Jade Star (7 page)

“A dream,” he said cautiously. “And I did come back to you, in a sense.”

“Yes, I suppose. Your eyes are so beautiful. The hazel is so much nicer than my . . . slime green.”

He laughed at that. “Oh no, not slime, Jules. Don't you remember how you got your nickname?”

She smiled, two dimples deepening in her cheeks. “Yes, but it's you who have forgotten, Michael. My nickname is from my awful hair, not my eyes.”

He remembered the young girl telling him that she hated the name Juliana, and he'd said, looking at her glorious, wildly curling hair, “Why not ‘Jules' then? That's close enough to ‘jewels,' and that's like your hair. All right?”

“Not slime,” he repeated, smiling gently at her. “Your eyes, like your hair, are jewels, green jade in this case.”

“You make me sound like a gawdy piece of jewelry. Rubies and jade!” She paused a moment, then said, nodding, “I like the jade. That makes me sound exotic.”

He heard Lydia call up and frowned. They'd spoken of nothing really. But at least she was responding to him normally. He said, “There's the sterling voice of my housekeeper, Lydia. I told her about you, Jules, and she's made you breakfast. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised. “You know, I really am. For the first time in a long while.”

He saw a flash of pain in her eyes, but for the moment he ignored it. “Let me invite Lydia up to meet you. You'll like her.”

Jules did like Lydia, but the housekeeper clucked over her until finally Saint sent her out of the room.

Some minutes later, Saint was thinking between bites of fluffy scrambled eggs that she was responding much better than he'd believed possible. And her eyes were brighter; she was more alert.

And she was so damned beautiful that it made him ache just to look at her. And she was in his bed, and not fourteen years old anymore.

When Lydia came back to remove the breakfast trays, she looked closely at Jules. “Good, you did
justice to my food. You let Saint take care of you, young lady.”

“You and that crazy name,” Jules said.

“No one else calls me Michael,” he said. He reached out his hand to touch her jaw. To his consternation, she jerked away from him, her eyes widening in terror.

“I'm sorry, Jules,” he said, immediately dropping his hand. He forced a rueful grin. “I just want to feel your jaw. I did smack you pretty hard.”

Get hold of yourself, and stop acting like a ninny! He's not Jameson Wilkes!
“I'm being stupid,” she mumbled, trying to make herself relax.

“No, you're being very brave. I'm proud of you.”

She gave him a pitifully hopeful look that made him flinch inwardly. “I'm glad you haven't changed,” she said. “You may feel my jaw. I won't be silly anymore.”

She leaned forward and watched his face as his fingers, long, blunt, yet so gentle, touched her sore jaw. Without conscious thought, she leaned against his fingers, years of absolute trust inherent in the simple movement.

Saint felt a treacherous weight descend. She was so vulnerable, so unsettled and confused, and he was her anchor. He looked at the gentle arch of her slender neck. So delicate, he thought, so fragile. He drew his hand away, appalled at himself. Again.

She smiled at him, a dazzling smile. He sucked in his breath. “You've turned into a beautiful woman, Jules,” he managed.

“Me?” She laughed incredulously. “Well, maybe passable. John Bleecher did want to marry me, you know,” she added on a mischievous grin.

“Bleecher? The planter's son? That gangly boy who had pimples?”

“Yes, but now he doesn't. And besides, I didn't want to marry him, so I'm not certain if that counts or not.”

“Just why didn't you want to marry him?”

Jules frowned. “Kanola asked me the same thing . . .” She broke off abruptly, memory flooding her. Kanola was dead. She felt tears well up. She turned her face away.

“What's wrong, Jules?”

“Kanola's dead. Wilkes's men . . . hurt her, I know it. I saw them holding her down and she was fighting them. She's dead.”

He closed his eyes a moment against her pain. Had Jules seen her friend raped and murdered? He wanted to ask her how Wilkes had captured her, but at that moment he heard a knock on the front door. A patient. Damnation! “Jules . . .” he began.

It was someone sick to see him, she thought. I've got to stop acting like a helpless child. She swallowed the bitter bile and forced a smile. “I'll be all right.”

“I'll be back up as soon as I've seen my patient.” He rose. “I want you to rest, Jules. We've got to clear the opium out of your system.”

“Can I have a bath, Michael?”

“I'll send Lydia up,” he said, and left the bedroom, gently closing the door.

He felt a spurt of rage to see Bunker Stevenson waiting for him in his surgery. He still wasn't certain that Bunker hadn't been one of the men at the Crooked House. He said shortly, “I'll be with you in just a minute, Bunker.” He pulled Lydia into the
hall. “No one is to know she's here. Can you help her bathe, Lydia? I'll figure out what we're going to do.”

Lydia looked at him sharply. “Bunker wasn't one of those men, was he?”

“I'm not sure,” Saint said tersely. “I can't very well ask him, I suppose.”

“I'll see to the child.”

Child, hell, Saint thought as he walked back into his surgery.

“It's jasmine,” Lydia said as she poured a bit of liquid into Juliana's bathwater.

“Anything would be better than what I smell like now.”
Gentlemen like this scent, my dear. But don't use too much. It's very potent.
When he'd turned away, she'd poured nearly the entire bottle on her shoulders and chest and the skirt of the gown. She'd thought he would strike her, but he hadn't. He'd pulled the gown to her waist and bathed the heavy musk from her body.

The girl's words were true enough, Lydia thought. She wondered if Jules had been raped, but didn't ask, of course. She helped her out of Saint's nightshirt and into the porcelain tub.

“You need more flesh,” Lydia said.

Jules winced, remembering all the food Wilkes had tried to tempt her with. “Yes,” she said in a clipped voice, but it didn't occur to her to try to cover herself. He's changed me, she thought. She wasn't at all embarrassed that Lydia was helping her, seeing her with no covering but her hair.

“You'll need some clothes,” Lydia said as she helped Jules lather her long tangled hair.

“Yes, Michael said he'd get me some.”

“Michael?” Lydia asked, a brow raised.

Jules smiled a bit at that. So he was still closemouthed about his given name—Ulysses Michael. “That's his real name, at least part of it.” When he'd told her his name one afternoon so long ago, she'd announced that she preferred “Ulysses” and burst into gasps of laughter. “Michael,” she thought now. Such a kind name, a full name with depth and complexity. “Does everyone call him Saint?” she asked Lydia.

Lydia smiled. “Yes, and I'll just bet I can blackmail him now. You see,” she continued at Jules's puzzled look, “everyone wants to know what his real name is and he won't tell. Nor will he tell anyone how he got the nickname Saint.”

“I know,” Jules said. I'm acting normally, she thought. I'm sitting in a bathtub in Michael's house in San Francisco, and I'm acting like nothing at all happened to me.

“Well, if you decide to tell me, I'll doubtless become a rich woman by selling that tidbit,” Lydia said. “Here, dear, let me rinse your hair.”

When Juliana was tucked back into bed, she said to Lydia, “Michael told you about me?”

Lydia heard the shame in the girl's voice, and patted her hand. “Yes, he did. I hope you don't mind, for I'll never tell a soul. Saint will take care of you, my dear, you mustn't worry. He is a very responsible, thoughtful man.”

“I know he is,” said Jules, and closed her eyes. She wasn't worried. My family believes me dead, she thought. And Kanola's children have no mother now, her husband no wife. All Wilkes has is a broken jaw. She felt hatred, pure and raw, flow through her. She
was so locked into her private misery that she didn't hear Lydia leave the bedroom.

She fell asleep and dreamed. Wilkes was laughing, watching her intently as she drank some wine. Then she began to feel heavy, and dull, and very strange. She saw him lean over her and kiss her breast.

“No!”

She heard her own scream, and jerked upright.

“Jules!”

“No!” she screamed again, seeing a man striding toward her. She scurried frantically to the far side of the bed.

Saint stopped cold. He'd been outside the bedroom when he heard her cry out. He drew a deep, steadying breath and said very quietly, “You had a nightmare, Jules. You're with me—Michael. Do you understand?”

She stared at the wall, mute. She swallowed convulsively as her mind cleared. She whispered, “He made me drink some wine and he touched me and kissed me and . . . fondled me.” She gulped, hating him, hating herself, hating her shame.
His mouth was cold and dry and alien.

Saint saw her fingers lightly press against her breasts. He should have killed Wilkes. For a long moment he couldn't speak. He pictured her naked, terrified, drugged, and Wilkes touching her. He fought down his own rage. She didn't need his fury, she needed to be reassured.

“Jules, it's all right. Come, look at me.”

Slowly she turned to face him. She saw the compassion in his hazel eyes, and hated herself even more. He was being kind to her because he pitied
her. She probably disgusted him. Thank God she hadn't told him any more.

“I'm all right now,” she said in a tight voice.

Saint forced a smile. “You certainly look fine,” he said. “I like the damp hair. It makes you look like the little mermaid I remember so well. Do you remember all those times I helped you dry your hair so your father wouldn't get into a snit?”

That drew her out the way he'd hoped it would.

“I remember. I escaped most of the time, but once I didn't. It wasn't my hair, it was the sunburn. He didn't forbid me to swim until I was sixteen. I ignored him, of course. Then it was my brother, Thomas, who helped me sneak out.”

Saint also remembered all the times he'd had to drag her out of the ocean and the bright sun so she wouldn't look like a broiled lobster. “How is your brother, anyway? I always liked Thomas.”

“He is fine,” she said.
And he's probably the only one of my family who's sorry I'm dead.
“He's a man now, Michael.”

“Time has a way of adding years,” Saint said.

To his immense relief, she suddenly giggled, a sweet, fresh sound that warmed him and made him relax a bit.

“I'm remembering what you always wore when you went swimming,” she said.

So did he. He should have had more sense, he thought now. Being half-naked in front of a child was one thing, but as he'd learned, it was quite another in front of an impressionable young girl. It had finally struck him when he'd seen her staring with very different eyes at him one afternoon as he'd walked out of the surf.

“You looked like Adonis,” she said now. “Do you still have those frayed, cut-off sailor's pants?”

“You're embarrassing me, Jules,” he said. It had seemed so natural to wear only those meager pants when he was swimming with her.

“Why? You're so beautiful.”

He flushed. The last thing he wanted her to remember was a half-naked man. “Enough,” he said, trying to sound cool and unconcerned. “After lunch, little one, I'm off to buy you some clothes. Unfortunately, I can't take you with me.”

“Because of Wilkes,” she said flatly.

“Yes. Until I find out what he's up to, I can't risk him finding out where you are, or, for that matter, who took you away from him.”

“He doesn't know it was you?”

Saint grinned. “You should have seen my disguise. I probably looked like a huge black bear, and the most villainous creature imaginable.”

Over lunch they spoke more of their shared past. He knew she had to talk about what had happened to her, but he didn't want to rush her. Not yet, anyway. And, dammit, he had to figure out what he was going to do with her. But he knew what he had to do. He had to take her home. Oddly, he didn't want to face that prospect just yet. He realized he wanted to enjoy her company for a while longer. That, he added to himself, and see that she healed inwardly, that she was cleansed of her fears and nightmares.

He ended up sending Lydia out to do some shopping for her, because Delaney Saxton called. The Saxton's four-month-old daughter was on her deathbed, according to a frantic Del.

Saint was relieved to tell Chauncey Saxton that her daughter was just colicky.

“New mothers,” Saint said, grinning at Chauncey, “and new fathers. I'll bet when Alexandra starts teething, I'll be spending most of my time here reassuring you that she's not expiring.”

“I can't wait until you have your own child, Saint!” Chauncey retorted. “Then we'll just see how calm you are!”

Unbidden, Saint saw a baby with bright red hair and green eyes. He blinked.

“What's wrong, Saint?” Del Saxton asked. “You sick too?”

“I'm an old fool,” Saint said. “Now, if you two nervous parents will excuse me, I'll be off.”

“Before you go, have a brandy with me in the library,” Del said.

“That sounds like I'm not invited,” Chauncey said.

“No, love, not this time. I need to calm my weak man's nerves. Come on, Saint.”

Over delicious French brandy Del said in a pensive voice, “I heard the strangest thing just this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It appears that someone rescued a very pretty girl last night from the Crooked House.”

“Good for that someone,” Saint said in a bland voice.

“I agree. It's just that someone is probably in a very precarious position now.”

“I can't imagine why,” Saint said easily.

“I met Jameson Wilkes some two years ago,” Del continued. “He is not a nice man, which is an understatement. Evidently, according to my source, he's on a rampage. One can but hope that the someone who
rescued the girl can trust all the men who helped him. If one of them spills the beans, there'd be trouble, real trouble.”

“It sounds like one of them already spilled the beans,” Saint said, looking at his friend closely.

“No,” Del said. “I discovered what happened from Maggie. It turns out that one of the members of that little club at the Crooked House showed up at her brothel late last night. He told one of her girls, Lisette, what had happened, and she told Maggie.”

“And Maggie told you. So now Lisette, Maggie, and you know.”

“That's right. You may be certain that Lisette and Maggie won't say a word.”

“That's a relief, certainly,” Saint said.

“I'm here if you need help, Saint.”

Saint met Del's eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “I've got to go now.” He turned at the doorway. “How did Lisette and Maggie know the someone was me, if I may ask?”

“Size.”

“Ah.”

“Well, not just size. Maggie guessed because she knows how you feel about enforced prostitution.”

“Let's hope no one else guesses.”

 

There was no real choice, Saint knew. He had to get her back to Maui as soon as possible, for her own safety.

He said as much to her that evening over dinner. She was wearing a simple gray gown that Lydia had bought for her, and her glorious hair was pulled back from her face and tied with a black ribbon. She looked fresh and beautiful.

She didn't look like a fourteen-year-old girl.

He saw her bucking and writhing in his arms, her face pagan with pleasure. He felt the softness of her, the moist swollen woman's flesh. I've got to stop this, he told himself. But he wondered if her husband, that mythical man whose face and name he never wanted to know, would pleasure her as he had, revel in her pleasure as he had despite his best intentions.

“I don't want to go back there,” Jules said calmly after a long moment of silence. She laid down her fork. Lydia had already returned to her boardinghouse and they were alone. “I want to stay here, with you.”

That took him aback. “Jules,” he said, “your parents must be frantic about you—”

“My parents believe me dead, drowned.”

“Then their grief will cease shortly. It's your home. It's your life, it's—”

“I don't like my parents,” she said, a stubborn lift to her chin. “Certainly you remember my father. He is just more so now. My mother is still fading like a wilted plumeria, my sister, Sarah, is such a prig, and she's become more and more insufferable and snobbish.”

“And Thomas?”

“My brother is the only one I care about. You know that. He will escape soon enough—after all, he's a man and he's free. He can't stand our father either.”

“Jules, you're young. No, don't interrupt me. Hear me out. You were brought here under terrible circumstances. Wilkes is looking for you. It's not safe for you. Besides, there's John Bleecher at home, and
he no longer has pimples. You'll marry, Jules, and have babies, and eventually you'll forget all this.”

“I thought you said I was young,” she said, staring him down.

He had, dammit. He shook his head.

“I don't want to marry John Bleecher. I told you that.” She shuddered, unable to help herself. “I don't want to marry anyone.” But that wasn't true. She wanted to marry Michael. She'd wanted to marry him since she was twelve years old . . . well, maybe thirteen. He didn't love her, of course. He still thought of her as a silly little girl. He'd saved her, but now he wanted to be rid of her and continue with his life. From beneath her lashes she gazed at him, feeling herself grow warm. His face wasn't classically handsome like the princes in fairy tales. It was strong, and rugged, and filled with caring, determination, and kindness. But his eyes were beautiful, and his mouth. One could lose oneself in his eyes. She was being a fanciful fool, she knew it, but he was everything a man should be, she thought. And he'd saved her and she wanted him, only him.