Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [124]
“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.
Jules laughed, a nervous, silly sound that made Saint grin at her wickedly. “I don’t think,” he said to Thomas, “that I will ask your sister what she’s thinking right now.”
“Why not?” Penelope demanded. “Jules has very good ideas.”
“Too true,” Saint said blandly. “Too true.”
“I will tell you later, Michael, exactly what I’m thinking,” Jules said, trying to frown him down.
“Or you could simply show me,” Saint said.
“But Jules,” Penelope protested, “why don’t you tell him now? This does concern you.”
Thomas broke into merry laughter. He leaned over and clasped his wife’s slender hand. “She can’t, love, it would be too . . . embarrassing.”
“Oh! You mean that . . . You are a wretched tease, Thomas DuPres!”
“Tease? Really, Pen, you know better than that!”
Saint didn’t believe that he would ever tire of watching his wife brush her hair. She was wearing the dark blue velvet dressing gown he’d given her at Christmas, and her thick beautiful hair rippled down her back. He was lying on the bed, his head pillowed on his arms. He said idly, “I explained things to Thomas, just as you asked.”
Jules looked at him in the mirror, a grin on her face. “And what did my brother have to say?”
“Well, he looked very surprised, really. Astonished, I suppose you could say. As I recall, he said, ‘Saint, are you certain that is how it’s done? I thought the ear—’ ”
Jules threw her hairbrush at him.
He let it bounce off his chest, then tossed it back to her. “To be serious about it, I simply asked him how things were going with his bride. He looked greatly pleased. Of course, sweetheart, two gentlemen wouldn’t discuss techniques or exact approaches, not like you ladies appear to do.”
Jules rose from her chair and slipped off her dressing gown. She enjoyed the feel of it and stood quietly a moment, stroking her hand over the velvet.
“Why don’t you consider putting me around you? I imagine I’m much warmer than that dressing gown.”
Jules looked uncertain, then, as her eyes began to twinkle, nodded. “Hairy velvet. It’s certainly a thought.”
“Come here, wench,” he said, pulling back the covers.
She felt herself grow warm at the sight of him. “Have you never worn a nightshirt?” she asked, standing over him, her gaze going slowly down his body.
Just those few times when I was afraid I would ravish you if I didn’t.
“No,” he said, his voice growing thick as her eyes rested on his groin.
“You are so beautiful, Michael,