Midnight Star (20 page)

Rufus O’Mally fretted with his captain’s hat. He wanted to curse, but couldn’t, of course, not in front of a lady. “I don’t understand this,” he said finally. “Who on earth would want to harm you, ma’am? Well, no matter now, we’re wasting time! I’ll get my men together and make a search, but . . .” He shrugged, knowing the odds. His eyes met Delaney’s. It would be useless, both of them knew that. “Do you want to come, Del?”

Delaney felt Chauncey’s fingers clutch about his wrist. “No, I didn’t see the fellow. Brent Hammond is our best bet, I think.”

“Very well. I’ll come back as soon as I can.” Rufus turned to Chauncey. “I’m really sorry, ma’am. Most distressing. I can’t believe that . . . well, enough of my nattering! I’ll be off now.”

Delaney said nothing until the door closed on the captain. He slowly drew Chauncey into his arms. He felt her heaving breasts against his chest, felt her fingers gripping his shoulders. “Let’s get you out of those clothes and into bed,” he said, his voice somewhat shaky. Damn you for a rutting pig, he cursed himself silently. He rose,
turning away from her for a moment to regain his control.

Chauncey was blessedly numb. She felt him unfastening the long row of buttons on her gown and obeyed him silently when he told her to turn around. She still wore no corset, and was soon standing before him clothed in only her lace-edged linen shift.

“Into bed now, love,” he said, giving her a gentle shove.

She raised bewildered eyes to his expressionless face. “But my nightgown,” she protested.

“Yes,” he said, nearly choking. He walked like a mechanical man to the built-in armoire and fetched her the most modest gown he could find. When he turned around, she was standing still as a statue where he had left her, watching him.

The last thing she needs is a horny idiot gaping at her, he thought, trying not to look at her soft breasts thrusting against the material of her shift. To his utter surprise, Chauncey grasped her shift and lifted it over her head. He froze.

She raised her head and looked into his blazing eyes. “Please, Del, help me,” she whispered. She felt his eyes roving hungrily over her naked body. “Please, don’t leave me.”

“Jesus!” He tossed the nightgown away and jerked her into his arms. “Chauncey, love,” he said, his fingers frantically pulling the pins from her hair. Thick mahogany waves flowed over his fingers down her back. She doesn’t want sex, he told himself, willing himself to believe it. She’s frightened and needs reassurance. She needs to reaffirm that she’s alive.

He managed to hold to his reasoning until
Chauncey suddenly thrust her belly against him and grasped his face between her hands to bring his mouth to hers. “Please,” she whispered wildly against his lips, her body moving frantically against his.

He knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, knew she was trying to wipe out what had happened. It was all shock, reaction. It was . . . Her tongue thrust into his mouth and he moaned.

“You’re my wife,” he gasped, the simple truth making him wild with need. “My wife.”

He felt her hands on the buttons of his shirt, tugging frantically. Without another word, he lifted her into his arms and laid her on top of the velvet spread. He stepped back, his eyes searching hers, and practically ripped off his clothes. He stood naked beside the bed for a moment, and watched her eyes rove down his body. They widened at the sight of his thrusting manhood.

“Please,” she whispered, and held out her arms to him.

He covered her body with his, kissing her wildly, and she responded mindlessly, her hands digging into his shoulders, stroking down his back to his buttocks. Over and over she whispered, “Please, please . . .”

His hand slipped downward to probe the softness between her thighs, and he quivered at the hot wetness of her woman’s flesh. She was nearly beyond herself when he thrust into her. The instant he filled her, her body burst with her release. Her climax was so powerful she nearly bucked him off her, harsh cries erupting from her throat. She screamed his name and held him
to her when his body exploded with his own climax.

Delaney felt as though his soul had been ripped from his body. He couldn’t stop kissing her, caressing her, telling her how much he needed her. Slowly she relaxed beneath him, her thighs easing from their grip on his flanks. He stared down into her face and saw that her eyes no longer held the blind, dazed look.

He watched her pink tongue nervously wet her lower lip. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

He did, but for the moment, words were beyond him, words and rational thought. He kissed her again, deeply. To his besotted surprise, he felt her respond, felt her thighs tense.

He rolled onto his back and set her astride him. He watched her face as his member, hard and ready, thrust up, deep into her. Shock, bewilderment, and rampant desire. He grasped her narrow waist and moved her up and down on him, teaching her the rhythm. Her full breasts, their taut pink nipples thrust out as she arched her back, quivered when he caressed them. When his fingers glided downward to probe and find her, her dazed mind, emptied of all fear, released her yet again and she cried out harshly, her hands splayed on his chest, clutching at him as her body released her.

Her wild response triggered his own body, and he held her fiercely, plunging deep within her.

Slowly he eased her forward until she lay stretched flat on top of him, her luxurious hair flowing over them both like a silken blanket. She
seemed senseless, beyond passion now, beyond her fear. He stroked her back gently, saying nothing, and soon her breathing evened into sleep. Good Lord, he thought as his dazed wits returned to normal. Never before had he made love with such involvement, such . . . commitment. It had not really occurred to him that Chauncey would be unresponsive to lovemaking, but this . . . this utterly wild abandon . . . He shook his head slightly, stilling when she moaned softly in her sleep. Don’t be a fool, Del, he told himself, smiling crookedly. It was her fear, her need to escape for however briefly from what had happened, that had erased all her inhabitions. Still, he felt an overwhelming sense of pleasure and male accomplishment. A woman’s pleasure, a precious, elusive thing, a challenge to any man. Not much of a challenge this time, he thought ruefully. It had been she who had taken him.

He wrapped an arm around her back and eased upward, grabbing a blanket to pull over them. She burrowed against him, and he laughed softly at his own predictable response. He did not sleep, for his mind quickly began to sift through all that had happened. He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard a soft rap on the stateroom door. He gently eased a sleeping Chauncey away from him and rose quickly, grabbing his dressing gown.

He opened the door and looked into Captain O’Mally’s worried face. “Well?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing, Del, nothing. Jesus, he might even be one of the crew for all we could discover. Could Mrs. Saxton tell you any more?”

“No, she’s sleeping now. I’ll speak to her again in the morning.”

Rufus shook his head. “I have to agree with Brent Hammond. It’s a damnable mystery. Look, Del, all of us have enemies. Do you think someone could have tried to hurt your wife out of revenge, to get back at you?”

“It’s possible,” Delaney said, but he didn’t believe it.

“What about Baron Jones? I know you had a run-in with him . . . what, last year? I heard about the duel. I saw him on the dock today. Perhaps he’s on board . . .”

Delaney flexed his shoulder unconsciously, his body remembering the pain of the bullet that had torn through his flesh. As for Baron Jones, he would limp for the rest of his miserable life. “No,” he said shortly, “he didn’t stay.” He smiled crookedly. “Anyway, I can’t imagine the baron running. He’s a fool and a bully, but not a coward. I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Rufus. Thanks for checking.”

Captain O’Mally nodded and took his leave.

Delaney turned thoughtfully to see Chauncey, her hair tumbling about her pale face, struggling to a sitting position. “What is going on?” she asked, her voice vague with sleep.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” he said, forcing his eyes away from her bare breasts. “Let’s get some sleep.”

“All right,” she said, and sank back against the pillow.

“Here, sweetheart, drink this.”

Chauncey eyed the cup and saucer held out to her and shimmied up to a sitting position.

Delaney gulped. Still half-asleep, she was oblivious of her nakedness. “What time is it?” she asked on a yawn. Suddenly her eyes widened and she flushed. She yanked at the covers, drawing them to her shoulders. “Oh dear,” she gulped, eyeing him from beneath her lashes.

“English tea,” he said abruptly, and she took the saucer. She sipped at the blessedly hot tea, flavored with lemon, just as she liked it.

“What time is it?” she asked again, forcing her eyes to her husband’s face. He was seated in a chair next to the bed, wearing a deep burgundy velvet dressing gown, his long legs stretched out in front him, crossed at his bare ankles.

“About nine o’clock. Do I take it that you slept well?”

“You must know that I did!” Memory in exquisite detail filled her now clear mind, and she took another gulp of her tea. How could she have acted so . . . Her mind sought a sufficiently insulting word to apply to her appalling behavior, but failed. Her response to him the second time he had taken her was bad enough, but this!

“Do you know that I can tell what you’re thinking now?” he asked, his twinkling eyes in the dim morning light of the cabin more golden than light brown. “Now, that is, that I know you so much better,” he added. He saw that she would argue with him, and quickly raised a quieting hand. “Nah, darlin’,” he said in his best Southern drawl, “yah’ll just shut yah pretty mouth an’ forget all those wicked thoughts.”

“I can barely understand you!” she snapped, knowing he was teasing her and hating it. But only for a moment. Very carefully she set her empty cup into its saucer and laid it on the side of the bed. “I am afraid,” she said, looking at him straight.

“Yes,” he said, equally as serious as he sat forward, clasping his hands between his thighs. “So am I. I think it’s time we had a very detailed discussion. Are you up to it?”

For a brief moment she was drawn to his hands, strong and brown, his fingers long and tapered. She could for that brief instant feel the calluses of his fingertips stroking over her.
Stop it, Chauncey! This is ridiculous!
She forced herself to nod.

“Good. Now, first, tell me again about that fellow who tried to run you down in England.”

She did, quite calmly, for it was months in the past and the terror had faded. As she talked, she was aware of his mobile brown brows arching or drawing together as if they mirrored his thoughts.

“You have no idea who he was?”

“No, as I said, he wore a black handkerchief over his face.”

“All right. Now, last night.”

Chauncey ran her tongue over her lips. “Can I have some more tea, please?”

He obliged, and Chauncey thought vaguely that it looked odd to see his strong tanned hand pouring tea from the delicate china teapot. Her thoughts veered sharply again to his hands on her body, and she squirmed.

This time he read her thoughts easily, and frowned slightly. He gently cupped her chin in his hand, stroking his forefinger along her jaw. “Sweetheart,” he said very calmly, “what happened between us last night was perfectly normal . . .”
Not really, you fool!
“You are my wife and I want you to realize that it is your duty to feel pleasure with me, your husband.”

“I . . . I acted so wild,” she burst out.

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I loved every minute of your wildness.” He drew a deep breath and moved back to his chair. “I think it best that we set that aside for the moment. Tell me again what happened.”

This was more difficult for her, but finally, after many questions from Delaney, she finished. She sighed and leaned back against the pillow, watching him.

“What we have is someone who wants you removed,” he said quite emotionlessly, “someone
from England, not here. Your aunt and uncle would inherit your fortune were you to die?”

“Yes, but it can’t be them, Del! Aunt Augusta is greedy and really awful, but I can’t believe she would try to
murder
me!”

“All right. Tell me about your father.”

She shook her head numbly, knowing full well that she could say nothing about her father or about Paul Montgomery or about Delaney’s now deceased solicitor, Mr. Boynton.

“Chauncey!”

His voice was sharp, and she blinked at him. “My father was involved in some rather shaky business dealings,” she said finally, giving him as much of the truth as she dared. “But he was a good man, a very good man.” Her voice broke. Here she was defending her father to the man responsible for his death! It was too much. She turned her face away on the pillow and sobbed softly.

Before Delaney could move to take her into his arms, she stiffened and whirled about to face him. “What about you?” she demanded harshly. “You are my husband now. It is you, not anyone else, who would have all my money were I to die! Not my aunt or uncle!”

He felt a muscle jerk in his jaw. He immediately clamped down on his anger at her ridiculous accusation, and realized that once again she was presenting him with a puzzle. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “But I didn’t know you in England, wife,” he said with precise calm. “You believe there are two people out to remove you? Me and some other luckless fool?”

But what about my father?

She shook her head numbly. “I . . . I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“I want you to listen to me, Chauncey, very carefully. I care for you quite a bit, you know, otherwise I would not have married you. You are . . . keeping things from me, things from your past. You can be certain that I will do my damnedest to protect you, but for God’s sake, you must be completely honest with me! I don’t want us having to spend our lives looking over our shoulders wondering who the hell is trying to kill you.”

He had never before spoken to her so coldly. There was no lurking laughter in his voice, no soft warmth in his narrowed eyes.

“I’m waiting,” he said, his voice even more ferociously calm and cold.

“Please, Del, there is nothing more I can tell you.” Her voice broke, not purposely, but it gained her time from his relentless demands.

“All right,” he said, sighing.
Dammit! What was she keeping from him?
“Now, we’re going to pack our things. We’ll be stopping at Marysville early this afternoon. You and I are returning to San Francisco.”

She blinked at him.

“The man who tried to kill you is in all likelihood still on board. We’ll take no more chances. We’re going home.”
And I am going to make inquiries, my love.
But Lord, he thought, it would take months to get any answers, if there were any to be had!

* * *

Marysville, Delaney told her, was a much newer place than Sacramento, but already there were a good six thousand inhabitants. Chauncey thought it looked like a dismal place, but the setting was lovely, the town lying at the fork of the Feather and Yuba rivers.

Their return trip was on the steamer
Wildfire,
a rather antiquated vessel that had been refitted to carry the continual stream of passengers into the gold country and back to San Francisco. Their cabin was small and sparsely furnished.

Delaney did not leave her side for a minute, and she was aware that he was watching her, questions in his eyes. She wanted to yell at him that even if she did tell him all the truth about herself, it wouldn’t solve the puzzle of who wanted to kill her.

They dined in their cabin. Chauncey, who had expected the food to be as dreadful as their accommodations, was pleasantly surprised at the delicious broiled trout. Would the questions never leave his eyes? she wondered as she chattered on about inconsequential things. Eventually she became as silent as her husband, her mind forcing her back to England. She thought of her “Uncle” Paul, of Frank Gillette, of Thomas Gregory, the only three people outside of her relatives who knew of her fortune. But they had nothing to gain, nothing whatsoever! It made no sense, and she wanted to scream with frustration.

“Chauncey.”

Delaney’s voice broke her tumbled thoughts and she stared at him blankly.

“Time for bed, my dear.”

There was no screen in the cabin and Chauncey
was forced to undress in front of him. She eyed the bed. It was lumpy and quite narrow. She could practically feel his amusement when she slipped her nightgown over her head over her shift. She knew he was laughing at her during her contortions to remove the shift and keep herself covered at the same time. She didn’t once look at him, for if she did, she knew she would likely blush.

She crawled to the far side of the bunk and pulled the covers to her chin. She closed her eyes tightly, not opening them even when she felt the mattress give under Delaney’s weight.

“Come here.”

She started at the curt sound of his voice.

“I . . . I’m awfully tired,” she managed to say in a thread-thin voice.

“I’m not, and I promise you that you won’t be in a few moments. Come here.”

She didn’t move. She jumped when she felt his fingers lightly stroke over her still-sore jaw. Slowly his fingers explored her in the darkness, her lips, the line of her nose, her throat. When his mouth sought hers, she forced herself to lie quietly. I will not become a wild thing again, she swore to herself. I will not let him make me feel . . .

She gasped when his hand lightly settled on her breast. She held herself rigid, fighting the growing response. She locked her legs together, wishing that the interesting ache between her thighs would disappear. Fool that she was, she’d believed she was hungry! “No,” she whispered against his lips.

His tongue lightly stroked hers, and he said
very softly, “I will not let you fight me, Chauncey, not when I know the passion you have for me.” She felt his hand ease beneath her nightgown and move gently upward. “So soft,” he said, stroking her inner thighs. When he cupped his hand over her, she tried desperately to ignore the sheer feeling that was taking over her mind. She arched up, trying to pull away from his hand, but he eased his finger inside her, testing her, probing her.

His eyes darkened in a satisfied gleam, for she was growing wet from his caressing fingers. “You see,” he said as he nibbled her ear, “your body knows the pleasure I can give you. Stop fighting me. More important, stop fighting yourself.”

“I don’t want . . .”

She moaned, shamelessly raising her hips to press closer to his fingers.

“Ah, yes you do. Touch me, love. Touch me as I’m touching you.”

Her fingers obeyed his command. They glided tentatively down his chest to his flat belly, then lower to tangle in the bush of hair at his groin. She sucked in her breath when lightly her fingers touched his manhood. His flesh was hot, swollen, and throbbed in her hand. He moaned softly into her mouth as she explored him.

“You feel like hard velvet,” she whispered.

She felt him lurch against her at her words. He was trembling, and for a moment she was awed that she could bring him to such a point. Then his fingers became hot and deep, and she forgot everything.

“Let go, love. That’s it. Yes, open to me.” Delaney could feel her resistance. Her mind was
fighting her pleasure. When she tensed, unable to control the rampant sensations coursing through her body, he saw a moment of wild fear in her eyes. He forgot his questions as her hands clutched his shoulders, and he plunged deep inside her, his own need overtaking him.

He held her until her breathing quieted, then rose, his body unutterably weary, to douse the lamps. When he eased beside her again, he felt her withdrawing from him. He clasped her to him and said, half in anger, half in frustration, “If you cry again, I’ll not let you sleep until you tell me why.”

“I won’t cry,” she said against his shoulder.

He raised his hand to push her hair back from her forehead. “Will you tell me why you fight yourself, then?”

She grew very still. His fingers were lightly exploring her face, even now exquisitely careful of her sore jaw. Her own hand, for want of anyplace else to go, lay open-palmed on his chest.

She felt him sigh deeply. “Do you realize how very odd your behavior is, Chauncey?”

She swallowed at his question, but no words of explanation or denial were forthcoming. She was relieved that it was dark and he couldn’t see her eyes. Damn him, he always saw too much!

“I suppose you do,” he continued after a moment of her silence. “It is likely, you know, that I would have gotten around to chasing you. But the fact of the matter is that I didn’t have to. You wanted me and made that quite clear from the moment I met you. You got what you wanted, my dear, and now you fight me and yourself. I would like to understand you. I am your
husband. If you can’t bring yourself to trust me, then I wonder what is to become of us.”

“You . . . you are not what I expected!” she blurted out.

Delaney blinked. Slowly he eased onto his side, facing her. He held her close, aware of his body reacting again to her. Stop it, he told himself sternly. Jesus, now is not the time! “Just what did you expect?”

His voice was soothing, gentle, but her mind shied away from what she had unwittingly revealed to him. “You are an American,” she said.