“Oh God!” He pulled her against him roughly. “I’m sorry, Jules. I didn’t mean to say it . . . like that.”
“Did you take my virginity?”
“Did I what?” His mind was reeling.
“Jameson Wilkes said he was glad I was a virgin because the man who bought me would know it and be pleased. That was why he could charge so much money for me. But how would a man know? Did you know?”
“I didn’t take your virginity. I’m not an animal, for God’s sake! I wanted only to help you, to make you . . . calm again. How could you ever believe that I would hurt you?”
“No, I know you wouldn’t hurt me. It’s just that I don’t understand how a man could take something from me. I know that men can hurt women . . . is that what he meant about taking my virginity?”
“Yes,” Saint said, gritting his teeth. “Well, no, not really.” He released her, running his long fingers distractedly through his hair. “It’s complicated, Jules.” Complicated, hell! It’s the easiest thing in the world! “It’s something . . . well, it’s something that your husband will explain to you.”
“Then I will never know, will I?”
But you know a woman’s pleasure, if you could but remember it. “Yes,” he said firmly, “Yes, you will.”
She was silent, her eyes cast down. He hugged her gently to him as a father would a child. “Would you like to sleep now?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
He took her to the small guestroom. “If you hear any knocking during the night, just ignore it. It’s probably someone who needs a doctor. All right?”
“Yes, Michael.”
8
“We’re leaving on the Carolina Friday.”
Jules dropped the collection of Lord Byron’s poetry to the floor and started to rise from her chair.
Saint raised his hand to still her. “No, stay there, Jules, and let me finish. I will escort you, of course. It will take us about two weeks to reach Lahaina.”
“I know exactly how long it takes,” she said, her voice bitter. She clutched the arms of the chair until her knuckles showed white.
“Yes, I guess you do. Then you will be reunited with your family.”
And you will leave and I’ll never see you again.
She watched him stride into the small parlor, making it seem even smaller with his presence, and for an instant, saw him wearing his ragged, cut-off pants. His legs were tanned, and long and thick with muscle. She saw him diving after her, dunking her, laughing with her. She felt a spurt of warmth deep in her belly. She felt his eyes on her and kept her face down. Maybe she should look at him straight, she thought. Maybe he would see into her mind and keep her with him. But no. He was giving her his very patient look; he was prepared to calmly demolish her every protest. But she wasn’t a child any longer. But how to make him realize that?
Jules drew a deep breath, and plowed forward. “I would like to stay in San Francisco, Michael. I could find a job. You wouldn’t have to be responsible for me.”
Saint raised a brow at that. “Just who would be responsible for you, then?”
“I am not a child, even though it pleases you to think so—still. I am a grown woman and I will—”
“No,” he said, looking at her fisted hands, “you’re not a child. But you are returning to Lahaina, Jules, and that’s an end to it. Your family . . . it’s where you belong.”
“Michael, I could help you, really I could. Please, won’t you just listen to me—”
Again he interrupted her, unable to bear her pleading. “Jules, please try to understand. I am doing what is best for you.”
“I could be your mistress.”
His breath flew out in a sharp hiss. “My what?”
“Your mistress,” Jules repeated in a steady voice. “Jameson Wilkes explained to me that a mistress belongs to only one man and he takes care of her. So I could continue to live here, and you could take care of me and I could do whatever it is a mistress is supposed to do.”
Saint simply stared at her. He supposed he should be glad that Wilkes hadn’t rid her of all ignorance and innocence during the two weeks he’d had her. “Jules,” he asked her very carefully, “he did tell you what a mistress was supposed to do, didn’t he?”
“No, not really. I told him that a mistress sounded like a whore to me and I wouldn’t do it.” Jules ducked her head, realizing that she’d just done herself in. “Not with just anybody,” she hastily amended. “Just you.”
“I see,” Saint said. Handle this with kid gloves, he thought, and with some humor, if I can dredge up any. “Jules, I can’t afford a mistress. I’m only a poor physician, remember? And if I could, you would have to parade about in awful gowns like the one Wilkes made you wear, and douse yourself in that smelly perfume. Surely you wouldn’t want that?”
“I couldn’t just be me?” Her voice was so hopeless that a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he saw her as a young girl again—questioning everything, innocent of guile, and stubborn as a mule when she wanted something. He kept his voice light, teasing. “Indeed not. A mistress is a bird of very different plumage—a simple, elegant cormorant is not allowed. There are different rules about mistresses, you know.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “I don’t believe you. Just what are these rules?”
“First of all, a mistress is not a lady. She isn’t allowed to be around ladies. She’s an outcast, if you will, and she has no rights, no security. She’s taken care of only as long as the gentleman she lives with wishes it. It isn’t pleasant, Jules.”
“It would be pleasant with you, Michael,” she said, and he sighed at the upward thrust of her stubborn chin.
Saint walked to her, drew her out of her chair, and gently stroked his large hand down her arms. “I don’t want a mistress, Jules. And you are not mistress material. You’re beautiful, vibrant, and you’re meant to have a husband and a home of your own and children. The rest is nonsense and not at all for you.”
“Do you already have a mistress?”
He thought of Jane—not a mistress, not Jane—but Jules saw the expression in his eyes and wanted to strike this unknown woman. “No,” he said firmly, “I don’t have a mistress.”
Jules stared up at him, not really believing him, but knowing that Michael had never lied to her. What would he do if I kissed him? she wondered. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek. “I’m glad you don’t wear a beard,” she said.
He felt his body leap in response. It wasn’t her touching him, or her words. It was the look in her vivid emerald eyes that made his loins tighten. She’d had the same look when he’d stroked his hand between her thighs and felt her and caressed her. It was a vivid image in his mind: her long lashes sweeping down as she moaned softly, arching against him in a frenzy, as if she wanted to become part of him.
He released her abruptly, disgusted with himself. He tried for a smile. “I’m glad you don’t wear a beard either.”
Her smile was as forced as his. “You said that I would get married and have babies.”
“Yes, I said that.”
“So I’m not too young for that.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Then I’m an adult.”
“Yes, an adult.”
“Then, Michael, you have no right to tell me what to do. I’m a woman grown and I will make my own decisions. I want to stay in San Francisco. And if you don’t want me, I’ll just have to—”
“Wilkes would have you within twenty-four hours.”
Her chin went up. “I’ll buy a gun and shoot him.”
He looked at her as if he wanted to throttle her. “You’ve become quite a talker in the past five years, haven’t you?”
“I’ve always been a talker, and you know it. And don’t think you got away with throwing in a cormorant to distract me. I wasn’t distracted and you don’t know anything about cormorants.”
“Jules, the subject is closed. You will do as
I say.”
“But—”
He placed his fingertips over her lips. “No. Trust me, please.”
He was implacable and she knew she’d lost.
Lahaina
Lahaina didn’t have a natural harbor, only an open roadstead. Ships could always approach or leave it with any wind that blew. No pilot was needed. The Carolina approached through the channel between Maui and Molokai, then let the trade winds carry it close to Lanai and in toward Lahaina. Saint and Jules stood on deck watching the harbormaster climb aboard to give Captain Rafer a copy of port regulations. Chase boats and tenders waited to take the few passengers and sailors into the town and to sell goods to those who remained aboard.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here,” Saint said, gazing at the lush green hills that rose behind the town of Lahaina. Jules said nothing, but now he didn’t expect her to. “And there’s the taro patch. Is it true, Jules, that Kamehameha worked there to show his subjects the dignity of labor?”
“ ‘Not that I ever heard,” she said, her voice clipped, “but I suppose it’s a nice story. Makes him sound noble and all that, which, I suppose, he was.”
He fell silent. He’d tried every ploy he could think of to make her less resentful of coming home, but nothing worked. His laughing, bright girl had withdrawn into herself.
He felt the now familiar surge of impatience with her. It was as if she’d built a very firm, impenetrable wall between them. During their voyage, she’d been firmly polite, and a stranger.
And she’d said not a word about the two weeks she’d spent with Wilkes, even when he’d asked her three evenings before, following the only storm they’d experienced during the two-week voyage. He hadn’t seen her for nearly twenty-four hours, his services as a doctor in demand from the moment the storm hit. “I’m tired as hell,” he’d said, joining her at the railing.
“You look it,” she said, not turning.
“Thanks for your concern,” he said dryly.
Jules turned to face him, and shrugged. “I hope all those green-faced, vomiting passengers paid you well. Will you be able to buy yourself a prostitute when we reach Lahaina?”
He stared at her, and automatically shook his head.
“But it’s just one night, doctor. Nothing expensive or demanding, like having a mistress.”
“Do you always turn sarcastic and nasty when you don’t get your way?”
She saw the weariness in his hazel eyes, but bit down on the tug of concern she felt. “Yes,” she said, “I do, particularly if the man making the decision is a blind ass.”
He smiled, just a bit, and forced himself to look away from her, out at the endless expanse of ocean. “I think the last woman to truly enjoy insulting me was my mother. Of course, she did it with humor.”
“I’ll just bet she was laughing after she birthed you. That’s why she called you Ulysses—revenge.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” Saint said easily. “I weighed eleven pounds. Poor woman used to tell me that the real Ulysses—from what she’d read—searched and searched for nigh onto twenty years before he came home, and that’s how she felt after nine months hauling me around inside her.”
“As I said, revenge.”
“Ah, but she tempered it with ‘Michael’—that’s innocuous enough, surely.”
It wasn’t innocuous, it was the most beautiful name she’d ever heard. She said, “Lydia told me that she could make a fortune in blackmail if only she could find out what your real name was and where you got the nickname Saint.”
“My friends never give up. It’s like a contest now. They come up with all sorts of ploys to make me cough up the facts, and I sidestep.” He turned around and leaned back against the railing. “God, I’m tired. And a doctor is supposed to be able to cure anything and everything. As if I could do anything about seasickness!”
“I would have helped you if you’d just asked me,” Jules said.
“Thank you, but it took all my resolution not to throw up, given the stench in the cabins. No reason for you to turn green, and you would have, I guarantee it.”
“I never get sick,” Jules said with all the confidence of a young person who thought of illness as weakness.
“I hope you never do,” Saint said. There would probably not be a better opportunity, he thought, silent for few moments. “Jules,” he said very abruptly, hoping to throw her off balance, “your friend Kanola—did Wilkes’s sailors rape her?”
She stiffened as if he’d shouted an obscenity in her ear. She heard Kanola screaming, saw that awful man with that thing sticking out from his belly, and tried to shut off the awful memory. “I don’t know,” she managed after a moment. “Wilkes dragged me to his cabin, said he would protect me.” She wanted clarification of exactly what rape was, but was too embarrassed to ask.
Thank God, he thought, she hadn’t seen it. He had absolutely no doubt that Kanola had been raped, repeatedly.
“Then what happened?”
His voice was matter-of-fact, and she tired to keep herself calm and in control, but it was difficult. “She managed to escape the men and jumped overboard. She couldn’t have made it to shore. We were too far away.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, wishing there were something a bit more he could say. He continued calmly, as if discussing the present sunny weather, “I know that Wilkes drugged you once before you arrived in San Francisco, and that he touched you and kissed you.”
“No!”
“You told me that, Jules.”
“No,” she said again, hating the dank chill that crept over her flesh at his words.
“I don’t want what happened to eat at you, Jules. I don’t want you to bury it deep. It truly helps to tell a friend. Tell me what he did to you. Then you can forget it.”
She jerked away from him and snarled at him, her voice vicious, “What do you care what he did to me? You want to hear all the marvelous details? Friend, ha!”
“What did he do, Jules?” he asked again, not allowing her to anger him. He heard the remembered fear in her voice and knew that her spate of words was bravado—no, more like protection, self-protection.
“I think,” she said finally, getting a hold on herself, “that I should begin to call you Saint. That’s how you’re acting, of course. A saint—so full of human caring and kindness, so anxious to make the poor little creature forget her nightmare. You can go to hell, Saint!”
Saint was not a violent man. In fact, once, when he was only fourteen years old, he’d gotten into a fight with another boy and broken his jaw with one blow. He’d been appalled. Now, he thought, looking at her set face from beneath lowered lashes, he wouldn’t mind at all breaking his rule. A good thrashing would, at the very least, make him feel a hell of a lot better. He’d said nothing more, for there was nothing to say.
Jules said now, pointing toward a small knot of native women on the dock, all of them dressed garishly, “There are the prostitutes. But I don’t see my father or any of his friends—many times he goes to the dock when a whaler comes in and rants and screams about Satan, and evil, and disease.”
“I don’t know much about the Satan or evil part,” Saint said calmly, ignoring the bitter irony in her voice, “but I sure as hell know about the disease.” He saw that the two sailors who were at the oars of the tender were already waving and shouting toward the women.
There were about a half-dozen other ships, most of them whalers. The long, narrow dock was bustling with local people hawking wares, and here and there in the distance Saint could see a black frock coat. Either a businessman or a preacher, he thought, or one of those useless diplomats from Oahu.
“Come,” he said, and helped her out of the tender. Her hand was cold and clammy, and he added gently, “I’ll be with you, Jules.”
She allowed him to assist her, then pulled her hand away. They walked into Wharf Street. Saint glanced briefly toward the fort, built in the early 1830’s and now used mostly as a prison. It was looking a bit th
e worse for wear, he thought. Dwight Baldwin’s home looked as neat as a pin, set back from Front Street, its paint fresh, its garden neat and green. He and Baldwin, a Protestant medical missionary, had been good friends during Saint’s stay in Lahaina. He started to ask Jules about him, when she suddenly pulled off her bonnet and shook her head. Her bright flame hair drew several glances, then a loud gasp.
“Juliana! My God, it is you!”
Saint turned to see a young man staring at Jules as if looking at a ghost. It was John Bleecher, the planter’s son. He wasn’t pimple-faced now, Saint noticed. Indeed, he was a handsome young man, well-formed, open-faced, and at present, pale as death.
Jules was very still. She moved closer to Saint, saying only, “Hello, John. How have you been?”
John roused himself. “Saint? Dr. Morris? Yes, it is you. Juliana, what happened? Everyone has believed you dead. Kanola’s body . . . well, it washed up on shore, and since you had been seen with her, we all thought—”
“Yes, I know,” Jules said, interrupting him in a curt voice. “She’s dead, but I’m not. I . . . well, I survived.”
“I don’t understand,” John said helplessly, wishing he could fling himself upon the pale, beautiful girl he’d wanted for two years now. But there was something terribly wrong. What was she doing with Saint Morris? He’d been gone for a long time now, five years.
“John,” Saint said pleasantly, “why don’t you help us with the luggage? I want to take Jules to her home.”
“Jules . . . ? Oh, yes, certainly.”
Saint watched the young man pick up Jules’s one small valise. No, he thought, she couldn’t marry him. He wouldn’t suit her; he wouldn’t understand her. He would stifle her spirit without realizing what he was doing. He would also paw her endlessly and scare her witless.
Saint shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. It was none of his business, after all. He would stay the two days the Carolina would be in port, then return to California. He would never see her again. Something inside him rebelled at the thought.
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