Jade Star (2 page)

“Kanola, my friend,” she whispered.

“Quite safe,” Jameson said calmly. “My men caught up with her before she drowned and . . . escorted her to shore. You need worry no more about her.”

“I don't believe you,” she said.

He shrugged. “I have no reason to lie to you, my dear. Believe what you will.” Of course the native bitch had drowned, but his men had tried to save her, but not to rescue her.

“Who are you?” she asked numbly, staring at the man who was now sitting at his ease in a chair opposite her.

“Captain Jameson Wilkes, at your service, ma'am. And who are you?”

“Juliana DuPres. My father is Etienne DuPres, a
minister in Lahaina. You will return me, now, sir!” In her frenzy, the sheet slipped, and she jerked it upward.

“I wondered when you would realize how very . . . vulnerable you are, Juliana. That's a lovely name, incidentally. It suits you.” He sat forward, his eyes intent. “You suit me, you know. Oh yes.”

Jules stared at him. She knew all about the evil men of the whalers, for her father had ranted and raved about them and their wicked, immoral ways often enough. But to be faced with one of them, to be lying in the man's bed without a stitch of clothes on, was almost too much for her to grasp.

“She's dead,” Jules whispered.

“No,” he said patiently. “As I told you, your friend is quite safe now. I suggest, my dear, that you think about yourself.”

“I don't understand,” Jules said numbly. “Why have you done this? What do you want from me?”

“I am, I suppose, a wicked man in your innocent eyes, Juliana. But you needn't worry. I am first and foremost a businessman.” She knows, he thought, studying her closely. Deep down, she knows exactly what I want.

“You're a pig,” Jules said.

He laughed at that, but she saw that his eyes remained cold, as icy cold as the sleeting gray winter rains in Toronto, a place she could scarcely remember.

“My father will kill you.”

“Your father? Now, that's amusing, to be sure it is. Your father, my dear Juliana, is a prig, a weak prig who can do naught but try to change all the natives into prigs. Don't you find it ridiculous that many of
the natives that have succumbed to religion now dress like English and American gentlemen and ladies? It's all too absurd, you know. But back to your precious father. Perhaps he and your family will mourn you. For they will believe you drowned, and you will no longer exist for them.”

Jules closed her eyes, her captor's inadvertent words careening through her mind. He'd lied about Kanola, of course. She was dead, drowned. If she weren't, then everyone would know that Jules had been taken by a whaler.

“Wouldn't you like to know what I am going to do with you, Juliana? Where I'm taking you?”

She felt her stomach roiling, and slowly she turned her face away from him. Obviously he didn't realize what he had admitted. “No,” she said dully, “I don't want to know.”

For the first time, Jameson felt a bit worried. The girl's face was deathly pale. He rose slowly, but was wise enough not to approach her now.

“You will rest a bit, Juliana, then we will talk. I would suggest that you remain in this cabin. My men, as you can well imagine, are not always polite gentlemen.”

He strode to the cabin door, looking over his shoulder at her before he left. She hadn't moved. He frowned. Then he heard the soft, broken sound of her sobbing, and was relieved.

Excellent, he thought as he left the cabin. She's resilient. She would have to be. He had two weeks to bring her around before they arrived in San Francisco. He wondered, eyes lighting with greed, how much money she would bring him. Then he felt the
burning pain in his belly. It came more frequently now, particularly if he were angry or upset, or filled with anticipation, as he was now. He walked from the cabin, kneading his belly and forcing his mind away from the biting pain.

“Come on, now, Willie, I'm not cutting your arm off, for God's sake! Stop your bellowing!”

“It hurts, Saint, bloody bad.”

Saint stared down at the newly stitched gash on Limpin' Willie's arm. Good job, he congratulated himself. He picked up a bottle, saw Willie pale with fear, and began to talk. “Did I ever tell you about this stuff, Willie? No? Well, it's called iodine, and it's better than whiskey for what ails you. And cheaper. Yes, indeed, it was discovered way back in 1811 by a chap named Courtois, but there's controversy even about that, of course.” Saint held Willie's arm over a basin and poured the iodine on the wound. Willie yelped and struggled, but Saint had three times his strength and wasn't about to ease his hold.

Saint continued calmly holding Willie's arm in an iron grip while he patted off the excess liquid. “Do you know what ‘iodine' means, Willie? No? Well, part of it comes from the Greek word
ion
and it means ‘violet.' Just look at your arm, as violet as can be. Now, you've come out of this not only patched up but educated as well.”

Limpin' Willie had got his breath and bearings
back. He stared down at his purple arm. “Violet, huh, Saint?”

“The ladies will think you look like a bloomin' flower, Willie.”

Limpin' Willie gave him a crooked grin, showing the inside of a mouth that contained only half its complement of teeth. “It still hurts like hell, Saint, but I'll live. Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Actually, you owe me five. Dollars, that is. The rest, I'll take in a favor down the road.”

“Anything, anytime, Saint.” Willie paid his money and prepared to leave.

“Keep that bandage clean, Willie. And no picking pockets or bashing folk around for a while. And don't let the wound get dirty. Come back to see me in three days.”

Willie took his leave and Saint stood silently for a moment in the doorway, shaking his head ruefully. Limpin' Willie was a Sydney Duck—one of that group of men from Australia who were criminals to their toes. But he was harmless as a puppy around Saint. At least Willie had had brains enough to come to him immediately. He shuddered to think what would have happened to that wound had Willie waited even a couple of days. He briefly imagined a one-armed pickpocket, and chuckled grimly.

He left his small house on Clay Street and made his way to Montgomery Street to the Saxton, Brewer and Company bank. Delaney Saxton was in conversation with one of his clerks, and broke off when he saw Saint.

“You've saved me, Saint,” he called out. “Old Jarvis here is trying to talk me into something mighty suspicious.”

“Send Jarvis to see Limpin' Willie. The poor fellow's out of commission for a while, a gash in his arm probably gained while he was trying to rob somebody. It'll do him good to use his brain for a change.”

“Patched him up, did you?” Del asked. “I think the Sydney Ducks would elect you mayor if you wanted it. Lord knows there's enough of them, and all of them in your debt, right?”

“Banking and doctoring, we both collect debts, don't we, Del? How's Chauncey?”

“No longer just a mother, thank God,” Delaney said, a satisfied grin on his lips.

“You take it easy, Del, you hear? Little Alexandra is only three months old. You give Chauncey all the rest she needs.”

Delaney Saxton raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I? You know very well that my wife's insatiable, Saint. I have nothing to say in the matter.” He bumped his fist against his forehead and shook his head. “Good Lord, what a man will tell his doctor! You're worse than a damned priest!”

Saint laughed, a rumbling sound deep in his massive chest. “Come on, boy, let's have some lunch. You're looking peaked.”

“Boy? I'm the same age as you, old man.” Del spoke briefly to his partner, Dan Brewer, then the two men strolled onto Montgomery Street. There was a light blanket of fog, typical for June in San Francisco, and it was chilly enough to appreciate vests under coats. They wove their way through the masses of humanity to Saint's favorite restaurant, Pierre's Culinary Establishment.

They both drank beers while waiting for Pierre's
bouillabaisse. “I wonder how Byrony and Brent are doing,” Saint said after a moment.

“Knowing Brent, he won't write. He'll just show up in a couple of months, richer than he was when he left. Fact is, he should, of course, what with his father's plantation to deal with. In Natchez, isn't it?”

“That's what Byrony told me. Named Wakehurst. I wonder how the two of them will deal with all the slaves. I can't imagine Byrony liking the fact that people are actually owned. And Brent's been away from that kind of life for a long time.”

“Well, I just hope he and Byrony mend their fences while they're gone. I'd sure like to see them united when they get back.” Del paused a moment, shaking his head. “Ira and his dear half-sister, Irene, are still behaving with a bit of nastiness.”

“You believe in divine justice, Del?” Saint asked.

“Not particularly. Why?”

Saint shrugged. “I think the Butlers are a bit overdue for it. It still upsets me to think of Byrony married to Ira and considered the mother of his half-sister's child.”

“Incest,” Del said with distaste, “is something I simply don't understand.”

Saint didn't reply, his eyes on the huge serving of bouillabaisse Jacques had set in front of him.

Del said in an aggrieved voice, “I got about half as much as you, Saint.”

“Well, you're about half my size, and besides—”

“I know. Pierre owes you favors.”

“Yeah. Remember when he burned himself real bad a couple of months ago? I accepted payment in food. My housekeeper's cooking just can't compete with Pierre's.”

Delaney laughed and spooned down a bite of the delicious fish stew. They spoke of their mutual acquaintances and compared impressions of new arrivals in San Francisco.

“More and more families, thank heaven,” Saint said. “In a couple of years maybe we'll be rid of our rough reputation. Never seen so many horny men as in this city.”

“Nor so many happy prostitutes. This is also a town where women can make their fortunes.”

Saint grunted something that Del didn't understand, but he didn't ask for enlightenment. Saint didn't approve of prostitution.

“You want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” Del asked after a moment. “Chauncey would like to see you, and Alexandra, of course.”

“Sorry, but I'm kind of committed.”

“Ah, the widow Branigan.”

“Jane's a good sort,” Saint said calmly. “Besides, one of her boys has a bit of a cold.”

“Are you going to marry her, Saint?”

“You shackled men,” Saint said with mock disgust, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “None of you is happy unless all us carefree bachelors join you.”

“Well, if you had a wife, you wouldn't have to take favors in food.”

“Just because a woman has different parts, Del, doesn't mean she can cook.”

Delaney laughed, and toasted Saint with the rest of his beer.

 

“Looks like you're a healthy young horse again, Joe,” Saint said, ruffling the towheaded little boy's hair. “Not to worry, Jane,” he said to Joe's mother,
who was hovering behind him. “The lad's just fine now.”

“Thank you, Saint.”

But Joe said, “I was hoping I'd get sicker. Mom said you might tell me why you're called Saint if I was sick enough.”

“Maybe. No luck this time, Joe. What's that delicious smell, Jane?”

“Bouillabaisse,” she said. “I heard you liked it.”

Saint, who was filled up to his craw with that particular dish, stifled a groan and forced an agreeable smile.

It was close to ten o'clock before Joe and his older brother, Tyler, were finally tucked into their beds upstairs. Saint leaned back in his comfortable chair, his half-closed eyes resting for a moment on Jane Branigan. She was a fine-looking woman, he thought, with her coal-black hair and chocolate-brown eyes. A bit on the plump side, perhaps, but he was a big man, with big hands. The unbidden thought of his big hands covering her ample breasts and hips made him smile and his loins tighten. A man with big appetites.

“I know what you're thinking, Saint Morris!” Jane leaned down and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You haven't a subtle bone in your big body.”

“Probably not,” Saint said with a lecherous grin. He pulled her down on his lap and laced his fingers together behind her back. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he felt himself harden in response. “You're a fine woman, Jane,” he said, the words rumbling deep in his throat, and leaned her back against his arm to kiss her. She responded with endearing enthusiasm, as she usually did, and before
long his fingers were caressing her bare breasts. “Nice,” he murmured. “Very nice indeed.”

He felt her press her buttocks downward against him, and smiled even as he kissed her again, quite thoroughly.

They hadn't enjoyed each other in nearly a week and Jane discovered that she wanted him as much as he did her. In their urgency, they didn't consider going to Jane's bedroom. He took her on the carpet in front of the fireplace, kneading her full hips as he plunged into her warm body.

“Ah, Jane,” he said some minutes later as he watched her face contort with her pleasure. “It pleases me so much when you do that.” Then his huge body tautened as he surged into her.

Jane pulled an afghan over them, then snuggled against Saint's chest. “It's been too long,” she said. “That was very nice.”

“An understatement, woman,” he growled, gently nipping her earlobe. “Now, Jane,” he continued as he felt her hand glide down his chest, over his muscled belly. “I'm only a man, after all.”

“Hmm,” she said, caressing him in her hand. “Now, that, my dear, is the understatement.”

It was close to midnight before they were dressed again and sitting at Jane's small kitchen table drinking tea.

He never spent the night with her because of her boys. Some nights, like tonight, when he was sated and sleepy, he thought fondly of holding her, her arms wrapped around his body.

“How's our little girl doing, Jane?” he asked, dismissing the thought as he sipped the delicious tea.

“Much better. She wants me to call her Mary, which I do, of course. She worships you, naturally.”

“Excellent, but is her sewing good enough for you?”

“Yes. She's a bright girl and she wants nothing more than to please. She still likes to stay in the back of the shop, away from the customers, but I expect she'll gain some confidence soon.”

“It might take a while, since most of your customers are men,” Saint said. “You've got three women working for you now, right?”

“Yes, and business is booming. Lord, I think our little shop has made at least two thousand shirts since we opened last year, not to mention more flannel trousers than I care to count.”

Saint pictured the fifteen-year-old Mary—her name in Chinese, he couldn't begin to pronounce—as she had been two months ago when he had saved her from being sold as a prostitute in a filthy crib down on Washington Street. She had been beaten for her unwillingness, and Saint had examined her carefully while she was unconscious. Luckily, she was still a virgin, but he could imagine that her maidenhead was only a technicality. Poor girl. He sighed, leaning back in the chair. So many poor girls, so many victims.

“I know what you're thinking, Saint,” Jane said, closing her hand over his forearm. “You've done so much. It's just that the city is so very young and wild and there are so many men and—”

“And many of them rapacious bastards!”

“True, but things are changing, you know. You're not a rapacious bastard, and neither are many of your friends.”

“Things won't really change until San Francisco is no longer a city of single men and prostitutes.”

“More families are coming all the time,” Jane said, making Saint recall his own words to Del Saxton. She lowered her eyes to her lap for a moment. “If only Danny had survived . . .”

“I know, Jane, I know. Your husband was doubtless a fine man. He sure picked a fine wife and made fine boys.”

“But
some
gold wasn't enough for him,” she said in a voice tinged with bitterness. “If only you'd been in that camp when he came down with pneumonia, things might have been different.”

“I'm not a miracle worker. Now, we've talked ourselves into a depression, and that's no good at all, particularly after what you did to my poor body.” She laughed, as he had known she would. He rose and stretched. Jane eyed him with wistful yearning. He was such a fine specimen of a man, she thought, her fingers tingling with the memory of his smooth flesh, the soft tufts of hair on his chest and belly. She was so lucky to have found him when she had. She watched him stride over to the sink. She loved the way his chestnut hair curled about his ears, the way his hazel eyes narrowed when he was concentrating. And she knew he didn't love her. They were good together, and, the good Lord knew, he'd helped her more than she could ever repay. Maybe someday, she thought.