Jade Star (29 page)

Jules threw her hairbrush at him.

He let it bounce off his chest, then tossed it back to her. “To be serious about it, I simply asked him how things were going with his bride. He looked greatly pleased. Of course, sweetheart, two gentlemen wouldn't discuss techniques or exact approaches, not like you ladies appear to do.”

Jules rose from her chair and slipped off her dressing gown. She enjoyed the feel of it and stood quietly a moment, stroking her hand over the velvet.

“Why don't you consider putting me around you? I imagine I'm much warmer than that dressing gown.”

Jules looked uncertain, then, as her eyes began to twinkle, nodded. “Hairy velvet. It's certainly a thought.”

“Come here, wench,” he said, pulling back the covers.

She felt herself grow warm at the sight of him. “Have you never worn a nightshirt?” she asked, standing over him, her gaze going slowly down his body.

Just those few times when I was afraid I would ravish you if I didn't.

“No,” he said, his voice growing thick as her eyes rested on his groin.

“You are so beautiful, Michael,” she said, and slipped into bed beside him. “And much warmer than my dressing gown.”

Saint did his best to slow her down, but it was impossible. She wanted him, and quickly. It was the first time they'd made love since he'd gotten his vision back, and he thought he would yell with pleasure as he watched her face at the moment of her climax.

Then he was deep inside her, thrusting frantically, beyond himself. He heard her moan softly when his seed burst from his body into her, and he knew that she was filled with him and that she was happy to be so. He pulled her onto her side, stroking his large hands down her back. “You are perfect,” he said, kissing her temple. “And I love you, Jules. With all my heart.”

She raised her face to look at him, and he said softly, “Don't cry, love.”

She felt his fingertip wipe away the single tear that coursed down her cheek. “I'm not,” she sniffed.
“I was just thinking that perhaps I didn't hear exactly what you said.”

He squeezed her, feeling himself growing hard within her again. “Woman, you heard me right, and you know it. As you can feel, my body agrees with me. Will you rush me this time, Jules? Or will you let a simple man give you everything he can, and very slowly?”

Jules felt dazzling sensations, and her muscles convulsed, making him moan. “I don't know, Michael,” she said. She came on top of him, and he helped her straddle him. He was very deep inside her. His large hands covered her breasts, and she arched her back, her hair streaming over her shoulders and over his hands. When his fingers stroked downward to find her, she gasped. “I don't think I can, Michael.”

“Dear heavens,” he gasped, arching up to fill her completely with himself, “I can feel your womb.”

He felt her hands close over his wrists, felt her thighs tighten about his flanks. He thought he would never see anything so beautiful as the dazed sheen in her eyes. “Yes, love,” he said, “come with me, now.”

Her response was a shuddering groan.

Saint lay awake after Jules was sleeping like a stated little animal in the crook of his arm. His eyes traced the shadowy patterns cast in the far reaches of the bedroom by the moonlight silvering through the window. Life, he thought, would be perfect if it weren't for that bastard Wilkes. During his several years at Massachusetts General Hospital, he'd dealt with the insane, people who were mindless yet utterly harmless, people who were mindless and violent, people who believed they were someone else, usually long dead, and people, he realized, who were obsessed
with an object, an idea, or another person. His reason rebelled against the notion, but faced with Wilkes's actions, he could not deny it.

He'd assumed in the beginning that Wilkes wanted this lovely girl because she was a virgin and would bring him a great sum of money. But her marriage should have made him realize the futility of his wish. Unless all he wanted was revenge. But no, Saint's thinking continued, that didn't make sense either. His arms tightened about his wife. There was no choice now, not really. He would have to kill Wilkes.

He would find Limpin' Willie in the morning. Perhaps Willie's criminal mind could aid him in finding Wilkes. Jules muttered something incomprehensible in her sleep and Saint smiled. He hoped she was dreaming of him and enjoying every bit of it.

He had helped her cleanse herself, Jules too exhausted to protest, and he wondered now how long it would be before she became pregnant with his child. His body stirred at the powerful thought, a useless action, he told himself, grinning. He began to breathe deeply and slowly, a habit he had learned early in medical school, and one that put him to sleep within minutes.

The following morning, Jules and Saint helped Thomas and Penelope move back to the Stevenson mansion. Bunker, Saint thought, after he'd examined him briefly, would live to be ninety.

“Well, my boy,” Bunker said, “it's good to have you back again. Not that I don't like Pickett, mind you, but—”

“Thank you,” Saint said quickly, cutting him off. “Now, what you need are more rest and a daily dose
of fresh air. Have your man Ezra drive you out every afternoon.”

Mrs. Stevenson was a different matter, and Saint felt a stab of pity for Penelope when her mother fell on her, weeping.

“Leave go, Sally,” Bunker told his wife sharply. “The girl's a married woman now and has lots of new responsibilities. And she looks happy as a tack.” He turned back to Saint. “A good man, my son-in-law,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice even though Thomas was within hearing distance. “He'll make a fine doctor, I don't doubt. Ah, yes, Saint, I'll help him right enough. Next time I have one of these damned fool attacks, he'll be here to get me over it.”

“I will miss Penelope,” Jules said to her husband as they got into the carriage. “She has changed so much. Even Chauncey said she was having to revise her opinions. Del just shook his head and said something about every woman being tractable if handled properly.”

“And what did Chauncey say to that?”

“Something about she would take care of him later.”

“I'm certain that she did,” Saint said.

“I'll miss Thomas too,” said Jules.

“At least I won't have to worry about clamping my hand over your mouth every night, love.”

She poked him in the ribs. “Do you never think serious thoughts? Elevating thoughts?”

“Maybe they'll return in, say, five years.”

“Or so,” Jules said, tucking her hand through his arm. She gave him a sunny smile even as she felt a sudden surge of guilt over her new derringer. No, she told herself firmly, I shall be very careful this time. She wondered what Penelope would do with
hers, and had the inescapable feeling that her sister-in-law would keep it safe, and a secret from Thomas.

She was not at all surprised to see three patients waiting for Saint when they returned home. She was surprised, however, and delighted, when Saint asked her to assist him.

It was the middle of the afternoon. Patches of sun came through the bedroom windows, unnoticed by either Saint or Jules.

“That,” Saint said many minutes later when his heart slowed a bit, “should probably be against the law. Debauchery, pure and simple.” Her muscles tightened at his words, and he groaned, kissing her.

Jules wanted to moan and laugh at the sound of the knock downstairs on the front door. “I should be a banker, like Del Saxton,” he said, slowly and very reluctantly pulling away from her. “Given the satisfied smile on Chauncey's face, I wager they spend many afternoons like this.” He sighed. “I suppose I should count my lucky stars. That knock could have come ten minutes earlier.”

He rose and quickly dressed. “You, love, are in no shape to be my assistant this time. Just lie there and think about me.”

Before he left the bedroom, he leaned down and kissed her again, his hand gliding over her breasts. “You look utterly wanton,” he said on a strained laugh. He gently touched his fingers to the damp curls, then forced himself to straighten. “Don't move,”
he told her. “Perhaps I'll be lucky and the patient downstairs only has a cold or a sprained thumb.”

But the patient, a Chinese worker, had been beaten and robbed. Saint was with him for hours.

“Will he be all right?” Jules asked him over dinner that evening.

“It depends, dammit! There might very well be internal damages, something we great doctors know next to nothing about and could do nothing about in any case. If he lives the night, he has a good chance. And no, the men who did this to him weren't any of Limpin' Willie's friends. Strangers, his friends told me.”

He was perturbed, and Jules noticed he'd eaten next to nothing. To distract him, she began to talk about the time he'd saved her from a jellyfish when she was thirteen years old. Soon he was laughing, remembering how she'd yelped and how he'd had to straddle her to keep her foot steady.

It was over a cup of Lydia's delicious coffee that Saint sat back in his chair and said, “Byrony is due to deliver in a week or so. I received a brief note from Brent today. Would you like to visit the new town of Wakeville?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, I should love it. I was hoping we'd be going soon. I can't wait to see what they've done.”

Saint nodded, then shrugged with a show of elaborate indifference, saying, “We'll leave first thing in the morning, then, before it's light.”

Jules wasn't fooled for a minute. “You believe Wilkes has someone watching the house?”

“I doubt it,” Saint said, lowering his lashes so she wouldn't see the gnawing worry in his eyes, “but I
won't take any chances.” He saw that she would protest and said quickly, “Jules, I don't like sneaking about like thieves in the night, but dammit, I won't take any risks with your safety. Now, I need to make arrangements with Dr. Pickett to take over my patients, and you, my dear, need to write notes to Thomas and your friends. Lydia will continue as if we were here.” But Saint was thinking to himself: Please show yourself, you vermin bastard! I want to put my hands around your damned neck. I want to destroy you as I would a mad dog.

“Thackery will accompany us?” Jules asked, pulling him from his violent but very satisfying thoughts.

He nodded. “Now, why don't you pack for us and I'll be off for a couple of hours.”

It was drizzling before dawn the following morning, the fog thick and heavy. Ranger Tyson from Hobson's Stables had provided a carriage and two horses. “He still owes me” was all Saint said.

Jules felt the chill seep through her thick cloak and moved closer to her husband in the dark carriage. The seats smelled of old leather and tobacco smoke. And, she thought, her nose twitching, the carriage smelled of sex. It was a rather large one, she mentally added to herself, and grinned.

She heard Saint speak in a low voice to Thackery, and soon the carriage jolted forward.

They were nearly ten miles south of San Francisco when the sun came up. The air was clear and there wasn't a hint of rain.

“This is lovely,” Jules said, staring out at the rolling green hills. “I can smell the ocean. I wish we could see it.”

“The land was too rugged to build a road closer,” Saint said. “Perhaps someday.”

“We'll stop for breakfast soon. Lydia packed us a hamper.”

They stopped on a rise that gave a view of the ocean to the west and rolling hills to the east. The sun was warm and there was a crisp early-morning breeze. Jules stood for a moment near the edge of the rise, breathing in the clear air. Saint watched her a moment after spreading out one of Lydia's checkered cotton tablecloths. He loved the way the breeze caught tendrils of her hair, lifting them, and the shine of the sun through the flame strands.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly, lightly closing his hands over her shoulders.

“Yes,” she said, leaning her head back against his shoulder.

She felt his hands ease beneath her cloak and cup her breasts. She shivered slightly and pressed herself more tightly against him. “Shall I tell Thackery to go find the Northwest Passage or something?” Saint asked, kissing her ear.

Jules's stomach growled and Saint laughed. “I suppose that's my answer,” he said, turned her around, and kissed her mouth.

They breakfasted on fresh, still-warm bread, butter, and jam, and coffee in one of Lydia's jars, wrapped in heavy cloths to keep it hot.

“This is decadent,” Saint said, leaning back a moment on his elbows. “How far to go now, Thackery?”

“Not more than another hour, Dr. Saint,” Thackery said, and both Jules and Saint could hear the excitement in his voice. “The rains haven't been so bad so far, and the building never stops. Mrs. Byrony never
stops either, and you should hear Mr. Brent yell at her.”

The horses seemed to feel the excitement and quickened their pace. The first view of Wakeville came less than an hour later, and Jules sucked in her breath. “I don't know what I was expecting,” she said, tugging at Saint's sleeve, “but this is incredible!”

It looked to Saint as if Brent Hammond had managed to buy the most fertile acres in the area. And the activity was astounding. There was even a Village Street, wide enough for two carriages side by side, with new buildings with sidewalks lining it. Nine out of ten faces in the new town were black.

“All this in six months,” Saint said. Thackery turned the carriage off Village Street and pulled to a stop in front of a two-story white house with a wide veranda across the entire front. There were trees and flowers everywhere.

Brent Hammond came out of the front door at that moment, a very pregnant Byrony on his heels. An ancient black woman followed closely behind Byrony as if she expected her to keel over like a small ship.

“Ah,” Brent said, grinning as he shook Saint's hand, “we've got the greenhorns from the big city.”

“I'm afraid you can't get any closer,” Byrony said, laughing as she tried to hug Jules. “This child is going to be born declaiming lines from a play! He certainly is dramatic enough in his movements.”

Byrony saw Jules's eyes move behind her and said on a mock sigh, “This is my keeper, Mammy Bath. Mammy, this is Mrs. Morris.”

“Just look at that hair, little missis,” Mammy said, reaching out gnarled fingers to touch Jules's hair.
“And all that pretty white skin. Now, you two little ladies come inside and rest.”

Byrony said behind her hand to Jules, “And the big strong men will ensure the running of the world. Don't argue, Jules, it's no use.”

Soon the little ladies and the strong men were seated at a huge dining table, plates of sausage, eggs, and toast piled in front of them.

“This isn't nirvana by a long shot,” Brent was saying, “but we're working through the problems as they arise. We have few fights, fortunately, and no thievery except for a month ago when some drifters came into town. They saw all our black people and decided to help themselves.” Brent shook his head, grinning.

“He enjoyed himself immensely, Saint,” Byrony said. “He was itching to bang some heads together and got his wish.”

Saint watched Byrony with a professional eye. The child was large and it worried him. And Byrony, despite her smiles, looked tired. He heard her speak to Jules about their school.

“Little Tony, bless his heart, practically taught himself how to read and do figures. He's now in charge of deeds, births, deaths, and all the rest of the record-keeping.”

“Yes,” Brent said with a wry grin. “Little Tony—the fellow's nearly as big as you are, Saint.”

It wasn't until that afternoon that Brent managed to get Saint alone. They were walking in the garden behind the house, Brent explaining what crops they were planting and how it was decided who did what. He broke off suddenly. “Well, what do you think, Saint?”

Saint didn't pretend to misunderstand. “She needs to be tied down,” he said.

Brent cursed softly. “Lord knows I yell at her enough, but she'll turn those big eyes on me and say, ‘But there's so much to be done,' and I always fold. Some gambler I am.”

“Tie her down,” Saint repeated. “The child has dropped, Brent, which means that she'll go into labor in, say, three or four days. She needs to stay in bed now. I won't lie to you. The child is large, even larger than I'd expected it would be. She needs to have all her strength because her labor will probably be long.”

Brent turned white.

Saint put his hand on Brent's shoulder. “I don't mean to scare you. Byrony will be all right, I swear it. But I don't like to tempt fate.”

“I'll tie her down,” Brent said. “Excuse me a moment, Saint, and I'll do it right now.”

“Better yet,” Saint said, “let me examine her now. I'll give her the orders. You're only her husband, Brent, I'm her doctor.” Saint paused a moment, then said, “You haven't seen any strangers about, have you, Brent?”

“As in Wilkes, you mean, Saint?”

“Yes, as in Jameson Wilkes. I really don't know just how extensive his spy system is, but—”

“Yes,
but,
” said Brent. “Try not to worry. I'll ask about.”

Saint said nothing more, but Brent knew he was worried. Hell, all his friends were worried and would be until the vermin was destroyed.

They found Jules and Byrony in the parlor laughing and drinking tea. Byrony was busily sewing
something. Brent said firmly, “Hello, Jules. Byrony, come along now, Saint's going to take care of you.” He held out his hand to his wife.

Byrony grumbled a bit, but allowed her husband to help her out of the chair.

“Jules,” Saint said, “would you please see to Brent here? Byrony, at last I've got you to myself. Let's go upstairs, Mrs. Hammond.”

Brent looked as if he would follow, but instead sighed and flung himself down in the chair Byrony had just vacated. “Damn,” he said. “Excuse me, Jules,” he added.

“You're worried, Brent. I don't blame you, but Michael is the best doctor in the whole world.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “He's also going to be the busiest doctor in the whole world. Everyone in town knows he's here by now. A goodly number have aches and pains. There'll be a line two deep tomorrow.”

Upstairs, Saint helped Byrony sit down in a chair, then sat down on the edge of the bed. He said very gently, “Tell me how you feel.”

“I've had pains already, Saint. Then they go away. I do try to rest, but—”

“Yes, I know. These pains, Byrony, tell me about them.”

She told him of the sharp, low pains, finishing with, “I thank my lucky stars I didn't tell Brent. He would have gone crazy.”

“Yes, it's just as well. Now, I'd like to feel this child of yours.”

Byrony undressed while Saint waited outside in the hallway. She was swathed in a long white cotton nightgown when he came back into the room. He
helped her lie on the bed, then very gently slipped his hands beneath the gown to feel her belly.

“No, Byrony,” he said, looking at her tightly closed eyes, “please, just relax.” His knowledgeable hands lightly roved over her belly. “That's better.” He decided to wait to examine her internally. Best to let her accustom herself to him first. He straightened her nightgown and took her hand. “Now, Mrs. Hammond, let's chat a bit.”

Byrony was in bed by nine o'clock that evening. Saint looked at his wife and decided bed was the best place for her too. He felt a surge of desire for her, and frowned at himself. His hand, though, went around her waist, and she leaned into him, smiling up at him.

“You know something, Saint?” Brent asked.

Saint turned toward him.

“Never play poker, my friend. You'd lose.” Brent chuckled, patted Jules's arm, and took himself off.

“What was that all about?” Jules asked.

“Brent saw the lustful look in my eyes, I think. He's right, I'd never win at poker.”