Jade Star (13 page)

They'd walked into Lahaina, and now they began their walk back to Makila Point. Jules didn't say a word.

Neither did Saint. What could he say?

 

Saint jerked awake, jumped to his feet, and ran into the small house. Jules was screaming, sobbing as if her heart were breaking.

“Jules,” he nearly shouted at her as he sat down beside her on the narrow bed. She was writhing, her
body twisted in the single sheet that covered her. She cried out again, whispering, “No, oh God, no!”

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Jules, wake up! Come on, sweetheart, wake up.”

Jules felt his hands on her, heard his man's voice, and struggled wildly. “No, don't touch me!”

He didn't want to slap her as he'd done before, but he didn't see much choice. He drew back his hand, then paused. He saw her eyes slowly open in the dim light, saw her blink. “Michael?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“Yes, Jules. It's all right now. You're safe, with me.” Had he repeated the same words to her before?

She drew a shuddering breath, but she couldn't seem to stem the sobs erupting from her throat. She couldn't seem to break away from the awful dream.

“Jules, tell me. Tell me what you were dreaming.” He felt only a moment of guilt, using her vulnerability against her. But it was for the best, dammit. “Tell me.”

She gulped down the tears, and buried her face against his bare chest. “He tied me down on his bed, my arms and legs apart. He took all my clothes. He touched me and told me how lovely I was. He told me that he would keep me naked so I would get used to being looked at. He told me that the man who bought me would want me like this. Oh, God!”

“It's all right,” Saint repeated, stroking her hair. “It's all right now.”

It seemed as though the dam had burst, he thought, listening to her gasping little breaths, seeing through her eyes what had happened to her.

“He threatened me. He told me if I didn't behave for him, he would bring in some of his men and let
them play with me. He made me walk about in front of him naked. Then that night he drugged me, and put his hands on my breasts, and kissed them, and I felt so strange, and so frightened. He kept touching me . . . he never let me wear any clothes until that awful red gown. He told me he wanted to take me, but I was worth too much money to him as a virgin.” She suddenly reared back in his arms, her eyes wild. “I laughed at him and told him he was an ugly old man!”

“Good for you,” Saint said. “Well done, Jules.”

“I did it only once,” she said, more calmly now. “I was too frightened of him to put up much of a fight after that.” She buried her face against his chest again. “He even made me relieve myself in front of him, and bathe. I felt like a cheap, worthless . . . nothing. He wouldn't stop fondling me! God, I hated his hands, and how he looked at me when he was touching me.”

He held her tightly against him, rocking her slightly. At least it was all out now. He knew the moment she got a hold on herself and came completely awake. He felt her stiffen.

“Jules,” he said sharply, shaking her, “no, don't think what you're thinking.”

She sniffed, then very slowly pulled away from him. He let her go and she sank back down on the pillow. She closed her eyes, thinking that even in the dark she could make out the disgust and distaste on his face. All because of a stupid nightmare. She turned her face away.

“Jules,” he said quietly, lightly touching his fingertips to her hair. “Do you feel better now?”

Feel better! She wanted to die.

He repeated his question.

Say something, you spineless idiot!
“Yes,” she managed. “Please, Michael, I want to go back to sleep.”

She heard the bed creak as he rose. There was absolute silence for several moments, except for their breathing. He was staring at her—she knew it, she could feel the condemnation flowing from him to her.

Saint sighed, turned, and left the bedroom.

The next morning when he called her for breakfast, she sidled out of the bedroom as if she'd been hiding. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

“We're leaving this afternoon on the
Oregon,
” he said, toying with his bread.

She said nothing.

“Is there anything you would like me to fetch for you from your parents' house?”

She raised her head, but still didn't meet his eyes. “My surfboard is hidden behind the house.”

“Unfortunately, the water is too cold for surfboarding in San Francisco. I remember you were quite good at it.”

“Yes, I am. I will miss that wild feeling.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Kanola taught me when we were very young.”

This is no Garden of Eden, he thought. This is more like hell we're escaping. He said sharply, “Enough, Jules. Your life has changed—neither you nor I can deny that. But everything will work out. I promise to be a good husband to you. I promise you'll never starve.”

“If we're ever on the edge,” she said, “you can always sell me to the highest bidder.”

He stood abruptly, his chair falling to the floor,
and placed his splayed hands on the tabletop. “If you ever speak like that again, I will thrash you.” His anger was immense, but when he saw her flinch, it dissolved immediately. “And if you ever cower away from me, I'll thrash you. Damn you, Jules, I am not Jameson Wilkes, nor am I John Bleecher!” She didn't reply, but then again, he didn't expect her to. He straightened, a bit chagrined by his display, and said more calmly, “Your brother will meet us at the dock.”

But Thomas wouldn't meet them at the dock. Later that morning, Dwight Baldwin rode his swaybacked mare to the small house on Makila Point. “Saint,” he said. “Juliana.”

Saint shook his hand, saw the troubled look in his gray eyes, and said quietly, “What's wrong, Dwight?”

Reverend Baldwin sent a worried look toward Jules.

“What's wrong, sir?” she asked in a shrill voice, her body tensing.

“I'm sorry,” Dwight said. “Thomas was beaten up last night. No, no, he'll be all right, but he's in no shape to travel for a while.”

“His injuries?” Saint asked in a tight, controlled voice.

“No internal injuries, as best I can judge,” Dwight said. “But he's got a couple of broken ribs, and a broken leg. He'll need to stay in bed for several weeks.”

“Who did it?” Jules asked.

“John Bleecher and some of his friends. The bunch of them left the island early this morning, bound for Oahu. I suppose they'll stay away until it's forgotten. John's father, when I spoke to him, claimed that his son was conducting some business for him on Oahu. He said his son had nothing to do with any of this and
Thomas is a liar.” Actually, Elisha Beecher had been far more colorful in his speech.

“Is Thomas at home, sir?” Jules asked.

“Yes. Reverend DuPres is in something of a quandary,” he added. Saint knew exactly what he meant, but Jules, who was concentrating on her brother, didn't seem to hear his words.

She said, “I must see him, Michael, before we leave.”

“Yes,” he agreed. Jesus, the last thing he wanted was to face her damned father again, but there was no hope for it.

He heard Jules whisper, “It's my fault, all of it.”

Unfortunately, Saint saw, there were no signs of iodine on Reverend Etienne DuPres's jaw.

“Get out and take my harlot of a daughter with you!” he shouted, and tried to slam the front door.

Saint, without much effort, pushed him back.

“It's your fault,” Jules's father yelled as he fell back, shaking his fist at Jules. “Your poor brother, beaten because he tried to protect you!”

“Ah, so now you will admit that John Bleecher attacked your daughter and not the other way around?”

“I admit nothing!”

“Father,” Jules said calmly, “I would like to see Thomas.”

Saint saw the man's face flood with rage, and quickly said, “We will both see Thomas. After all, he was to accompany us back to San Francisco today. Come, Jules.”

“No!” DuPres shouted. Saint shoved him aside as if he were naught to be bothered with. “You little slut—you should have been destroyed the moment you emerged from your mother's womb!”

Saint turned at the foot of the stairs and said very calmly, “If you do not keep your mouth shut, sir, I
will break your jaw. This time, I will ensure it is broken. Do you understand?” He took one menacing step toward the man.

“This is my house!”

“Fine,” Saint said. “Remember that this is also your daughter and that I, sir, am your son-in-law. I assure you, that fact is the only blot I know of in my family history.” He shook his head. “You really are quite a paltry man.”

He felt Jules's hand on his sleeve, and turned to walk up the stairs with her. “Easy, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “You knew it wouldn't be pleasant. Ignore him. He is not . . . well.”

“I have come to realize that he is rather narrow,” Jules said. She gazed up at him a moment. “Even if your children were awful, you wouldn't treat them like he treats me, would you?”

“If they looked like you, I'd give them huge bear hugs.”

Thomas managed a travesty of a grin when his sister and Saint came into his bedroom.

“Good Lord,” Saint said on a whistle, “you look colorful enough to become a country's flag!” He walked to the bed, lifted Thomas' hand, and took his pulse.

“I'll live, Saint,” Thomas said. He winced slightly when Saint gently placed his hand on his belly and pressed here and there.

“Yes,” Saint said, “you most certainly will—we need more good doctors. I'm taking Jules away today, Thomas. You of all people understand that she must leave. I am leaving money with Reverend Baldwin. When you are well enough, you will book passage and come to San Francisco. All right?”

Thomas closed his eyes a moment and choked down his tears. “Yes, Saint,” he managed. “God, everything has been such a muddle, and now this!”

“I know. Now, tell your sister that you're going to live.” Saint rose and stood aside.

“Stop looking at me as if I were on my last legs, Jules,” Thomas said to his white-faced sister. “Don't be a fool . . . come on now. I'm fine, just fine. Don't you believe your husband? I'll be with you in a month, you'll see.” The spate of words exhausted him, and he laid his head back heavily on the pillow.

“Thomas, I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

“Women,” Thomas scoffed, biting down on the awful pain in his ribs. “Watering pots and silly twits, all of you. Cut line, Jules. You heard Saint—I'll be fine.” He was beginning to feel like a parrot, dammit! But birds didn't want to kill, he thought, and to kill John Bleecher would give him the greatest pleasure at the moment.

Jules leaned down and kissed her brother's pale cheek. She stroked her fingertips over his bruised jaw. “I love you, Thomas. We will both build a fine life, you'll see.”

“Lord, I know that,” he scoffed. Anything to keep away those damnable tears.

Jules kissed her brother again, and stepped back.

“You take care, Thomas,” Saint said, shaking the boy's hand.

“Yes, Saint, I shall.” He lowered his voice. “Please take good care of my sister. She is so . . . hurt.”

Saint felt an unaccustomed lump in his throat. “I will, Thomas, I will.”

They were not to escape Reverend DuPres's house with no more confrontations. Sarah, her eyes puffy
from crying, her face pale as wax, was standing in the hall below, waiting for them. When she saw her sister, she screamed, “You miserable bitch! God, I hope you die, you don't deserve to live!”

Saint squeezed Jules's hand. He wanted to feel some sympathy for Sarah, but couldn't seem to find any within him. He said in a mocking, cold voice, “You are a bore, Miss DuPres. Let's just hope you aren't a pregnant bore.”

“Shut up, damn you!”

“Such language from a missionary's daughter,” Saint said in that same mocking voice. “So, John Bleecher has left you high and dry, so to speak. After he tried to kill your brother. And before that, he tried to rape your sister. You have excellent taste in men, it would appear.”

“I hate you,” Sarah hissed, her hands fisted at her sides.

“Were I you, Miss Sarah, I should be careful what my dear father overheard me say. I wouldn't put it past him to toss you out on your ear for your . . . lascivious leanings. After all, how much is a father expected to take? Two sluts for daughters? Come, Jules. We have a date with the
Oregon.
”

Jules followed him silently from her father's house. She paused a moment in the road and stared back. “So much unhappiness,” she said in a low voice. “Poor Thomas.”

“Yes and yes,” Saint agreed. “You are well out of it, sweetheart. And Thomas will be out of it soon.”

 

It was evening, and Saint knew he couldn't tarry any longer on deck. He was alone now, the other few passengers having retired sometime before. As he
stared out over the endless expanse of ocean, he remembered the first time he'd ever seen the sea. He'd been with his Uncle Rafe fishing on the Chesapeake Bay. Then they'd ridden to the Atlantic and the thirteen-year-old Saint had wanted only to sit on a rock and stare at the savage beauty of the crashing waves. He pulled away from the railing and sighed. He'd seen the small cabin, the single narrow bed, and gulped. Well, he would simply have to deal with it. After all, he was a man, not a randy boy.

“Damn you, shut up,” he said to the randy boy as he strode along the companionway and quietly opened the door to their cabin. He pulled up short. Jules stood in the middle of the small space, her hands clutched around her stomach, bent over.

“Jules, what's the matter?” He was at her side in an instant, his gut wrenching in sudden fear. To his surprise, she straightened immediately and flushed a vivid red. He cocked a brow at her. “I'm waiting,” he said. “What's wrong? Do you hurt? Are you feeling seasick?”

“No,” she whispered, looking utterly miserable. “I'm not seasick. You know I'm never seasick.”

“Then what's the matter?” At her continued pained silence he said sharply, “If you don't talk to me now, I'm going to poke and prod around.”

“My . . . stomach hurts,” she said in the thinnest voice he'd ever heard.

“Your stomach? Was it something you ate at dinner?”

She shook her head, mute.

“Jules . . .” he said, his voice threatening.

“My stomach is cramping,” she said finally.

“Ah,” he said, relief flooding through him. “You've
begun your monthly flow.” He saw that she was ready to sink through the floor in embarrassment. “It's all right, sweetheart. I'll give you some laudanum in water. It will make you sleep, and when you wake up you'll feel just fine. All right?”

“All right,” she whispered.

Now, he thought as he pored several drops of laudanum into a glass of water, he wouldn't have to worry about his body behaving in a reprehensible fashion. He had five days of enforced nobility. He silently handed her the glass of water. She drank all of it, and just as silently handed back the glass.

“Now,” Saint said, “why don't you get into your nightgown? You'll be very sleepy soon.”
And the last thing I want to do is undress you myself.

There was no screen, and he left her alone for a good five minutes. When he walked back into the cabin, she was sitting on the side of the bed, swathed neck to toe in a white nightgown.

“Do you feel any better?”

She shook her head, not looking at him.

“Do you have bad cramps every month?”

She shook her head, still not looking at him.

“Does your back hurt?”

“No,” she said, looking now at her toes.

There was a single chair in the small cabin. Saint sat down and patted his thighs. “Come here, Jules.”

She looked at him, horrified. He only smiled at her encouragingly.

Slowly, color fluctuating alarmingly in her face, Jules padded over to him. He held out his arms, and she sank down onto his legs. He gently pulled her against him and held her.

He felt her tense with cramp.

“It will be gone soon,” he said, lightly kissing her hair.

“It's . . . it's nothing to you,” she said in a muffled voice.

“Nothing? What it is is natural. However, I do not believe in pain when it can be alleviated. Now, you just relax, and I'll tell you about Louis XIV.”

“He was a French king,” Jules said.

“Yes, in the seventeenth century. He was called the Sun King. In any case, when he was born, he came into the world with two teeth. The queen, his mother, was appalled, and very wisely refused to put him to her breast. You can imagine the wariness of the two wet nurses. I remember reading that they were well compensated for their stoicism.”

He felt her ease, felt her head fall against his chest. He continued, his voice growing softer, “There's another story about poor Louis. It seems that he had a rather embarrassing problem that involved his backside. He had what's called a fistula. The surgeons operated successfully, and the courtiers, to show their sympathy for their king, proceeded to have similar operations!”

Her breathing was even and soft. She was asleep.

“For a while very few gentlemen in the court were able to sit down.” He eased her back into the circle of his arm. Her thick dark lashes were fanned against her pale cheeks. He hadn't really noticed before that her brows and lashes were a dark brown, not a washed-out red as one would expect. And not one single freckle, even on the bridge of her nose. A nice straight nose, he thought. And a lovely mouth, a passionate mouth, the randy boy within him added. He continued to study her, perhaps really seeing her
for the first time. “You've grown into quite a beauty,” he said softly, lightly touching his fingertips to her soft throat. “And now you're my wife . . . and my problem.” No, he amended to himself, his responsibility.

He carried his sleeping wife to the bed and gently laid her on her back. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. He stripped off his clothes and slipped in beside her. The damned bed was so narrow he could feel the warmth from her body.

When he awoke the next morning, he realized that he was precariously close to falling off the bed. Jules, he saw, turning to face her, was sprawled on her stomach, her arms and legs spread, as if she were floating in the water. He was normally a light sleeper, but he'd never stirred, even when she'd begun her takeover. He smiled, then rose and bathed.

Dressed, he returned to the bed and sat down beside her. “Jules,” he said, gently shaking her shoulder.

A very heavy sleeper, he thought, and shook her again.

“Hmmm?” Jules pulled up to her elbows and slewed her head around. “Michael? What's the matter? Where . . . ?”

“We're aboard the
Oregon
and it's morning, and how do you feel?”

Jules ducked her head and said in a muffled voice, “I'm just fine, thank you.”

“Good. Why don't you get dressed and join me in the dining room?”

When Jules entered the long, narrow dining room on the main deck of the
Oregon,
she saw a knot of men, her husband in the middle of it. As she neared, she heard laughter, then Michael's voice saying, “To this day, it's called ‘burking.' ”

“Good God,” one heavily whiskered gentlemen laughed, “and to think I'd believed medical science had advanced to the point of curing people, not killing them!”

Saint laughed, then spied his wife. He excused himself. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“You're quite a storyteller,” she said, remembering his outrageous tale about Louis XIV. “What's all this about ‘burking'?”

“In Scotland, not very long ago, a man used to supply the medical school with dead bodies for dissection. Unfortunately, he got into the deplorable habit of strangling people to get corpses. And that was called ‘burking.' ”

“His name was Burk, I presume?”