Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [99]
Brent waited for the explosion, but it didn’t come. He watched in astonishment as Saint appeared to consider his suggestion. “I probably should,” Saint said at last. “It would at least protect her from me.”
For a long moment Brent simply stared at his friend. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Finally he said very quietly, “Can I tell you a story, Saint?” He continued without pause, “When Byrony and I were first married, we didn’t get along—my fault of course. She followed me to Celeste’s house, thinking I was going to my mistress to sleep with her. Odd. In fact, I wanted to ask Celeste about preventing conception. Do you know that she faced me down? Yelled at me like a fishwife. I was so mad I was ready to strangle her.”
“Your point, Hammond?” Saint asked almost savagely.
“Hmm, well, I guess it’s that Byrony showed a lot of courage to do that. It wasn’t quite the same thing, but just maybe Jules wants and needs your attention, and you’ve frozen her out. Neither Thackery nor I, I might add, can understand why you don’t appear to give a good damn about your wife.”
Saint scraped his chair back and rose. He wasn’t aware that a goodly number of men were regarding him intently. “It’s gotta be a woman,” Bear Paw said. Limpin’ Willie nodded sage agreement.
“You want to borrow a whip, Saint?” Brent asked with interest, not at all intimidated by his friend’s menacing size or mean stare. “Really bring the little fool to her knees? Or you could send her back East with Thomas. And if Thomas isn’t going back East, hell, send her there by herself. Get rid of the thorn in your side once and for all.”
Brent’s mockery seared him. It’s time to end it, Saint realized, staring blankly through Brent. “Yes,” he said, “it is time to get rid of the thorn.”
Brent felt a moment of fear at what his words had wrought. He wondered if he should cosh Saint over the head, if he should . . . No, he decided, violence was abhorrent to Saint. If he had indeed thrashed her, he wouldn’t again. He watched Saint throw down several dollar bills and stride out of the Wild Star.
“You calm him down, Brent?” Nero asked.
“God only knows,” Brent said. He rose and heaved a mighty sigh. “I think,” he said, a crooked grin on his face, “that I shall go upstairs and tell my wife how much I love her.”
Saint had sobered up dramatically by the time he reached his house. It was completely dark. What did you expect, you fool? It was, after all, well after midnight. He banged about loudly, wanting her to wake up.
Jules was awake. After Saint lit the lamp in the spare bedroom, she was sitting up in bed, regarding him warily.
“How’s your bottom?” he asked, sitting down beside her on the bed. Her hair was in wild disarray about her shoulders, her eyes vivid and large in the spidery light.
She looked thoughtful a moment, as if considering his question. “I am fine,” she said finally. “Are you drunk?”
“I was, but not much now. I guess that’s one benefit to being a large man.”
“Did you come to hurt me again?”
“No,” he said, wincing inwardly at her words. “At least I hope I won’t hurt you. I’ve come to end it all, Jules.”
“Jules,” not “Juliana.”
“What do you mean, Michael?”
He gave her a crooked grin. “Well, first I want to have a look at your bottom. I was pretty heavy-handed with you, I’m afraid.”
She flushed, and drew back a bit. “My bottom is fine, I told you.”
“After I look at your bottom, I want to toss that nightgown of yours into the corner. Then I want to carry you to my—our—bedroom.”
Jules couldn’t believe his words, and gaped at him. She began nervously to pleat the sheet between her fingers. “Why?” she blurted out.
“It’s got to stop,” Saint said. “I’ve been a bloody fool. I want you, Jules. I want you so badly I hurt most of the time.” He paused a moment, looking at her searchingly. Her expression was unreadable, but of course he hadn’t tried all that hard to read her expressions. “First, I want to see your bottom.”
Jules felt a surge of pure happiness flow through