Midnight Star (18 page)

He stroked her swollen flesh, reveling in the softness. “Ah, love,” he whispered, lowering his head, “it is a wonderful awfulness, for both of us.” He kissed her deeply, forcing her lips to part as his fingers rhythmically stroked her. He felt her hips move briefly against his fingers, then still. Damned repressive way girls were raised, he thought, frustrated. He knew he couldn’t wait much longer. Surely she could feel him pressing painfully against her thigh, throbbing and hungry for her.

His fingers left her a moment, and he was delighted to hear her moan of disappointment—at least he chose to think it disappointment. He circled her small entrance, and could feel her flesh pulsating, warm and inviting. Slowly he inserted his forefinger, testing her, stretching her to ease his way.

“Delaney!” she burst out, lurching up and
trying to expel his probing finger. “I cannot believe that you would . . . No, ’tis impossible!”

He knew he should begin again, ease her, make her relax and want him once more, but he feared he would release his seed before he entered her. “Hush,” he ground out. He pressed her back and rolled over on top of her. He balanced himself on his elbows and looked down into her wild eyes. “Feel me, Chauncey. I want you. Just close down that active mind of yours and let yourself respond.”

“Oh no,” she whispered, feeling his hardness pressing against her closed thighs.

He began to move slowly over her. The feel of her soft breasts against his chest drove him distracted. “Chauncey,” he said, his voice breaking on a moan, “I cannot wait, love.”

She felt his knee forcing her legs apart, and she gazed up at him helplessly, now frightened. Every warm, delightful intriguing sensation fled. She lay stiffly as he reared between her legs. He was looking at her, seeing her body in intimate detail. She raised her hands and pressed them against his shoulders, trying to push him away.

Delaney gazed at her delicate pink beauty. Better just to get it over with before he lost all control. He slowly guided his manhood into her, feeling her tense, stiffen. I will not hurt her, he thought silently. I will not hurt her. But in the next moment, he butted against her maidenhead. He cursed silently. With all her damned horseback riding, he’d hoped she would have lost that commodity. Now that he was buried firmly inside her, he stretched on top of her, careful to go no deeper until she relaxed somewhat.

“You are driving me wild,” he said, unable to relax himself. “Chauncey, open your eyes, love. Now, kiss me.” His mouth closed over hers, his tongue lightly probing to meet hers. At the moment of contact, he thrust forward, tearing through the thin barrier and hurtling into the depths of her. He caught her cry of pain in his mouth. Even though her fingernails dug into his shoulders, he could not prevent himself from driving into her, claiming her, becoming part of her.

Tears blurred her eyes, and pain from deep inside her made her whimper. She felt utterly helpless, betrayed somehow, for he had promised her that he wouldn’t hurt her. Slowly, to her utter surprise, the sharp pain disappeared and the elusive warmth began to build within her once again. Her arms, of their own volition, hugged him to her, and her back arched upward.

Her movement broke his last vestige of control. He moaned deep in his throat. “I’m sorry, love,” he gasped, and drove his full length into her. Chauncey felt him stiffen, watched his eyes close over a violent emotion that she didn’t comprehend. Her own growing interest was long gone. She felt a burst of wetness inside her. It was from him, not her.

She waited, her body tense, her mind frozen until he quieted. He eased himself on top of her, seemingly exhausted. She frowned over his shoulder. She thought vaguely that the soft lamplight made the ends of his hair lighten from brownish blond to gold.

He is my husband, she told herself. I had no choice. I have done my duty.

Delaney, his wits returned, slowly raised himself on his elbows and looked down at his wife’s face. “Will you forgive me?”

“For hurting me? It doesn’t hurt anymore, just stings a bit.”

He looked rueful. “That and leaving you.”

“Leaving me where?” she asked, puzzled.

He shook his head, bemused. “Once you reach the destination, you will know, I promise you.”

“You are no longer as you were,” Chauncey said, frowning slightly at the changing feel of him inside her.

“No, I suppose not.” He gently drew back, easing out of her. He saw her wince slightly.

“Better?”

She nodded, flushing suddenly at their intimacy. How often would he enter her body? she wondered wordlessly. Was it a thing that men wanted to do once a month? Once a year? Her eyes stared at him when he said blandly, “Good. We’ll sleep a bit before we try again.”

“
Again!
But surely you can’t mean to—”

“It is a tradition for couples on their wedding night to make love at least six times.”

“You can’t mean it!” Her appalled look made him release his held-in laughter.

“Oh, Chauncey, you are such an innocent delight!” He kissed her again, tenderly, without passion. “You’re a bit sore, right? It was that wretched maidenhead of yours. Now the bloody thing is gone, thank God.”

“No, I think you should rather give yourself that congratulation.” She looked at him closely, then frowned. “I feel sticky and . . . wet.”

“Chauncey,” he said fervently, lightly
caressing her cheek, “I am so glad you married me.” He wondered if he should offer to help her clean herself, but he pictured her mortification at such a suggestion and held his peace.

“I really had little choice in the matter,” she whispered, her bitterness and confusion from what had just happened to her buried snug in her mind, and let him draw her against his side. She laid her cheek against his chest and fell into a deep sleep, his hair tickling her nose.

“Chauncey. Come on, love, wake up, it’s time for breakfast.”

She moaned, yanking the soft pillow over her head to block out the insistent voice. The dream drew her back, and she was once again dangling upside down from an apple-tree branch behind Jameson Hall, laughing delightedly at the faces Jem, the stableboy, was making at her. Hannah was scolding her, coming into the orchard at an ungraceful gallop. “Yer drawers, miss!” she was screeching.

“Sweetheart,” the voice came again. She felt a hand on her shoulder, lightly squeezing.

“No, please,” she muttered, but the dream was gone now. She felt the pillow pulled from her grip and sun shone onto her face. Chauncey opened her eyes and gasped. “Delaney, what are
you doing in here? And you’re not really dressed properly. Surely . . .” Her voice broke off suddenly, and she felt a scarlet flush rise from her throat to the roots of her hair. Good God! He was her husband!

“Oh,” she said, molding the covers around her like a shroud over a mummy. She was completely naked under the sheet and two blankets.

“Good morning, wife,” Delaney said softly, wishing now that he hadn’t left the bed and had awakened her and loved her while she was still partially asleep. Now her barriers were back up. She had looked at first bewildered, then shocked, and now utterly embarrassed.

“G-good morning, Del,” she said. She couldn’t, wouldn’t meet his eyes, imagining the knowing gleam, the complacent smugness.

He took pity on her and handed her one of her own depressingly modest dressing gowns. “There’s a nip in the air, sweetheart. Here, put this on.”

Chauncey grasped the bed gown but didn’t move. Delaney sighed and turned his back to her. He was arranging their breakfast on the small table when he heard the bed creak as she rose.

He made his face expressionless and slowly turned to look at his bride. If it weren’t for her wildly tousled hair, framing her face and tumbling down her back in abandon, she would look like a modest little schoolgirl in that wretched dressing gown. My sophisticated woman of the world, he thought wryly, encased in a fortress of high-necked muslin.

I will not let her freeze up on me, he thought, and moved to take her into his arms. She made a small sound of protest and held herself stiff
against him. He kissed her lightly on the forehead while his fingers sifted through her hair, easing out some of the tangles.

“It’s a mess. I usually braid it, or Mary does.”

“Never again, if you please.” He smiled against her ear, ignoring the embarrassed thinness of her voice. “You have the look of a woman who has . . . slept well.”

“I’m hungry!”

He stood back to look down into her face, not releasing her from the circle of his arm. “True,” he said sadly. “I didn’t see to your hunger properly last night.”

“You are speaking nonsense, Del,” she said, and pushed her hands against his chest. He was wearing a white shirt, open over his chest, and a pair of black trousers. His feet were bare.

“Always,” he said, his light brown eyes taking on the familiar teasing gleam. “Anything to ease you, love.”

She felt the dried stickiness on her thighs and flushed, annoyed with herself. “I have to . . . that is, I must go to . . .”

“Ah, certainly.” He released her and watched her hurry behind the screen on the far side of the room. “Lin brought you fresh water while you were still sleeping,” he called after her. He would have enjoyed bathing his seed and her virgin blood from her himself, but he wisely refrained from calling out that suggestion. He sat down beside the table and set himself to drinking the hot coffee.

Chauncey gasped, stared down at herself, her eyes wide with fear. Dried blood covered her
inner thighs.
Her
blood! He had hurt her, killed her! She cried out, unable to help herself.

“Chauncey! Lord, what’s the matter?” He strode across the room, only to halt abruptly as he came around the dressing screen, and stared at her. She was clutching the bed gown to the front of her, and her eyes were wild with fear. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No,” she gasped. “You did it! I don’t understand. I don’t hurt, but all the blood!” She clutched the gown closer, not knowing what to do.

He wanted to laugh at her ignorance, but her obvious fear smote him. “It’s all right,” he said gently, walking slowly toward her. “It’s but your virgin blood, love, nothing more. It’s very natural the first time, when your maidenhead is ruptured. I promise it won’t happen again.”

She shuddered with relief, then felt ready to sink with mortification. “I . . . I didn’t know,” she stammered, feeling like an utter fool. “No one ever told me that this would happen.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” he said, his voice pitched low to soothe her. Damn, he thought, he should have told her what to expect, but it simply hadn’t occurred to him that she would be so appallingly ignorant. “Would you like me to help you, Chauncey?”

She shook her head, mute. Did he really expect her to say yes? To strip naked in front of him and let him bathe her? She shuddered at the image that came to her mind. “Please, just leave,” she muttered, her voice tight.

Delaney returned to the table and sat down again. He rubbed his hand over his brow. Damn him for a fool. He shouldn’t have left her to discover the blood for herself. He glanced over at the bed and saw more evidence of her virginity, dark splotches of blood stark against the white sheet.

“Chauncey,” he called out, “are you all right?”

“Yes, certainly.”

Ah, no more fear, he thought, amusement lacing his relief. Her voice was firm and aggressive, as if she expected him to make sport of her, and was ready to give as good as she got. He reluctantly gave up on the very pleasant notion of making love to her this morning . . . and this afternoon . . . Well, perhaps this evening . . .

“Ah,” he mused aloud, “the endless responsibilities of a new husband.”

“What does that mean?”

Delaney grinned up at her militant expression. “Sit down, Chauncey, and try one of these delicious croissants. Lin fetched them from the French bakery on Kearny especially for you.”

He watched her ease into the chair opposite him and reach for a croissant and butter. “You weren’t in the wrong, Chauncey,” he said, unable to keep the teasing gleam from his eyes. “There’s no need to become all sorts of defensive and mount an attack on my poor self.”

She took a vicious bite from the flaky croissant, swallowed it before she should have, and choked.

“Here, love,” he said, laughter lurking in his voice as he handed her a glass of orange juice.

Chauncey glared at him over the rim of the glass. When she got her breath, she said more calmly, “You have the knack of making me feel like a fool.”

“I?” He raised a mobile brow at her.

“You,” she said firmly. “Now, tell me what you meant by that obnoxious thing you said.”

“Which obnoxious thing?”

“Your responsibilities as a new husband. It sounded quite condescending to me.”

“No, not really,” he said, shaking his head. “Actually, I was feeling very sorry for myself. You see, my dear”—he waited until she’d taken another bite of croissant—“it was my intention to make love to you all day, but you’re likely not up to it. Most disheartening, but I assure you I do understand.”

Chauncey felt the soreness between her legs and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. He had seen her, touched her, and thrust inside her body. She flushed, wishing she could disappear, wishing he would disappear and that she could despise him. Why wouldn’t he act like the knave he was? Why didn’t she feel degraded after he’d taken her? “I don’t like you,” she said in a militant voice.

“Ah, Chauncey,” he said, clearly amused by her, “you will never bore me.”

“But you bore me, sir!”

“In that case, I should forget about your soreness and make love to you.” He half-rose from his chair, but stopped as Chauncey gasped and shot up, tipping the table.

He grabbed it, laughing as he did so. Once it
was steadied, he sat down again and steepled his long fingers together, eyeing her over the tips of them. The silence stretched between them, and Chauncey squirmed in her chair. What an idiot she was to let him draw her!

Unexpectedly he asked, “Will you tell me now why you came to San Francisco?”

She stared at him stupidly, her wits having gone begging.
I came to ruin you, you miserable bastard!
She licked her suddenly dry lips.
But you don’t act like you’re supposed to and I don’t understand!
“Wanderlust,” she said succinctly. “London bored me. I wanted adventure, to see new things and places and people.”

“I see,” he said. “That is certainly an interesting reason.” He saw from her expressive eyes that she was formulating more outlandish reasons, and said quickly, “I thought, my dear, that you might enjoy taking a riverboat to the city of Sacramento. It’s grown tremendously the past couple of years, become quite an interesting and cultured city as a matter of fact. In all likelihood it will become the capital of California in the near future. What do you say? With all your wanderlust, you must want to see more of California than just San Francisco.”

“Indians,” she said, grasping at the first straw that came to mind. Dammit, she had to stay here and make plans!

“We’re not going overland. If you see any, they’ll be on the shore, a goodly distance away.”

“There’s water all the way to Sacramento?”

“Yes, all the way. Truly, love, I think you’ll enjoy yourself. A riverboat is nothing like the
ship you traveled from New York on. It’s the height of opulence, and if we weren’t married, we’d likely gain a good deal of weight from all the delicious food.”

Chauncey could well picture the exercise involved in remaining skinny. She shrugged inwardly. It would be the same in any case, and there was nothing she could do about it. Why didn’t she feel more put upon? “Yes,” she said, realizing that a happy bride should want a wedding trip, “I should like to visit Sacramento.”

“Excellent. They endured a huge fire just last year, but like San Franciscans, they rebuilt the city bigger and better. We will leave this afternoon, if that suits you, love.”

“Everythng is already arranged?” she asked, raising a brow at him.

“Indeed. I want you never to be disappointed about anything.”

“Ah,” she said, wiping her hands on the linen napkin, “the responsibilities of a husband.”

The
Scarlet Queen
was like no boat or ship Chauncey had seen before. “American steamers are the finest imaginable,” Delaney told her as he escorted her down the wide wooden Clay Street wharf. “Many visitors call them water palaces. As opposed to water closets, of course.” Chauncey ignored his jest and stared at the steamer. It did look more like a house than a ship, several stories high, with large doors, windows, and what looked like many galleries. “At night on the water, the
Scarlet Queen
will look like an enchanted castle, for there are lights
blazing from every window and the chimneys look like volcanoes belching fire.”

“You become a poet, sir,” she said, secretly very impressed. She turned at the sound of a man shouting. The wide wooden dock was filled with workers loading and unloading crates from several other ships docked there, and horses neighed as drivers whipped them up, navigating their wagons and drays through the throng of people. She shivered, for the afternoon was chill and overcast, wispy fog curling about the long wharf.

“Chilly? Let’s get on board.” Delaney quickly eased her out of the way of a Chinese who was balancing two buckets of shrimp slung on a long pole over his shoulders. “Lucas already delivered our trunks,” he continued. “You will like the captain, I promise you. His name is Rufus O’Mally, and he has a poet’s smooth Irish tongue with the ladies, but a greater martinet I’ve yet to meet.”

“You sound like you know him well,” Chauncey observed, not really paying attention, for the activity on the wide deck of the
Scarlet Queen
held her eye. She supposed that she should, by now, be accustomed to seeing ladies in silks and gentlemen in top hats and fancy suits alongside rough-looking men garbed in baggy trousers and slouched flannel hats. She thought of such a scene in London and nearly laughed aloud at the incongruity of it.

“He works for me,” Delaney said smoothly.

His words sank in and she whirled about, gazing at him in some consternation. “You
own
this boat?” she asked slowly.

“Actually, Sam Brannan and I are partners. Sam has his fingers in more pies than I care to count, including many in Sacramento, and he talked me into this venture. It’s paid off very well.” He saw that she was frowning, and added in some surprise, “Aren’t you pleased that your husband can afford to provide well for you?”

“I am not some kind of pet monkey to be kept in a gilded cage!”

“No, and your mixed metaphors are charming.”

“I don’t need you to provide for me.”

He still did not understand her obvious upset, and chose for the moment to ignore it. “The
Scarlet Queen
carries primarily passengers bound for Sacramento, but there are many stops along the way. Perhaps on another trip we’ll go to Grass Valley and Marysville and visit General Sutter. I think you’d enjoy Hock Farm. If you like, we can visit the Yuba River. I have a gold mine there.”