Jade Star (24 page)

“Michael!” she cried, and arched upward, offering herself to him fully.

“That's it, love,” Saint said, dazed by her response to him. “God, the sweet taste of you, the softness . . .”

Her body began to convulse even as he spoke, and he felt the shuddering pleasure consume her. He felt powerful, and tender, and so pleased that his own need was temporarily held in check. He caressed her
until she quieted. He wanted her to experience every pleasurable feeling, he wanted . . . Again, he thought. Yes, again. He caressed her until she quivered, then cried out. He thought his own world complete at that moment. So much passion in her, he thought, so very much passion.

“Now, don't be afraid,” he said, and very gently he came down over her.

“Yes,” Jules said, dazed, her body still awash with the marvelous sensations. “I'm not afraid. Not of you.”

“I'll go slowly, Jules, very slowly.” She watched his face as he guided himself into her. He closed his eyes a moment when he entered her, felt her stretching for him, and stopped.

“It's all right,” Jules said, seeing his concern for her. “You are so beautiful, Michael, like a god. Please, please, come into me.” And he
was
like a god, she thought. A pagan god. She watched him, his powerful body poised over her, the muscles rippling in his arms, his strong legs tensed. She gasped in wonder as he thrust forward, deeply into her, and she held his shuddering body tightly. “Oh,” she whispered. “You are part of me.”

Her simple words wrought a dramatic change. She heard him curse, watched him arch his back and throw his head back, felt the surge of his seed, and softly cried out at his joy.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said softly, her hands stroking down his smooth back.

Saint felt shattered, then laughed at his nonsensical thought. He knew he was too heavy for her, but when he made to move, she tightened her hold around his back.

“I love you, you know,” she said. “I've loved you since I was twelve years old. Or was it thirteen?”

His entire body quivered at her words, and to his chagrin, he felt himself harden inside her. “No,” he said, more to himself than to her, “I don't want to hurt you.” He pulled out of her, rolled to his side, bringing her with him, and clasped her full length against him.

“You were twelve,” he said, tangling his finger in her wild, soft hair.

“It seems forever. I'm sticky,” she added, kissing his shoulder and weaving her fingers though the hair on his chest.

“Yes, I imagine so,” he said tenderly. “Will you forgive me, Jules?”

“I will if you promise never to call me Juliana again.”

“No, I shouldn't do that. I can just imagine some of our future arguments. ‘Juliana' comes trippingly off the tongue when I'm angry with you.”

“All right,” she said agreeably. She sighed and nestled closer. “That was nice, very nice. You can thrash me if you promise to end it like that.”

“You didn't think at all about Wilkes, or about John—”

“No, not for a moment. My weak woman's mind has quite recovered. After all, Michael, I did take off my own nightgown and toss it into the corner, with no help from you.”

“No more derringers?”

She hesitated, but just a moment. “No,” she said, shuddering a bit from reaction. “That was awful. I think I must have been somewhat deranged.”

“No,” he laughed, “just starved for your husband.”

“You do have a lot to make up for,” she said, slipping her hand between their bodies.

“Jules, you're probably sore. You are quite small, you know, and I felt you stretching to hold me, to take me into you.”

“You don't know,” she said, “you can't imagine what it feels like, Michael. I think it's much nicer to be a woman. You become part of me, you know. I possess you.”

“Possess me?” he said, grinning as he kissed her temple. “I've never heard a woman say that before.”

“You, inside of me, filling me. I like it very much.”

He groaned, and she simply smiled up at him as he became a wild man. Until she became as wild as he. Her last thought before her body exploded into almost painful pleasure was that, at last, she was a woman, a wife, Michael's wife.

“Have I just been branded?” she asked after he'd calmed her and settled her against his body for sleep.

“Twice, branded twice. But,” he added, his voice deep with satisfaction, “you've been pleasured three times.”

“Such possessiveness,” she said. I will make him love me, she thought, oh yes, I will.

“Michael?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you enjoy making love to me?”

He was silent for a moment, and she could practically see the devilish grin on his lips. “It was all right, I suppose,” he said blandly. “You could have shown a bit more enthusiasm, of course. But all in all, I didn't fall asleep from boredom, did I?”

“You're impossible!”

She felt the deep rumbling laughter in his chest
before it erupted from his throat. “You're hairy.” She slid her hand over his belly.

“Dangerous, Jules, very dangerous. Have pity, sweetheart, I'm an old man.” But not that old, he thought ruefully; he wanted her again, powerfully.

“Do you know what I was thinking when you were over me, inside of me?”

He groaned. “I'm scared to know.”

“How powerful you are, how beautiful, and your legs, so strong and—”

He slipped his hand between them to cup her breast, and she made a sweet, mewling sigh. He said, “Would you like to know what I was thinking when I was covering you, inside of you?”

“You weren't thinking a single thing!”

“Shut up. I looked at you, so small, so delicate, so very female, and—”

He felt her punch his ribs, and he laughed, a deep, satisfied laugh. “Don't try to outdo the master, Jules, else I'll continue with how I felt when you wrapped your beautiful legs around me, drawing me deeper—”

“Michael!”

He eased her onto her back, kissed her breast, then said with all the triumph of a sated man who held a sated woman, “You're mine, Mrs. Saint, and don't you ever forget it.”

“No,” she said, so happy that she thought she would die from it. “No, Dr. Saint, I won't ever forget.”

Lydia paused a moment in front of the closed bedroom door, started to turn the knob, then slowly drew back her hand. She walked to the smaller bedroom down the hall, saw that the door was open, and peered in. “Ah,” she said, her eyes glittering as she took in the mussed bed and Jules's nightgown, a rumpled heap on the floor. “It's about time, Saint Morris. Yes indeed, about time.”

She decided to take her leave thirty minutes later, a pleased smile on her face.

Upstairs, Saint, who usually woke quickly with his full faculties, slowly opened his eyes, My God, he thought, aware of the soft body curled against his, Sunlight poured through the windows, splashing across his face, and he smiled, a besotted smile he imagined, and tightened his arm about his wife's back.

Jules mumbled something in her sleep and obligingly nestled her cheek against his throat. She's mine, he thought. He didn't wake her just yet, content to think about the pleasant turn the world had taken. He couldn't quite understand how she could still love him, but she'd said she did. Had loved him since she was twelve. A heady thought.

“You're a lucky bastard,” he said quietly to the bedroom. He'd prayed he could give her pleasure, but her naturalness had surprised him as much as it had excited him. He remembered so clearly the older woman who had taught him about women. Her name was Lottie. Older, ha! She'd been about the same age as he was now. She had seduced him, very gently, after he'd gotten word that Kathleen had died in Ireland. She had given him renewed life, then shown him how to satisfy a woman. He'd failed Kathleen, of course, but had been too ignorant to realize that she could and should enjoy sex as much as he. He'd learned since that most men considered it nearly a perversion if their wives enjoyed the marriage bed. More fools they.

Saint smiled, remembering Lottie's exact words. “You've quite an aptitude for this, dear boy. Yes, indeed, I truly admire a man who enjoys his work.”

He slipped his hand between them very gently, again splaying his fingers to feel the width of Jules's pelvis. She would have his children, but not more than two or three, he amended to himself. He would take no chance with her health, nor did he want her to bear a child every year until she was thirty. He wanted her to himself—himself and two daughters and a son. He was blissfully picturing a daughter, red-haired, vibrant, and loving, just like her mother, when he felt a smooth hand glide down his belly.

“Jules?”

“Good morning, husband,” she said, and continued the journey with his inquisitive hand. “Goodness,” she said as her fingers closed around him.

“What do you expect?” he asked, nibbling at her
ear. “I've been thinking about you for the past five minutes.”

“I think, Michael,” she said impishly, “that I have great power over you.”

“At least part of me.”

“Michael?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Will you teach me . . . things?”

“I'll teach you everything you want to know,” he said with great conviction, and rolled her onto her back.

“Lydia!”

Saint frowned. “Damn, I'd forgotten all about her.”

“Oh dear, this is dreadfully embarrassing. Do you think she saw us?”

He laughed and kissed her deeply. “We're married, Jules. And no, I sincerely doubt that Lydia, once she'd been in the other bedroom, would dare open the door to this one.”

Jules pressed her face against his throat. “I'll never be able to face her!”

He breathed in the sweet scent of her hair and also the smell of sex. This bedroom, he thought, grinning, has never been so appealing before. “Tell you what, Jules,” he said, his hand closing over her breast. “Ouch! Not quite so much enthusiasm, sweetheart.”

She released him, and giggled. “Shall I kiss it and make it well?”

He gave her a wicked grin. “What a lucky man I am, married to a thoroughly lascivious woman.”

“I think I like the sound of that,” she said.

“I do too. Tell you what, Jules, let me give you some instruction first, all right?”

“What kind of instruction?”

“Just lie still and attend to what I'm doing.”

When he lifted her hips in his hands and gazed intently down at her, Jules found herself trying to squirm away. “It's daylight,” she managed. “You're looking at me!”

“Yes,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse in his own ears. “I'm not only looking, but I'm offering up thanksgiving to heaven. Now, you just be quiet, and don't interfere with a man's pleasure.”

She decided she had no choice, and he thought he would yell with pleasure when he felt her ease and relax, offering herself to him.

“Now I can look at you,” Jules said many minutes later. He was deep inside her, moving gently, rhythmically, and she watched every expression on his face.

“Oh no,” he said after a while, and slipped his hand between their bodies and found her. It was he who watched her face at the moment of her climax, allowing himself his own release after she'd gained hers.

“The world is a very nice place,” he said, squeezing her so tightly that she yelped.

When they ventured downstairs close to noon, Lydia was nowhere to be seen.

“Smart woman,” Saint said, eyeing the food she'd left out on the table.

He'd wanted to spend the entire day in bed with Jules, but realized he'd been quite fortunate not to have already been rousted by a patient. It was Avery who showed up, the man Jules had shot.

Jules, who had scampered upstairs at the rapping
on the front door, heard him say to Michael, “It hurts, Doc. Bad.”

“Come in here, Avery,” Saint said, “and let's have a look.”

When he joined Jules sometime later, he saw that she was pale and looked very guilty. He took her in his arms and hugged her. “No, sweetheart, it's all right. The man is just fine. No infection. I gave him some laudanum.”

“I feel so bad!”

“I didn't charge him, not even for the laudanum, and you know how much I pay for that. How's that for salving your conscience?”

She nodded—reluctantly, he thought—then said unexpectedly, “Do all men consider a woman to be a whore if she's alone?”

“Of course not. Well, not always. It's San Francisco, sweetheart. So many of our females are prostitutes. Poor old Avery probably took one look at you and didn't give a damn about what you said to him. In the future—”

“I know, I know, Michael. Behold a docile creature!”

“I should live so long,” Saint said, and kissed her. “What about Thackery?” he asked her sometime later.

Jules was thoughtfully silent for a long while. “I don't know,” she said at last. “I do know that Wilkes is out there somewhere. I feel it, as odd as that sounds. I don't understand why he would still want me, but I know that he does. It really makes no sense, does it?”

It made no sense to Saint either, but he privately agreed with her. He said nothing, however, for it would only add to her fear. He said instead, “How
about we find Thomas and invite him over for dinner this evening.”

She brightened immediately. “Yes,” she said, “I should like that, if . . .”

“If what?”

“If he leaves early!”

“Greedy woman,” he said fondly.

 

Thomas was aware of the change the moment he saw his sister's face. “Well,” he said, “how are you?”

“Wonderful!” Jules hugged him close. “Lydia made your favorite dish—roast sweet potatoes and pork chops.”

“Lead on,” said Thomas.

They had no sooner got settled at the dining-room table than Saint said, “Why don't you move back here, Thomas?”

“But—”

“No, no, please, brother,” Jules said.

“I really don't think it would be wise, Jules,” Thomas finally forced himself to say. “Just as for Saint, the sofa's a bit on the short side for me.”

Jules flushed just a bit, then levered her chin upward. “You may have the spare bedroom. Michael has decided that he misses his old room, his old bed—”

“—and his young wife,” said Saint. “I've finally tamed the little twit, Thomas.”

“So I see,” Thomas said, “so I see. It's about time. Did you beat her, Saint?”

“Not really,” Saint said, frowning a bit at himself as he remembered her reddened bottom. “Well, not much, in any case. Just enough to get her attention.”

“Ha!” Jules said. “He's a brute, Thomas.”

“I don't suppose I'm going to hear this story?” Thomas asked somewhat pensively.

Saint sent a wicked glance toward his wife. “You mean the story of my pulling down her drawers and beating her—”

“Michael!”

“If you could bear all the laughter and the giggling, we would enjoy having you back.”

“Michael!”

“Very well, Jules, I'll do all the giggling. Thomas,” Saint continued, “have you decided anything yet? Is the world to have another doctor?”

Thomas played with the mashed sweet potato on his plate for a bit. “I have decided that I can't go back East, Saint,” he said at last. “I have no money and I can't drag Penelope with me.”

“So,” Jules said, “you've decided to marry her?”

Thomas nodded, a crooked grin on his lips. “The problem is, of course, that she's never known a day's want in her life. And I refuse to take money from her father.”

“You might have to,” Saint said bluntly. He raised his hand to stem Thomas' protest. “No, listen to me. You've some years of study ahead of you, with no income. Either you negotiate a . . . loan from Bunker, or you don't get married.”

“But you did,” Jules said.

“Only at the very end,” Saint said, “and it wasn't easy for a while. Incidentally, Thomas, I was speaking to Dr. Samuel Pickett at the Seamen's Hospital about you. He needs good men, and at least he's an excellent doctor. You'd get good training there. Not as extensive as in New York or Boston, but adequate.”

Thomas brightened considerably. “He'd take me on, really?”

“Yes,” Saint said. He didn't add that he himself would provide funds during Thomas' instruction period.

“You could live here, Thomas.”

But Thomas was frowning. “What about Penelope?”

“You're having problems fighting her off?” Saint asked, his wide grin revealing his white teeth.

“Yes, I am.” Thomas sighed. “And myself as well,” he added.

“You could marry and live at the Stevenson mansion,” Jules said.

“Damn,” Thomas said. “I don't know.” He smiled suddenly. “Do you know what Bunker Stevenson offered me? He's willing to give me the foundry as a sort of wedding present. Penelope's dowry, I suppose.”

“That sounds like a financially wise solution,” said Saint.

“He wants me to run the place. I told him I wanted to be a doctor, and he stared at me like I was one of Jules's arc-eye ravenfish.”

“If I were you, Thomas,” Jules said, “I think I'd let Penelope convince her father that you'd be the greatest doctor in San Francisco, after Michael, of course. And it's an arc-eye hawkfish, Thomas.”

“I'm glad to see you happy, Jules,” Thomas said to his sister later that evening when they were alone for a few minutes. “It's about time. Saint's a fine man, and for a woman, and my little sister, you're not so bad either.”

“Yes,” said Jules, “yes, he is.” She heard Michael's booted step upstairs and smiled wistfully.

“My little virgin sister is no more,” Thomas said, grinning at her lecherously.

She poked him in the stomach.

“You sure you want me to move back in? I don't want to find myself lying in my bed at night listening to your . . . well, your devotion to your husband.”

“He is equally devoted,” said Jules, refusing to let him bait her into blushing.

“I'll just bet he is! Good night, love. I'll bring my meager belongings back tomorrow.”

“I'll knit you something to cover your ears at night, brother!”

 

“I simply don't understand how we fit so well,” Jules said, her eyes resting on her husband's swollen manhood. “You are so large.”

“Fate,” Saint managed.

“And so different from me. Now, my love, I want you to relax so I can begin my lessons.”

Jules delighted in the results of her handiwork, and Saint thought he'd die from the pleasure of it. “No,” he gasped, pulling her away, “no more.”

She gave him a slightly dazed, very pleased smile. “I don't pull you away,” she said in a voice of reproach.