Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  Jules giggled nervously. “How can I feel pink?”

  “You do, don’t argue with me.” He lowered his mouth and suckled her breast. He felt her stiffen just as she’d done the first time he’d touched her breast, but he continued, praying that she would ease. She did, a bit. He let his hand move slowly over her ribs. Keep talking to her, he told himself. It would distract her. “I’ve got to fatten you up,” he said, pressing the palm of his hand over her ribs. “Did I ever tell you about that young boy that I—”

  “Michael,” she said, cutting him off, “can I touch you? Can I feel your ribs?”

  “Yes.”

  Jules swept her hand over his hairy chest, downward, reveling in the feel of him. So different from her, so incredibly powerful. She pressed her fingers against his flat belly, but before she could forage lower, he let his own palm rest lightly on her woman’s mound. She froze, rigid as a stone.

  “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” he said.

  “I’m not, not really,” Jules managed. “It’s just that I didn’t think that you would touch . . .”

  His fingertips lightly probed and found her. Her soft flesh was somewhat moist. Familiar territory, he thought, caressing her more deeply, that first night he’d given her release clear again in his mind. He loved the feel of her. He closed his eyes at the sensation, wishing only that his mouth could replace his fingers. But it was too soon for that intimacy.

  “What’s wrong?” Jules asked in a high, thin voice. She didn’t know what to do. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and his fingers made her feel pleasantly strange, yet embarrassed.

  “Nothing, little idiot. You are perfect.”

  “Are you certain? You’re not just saying that?”

  “No,” he said, raising his head to kiss her again. “I’m not just saying that.” He wanted desperately to draw her upward and kiss her, and taste her, and bury himself in her sweet flesh. But he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. He let his fingers find a rhythm that seemed to please her, for she gasped suddenly, digging her fingers into his shoulders.

  “Michael,” she cried, “please, I don’t know . . . I can’t—”

  “Yes, love,” he said. “Just lie still.” He continued to caress her as he raised himself over her. Slowly he parted her legs. He sat back on his heels a moment, watching her squirm at the touch of his fingertips. He studied the long white legs, sleekly muscled, unlike those of many young women of her age, whose greatest exercise had been to walk from the living room to the bedroom. He gazed at her female softness and felt his control desert him.

  “Jules,” he said, his voice agonized. “Please, hold still.”

  She felt bereft when his beguiling fingers left her, but she was tense with anticipation as she watched him guide himself toward her. She felt his fingers gently parting her. She didn’t know what to do. He would come inside her. Yes, she wanted that. She felt that male part of him pressing aginst her, felt the incredible heat of him. She could hear Michael’s ragged breathing, knew that he needed her, needed her now, this moment. She tried to relax, to open herself to him. He entered her, his fingers still parting her to ease his way, and she felt herself stretching painfully. She felt his hands on her thighs, holding them apart, and he came deeper into her.

  “Jules, love,” she heard him say sharply.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. His face was pale, taut, tension radiating from him.

  “You’ve a maidenhead, and . . .” He groaned deeply in his throat, and thrust forward.

  Jules cried out, she couldn’t help it. He was deep inside her, and it hurt so badly she sobbed. She stuffed her fist into her mouth, not wanting him to know.

  “No, Jules, hold still!” She was squirming under him, trying to rid herself of the dreadful pain. She felt his fingers find her again, and stroke her, but the very nice sensations didn’t return. He groaned suddenly, arching his back, and thrust forward until she took all of him. He felt his seed spew deeply within her.

  He balanced himself on his elbows when he had enough strength to do so, and looked down at her. Her face was pale, her eyes tightly closed, her eyelashes wet spikes on her cheeks. He cursed vividly. He’d given her very little pleasure, he knew. Slowy he drew out of her, feeling her shudder with pain.

  “God, I’m sorry,” he said, pulling her against him. He stroked her back, eased his hand up beneath her thick hair to knead the muscles of her neck. “Jules, are you all right?”

  She thought about it. She felt very sore, as if she’d been battered inside, which, she supposed, she had. But he’d tried to be careful with her. It hadn’t been all that bad. “I’m fine,” she said finally. “Truly, Michael.”

  But he felt her tears against his bare shoulder. God, he’d forced her, given in to his own need. He was no better than Wilkes. “Never, never again,” he said to himself, unaware that he’d whispered the words aloud.

  Jules felt as though he’d slapped her. No, please, no, she wanted to scream at him, but she said nothing. Her head was beginning to throb, just like the rest of her, she thought grimly. She wanted to talk to him, but her mind was whirling with the burgeoning pain, and she gulped, burying her face into his shoulder.

  Saint felt her shudder, and hated himself. He lay awake long after he heard her even breathing and felt her body relax against him. He eased away from her, rose and doused the lamp. He slipped into bed again and drew her back into his arms. He could still feel himself tearing through her maidenhead, feel her struggling against him. But he hadn’t stopped. No, he’d continued hurting her, letting his lust rule him. She was so precious to him, he realized. So fresh and vital. He couldn’t bear the thought of her awakening and flinching away from him, fear and wariness in her eyes. It brought him nearly physical pain. Why, he wondered, on the vague edge of sleep, had she wanted him? Seduced him?

  When he heard the pounding on the front door, drawing him quickly from a fitful sleep, he knew relief that he wouldn’t have to face her in the morning and see her fear of him. He was out of bed and downstairs within moments.

  It was a fisherman from Sausalito, whose wife was vomiting, blood coming from her mouth and from her bowels. Saint dressed quickly, flinching at the sight of blood on his member, looked at his sleeping wife, and left the house. She would be fine, he thought, striding beside the fisherman, his black medical bag tightly held in his right hand. And he was the last person on earth she would want to see when she awoke.

  Jules woke early the following morning, and reached for her husband. His pillow was cold. He was gone. A patient, she thought. He’d had to leave to take care of a sick person. She rose gingerly from the bed, aware of soreness between her thighs. Then she saw the blood, and gasped aloud. There was also blood on the sheets.

  She knew it wasn’t from her monthly flow. She forced herself to be calm, and bathed away the blood. It seemed to have stopped, and she felt an overwhelming relief. She dressed and went downstairs.

  “Good morning, Jules,” Lydia said, eyeing her young mistress closely. “No head problems this morning?”

  Jules shook her head, and forced a smile. “No, I’m fine, really. Is Thomas up yet?”

  “Up and gone. That young man has more energy than a hungry mosquito.”

  Jules wasn’t very hungry herself, but she managed a cup of coffee and a slice of bread. “Did you see Michael?” she asked finally.

  “No, he must have been called away.”

  “Did he leave a note or anything?”

  Lydia shook her head. She saw the pained look in Jules’s eyes and wondered about it. A short time later, she had no more reason to wonder. She saw the bloodstains on the sheet. That damned fool man had better get home soon, she thought, pulling the sheets off the bed.

  Jules paced the parlor. She realized she was terrified at the thought of leaving the house by herself. She could see Jameson Wilkes waiting for her. Where was Michael?

  Saint was very gently drawing a sheet over the fisherman’s wife. She had died, and there w
as nothing he could do. She’d been ill more than a week, her husband had admitted to him on the boat ride across the bay, and now she was dead, never regaining consciousness in the last two hours.

  And she had been young, not much over thirty, Saint guessed. He left the small house, the husband sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey in front of him.

  Saint wandered along the one dirt street of Sausalito. Life seemed particularly burdensome. There was one saloon, the Little Willow, and even though it was early afternoon, he walked into the dim, rather smelly room and ordered his own bottle of whiskey.

  He knew rationally that the woman’s death more than likely couldn’t have been prevented, even if he’d seen her sooner. Damn, doctors didn’t know a thing. He took a long pull on the whiskey. He hated death. He hated pain and illness, but even more than hate, something embedded deeply within him forced him to do what he could. And now he’d given his wife pain, gratuitous pain. He’d known better, but he’d allowed her, in all her sweet ignorance, to seduce him.

  And he’d left her alone to face her thoughts.

  He drank deeply, telling himself yet again that he was the last person she would want to see after the debacle of last night.

  Jules wandered up to their bedroom late that afternoon. She paused in front of the long mirror and stared at herself. She remembered his words: Never, never again. Was she so unattractive, then? Slowly, after she’d locked the bedroom door, she undressed. Naked, she approached the mirror again and studied herself. She had never seen another woman naked, so she had no comparison. She didn’t think she was ill-looking. She wasn’t fat or bowlegged, or flat-chested. He had touched her, everywhere. She lightly placed her hands over her breasts. There wasn’t the same feeling of warmth she felt when he touched her. She stared at her belly, at the cluster of red curls between her legs. He’d even caressed her there. She didn’t flush with embarrassment, she simply continued staring at herself. She’d probably made him feel guilty, acting like such a watering pot. He hadn’t hurt her all that much. Never, never again. But she had hurt him—that, or he hadn’t enjoyed her body, taking her only because she’d demanded it of him. How could he have enjoyed it when she’d fought him, and cried like a stupid fool?

  She felt tears sting her eyes now. Everything had gone awry. She’d hoped that he would change toward her, but not this way. Slowly she sank to her knees in front of the mirror and buried her face in her hands.

  Saint pulled himself together when he heard a man talk about all the bloody fog rolling in. “Unusual this time of year,” the man said to his companion. “No way out now.”

  That brought Saint to instant sobriety. “Fog?” he asked the man.

  “Yep. You’re from the city, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, and I must get back.”

  “Ain’t nobody going out in that damned soup. Sorry, mister, but you’re spending the night here.”

  Saint paid his shot and went outside. The man was right. He couldn’t see a foot in front of him. San Francisco could be a thousand miles away, and in any direction. He thought of Jules and cursed. He should have left her a note, dammit. She would worry, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  There were no inns in Sausalito, so he walked back into the saloon.

  19

  Saint didn’t get back to San Francisco until late the following afternoon. He felt dirty, tired to the soles of his boots, guilty, and he didn’t want to go home. As he strode along Clay Street, his eyes on mud puddles that could bring the unwary low, he imagined the look on Jules’s face when she saw him. Disgust, revulsion—God only knew. For a moment he allowed himself to remember the intense pleasure he’d experienced, but of course, the pleasure had been all his. He kicked a stone viciously out of his way. Life, he decided, had become bloody hell.

  He drew a deep breath and opened the front door to his house. “Jules,” he called.

  Jules, who had talked herself into fatalistic calm, heard his voice and forced herself to walk slowly from the parlor into the entrance hall.

  “Hello, Michael,” she said, not meeting his eyes. Somehow his presence made her feel dreadfully vulnerable and exposed. “Are you hungry? Lydia made a delicious beef stew, and there’s freshly baked bread. Thomas isn’t here. I believe he is again with Penelope Stevenson, teaching her manners, no doubt.” She ground to a pained halt.

  Saint wanted desperately to take her in his arms, to stroke her bright head, to comfort her, but he was afraid to. He thought ruefully that he needed comforting himself. He smiled painfully, knowing she was putting on an act for him, trying to behave naturally, hiding her true feelings about him.

  “I need a bath first,” he said. “I’m sorry, Jules, about a lot of things. I should have left you a message, but I expected to be home soon. I was called over to Sausalito, across the bay, and couldn’t come back any sooner because of the fog. Please forgive me—a doctor’s lot and all that.”

  She raised her eyes to his face. For a brief instant his expression was unreadable; then she knew she saw pity in his eyes. She rocked back on her heels, hating him, hating herself. He’d found her lacking, found her still to be a child, not a woman, and now he was stuck with her. She wanted to yell, but she didn’t. She said nothing, merely looked away from him. “Yes,” she said finally, “yes, there was fog.” She hadn’t known the fog was all that heavy, but of course she hadn’t been out of the house. She’d been too afraid to leave. No, she amended to herself, not really afraid. She hadn’t wanted to leave because he might return at any moment.

  “What happened to your patient?”

  “She died,” he said, his voice clipped. “I could do nothing for her.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He slashed his hand through the air. “There was nothing to be done for her, as I said. Now, I think I’ll go up. I won’t be long, Jules.”

  He wasn’t long and the dinner was indeed well prepared. Saint said nothing more about his trip to Sausalito. He didn’t want to burden her with particulars. In fact, he said very little, not knowing what to talk about to her. He was drinking a cup of coffee, screwing up his courage, and finally said, “Jules, I want to apologize, to tell you how sorry I am for what happened, for what I did and—” He broke off suddenly, seeing her flinch.

  He very nearly sighed with relief when there was a loud knock on the front door.

  It wasn’t a patient. It was Brent Hammond.

  “You stupid bastard,” Brent said as he strode into the house.

  “Good to see you too, Brent,” Saint said. “Come in, won’t you? Would you like a drink?”

  “Nope. I want to talk to you.”

  Brent saw Jules from the corner of his eye, and quickly turned to smile at her. “Good evening,” he said. She looked pale, Brent thought, and no wonder.

  Jules nodded, and looked a question at her husband.

  Brent answered for him. “I need to speak to your husband for a little while, Jules, if you don’t mind. Incidentally, Byrony sends her love.”

  “Not at all,” Jules said, and went upstairs. She’d never felt so alone in her entire life. She hated the house, the bedroom, hated the wretched mirror that showed her looking miserable.

  In the parlor, Brent said, “Now, my friend, I’ve had a talk with Del.”

  Saint walked to the sofa and sat down, his arms behind his head. “Go ahead. I doubt I can stop you unless I plant my fist in your face. Since Del has said his piece, do feel free to dose me with your marvelous advice.”

  Brent smiled. “Touchy, aren’t you, Saint? No advice. I’ve come with an offer for you.”

  “Lord save me! Look, Brent, why don’t you just go back to your beautiful wife and leave me the hell alone!”

  “If I recall correctly,” Brent said, unperturbed, “you were very involved in my affairs not too long ago.”

  “That was different,” Saint said, irritated. “You were acting the fool, wearing blinders, and poor Byrony . . .” Oh God, that sounds li
ke me.

  “Like hell,” Brent said pleasantly, cutting off his thoughts. “Now, just listen.” He sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees. “You are my wife’s doctor. You will deliver our child when the time comes. In return, I wish to begin payments to you on sort of an installment plan. Your wife needs protection. I will provide that protection. His name is Thackery, and he’s very smart, strong, and loyal. He’s a black man, a former slave from Wakehurst, and a fine marksman. He will live here until Wilkes is taken care of. He will be with your wife when you can’t be. He will be her bodyguard and protect her with his life. Now, what do you say, Saint?”

  Saint wanted to tell Brent to take this Thackery and throw him in the bay, but he didn’t. Brent was right. And he was a good friend. Saint sighed. “All right.”

  Brent cocked a dark brow. “My, my, marriage seems to have mellowed you a bit. Made you more reasonable, more amenable. Thackery is waiting outside, of course. Would you like to invite Jules down to meet him?”

  “Probably,” Saint said, rising. He wondered how Jules was going to react to having a bodyguard. “Let me fetch her.” He turned in the parlor doorway. “Brent, thanks.”

  “My pleasure, old son,” Brent said.

  Jules gave Thackery her most winsome smile. She had to take him off guard, a difficult task at the very least. In their first week together, he went everywhere with her, never interfering in what she wished to do, merely staying stolidly with her, his presence forbidding to strangers and a relief to friends. Jules liked him. But now she had to distract him. Ah yes, the dress shop owned by Monsieur David. The perfect place.