“Why don’t you go upstairs, Saint? Any of Maggie’s girls would be delighted to bring you some temporary . . . relief.”
Brent waited for the explosion, but it didn’t come. He watched in astonishment as Saint appeared to consider his suggestion. “I probably should,” Saint said at last. “It would at least protect her from me.”
For a long moment Brent simply stared at his friend. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Finally he said very quietly, “Can I tell you a story, Saint?” He continued without pause, “When Byrony and I were first married, we didn’t get along—my fault of course. She followed me to Celeste’s house, thinking I was going to my mistress to sleep with her. Odd. In fact, I wanted to ask Celeste about preventing conception. Do you know that she faced me down? Yelled at me like a fishwife. I was so mad I was ready to strangle her.”
“Your point, Hammond?” Saint asked almost savagely.
“Hmm, well, I guess it’s that Byrony showed a lot of courage to do that. It wasn’t quite the same thing, but just maybe Jules wants and needs your attention, and you’ve frozen her out. Neither Thackery nor I, I might add, can understand why you don’t appear to give a good damn about your wife.”
Saint scraped his chair back and rose. He wasn’t aware that a goodly number of men were regarding him intently. “It’s gotta be a woman,” Bear Paw said. Limpin’ Willie nodded sage agreement.
“You want to borrow a whip, Saint?” Brent asked with interest, not at all intimidated by his friend’s menacing size or mean stare. “Really bring the little fool to her knees? Or you could send her back East with Thomas. And if Thomas isn’t going back East, hell, send her there by herself. Get rid of the thorn in your side once and for all.”
Brent’s mockery seared him. It’s time to end it, Saint realized, staring blankly through Brent. “Yes,” he said, “it is time to get rid of the thorn.”
Brent felt a moment of fear at what his words had wrought. He wondered if he should cosh Saint over the head, if he should . . . No, he decided, violence was abhorrent to Saint. If he had indeed thrashed her, he wouldn’t again. He watched Saint throw down several dollar bills and stride out of the Wild Star.
“You calm him down, Brent?” Nero asked.
“God only knows,” Brent said. He rose and heaved a mighty sigh. “I think,” he said, a crooked grin on his face, “that I shall go upstairs and tell my wife how much I love her.”
Saint had sobered up dramatically by the time he reached his house. It was completely dark. What did you expect, you fool? It was, after all, well after midnight. He banged about loudly, wanting her to wake up.
Jules was awake. After Saint lit the lamp in the spare bedroom, she was sitting up in bed, regarding him warily.
“How’s your bottom?” he asked, sitting down beside her on the bed. Her hair was in wild disarray about her shoulders, her eyes vivid and large in the spidery light.
She looked thoughtful a moment, as if considering his question. “I am fine,” she said finally. “Are you drunk?”
“I was, but not much now. I guess that’s one benefit to being a large man.”
“Did you come to hurt me again?”
“No,” he said, wincing inwardly at her words. “At least I hope I won’t hurt you. I’ve come to end it all, Jules.”
“Jules,” not “Juliana.”
“What do you mean, Michael?”
He gave her a crooked grin. “Well, first I want to have a look at your bottom. I was pretty heavy-handed with you, I’m afraid.”
She flushed, and drew back a bit. “My bottom is fine, I told you.”
“After I look at your bottom, I want to toss that nightgown of yours into the corner. Then I want to carry you to my—our—bedroom.”
Jules couldn’t believe his words, and gaped at him. She began nervously to pleat the sheet between her fingers. “Why?” she blurted out.
“It’s got to stop,” Saint said. “I’ve been a bloody fool. I want you, Jules. I want you so badly I hurt most of the time.” He paused a moment, looking at her searchingly. Her expression was unreadable, but of course he hadn’t tried all that hard to read her expressions. “First, I want to see your bottom.”
Jules felt a surge of pure happiness flow through her. She knew that if she showed the slightest hesitancy, the slightest fear, he wouldn’t touch her. She clamped down on the silly feelings of embarrassment. He was her husband.
She smiled up at him. “All right,” she said.
Saint hadn’t expected such a ready compliance—she saw it from the shocked expression on his face. Had he believed she would fly at him and try to scratch his eyes out for spanking her? He looked suddenly uncertain. Maybe it would be easier if he had drunk a bit more. Well, it was too late to give him more now.
Slowly Jules pulled open the three pink ribbons that fastened the front of her nightgown.
He watched every movement of her fingers.
“I would appreciate you looking at my bottom,” she said, peering at him from beneath her lashes. “I guess I do hurt. Maybe you broke something.”
“No, there’s nothing to break in your bottom,” he said, his eyes on a white breast newly revealed by the parting material.
“Still . . .” Jules temporized. She came up onto her knees and pulled her nightgown over her head. She balled it up and tossed it toward the corner. She placed her hands flat on her thighs, and didn’t move.
Saint stared at her, not speaking.
Jules tossed her head a bit, thrusting her breasts outward. She felt foolish for her exhibition, and at the same time, hopefully excited.
As if in a dream, Saint stretched out his hand and gently touched his fingers to her breasts. He felt her quiver, and quickly drew back his hand.
“You aren’t frightening me, Michael,” she said. She didn’t want to fling herself at him, but neither did she wish to be covered with gooseflesh sitting here watching him watch her. “My bottom,” she said, and slowly stretched out on her stomach over his legs.
Saint looked down at the white expanse of back, to her very perfect bottom, down her slender legs. “Your bottom . . .” he said, and laid the flat of his hand over a buttock.
She felt his strong fingers begin to caress her, and inadvertently she moved her hips. She heard him suck in his breath.
She smiled, and placed her own hand on his thigh.
“Is my bottom all right?” she asked, feeling his muscles tighten and move beneath her fingers.
“Perfect,” Saint said with great sincerity. “All of you is . . . well, white and soft and sweet.”
That was the nicest compliment he’d ever given her. Jules turned over, and clasping his shoulders, pulled herself onto his lap. “You said you were going to carry me into your—our—bedroom,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, “yes, that’s what I said.”
For an instant he simply couldn’t believe this was happening. She was offering herself to him. After he’d been a nasty bastard to her, after . . . But what if he hurt her again? What if . . . ?
“I’m getting cold, Michael,” Jules said, lightly kissing his jaw.
He rose, clutching her tightly against him, and strode to their bedroom. He wanted to see her, every inch of her, but would the light frighten . . . ? No, she had pulled off her nightgown, and there’d been a light on.
He laid her on the bed and pulled a thick blanket over her. “Now you won’t be cold,” he said. He moved quickly, lighting a lamp, then stripped off his clothes. Still, he was worried, even as he slipped in beside her, beneath the blanket.
“Jules,” he said, looking down into her face, not touching her yet, “the first time we made love, I did hurt you, badly. I’m very sorry for that. I know that you must have thought me an animal, a brute, as bad as Wilkes . . .” He broke off a moment, but Jules didn’t interrupt him. Let him get it all out, she thought. “I didn’t mean to hurt you . . . it was your maidenhead . . . the first time is tough for a woman . . . and I could
n’t stop myself. If you could trust me now, I think it could be better between us.”
“I don’t know,” Jules said, managing a very serious frown. “It was truly awful that first time. You were a complete brute and used me so roughly. I didn’t think you cared at all about me, and I thought I was going to die with the awful pain and—”
“Are you mocking me?”
She gave him a dazzling smile. “Me? Mock you?” She turned onto her side facing him, and her hand roved quickly over his chest to his belly.
“Jules!”
“All you have to tell me is that I won’t bleed this time. Is that true?”
He closed his eyes a moment and remembered that wretched trip to Sausalito. He had imagined her waking up alone, but he hadn’t thought about her bleeding. God, she must have been terrified. “There won’t be any more blood,” he said.
“Good,” Jules said with satisfaction, and gently clasped him in her hand. He was quivering, swelling at a very excellent rate, and she loved it. “I want to kiss every inch of you,” she said outrageously.
“Seduced by—”
“Your wife, Michael. Now, would you please kiss me, and touch me, and love me?”
“I’ve been a bloody fool, haven’t I?” he said, and kissed her deeply.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, you have. I could never, ever be afraid of you.”
He knew he had to go slowly, despite her display of enthusiasm. And he did, until Jules was driven to distraction.
He said against her parted lips, “Remember how I fondled you that first night, when you were drugged, and crazy?”
“Yes, I remember,” she said, and felt his manhood, swollen and throbbing against her thighs.
“I used my hand, my fingers, that night, Jules. Now I want to caress you with my mouth.”
“Oh dear,” she gasped, truly shocked. “I don’t know, it seems so very . . .”
“Just trust me,” he said. “It’s the most natural thing in the world, I promise. It’s something that a man loves to do.”
When she felt his warm mouth against her, felt him lift her hips in his large hands, she felt only a brief instant of shock. She’d never imagined that he would . . . Her thoughts broke off and she felt a sudden tension building, felt her legs stiffening.
“Michael!” she cried, and arched upward, offering herself to him fully.
“That’s it, love,” Saint said, dazed by her response to him. “God, the sweet taste of you, the softness . . .”
Her body began to convulse even as he spoke, and he felt the shuddering pleasure consume her. He felt powerful, and tender, and so pleased that his own need was temporarily held in check. He caressed her until she quieted. He wanted her to experience every pleasurable feeling, he wanted . . . Again, he thought. Yes, again. He caressed her until she quivered, then cried out. He thought his own world complete at that moment. So much passion in her, he thought, so very much passion.
“Now, don’t be afraid,” he said, and very gently he came down over her.
“Yes,” Jules said, dazed, her body still awash with the marvelous sensations. “I’m not afraid. Not of you.”
“I’ll go slowly, Jules, very slowly.” She watched his face as he guided himself into her. He closed his eyes a moment when he entered her, felt her stretching for him, and stopped.
“It’s all right,” Jules said, seeing his concern for her. “You are so beautiful, Michael, like a god. Please, please, come into me.” And he was like a god, she thought. A pagan god. She watched him, his powerful body poised over her, the muscles rippling in his arms, his strong legs tensed. She gasped in wonder as he thrust forward, deeply into her, and she held his shuddering body tightly. “Oh,” she whispered. “You are part of me.”
Her simple words wrought a dramatic change. She heard him curse, watched him arch his back and throw his head back, felt the surge of his seed, and softly cried out at his joy.
“Thank you, Michael,” she said softly, her hands stroking down his smooth back.
Saint felt shattered, then laughed at his nonsensical thought. He knew he was too heavy for her, but when he made to move, she tightened her hold around his back.
“I love you, you know,” she said. “I’ve loved you since I was twelve years old. Or was it thirteen?”
His entire body quivered at her words, and to his chagrin, he felt himself harden inside her. “No,” he said, more to himself than to her, “I don’t want to hurt you.” He pulled out of her, rolled to his side, bringing her with him, and clasped her full length against him.
“You were twelve,” he said, tangling his finger in her wild, soft hair.
“It seems forever. I’m sticky,” she added, kissing his shoulder and weaving her fingers though the hair on his chest.
“Yes, I imagine so,” he said tenderly. “Will you forgive me, Jules?”
“I will if you promise never to call me Juliana again.”
“No, I shouldn’t do that. I can just imagine some of our future arguments. ‘Juliana’ comes trippingly off the tongue when I’m angry with you.”
“All right,” she said agreeably. She sighed and nestled closer. “That was nice, very nice. You can thrash me if you promise to end it like that.”
“You didn’t think at all about Wilkes, or about John—”
“No, not for a moment. My weak woman’s mind has quite recovered. After all, Michael, I did take off my own nightgown and toss it into the corner, with no help from you.”
“No more derringers?”
She hesitated, but just a moment. “No,” she said, shuddering a bit from reaction. “That was awful. I think I must have been somewhat deranged.”
“No,” he laughed, “just starved for your husband.”
“You do have a lot to make up for,” she said, slipping her hand between their bodies.
“Jules, you’re probably sore. You are quite small, you know, and I felt you stretching to hold me, to take me into you.”
“You don’t know,” she said, “you can’t imagine what it feels like, Michael. I think it’s much nicer to be a woman. You become part of me, you know. I possess you.”
“Possess me?” he said, grinning as he kissed her temple. “I’ve never heard a woman say that before.”
“You, inside of me, filling me. I like it very much.”
He groaned, and she simply smiled up at him as he became a wild man. Until she became as wild as he. Her last thought before her body exploded into almost painful pleasure was that, at last, she was a woman, a wife, Michael’s wife.
“Have I just been branded?” she asked after he’d calmed her and settled her against his body for sleep.
“Twice, branded twice. But,” he added, his voice deep with satisfaction, “you’ve been pleasured three times.”
“Such possessiveness,” she said. I will make him love me, she thought, oh yes, I will.
“Michael?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you enjoy making love to me?”
He was silent for a moment, and she could practically see the devilish grin on his lips. “It was all right, I suppose,” he said blandly. “You could have shown a bit more enthusiasm, of course. But all in all, I didn’t fall asleep from boredom, did I?”
“You’re impossible!”
She felt the deep rumbling laughter in his chest before it erupted from his throat. “You’re hairy.” She slid her hand over his belly.
“Dangerous, Jules, very dangerous. Have pity, sweetheart, I’m an old man.” But not that old, he thought ruefully; he wanted her again, powerfully.
“Do you know what I was thinking when you were over me, inside of me?”
He groaned. “I’m scared to know.”
“How powerful you are, how beautiful, and your legs, so strong and—”
He slipped his hand between them to cup her breast, and she made a sweet, mewling sigh. He said, “Would you like to know what I was thinking when I was covering you, inside of you?”
&nbs
p; “You weren’t thinking a single thing!”
“Shut up. I looked at you, so small, so delicate, so very female, and—”
He felt her punch his ribs, and he laughed, a deep, satisfied laugh. “Don’t try to outdo the master, Jules, else I’ll continue with how I felt when you wrapped your beautiful legs around me, drawing me deeper—”
“Michael!”
He eased her onto her back, kissed her breast, then said with all the triumph of a sated man who held a sated woman, “You’re mine, Mrs. Saint, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“No,” she said, so happy that she thought she would die from it. “No, Dr. Saint, I won’t ever forget.”
23
Lydia paused a moment in front of the closed bedroom door, started to turn the knob, then slowly drew back her hand. She walked to the smaller bedroom down the hall, saw that the door was open, and peered in. “Ah,” she said, her eyes glittering as she took in the mussed bed and Jules’s nightgown, a rumpled heap on the floor. “It’s about time, Saint Morris. Yes indeed, about time.”
She decided to take her leave thirty minutes later, a pleased smile on her face.
Upstairs, Saint, who usually woke quickly with his full faculties, slowly opened his eyes, My God, he thought, aware of the soft body curled against his, Sunlight poured through the windows, splashing across his face, and he smiled, a besotted smile he imagined, and tightened his arm about his wife’s back.
Jules mumbled something in her sleep and obligingly nestled her cheek against his throat. She’s mine, he thought. He didn’t wake her just yet, content to think about the pleasant turn the world had taken. He couldn’t quite understand how she could still love him, but she’d said she did. Had loved him since she was twelve. A heady thought.
“You’re a lucky bastard,” he said quietly to the bedroom. He’d prayed he could give her pleasure, but her naturalness had surprised him as much as it had excited him. He remembered so clearly the older woman who had taught him about women. Her name was Lottie. Older, ha! She’d been about the same age as he was now. She had seduced him, very gently, after he’d gotten word that Kathleen had died in Ireland. She had given him renewed life, then shown him how to satisfy a woman. He’d failed Kathleen, of course, but had been too ignorant to realize that she could and should enjoy sex as much as he. He’d learned since that most men considered it nearly a perversion if their wives enjoyed the marriage bed. More fools they.
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