Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  He had all the time in the world, and he knew he must go very slowly and carefully now. Saint Morris was a highly respected man, with powerful friends. But Wilkes would find a way, he certainly would. He was smiling when he entered the El Dorado saloon some ten minutes later.

  James Cora was leaning against the long mahogany bar, a thick cigar in his mouth. “Looks like you just won yourself a pot of money,” he observed.

  “Not yet,” Wilkes said smoothly, “but one never knows. How about a whiskey?”

  “If I tell Michael,” Jules said in an agonized whisper to her pale image in the mirror, “he will go after Wilkes. But Michael is honorable, and Wilkes isn’t. He would hurt Saint, I know it. He would hire men and they would hurt him, maybe even kill him.”

  She turned slowly from the mirror, not knowing what to do.

  “And it would be all my fault.”

  “Did you say something, Jules?”

  Jules whirled around at the sound of Lydia’s voice. “Oh no, I was just thinking out loud.”

  Lydia frowned at her young mistress. She didn’t look well, not at all. She said, “Saint’s downstairs taking care of a Chinese who got his arm cut open. If you want to talk to him, he’ll be done in ten minutes, I’d say.”

  “Yes, thank you, Lydia.”

  Saint was gently suturing Ling Chou’s thin forearm. “Did you know that old Bonaparte wanted to march on China after he’d gotten Russia?”

  Ling Chou, who was gritting his teeth, not making a sound, because a man shouldn’t complain, blinked at Saint. “No hear that,” he managed.

  Saint hadn’t either, but he continued, “Yes, sir. Way back in 1811”—was it 1811? he didn’t remember—“when he was making his plans, he said to his military advisers, ‘After Moscow, it’s on to Peking, to make myself emperor of the world.’ ” Saint set the last stitch. “Of course with men like you there, Ling Chou, the little man wouldn’t have stood a chance. Sometimes I think it’s a pity that he didn’t go to China first—would have saved a lot of trouble for England and France. I’ll just bet there wouldn’t have been a Waterloo. You men would have taken care of him just fine.”

  “You think so, Saint?”

  Saint deftly tied off the last stitch. “Sure do,” he said cheerfully, “and I’m all done here. Good job, if I say so myself. Now, I’m going to clean this off real good and bandage it. You come back in three days and I’ll change it. Don’t get it dirty or wet, you hear me?”

  “I hear,” said Ling Chou. When Saint finished the bandage, Ling Chou paid him, counting out the five dollars in meticulous fashion, bowed, and walked slowly to the door. “Bonaparte, huh,” he said, turning. “Who is Bonaparte, Saint? And who is this Waterloo?”

  Saint grinned. Hoisted on my own petard, he thought. “Just a fool general, Ling Chou, long dead, and a place that won’t ever forget him.”

  “I see,” said Ling Chou with great dignity.

  “I’ve got to come up with some stories about real Chinese people,” Saint said to himself as he straightened up his surgery. “That one was off the mark entirely.”

  He nearly knocked Lydia down as he strode out of his surgery. He caught her arm to steady her. “What’s this? Sorry, Lydia, but where’s the fire?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you before you see Jules.”

  A thick brow went up. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s upset about something, and she wouldn’t say anything to me. She looked pale as a clean sheet.”

  Saint was silent for many moments. Finally he said, “I’ll take care of it, Lydia.”

  But there was another patient at the door, this time one of Jane’s boys, Joe, and he had a black eye as impressive as any Saint had ever seen.

  “Won’t you come back with me, Saint?” Joe pleaded. “Mom won’t get mad if you’re there.”

  “Coward,” Saint said, grinning at the boy. “You’ve got a while to come up with a heart-wrenching tale to tell her. She’ll still probably tan your butt, boy.”

  Joe looked glum. “You never come by for dinner anymore. Mom doesn’t say much, but I know she misses you. All of us miss you, Saint.”

  At the door, Jules paused a moment at the boy’s words. Oh, damn, she thought, wanting to escape, but knowing she couldn’t, not now.

  “Hello,” she said just before Michael and the boy saw her. “I’m Jules.” She thrust out her hand to the boy, and he took hers automatically. “My, what a beautiful assortment of colors! Reminds me of the moorish idol—that’s a fish, you know—yellow and black and some white thrown in for good measure. I do hope you gave a good account of yourself.”

  Saint saw Joe staring at Jules as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Joe, this is Jules, my wife. I’ll tell you what. Both Jules and I will come over to see your family sometime soon. All right?”

  “You’re awful pretty,” Joe said. “I didn’t know Saint got hisself married.”

  “Hisself is very married,” Saint said, grinning at his wife. “Of course she’s pretty, Joe. Now, you run along home and face your medicine. Sorry, but there’s no way I can hide that eye.”

  “Not even a black patch?” Joe asked hopefully.

  “Now, that’s a fine idea,” Saint said, appearing much struck. He thought of Jane’s face when her son walked in looking like a miniature pirate. “Hold on a minute, Joe. I think I just might have one lying about.”

  “I’ve never seen hair that color before,” Joe said as Saint disappeared into his surgery. “It’s awful red.”

  “Yes indeed,” Jules said. “I’d much rather have hair your color.”

  “Nah, I’m a boy. Girls don’t want to look like boys.”

  Don’t think it for a minute, she thought, staring at the thick thatch of dark blond hair. Did his mother have the same color hair? Was she as pretty as her son was handsome? Probably. Hadn’t Chauncey Saxton said that Saint had exquisite taste in women?

  “Here you are, Joe.” Saint carefully fitted the black patch over Joe’s eye. “Lordy, what a swashbuckler you are! Do you like it, Jules?”

  “Most impressive,” she agreed. “You look a bit like Lucas, the man who works for the Saxtons. Your mother will be so taken aback, she just might forget to chew a strip off you.”

  “I doubt it,” Joe said, staring at himself in the window. “Thanks, Saint. A pleasure, ma’am,” he added awkwardly to Jules.

  Saint chuckled after the boy had left. “Cute lad,” he said, eyeing his wife from the corner of his eye.

  “Yes, he is, very.”

  Saint gently clasped Jules’s hands, and brought her close to him. “Now, what’s wrong, Jules?”

  “Wrong?” she repeated in a shrill voice. “Whatever do you mean, Michael?”

  “You went out with Chauncey Saxton, and now you’ve got a long face. Didn’t you find any gowns you liked?”

  “Certainly, but they needed altering and will be delivered tomorrow.” I’m not going back to get them—not alone, in any case.

  “Did someone say something to you?” She was so guileless, he thought, her eyes gave everything away. He could see her trying to manufacture a quick lie, and gently shook her. “What happened?”

  “I met Penelope Stevenson!” she said.

  “Oh no, not that godawful twit! Did she say something unkind to you?”

  Penelope hadn’t, but Jules nodded vigorously.

  “What?”

  “She said I was a . . . an adventuress!”

  “Jules,” Saint said very patiently, “I am still the master storyteller in this house. Don’t try to outmaster the master. If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll . . . well, I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe beat you, or lock you up and not feed you for three days.”

  I’d rather starve and be beaten than have Wilkes hurt you, she thought in silent misery.

  “I’m waiting.”

  She shook her head, stubborn as a mule. He looked at her, his frustration mounting. There came a
knock at the front door. Another damned patient. He released her, a frown furrowing his forehead. “Don’t you dare try to make up another story before I get back to you, Jules.”

  “Michael,” she called after him, “would you like me to assist you? I’ve got a very steady stomach, you know.” What an inspiration, she thought, inordinately proud of herself.

  “No, certainly not,” he called back when he saw who his patient was. One-armed Johnny. The last thing he wanted was for Jules to meet one of the most dishonest little bastards in the city.

  “Saint, I’ve got a friend who got coshed on the head. He’s bad, Saint, real bad.”

  “All right. I’ll be right along. Jules, don’t wait dinner for me. This might take a while.”

  “Good-bye,” she said. “Take care!”

  With One-armed Johnny to protect him, he didn’t have a thing to worry about, he thought, giving his wife a reassuring wave of the hand.

  Her shoulders drooped when the front door closed behind Michael and that disreputable-looking man. She walked slowly into the parlor and stared about her. At least back home she could have spent hours wandering the beach and swimming. Identifying birds, feeding the fish, just enjoying the sun on her face . . . playing with Kanola’s children. But Kanola was dead. So much had happened in such a short time. Too much, and yet not enough. Not only did she now have a husband, she was also a prisoner.

  She decided to write to Thomas.

  “Well, if it isn’t Saint Michael and his lovely bride! Come on in, both of you.”

  Saint shook his head ruefully. “You’ve done me in,” he said to Jules. “All right, Del, have your sport, but my wife is sworn to silence.”

  “You mean silence about your other name?” Jules asked innocently, and he squeezed her until she squeaked.

  Del Saxton grinned as he led Saint and Jules into the parlor. “Here’s our guest of honor, Chauncey,” he said. “Lord, you picked a beauty, Saint,” he added, giving Jules an appreciative look.

  “Don’t show your true colors just yet,” Chauncey said, buffeting her husband lightly on the shoulder. “Remember you’re a very married man with a child to boot. Lovely, Jules, really lovely. The gown is perfect for you.”

  “I agree,” Saint said. “The green nearly matches your eyes, sweetheart.” He’d had the strong urge, when she’d come downstairs to join him, to rip that lovely gown off her. Her shoulders were bared, milky white above the lace. “Lovely” wasn’t the word he would have chosen for her. Her waist looked minuscule and he guessed that Lydia had pulled her stays very tight. He disapproved of that, but Jules had looked at him with such eagerness, such hopefulness, that he said nothing about the damned corset. “Beautiful,” he’d managed in a choked voice.

  “Truly? You’re not just saying that?”

  “No, I’m not just saying that.”

  She’d fluttered about for a moment, then blurted out, “It cost so much money! And all the underthings, and the gloves—”

  “Don’t be an ass, Jules. I thought I told you to leave the money to me.”

  Even now, in the middle of the Saxtons’ parlor, knowing he should have himself well under control, he wanted to lean down and kiss her white throat, and her shoulders, and the soft swell of her breasts. Lord, he wanted . . .

  “You’re looking lost to this world, Saint,” Chauncey said. “Come, have a glass of sherry.”

  He pulled himself together and forced himself to look at his wife without the greed of desire in his eyes. “Would you like some sherry, Jules?”

  “I’ve never tasted it before,” Jules said, looking shyly up at her husband.

  I want you so much, he wanted to tell her. Instead he said, “Just a little, Chauncey. I don’t want a drunken bride.”

  The Newtons arrived a few moments later. Horace eyed Jules with an experienced connoisseur’s eye and nodded. “Well done, my boy. Aggie here told me what a pretty filly she was, but she didn’t go far enough.”

  “I feel like a racehorse,” Jules said, and everybody laughed.

  Agatha hugged her briefly. “You’ll have to get used to all the gentlemen looking at you like you’re a new dessert, my dear. Just wait until Tony and Dan arrive.”

  Tony Dawson, a journalist to his fingertips, hadn’t, unfortunately, heard about Jules’s background, and asked her over the first course of terrapin soup how she’d managed to tie herself to a big oaf like Saint.

  Saint felt her stiffen beside him. She sent him an agonized look, her tongue frozen in her mouth.

  “Jules comes from one of the Hawaiian Islands, Tony,” he said easily. “I knew her when she was a skinny little girl. I must admit, age has brought some astounding changes.”

  “Hawaiian Islands,” Tony repeated, his interest aroused. “However did you get together again?”

  Chauncey said brightly, “Haven’t we some champagne, Del? Agatha, won’t you try one of Lin’s delicious rolls? Dan, some more peas?”

  I can’t sit here like a puppet, Jules thought, and let everyone protect me. “I came to San Francisco and we met again, Mr. Dawson,” she said in a clear voice.

  “I see,” Tony said. “Call me Tony. Everybody does, you know.”

  “My father is a minister in Lahaina, Maui,” she continued, seeing that he was as confused as ever, but too polite to probe. “Michael was a doctor there.”

  “Michael?” Tony said, clearly startled, and thankfully turned his attention to that new tidbit.

  Saint sighed. “That’s right, Tony. But please, I feel more comfortable with ‘Saint.’ ”

  “It fits so well,” Del said.

  Dan Brewer, Del’s partner, who had been told of Jules’s experiences, said quite gently, “You’re a fortunate lady, Mrs. Morris. We hope you will be happy here. The weather, I’m certain, isn’t as Edenish as Maui, but nonetheless, I think you’ll find it pleasant most of the time.”

  “Edenish?” Tony repeated, a brow arched. “I’m the writer at the table, Dan. Please confine yourself to simple words and lending out money.”

  There was general laughter, and Jules relaxed. So did Saint. He would speak to Tony later. In fact, he thought, he’d been a fool not to realize that something like this was likely to happen. He caught Tony’s eye and gave him a simple nod.

  Saint found himself looking again and again at his wife’s lovely throat and shoulders. He said suddenly to Jules, “You need a necklace—emeralds, I think. Del,” he continued, “tell me where I can find some jewelry for my wife.”

  “Oh no,” Jules said, aghast at the thought of the cost. “I don’t want . . . that is, I don’t need—”

  “Certainly,” said Del Saxton. “Emeralds, with perhaps some sapphires, would look lovely on you, Jules, particularly with that gown.”

  “I agree,” Chauncey said. “Diamonds are too harsh, I think. Yes, emeralds and sapphires. Vibrant and warm.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Saint said, reaching under the table to squeeze his wife’s hand. “I’ll come see you in the morning, Del.”

  Agatha said to the table at large, “It’s nearly September. Do you think Brent and Byrony will be home soon?”

  “The Hammonds,” Saint said to Jules. “Brent owns the Wild Star and he and his wife went to Mississippi to take care of the plantation he inherited.”

  “Brent is a handsome devil, and usually quite charming,” Agatha said. “I have a feeling, though, that Byrony has him well in hand by this time.”

  “He was out of hand?” Jules asked. “I thought you said he was quite charming.”

  “Let’s just say, love,” Saint said, “that Brent Hammond was like a fish wriggling on the line, and Byrony . . . well, she’s got spirit, that girl.”

  “And grit,” added Horace.

  The talk continued for a while about the Hammonds, and Jules chewed thoughtfully on her baked chicken. She was very aware of her husband, the way he used his hands when he spoke, his long, blunt fingers, the deep, full laugh. She remembered Wilkes talking of Mich
ael and all the women he’d slept with. It wasn’t true, she knew it wasn’t.

  You should tell him about meeting Wilkes. She shook her head at her own thought, and felt miserable.

  After dinner, Chauncey brought Alexandra downstairs to be admired. Jules held the baby, such a beautiful child, and her eyes met Michael’s.

  “I love babies,” she said softly.

  Saint felt his guts twist. He watched her as she spoke soft, meaningless words to the baby, watched her eyes light up with pleasure when Alex grabbed her finger and held it tightly. And he laughed when Jules blinked and said, “I think I’m wet, Chauncey.”

  “Oh dear, indeed you are. Come with me and we’ll make sure your gown isn’t ruined. Del, do take Alex up to Mary for repairs.”

  When Jules followed Chauncey from the room, Saint joined Tony Dawson. “I should have told you, but I forgot. It isn’t for publication, of course.”

  When he finished, Tony Dawson whistled softly. “Jesus, Saint, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass her.”

  “You didn’t know. Forget it, Tony.”

  “That poor girl. Thank God you were here, Saint, and put a stop to it.”

  Del joined them shortly thereafter, laughing a bit. “The joys of fatherhood,” he said. “Ah, I see you’ve told Tony. There is something else, Saint. Wilkes is entrenching himself quite thoroughly here. One sees him everywhere. Are you worried that he will try to make things difficult for you and Jules?”

  Saint said without thinking, “If he knew she was still a vir—” He broke off, appalled. “I think I’ll have some of your whiskey, Del. Excuse me.”

  Tony started to say something to Del, but Del shook his head and said very softly, “Shit.”

  16

  Brent Hammond, Jules thought, was probably the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He was tall, lean, and his incredible dark blue eyes glistened with pleasure and pride as he listened to his wife, Byrony, telling the Saxtons and Michael about Wakeville.

  “So you see,” Byrony concluded, “not only are we shortly to be real parents, but we’ve also got an adopted family of about four hundred former slaves. And that’s why it’s taken us so long to come home.”