“You left me,” she said, her voice sad, defeated.
“Yes,” he said. He pulled himself away from her, his body weak and clumsy. He wanted to jerk her into his arms and kiss her and caress her until she slept against him. He drew a deep breath to steady himself, and her scent, Laurel’s gardenia scent, filled his nostrils. He rose and stood beside the bed, staring down at her.
“You’ve learned a valuable lesson, Byrony. Never again will you try to deny me. You will only lose.” But she’d won, he thought. She’d drawn him into her, made him want to lose himself in her. He stiffened, his eyes narrowing. He said in a lazy drawl, “No rape, was there?”
She raised weary, disillusioned eyes to his face. “No, there was no rape.” She slowly pulled the blanket over herself and turned away from him onto her side. She felt hollow, empty, discarded. She felt the stickiness of him on her stomach. She curled up, bringing her legs to her chest, and buried her head in her arms.
He had to get away from her, he had to regain his control. He dressed quickly, not looking at her again, but when he reached the bedroom door, he couldn’t help himself. He stared back. She hadn’t moved, nor was she crying.
He cursed very softly, and firmly closed the bedroom door behind him.
TWENTY-TWO
“Byrony, what’s going on here? What are you doing in bed?”
It was evening, Byrony realized vaguely. The bedroom was dark
. The light from the sitting room, silhouetted Maggie in its gleam.
“Come, what’s wrong? Do you feel ill?”
Yes, she felt ill, but she didn’t need Saint. She forced herself to unbend, and pulled herself up onto the pillow. She pulled the blanked to her chin. “No,” she said, “I’m not ill. Just tired, that’s all.”
Maggie, eyes narrowed, came into the bedroom. She lit the lamps, then came over to stand beside the bed. “Are you pregnant?”
Byrony laughed. “Pregnant? Me? I’m too young to be pregnant.”
“Stop it, Byrony.” What, Maggie thought, was going on? “Where’s Brent?”
“Brent? Brent who?” She started giggling again, her voice hoarse and raw. She stopped abruptly on a hiccup. “Have you asked Celeste?”
“Where is your dressing gown? Ah, here it is. Put it on. You don’t need to catch a cold. And comb your hair. I’ll have Caesar bring you up some dinner.”
When Maggie returned to the bedroom, Byrony still lay in bed, the dressing gown tossed across the blanket, her hair tangled around her face. What had that damned fool Brent done now?
“Even if you are pregnant,” Maggie said, “it’s too soon for you to be showing any signs. So why are you lying here in the dark?”
“I told you. I was tired.”
“You must have had a sublime argument with Brent.”
“Oh no. He just wanted to prove to me who was master, as he put it. It’s been proved. He is. There’s no doubt about it.”
Maggie heard Caesar’s knock on the outer office door. “You’re going to eat something,” she said.
When she returned, Byrony had put on the dressing gown. Maggie placed the tray on her lap. There were thick slices of roast beef drowned in brown gravy, mashed potatoes, and fresh peas. “I’m not hungry,” she said.
“I don’t give a damn. Eat.”
Maggie pulled Brent’s favorite chair next to the bed and sat down, her fingers a tapping steeple. She said nothing, merely watched Brent’s wife take a few bites. She said, “I saw Mrs. Saxton this afternoon and she asked about you. I, of course, had no idea that you were burrowed in your bed like a mole. She’s a nice lady. Keep eating. As for Mr. Saxton, I believe he’s downstairs in the saloon, probably here at his wife’s request to see that you’re all right. Take another bite of beef. That’s it.”
“Where is Brent?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
“Go to Clay Street. That’s where Celeste lives.”
“Your husband, Byrony, hasn’t visited Celeste since before your marriage.”