She said, in an attempt at humor, “Wouldn’t you prefer me as your mistress? Isn’t a wife more expensive?”
“No, I wouldn’t, and frankly, I don’t remember how expensive a wife is.”
Jules blinked at that, distracted. “You’ve already had a wife, Michael?”
“Yes, in Boston. Her name was Kathleen and she was an Irish girl. Only seventeen, but I was a wordly twenty-year-old. She left me to return to Dublin to fetch her mother. She died there of cholera, as did her mother.” Saint paused, aware that he’d spoken emotionlessly. He was also aware that he felt nothing but a faint regret now. Indeed, he could no longer see Kathleen’s face in his mind’s eye.
“I’m sorry,” Jules said, and quickly lowered her eyes. She felt guilty suddenly because she was glad Kathleen was dead and out of Michael’s life.
“It was many years ago, and there’s no reason for you to be sorry. She wasn’t part of your life.” Saint’s voice was natural now, and he was in firm control again. “Now, Jules, your answer, please.”
It wasn’t really a question, she knew, but she didn’t say that aloud. She wanted to ask him if he loved her, but she didn’t ask that either. He didn’t. She also knew, in that moment, that she had enough love for both of them. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, she thought blankly.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Michael, I would be honored to marry you.”
He felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His friends had teased him many times about taking a wife. They would doubtless be delighted. And she wasn’t a stranger to him. He had watched his own wife grow up—at least he’d known Jules in her most formative years. And liked her and enjoyed her company.
“Come here,” he said, “and let me kiss you.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt another, equally heavy weight descend. He couldn’t and wouldn’t force her to be a wife in more than name, not after what she had been through.
To his surprise, Jules walked back to him, stood quietly in front of him, and raised her face. He quickly placed a chaste kiss on her pursed lips. They had been friends, and they would continue to be friends. Nothing would change that. He would never hurt her.
Jules opened her eyes. “Thank you, Michael,” she said.
“Certainly,” he said abruptly, misunderstanding her words. What did she think, he wondered—that he would ravish her here on the beach, like John Bleecher?
He caught her hand in his and they walked from the beach together.
Dwight Baldwin wished he’d been present at the church that morning. Certainly he’d been appalled to hear that Saint had physically assaulted a man of God, but he was willing to make allowances when he heard what Etienne DuPres had said. He smiled at Saint now as he stood beside his new bride. He looked immensely relieved, and he was smiling, thank the Lord. Poor Juliana looked numb. Perhaps everything would work out well between these two very good people. He would send many prayers heavenward to that end.
“You may kiss her now, Saint,” Dwight said.
Saint dipped his head and gently touched his closed lips to hers.
Mrs. Baldwin, a placid, plump woman, hugged Jules, and to Dwight’s surprise, Jules said with some of her old enthusiasm, “I’d forgotten how beautiful your garden is, ma’am. The kukui, bananas, guava, kou—”
“Don’t forget the grape arbors,” Saint added, giving her a tender smile. “Surely, Mrs. Baldwin, you remember what a naturalist Jules is. Have you any new plants to show her?”
“Figs,” said Mrs. Baldwin. “If you like, Juliana, we can serve you some at the wedding dinner.”
Jules turned wide eyes on her hostess. “Wedding dinner? But there is no one to come.”
Dwight said easily, though he thought he actually felt her pain for a moment, “Of course we’re having a celebration dinner, my dear. You and Saint have many friends here. True friends, you know, remain just that.”
“I do not wish,” Jules said to Reverend Baldwin, “for you to be in disagreement with my father. It could not be comfortable for you. You have already done so much for me . . . for us.”
He wanted to tell her that he thought her father was the most unnatural creature imaginable, but he didn’t. There was no reason to upset her further. “I will be just fine, Juliana. You are not to worry about anyone save your new husband, and I think the poor man is becoming faint from hunger.”
“I agree,” Saint said. “You are to talk about me, my empty stomach, and not about the Baldwins’ garden.”
Jules took him at his word, and to his consternation, began to tell the Baldwins about his fine and selfless work in San Francisco.
“I think that soon you will be as noble as your nickname, Saint,” Dwight said with a crooked smile sometime later in the crowded Baldwin parlor. “You’ve got yourself a fine woman.”
“Yes,” Saint said, looking over to where Jules stood speaking to several local Hawaiian families. “I never thought this would happen, even two days ago.” He shook his head. “Life is bloody strange.”
Dwight laughed. “I’m just glad you weren’t already married. Then we would have been in the stew!”
Saint said before thinking, “No, marriage wasn’t for me. I . . .” He broke off suddenly, a flush rising on his cheeks.
Dwight patted his arm. “You’ll think differently—quite soon, I would imagine. My, my, look who is here.”
Thomas DuPres, dressed in his Sunday black suit, stood uncomfortably in the doorway, his hands nervously picking at the rim of his hat.
Saint, without another word, strode to his new brother-in-law and extended his hand. “Thank you for coming, Thomas,” he said.
Behind him he heard Jules’s soft voice. “Thomas!” He stepped aside and watched brother and sister embrace, Thomas awkwardly patting Jules’s back.
Saint said quietly, “After everyone has left, Thomas, why don’t you stay awhile? We can talk. As for you, my dear,” he continued to his new wife, “would you care for a glass of punch? I’m sure Thomas is also very thirsty.”
Before the evening was over, Saint was approached by two ships’ captains. Captain Richards of the Occidental said, “Wilkes has been a thorn in my side for years, Saint. David Gascony and I were talking. When we get to San Francisco, we’ve decided to look the bastard up and—”
“And what?” Saint asked, touched and amused by their concern. “There’s nothing any of us can do, unfortunately. If you and John made a fuss in San Francisco, my wife’s reputation would be seriously damaged, and she would be hurt even more than she has been here.”
“Damn,” said David Gascony. “I hate to think the bastard will simply get away with it!”
“At least,” Mark Richards said, stroking his full whiskers, “you didn’t let her bastard of a father get away with his rotten words, blast him.”
Dwight Baldwin said, humor lacing his deep voice, “I agree completely, Mark. Would you believe it? Etienne called me to his house to take care of his jaw. I tell you honestly, I was sorely tempted to finish the job. I covered the entire side of his face with iodine, Saint, and told him in all seriousness not to talk for at least three days.”
The men laughed. Jules looked up at the sound of Michael’s rumbling laughter, and blinked. She thought it was the first time he had truly laughed since she’d seen him again. It was a wonderful sound. He’s my husband, she thought. My husband.
“I’ll tell you something else, Saint,” Dwight said a little while later. “Etienne knew I was going to marry the two of you. He just looked at me, didn’t say a single word, and I swear to you, I think he was delighted. In fact, it occurred to me that he may have perhaps denounced his daughter to force your hand.”
“Then he is indeed a despicable creature,” Saint said, his lips thinning. “I tell you, Dwight, if heaven is populated with a congregation like him, I don’t think I want to get past Saint Peter.”
“One saint telling another saint to remove himself? Impossible, my dear
fellow!”
Dwight arranged with his friends the Markhams to lend a small house to the newlyweds. It was located near Makila Point, only a fifteen-minute carriage ride south of Lahaina. Saint didn’t want to be alone with Jules, but there was nothing he could do save accept the Markhams’ offer with good grace. He waited until Jules went upstairs with Mrs. Baldwin to pack her few things before speaking to Thomas. Dwight, a gentleman of great understanding, left them alone in the parlor.
“I hate him,” Thomas said without preamble. “I hadn’t realized how much until I saw how he treated Juliana. And John Bleecher—dammit, Saint, the fellow’s paltry, a coward! He and Sarah deserve each other!”
“I agree with everything you’ve said, Thomas,” Saint said, lowering his body into a comfortable chair. “The question is, what are you going to do?”
Thomas DuPres drew a deep breath and blurted out, “I want to go to San Francisco with you and Juliana.”
Saint saw the pleading and defiance in the young man’s eyes, and slowly nodded. “Yes, I think that would be a good idea. Unfortunately, Jules and I won’t be leaving until next Wednesday, aboard the Oregon. Where will you stay until then? I assume you know that your sister and I are expected to be alone.”
“I’ve already asked my friend Hopu. Hell, Saint, I’d sleep on the beach if I had to.”
“Have you thought about what you want to do when we reach California?” Saint held his breath, fearing he’d hear Thomas spout off about finding gold and becoming rich overnight. He was blessedly surprised when the younger man said, his voice rich with determination, “That’s easy. I want to be a doctor, like you.”
Saint said on a slow smile, “Excellent, Thomas,” He rose and firmly clasped his hand. “Will you say good-bye to your parents?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said truthfully. “Perhaps by Wednesday I’ll be able to, but not now.”
“I know just what you mean. Indeed I do. Now, let’s drink a bit of Dwight’s excellent brandy.”
“Father has always hated Juliana,” Thomas said, swishing the amber liquid in his glass some moments later. “She’s so different, you know.”
“I’ve often wondered about that,” Saint said.
“I overheard him talking to my mother about Juliana some years ago—complaining, of course. I think it’s all because—and you won’t believe this—my mother’s mother was a French actress, and Juliana is the very image of her. Evidently my grandmother called my father a petty bourgeois, told my mother she was a stupid twit to marry such a pious prig. My father, of course, could just barely overcome his scruples to marry my mother. And he quickly removed her from all sinful influences.”
“I begin to understand,” Saint said. “Hair as red as sin and eyes just as wicked, is that it?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s it. But it’s paltry, Saint, to dislike a person—your own child, for heaven’s sake—all because she resembles someone else.”
It was more than “paltry,” Saint thought later; it was an illness that no physician could cure.
It was a beautiful, calm evening, the waves breaking gently onto the shore, their white crests gleaming nearly silver under the half-moon and brilliant stars.
“We’re married,” Jules said, staring out over the water from her perch on some volcanic rocks.
“Yes,” Saint agreed, wishing she weren’t sitting so close to him, “yes, we are. Is it all right with you, Mrs. Morris?”
“Yes,” she said, turning to face him. “I promise I won’t be very expensive, Michael. I like that—Mrs. Juliana Morris.”
There was humor in her voice and it pleased him inordinately. He took her hand in his without meaning to. Her flesh was warm and soft. “That’s a relief,” he said, smiling at her, “because I don’t have that much money. It isn’t unusual for my patients to pay me with favors.”
“I’m fortunate then,” she said with great insight, “else you might have had more trouble rescuing me, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, that’s so,” he said, releasing her hand. A strand of thick hair blew across her face, and without thinking, he reached up to smooth it back. She grew very still, her large vivid eyes unwavering on his face.
He rose abruptly, keeping his back to her. He looked down at his enthusiastic member, now bulging against his trousers, and cursed softly. “It’s late, Jules,” he said, his voice sounding harsh. “Go to bed.”
Jules stared at his rigid back. “I think I’d rather go swimming,” she said softly.
He quivered at that, remembering that night on the beach, her eyes on his naked body. He closed his eyes a moment, but he saw her in his vivid fantasy, saw his hands widening her legs, saw his hands stroking up her thighs to clutch her hips, to bring her down upon him.
“Go to bed,” he repeated.
“But don’t you want to—?”
He whirled around. “Damn you, Jules, get into the house! I am your husband, and you’ll obey me. Now!”
11
Jules woke up abruptly, disoriented for several moments. She stared about the small bedroom and for a brief instant thought that Wilkes was here, and she was again his prisoner.
When she read Michael’s brief note, propped up on the kitchen table, telling her he had gone into Lahaina to fetch some food, she felt at first profound relief, than a spurt of anger.
Why hadn’t he awakened her? She felt as if she were in some kind of quarantine. Was he afraid that she would be stoned for a harlot if she were to show her face again?
She stripped off her modest cotton nightgown, wrapped her swimming sarong around her, and left the house.
“Jules! I’m back!”
There was no answer. Saint saw her rumpled nightgown on the floor and shook his head. He knew where she was. He closed his eyes a moment. Please, he prayed, she wouldn’t, couldn’t, swim nude as he had done that night.
He strolled onto the beach, shaded his eyes against the bright morning sun, and searched for her bright head. He felt his heart pound uncomfortably for a moment when he finally spotted her. Dear heavens, she was out so far! Did she want to kill herself? He turned cold at the thought.
He was standing on the beach when Jules, having caught a big wave, was carried nearly to his feet on her stomach. She was laughing. He watched her stand and wring out her hair. The sarong molded her young body, leaving very little to the imagination—at least to his imagination.
“You swam out a good mile,” he said, his voice rough, hands on hips.
Jules smiled at him. “Good morning. Yes, I did. I had to, you know. The reef sharks like the deeper water on the far side of that coral reef.” He followed her pointing finger.
“I see,” he said. “Come along, I’ve got our breakfast. Can you cook, Jules?”
“I can try,” she said, giving him a sunny, guileless smile. She’d determined a good hour ago that she wouldn’t make him feel guilty for leaving her alone. She wouldn’t nag him or make him sorry he’d married her. She wouldn’t say a word about spending the night by herself. She would be the perfect wife.
“That sounds ominous. Perhaps together we can keep ourselves from starvation.”
She wanted to tell him how very handsome he was in his loose white shirt and black trousers. But he looked preoccupied, so she merely nodded and trotted after him into the small house.
He said, not looking at her, “Why don’t you change first?”
“Actually, I’d like to get the salt water off me. There’s a fresh spring just a few hundred yards away.”
“Go ahead, then. I’ll see what I can do about feeding us.”
When Jules returned some thirty minutes later, Saint realized that he had grown concerned not ten minutes after she’d left. “Next time,” he said curtly, “I’ll go with you.”
“All right,” she said agreeably. “This looks delicious!”
They feasted on eggs, fresh papaya, and bread. “You, Michael,” Jules said, sitting back in her chair and patting her stomach, “are an incred
ible man. You can do everything.”
“Your hair is dry,” he said, disregarding her praise as he eyed the riotous curls.
She touched her fingers to her hair and sighed. “I’ll have to tie the mess down with a ribbon.”
“No, leave it the way it is. I like it.”
She looked so pleased with the meager compliment that Saint flinched. He added, “Your hair is beautiful. I’ve always thought so.”
She actually flushed with pleasure, and he rose abruptly from the table, turning away. He closed his eyes. Lord, he didn’t want the responsibility for this fairy creature. She could be too easily hurt. “What would you like to do today?” he asked. Three days and two more nights, he thought blankly. He’d slept outdoors the previous night. Thank heaven they weren’t in Massachusetts, in the winter.
“I wish we had time to go to the volcano and see the sunrise. It’s very spectacular.”
“We don’t, unfortunately. Any other ideas?”
She was silent for a long while, staring thoughtfully down at her folded hands. “Kanola and I were swimming off Makila Point when Wilkes kidnapped us. I thought I would be frightened to swim here again, but I wasn’t. Is that . . . unnatural?”
She was such a curious little thing, he thought, staring at her. “No,” he said finally. “It means that you’ve got lots of common sense.”
“That or no sensibilities,” she said. “When Mrs. Baldwin took me upstairs last evening, I told her about it—Makila Point, that is. I thought she was going to faint.”
“You didn’t tell her any of the rest of it?” he asked carefully.
“No, of course not.” She lowered her eyes. “She asked me if there was anything I wanted to know about my wedding night.”
Saint swallowed convulsively. “And?”
“I already know everything, Michael! I just asked her if men stuck that thing into . . .” She broke off, her face as red as if she’d been in the sun too long.