Jade Star (16 page)

“Don't you mean Saint Michael?”

 

Jules felt excited, yet very tense. Michael didn't return home until late in the afternoon, and by that time she was nearly incoherent with anxiety.

“Hi, Jules,” he said, striding into the parlor. “How was your day?” He shrugged out of his light coat and tossed it to a chair back. “What's wrong? Do you feel ill?” He'd looked at her only a moment, but he was so aware of her that he sensed almost instantly that something was different. He watched her glide her tongue over her bottom lip.

It affected him as strongly as if she'd thrown herself naked upon him. This has simply got to stop, he
told himself. I will not be a slave to my damned randy body.

“Michael, do we have any money?”

He blinked at that. “Enough. Why?”

She said in a tumbled rush of words, “Mrs. Saxton and Mrs. Newton were here and they invited us to a party and Chauncey said she'd take me to Monsieur David's for a new gown and I didn't know if you would mind or if you would want—”

He held up his hand to stem the flow of words.

“He sounds very expensive,” she said, ignoring him in an effort to get it all out at once, “and Father, well, he never . . .”

Saint felt that damned elusive pain at the pathetic trailing off of her voice. She looked up at him, hopeful as a child, but certain that a treat was to be denied. But she wasn't a child, dammit.

He said very gently, “Jules, of course you must have a new gown, several in fact. Do go with Chauncey. And don't worry about money, all right?”

“But—”

“No buts. Don't worry.”

“But Lydia told me how, many times, you have to barter for things, and how people owe you favors, and I don't want to be a burden to you, at least more than I already am.”

That made him angry. Damn Lydia anyway for her big mouth! “Enough, Jules,” he said sharply. “You are not a burden, and don't you ever speak like that again, do you understand me?”

She wilted at his anger. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, her head bowed. “It's just that I
am
a burden. I don't do anything, nothing at all, and I'm—”

He couldn't bear it. He strode swiftly to her and
gathered her against him. She was rigid for a moment then leaned against him. He breathed in the sweet scent of her hair, felt her small bones beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and held her. “I want you to be happy, Jules,” he said finally, his warm breath against her temple. “There is enough money, I promise. I could have ten burdens like you and it wouldn't matter. In fact, I'd like it very much.”

He could still feel her uncertainty, her resistance, and said in a teasing voice, “I think you would look lovely in pink.”

“Pink?” she squeaked, looking up into his grinning face. “With my hair?”

“That's better.” Without thinking, he quickly kissed her pursed lips. She flushed. Get her mind off you attacking her again, you ass! “How about an emerald necklace, then? To match your sparkling eyes?”

She smiled at that, naturally this time. “You truly don't mind, Michael?”

“Idiot,” he said, squeezing her. “Now, would you like to ride out to the ocean with me? There are a number of birds I would like to have you identify for me. Talk about ignorant—all I can recognize is a gull and sometimes a cormorant. They've got long, skinny necks, don't they?”

She gave him a brilliant smile and he thought: She's my wife, she belongs to me, and I want her to be happy. He remembered so vividly that single night when he'd brought her pleasure, the convulsive rippling of her slender body, the soft cries that erupted from her throat, the taste of her. Damn, he wished he could stop thinking about it, forget it. He released her abruptly, knowing that if he continued to
hold her, she would feel his hardness. He wouldn't frighten her. Never again.

He bundled her out of the house before he could be trapped by another patient. He rented a mare for her from Ranger Tyson, the proud new father of another Tyson, and they made their way to the ocean, very slowly, for Jules wasn't all that used to riding.

“When you go with Chauncey tomorrow, be sure to buy yourself a riding habit, all right?”

Jules pulled her cloak more closely about her. “I've never had a riding habit,” she said.

“In royal blue,” Saint said firmly. “Now, sweetheart, what is that damned bird over there on that sand dune?”

“That, I believe,” said Jules with great concentration, “is a snowy plover. And that one,” she said, excitement and fun in her voice as she pointed to another bird, “just might be a wandering tattler.”

He grinned over at her. “I know quite a few wandering tattlers, and they all speak English. You wouldn't be making that up, now, would you?”

“No, sir. I love the name, don't you? I've really never seen one in the flesh-and-feathers before, but it does look like a bird in one of my books.”

“Books?” he asked. “I don't recall seeing any.”

She was silent for a long moment, saying finally, “I have two of them. They're in Lahaina in my father's house. I had hidden them under my bed and forgot about them in all the . . . excitement.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, “or the day after, we will replace them for you. Also any more books you want. My library is rather meager.” He saw that she would argue with him, and added quickly, “If you
see a small plant, maybe it's a yerba buena, which is, just in case you don't know something I do, the original name of San Francisco.”

Jules nodded, knowing his intent, and said in a forced gay voice, “I will look. And perhaps we'll see a Bonaparte gull.”

“Now, Dan Brewer is my husband Del's partner at the bank,” Chauncey was saying to Jules. “We're trying to find him a wife, but the pickings here in San Francisco are still quite slim. Another gentleman you'll meet is Tony Dawson, part-owner of the
Alta California,
another one of those bachelors. You recall that young lady I introduced you to before lunch? The one who treated me like I had the plague, and looked right through you?”

At Jules's nod, Chauncey continued, “Well, my dear, that is our own lovely Penelope Stevenson. A more snobbish, gossiping, ill-humored female you'll never meet. Her mother looks like a ship under full sail and her father, Bunker . . . well, he's jovial enough, I guess. Ah, there's Lucas with the carriage. I must get home to feed Alexandra now. Would you like to come with me?”

But Jules had just spotted a small bookstore, and remembering Michael's promise, said, “No, I think I'll browse a bit more.” She pointed to the bookstore across Kearny Street.

“That's Mr. Jointer's shop. You'll like him. Very well, Jules, I'll see you Thursday evening. It was
such fun, and you'll look exquisite in all your new clothes.”

Jules thanked her once again, her hand not too steady as she thought about the awful amount of money she'd spent at Monsieur David's.

“Give my love to Saint.”

Jules watched Lucas, a pirate of a fellow if Jules had ever seen one, help Chauncey Saxton into the open carriage. He was, Chauncey had told her, married to her longtime maid, friend, and housekeeper, Mary. “And therein lies a story!” she'd said, shaken her head, and laughed.

Jules waited on the sidewalk, waving her hand until the carriage was swallowed up in the incredible traffic along Kearny Street.

She gathered up her skirt and began to weave her way among drays, beer wagons, lumber wagons, and myriad types of men, who all stared at her to the point of embarrassment. She remembered Chauncey's words. “There are so many lonely men. We have more and more women and families moving here all the time, but still so many men have no one. For the most part, you needn't worry, they're quite respectful.” And they seemed to be, she saw.

I'll just see what Mr. Jointer has in stock, Jules told herself. I won't buy anything, not today. She had reached the shop when she chanced to look up. Her body went rigid. Jameson Wilkes was striding toward her, looking every inch the successful businessman in a dark gray suit. Jules grabbed for the doorknob, but it didn't turn. She looked blankly at the small sign in the window: “Closed until 2:00.” Oh God, what was she to do?

He saw her. She saw him stare a moment at her,
not at first recognizing the girl dressed in the dark blue muslin gown, her wild hair held firmly in place beneath a small bonnet. She knew the moment he realized who she was.
He can't do anything to you, idiot! There are dozens of people about. He can't do a thing!

Jules squared her shoulders and gave him her most insolent, contemptuous look.

“Well, well,” Jameson Wilkes said, giving her an appraising look as he drew to a halt only a foot away from her. “As I live and breathe. If it isn't the new Mrs. Morris.” He swept off his hat and gave her a mocking bow. “I must say, my dear, I think I prefer you in your natural state, sprawled on your quite lovely back on my bed. But then again, ladies' clothes tend to drive men's imaginations wild. Oh yes indeed.”

She felt a searing pain in her stomach and vaguely recognized it as fear. He can't do anything to you! “Well,” she said in the coldest voice she could find within herself, “if it isn't that dishonorable, filthy pig of a man. Mr. Wilkes, your clothes bespeak a civilized man. How strange and how disturbing that appearances are so deceiving.”

He sucked in his breath, wanting nothing more than to fling her over his shoulder, perhaps beat her senseless, and remove her to his house. He wouldn't force opium down her, oh no. He wanted her to know everything, feel everything he would do to her. Instead, he said with a short, humorless laugh, “How very brave you are, my dear Juliana. And so very insulting.”

“It is quite easy to be so with you, sir. Although
sir
denotes a gentleman, doesn't it? How silly of me to make such a mistake.”

“You think you've won, don't you?” he said very
softly. “You think yourself safe from me, don't you? You and that damned husband of yours.”

“Well, of course,” she said, hoping her voice sounded confident and contemptuous at the same time. “I am married to a man, an honest man, and—”

“And he saved you that night. Ah yes, I found that out, but not until you'd returned from Maui with him, married. He and his Sydney Ducks, the worthless scum—”

“Certainly like should recognize like! But in this case, Mr. Wilkes, their actions were noble and honorable. I should prefer any number of them to you.”

Jameson Wilkes got a hold on himself, but it was difficult. The smart-mouthed little bitch! God, he wanted to touch her! “And how do you like marriage, my dear? As I recall so well, you didn't know at all what it was men did to women. Do you like your husband plowing your little belly with that huge rod of his? Ah yes, I know he's a huge man—heard it from many of our more colorful ladies in this city. They're pining for his return to their respective beds, you know.”

Jules sucked in her breath, her face going white. She knew he was lying, knew Michael wouldn't touch another woman, knew . . . Get a hold of yourself! “You are a pig and a bastard,” she managed to say, her voice almost pleasant. “If ever you speak to me again, my husband will kill you. Or I will.”

“Such language from a missionary's daughter,” he said, his eyes glittering down at her.

“One must be appropriate at all times,” Jules said. “Unfortunately, I do not know appropriate language to fit your character. Perhaps the Sydney Ducks do.”

With that parting shot, she turned on her heel and
marched away from him, her head held high. She didn't pause even when she heard his mocking laugh behind her.

“We will see, Juliana!” he called after her. He found that his muscles were knotted with tension, and he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. The thought of Saint Morris taking her, sating himself in her lovely body, made him want to spit, which he did. He suddenly remembered how very pale she'd become suddenly when he'd spoken so mockingly about her husband plowing her belly. Why? he wondered. Or had she turned pale at the thought of Saint Morris fucking whores? He strode thoughtfully across the street. Could it be, his thinking continued, that the bloody doctor was soft, had listened to his young wife's pleas, and hadn't yet taken her? He was, after all, a doctor, a man reputed to be kind and gentle, despite his great size. The stupid sod! It was something to think about, indeed it was. After all, he had married her out of obligation, nothing more. Wilkes's lips thinned. It was impossible to believe she was still a virgin, even though he wanted to, very much. No matter. He would still have her. He rubbed his hand over his stomach at the familiar burning pain.

He had all the time in the world, and he knew he must go very slowly and carefully now. Saint Morris was a highly respected man, with powerful friends. But Wilkes would find a way, he certainly would. He was smiling when he entered the El Dorado saloon some ten minutes later.

James Cora was leaning against the long mahogany bar, a thick cigar in his mouth. “Looks like you just won yourself a pot of money,” he observed.

“Not yet,” Wilkes said smoothly, “but one never knows. How about a whiskey?”

 

“If I tell Michael,” Jules said in an agonized whisper to her pale image in the mirror, “he will go after Wilkes. But Michael is honorable, and Wilkes isn't. He would hurt Saint, I know it. He would hire men and they would hurt him, maybe even kill him.”

She turned slowly from the mirror, not knowing what to do.

“And it would be all my fault.”

“Did you say something, Jules?”

Jules whirled around at the sound of Lydia's voice. “Oh no, I was just thinking out loud.”

Lydia frowned at her young mistress. She didn't look well, not at all. She said, “Saint's downstairs taking care of a Chinese who got his arm cut open. If you want to talk to him, he'll be done in ten minutes, I'd say.”

“Yes, thank you, Lydia.”

Saint was gently suturing Ling Chou's thin forearm. “Did you know that old Bonaparte wanted to march on China after he'd gotten Russia?”

Ling Chou, who was gritting his teeth, not making a sound, because a man shouldn't complain, blinked at Saint. “No hear that,” he managed.

Saint hadn't either, but he continued, “Yes, sir. Way back in 1811”—
was
it 1811? he didn't remember—“when he was making his plans, he said to his military advisers, ‘After Moscow, it's on to Peking, to make myself emperor of the world.' ” Saint set the last stitch. “Of course with men like you there, Ling Chou, the little man wouldn't have stood a chance. Sometimes I think it's a pity that he didn't go to
China first—would have saved a lot of trouble for England and France. I'll just bet there wouldn't have been a Waterloo. You men would have taken care of him just fine.”

“You think so, Saint?”

Saint deftly tied off the last stitch. “Sure do,” he said cheerfully, “and I'm all done here. Good job, if I say so myself. Now, I'm going to clean this off real good and bandage it. You come back in three days and I'll change it. Don't get it dirty or wet, you hear me?”

“I hear,” said Ling Chou. When Saint finished the bandage, Ling Chou paid him, counting out the five dollars in meticulous fashion, bowed, and walked slowly to the door. “Bonaparte, huh,” he said, turning. “Who is Bonaparte, Saint? And who is this Waterloo?”

Saint grinned. Hoisted on my own petard, he thought. “Just a fool general, Ling Chou, long dead, and a place that won't ever forget him.”

“I see,” said Ling Chou with great dignity.

“I've got to come up with some stories about real Chinese people,” Saint said to himself as he straightened up his surgery. “That one was off the mark entirely.”

He nearly knocked Lydia down as he strode out of his surgery. He caught her arm to steady her. “What's this? Sorry, Lydia, but where's the fire?”

“I just wanted to talk to you before you see Jules.”

A thick brow went up. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know, but she's upset about something, and she wouldn't say anything to me. She looked pale as a clean sheet.”

Saint was silent for many moments. Finally he said, “I'll take care of it, Lydia.”

But there was another patient at the door, this time one of Jane's boys, Joe, and he had a black eye as impressive as any Saint had ever seen.

“Won't you come back with me, Saint?” Joe pleaded. “Mom won't get mad if you're there.”

“Coward,” Saint said, grinning at the boy. “You've got a while to come up with a heart-wrenching tale to tell her. She'll still probably tan your butt, boy.”

Joe looked glum. “You never come by for dinner anymore. Mom doesn't say much, but I know she misses you. All of us miss you, Saint.”

At the door, Jules paused a moment at the boy's words. Oh, damn, she thought, wanting to escape, but knowing she couldn't, not now.

“Hello,” she said just before Michael and the boy saw her. “I'm Jules.” She thrust out her hand to the boy, and he took hers automatically. “My, what a beautiful assortment of colors! Reminds me of the moorish idol—that's a fish, you know—yellow and black and some white thrown in for good measure. I do hope you gave a good account of yourself.”

Saint saw Joe staring at Jules as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Joe, this is Jules, my wife. I'll tell you what. Both Jules and I will come over to see your family sometime soon. All right?”

“You're awful pretty,” Joe said. “I didn't know Saint got hisself married.”

“Hisself is very married,” Saint said, grinning at his wife. “Of course she's pretty, Joe. Now, you run along home and face your medicine. Sorry, but there's no way I can hide that eye.”

“Not even a black patch?” Joe asked hopefully.

“Now, that's a fine idea,” Saint said, appearing much struck. He thought of Jane's face when her son walked in looking like a miniature pirate. “Hold on a minute, Joe. I think I just might have one lying about.”

“I've never seen hair that color before,” Joe said as Saint disappeared into his surgery. “It's awful red.”

“Yes indeed,” Jules said. “I'd much rather have hair your color.”

“Nah, I'm a boy. Girls don't want to look like boys.”

Don't think it for a minute, she thought, staring at the thick thatch of dark blond hair. Did his mother have the same color hair? Was she as pretty as her son was handsome? Probably. Hadn't Chauncey Saxton said that Saint had exquisite taste in women?

“Here you are, Joe.” Saint carefully fitted the black patch over Joe's eye. “Lordy, what a swashbuckler you are! Do you like it, Jules?”