Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

“Lord, I know that,” he scoffed. Anything to keep away those damnable tears.

Jules kissed her brother again, and stepped back.

“You take care, Thomas,” Saint said, shaking the boy’s hand.

“Yes, Saint, I shall.” He lowered his voice. “Please take good care of my sister. She is so . . . hurt.”

Saint felt an unaccustomed lump in his throat. “I will, Thomas, I will.”

They were not to escape Reverend DuPres’s house with no more confrontations. Sarah, her eyes puffy from crying, her face pale as wax, was standing in the hall below, waiting for them. When she saw her sister, she screamed, “You miserable bitch! God, I hope you die, you don’t deserve to live!”

Saint squeezed Jules’s hand. He wanted to feel some sympathy for Sarah, but couldn’t seem to find any within him. He said in a mocking, cold voice, “You are a bore, Miss DuPres. Let’s just hope you aren’t a pregnant bore.”

“Shut up, damn you!”

“Such language from a missionary’s daughter,” Saint said in that same mocking voice. “So, John Bleecher has left you high and dry, so to speak. After he tried to kill your brother. And before that, he tried to rape your sister. You have excellent taste in men, it would appear.”

“I hate you,” Sarah hissed, her hands fisted at her sides.

“Were I you, Miss Sarah, I should be careful what my dear father overheard me say. I wouldn’t put it past him to toss you out on your ear for your . . . lascivious leanings. After all, how much is a father expected to take? Two sluts for daughters? Come, Jules. We have a date with the Oregon.”

Jules followed him silently from her father’s house. She paused a moment in the road and stared back. “So much unhappiness,” she said in a low voice. “Poor Thomas.”

“Yes and yes,” Saint agreed. “You are well out of it, sweetheart. And Thomas will be out of it soon.”

It was evening, and Saint knew he couldn’t tarry any longer on deck. He was alone now, the other few passengers having retired sometime before. As he stared out over the endless expanse of ocean, he remembered the first time he’d ever seen the sea. He’d been with his Uncle Rafe fishing on the Chesapeake Bay. Then they’d ridden to the Atlantic and the thirteen-year-old Saint had wanted only to sit on a rock and stare at the savage beauty of the crashing waves. He pulled away from the railing and sighed. He’d seen the small cabin, the single narrow bed, and gulped. Well, he would simply have to deal with it. After all, he was a man, not a randy boy.

“Damn you, shut up,” he said to the randy boy as he strode along the companionway and quietly opened the door to their cabin. He pulled up short. Jules stood in the middle of the small space, her hands clutched around her stomach, bent over.

“Jules, what’s the matter?” He was at her side in an instant, his gut wrenching in sudden fear. To his surprise, she straightened immediately and flushed a vivid red. He cocked a brow at her. “I’m waiting,” he said. “What’s wrong? Do you hurt? Are you feeling seasick?”

“No,” she whispered, looking utterly miserable. “I’m not seasick. You know I’m never seasick.”

“Then what’s the matter?” At her continued pained silence he said sharply, “If you don’t talk to me now, I’m going to poke and prod around.”

“My . . . stomach hurts,” she said in the thinnest voice he’d ever heard.

“Your stomach? Was it something you ate at dinner?”

She shook her head, mute.

“Jules . . .” he said, his voice threatening.

“My stomach is cramping,” she said finally.

“Ah,” he said, relief flooding through him. “You’ve begun your monthly flow.” He saw that she was ready to sink through the floor in embarrassment. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll give you some laudanum in water. It will make you sleep, and when you wake up you’ll feel just fine. All right?”

“All right,” she whispered.

Now, he thought as he pored several drops of laudanum into a glass of water, he wouldn’t have to worry about his body behaving in a reprehensible fashion. He had five days of enforced nobility. He silently handed her the glass of water. She drank all of it, and just as silently handed back the glass.

“Now,” Saint said, “why don’t you get into your nightgown? You’ll be very sleepy soon.” And the last thing I want to do is undress you myself.

There was no screen, and he left her alone for a good five minutes. When he walked back into the cabin, she was sitting on the side of the bed, swathed neck to toe in a white nightgown.

“Do you feel any better?”

She shook her head, not looking at him.