Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  She would best him. Oh, yes, she would.

  5

  The Crooked House on Sutter Street stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, and was, Saint knew, for all its rumored satanic rites and sexual perversions, nothing more than a whorehouse. A fancy whorehouse with only rich private members.

  Members, he thought, shaking his head. That was almost funny.

  He thought of Juliana DuPres and what she must be feeling. Terror, no doubt. He wondered if she’d changed much from that pert little straggly girl he’d known five years ago. So bright, she’d been, as bright as her flame-colored hair. He remembered her waiting for him several times outside the Seamen’s Hospital on Front Street. If her damned father had known, he would have had a fit, of course, but somehow he’d never learned of those surreptitious visits. No matter how depressed Saint had been, the sight of her had always make him smile.

  Saint came out of the shadows at the sound of an owl. Hoot, he realized, was in place, as were, Saint hoped, the other dozen Sydney Ducks. A villainous lot, the bunch of them, but he’d take them over the bastards inside the Crooked House any day.

  Saint felt a gentle tugging on his arm.

  “Doc, they’ve already auctioned off three Chink gals. Wilkes ain’t to be seen, of course. It’s Danvers who’s doing the dealing.”

  Saint adjusted his full beard and his black wig. Because of his height, he could, by standing on a crate, see through a side window. He nodded to Limpin’ Willie, eased up onto the crate, which wobbled a bit under his weight, and peered again into the room.

  There were at least twenty men, all of them masked, seated in chairs facing a small stage. He’d heard about the anonymity, the major rule, and thus the black masks. It prevented blackmail and a certain amount of embarrassment, he supposed. The curtains behind the stage were black velvet, as were the draperies in the room itself. He felt his blood boil when another quite young Chinese girl was forced out from behind the curtain, her long silken black hair covering her small breasts. He heard muted conversation, heard that sharp-voiced bastard Danvers calling out bids. How many more poor unfortunate girls before Jules? he wondered, concerned that the crate would break beneath him.

  Juliana was wrapped in a thick cloak, her hands tied behind her, a gag in her mouth. Jameson Wilkes was seated beside her, his face utterly emotionless. She’d seen around the curtain briefly, seen the masked men seated in the darkened room.

  It was some sort of club, she thought, with men here for the express purpose of buying women. But she wouldn’t give up. Wilkes had to take off this gag sometime; then she would scream. I’ll fight, I’ll yell and . . .

  Wilkes removed her gag suddenly. “Drink this now, Juliana.”

  She stared at the glass of wine for a long moment. “Why?”

  “It will make everything . . . easier for you.”

  “You had me drink wine before.”

  “Yes, and you will again, now.”

  She looked wildly about her. Two of Jameson Wilkes’s men stood behind her. “No,” she said, thrusting up her chin.

  She felt the rim of the glass pressing against her teeth. She felt the wine seep into her mouth. She collected it, then jerked her head away and spat the wine full into Jameson Wilkes’s face.

  She saw the look of utter fury contort his features and said very softly, “Why don’t you strike me, you bastard? But you won’t, will you? You can’t. You don’t want to bruise your precious merchandise.”

  Jameson got a hold on himself. “You know, my dear, I’m tempted to feel a bit sorry for the man who buys you. But by then you will no longer be my problem.” He looked at the two men. “Hold her head and keep her mouth open.”

  Jules struggled, but it was no use. She was forced to swallow the wine. She felt Jameson’s handkerchief wipe off the drops that fell down her chin.

  He stood back and stroked his chin. “Very nice. Keep breathing heavily. Your lovely breasts become all the more alluring.”

  “I hate you,” she whispered. “You drugged the wine, didn’t you? With more this time.”

  “Of course, but you knew that. You will be the most biddable creature imaginable by the time you’re on that stage. Now, just sit quietly. I suspect that you’ll be as plaint as I wish in another ten minutes.” He chuckled a bit. “Do you know, I think I’ll give your buyer a bit of the opium. Who knows, perhaps after you’ve been plowed, you won’t need to be . . . convinced anymore.” He saw the utter horror in her green eyes, and felt a nagging moment of indecision. No, he thought, he had to sell her. He needed the money, he needed what the money would buy for him. He no longer denied to himself that he wanted her, wanted her more than any woman he’d ever known. But it wasn’t to be.

  Saint could feel the change in the group of men. There was a surge of anticipation, and the men were speaking to each other in excited whispers, sitting forward in their chairs. He felt his breath catch in his throat. Juliana DuPres was gently led onto the stage. Her beautiful thick hair was loose down her back, a riotous mass of curls. He sucked in his breath at the sight of her. God, she’d changed, she’d become a woman. She raised her head at the instruction from Danvers, and he saw the vague, nearly disinterested look in her eyes. He felt rage flow through him, realizing that she was drugged. He heard excited voices call out:

  “Lord, would you look at those breasts—white as the snow in the Sierras!”

  “Turn her around and raise the hair off her back!”

  “No missionary girl ever looked like that! Wilkes wouldn’t lie to us, would he? Lord, she’s made to be on her back!”

  Saint forced himself to wait just a bit longer, until all the men were completely distracted by Juliana, their attention focused forward to the stage.

  He felt sweat break out on his forehead. She looked like a puppet, lifeless and uncaring. Her eyes, glazed and vague, looked remarkably sensual, as if inviting a man to come to her.

  He heard Danvers, the auctioneer, call out, “Well, gentlemen, we’ve a real prize here, a virgin prize. The bidding will start at three thousand dollars!”

  The bidding had reached nearly five thousand when one of the men called out, “How do we know that you haven’t pushed up those breasts of hers? Let’s see them!”

  “Yes! Strip her down!”

  “Let’s see those long legs!”

  That was it, Saint thought as he watched the auctioneer reach out to pull down the awful gown from her breasts.

  He let out a banshee’s shriek, the signal, and slipped off the crate. Within seconds the Crooked House was pandemonium. He himself threw himself against the side door, felt the wood give instantly at his surge of power. From the corner of his eye he saw all the Sydney Ducks pour into the room, yelling obscenities and brandishing pistols and knives. He’d given orders that no one was to be killed. He didn’t care about bashed heads or robbery.

  He rushed toward the stage. The man who was guarding Juliana was flailing at two Sydney Ducks. Then Saint saw another man, an older man, and he knew it was Jameson Wilkes. He was striding toward Juliana, his face set and grim.

  Saint smiled. He reached Wilkes just as he grabbed for Juliana. He looked him straight in the eye, saw his surprise, and sent his fist into Wilkes’s jaw. He watched with intense satisfaction as the man crumpled to the floor.

  “Juliana,” he said, lightly touching her arm.

  She looked at him with no recognition at all. He grabbed her hand, and suddenly she began to struggle. He cursed softly to himself, aware that he had to get her out of here quickly. “Forgive me, Jules,” he whispered, and sent his fist into her jaw. He caught her against him and quickly lifted her into his arms. Just as he slipped out of the smashed side door, he let out three sharp hoots. Within moments the raiders had fled from the Crooked House, leaving its members staring at each other, some of them bleeding and robbed, their voices bewildered and enraged.

  Saint pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around Jules. She felt so slight in his arms, he thought inconsequential
ly as he ran from the alleyway. He increased his pace, realizing that some heads had been knocked together. With his luck, he would soon have some patients to attend to. He had to hurry.

  He made it to his house in just over ten minutes. He nearly laughed aloud with relief as he slammed the front door closed behind him. Moments later, he was carefully lowering Jules to his bed. Quickly he ran his fingers over her jaw. She would have a bruise, but that was all. She was still unconscious, but he imagined it was the drug—opium, likely—that was keeping her under. He had just covered her with blankets when he heard a knock on the door downstairs.

  He closed his bedroom door, praying that she wouldn’t waken from her drugged sleep. He ripped off his ridiculous disguise and loped down the stairs.

  He treated three gentlemen. When they left the reason for their cut lips, bruised jaws, and cracked ribs delightfully vague, Saint had a difficult time not laughing in their faces. His last patient was Bunker Stevenson, an upright, very wealthy citizen. “Damned misunderstanding over cards, Saint,” Bunker said, and Saint forced himself to remain silent and make clucking sympathetic noises. He listened to Bunker go on and on about the poker game, and wondered finally if he weren’t, perhaps, telling the truth.

  The other two men weren’t from San Francisco. Saint wasn’t at all gentle in his treatment, and smiled when one of them yelled when he tightly bound his cracked ribs.

  It was nearly an hour before Saint returned to his bedroom. He lit a lamp and stood over the bed a moment, staring down at Juliana DuPres. Her hair was in glorious disarray around her head. “You’ve changed, little one,” he said softly, sitting beside her. Very gently he pulled off the blankets. He knew he had to make certain she was all right, and wanted to do it before she awakened. She’d be embarrassed enough as it was.

  He drew a deep breath, and for one of the few times in his professional career was very aware that his patient was a woman. Stop it, Saint! You’re a bloody doctor, not a rutting bastard!

  He stripped off the gown, not surprised that she was naked beneath it. The thought of what would have happened to her made him grit his teeth. I will not look at her, he thought. He gave her a cursory examination, felt his hands trembling, cursed himself soundly, and put her in one of his nightshirts—a nightshirt Jane had made for him that he’d never worn. It was like a huge white tent on her slender body. After he’d covered her again, he gently slapped her cheeks. “It’s time to wake up now, Jules. Come on, wake up, don’t scare me.”

  Jules heard a voice, a man’s voice, speaking sharply to her, but she didn’t want to leave the blessed security of sleep. The voice continued and she felt light slaps on her face.

  “No,” she muttered, trying to pull away.

  “Wake up, Jules!”

  Slowly she opened her eyes. She saw a man leaning over her, heard him call her name. He’d called her Jules. That was odd. Jameson Wilkes didn’t know her nickname.

  She blinked, trying to bring the man’s face into focus.

  But she felt so leaden, so disconnected. He bought me, she thought suddenly, he’s the man who paid for me! She reared up, wildly striking out at him.

  Saint closed his hands around her shoulders and pressed her back down. “Don’t be afraid, Jules. It’s me—Michael. You’re safe now. You’re with me.” She didn’t respond for a moment, and he continued softly, “Do you understand, Jules? You’re all right now, I promise you.”

  “Michael?” she whispered, trying to focus her mind on his words.

  Michael, he thought. Only Jules had called him Michael, and not Saint, and he’d remembered. “Yes, it’s Michael. You’ve been drugged, little one, but it will pass soon now.”

  “Michael,” she said again. Suddenly she knew who he was, and she felt a bolt of incredible, unexpected happiness surge through her. She nearly gasped aloud with pleasure and relief. “Oh God, it must have been a dream, a nightmare. All of it . . . it was nothing. You’re with me again. You’ve come back to me.”

  Saint blinked, but had no chance to respond. Jules threw her arms about his chest, burying her face against his shoulder. She said over and over, “You’ve come back to me. I always prayed you would. You don’t know . . . so long since you left me, so long.”

  “No, no,” he said gently, lightly touching his fingertips to her lips. “We’re not on Maui, Jules. We’re in San Francisco.”

  But she was clutching at him, whispering, “I always loved you, always. You came back to me.”

  He grasped her arms and gently drew her away. He looked into her face and told himself that she didn’t realize what she was saying. “Listen to me, Jules. We’re in San Francisco. I . . . well, I got you away from Jameson Wilkes and that godawful auction. You’re safe with me now, in my house.”

  “You saved me, Michael?” She reached for him again, and he eased her against him, gently rocking her. He pressed his cheek against her wildly curling hair. “You really saved me?”

  “Yes, and you’re safe now.”

  Jules felt his large hands stroking down her back, pressing her more closely against his chest. She felt no fear. She felt secure and warm and happy. Her thoughts were tangled, the past intermingling with the present, and all she could grasp was her love for this man. “I love you, Michael,” she whispered yet again. “You saved me.”

  “No, Jules, you don’t love me,” Saint managed. “Hush, now. Would you like a glass of water?”

  She didn’t want water. She wanted Michael. She’d wanted him forever, it seemed now. He was holding her, caressing her. His hands were making her feel strange sensations—very pleasant, mysterious sensations that she didn’t want to stop. She raised her hand to lightly touch his face. “Michael,” she whispered. She raised herself and kissed him.

  Saint stiffened, appalled at what was happening. It was that damned drug Wilkes had given her. He had to get away from her. He felt her soft lips and experienced a surge of desire for her.

  “Jules, no,” he began, but she pressed herself against him and he felt her breasts full and soft against his chest.

  “I’ve always loved you, Michael, and now you’ve saved me. I belong to you. Please, Michael.”

  Please what, for God’s sake? He struggled for reason. “Listen to me, Jules. You’ve been drugged, sweetheart. It’s the opium that’s making you act and feel like this. We’ve got to—”

  Her soft mouth covered his again, and he heard his own low moan. He didn’t know how it happened, but he was lying on the bed, Jules clutched against the length of him. “Dammit!” he said aloud. He tried to hold her still, but she was writhing against him, pressing herself more closely, as if she wanted to become part of him. He had to do something, dammit! What had that bastard Wilkes given her? What had been added to the opium?

  He drew a ragged breath. He knew she was beyond reason, caught in a dream world of urgent passion. He also guessed that if it had been anyone else who had saved her, this wouldn’t be happening. But he was her Michael from five years ago, and it was all tangled in her mind. But none of it was real, none of it.

  “Jules,” he said, feeling utterly desperate.

  She moaned softly. “You’ll never leave me, will you, Michael? Promise me that you’ll never leave me again.”

  “I promise,” he said.

  She became more demanding, more feverishly urgent. He should leave her now, but he couldn’t. He closed his mind to his own appalling desire. “I’ll help you, Jules,” he said, his voice so ragged that he could barely understand his own words. He let her kiss him, let her move against him. Very slowly he eased his hand beneath the nightshirt. Her flesh was warm and smooth under his fingers. He closed his palm over the springy curls and gently pressed. She moaned, jerking against him.

  “I’ll help you, sweetheart,” he said again, his words flowing into her warm mouth. His fingers found her, and he closed his eyes at the pleasure of it. She was warm, and moist, and frantic. Within moments he felt her convulse, felt her legs stiffen, heard the wild c
ries erupting from her throat. He gazed into her face and saw the bewildered look in her dazed eyes, the confusion, then the release. Then she became still, slumping into him.

  He forced himself to ease his hand away from her. “It’s all right now,” he said against her temple. “Everything is all right now.”

  And it was, at least for her. She fell asleep in his arms, her breathing soft and regular. Her last softly blurred words were “I love you.”

  Saint didn’t move for a long time. Dear Lord, he thought, I never expected this. He felt his manhood, rigid and throbbing against her belly. Stop it, you ass, he whispered to his enthusiastic member.

  I love you.

  No, he told himself over and over in the quiet room, she didn’t, she couldn’t. She was confusing the past with the present. A young girl’s infatuation had melded with a woman’s needs, and the drug had made her lose all sense of reality, of rightness. But the passion in her . . . He knew she’d never felt a woman’s release before.

  He felt the soft contours of her body, breathed in the pungent, musky perfume Wilkes had made her use. He felt weariness begin to overtake him, despite his still-rampant desire. Before he fell into a light sleep, he realized that he had a very real problem. Juliana DuPres was now his responsibility. What in God’s name was he going to do?

  On the heels of that thought, he heard again her soft cries of pleasure, and his fingers tingled with the memory of her swollen moist woman’s flesh. Would she remember in the morning? Remember what she’d said to him and what he’d done to her?

  For his own peace of mind, he hoped she wouldn’t.