Midnight Star by Catherine Coulter
“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 know
“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.
“Well, that is certainly true, but you knew that, love.”
Think, you silly fool! “Del, I won’t become pregnant, will I?
She felt him tense and his hand stilled on her back. He said in blank surprise, “Is this . . . resistance of yours what this is about? This is why you fight me and yourself?”
“Yes,” she said baldly. “I do not wish to be pregnant . . . just yet. It frightens me.”
He could hear the ring of truth in her voice. He thought of the sponges and the vinegar solution in his trunk, and the instructions Marie had given him. Jesus, he thought, he hadn’t kept his word to Chauncey. In truth, he’d forgotten all about it. “I understand, love,” he said, gently kissing her temple. “Before we make love again, I will show you what to do.”
He heard her sigh of relief, felt her thick lashes brush against his throat, and wondered yet again if that were all of it.
He lay quietly after she slept, staring into the darkness, this time his thoughts more humorous, drawn to the scene with Marie.
“You what, mon cher?” She stared at him, her hurt for the moment quashed in utter surprise.
“I need your advice on contraception, Marie. My wife doesn’t wish to become pregnant too quickly.”
She burst into laughter, hugging her sides. “It is too funny,” she gasped. “You ask your mistress for help with your wife! Dieu! You men!”
He’d laughed too, appreciating the humor of the situation. He remembered Marie telling him about a woman’s cycle, and wondered if Chauncey were about to start her monthly flow. He counted in his mind the number of times they’d made love. “Damn,” he muttered into the darkness. He’d just as soon forget the whole business, but he had promised. He grinned suddenly, picturing how he would instruct Chauncey in the use of the sponge.
They spent the remainder of the return trip on deck, Delaney pointing out the sights. “This is the Carquinez Strait,” he said. “Soon we’ll be in the San Pablo Bay, then dead south to the San Francisco Bay.”
“At least there are trees lining the shores,” Chauncey said, eyeing the oaks, ashes, and willows. “Captain O’Mally told me how luxuriant and beautiful nature was here, but really, Delaney, look beyond! There’s nothing but sandy, dusty plains. Surely he speaks in comparison to San Francisco.”
Delaney grinned at her. “I suppose to some used to the civilized, tamed, and otherwise cosseted nature of England, you would think that San Francisco is rather desolate.”
“Harrumph,” said Chauncey. She tightened the bow of her bonnet against the stiff wind. “There are so many islands,” she observed after a moment. “Are they all uninhabited?”
“For the most part. Occasionally, Indians and trappers visit, but there aren’t enough vegetation and animals to support life.”
“It is certainly unlike England.”
“True. The first time I traveled by boat inland, I realized I’d never felt so free in my life. It was wide open, wild—uncivilized, if you will. The thousands of gold seekers have brought great change. I sometimes wonder how long this vast land would have remained untouched if gold hadn’t been discovered. Fifty thousand souls now live in San Francisco. When I arrived in 1849, there were but a thousand. You know that Mexico ceded California to the United States some five years ago. Our touted progress and men’s greed will shortly bring the Californios to extinction. Already their land grants are being tossed out of our corrupt courts, their cattle stolen and butchered, their acres taken over by squatters.”
“Who are these Californios?”
“For the most part, they are either Spanish or Mexican and have wielded great power in the near past. They are the old aristocracy of California, feudal landlords, more or less. Their land-grant ranchos many times exceed two hundred thousand acres. Then we Yanquis poured in.” Delaney paused a moment, his jaw hardening and his eyes narrowing in anger. “It amazes me that we have such contempt for peoples with different languages, different cultures. Most the men I know call them ‘greasers.’ The Chinese are called ‘diggers.’ Pleasant, isn’t it?”
Chauncey frowned up at his set profile. “No, not particularly, but to be honest, Del, I’ve never thought about it. I know you saved Lin from a dreadful fate, but these Californios. You seem to take their problems personally.”
“I suppose I do. They’re a proud, easygoing people, and a man’s word is considered his bond. They live and die by their honor, and thus they will not survive. One family I know quite well. Don Luis Varga saved my life once back in fifty. Unfortunately, when I was out of California in fifty-one, his family lost some of their lands to gold seekers, their cattle to rustlers, and the rest to banks. They were forced to take residence in Monterey. Don Luis was brutally murdered when he tried to protect his cattle from the bandits. As I told you, they are a proud breed of people, and they believe in honor above all else. I suppose you think I’ve painted a perfect people with no flaws at all.” He smiled ruefully. “Actually, they love to gamble and are wretched at it. Those Californios who
“I should like to meet the Varga family. I’ve never gambled, but I’m probably wretched at it too.”
“Perhaps you shall, one day.”
How very honorable he himself sounded, she thought, her softened mouth tightening into a thin line as she remembered, She said flippantly, baiting him, “It seems to me that you could do something for them. After all, aren’t you very rich?”
Delaney turned his head to stare at her thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I am rich, but not rich enough. And there’s a matter of power. One man can’t wield enough power to turn the tide of what is happening, and corruption is rife, both in the cities and in the state government.” He smiled wryly. “Did I tell you that a group of our most civic-minded men in the Pacific Club want me to run for the Senate?”
“You are considered so honest, then?”
“Isn’t that rather an odd question from a loving wife?”
“Come, Del, haven’t you ever . . . cheated anyone to gain an advantage?”
She was watching his face closely, and drew back at the sudden fury in his eyes. Then his thick lashes covered his expression and he said curtly, “No.”
“Not even during your travels? To England for instance? After all, it’s a great distance away. It seems to me that you could have promised anything and there wouldn’t be any retribution if you didn’t make good.”
He studied her silently. She spoke lightly, as if in idle speculation, but he felt tenseness radiating from her. “Would you care to explain, Chauncey?” he asked quietly.
She shrugged elaborately and turned her attention to the willow trees whose dipping branches nearly touched the water at the edge of the river some fifty yards away. “I was just making conversation. Theoretical questions, that’s all.”