Midnight Star (12 page)

“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “Do your ribs hurt?”

“Yes,” she managed. “It hurts to breathe.”

“Do you want some laudanum?”

“Oh no! My father died . . . laudanum.”

He saw the frenzy of pain in her eyes. Pain from her body—and also pain from her father? “Hush,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Elizabeth. Just a little laudanum in water. It will make you feel better.”

“My name is Chauncey,” she whispered up at him, wondering why it was so important to make that clear.

“Chauncey,” he repeated, his eyes lighting with a smile. “That is more like you than the formal ‘Elizabeth,’ I think.”

“I . . . I can’t help it,” she gasped. He saw her fingers clutching frantically at the bedcovers.
Tears streaked down her cheeks, and he quickly flicked them away with his fingertips.

“I’m sorry. Here, I’m going to lift you just a bit. Drink a few swallows.”

Delaney slipped his arm beneath her and felt the pain of her breathing. He placed the rim of the glass to her lips and tipped it. She tried to turn her head away, but he forced her to swallow.

Chauncey felt the rippling waves of pain engulfing her, drawing her inward. I hate tears, she thought angrily. “I don’t want to be weak,” she gasped her thoughts aloud.

“You should have heard me when I was shot last year. I yowled like a trapped bear.” It was all a lie, but he would have said anything to ease her. “Hush now. I know it hurts dreadfully for you to talk. The laudanum will take effect in a few minutes.”

“I don’t want to die . . . not from laudanum.”

“I imagine that you’re going to live until you’re ninety. Doc Morris will be back shortly. You’ll believe him, won’t you?”

She felt a veil of vagueness cloak her mind. She could feel the pain, could nearly taste it, but it was growing fainter, like an animal’s fangs drawing out of her flesh. “I didn’t want this to happen,” she whispered.

“No one ever wants pain.”

“I don’t want to be . . . weak around you.”

“You’re not.”

“I can’t allow you to hurt me. Not until . . . not ever . . .”

He stared at her, not understanding her words, waiting, but her head lolled on the pillow and her eyelashes swept closed in sleep.

“Eliz . . . Chauncey,” he began, suddenly frightened that he had given her too much laudanum. Surely she shouldn’t sleep, not with a concussion.

He rose and strode toward the door, only to come to an abrupt halt in front of her maid, Mary, Lucas at her side. He said tensely to Lucas, “Go fetch Saint. She came out of it and I gave her some laudanum.”

“How is she, sir?”

Delaney studied the girl in front of him. Her face wasn’t precisely plain, for her gray eyes held a good deal of humor and common sense. Her mouth was too wide, her nose uptilted. She was plump and would likely be comfortably fat in later years. “What? Oh, Chauncey.” Her expression altered, doubtless at the use of her mistress’s nickname. “Listen, Mary. It is not an act. She was accidentally struck by a tree branch and thrown.”

Mary shook her head, still expecting to see Miss Chauncey wink at her when she entered the bedroom. “Not an act,” she repeated, trying to gather her scattered wits.

“I know that she set out to meet me, to have me execute a daring, quite needless rescue. I did, but she was hurt.”

“Oh God,” Mary whispered, swaying a bit. “How bad is it, sir?”

“A concussion and cracked ribs. The doctor will be returning shortly. He assures me that she’ll be all right, with proper care.”

Mary’s tongue ran nervously over her lower lip. “How do you know it wasn’t the . . . real thing?”

“She told me. Undoubtedly she didn’t intend
to, but it slipped out. What is your full name, Mary?”

“Mary Leona MacTavish, sir.”

“Thank you. It just occurred to me that I have put Miss Jameson in my bedroom. At least it’s large and airy. You can sleep in the adjoining room. You will be my guests for a while.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Delaney turned about, only to ask abruptly over his shoulder, “But I get the impression that was what you planned on, Mary?”

“Of course not, sir!”

He frowned at her, and Mary, unable to control her limpid gaze, dropped her head and wrung her hands. “Oh, when Miss Chauncey gets the bit between her teeth! I’ll go to her now, sir.”

“Yes, certainly. We will share the nursing. You’ll find her in one of my nightshirts. You can change her when she’s well enough.”

Delaney counted the soft chimes. Twelve strokes. Midnight. Mary was, he hoped, finally asleep in the adjoining room. He’d had to order her to get some sleep, and had gotten the distinct impression that she was afraid to leave her mistress alone with him. “I am not a rapist,” he’d said sharply. “You won’t be any good to her if you collapse from lack of rest.”

It was Lucas, however, who had turned the trick. “Come on, girl,” he’d said in the softest voice Delaney had ever heard from him. “I’ll make sure you’re called if she worsens.”

“But her hair will tangle dreadfully if I don’t braid it!”

“It already has,” Delaney said. “You can worry about it tomorrow.”

No, Delaney thought as the twelfth chime faded away, I’m not a rapist. But I should love having you in my arms, having you moan with pleasure when I kiss you and touch you. “Fool,” he muttered to himself. “Ass.” He was startled when she groaned softly. He immediately rose and bent over her. “There now, it’s all right,” he said, gently pulling tendrils of hair away from her forehead.

Her eyes opened. They were dilated, appearing nearly black in the dim lamplight. “Father,” she whispered. She raised her hand, her fingers lightly touching his cheek. “Father.”

“I’m here,” he said. “I won’t leave you, Chauncey.”

“I was so stupid to believe I wanted to marry him. He’s a prig, Father. But you never realized, never knew . . .”

She broke off, closing her eyes a moment.

“No, you won’t marry him, Chauncey. A prig is not for you.”

“Aunt Gussie was so angry,” she murmured in an odd singsong voice. “You left me, Father. Left me in her care.” She began to shudder, twisting her head about on the pillow.

“You’re no longer in her care,” he said firmly, speaking very clearly. “Do you hear me, Chauncey? Aunt Gussie has nothing to do with you now.”

“They only wanted me when I became rich. And Owen. He’s a toad. I didn’t belong to anyone.” Silent tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.

He wiped them away, listening to more
rambling words. He had had experience once with a man who was delirious. He’d learned damning truths. But this gently bred girl. What damning things were in her past? Things that made her cry so hopelessly.

“Ginger, they sold her. Said I was in mourning and shouldn’t ride. God, the months! Uncle Paul . . . why are you doing that? They hate me . . . hate me.”

He couldn’t hold her steady. He swung himself onto the bed beside her and turned her carefully against him, careful of her bandaged ribs. He stroked her hair, caressed her throat and shoulders, all the while whispering nonsense to her. She quieted finally, falling into an uneasy sleep, and he breathed a sigh of relief. She brought her hand up, fisting it against his shoulder as would a small child.

“I think your plan worked too well,” he said ruefully, and lightly kissed her mouth.

“I can’t breathe!” The words erupted from her throat, the pain they brought making them sound like a weak croaking sound. “The bandage, Mary, I can’t breathe.”

“You hold still, Miss Chauncey. I’ll get help!”

Mary wheeled about and headed toward the door. It opened abruptly and Delaney entered.

“Sir, the bandage is too tight! She’s hurting dreadfully!”

He felt the leap of fear and repressed it. “Let me see,” he said calmly.

He sat down beside her, watching her face contort with each breath she drew. “Chauncey,” he said firmly, drawing her eyes to his face. “Take shallow breaths. That’s it. Slowly . . .”

It was his intention to loosen the bands of linen that Saint had wrapped around her ribs, but he realized belatedly that she was still wearing his nightshirt. He would have to practically
strip her to get the job done. “Mary,” he said over his shoulder, “tell Lucas to fetch Doc Morris.”

Delaney laid his hand lightly against her ribs, trying to determine if the cloths were too tight. He could feel each breath she drew. “No, more slowly, Chauncey. Light, shallow breaths. Good girl.”

“I am not eight years old!” she said between gritted teeth.

“That’s for damned sure. If you were, I wouldn’t have to worry about offending your maidenly sensibilities. Now, do as I tell you.”

She didn’t care what he called her, not now. Every breath hurt, hurt so much she wanted to cry. He kept saying over and over, “Shallow breaths. That’s right, shallow breaths.”

And she obeyed his instructions.

“Well,” Saint said, striding into the room, “Miss Mary here tells me our patient needs to have the bandages loosened.”

Delaney turned at the sound of the doctor’s booming voice. “Saint, glad you could come so quickly. Chauncey, in case you don’t remember, this is your doctor, Saint Morris.”

“Move aside, Del, and let me have a look.” Without further words, he began to pull up Chauncey’s nightshirt. Mary, with a gasp, planted herself firmly in front of Delaney.

Delaney walked quietly to the far side of the room and stared down at the garden Lin carefully tended. He had remonstrated briefly with her at the extra work, but she’d merely smiled at him and spouted about the inflated cost of vegetables. Everything was expensive, he’d pointed
out reasonably, and he could well afford it, but she’d held firm. He turned his head slightly at the sound of Saint’s stern voice.

“Now, young lady, stop fighting me. Take short, easy breaths, and don’t fret. I’ll have you more comfortable in just a minute.”

Chauncey felt the vise about her chest ease slightly. “That’s better,” she managed.

“Good,” Saint said matter-of-factly. “Miss Mary, give me a glass of water with three drops of laudanum.”

“Please, no more laudanum. I . . . Please, no more.”

“It’ll ease your pain, girl. You’ll do as I tell you, if you please.”

Chauncey docilely drank the liquid. “I can’t imagine why anyone would call you Saint,” she said, staring at his bushy side whiskers.

He chuckled. “You’ll be as good as new in no time. Delaney, you can come back now.”

“It’s a ridiculous name,” Chauncey said clearly, trying to keep the laudanum at bay. “How ever did you get it?”

“It’s ridiculous, is it, girl? Well, let me tell you a story.”

He settled himself in the chair beside the bed. “Now, you listen to me. Back in the thirties, there was this young buck, Jim Savage was his name. Lived back in Illinois, he did. He married his sweetheart, and theirs was one of the first wagon trains to cross the plains headed for California. Unfortunately, the lass died after birthing a dead baby. Broke him, her death did. Broke him good. He made it here, ah, indeed he did. All sorts of rumors grew up about him, like him fighting in the Bear Flag Rebellion against Mexico, and teaming up with Frémont and Kit
Carson. After gold was discovered, he disappeared again, and the story is that he took up with the Mariposa tribe and became their king! Well, it seems that some of the Indians turned on him, and things went from bad to worse. All the Indians went out of control. John McDougal made Jim Savage a major in the special Mariposa Battalion to put a stop to it. Savage marched his men up the banks of the Merced River into country no white man had ever seen before. One day, Savage reached the crest of this precipice. ‘It’s an inspiration,’ Jim Savage said, shouting to a friend in awe. He was staring at cliffs a mile high, and two skinny waterfalls that plunged thousands of feet to the valley’s floor. Named it Inspiration Point. Well, his legend grew, but it seems he was something of a noble fool and got himself shot, just last year.”

There was utter silence.

Saint Morris studied her face. He saw the drug was taking effect, and smiled at her.

“What does that have to do with your being called Saint?”

“Your wits aren’t begging yet, huh?” He patted her hand and rose. “You will sleep now, girl. As to why I’m called Saint, well, that’s another story. Del, Miss Mary, take good care of my patient.”

“You should be called a miserable storyteller, not saint,” Chauncey called after him.

He chuckled and waved a huge hand at her.

“That was delicious,” Chauncey said.

“It’s one of Lin’s special dishes for invalids. It’s got an outlandish name—chicken-and-rice
soup.” he grinned widely. “And lots of unpronounceable things are in it. I will tell her you enjoyed it.”

“Indeed,” Chauncey said, giggling. “Perhaps she can sell the name to the rest of the civilized world.”

He gave her an answering smile, but his eyes grew thoughtful on her face. She felt better, thank God. Her eyes were bright again and her color back to normal.

The lamps were dimmed and it was nearly ten o’clock at night. Saint hadn’t been to see her today, having to attend a man who had been shot through the leg in a duel. Delaney sat in the wing chair next to the bed after he removed Chauncey’s tray. “You had a number of visitors today,” he said after a moment. “Gentlemen of all persuasions trooped through, hats in hand, mournful looks in their eyes, and the like.”

“I trust you told them I wasn’t receiving.”

“Oh no, I brought them all up. You were taking a nap, of course, so I knew they wouldn’t bother you.”

Chauncey’s hand flew to her hair, now brushed and braided. At his chuckle, she frowned. “You are a liar,” she said.

“You are mending, thank God.”

“And his Saint.”

He leaned forward, his expression intent. “Any pain now?”

She stiffened, remembering her mewling weak groans. “No,” she said in a clipped voice. Now she had only occasional twinges from the bruise at her temple, and her ribs were only a dull ache.

“I don’t believe you, of course, but no more
laudanum until you’re ready to go to sleep. Tell me, Chauncey,” he continued without pause, “when did your father die?”

Her eyes flew to his face. “How . . . how do you know about that?”

“You were delirious the night of your accident and spoke of many things. You thought I was your father.”

“He died last April,” she said.
Oh God, what did I say?

“I’m sorry.” He saw that she was regarding him with something suspiciously like fear, and wondered at it. Perhaps, he thought, she was in pain and didn’t want to admit it to him. He rose and walked to the fireplace, picked up the poker, and stirred the glowing embers. He could feel her eyes boring into his back.

“You’ve been calling me Chauncey.”

“You insisted,” he said, turning back to her. “It suits you, you know. How did you get it?”

“My Irish nurse, Hannah, dubbed me that when I was only six years old. She said that for such a wee little mite I took too many chances. Her accent was a bit peculiar, you know, and the ‘chances’ sounded like ‘chaunces.’ ”

“I trust you won’t be taking more
chaunces
in the near future.”

You were so damned elusive, what was I supposed to do?

He saw her flush, and smiled. “I find you most unusual,” he said. “I was beginning to believe you a very sophisticated lady until your untimely accident.”

“I am,” she said.

“Oh no,” Delaney said quietly. “You’re
strong-willed, and likely stubborn as hell, but not a blasé woman of the world.”

Her eyes fell. She had planned this so carefully. Being in his house, being alone with him in intimate conversation. But still he seemed to elude her, even make sport of her. She must make him interested, dammit, she must!

“It came as something of a shock to me,” she heard him say, “to find a soft, very vulnerable girl in my bed.”

“I didn’t mean to be,” she said stiffly.

“Had your accident really been a fake, I can only imagine how you would have behaved. It boggles the mind, I assure you.”

“It is unfair of you to mock me now.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “I sense that if I don’t take full advantage of the opportunity, you’ll never allow me another
chaunce.
”

She returned his smile. She didn’t want to, but couldn’t seem to help herself. “I am tired.”

“Ah, that must mean that you can’t find a sterling retort to put me in my lowly man’s place. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me exactly why you executed that charade?”

She looked him straight in the eye and drew a deep breath. “I like you and you persisted in ignoring me.”

“I did rather ask you for an answer, didn’t I?”

“Now you have one.”

“Why me, Chauncey?”

“Why not?”

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Dan Brewer was wondering aloud what the devil a rich young lady was doing in San Francisco. We decided, all
in facetious good humor, of course, that you were probably hanging out for a rich husband.”

“I don’t need a rich husband.”

“That is what I find so fascinating, my dear.”

My dear!
She gave him what she believed to be a most seductive smile. To her utter chagrin, he laughed, a deep, booming laugh.

“I hate you!” she muttered, feeling a perfect fool.

“Love . . . hate, they are two sides to the coin, are they not?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes narrowed on his face, “they are.”

“Tell me,” he said abruptly, his tone utterly serious, “about your childhood in England.”

She felt herself relaxing against the fat pillow. Here, at least, was safe ground. “I am an only child. My mother died in childbed when I was ten. I took care of my father until he . . . died.”

“What about your Aunt Gussie?”

She tried to keep the rush of fear to herself. God, what had she said? “She is a terror.”

“And Owen?”

“He is a toad, and her son.”

“Ah, then who is the prig?”

“His name was Sir Guy Danforth. I had thought at one time that I would marry him. He and his mother lived near us in Surrey. I broke our engagement after my father died.”

“Because he left you penniless?”

She stared at him, her hands fisting beneath the covers in an efort to keep herself calm. “It seems, sir, that you already know everything about me.”

“No, just rambling bits and pieces. I have the
impression, though, that this past year has been a trial for you.”

“Yes.”

“Were you by any chance in London in fifty-one?”

“No, I was at home, in Surrey.”

“It is unfortunate. I was visiting relatives at the time, but unfortunately I didn’t see much of your country. I did meet many very interesting people, though, in London.”

I’ll just bet you did!
“You mentioned that your sister-in-law is English?”

Delaney leaned his head back, but he regarded her intently beneath his lashes. “Yes. I was the guest of her mother and stepfather, Aurora and Damien Arlington. The Duke and Duchess of Graffton.”

Chauncey felt a rush of fury. So they were the ones who sucked in her father! The ones who had refused to help him recover his money. And they were rich, damn them, very rich! “I do not know them,” she said dully.

“Then why do their names upset you so?”

“Their names do not upset me,” she said with perfect honesty.

“I repeat, Miss Jameson, you are an enigma.” He rose and walked to the side table. She watched him pour water into a glass and add a bit of laudanum.

“I don’t want that.”

“I don’t care at the moment what you want or don’t want. You will drink it.”

“I do not take orders from anyone,” she said, cold fury lacing her voice.

He smiled at her, quite gently. “Do not force
me to hold you and pour it down your throat. You are in my house, in my bed, and in my care. Now, open your mouth.”

She sipped until the glass was empty.

“Excellent. I was wondering if it was ever in your nature to be biddable. No, don’t rip up at me. You’ve worn me to a bone and I’ve got some work to do before I can go to bed.”

“I . . . I’m sorry.”

He leaned down and lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Don’t make me feel like a cad, Chauncey. I am glad you are here. I would have preferred the circumstances to be different, but what’s done is done. I want you to sleep now.”