“God, I’m sorry,” he said, pulling her against him. He stroked her back, eased his hand up beneath her thick hair to knead the muscles of her neck. “Jules, are you all right?”
She thought about it. She felt very sore, as if she’d been battered inside, which, she supposed, she had. But he’d tried to be careful with her. It hadn’t been all that bad. “I’m fine,” she said finally. “Truly, Michael.”
But he felt her tears against his bare shoulder. God, he’d forced her, given in to his own need. He was no better than Wilkes. “Never, never again,” he said to himself, unaware that he’d whispered the words aloud.
Jules felt as though he’d slapped her. No, please, no, she wanted to scream at him, but she said nothing. Her head was beginning to throb, just like the rest of her, she thought grimly. She wanted to talk to him, but her mind was whirling with the burgeoning pain, and she gulped, burying her face into his shoulder.
Saint felt her shudder, and hated himself. He lay awake long after he heard her even breathing and felt her body relax against him. He eased away from her, rose and doused the lamp. He slipped into bed again and drew her back into his arms. He could still feel himself tearing through her maidenhead, feel her struggling against him. But he hadn’t stopped. No, he’d continued hurting her, letting his lust rule him. She was so precious to him, he realized. So fresh and vital. He couldn’t bear the thought of her awakening and flinching away from him, fear and wariness in her eyes. It brought him nearly physical pain. Why, he wondered, on the vague edge of sleep, had she wanted him? Seduced him?
When he heard the pounding on the front door, drawing him quickly from a fitful sleep, he knew relief that he wouldn’t have to face her in the morning and see her fear of him. He was out of bed and downstairs within moments.
It was a fisherman from Sausalito, whose wife was vomiting, blood coming from her mouth and from her bowels. Saint dressed quickly, flinching at the sight of blood on his member, looked at his sleeping wife, and left the house. She would be fine, he thought, striding beside the fisherman, his black medical bag tightly held in his right hand. And he was the last person on earth she would want to see when she awoke.
Jules woke early the following morning, and reached for her husband. His pillow was cold. He was gone. A patient, she thought. He’d had to leave to take care of a sick person. She rose gingerly from the bed, aware of soreness between her thighs. Then she saw the blood, and gasped aloud. There was also blood on the sheets.
She knew it wasn’t from her monthly flow. She forced herself to be calm, and bathed away the blood. It seemed to have stopped, and she felt an overwhelming relief. She dressed and went downstairs.
“Good morning, Jules,” Lydia said, eyeing her young mistress closely. “No head problems this morning?”
Jules shook her head, and forced a smile. “No, I’m fine, really. Is Thomas up yet?”
“Up and gone. That young man has more energy than a hungry mosquito.”
Jules wasn’t very hungry herself, but she managed a cup of coffee and a slice of bread. “Did you see Michael?” she asked finally.
“No, he must have been called away.”
“Did he leave a note or anything?”
Lydia shook her head. She saw the pained look in Jules’s eyes and wondered about it. A short time later, she had no more reason to wonder. She saw the bloodstains on the sheet. That damned fool man had better get home soon, she thought, pulling the sheets off the bed.
Jules paced the parlor. She realized she was terrified at the thought of leaving the house by herself. She could see Jameson Wilkes waiting for her. Where was Michael?
Saint was very gently drawing a sheet over the fisherman’s wife. She had died, and there w
as nothing he could do. She’d been ill more than a week, her husband had admitted to him on the boat ride across the bay, and now she was dead, never regaining consciousness in the last two hours.
And she had been young, not much over thirty, Saint guessed. He left the small house, the husband sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey in front of him.
Saint wandered along the one dirt street of Sausalito. Life seemed particularly burdensome. There was one saloon, the Little Willow, and even though it was early afternoon, he walked into the dim, rather smelly room and ordered his own bottle of whiskey.
He knew rationally that the woman’s death more than likely couldn’t have been prevented, even if he’d seen her sooner. Damn, doctors didn’t know a thing. He took a long pull on the whiskey. He hated death. He hated pain and illness, but even more than hate, something embedded deeply within him forced him to do what he could. And now he’d given his wife pain, gratuitous pain. He’d known better, but he’d allowed her, in all her sweet ignorance, to seduce him.
And he’d left her alone to face her thoughts.
He drank deeply, telling himself yet again that he was the last person she would want to see after the debacle of last night.
Jules wandered up to their bedroom late that afternoon. She paused in front of the long mirror and stared at herself. She remembered his words: Never, never again. Was she so unattractive, then? Slowly, after she’d locked the bedroom door, she undressed. Naked, she approached the mirror again and studied herself. She had never seen another woman naked, so she had no comparison. She didn’t think she was ill-looking. She wasn’t fat or bowlegged, or flat-chested. He had touched her, everywhere. She lightly placed her hands over her breasts. There wasn’t the same feeling of warmth she felt when he touched her. She stared at her belly, at the cluster of red curls between her legs. He’d even caressed her there. She didn’t flush with embarrassment, she simply continued staring at herself. She’d probably made him feel guilty, acting like such a watering pot. He hadn’t hurt her all that much. Never, never again. But she had hurt him—that, or he hadn’t enjoyed her body, taking her only because she’d demanded it of him. How could he have enjoyed it when she’d fought him, and cried like a stupid fool?
She felt tears sting her eyes now. Everything had gone awry. She’d hoped that he would change toward her, but not this way. Slowly she sank to her knees in front of the mirror and buried her face in her hands.
Saint pulled himself together when he heard a man talk about all the bloody fog rolling in. “Unusual this time of year,” the man said to his companion. “No way out now.”
That brought Saint to instant sobriety. “Fog?” he asked the man.
“Yep. You’re from the city, ain’t you?”
“Yes, and I must get back.”