He remembered the young girl telling him that she hated the name Juliana, and he’d said, looking at her glorious, wildly curling hair, “Why not ‘Jules’ then? That’s close enough to ‘jewels,’ and that’s like your hair. All right?”
“Not slime,” he repeated, smiling gently at her. “Your eyes, like your hair, are jewels, green jade in this case.”
“You make me sound like a gawdy piece of jewelry. Rubies and jade!” She paused a moment, then said, nodding, “I like the jade. That makes me sound exotic.”
He heard Lydia call up and frowned. They’d spoken of nothing really. But at least she was responding to him normally. He said, “There’s the sterling voice of my housekeeper, Lydia. I told her about you, Jules, and she’s made you breakfast. Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised. “You know, I really am. For the first time in a long while.”
He saw a flash of pain in her eyes, but for the moment he ignored it. “Let me invite Lydia up to meet you. You’ll like her.”
Jules did like Lydia, but the housekeeper clucked over her until finally Saint sent her out of the room.
Some minutes later, Saint was thinking between bites of fluffy scrambled eggs that she was responding much better than he’d believed possible. And her eyes were brighter; she was more alert.
And she was so damned beautiful that it made him ache just to look at her. And she was in his bed, and not fourteen years old anymore.
When Lydia came back to remove the breakfast trays, she looked closely at Jules. “Good, you did justice to my food. You let Saint take care of you, young lady.”
“You and that crazy name,” Jules said.
“No one else calls me Michael,” he said. He reached out his hand to touch her jaw. To his consternation, she jerked away from him, her eyes widening in terror.
“I’m sorry, Jules,” he said, immediately dropping his hand. He forced a rueful grin. “I just want to feel your jaw. I did smack you pretty hard.”
Get hold of yourself, and stop acting like a ninny! He’s not Jameson Wilkes! “I’m being stupid,”
she mumbled, trying to make herself relax.
“No, you’re being very brave. I’m proud of you.”
She gave him a pitifully hopeful look that made him flinch inwardly. “I’m glad you haven’t changed,” she said. “You may feel my jaw. I won’t be silly anymore.”
She leaned forward and watched his face as his fingers, long, blunt, yet so gentle, touched her sore jaw. Without conscious thought, she leaned against his fingers, years of absolute trust inherent in the simple movement.
Saint felt a treacherous weight descend. She was so vulnerable, so unsettled and confused, and he was her anchor. He looked at the gentle arch of her slender neck. So delicate, he thought, so fragile. He drew his hand away, appalled at himself. Again.
She smiled at him, a dazzling smile. He sucked in his breath. “You’ve turned into a beautiful woman, Jules,” he managed.
“Me?” She laughed incredulously. “Well, maybe passable. John Bleecher did want to marry me, you know,” she added on a mischievous grin.
“Bleecher? The planter’s son? That gangly boy who had pimples?”
“Yes, but now he doesn’t. And besides, I didn’t want to marry him, so I’m not certain if that counts or not.”
“Just why didn’t you want to marry him?”
Jules frowned. “Kanola asked me the same thing . . .” She broke off abruptly, memory flooding her. Kanola was dead. She felt tears well up. She turned her face away.
“What’s wrong, Jules?”
“Kanola’s dead. Wilkes’s men . . . hurt her, I know it. I saw them holding her down and she was fighting them. She’s dead.”
He closed his eyes a moment against her pain. Had Jules seen her friend raped and murdered? He wanted to ask her how Wilkes had captured her, but at that moment he heard a knock on the front door. A patient. Damnation! “Jules . . .” he began.
It was someone sick to see him, she thought. I’ve got to stop acting like a helpless child. She swallowed the bitter bile and forced a smile. “I’ll be all right.”
“I’ll be back up as soon as I’ve seen my patient.” He rose. “I want you to rest, Jules. We’ve got to clear the opium out of your system.”