Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [50]
“Good for you,” Saint said. “Well done, Jules.”
“I did it only once,” she said, more calmly now. “I was too frightened of him to put up much of a fight after that.” She buried her face against his chest again. “He even made me relieve myself in front of him, and bathe. I felt like a cheap, worthless . . . nothing. He wouldn’t stop fondling me! God, I hated his hands, and how he looked at me when he was touching me.”
He held her tightly against him, rocking her slightly. At least it was all out now. He knew the moment she got a hold on herself and came completely awake. He felt her stiffen.
“Jules,” he said sharply, shaking her, “no, don’t think what you’re thinking.”
She sniffed, then very slowly pulled away from him. He let her go and she sank back down on the pillow. She closed her eyes, thinking that even in the dark she could make out the disgust and distaste on his face. All because of a stupid nightmare. She turned her face away.
“Jules,” he said quietly, lightly touching his fingertips to her hair. “Do you feel better now?”
Feel better! She wanted to die.
He repeated his question.
Say something, you spineless idiot! “Yes,” she managed. “Please, Michael, I want to go back to sleep.”
She heard the bed creak as he rose. There was absolute silence for several moments, except for their breathing. He was staring at her—she knew it, she could feel the condemnation flowing from him to her.
Saint sighed, turned, and left the bedroom.
The next morning when he called her for breakfast, she sidled out of the bedroom as if she’d been hiding. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“We’re leaving this afternoon on the Oregon,” he said, toying with his bread.
She said nothing.
“Is there anything you would like me to fetch for you from your parents’ house?”
She raised her head, but still didn’t meet his eyes. “My surfboard is hidden behind the house.”
“Unfortunately, the water is too cold for surfboarding in San Francisco. I remember you were quite good at it.”
“Yes, I am. I will miss that wild feeling.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Kanola taught me when we were very young.”
This is no Garden of Eden, he thought. This is more like hell we’re escaping. He said sharply, “Enough, Jules. Your life has changed—neither you nor I can deny that. But everything will work out. I promise to be a good husband to you. I promise you’ll never starve.”
“If we’re ever on the edge,” she said, “you can always sell me to the highest bidder.”
He stood abruptly, his chair falling to the floor, and placed his splayed hands on the tabletop. “If you ever speak like that again, I will thrash you.” His anger was immense, but when he saw her flinch, it dissolved immediately. “And if you ever cower away from me, I’ll thrash you. Damn you, Jules, I am not Jameson Wilkes, nor am I John Bleecher!” She didn’t reply, but then again, he didn’t expect her to. He straightened, a bit chagrined by his display, and said more calmly, “Your brother will meet us at the dock.”
But Thomas wouldn’t meet them at the dock. Later that morning, Dwight Baldwin rode his swaybacked mare to the small house on Makila Point. “Saint,” he said. “Juliana.”
Saint shook his hand, saw the troubled look in his gray eyes, and said quietly, “What’s wrong, Dwight?”
Reverend Baldwin sent a worried look toward Jules.
“What’s wrong, sir?” she asked in a shrill voice, her body tensing.
“I’m sorry,” Dwight said. “Thomas was beaten up last night. No, no, he’ll be all right, but he’s in no shape to travel for a while.”
“His injuries?” Saint asked in a tight, controlled voice.
“No internal injuries, as best I can judge,” Dwight said. “But he’s got a couple of broken ribs, and a broken leg. He’ll need to stay in bed for several weeks.”
“Who did it?” Jules asked.
“John Bleecher and some of his friends. The bunch