Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  He saw tears sparkling in her eyes, and without another word gathered her in his arms. “This isn’t right, love,” he said quietly, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry, Jules. Damn, after all that happened to you, well . . . is there anything I can do?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder. “Don’t embarrass Michael, please, Thomas. He doesn’t deserve it, it’s not his fault. He’s making the best of a bad bargain.”

  But there was something Thomas could do, and he had done it two days later. He’d moved out. The short note he’d left his sister simply said that it was time to make his own way. And he’d thanked her for her hospitality.

  Thomas had been gone a week now, Jules thought, starting momentarily at the shadow of a man in an alley to her right. Nothing. Jules had moved that same day back into the guestroom.

  And the siege of polite indifference had continued.

  That voice, Jules thought, freezing. It was Wilkes! She was certain of it! She clutched her small derringer, fear trickling through her, fear and excitement. At last! Her eyes glittered in anticipation, her fingers tightened about the trigger.

  But it wasn’t Wilkes. It was a man, a very dirty man, dressed poorly, and he was drunk.

  “Little girlie,” he said fondly, staggering toward her. “My Anna had red hair, like a flame, she did.”

  “Get away from me,” Jules said, backing up a step.

  “Anna?” he said, his eyes bleary, his voice shaking.

  “No, I’m not Anna!” Jules said, and tried to pass him. He let her go, and she heard him make a whimpering noise behind her. Poor man, she thought. She turned slightly to look at him, worried that he might hurt himself. She jumped as two hard hands grasped her shoulders, jerking her around. This man was neither drunk nor dirty, and his eyes were alight with unexpected pleasure.

  “Well, well, you’re dressed awful nice, ain’t you? Awful pretty, too. How much?”

  “I am not a whore,” Jules said, her heart beginning to pound painfully. “Go away.”

  “How much?” the man repeated. She saw in a detached manner that one of his front teeth was gold. “I’m rich and you’re just too pretty to let go. Come now.”

  “Go away,” she said again, and pushed her hands against him. He didn’t even notice that one hand held a gun.

  “It’a almost dark,” the man said, tightening his grip. “I don’t mind the alley. Do you like it standing up? I won’t pay you as much as I would if I could stick it in you in a nice bed. Come on now, little honey.”

  She tried to jerk away from him, but it was no use.

  Suddenly his hand was flattened over her mouth and he was dragging her backward toward the filthy, dark alley.

  “Stop fighting me,” he hissed into her face. “I’ll pay you, and you’ll like it.”

  He was strong, Jules thought blankly. Oh God, what had she done? She felt her heart pounding wildly, felt her mouth go cotton dry. He was going to rape her!

  She felt his mouth pressing wet kisses on her face, felt his hands tugging at her cloak to get to her breasts.

  “Stop it!” she screamed against his hand.

  She felt his hand wild on her breast, kneading, pressing her back against a brick wall.

  “You just hold still,” he growled at her, and lifted his hand from her mouth. She yelled, a high, thin sound that broke off abruptly when his hand yanked up her skirts.

  His hand was pressing against her stomach, jerking at her underthings. She started hitting him, and the derringer struck the side of his face. He drew back in stunned fury.

  “You little bitch,” he said in utter astonishment. “Why’d you do that? You ain’t nothing but a—” He stopped abruptly, seeing the derringer. He grabbed her wrist and jerked it forward. But she wouldn’t let it go. There was a loud popping noise.

  Jules watched as the man spun away from her, clutching at his shoulder. Blood oozed from between his fingers. He stared at her, his expression disbelieving. She dropped the derringer into her reticule and sagged against the wall.

  “Mrs. Saint! What the hell—”

  Thackery, whose practice was to keep well behind her, came bursting into the alley.

  “My God,” he whispered, “you shot him!”

  “He thought I was a whore,” Jules said, her voice calm, too calm, Thackery thought, eyeing her white face.

  “What did you expect? Walking about by yourself, daring someone to come along . . . Oh damn!”

  Thackery gathered the moaning man and hauled him upright. “Mrs. Saint, fetch me a carriage, now!”

  Jules dashed into the street and yelled at a passing beer wagon. It cost her all the money she had to convince the man to drive them back home.

  When Lydia opened the front door, she gasped.

  “Get Dr. Saint,” Thackery said, and carried the man to Saint’s surgery.

  Saint was daubing iodine on a miner’s leg. “Now, there, Lewis, you’ll be—” He broke off when the door burst open.

  “Later, Lewis,” he said, and motioned for Thackery to put the man on the table. Saint said nothing, all his attention on the bullet wound. It was high on the man’s shoulder, and the bullet had gone clean through. The man moaned and began to struggle. “Hold him, Thackery,” he said, not looking up.

  “Damned little whore shot me,” the man muttered. He stared up at Saint, confusion and pain on his face. “Why would a whore shoot me? I told her I’d pay her. I ain’t no liar.”

  “Maybe she didn’t like brown eyes,” Saint said, his hands busy. “Just hold still, you’re not dying, for God’s sake!”

  “She shot me,” the man repeated blankly, his eyes dazed now from shock.

  Saint got the bleeding stopped. He bathed the wound, spread on a thick layer of basilicum powder, and tightly bandaged the shoulder. “You’ll be good as new in a week.”

  The man merely regarded him vaguely, and Saint asked Thackery, “Do you know who he is?”

  “With that beautiful gold tooth? Maybe the president,” Thackery said dispassionately.

  Saint lightly slapped the man’s face. “Name. What is your name?”

  “Avery. I made me a good-sized strike. I was here celebrating, at the Oriental Hotel, and the little whore shot me.”

  “At least he won’t have to spend the night in the parlor,” Saint said. “Thackery, hail a hack for him and get him back to his hotel.”

  “Dr. Saint,” Thackery began, knowing the time for reckoning had arrived.

  “Well, what?”

  “Before I get him out of here . . .”

  Saint pulled his attention from the man and eyed Thackery.

  “It’s Mrs. Saint,” Thackery said. “She shot him.”

  Saint said nothing. He didn’t move. His face was an unreadable mask.

  “She didn’t mean to, but he was trying to force her.”

  “Don’t defend her, Thackery,” Saint said very calmly. “It isn’t necessary. Get him out of here, please.”

  Thackery lifted the man in his arms. Saint followed him silently, not looking at his wife, who was standing quietly in the entrance hall, watching.

  When the front door closed, Saint walked calmly into the kitchen. Lydia was pounding at some bread. “I want you to go home,” Saint said. “Now.”

  Lydia wiped the flour from her hands, her eyes studying Saint’s face. She wasn’t blind, nor was she deaf. “I don’t know if I should,” she said.

  “Leave, Lydia,” Saint repeated. “I won’t kill her.” He gave a short, harsh laugh. “I’m a physician, remember?”

  Lydia sighed. At least, she thought, he would speak to his wife. That, she supposed, was better than the deadening silence that pervaded the house.

  Jules watched Lydia slip out the front door. She felt numb, blessedly numb.

  Saint looked at her a moment, then said, “Come here into the parlor. You need a brandy.”

  She followed him, standing quietly in the middle of the room until he pressed a glass in her hand.

&nb
sp; “Drink. All of it.”

  She did, and fell into a paroxysm of coughing.

  He didn’t touch her. Her face was red when she caught her breath.

  “Finish it.”

  She did, then thrust the empty glass at him. Very carefully Saint set it down.

  He held out his hand.

  Jules simply stared. She loved his hands, she thought vaguely. The fine sprinkling of hair, the long fingers, their blunt tips. She had loved it when he’d touched her, caressed her.

  “Give me the gun,” he said.

  She opened her reticule and looked at the very small instrument that could very easily have killed that man. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it. She shuddered, unknowingly, and thrust the reticule at him.

  Saint took the derringer, opened the chamber, and took out the second bullet. He then dropped the gun to the floor and stomped on it. Once, twice. It broke into three pieces, Jules saw.

  “Now,” he said, “I believe it’s your turn, Juliana.”

  “Juliana?” she repeated.

  “I believe,” he said, his voice as cold as Toronto winters must be, “that ‘Juliana’ is more appropriate than ‘Jules’ for a whore. ‘Juliana’ is also more appropriate than ‘Jules’ for a liar.”

  His words broke over her, filling her with his disgust, and she began to shake; she couldn’t help it.

  “You might consider trying tears,” Saint said, making no move toward her. “Though this time, Juliana, I promise you they won’t work.”

  “No, no, I won’t cry,” she said.

  “Refreshing,” he said. He walked away from her—he had to—to the fireplace. He leaned his shoulders gratefully against the mantelpiece. “Would you care to tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice very polite, very calm.

  “Nothing, not really. He pulled me into an alley.” Jules drew a deep breath. “I was frightened and we struggled. The gun went off by accident, Michael.”

  “Such a short, almost boring tale,” he said. “Fortunate for your conscience that the man, Avery—not a bad fellow really, I imagine—won’t die because you’re a stubborn, witless little fool.”

  As if drawn by a puppet’s string, her chin went up.

  “Would you mind telling me why you were out alone?” He waved a hand toward the window. “It’s dark, and was almost dark when you were out there. Obviously you thought you’d lost Thackery.”

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s what I thought.”

  “I believe I asked you a question, Juliana.”

  What could she tell him? When she really didn’t understand her own motives? “Wilkes,” she whispered, her eyes on the toes of her shoes.

  “Wilkes? What the hell does he have to do with anything?” At her continued silence, he added in a mocking voice, “Have you changed your mind about him? Do you want to find him, give yourself over to him?”

  “No!”

  “No what? I would appreciate some specificity.”

  “I was out . . . tracking him.”

  He could only stare at her. “Tracking him,” he repeated. “If you managed to find him,” he continued after a moment, “you wanted to kill him?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m tired of being a prisoner! I’m tired of being a helpless victim.”

  “But you’re not tired of being a damned fool. Tracking Wilkes—dear God, I don’t believe this!”

  “Why not? And I’m not a fool.” She saw that he was regarding her as if she had suddenly announced that she was going to jump into the bay. “At least,” she muttered, now more angry than numb, “he wanted me!”

  Saint felt himself stiffen, his hands fisting at his sides. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, I didn’t mean that! It’s just that . . .”

  “That what?” he asked when she faltered.

  “I don’t know what to do!”

  “Charming,” he observed. “So blatant stupidity is the answer. Your woman’s mind—well, I should have faced it sooner, shouldn’t I?”

  “What do you mean my ‘woman’s mind’?”

  “I was wrong to say that. Rather, it’s more the case that you’re still an ignorant child. Selfish, reckless, silly, and so uncaring of anyone else that—”

  “I am not uncaring! I did not mean to hurt that man. And I am not a child. Ask Wilkes! He didn’t think so!”

  They were going about in circles, he realized. Accomplishing nothing, Resolving nothing. But he simply felt too overwhelmed and too furious with her to continue. What he wanted was to thrash some sense into her.

  Jules felt his eyes on her, brooding, questioning, grim now with determination.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, hating herself for her high, thin voice.

  “I’m going to do something I should have done months ago,” he said, straightening to his full height. “Since there is no reasoning with you, since I can’t be certain you won’t continue to lie to me with great regularity, I shall just have to do something much more basic.”

  He strode toward her.

  “What?” she said, automatically backing away from him.

  “Since there’s no one here, I don’t have to haul you upstairs,” he said more to himself than to her.

  “Why do you want to ‘haul’ me?”

  He didn’t answer her, merely grasped her wrist and pulled her against him. For a brief moment Jules believed he would comfort her, tell her that everything was all right, that he understood.

  In the next moment he’d sat down in his chair and pulled her over his legs.

  “No!” she yelled, twisting on his lap, trying desperately to lurch away from him.

  She felt his hands pulling up her gown, jerking away her underthings. She felt the cool air on her bare bottom.

  “Very nice,” Saint said, and slammed down his palm.

  Jules yelled, and arched wildly. His hand came down again, harder this time. She felt pain, but her humiliation was greater, and she yelled all the bad names she could think of at him.

  He laughed.

  Saint lifted his hand to smack her bottom again, then drew up short. Her white buttocks were now slashed with red, and he could feel her quivering with pain. He laid his open palm on her, his fingers, of their own accord, gently kneading her stinging flesh. He felt a surge of desire, and quickly raised his hand.

  “If ever,” he said, “you lie to me again, or do something so stupid, I’ll use a whip on you. Do you understand me?”

  “I hate you!”

  He brought his hand down again, not as hard this time, but dammit, he had to gain her compliance, and, for that matter, her attention.

  “Do you understand?” He punctuated each word with a smack.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Excellent.” He simply pushed her off his lap, and she landed in a welter of skirts on the floor at his feet, her underclothes about her ankles. He rose quickly, forcing himself not to look at her, for if he did, he knew he’d probably beg her forgiveness, hold her, and . . . Damnation!

  He didn’t bother with a coat. He left, slamming the front door after him.

  Jules gingerly touched her hand to her burning bottom. She struggling to get her underclothes back into a semblance of order, then straightened her gown. But didn’t rise—she couldn’t manage to do that just yet.

  She leaned down, pillowed her head on her arms, and breathed in the dust from the carpet.

  22

  Saint sat by himself at a table at the Wild Star. His friends and acquaintances now kept to themselves, leaving him in solitary splendor, nursing his whiskey.

  “Hisself is takin’ things too serious,” said Dancer Drake, the local boxer.

  To Bear Paw Ryan, Saint had been just plain rude. “He musta lost somebody important,” Bear Paw said by way of excuse for one of the most popular men in San Francisco.

  Saint stared down at his whiskey, unaware that his very unsaintlike behavior was leading to wild speculation. What am I going to do now?
he was asking himself. It was a refrain that had no more acceptable answer now than when he’d first asked it months before. Jules’s shocked white face kept swimming before his eyes. And her beautiful bottom, red-streaked from his smacks. He winced, hearing the sound of his hand striking her. You damned brute, he said to himself, and downed the remainder of his whiskey.

  I hate you.

  “Well,” he said to his empty glass, “what the hell did you expect? You were beating her. Did you think she’d tell you how wonderful you were?”

  He yelled for another whiskey.

  Saint had never before raised his hand to a woman. His great size and strength discouraged men from trying to prove their manhood and courage by baiting him. All it had taken was one small woman who had finally driven him over the edge. What had she done, anyway? She lied to you, she went tracking Wilkes, and she shot a man. That was a start, he thought, grunting at Nero when he slapped his whiskey shot onto the table.

  Nero backed away from the table, saw Brent Hammond, and waved frantically toward his boss.

  “Mind if I join you, Saint?” Brent asked. “Excellent, don’t mind if I do. Godawful weather we’re having, isn’t it? I imagine that Jules is having a problem with all the drizzle and fog, her being from Maui and all, huh?”

  “Go away, Brent,” Saint said, not looking up.

  Brent sat down and leaned back in his chair. He studied his friend’s face.

  “Leave me alone, Brent,” Saint said, his voice as rude as he could make it.

  “I think I’ll take my chances and bear you company for a bit longer. Thackery wanted me to find out what you’d done to your wife, actually. He’s very worried about her.” If the truth be known, Brent thought, Thackery was just as worried about Dr. Saint. “She pushed him too far this time,” Thackery had said, shaking his head.

  “I should have used a whip,” Saint said suddenly, renewed fury gripping him. “And I will next time, damn her stupidity!”

  “Thackery feels guilty, feels he should have prevented what happened. He tells me that your little one, as he calls her—”

  “Would you just shut up?” Saint sent Brent the meanest look he could manage, but it wasn’t as effective as he’d hoped. Brent laughed.