Midnight Star by Catherine Coulter
I am changing, she thought, finally admitting it to herself. I am losing my purpose, succumbing to a man who is responsible for my father’s death. Her hands gripped the railing until her knuckles showed white. But it was the beautiful wedding ring that caught her attention. She closed her eyes a moment, trying to recapture the awful pain and bitterness she had nourished for the past long months. “I cannot falter,” she said softly, the words merely forming silently on her lips. “I must be strong, I must . . .”
The vow died in her mind. A strong arm closed about her waist, a hand clamped hard on her mouth. For an instant she was too startled to struggle.
“Sorry, ma’am,” she heard a guttural voice growl in her ear. She felt herself being lifted. Dear God, no! her mind screamed. He’s going to throw me overboard!
She twisted frantically, jerking her elbow back into the man’s stomach. He grunted in pain but did not release her. She bit down on the hand, and screamed, a high, thin sound escaping. His hand fisted and slammed hard into her jaw. She saw dancing lights before her eyes, and felt a searing pain. But still she fought frantically, tangling both of them in her swirling heavy mantle. He was cursing her, drawing her upward to the railing. I am not strong enough. I am going to die, drown!
She felt the man’s hand close over her breast and pause a moment. He squeezed, but her mind was too clogged with terror to feel any pain. His breathing was harsh now and she wondered wildly if it was from his lust or her struggles.
She heard a shout and the clomp of running boots. Oh God, help me! she screamed silently. The man gave a mighty heave, but Chauncey’s mantle caught between his legs. She heard him cursing, felt the instant he realized that someone was coming. He pushed her violently into the railing, clouting her back with his fists.
“What’s going on here? Hey, stop!”
Suddenly he let her go, and Chauncey sank to her knees on the smooth deck, gasping for breath.
“Mrs. Saxton! Good God, ma’am. Wh-who is that fellow?”
It was Brent Hammond, now crouched down next to her, his hands clasped strongly about her shoulders.
“I’m all right,” she managed, her body shuddering. She raised her white face to his. “He tried to kill me.”
Brent cursed softly and fluently. “Come, ma’am. He’s gone now.” He hoisted her up into his arms.
“Del,” she whispered. “Please, my husband . . .”
“What the hell!”
Delaney halted in his tracks, stunned at the sight of Chauncey in Brent Hammond’s arms.
“Your wife, Saxton,” Brent Hammond said calmly. “She’s all right, thank God.”
Chauncey turned wild eyes to her husband’s set face and felt a flood of sheer relief surge through her body. She struggled free of Brent Hammond’s arms and he set her on her feet. “Del,” she cried, and stumbled toward him.
Delaney enfolded her against his chest, his hands automatically stroking down her back, soothing her. He looked up and met Brent’s dark eyes. “What happened?” he asked quietly.
“It appears that someone—a man—tried to throw your wife overboard.” He lowered his voice, adding, “Perhaps it was an attempted rape.”
Chauncey felt her husband’s arms tighten almost painfully about her back. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m here now. It’s all right.”
His calmly spoken words brought reality to the nightmare, and memory. She raised her pale face. “Was it the same man who tried to kill me in England?”
His pause was almost imperceptible, but she felt it and didn’t understand it. “I don’t know, Chauncey. Brent, did you see his face?”
Brent lit a cheroot, blowing out the smoke before replying. His smooth brow furrowed in thought. “He was dressed roughly, a wool cap pulled down over his forehead. When he heard me coming, he ran toward the steerage stairs.”
Chauncey’s fingers clutched and fretted with the lapels on Delaney’s frock coat. “I didn’t see him, Del. He was behind me, and I didn’t recognize his voice.”
“What did he say, love? Do you remember?”
“Something like ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
“A criminal with regrets,” Brent murmured.
“I believe we’d best speak to Rufus about this. Can you manage it, Chauncey?”
She nodded, more in reflex than in truth. She was terrified, fear curdling in her stomach, making her want to retch. “Who, Del? Who wants me—?”
“We’ll find out,” he interrupted her quickly. “Brent, would you please ask Captain O’Mally to come to our stateroom?”
Brent Hammond nodded, and watched Delaney lift his wife into his arms and stride away with her. He stared thoughtfully after the couple, then tossed his cheroot over the side, into the still dark water.
Delaney felt Chauncey clinging to his neck as if he were her lifeline. Jesus, he thought, what if Brent hadn’t come along in time? He felt his muscles tensing and realized his forehead was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. He tried to remember every detail now about her nightmare. He hadn’t really believed it, not then. He realized that he really didn’t know all that much about Chauncey and her past in England. Whoever wanted her dead came from her past. An attempted rape? He didn’t think so.
He set her down in their stateroom. A steward had lit the lamps, and for the first time he could see her face clearly. She was utterly without color, her eyes dazed, the pupils dilated. An ugly bruise was darkening on her jaw. He could see her swallowing convulsively, and quickly led her to the basin atop the commode. He peeled off her mantle and held her shoulders while she retched up the little dinner she had eaten. He left her a moment to pour her a shot of whiskey, and she sank to the carpet, her beautiful silk gown now wrinkled and soiled, spread around her.
He dropped to his knees in front of her. “Here, Chauncey, drink this.”
She took a cautious sip of the whiskey and fell into a paroxysm of coughing as the fiery liquid burned to her stomach.
“A bit more. That’s good, sweetheart.”
He laid her on the bed and fetched a damp cloth and placed it on her forehead. “Lie still a moment, love.” He gently ran his fingers over her jaw. Nothing broken, thank God. He saw her eyes lose their wild, frantic look, and felt himself ease a bit. “Better?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I made such a fool—”
“Hush, love.” He lifted her limp hand and kissed her fingers. “You scared the hell out of me. Listen to me, we’ll find him, I promise you.”
There was a sharp rap on the stateroom door, and Delaney raised his head. “Come in,” he called.
Captain O’Mally, looking utterly bewildered, came into the stateroom. “What’s going on, Del? Hammond said something about rape and murder and—”
Delaney squeezed Chauncey’s hand and rose, interrupting the captain sharply. “Sit down, Rufus. We’ve got a problem.”
Get a hold on yourself, you weak fool, Chauncey chided herself as she listened to her husband speak calmly and precisely. She sat up, swaying just a bit, and planted her feet on the carpet.
“Can you tell the captain exactly what happened now, Chauncey?” Delaney asked, moving to stand beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder.
She did, drawing strength as she spoke. She realized vaguely that her husband was gently kneading her shoulder as she spoke, comforting her. “I never saw his face,” she concluded after a woeful few moments, knowing her story would be of no help in locating the man. “You know, though,” she added, “his accent was odd, blurred.”
Delaney looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”
She tried to find the right words but couldn’t. She shrugged, quivering slightly with remembered shock.
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
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.
17
&nb
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.