a warm body nestled against his chest. How many times he’d wanted her in bed with him, arching against him.
Lightly he touched his palm to her forehead. She was cool to the touch. No more fever. His fingers clenched. He wanted to reach out and feel her. His sex was hard, his muscles rigid with tension.
She muttered something in her sleep and twisted away from him.
He flipped onto his back and stared up into the darkness. A first time for everything, he thought. You should take her and be damned. But he didn’t move.
Byrony blinked at the bright sunlight that was warming her face. Slowly she opened her eyes. It wasn’t raining. Memory suddenly flooded her.
“It’s all right. How do you feel, Byrony?”
“Brent?” Her voice sounded low and gravelly, totally unlike her.
“Yes.”
“But what—Oh, I remember now. Where am I?” She tried to pull herself up.
“You’re with me, in my rooms above the Wild Star. Do you remember coming here last night?”
She closed her eyes, trying to rid herself of the vivid memory of Ira and Irene. “I remember running. I guess I was coming to you. I don’t know.”
“Here,” he said. “Drink this. It’s barley water, a donation from Maggie.”
Dutifully she drank, then lay back against the pillow.
“You’re being nice to me,” she said, and stared at him.
“Yes, a miracle of circumstance. I want you to tell me what happened to you.”
Why I went home early, not feeling well, you understand, and just chanced to see my husband making love to his half-sister.
Laughter welled up in her throat, not healthy laughter, but hysterical laughter. For an instant he saw the horror in her eyes.
“Byrony.”
The laughter was hot and fast. Then she choked. He held her, clapped her on the back.