Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “What’s wrong, Penelope?” Jules asked, quashing the flash of anger she felt at the cold words. “Come, we are sisters now.”

  “It’s your damned brother!” Penelope shouted, her cup filled to overflowing. “He’s an animal, a brute, and—”

  “What?”

  “He forces me to do . . . things, and I hate it and it’s awful and my mother told me it would be thus, but I didn’t believe her!”

  The light dawned. Jules regarded Penelope’s flushed face. “What did your mother tell you?” she asked calmly.

  “That men are animals, that they do unspeakable things to their wives, and we have to be brave and . . . bear it.”

  “And you believed her? By all that’s rich, that is ridiculous! Don’t you love my brother?”

  Penelope stared at Jules. “Of course I love him. I shouldn’t have married him otherwise.”

  “But you only wanted him to kiss your hand?”

  Penelope drew back at the sarcasm. “I . . . I didn’t know what it was all about. I don’t like it, it’s degrading.”

  “It? I assume we’re talking about lovemaking.”

  Penelope shuddered at what she thought a most inappropriate term, invented doubtless by men to lull ladies’ suspicions.

  Jules felt an odd mixture of pity and anger. Poor Thomas! And, she amended to herself silently, poor Penelope. “I think,” Jules said, moving to sit on the side of the bed, “that you need to think of me as your mother for a while. Now, I want you to listen very carefully, Penelope, because I will not lie to you.”

  Penelope gave Jules her full attention.

  “. . . and I told her that making love was more fun than anything else in the whole world,” Jules told her husband smugly that night in bed. “I explained things to her.” She added in some disgust, “I simply can’t understand why mothers frighten the wits out of their daughters with such awful rubbish!”

  “Your mother didn’t tell you frightening things about filthy men?” Saint asked, pulling her closer to him.

  “No, she never told me anything at all. I think complete and utter ignorance is better.”

  Saint kissed her nose, then nibbled on her ear. “I hate to tell you, sweetheart, but unfortunately many men believe that their wives should endure their base needs. It’s only whores who are supposed to enjoy lovemaking. Men are fools.”

  “You don’t think Thomas is a fool, do you?”

  “He is young,” Saint said thoughtfully, “but no, I shouldn’t think that he’d be inept. But I suppose you want me to speak to him? Just to make certain, you understand?”

  “Explain things to my brother?”

  Saint’s hand cupped her breast. “In delightful detail,” he said, and began to knead the soft flesh. “Did you tell Penelope how much you adored my touching you?” His hand slipped down between her thighs. “And kissing you?”

  Jules giggled, then sucked in her breath when his fingers found her. “Oh dear,” she said, her voice breathless, “do you think I should have been that specific?”

  Saint felt filled with warmth and deep swirling feelings that so stunned him with their force and their unexpectedness that he couldn’t speak for a moment. “Jules,” he said finally, “I don’t want to think about Penelope any more tonight. All right?”

  “Yes,” she said, “yes, all right.”

  Jules managed to find her brother alone the following morning. “What did Del say?” she asked without preamble.

  “Not to worry,” Thomas said, hugging her. “He said they’d start the search again for that miserable bastard. It shouldn’t be long now, love.”

  She felt great relief, and to her chagrin, tears stung her eyes. “I am so lucky,” she said, and flung her arms around her brother. “Thank you, Thomas.”

  “Perhaps,” he said quietly, a bit of humor in his voice, “it is I who should thank you, my dear.”

  She gulped, not pretending to misunderstand him. “Penelope told you that we had a little . . . talk?”

  “Yes, though it took me a while to pry it out of her.”

  “You’re not angry at me for meddling, are you?”

  “No, little idiot.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Actually, it pleases me mightily to know that Saint is such a . . . caring husband.”

  “Oh!” She pummeled his chest, her cheeks flushed.

  “As for my wife, let us say that her attitude is changing. It’s now up to me, I suppose, to be patient as a saint.”

  “My husband could give you advice about that,” she said, grinning up at him.

  Penelope came into the dining room at that moment, Saint beside her. “Good morning,” she said, and when her eyes met her husband’s, she blushed faintly.

  “Michael,” Jules said as she ate her scrambled eggs, “would you like me to change the bandage this morning?”

  “All right,” he said. “Then, sweetheart, it’s off for good in three days. It’s time I saw my beautiful wife again, as well as my complaining patients.”

  Jules was silent a moment; she was praying.

  “I’ll provide the champagne,” Penelope said, surprising everyone.

  Saint chuckled. “Your father does have the best wine cellar in San Francisco. Think you can sneak some out of there, Penelope?”

  Penelope felt herself smiling. Indeed, she realized, she felt comfortable and . . . wanted. It was a heady feeling. “Yes,” she said, joining in the laughter. “I shall lock Ezra in the cellar if he gives me any trouble.”

  “Or, love,” Thomas said, leaning closer to her, “if you prefer, I could be convinced to have Ezra lock us in the cellar with the champagne. I can just see you now, Pen, your petticoats in wild disarray and a half-empty bottle in your hand.”

  To Thomas’ utter delight, his wife giggled.

  How could I have forgotten even for a moment? Jules thought blankly that afternoon as she stood in the entranceway, another letter from Wilkes clutched in her hand. It read simply:

  My dear Juliana,

  You force me yet again to withdraw. It is not over. Pray do not forget me.

  It was Penelope who found her, white-faced, rigid, and alone, huddled next to the sofa on the floor.

  She took the crushed paper from her sister-in-law’s nerveless hand, smoothed it out, and read it. She said nothing, merely helped Jules to her feet and drew her against her, hugging her.

  Jules said, “God I wish I had my derringer.”

  Penelope gently patted her back. “Why don’t I purchase one for each of us?”

  Jules could only stare at her.

  “Yes,” Penelope said again. “I believe I shall go out now.”

  And she did.

  27

  There was not a sound that morning in Saint’s surgery. The small room was crowded. Thomas, Penelope, Jules, and Dr. Pickett all stood as still as stones, waiting. Thackery and Lydia were outside the open doorway in the entrance hall.

  Jules could hear everyone else breathing. She was holding her own breath.

  Dr. Pickett cleared his throat. “Saint?”

  Saint said nothing for many moments. “Jules,” he said finally, “is that a freckle I see on your nose?”

  Jules stared at him, for the moment unable to accept his words. Then, at his slow smile, she flung herself into his arms, nearly knocking him backward. “Yes,” she said against his shoulder, “it’s a freckle. I don’t know where it came from. I suppose I could use some lemon juice or something . . .” She finally broke off, knowing she was babbling.

  “Or some cucumber lotion,” Penelope said.

  “Or just let me kiss that very cute freckle,” Saint said. He drew her back, stared down into the dearest face he’d ever seen, and lightly kissed the tip of her nose. “Hello, wife,” he said, stroking his fingertips over her face. “It’s quite nice to see you again.”

  Thomas gave a loud shout and wrung Dr. Pickett’s hand.

  “It seems to me,” Saint said after a moment, a mock frown furrowing his brow, “that a do
ctor’s surgery is the last place to expect such an excess of spirits.”

  But nobody paid him any mind. He accepted handshakes, back slaps, with a big smile and his deep laugh. Jules saw his eyes glitter with pleasure, and she didn’t believe she’d ever seen him so happy. She sent a prayer of thanks heavenward, and eyed him hungrily.

  “Pen,” Thomas said after a moment, “it’s time to get on with the excess of spirits. And Saint’s right—this surgery is too small for us.”

  “Actually,” Penelope said a few minutes later when they were all in the dining room, “my father insisted I bring over six bottles of his best champagne.”

  “Drunk as loons by noon,” Dr. Pickett said, raising his filled glass a few minutes later in the dining room. “To the return of the most saintly man in San Francisco.”

  “And the biggest tale-bearer,” Lydia said.

  “Could you rephrase that a bit, Lydia?” Saint said. He looked around the table at all his friends. It was a heady thing, this looking and seeing, he thought. “Lord,” he said, his voice deep with his feelings, “it’s good to see all of you again. Allow me to refill everyone’s glass. If I spill any, it won’t be because I’m not seeing straight.”

  Jules looked at Thackery and was surprised to see tears in the black man’s eyes. He met her gaze and said with a crooked smile, “I never drank champagne before.”

  “Your wife, Thomas,” Saint said as he refilled Penelope’s glass, “looks as content as a spring rose, and just as pretty. Is he a good husband to you, my dear?”

  Penelope gulped, her cheeks flushing with Thomas’ laughing eyes on her. “He will improve,” she said finally.

  “Every day,” Thomas said, “yes, indeed.”

  “Saint,” Lydia said, “I’ve baked you your favorite apple tarts. If we’re all not to be drunk under the table, I’d best serve them now.”

  Three hours later, Saint, a bit tottery himself, was giving out advice for hangovers.

  But it was only the beginning. By evening it seemed to Jules that everyone in San Francisco knew that Saint had regained his sight. The stream of visitors was continuous. The women brought food, the men liquor.

  At midnight Jules was so tipsy that Saint half-carried her upstairs to their bedroom. He called over his shoulder, “Good luck to you, Thomas.” He grinned at the sound of Penelope’s giggle.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you quite so sodden,” he said to his wife as he undressed her. Jules looked at him owlishly and grinned. He kissed her freckle again. “Do you think if we listen we’ll hear some marvelous lewd sounds coming from the other bedroom?”

  “What if they listen, Michael?” she asked, her eyes nearly crossing in her effort to focus on his face.

  “I fear,” he said with a disappointed sigh, “that all they would hear would be the sound of your unladylike snoring.”

  She tried to punch him in the stomach, but missed. Her head spinning, she fell onto her back on the bed.

  Saint grinned down at her, and quickly pulled off the rest of her clothes. For a moment he was on the sober edge. “God,” he whispered, looking down at her. “I prayed I would see again. Do you know how beautiful you are, Jules?”

  Jules was too giddy to care that she was sprawled on her back, her legs parted.

  “That flame-colored hair, very delightful, sweetheart.” She realized vaguely that he wasn’t looking at her head.

  “Michael,” she said, and tried to cover herself, only to feel his strong hands pulling hers away.

  “Oh no, you are mine, all mine.”

  She swallowed at the richness of his deep voice, then felt a wave of dizziness and giggled. “You have your clothes on,” she said.

  “Not for much longer.”

  To his chagrin, Jules was sound asleep when he turned back to her. He kissed her lightly, drawing her slender body against him. She’d lost weight, he thought vaguely, his eyes studying her. He looked a moment toward the lamp by the bed. I can see you, he silently told the light. I can see everything. I am the luckiest man on earth. He was loath to plunge the room into darkness. I will see the sun in the morning, he thought. He grinned crookedly. And I will feel like the very devil and probably curse it.

  The following afternoon, Saint was cursing, but not from a hangover. He was standing by the dresser in their bedroom, two pieces of paper in his hand. He closed his eyes a moment, utter fury washing through him.

  He strode to the top of the stairs and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Jules! Come here, now!”

  Jules, who was feeling a bit tentative, excused herself from her company and slowly, with great care, mounted the stairs. She heard Agatha Newton, Tony Dawson, and Chauncey Saxton laughing in the parlor, and wished they wouldn’t be quite so loud.

  “Yes, Michael?” she said, coming into the bedroom.

  She stopped cold in her tracks, seeing him waving two sheets of paper at her.

  “I was looking for a handkerchief,” he said with great calm, “and I just chanced to come across these.”

  She looked at him helplessly.

  “It is not that I haven’t enjoyed having Thomas and Penelope staying with us,” he continued, his voice becoming harder, “but this, Juliana! Damn you, how dare you?”

  Juliana. She’d just regressed again. “Michael,” she began, sliding her tongue over her lips, “you don’t understand . . .” Her mouth felt like dry cotton.

  “Yes?” he said, his voice silky. “You can, I am certain, manage a marvelously competent explanation. You’re rarely at a loss for glib words, are you? . . . Well?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t throw them away,” she said, cursing herself silently, her eyes, as if mesmerized, on those wretched sheets of paper.

  “Juliana! Damn you, answer me!”

  She raised pleading eyes to his face, and he cursed crudely.

  “Do you have any idea how this makes me feel?” He waved the papers in front of her nose. “Less than a man—in fact, something far less than a tinker’s damn! How dare you keep this from me?”

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. The papers made a loud crumpling noise as they wrinkled between his hand and her shoulder.

  “If I recall correctly, I said very nearly the same things to you before, didn’t I? Did my feelings then mean nothing to you?”

  How dare he treat her to this ridiculous tirade, she thought suddenly. She jerked away from him. “All right,” she said, glaring at him. “I was protecting you, dammit! I love you and I couldn’t allow you to be worried!”

  “I had every right to know that this . . . vermin was threatening you again!”

  “No,” she said, stiffening her backbone, “no, you didn’t.” She added, “And stop cursing me. There was nothing you could have done in any case. If you don’t remember, you were blind! Helpless!”

  He realized the justice of her reasoning, but was not ready to release the meaty bone of contention. “So,” he sneered, “you, my little wife, made the decision that I was to be left ignorant. Is there anything else I should know? Did it not occur to you to tell me yesterday, when, if you will remember, I saw the light of day again?”

  “I was too drunk and too happy,” she said. “I forgot to tell you.” She thrust up her chin. “Even if I had thought of it, I wouldn’t have said anything. We were celebrating, remember?”

  That halted him in his tracks, but for just a moment. “Then you should have told me this morning.”

  Jules eyed him with growing anger. “You are acting ridiculously,” she said. “I will have no more of your silly shouting and wounded male vanity. I would do the same thing again, do you hear? Now, we have company downstairs.”

  “I happen to be nine years older than you and twice your size,” he said. “I refuse to be ordered about by a little twit now or ever. Do you understand me?”

  “Damned arrogant man,” Jules muttered. “If you wish to nurse your grievances, do so, Michael. I’m leaving!”

  He stared at her a mome
nt. “ ‘Damned arrogant man,’ ” he repeated, as if disbelieving of the words until they’d come from his own mouth. “That’s what you think I am?”

  “I do,” she said firmly, “if you continue to call me Juliana.”

  “Oh shit,” he said, and thrashed his fingers through his hair. “Come here, you idiot.”

  She gave him a hopeful, tentative smile, and at the answering tenderness in his eyes, she threw herself into his arms. “I’m sorry,” she whispered against his shoulder. “I did what I thought I had to do, what I thought was best.”

  “I know,” he said, “I know.”

  He began kissing her, and her response was immediate and most gratifying.

  “Oh God,” he said, reluctantly releasing her, “company downstairs, did you say?”

  “You’ve a lot of friends, Michael,” she said.

  “Any chance of sending the whole bloody lot of them to the devil right now?”

  “Probably not,” she said, a wealth of disappointment in her voice.

  He hugged her to his side. “Onward, love. Charm and all that.”

  He called me “love,” she thought, dazed and so happy she wanted to yell. She paused. Perhaps it had just been another endearment, like “sweetheart.”

  At dinner that evening, Saint merely asked Thomas what he’d heard about Wilkes. Thomas drew a relieved breath, shot his sister a smile, and told his brother-in-law what they were doing.

  As for Jules, she sent a conspiratorial smile toward Penelope. Both women now owned a derringer. When Jules had shown her how to fire it, she’d said, “Men aren’t altogether reasonable. I am continually amazed that they actually believe that women are helpless creatures with even less sense. Here, Pen, you load it now.”

  Jules said nothing at all while Thomas and Saint discussed Wilkes. She watched her husband as he used his large hands to make a point, watched his beautiful hazel eyes change in intensity as he spoke. His white teeth gleamed with a wide smile. Her eyes drifted slowly over his body. She imagined him naked, and felt a spurt of warmth deep in her belly. At that moment, Saint met her eyes. A brow arched upward, and his eyes darkened.