Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

“But I didn’t do anything,” Jules said.

“So you say,” Sarah said. “As for Saint, well, you’re better off with him. You should have stayed with him.”

I wanted to, but he didn’t want me.

Jules turned on the stool and eyed her sister silently for a long moment. She would be pretty if only she would smile—not just her mouth, but her eyes. Her hair, unlike Jules’s, was a soft brown and didn’t fly about her head in wild curls. “Sarah,” she asked quietly, “do you love me?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Sarah said finally, “but I want John.”

“But you said you’re marrying him! You have him, Sarah. He has nothing to do with me!”

Suddenly Sarah seemed to collapse. She covered her face with her hands, and wrenching sobs broke from her throat.

Jules, appalled, quickly went to her. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”

The sobs continued, and Jules stood helplessly, watching her sister’s slender body shake.

“John means nothing to me, please believe that,” Jules said. “He loves you. Why else would he marry you?”

“You fool,” Sarah whispered, raising her tearstained face. “He went crazy when Kanola’s body was discovered and we were told that you’d been with her. Crazy, do you hear? But I wanted him, Juliana. I’ve always wanted him. He grieved. And I . . . well, I comforted him.”

“Well, of course you did. I’m certain he comforted you too.”

“You stupid fool!” Sarah nearly screamed at her. “I let him have me! That’s why he’s marrying me now. He has to! Dear God, I could be pregnant right now, and here you are, back again. I hate you!”

Jules stepped back, her face white. Very slowly she stripped off her white nightgown and began to dress. It didn’t occur to her to step behind the screen, and her sister’s shocked gasp only made her smile, a small, bitter smile.

“What are you doing now?”

“Nothing,” Jules said.

“He did debauch you, just like Father said. Taking off your clothes without a thought! It’s disgusting.”

Jules turned a puzzled look to her sister. “Didn’t you take off your clothes with John?”

Sarah shuddered. “No, of course not. It was dark. I just let him . . . well, I know that you understand what he did.” She shuddered again, and Jules suddenly felt very sorry for John Bleecher.

She finished dressing in silence.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” Jules said, and quietly slipped from the room. The house was dark. Everyone was in bed. Jules carefully propped open the back kitchen door and walked quickly toward the beach along the back streets. She could hear sounds of revelry—men’s laughter and women’s giggles—and now it had a new meaning to her. She saw not a soul. When she reached the deserted beach, she stripped off the hot, restricting gown and walked slowly down the beach toward the ocean, clad only in her short chemise. There was a half-moon, and as usual, the sky was clear, the stars dazzlingly bright. Gentle waves crested with barely a sound

and slithered onto the wet sand. She didn’t wade into the water, but skirted the waves and sat on an outcropping rock, hugging her arms about her knees.

She’d been gone for such a short time, really, but everything had changed. And everyone. No, that wasn’t true. She saw her sister’s contorted face, the streaming tears. Priggish Sarah had made love to a man. She’d obviously disliked it.

Jules saw her own life as series of days spent in silent despair and nights spent thinking of what she couldn’t have, and swallowed down the hated tears.

It was as if she’d conjured him up. She sat very still, watching Michael, magnificently naked, stride through the surf toward the beach. He was running his hands through his thick hair, then shaking himself like a mongrel dog.

As he came closer, Jules let her eyes fall down his body. She had never before seen a naked man—only Michael when he’d worn those meager pants. Now he wore nothing. The hair was thick on his chest, narrowing as it snaked down over his flat belly. She knew that men had things on the front of their bodies, and that’s where babies came from. Men stuck themselves into women. For a moment she stared at him objectively, wondering how it would work, and how it would feel to touch him there. How it would feel to have him pressed against her, naked.

He turned a moment, looking back over the water. Her fingers tingled as her eyes traveled down his back to his buttocks, to his long legs. Old Lanakila carved figures in smooth, glowing wood. Michael looked as sculptured and perfect as the most beautiful of Lanakila’s statues. Suddenly he twisted about and his eyes met hers, and held.

He made no move to cover himself, merely stood there, the water lapping over his feet, gazing at her.

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