Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

“That was different,” Saint said, irritated. “You were acting the fool, wearing blinders, and poor Byrony . . .” Oh God, that sounds li

ke me.

“Like hell,” Brent said pleasantly, cutting off his thoughts. “Now, just listen.” He sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees. “You are my wife’s doctor. You will deliver our child when the time comes. In return, I wish to begin payments to you on sort of an installment plan. Your wife needs protection. I will provide that protection. His name is Thackery, and he’s very smart, strong, and loyal. He’s a black man, a former slave from Wakehurst, and a fine marksman. He will live here until Wilkes is taken care of. He will be with your wife when you can’t be. He will be her bodyguard and protect her with his life. Now, what do you say, Saint?”

Saint wanted to tell Brent to take this Thackery and throw him in the bay, but he didn’t. Brent was right. And he was a good friend. Saint sighed. “All right.”

Brent cocked a dark brow. “My, my, marriage seems to have mellowed you a bit. Made you more reasonable, more amenable. Thackery is waiting outside, of course. Would you like to invite Jules down to meet him?”

“Probably,” Saint said, rising. He wondered how Jules was going to react to having a bodyguard. “Let me fetch her.” He turned in the parlor doorway. “Brent, thanks.”

“My pleasure, old son,” Brent said.

Jules gave Thackery her most winsome smile. She had to take him off guard, a difficult task at the very least. In their first week together, he went everywhere with her, never interfering in what she wished to do, merely staying stolidly with her, his presence forbidding to strangers and a relief to friends. Jules liked him. But now she had to distract him. Ah yes, the dress shop owned by Monsieur David. The perfect place.

“I would like to look at some gowns, Thackery,” she said, waving toward the shop.

“Certainly, Mrs. Saint. I’ll be right here when you come out.”

Mrs. Saint! She’d tried to make him call her Jules, but he merely smiled at her and continued with “Mrs. Saint.” Jules nodded brightly and walked, shoulders back, into the store. She pretended to be interested in the new shipment of gowns from France. Every few minutes she peered out the window. Damn, Thackery hadn’t moved an inch!

She spoke briefly to the dapper Monsieur David, then slipped out the back of the store. The gun shop, run by Marcus Haverson, was just a block down Kearny Street. She’d stolen some money from Michael’s strongbox just that morning. No, she amended to herself, it was her money too. After all, wasn’t she Mrs. Saint?

Ten minutes later, she was the proud owner of a derringer. In another ten minutes she had rejoined Thackery.

Thackery arched a black brow. His young mistress looked awfully smug, and there wasn’t one package in her arms. He wondered what she was up to. This jaunt of hers into a dress shop, looking all sorts of innocent and guileless, was unusual, and he was suspicious. She was a handful, but he didn’t mind that. She was never boring. But she was unhappy. He was quite certain of that, even though she never said anything particularly unhappy. She was bright, chatty, interested in everything they saw. They’d visited the Russ Gardens, the old Dolores Mission, even the racetrack. But still . . .

He supposed it natural for her to be wary of that bastard Wilkes. But he would see to that man if he ever dared to show his face. No, it wasn’t all Wilkes, he didn’t think. He wished he could figure it out. Her husband was a very nice man who, as far as Thackery could tell, treated his young wife like one of those pieces of Dresden china Mrs. Hammond loved so much.

“I didn’t like anything,” Jules said, which was true, she supposed. She twisted her hands a bit nervously, aware of Thackery’s suspicious look. To her relief, he didn’t say anything. It didn’t occur to her until later that she didn’t know a single thing about guns. She eyed the long-barreled gun tucked into Thackery’s belt, realizing she had to trust somebody. It was late afternoon, but she said to Thackery, “I would like to ride to the ocean. We’re very close to the stables. All right?”

Thackery merely nodded. He would have preferred a visit to the Saxtons. He and Lucas were becoming friends, and he was fascinated by Lucas’ tales of the gold fields.

When they reached the ocean, he listened with half an ear to Mrs. Saint carrying on about some long-legged birds that were skittering across the sand dunes. A bird was a bird, for God’s sake.

When Jules saw that they were quite alone, she paused a moment, drew a deep breath, and blurted out, “I bought a derringer, Thackery. I want you to teach me how to use it.”

“So,” Thackery said on a deep breath, “that’s what you were up to.”

“Will you teach me how to use it?” Jules asked, her eyes steady on his face.

Thackery scratched the black woolly hair on his head. “No, ma’am,” he said finally. “That’s my job. Ain’t nobody going to get to you while I’m here.”

“If you don’t teach me, I will sneak away and practice by myself. You know I can do it, Thackery.”

“You need to have your bottom thwacked, Mrs. Saint,” Thackery said, his dark eyes calm on her upturned face.

Jules said nothing, trying to stare him down. But Thackery was made of stern stuff. “I’ll tell Dr. Saint,” he said.

“He won’t care!”

Thackery looked thoughtful. “Why not?”

She looked to him as though she wanted to cry and spit all at the same time. She said finally, “I am his cross to bear. You must know that he saved me, Thackery, then had to marry me because my father kicked me out. He didn’t want to, but he’s honorable. He really doesn’t care what I do or don’t do, just so long as I don’t bother him.”

Thackery heard the pain in her voice, and his reaction to it shocked him. He knew loyalty, indeed he did. Both the good Lord and Thackery knew how much he owed Mr. Hammond. But he’d sworn he’d never again trust another white. Until Mrs. Saint. Poor little mite. When he’d been a slave, it had never occurred to him that a white man or white woman could know a moment of unhappiness. Whiteness seemed to him then to be the key to all that was pleasant on this damned earth. Well, maybe white folk in California had more problems than those in Mississippi. He looked at Mrs. Saint, saw the pleading and defiance in those vivid green eyes of hers, and knew he had to say something, do something.

He temporized. “I could just take that little thing away from you, Mrs. Saint.”