Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  Saint smiled, remembering Lottie’s exact words. “You’ve quite an aptitude for this, dear boy. Yes, indeed, I truly admire a man who enjoys his work.”

  He slipped his hand between them very gently, again splaying his fingers to feel the width of Jules’s pelvis. She would have his children, but not more than two or three, he amended to himself. He would take no chance with her health, nor did he want her to bear a child every year until she was thirty. He wanted her to himself—himself and two daughters and a son. He was blissfully picturing a daughter, red-haired, vibrant, and loving, just like her mother, when he felt a smooth hand glide down his belly.

  “Jules?”

  “Good morning, husband,” she said, and continued the journey with his inquisitive hand. “Goodness,” she said as her fingers closed around him.

  “What do you expect?” he asked, nibbling at her ear. “I’ve been thinking about you for the past five minutes.”

  “I think, Michael,” she said impishly, “that I have great power over you.”

  “At least part of me.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Will you teach me . . . things?”

  “I’ll teach you everything you want to know,” he said with great conviction, and rolled her onto her back.

  “Lydia!”

  Saint frowned. “Damn, I’d forgotten all about her.”

  “Oh dear, this is dreadfully embarrassing. Do you think she saw us?”

  He laughed and kissed her deeply. “We’re married, Jules. And no, I sincerely doubt that Lydia, once she’d been in the other bedroom, would dare open the door to this one.”

  Jules pressed her face against his throat. “I’ll never be able to face her!”

  He breathed in the sweet scent of her hair and also the smell of sex. This bedroom, he thought, grinning, has never been so appealing before. “Tell you what, Jules,” he said, his hand closing over her breast. “Ouch! Not quite so much enthusiasm, sweetheart.”

  She released him, and giggled. “Shall I kiss it and make it well?”

  He gave her a wicked grin. “What a lucky man I am, married to a thoroughly lascivious woman.”

  “I think I like the sound of that,” she said.

  “I do too. Tell you what, Jules, let me give you some instruction first, all right?”

  “What kind of instruction?”

  “Just lie still and attend to what I’m doing.”

  When he lifted her hips in his hands and gazed intently down at her, Jules found herself trying to squirm away. “It’s daylight,” she managed. “You’re looking at me!”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse in his own ears. “I’m not only looking, but I’m offering up thanksgiving to heaven. Now, you just be quiet, and don’t interfere with a man’s pleasure.”

  She decided she had no choice, and he thought he would yell with pleasure when he felt her ease and relax, offering herself to him.

  “Now I can look at you,” Jules said many minutes later. He was deep inside her, moving gently, rhythmically, and she watched every expression on his face.

  “Oh no,” he said after a while, and slipped his hand between their bodies and found her. It was he who watched her face at the moment of her climax, allowing himself his own release after she’d gained hers.

  “The world is a very nice place,” he said, squeezing her so tightly that she yelped.

  When they ventured downstairs close to noon, Lydia was nowhere to be seen.

  “Smart woman,” Saint said, eyeing the food she’d left out on the table.

  He’d wanted to spend the entire day in bed with Jules, but realized he’d been quite fortunate not to have already been rousted by a patient. It was Avery who showed up, the man Jules had shot.

  Jules, who had scampered upstairs at the rapping on the front door, heard him say to Michael, “It hurts, Doc. Bad.”

  “Come in here, Avery,” Saint said, “and let’s have a look.”

  When he joined Jules sometime later, he saw that she was pale and looked very guilty. He took her in his arms and hugged her. “No, sweetheart, it’s all right. The man is just fine. No infection. I gave him some laudanum.”

  “I feel so bad!”

  “I didn’t charge him, not even for the laudanum, and you know how much I pay for that. How’s that for salving your conscience?”

  She nodded—reluctantly, he thought—then said unexpectedly, “Do all men consider a woman to be a whore if she’s alone?”

  “Of course not. Well, not always. It’s San Francisco, sweetheart. So many of our females are prostitutes. Poor old Avery probably took one look at you and didn’t give a damn about what you said to him. In the future—”

  “I know, I know, Michael. Behold a docile creature!”

  “I should live so long,” Saint said, and kissed her. “What about Thackery?” he asked her sometime later.

  Jules was thoughtfully silent for a long while. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I do know that Wilkes is out there somewhere. I feel it, as odd as that sounds. I don’t understand why he would still want me, but I know that he does. It really makes no sense, does it?”

  It made no sense to Saint either, but he privately agreed with her. He said nothing, however, for it would only add to her fear. He said instead, “How about we find Thomas and invite him over for dinner this evening.”

  She brightened immediately. “Yes,” she said, “I should like that, if . . .”

  “If what?”

  “If he leaves early!”

  “Greedy woman,” he said fondly.

  Thomas was aware of the change the moment he saw his sister’s face. “Well,” he said, “how are you?”

  “Wonderful!” Jules hugged him close. “Lydia made your favorite dish—roast sweet potatoes and pork chops.”

  “Lead on,” said Thomas.

  They had no sooner got settled at the dining-room table than Saint said, “Why don’t you move back here, Thomas?”

  “But—”

  “No, no, please, brother,” Jules said.

  “I really don’t think it would be wise, Jules,” Thomas finally forced himself to say. “Just as for Saint, the sofa’s a bit on the short side for me.”

  Jules flushed just a bit, then levered her chin upward. “You may have the spare bedroom. Michael has decided that he misses his old room, his old bed—”

  “—and his young wife,” said Saint. “I’ve finally tamed the little twit, Thomas.”

  “So I see,” Thomas said, “so I see. It’s about time. Did you beat her, Saint?”

  “Not really,” Saint said, frowning a bit at himself as he remembered her reddened bottom. “Well, not much, in any case. Just enough to get her attention.”

  “Ha!” Jules said. “He’s a brute, Thomas.”

  “I don’t suppose I’m going to hear this story?” Thomas asked somewhat pensively.

  Saint sent a wicked glance toward his wife. “You mean the story of my pulling down her drawers and beating her—”

  “Michael!”

  “If you could bear all the laughter and the giggling, we would enjoy having you back.”

  “Michael!”

  “Very well, Jules, I’ll do all the giggling. Thomas,” Saint continued, “have you decided anything yet? Is the world to have another doctor?”

  Thomas played with the mashed sweet potato on his plate for a bit. “I have decided that I can’t go back East, Saint,” he said at last. “I have no money and I can’t drag Penelope with me.”

  “So,” Jules said, “you’ve decided to marry her?”

  Thomas nodded, a crooked grin on his lips. “The problem is, of course, that she’s never known a day’s want in her life. And I refuse to take money from her father.”

  “You might have to,” Saint said bluntly. He raised his hand to stem Thomas’ protest. “No, listen to me. You’ve some years of study ahead of you, with no income. Either you negotiate a . . . loan fro
m Bunker, or you don’t get married.”

  “But you did,” Jules said.

  “Only at the very end,” Saint said, “and it wasn’t easy for a while. Incidentally, Thomas, I was speaking to Dr. Samuel Pickett at the Seamen’s Hospital about you. He needs good men, and at least he’s an excellent doctor. You’d get good training there. Not as extensive as in New York or Boston, but adequate.”

  Thomas brightened considerably. “He’d take me on, really?”

  “Yes,” Saint said. He didn’t add that he himself would provide funds during Thomas’ instruction period.

  “You could live here, Thomas.”

  But Thomas was frowning. “What about Penelope?”

  “You’re having problems fighting her off?” Saint asked, his wide grin revealing his white teeth.

  “Yes, I am.” Thomas sighed. “And myself as well,” he added.

  “You could marry and live at the Stevenson mansion,” Jules said.

  “Damn,” Thomas said. “I don’t know.” He smiled suddenly. “Do you know what Bunker Stevenson offered me? He’s willing to give me the foundry as a sort of wedding present. Penelope’s dowry, I suppose.”

  “That sounds like a financially wise solution,” said Saint.

  “He wants me to run the place. I told him I wanted to be a doctor, and he stared at me like I was one of Jules’s arc-eye ravenfish.”

  “If I were you, Thomas,” Jules said, “I think I’d let Penelope convince her father that you’d be the greatest doctor in San Francisco, after Michael, of course. And it’s an arc-eye hawkfish, Thomas.”

  “I’m glad to see you happy, Jules,” Thomas said to his sister later that evening when they were alone for a few minutes. “It’s about time. Saint’s a fine man, and for a woman, and my little sister, you’re not so bad either.”

  “Yes,” said Jules, “yes, he is.” She heard Michael’s booted step upstairs and smiled wistfully.

  “My little virgin sister is no more,” Thomas said, grinning at her lecherously.

  She poked him in the stomach.

  “You sure you want me to move back in? I don’t want to find myself lying in my bed at night listening to your . . . well, your devotion to your husband.”

  “He is equally devoted,” said Jules, refusing to let him bait her into blushing.

  “I’ll just bet he is! Good night, love. I’ll bring my meager belongings back tomorrow.”

  “I’ll knit you something to cover your ears at night, brother!”

  “I simply don’t understand how we fit so well,” Jules said, her eyes resting on her husband’s swollen manhood. “You are so large.”

  “Fate,” Saint managed.

  “And so different from me. Now, my love, I want you to relax so I can begin my lessons.”

  Jules delighted in the results of her handiwork, and Saint thought he’d die from the pleasure of it. “No,” he gasped, pulling her away, “no more.”

  She gave him a slightly dazed, very pleased smile. “I don’t pull you away,” she said in a voice of reproach.

  “It’s not quite the same thing,” he said. “Now, my beautiful, greedy, wife, it’s my turn.”

  “Oh dear,” she gasped. “Thomas—”

  “I’ll put my hand over your mouth,” said Saint. “Just promise not to bite me inadvertently, all right?”

  The first explosion rocked the house and the bed. Saint, instantly alert, leapt out of bed and rushed to the window. He could see nothing.

  “What was that?” Jules asked, sitting up.

  “God only knows. Whatever and wherever it was, I’ll be needed, Thomas too.”

  He began to pull on his clothes.

  “I’ll come too,” said Jules.

  He started to tell her no, but saw that she would argue tooth and nail with him. And there wasn’t time. “All right. Hurry.”

  When Saint opened the bedroom door, he saw Thomas in the hallway struggling into his shirt.

  “I don’t know,” Saint answered the unasked question. “Jules, wear a cloak! It’ll be chilly.”

  They found Thackery downstairs, dressed, and leading two horses. “It’s the Stevensons’ foundry, Dr. Saint,” he said. “Gawd, you can see the flames from here!” Thackery was right. To the south, the sky was streaked with bright crimson and orange.

  Damn Bunker, Saint was thinking. Normally at this time of night there shouldn’t be anyone around. But Bunker liked to have night shifts at the foundry. He prayed there were no fatalities.

  He lifted Jules in front of him, and Thomas mounted the other horse.

  “I’ll follow as soon as I can,” Thackery called.

  When they arrived at the foundry, or what remained of it, there were already a good thirty men there, passing buckets of water with incredible speed.

  “Anyone hurt?” Saint asked Morley Crocker, the foreman.

  “Thank God, Saint! Yeah, we’ve still two men unaccounted for, and a half-dozen wounded over there.”

  Jules ran to keep pace with her husband and Thomas. Flames leapt into the air, and cinders flew about them. Her cloak felt suddenly stifling in the intense heat. She heard men yelling, saw the devastation.

  “Your foundry,” she said blankly to Thomas.

  “I think my decision has just been rendered much simpler,” he said.

  Saint was bandaging a burned arm when Dr. Samuel Pickett came. “No fatalities, thank God,” Saint said. “The burns aren’t all that serious, but we’ve got one man unconscious, shock probably. My wife is watching him and keeping him warm.”

  Jules stared down at the man’s still face. His clothes were tattered with burn holes and there were black smudges on his face and hands. She took off her own cloak and covered him. She heard Saint telling Thomas what to do, and saw Dr. Pickett hovering over a man who was moaning pitifully. It started to rain, and Jules lifted her face to the cooling water. The drops thickened and soon it was a deluge. Thank God, Jules thought. That should put out the bloody fire. Thackery appeared beside her.

  “What happened? Do you know?” she asked.

  Thackery shook his head. Suddenly he straightened and yelled, “Dr. Saint, no!”

  Jules whirled about to see Michael running toward the still-flaming ruins. She could barely make out the form of a man stumbling out, clutching his stomach.

  She felt her heart plummet to her toes. She rose jerkily to her feet and ran toward her husband.

  Saint had almost reached the man when there was another loud explosion. Gashes of fire rent the sky, and debris hurled outward. My God, Saint thought blankly, it’s hell and I’ve arrived! He felt his body hurled into the air from the force of the explosion and thrown backward. Then he felt no more.

  Jules knelt beside her husband, her hand pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was strong, steady. She swallowed, swearing at herself that she wouldn’t succumb to the awful tears and sobs she felt building inside her. No, she thought, I won’t be a fool, not now. She eased down beside him and held his head in her lap. In the next moment Dr. Pickett was on his knees beside Saint.

  “His heartbeat is steady,” Jules said, blinking away the rain so she could see him clearly.

  Dr. Pickett looked at her briefly. “You’re Mrs. Morris?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re doing just fine, ma’am. You just stay as you are and let me examine him . . . Nothing appears to be broken,” he said after some minutes had passed.

  “He’s very pale,” Jules said, watching the rain wash away the black streaks from his face.

  “No wonder. He probably struck his head. You won’t faint on me, will you, ma’am?”

  “Of course not,” Jules said, her voice suddenly stronger and more forceful.

  “Stay with him, ma’am. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Saint moaned.

  “Hush, love,” Jules said. “It’s all right now.”

  He opened his eyes, felt a deep, searing pain, and closed them.

  “Jules?”

  �
��Yes. Do you hurt anywhere, Michael?” She leaned over him, protecting his face from the driving rain.

  “Jules,” he said very calmly, “cup the rain in your hands and wash out my eyes. Quickly.”

  She froze, but just for an instant. She lifted her hands, cupping them as he’d said, and soon they were filled with water. Very gently she splashed the rain into his open eyes. He winced, and she saw him biting his lower lip.

  “Michael—”

  “Again, Jules. Keep doing it.”

  She continued, becoming more adept each time. Finally he said, “That’s fine, Jules. Now, there’s a clean handkerchief in my pocket. Fold it and tie it around my head over my eyes.”

  “Saint, you’re back to the world again, dear boy?”

  “Samuel?”

  “Yes, what’s this, ma’am?” He wondered briefly if the young woman had finally cracked as he watched her tie the handkerchief around Saint’s head. She smoothed it firmly over his eyes, then sat back on her heels.

  “Thank you, Jules,” Saint said. “You did fine, just fine.”

  Suddenly Samuel Pickett closed his own eyes, feeling sickness rise in his stomach.

  “Michael,” Jules whispered.

  “Help me up,” Saint said. “Now, Jules, I know you’re looking at me as if I’m on the brink of dying. But I’m not, I’m all right. Come.”

  Both Jules and Dr. Pickett helped him to his feet. He swayed a moment, then stood firmly.

  Slowly he raised his hands and pressed the handkerchief more firmly against his eyes. “I think, Sam, that my usefulness here is over.”

  “Is there much pain, my boy?” Sam Pickett asked quietly.

  “It’s lessening . . . a bit. Jules probably got most of the fragments, but . . .”

  Jules stared at him, hugging his side. “You’re soaking wet,” she said, her mind refusing to accept what she knew to be true. “We’ll go home, Michael, and you can have a hot bath and—”

  Saint knew she was trying to keep a firm hold on herself, and he admired her vastly at that moment. “Jules,” he interrupted her quietly, “get Thackery and Thomas—”