Jade Star (10 page)

She was staring at him, staring intensely at his manhood, now swelling and jutting out beneath her gaze. Before he'd seen her, he had been thinking that Maui was indeed a Garden of Eden, so lush and warm and vibrantly beautiful. Jules fit into his image as naturally as the moonlit waves lapping over his feet.

Very slowly he walked toward her. Her bright hair was in wild disarray, flowing down her back and over her shoulders. She was wearing only a simple white cotton chemise that came to her knees.

He said nothing, merely stopped in front of her. She sat very straight on the edge of the rock, her hands folded primly in her lap, her emerald eyes wide upon his face. He dropped to his knees in the sand, feeling the coarse grains against his legs. He stretched out his hands and placed them on her thighs. Slowly he pulled her legs apart. He slid his hands upward beneath her chemise, his fingers wet and warm on her smooth thighs. He clutched her buttocks, lifting her, and brought her down against him.

She cried out softly, and Saint shook himself free.

He was reeling with the vividness of the fantasy that had held him for many moments. He knew that
what he'd imagined could easily happen—right now. He felt his manhood swelling, responding to her yearning gaze.

He forced himself to stand rigidly, and called out, his voice cold and distant, “What are you doing here, Jules?”

“I didn't know anyone else would be here,” she said, her voice high and breathless.

“You didn't answer my question.”

“I . . . I had to get away from the house, from Sarah.”

Had priggish Sarah been tauting her? “I see” was all he said. He walked briskly up the beach, aware of her eyes following his progress. He found his clothes and quickly dressed himself. He managed to pull on his boots, then straightened. The bulge in his trousers had diminished, thank heaven.

When he turned, she was standing very quietly, watching him. Soft moonlight flowed over her face.

“I'm staying with the Baldwins,” he said. “I'm going back now. I will probably see you in the morning.”

God, he sounded like a cold, uncaring bastard. He stopped in his tracks. “Jules,” he said, his voice gentle now, “don't let Sarah hurt you. She doesn't understand.”
No one does, least of all your damned father and your wilting mother.

“Sarah is Sarah,” Jules said. She raised her chin. “I shall be quite all right, thank you.”
You want to go, so go!

It was as if she'd spoken aloud. He merely nodded, turned on his heel, and strode from the beach.

He felt a great shudder go through his body.

* * *

I should paint a picture, Jules thought, and call it
Family at the Breakfast Table with Prodigal Daughter.
She nearly laughed aloud at the thought of Koli bringing in a fatted calf so everyone could rejoice over a feast at her return. Her father was sitting stiff and unyielding in his high-backed chair. Her mother was pulling apart a soft piece of bread, her thin fingers nervous and anxious. Sarah said not a word, merely toyed with the fresh papaya. Thomas, sensing the tension, kept his head down and wolfed his breakfast, as was his wont.

I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere.

“Today is Saturday,” Etienne DuPres announced. “Will you be going to the plantation, Thomas?”

“Yes, Father. John and I have some business to discuss.”

Jules saw Sarah's head come up at Thomas' words, saw the desperate yearning in her eyes as she asked, “Will John come back with you for lunch?”

Thomas flashed a quick glance toward Juliana. “I imagine nothing could keep him away.”

“John is going to marry our Sarah,” Aurelia DuPres said in her thin, high voice. “Of course he will come.”

Etienne gazed a moment at his younger daughter. She looks like a wanton, he thought, just like her damned grandmother, even with her hair plastered against her head and tied securely.

“Juliana,” he said abruptly, shoving his chair back and rising, “you will come with me to my study. I wish to speak to you.”

 

Juliana escaped the house long before noon. She didn't want to see John Bleecher. She didn't want to
see anyone. She kept to the back streets, but she saw many people she knew. The missionary contingent merely nodded to her and kept going. The natives were open, friendly, and glad to see that she was still alive. She knew she should visit Kanola's husband and children, but she couldn't bring herself to do so yet. The pain was too fresh. She walked south along Waine'e Street today, past the Episcopal cemetery. She didn't turn toward the ocean until she reached Shaw Street. It was narrow, and muddy after a brief morning rain. She lifted her skirts, kept her head down, and continued walking. Her mind kept returning to the conversation with her father that morning. Not really a conversation, she amended to herself silently. He had stood on high, like God, and made a pronouncement.

When she reached the beach, she pulled off her shoes and stockings without hesitation, set them on a rock, and walked toward the water. Men were out on their canoes fishing, and two young children were playing in the waves. Naked-masted whalers were farther out in deep water. She walked farther down the beach, pausing every once in a while to examine an interesting shell that had been washed up. She didn't pay any attention today to the birds, nor did she even spare more than a passing thought to the fish.

The hem of her skirt was soon soaked, but for the first time in her life she simply didn't care. What else could her father do in any case?

She turned away from the water and walked barefoot to Maluuluolele. She stared at the small island in the center of the pond. It was a tiny island, Mokuula. How many years had it been a home of
Maui chiefs? She couldn't remember. Even King Kamehameha III had received visitors here in the recent past, showing them the large burial chambers holding the ornate coffins of those long-dead chiefs.

“Juliana.”

She froze in her tracks at the sound of John Bleecher's voice.

She turned slowly to face him. “Hello, John. I thought you would still be at my father's house.”

“No, I left. I . . . I had to see you, talk to you.”

I will not hurt Sarah, nor will I hurt John, Jules swore to herself. “I will be leaving Maui soon, John.”

“I know,” he said. God, she was beautiful. His fingers itched to touch her, to feel her beautiful wild hair.

“I really want to be by myself, John, if you don't mind.”

He said nothing, merely walked toward her, stopping but inches from her. She looked up at him and was taken aback at the unfamiliar look in his blue eyes. She cocked her head to one side, silent.

“We're alone,” he said more to himself than to her.

“I suppose so,” Jules agreed.

Suddenly, without warning, he grabbed her, hauling her against him and pressing his mouth against hers. Jules was too startled for a moment to struggle. “John!” she cried out, and felt his tongue thrust into her open mouth.

She began hitting him then, twisting to free herself from his hold. She hadn't realized before that he was so strong.

“Stop it, Juliana,” he snarled at her in a voice she'd never heard. “Damn you, you know I've always wanted
you, not Sarah. And now I know the truth. You've given it to how many men now?”

“Given what, for God's sake? Let me go, John! How dare you do this?”

But he didn't let her go. He seemed wild. She felt pain in her ribs, but didn't cry out. “Don't act the innocent with me, Juliana! I know now, all of it! Sarah told me what you've done. It won't make any difference to have one more man, will it? God knows, you've been flat on your back for Saint!”

For a moment Jules lost her burgeoning fright in sheer shock. What had Sarah told him? “You think I'm a whore?” she asked in bewildered surprise.

He answered her with a groan and buried his face against her throat. She felt his hands grab her breasts, and she cried out, seeing Jameson Wilkes over her, his fingers stroking her naked breasts, squeezing, hurting. She went crazy in that moment, clawing, kicking at him, her breath coming in loud, jerking gasps. John hurled her to the ground and slammed his body down on top of her.

He was hard and punishing against her belly—she could feel him through the layers of clothing. Dear God, he was going to hurt her, and she knew now that this was what rape was.

 

Saint washed his hands and wiped them on the white towel Dwight Baldwin handed him.

“Thanks for coming in with me, Saint,” Dwight said. “We've only the twelve patients right now, but just you wait a couple of months.”

“My pleasure. You still treat more syphilis than anything else?”

“Lord yes, it never ends. The poor fellow you just examined, what do you think?”

“You've got to take the leg off today or he'll be dead tomorrow.”

Dwight Baldwin sighed. “That's what I thought too. Dammit, it was a stupid, needless accident. It happened on the taro plantation, and Elisha Bleecher didn't bother to bring him in until yesterday evening.”

“Exhort him with hellfire and brimstone tomorrow from the pulpit,” Saint said.

“Won't do a bit of good, I'm afraid, but you may be certain that I shall. Come, let me walk you out.”

“Have you got ether around?”

“No, but I do have chloroform. Thank God we no longer have to put our patients through such agony. Didn't you tell me that you were an actual witness to the first use of ether in 1846? At Massachusetts General Hospital, wasn't it?”

“Yes,” Saint said, “I was. It started out a circus, with all the other doctors and medical students laughing derisively, and ended in complete and utter silence. I'll never forget Dr. Warren's face when he made his first incision. The patient didn't move, didn't utter a sound. When it was all over, he turned to the audience and said in the most bewildered voice I've ever heard, ‘Gentlemen, this is no humbug.' ”

“I remember hearing that one doctor walked up to the patient and began slapping him, still unable to believe that he wasn't faking.”

That hadn't happened, but it made a good story, so Saint only nodded to Dwight. “Now, if only we can get our colleagues to use ether on women in labor.” Saint knew Dwight Baldwin as a man of infinite compassion and caring for his fellowman, but like
many men, religious or otherwise, he believed firmly that it was the scheme of things for a woman to undergo childbirth with nothing to ease her agony.

Today Dwight didn't take the bait. He was silent for many moments, then said calmly, “I heard about Juliana DuPres.”

“Yes,” Saint said. “I told you about her adventure and mine last evening.”

“That's not what I meant,” Dwight said, sighing.

“I know. I bet everyone has heard things,” Saint said. “It will pass. She'll be all right.”

Dwight gave him an incredulous look, but Saint had turned to speak to an old man who used to bring him fresh fish at least three times a week. He'd set the old man's broken leg and taken the fish as payment. Old Kama had simply never stopped bringing him fish.

Saint and Dwight Baldwin parted some minutes later. Saint made his way to the DuPres house, only to be told by Mrs. DuPres that Juliana had left. Saint thanked her, frowned, and set out to find her. He tracked her to the south of town.

When he heard her screaming wildly, frantically, his guts twisted. “Jules!”

He ran toward the sound, and broke through the bushes that blocked his view. He saw Jules on her back, thrashing and screaming, with John Bleecher on top of her, grinding his pelvis against her as he ripped at her clothes.

His mind went blank with rage. With a loud roar he launched himself upon the younger man.

“You goddamned little bastard!” he yelled, and grabbed John bodily off Jules. He smashed his fist
into John's gaping mouth, and the force of his blow sent the slighter man staggering back.

“You filthy pig,” Saint growled, “I'm going to break your bloody neck!”

Jules managed to pull herself upright. She saw Michael strike John, heard John's yowl of pain. He would kill him! She saw her brother running toward them, and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Thomas! Help! For God's sake, hurry!”

It was like trying to halt a train, Thomas thought frantically as he threw himself on Saint's back. “You'll kill him, Saint!”

Saint came out of the black, ungoverned rage as quickly as it had initially consumed him. He saw John Bleecher's bloody nose, heard his moans of pain.

“What the hell is going on?” Thomas demanded.

Saint very slowly straightened, closing his eyes a moment. He said in an emotionless voice, “That little bastard was trying to rape your sister.” He smiled grimly. “I think he needs cooling off.”

Saint picked John up, one large hand grasping his collar, the other the seat of his breeches. He carried him to the ocean, waded in, and tossed him out into the waves, facedown.