Jade Star (27 page)

Her sobs lessened and soon she was hiccuping against his throat. “I'm sorry,” she managed after a few more minutes.

“About what?”

“You need me to be strong, and I just became what I despise—a weak, silly woman. I'm sorry, Michael, please forgive me.”

“No.”

It was as unexpected as it was angering. She reared up and stared down at him. She could see the
outline of his bandage, the planes of his face, but she couldn't see the smile on his lips. “Just what the hell does that mean?” she demanded.

He laughed, and she pounded his chest with her fists.

“Some weak woman,” he said, grabbed her arms, and tossed her onto her back. “Will I have to tie you down so I can have my way with you?”

“No, but only because I don't think you can manage it!”

He moved on top of her, his knee pressing against her closed thighs. “Open your legs, Jules,” he said, his mouth against her throat.

The feel of him naked, covering her . . . “What will you do if I do?” she whispered, moving restlessly beneath him.

“I'll caress you with my mouth until you yell and then I'll come inside you, so deep that neither of us will know where the other begins or ends. And I'll fill you with my seed, and you'll feel it, and know that you are part of me.”

“All right,” she whispered, her body already quivering from his words.

When at last he teased her with his mouth, to caress her as he'd said he would, she couldn't bear it. The pleasure that convulsed her body was nearly painful in its intensity, a pleasure that held all their shared pain, and she cried out again and again. And when he thrust into her, a long, deep thrust, she clutched him, arching upward, yielding to him, opening to him, wanting him to become a part of her.

“My God, woman,” he said many moments later when he could finally speak, “I never envisioned
doing that to that scruffy little girl in Lahaina, at least not consciously,” he added, and laughed.

“No,” she said, clutching her arms about his back, “don't leave me, Michael.”

“I won't,” he said softly, his fingertips stroking her face. Her teeth nipped his fingertips and he kissed her again. He felt the sweet, smiling curve of her lips as his tongue traced over her. Her eyes would be smiling too, he thought. At least, he wanted to tell her, at least I have seen you in the moments of your pleasure. He felt her legs tighten about his flanks, felt her smooth hands stroking down his back to his buttocks, and his body responded. He moaned softly at the sensations as he filled her again.

“You are the most exquisite lover in the world,” Jules said just before she fell asleep.

“Yes,” he said, his voice deep with satisfaction. “I guess I am.”

 

“No,” Saint said very carefully, “it is still the same, Sam.”

Jules wanted to moan like a wounded animal, but she didn't. She said nothing.

“Still the white?”

“Yes.”

Sam laughed. “Excellent, Saint. You're healing.” He clapped Saint on the back. “All you need now is rest, lots of it. No worrying, now, and no fighting with your wife.”

“I don't understand,” Jules said.

Saint reached out his hand and she quickly took it. “What Sam means, Jules, is that since what vision I have hasn't faded, it's hopeful, very hopeful.” He
drew her against his side and hugged her. “I do promise not to
fight
with her, Sam.”

Dr. Pickett smiled and in that smile was a prayer. He patted Saint's shoulder. “Well, you don't need me anymore. We'll try again in another week, Saint. Another thing, no more than two, three patients a day.” He turned to Jules, his voice more serious now. “Rest, Jules. He must have rest. I count on you to handle him.”

“I shall, Dr. Pickett,” she said, “indeed I shall.”

After Jules had shown Samuel Pickett out, she returned to the surgery. “Here is your cane, Michael. Let's have some lunch and tell Lydia the good news.”

She watched him like a hawk, of course, but bit down on her tongue when he bumped into a chair. To her great relief, he laughed. He listened to her right the chair, and said, “Tell me how romantic I look with this cane, Jules.”

He did, she thought. It was ebony, with a carved lion's head. She'd said nothing about the cane before, uncertain as to his reaction. “Well, Michael,” she said, slipping her arm through his, “if you looked any more romantic, I would insist that you rest now, without your lunch.”

Jules insisted that both Lydia and Thackery join them in the dining room. At first Thackery looked at her as if she were speaking gibberish.

“For heaven's sake, Thackery,” Lydia finally said, “would you please cease acting like a slave!”

“But—” Thackery said.

“No, no more,” Jules said. “Come to the dining room. Saint will tell you about Mr. Leidesdorff, the first black man in San Francisco.”

That got him, Jules saw, winking at Lydia.

Saint, when applied to for the story, sat back in his chair and smiled in Thackery's general direction. “His name was William, and unfortunately, I didn't have the pleasure of meeting him. He died a young man, only thirty-eight, in 1848, and what with the inflation brought by the gold rush, his estate was worth over a million dollars. Just six months ago, as a matter of fact, our own John Folsom”—this said in a sarcastic voice—“hauled himself to Jamaica and bought interests from possible claimants to the estate, for, you see, William Leidesdorff left no kin. Lord only knows what will happen now.”

Jules tapped her fork impatiently. “But the point is, Thackery, this is California, and everyone is free to do as he wishes here.” It was on the tip of her tongue to have Michael relate Leidesdorff's tragic love affair, but she realized in time that it had been tragic simply because the man had been a mulatto, and therefore unacceptable to the white family.

“If you ate with your fingers,” said the irrepressible Lydia, “that would be another matter entirely. And that's why Saint here doesn't invite all those Sydney Ducks to dine with him!”

Saint chuckled, and Jules wanted to shout with the pleasure of the sound. She looked at Lydia, then at Thackery. We're becoming a family, she thought.

Two days later, in the early afternoon, Jules, with smiling firmness, helped her husband upstairs to rest. Lydia had gone to do some marketing, claiming she'd best get out now before the rains started again. As for Thackery, he'd left to go to the Wild Star to see Brent Hammond.

When there was a knock on the front door, Jules
sent a worried glance upward, praying it wasn't a patient. She hated to turn anyone away, but Michael was more important.

It wasn't a patient, however. It was a young boy.

“Miz Morris?” he asked, his voice a lisp through the gap in his front teeth.

“Yes,” Jules said.

“This is for you, ma'am,” the boy said, thrust an envelope into her hand, and scurried away before Jules could say anything else.

She frowned at the envelope, for there was no name or direction written on it. There was one sheet of paper inside. She read:

My dearest Juliana,

I trust you haven't forgotten me. I wished to send my condolences about your poor husband's blindness. I am near to you, my dear, very near. Do think about me, Juliana, and know that soon I will have you again.

It was signed with a bold J.W., nothing more. Jules dropped the paper as if it were a snake to bite her. She felt the familiar fear building, and wrapped her arms about herself, as if for protection. Her eyes went toward the windows, but the streaking rain prevented seeing outside. She thought vaguely that Lydia hadn't missed the rain after all. Slowly she walked to the sofa and sank to the floor beside it. She heard a small, broken sound, and realized that it was from her own mouth.

Thomas sat behind Bunker's large, ornate mahogany desk, a medical book propped open in front of him. He realized that he'd read the same paragraph at least three times and hadn't taken in a single word.

He looked up with a snort of disgust and eyed the opulent library. Three walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with impressive tomes that nobody read. A thick bright red Aubusson carpet covered the floor, a lovely carpet, he thought, if one could but see more of it. His mother-in-law had covered it with heavy, clumsy furniture that depressed him. He wondered for a moment how his wife would have decorated the library.

Penelope. His wife. She was upstairs with her mother. My beautiful bride of three days, he thought, and sighed. It had never occurred to him that Penelope wouldn't enjoy the marriage bed as much as he. His only experience with women had been with native girls on Maui. They had been loving, giving, and not at all reticent of telling him how to pleasure them. He'd learned a great deal, particularly from Kani, and when he'd finally gotten his new bride to bed, he was confident and anxious to begin his
pleasure, and hers. She'd allowed him to kiss her and fondle her breasts, but when his hand moved downward, she'd acted as if he were insane—no, worse, he amended bitterly to himself: as if he were a disgusting animal. He'd breached her maidenhead finally, his teeth gritted at hearing her sobs of pain. And afterward, as he'd held her and stroked her and told her how much he loved her, she whimpered against his shoulder. Still, Thomas was optimistic. The first time couldn't be very nice for the woman, but surely when he made love to her again, she would welcome his caresses. She hadn't.

He realized, sighing more deeply, that he hadn't even seen her naked. Her modesty dictated that the room be utterly dark. How could she love him, he wondered, and not want to see him or enjoy him physically?

He forced his attention back to his medical book. Surprisingly enough, it had been his father-in-law who, only three days after his stroke, had presented Thomas with the needed medical books, mumbling that if Thomas wanted to be a damned sawbones, he might as well get started, since Bunker fancied he'd need him.

“Not exactly yet, boy,” Bunker said. “Maybe later, when I really get ill.”

“Mr. Thomas.”

Thomas started at the sound of Ezra's deep voice coming from the library doorway. The man walked as softly as a prowling cat, he thought. “Yes,” he said, but moved a bit in his chair, uncomfortable with a bloody butler.

“It's your sister, sir, Mrs. Morris.”

Thomas rose quickly, undefined fears churning in
him. “For God's sake, man, show her in!” Was Saint blind permanently? No, that couldn't be it. He'd spoken to Dr. Pickett and knew that Saint was healing.

When he saw her pale face, he rushed to her, every positive thought plummeting to his toes.

“What's wrong, Jules? It isn't Saint, is it?”

She shook her head. “No, he is resting at home,” she said. “He must rest, you know, Thomas.”

Thomas cocked his head at her. “Then you've come to see how your newly married brother is faring?”

“Not really,” she said. “Here, Thomas, read this.”

She thrust the paper into his hands. Frowning, Thomas unfolded the paper and read.

“That damnable bastard!” he said, his face darkening with fear and sharp anger. “Jules, when did you get this? Was it Wilkes himself?”

“No, a boy delivered it to me about an hour ago. I couldn't worry Michael with it. All he could do is rant and rave and worry, and I can't allow that. Thomas, why is Wilkes doing this? What am I going to do?”

Thomas was silent for a long moment. “Have you shown this to Thackery?”

“Not yet. I wanted to speak to you first, but Thackery suspects something is wrong. And no, I didn't come here alone, Thackery is outside.”

“Wilkes is insane, he has to be to keep after you like this.”

“Thomas, I'm afraid.”

“Come, love, and sit down. Let me think about this. Would you like a cup of tea?”

She agreed, not really caring.

Ezra brought in a silver tray some while later, his disappointment evident when Thomas dismissed him.

“How is Bunker?” she asked as she stirred a bit of milk into her tea.

“Much better,” Thomas said absently, then smiled. “In fact, he's a terror. He'll be back to his old self in no time, I think. Saint was right about his constitution. I begin to believe he'll outlive us all.”

“And Penelope?”

“She is fine,” he said abruptly.

Jules frowned a bit at this most unloverlike reply, but didn't dwell on it. She was too frightened.

“You were right not to tell Saint about this,” Thomas said.

“Yes, I know, but I also realize that if he ever finds out, he'll be furious with me. He's so proud, you know, but—”

“Yes, but,” Thomas said, interrupting her. “Thackery is your only protection. It is not enough, not with Saint helpless as a baby.”

“Michael smashed my derringer,” Jules said, wishing now that she'd bought a dozen of the deadly small guns. She saw the look of bewildered astonishment on her brother's face, and added quickly, “No, I refuse to explain. It doesn't matter now in any case.” To her relief, Thomas let it pass. She watched him rise and begin to pace the library. He came to an abrupt halt, whirled to face her, a wide grin on his face.

“Here's what we're going to do, little sister. My new wife and I will move into your house until Wilkes is out of your life once and for all.”

Jules's mouth dropped open. She waved a helpless hand at the opulent room. “Thomas, you can't take
Penelope away from this! Our house is small, and the spare bedroom would seem to her like a servant's room!”

“She is my wife,” Thomas said in a very stern voice, “and she will do as I bid her.”

“But your father-in-law—”

“Bunker is just fine and he's surrounded by servants. I am no longer needed here. Now, Jules, no more arguments from you. My wife and I will arrive this evening. All right?”

She gave him a dazed nod, and he walked her to the front door. “Jules, you will tell Thackery.”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Thomas, it just occurred to me that Michael will wonder why you and Penelope are moving in with us. What should I tell him?”

Thomas grew thoughtful. “Tell him that Pen needs to get away from her parents for a while, more specifically, her mother. Tell him that if he doesn't mind, we'll continue our honeymoon with Dr. Saint on Clay Street.”

It had begun to rain harder, and Thomas fetched her an umbrella. After he had handed her into the carriage, he saw that Ezra was regarding him with a great deal of interest.

“You'll take care of Bunker, won't you, Ezra?”

“Certainly, Mr. Thomas,” Ezra said. “And you will take care of your sister, sir.”

Thomas nodded, not bothering to ask him what and how much he knew, and headed up the stairs. For all Thomas knew, Ezra might have eavesdropped on their conversation. He paused a moment in front of his and Penelope's bedroom, squared his shoulders, and strode in. He might as well face the unpleasantness now and get it over with.

* * *

Saint cursed his blindness, for Jules's face always gave her away. He sighed. “That sounds pretty weak to me, Jules. Won't you tell me the truth?”

“You don't mind their coming here for a while, do you?”

“Stop dodging, sweetheart.”

“Michael, please.”

He heard the pleading in her voice, and said finally, “All right. If you and Thomas wish to keep your secrets, very well.” He shook his head. “The thought of Penelope sleeping in our house is unnerving. I wonder if we'll survive it.”

Penelope was wondering the same thing that evening. She'd said not two words to her new sister-and brother-in-law. She regarded Thomas from beneath her lashes in animated conversation with Saint. My husband, she thought, a trifle bitter. And I am to obey him. And that's what he'd told her that afternoon when she'd simply stared at him.

“You won't, of course, haul your entire wardrobe there, Pen, there's not enough room.”

“How much room is that?” she'd asked him.

Thomas had looked about the enormous bedroom, dripping with opulent furnishings, and smiled. “The bedroom is, as I recall, about a third this size. You'll like the bed, though,” he'd added, giving her
that
look.

“I don't want to go,” she said, digging in her heels. “I must stay here, Thomas. My parents need me.”

“No they don't. I've already spoken to your father. He's as worried as I am. Our reason for going is
valid. I assume that you don't want my sister to be kidnapped again.”

“No, of course not, it's just—”

“Enough, Pen. Pack your things. We'll leave after dinner.”

“But—”

“You are my wife and you will obey me. Now, do as I tell you. Another thing, Pen, you won't say anything about Wilkes's threat to Saint. He is not to know.”

And that, Penelope thought now, had been that. She'd seen the small bedroom and shuddered. And the bed, it was so small. She sipped at her tea and tried to think of something to say to her sister-in-law. But it was Jules who spoke first.

“You are very lucky, Penelope,” Jules said, smiling toward her brother. “Thomas is a fine man. I was his slave when we were children.”

“Such an odd life you had,” Penelope said.

“Yes, it was like a Garden of Eden. Despite our father's rigidity, we managed to run wild most of the time and enjoy ourselves immensely.”

“I don't have my maid,” Penelope said abruptly.

What do I say to that? Jules wondered. She mustered a smile and some warmth in her voice and said, “It is very kind of you to come, Penelope. I realize that this is not exactly what you're used to, but I don't think you'll be unhappy here, especially since Thomas is here also.”

Penelope merely nodded, and Jules felt a wave of frustration. This, my dear brother, she thought, isn't a very good idea.

The following morning, Thomas left to see Del Saxton, his explanation to Jules being, “Saint's
Sydney Ducks need to be alerted, and I hope Mr. Saxton will know how to round them up.” He'd kissed her cheek and left. Saint was with a patient, a man with a private problem, so her husband had told her, and thus her presence wasn't needed, or desired for that matter.

Jules wandered back upstairs, planning to see if Penelope had everything she needed. She paused outside the closed bedroom door, aware that Penelope was crying.

Oh dear, she thought. Had she and Thomas had a fight? What should she do?

She knocked softly, then entered. Penelope was still in bed, huddled under the covers.

“Penelope! What's the matter? Do you feel ill?”

Penelope froze, humiliation washing over her. “What do you want?” she asked, not looking at her sister-in-law.

“What's wrong, Penelope?” Jules asked, quashing the flash of anger she felt at the cold words. “Come, we are sisters now.”

“It's your damned brother!” Penelope shouted, her cup filled to overflowing. “He's an animal, a brute, and—”

“
What
?”

“He forces me to do . . . things, and I hate it and it's awful and my mother told me it would be thus, but I didn't believe her!”

The light dawned. Jules regarded Penelope's flushed face. “What did your mother tell you?” she asked calmly.

“That men are animals, that they do unspeakable things to their wives, and we have to be brave and . . . bear it.”

“And you believed her? By all that's rich, that is ridiculous! Don't you love my brother?”

Penelope stared at Jules. “Of course I love him. I shouldn't have married him otherwise.”

“But you only wanted him to kiss your hand?”

Penelope drew back at the sarcasm. “I . . . I didn't know what it was all about. I don't like it, it's degrading.”

“It? I assume we're talking about lovemaking.”

Penelope shuddered at what she thought a most inappropriate term, invented doubtless by men to lull ladies' suspicions.

Jules felt an odd mixture of pity and anger. Poor Thomas! And, she amended to herself silently, poor Penelope. “I think,” Jules said, moving to sit on the side of the bed, “that you need to think of me as your mother for a while. Now, I want you to listen very carefully, Penelope, because I will not lie to you.”

Penelope gave Jules her full attention.

“. . . and I told her that making love was more fun than anything else in the whole world,” Jules told her husband smugly that night in bed. “I explained things to her.” She added in some disgust, “I simply can't understand why mothers frighten the wits out of their daughters with such awful rubbish!”