Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  He left Spartan at the stable in the capable hands of John Smith, an unlikely name for an unlikely gnomelike individual, and walked the short ten minutes to Clay Street and his house.

  He suddenly thought of Jules pregnant with his child, of Jules giving birth, and he felt a knot of fear. He hadn’t exaggerated his birth size to her. He’d been enormous, but his mother, bless her humorous soul, had been a large-boned woman, capable of carrying him and birthing him without too much danger to herself. Jules wasn’t large-boned, and he realized he didn’t know how wide her pelvis was. He closed his eyes a moment, tripped over a discarded piece of pipe in the street, and cursed roundly. He let himself in quietly, and eased into his bed.

  “You have some visitors, Jules,” Lydia Mullens said to her young mistress the following afternoon.

  Jules quickly bounded to her feet, her book dropping to the floor beside her chair in their small parlor. “Vistors?”

  A bright feminine voice said behind Lydia, “Please forgive us for just barging in like this, but we couldn’t wait for an invitation from Saint! Married! Agatha and I had to meet the new Mrs. Morris.”

  A very lovely young woman with high-piled chestnut hair came gracefully into the parlor and thrust out her hand. “How do you do? I’m Chauncey Saxton, and this, my dear, is Agatha Newton. Oh, how beautiful you are—not that any of us doubted it for a moment! Saint has the most stunning taste.”

  Jules took the gloved hand. “My name is Juliana, but Michael calls me Jules.”

  “Michael?” said Agatha Newton, arching an eyebrow. “Lordy, so the dear man does have a real name! I’m Agatha, my dear.”

  “Hello,” Jules said, a bit dazed. Agatha Newton was an older woman, massive-bosomed, with a booming, very kind voice.

  “I’ll bring in some tea, ladies,” Lydia said. “You just sit down, lovie, and entertain the ladies.”

  “Mrs. Mullens,” Chauncey Saxton said, “must think she’s died and gone to heaven. A lady, finally, in Saint’s house.”

  “Please,” Jules said, waving her hand, “please do sit down. Michael told me about the Saxtons and the Newtons, of course. He said you were all dear friends.”

  “Yes indeed,” Chauncey said. “Jewels, huh? You mean like diamonds and emeralds?”

  “No, actually, J-u-l-e-s,” she said, spelling out her nickname. “Michael didn’t want to distort my real name too much.”

  “Just wait until I tell Horace—my husband, you know—Saint’s real name! Lord, the dear boy is in for a thorough razing.”

  Jules smiled, relaxing for the first time. “Actually, ‘Michael’ is only one of his real names,” she said with an impish smile.

  “Both ladies leaned forward in their chairs, questions on their faces.

  Jules laughed. “No, I must have loyalty to my husband.”

  “Where is Saint, or Michael, by the way?” Chauncey asked.

  “There was a problem of some kind. He said something about having to go see Maggie.”

  “Ah,” said Chauncey. Her husband, Delaney, had told her about the new Mrs. Morris’ experience. Now wasn’t the time to bring up Maggie’s profession, or the probable profession and sex of his patient.

  Lydia Mullens came into the parlor at that moment, carrying a rather tarnished silver tray. “I didn’t have time to polish the thing,” she said apologetically to Jules. “In fact, Saint’s never used the tray before.”

  “Things are very different now,” said Agatha with great complacency.

  “Now, Jules,” Chauncey said after sipping the delicious jasmine teas, “Agatha and I are here to invite you to a small dinner party at our house. Saint has already accepted, but we wanted to meet you and invite you in person. It’s time you met some of San Francisco’s fair populace.”

  Jules felt a bolt of excitement. “That would be wonderful,” she said enthusiastically. “Oh dear, I must buy a new gown, and I must ask Michael if . . .” She broke off suddenly. “Michael said it was all right?”

  Chauncey paused a moment, suppressing the frown that threatened to crease her brow. What had this poor girl been through? What indeed was her relationship to Saint? She said finally, in a very firm voice, “Of course Saint agreed. He’s very proud of you and wants you to get out and about. Why don’t you accompany me tomorrow, say, to Monsieur David’s? He’s an excellent modiste—but that’s a woman, isn’t it? Well, whatever he is, he’s quite good and has a marvelous selection of lovely gowns, many of them from Paris.”

  I’m blabbing like an idiot, Chauncey thought, bringing her flighty monologue to a halt.

  “I should appreciate that,” Jules said. But she was worried about money. Clothes were expensive, she assumed. Perhaps Michael didn’t wish to spend money on things like that.

  Agatha and Chauncey stepped into Chauncey’s open carriage some thirty minutes later after a thoroughly satisfactory visit. Chauncey said to their driver, Lucas, “Let’s go to the Newtons’ home now, please.”

  “She’s very . . .” Agatha broke off, shaking her gray head.

  “Vulnerable? Frightened? Wary?” Chauncey said.

  “Yes, I suppose all of those things.”

  “I shouldn’t care if she were a wretched individual,” Chauncey said. “We must take care of her, for Saint’s sake.”

  “Don’t you mean Saint Michael?”

  Jules felt excited, yet very tense. Michael didn’t return home until late in the afternoon, and by that time she was nearly incoherent with anxiety.

  “Hi, Jules,” he said, striding into the parlor. “How was your day?” He shrugged out of his light coat and tossed it to a chair back. “What’s wrong? Do you feel ill?” He’d looked at her only a moment, but he was so aware of her that he sensed almost instantly that something was different. He watched her glide her tongue over her bottom lip.

  It affected him as strongly as if she’d thrown herself naked upon him. This has simply got to stop, he told himself. I will not be a slave to my damned randy body.

  “Michael, do we have any money?”

  He blinked at that. “Enough. Why?”

  She said in a tumbled rush of words, “Mrs. Saxton and Mrs. Newton were here and they invited us to a party and Chauncey said she’d take me to Monsieur David’s for a new gown and I didn’t know if you would mind or if you would want—”

  He held up his hand to stem the flow of words.

  “He sounds very expensive,” she said, ignoring him in an effort to get it all out at once, “and Father, well, he never . . .”

  Saint felt that damned elusive pain at the pathetic trailing off of her voice. She looked up at him, hopeful as a child, but certain that a treat was to be denied. But she wasn’t a child, dammit.

  He said very gently, “Jules, of course you must have a new gown, several in fact. Do go with Chauncey. And don’t worry about money, all right?”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Don’t worry.”

  “But Lydia told me how, many times, you have to barter for things, and how people owe you favors, and I don’t want to be a burden to you, at least more than I already am.”

  That made him angry. Damn Lydia anyway for her big mouth! “Enough, Jules,” he said sharply. “You are not a burden, and don’t you ever speak like that again, do you understand me?”

  She wilted at his anger. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her head bowed. “It’s just that I am a burden. I don’t do anything, nothing at all, and I’m—”

  He couldn’t bear it. He strode swiftly to her and gathered her against him. She was rigid for a moment then leaned against him. He breathed in the sweet scent of her hair, felt her small bones beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and held her. “I want you to be happy, Jules,” he said finally, his warm breath against her temple. “There is enough money, I promise. I could have ten burdens like you and it wouldn’t matter. In fact, I’d like it very much.”

  He could still feel her uncertainty, her resistance, and said in a teasing voice, “I think you
would look lovely in pink.”

  “Pink?” she squeaked, looking up into his grinning face. “With my hair?”

  “That’s better.” Without thinking, he quickly kissed her pursed lips. She flushed. Get her mind off you attacking her again, you ass! “How about an emerald necklace, then? To match your sparkling eyes?”

  She smiled at that, naturally this time. “You truly don’t mind, Michael?”

  “Idiot,” he said, squeezing her. “Now, would you like to ride out to the ocean with me? There are a number of birds I would like to have you identify for me. Talk about ignorant—all I can recognize is a gull and sometimes a cormorant. They’ve got long, skinny necks, don’t they?”

  She gave him a brilliant smile and he thought: She’s my wife, she belongs to me, and I want her to be happy. He remembered so vividly that single night when he’d brought her pleasure, the convulsive rippling of her slender body, the soft cries that erupted from her throat, the taste of her. Damn, he wished he could stop thinking about it, forget it. He released her abruptly, knowing that if he continued to hold her, she would feel his hardness. He wouldn’t frighten her. Never again.

  He bundled her out of the house before he could be trapped by another patient. He rented a mare for her from Ranger Tyson, the proud new father of another Tyson, and they made their way to the ocean, very slowly, for Jules wasn’t all that used to riding.

  “When you go with Chauncey tomorrow, be sure to buy yourself a riding habit, all right?”

  Jules pulled her cloak more closely about her. “I’ve never had a riding habit,” she said.

  “In royal blue,” Saint said firmly. “Now, sweetheart, what is that damned bird over there on that sand dune?”

  “That, I believe,” said Jules with great concentration, “is a snowy plover. And that one,” she said, excitement and fun in her voice as she pointed to another bird, “just might be a wandering tattler.”

  He grinned over at her. “I know quite a few wandering tattlers, and they all speak English. You wouldn’t be making that up, now, would you?”

  “No, sir. I love the name, don’t you? I’ve really never seen one in the flesh-and-feathers before, but it does look like a bird in one of my books.”

  “Books?” he asked. “I don’t recall seeing any.”

  She was silent for a long moment, saying finally, “I have two of them. They’re in Lahaina in my father’s house. I had hidden them under my bed and forgot about them in all the . . . excitement.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “or the day after, we will replace them for you. Also any more books you want. My library is rather meager.” He saw that she would argue with him, and added quickly, “If you see a small plant, maybe it’s a yerba buena, which is, just in case you don’t know something I do, the original name of San Francisco.”

  Jules nodded, knowing his intent, and said in a forced gay voice, “I will look. And perhaps we’ll see a Bonaparte gull.”

  15

  “Now, Dan Brewer is my husband Del’s partner at the bank,” Chauncey was saying to Jules. “We’re trying to find him a wife, but the pickings here in San Francisco are still quite slim. Another gentleman you’ll meet is Tony Dawson, part-owner of the Alta California, another one of those bachelors. You recall that young lady I introduced you to before lunch? The one who treated me like I had the plague, and looked right through you?”

  At Jules’s nod, Chauncey continued, “Well, my dear, that is our own lovely Penelope Stevenson. A more snobbish, gossiping, ill-humored female you’ll never meet. Her mother looks like a ship under full sail and her father, Bunker . . . well, he’s jovial enough, I guess. Ah, there’s Lucas with the carriage. I must get home to feed Alexandra now. Would you like to come with me?”

  But Jules had just spotted a small bookstore, and remembering Michael’s promise, said, “No, I think I’ll browse a bit more.” She pointed to the bookstore across Kearny Street.

  “That’s Mr. Jointer’s shop. You’ll like him. Very well, Jules, I’ll see you Thursday evening. It was such fun, and you’ll look exquisite in all your new clothes.”

  Jules thanked her once again, her hand not too steady as she thought about the awful amount of money she’d spent at Monsieur David’s.

  “Give my love to Saint.”

  Jules watched Lucas, a pirate of a fellow if Jules had ever seen one, help Chauncey Saxton into the open carriage. He was, Chauncey had told her, married to her longtime maid, friend, and housekeeper, Mary. “And therein lies a story!” she’d said, shaken her head, and laughed.

  Jules waited on the sidewalk, waving her hand until the carriage was swallowed up in the incredible traffic along Kearny Street.

  She gathered up her skirt and began to weave her way among drays, beer wagons, lumber wagons, and myriad types of men, who all stared at her to the point of embarrassment. She remembered Chauncey’s words. “There are so many lonely men. We have more and more women and families moving here all the time, but still so many men have no one. For the most part, you needn’t worry, they’re quite respectful.” And they seemed to be, she saw.

  I’ll just see what Mr. Jointer has in stock, Jules told herself. I won’t buy anything, not today. She had reached the shop when she chanced to look up. Her body went rigid. Jameson Wilkes was striding toward her, looking every inch the successful businessman in a dark gray suit. Jules grabbed for the doorknob, but it didn’t turn. She looked blankly at the small sign in the window: “Closed until 2:00.” Oh God, what was she to do?

  He saw her. She saw him stare a moment at her, not at first recognizing the girl dressed in the dark blue muslin gown, her wild hair held firmly in place beneath a small bonnet. She knew the moment he realized who she was. He can’t do anything to you, idiot! There are dozens of people about. He can’t do a thing!

  Jules squared her shoulders and gave him her most insolent, contemptuous look.

  “Well, well,” Jameson Wilkes said, giving her an appraising look as he drew to a halt only a foot away from her. “As I live and breathe. If it isn’t the new Mrs. Morris.” He swept off his hat and gave her a mocking bow. “I must say, my dear, I think I prefer you in your natural state, sprawled on your quite lovely back on my bed. But then again, ladies’ clothes tend to drive men’s imaginations wild. Oh yes indeed.”

  She felt a searing pain in her stomach and vaguely recognized it as fear. He can’t do anything to you! “Well,” she said in the coldest voice she could find within herself, “if it isn’t that dishonorable, filthy pig of a man. Mr. Wilkes, your clothes bespeak a civilized man. How strange and how disturbing that appearances are so deceiving.”

  He sucked in his breath, wanting nothing more than to fling her over his shoulder, perhaps beat her senseless, and remove her to his house. He wouldn’t force opium down her, oh no. He wanted her to know everything, feel everything he would do to her. Instead, he said with a short, humorless laugh, “How very brave you are, my dear Juliana. And so very insulting.”

  “It is quite easy to be so with you, sir. Although sir denotes a gentleman, doesn’t it? How silly of me to make such a mistake.”

  “You think you’ve won, don’t you?” he said very softly. “You think yourself safe from me, don’t you? You and that damned husband of yours.”

  “Well, of course,” she said, hoping her voice sounded confident and contemptuous at the same time. “I am married to a man, an honest man, and—”

  “And he saved you that night. Ah yes, I found that out, but not until you’d returned from Maui with him, married. He and his Sydney Ducks, the worthless scum—”

  “Certainly like should recognize like! But in this case, Mr. Wilkes, their actions were noble and honorable. I should prefer any number of them to you.”

  Jameson Wilkes got a hold on himself, but it was difficult. The smart-mouthed little bitch! God, he wanted to touch her! “And how do you like marriage, my dear? As I recall so well, you didn’t know at all what it was men did to women. Do you like your husband plowing
your little belly with that huge rod of his? Ah yes, I know he’s a huge man—heard it from many of our more colorful ladies in this city. They’re pining for his return to their respective beds, you know.”

  Jules sucked in her breath, her face going white. She knew he was lying, knew Michael wouldn’t touch another woman, knew . . . Get a hold of yourself! “You are a pig and a bastard,” she managed to say, her voice almost pleasant. “If ever you speak to me again, my husband will kill you. Or I will.”

  “Such language from a missionary’s daughter,” he said, his eyes glittering down at her.

  “One must be appropriate at all times,” Jules said. “Unfortunately, I do not know appropriate language to fit your character. Perhaps the Sydney Ducks do.”

  With that parting shot, she turned on her heel and marched away from him, her head held high. She didn’t pause even when she heard his mocking laugh behind her.

  “We will see, Juliana!” he called after her. He found that his muscles were knotted with tension, and he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. The thought of Saint Morris taking her, sating himself in her lovely body, made him want to spit, which he did. He suddenly remembered how very pale she’d become suddenly when he’d spoken so mockingly about her husband plowing her belly. Why? he wondered. Or had she turned pale at the thought of Saint Morris fucking whores? He strode thoughtfully across the street. Could it be, his thinking continued, that the bloody doctor was soft, had listened to his young wife’s pleas, and hadn’t yet taken her? He was, after all, a doctor, a man reputed to be kind and gentle, despite his great size. The stupid sod! It was something to think about, indeed it was. After all, he had married her out of obligation, nothing more. Wilkes’s lips thinned. It was impossible to believe she was still a virgin, even though he wanted to, very much. No matter. He would still have her. He rubbed his hand over his stomach at the familiar burning pain.