“But you only wanted him to kiss your hand?”
Penelope drew back at the sarcasm. “I . . . I didn’t know what it was all about. I don’t like it, it’s degrading.”
“It? I assume we’re talking about lovemaking.”
Penelope shuddered at what she thought a most inappropriate term, invented doubtless by men to lull ladies’ suspicions.
Jules felt an odd mixture of pity and anger. Poor Thomas! And, she amended to herself silently, poor Penelope. “I think,” Jules said, moving to sit on the side of the bed, “that you need to think of me as your mother for a while. Now, I want you to listen very carefully, Penelope, because I will not lie to you.”
Penelope gave Jules her full attention.
“. . . and I told her that making love was more fun than anything else in the whole world,” Jules told her husband smugly that night in bed. “I explained things to her.” She added in some disgust, “I simply can’t understand why mothers frighten the wits out of their daughters with such awful rubbish!”
“Your mother didn’t tell you frightening things about filthy men?” Saint asked, pulling her closer to him.
“No, she never told me anything at all. I think complete and utter ignorance is better.”
Saint kissed her nose, then nibbled on her ear. “I hate to tell you, sweetheart, but unfortunately many men believe that their wives should endure their base needs. It’s only whores who are supposed to enjoy lovemaking. Men are fools.”
“You don’t think Thomas is a fool, do you?”
“He is young,” Saint said thoughtfully, “but no, I shouldn’t think that he’d be inept. But I suppose you want me to speak to him? Just to make certain, you understand?”
“Explain things to my brother?”
Saint’s hand cupped her breast. “In delightful detail,” he said, and began to knead the soft flesh. “Did you tell Penelope how much you adored my touching you?” His hand slipped down between her thighs. “And kissing you?”
Jules giggled, then sucked in her breath when his fingers found her. “Oh dear,” she said, her voice breathless, “do you think I should have been that specific?”
Saint felt filled with warmth and deep swirling feelings that so stunned him with their force and their unexpectedness that he couldn’t speak for a moment. “Jules,” he said finally, “I don’t want to think about Penelope any more tonight. All right?”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, all right.”
Jules managed to find her brother alone the following morning. “What did Del say?” she asked without preamble.
“Not to worry,” Thomas said, hugging her. “He said they’d start the search again for that miserable bastard. It shouldn’t be long now, love.”
She felt great relief, and to her chagrin, tears stung her eyes. “I am so lucky,” she said, and flung her arms around her brother. “Thank you, Thomas.”
“Perhaps,” he said quietly, a bit of humor in his voice, “it is I who should thank you, my dear.”
She gulped, not pretending to misunderstand him. “Penelope told you that we had a little . . . talk?”
“Yes, though it took me a while to pry it out of her.”
“You’re not angry at me for meddling, are you?”
“No, little idiot.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Actually, it pleases me mightily to know that Saint is such a . . . caring husband.”
“Oh!” She pummeled his chest, her cheeks flushed.
“As for my wife, let us say that her attitude is changing. It’s now up to me, I suppose, to be patient as a saint.”
“My husband could give you advice about that,” she said, grinning up at him.
Penelope came into the dining room at that moment, Saint beside her. “Good morning,” she said, and when her eyes met her husband’s, she blushed faintly.
“Michael,” Jules said as she ate her scrambled eggs, “would you like me to change the bandage this morning?”