“You’re a perfect man, you know that?”
“That’s what my mother told me,” Saint said, “but it was a number of years ago.”
He stopped a moment, and straightened her bonnet. “The sun is strong, love. I do love that one freckle on your nose, but I don’t know as I’d like to see more of the little fellows.”
She poked him in his ribs, laughing. “You know that isn’t a freckle on my nose—it’s a liver spot.”
“I’ve aged you so quickly, hmm? I think I’d best do a thorough examination. If you have any more of these liver spots, I’ll just have to do something about it.”
“What?” Jules asked, taking a skipping step to keep pace with her husband.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear.
“Michael!”
* * *
Jameson Wilkes stared at her from his post in the narrow alley. He was dressed roughly, a felt hat pulled low over his forehead. The scratchy wool pants increased his anger at Saint Morris. He hated having to appear like one of the black beggars in Brent Hammond’s town.
He leaned forward and watched the breeze lift a waving curl off her forehead, watched her husband straighten her bonnet, and stiffened when the huge man who was her husband leaned down to whisper something to her.
Don’t touch her, you damned bastard! He could barely keep the words from spurting from his mouth.
He’d lived with the dream of her, the fantasies of her that he’d woven over the months, and knew that he would have her, have her lying beneath him, helpless, yet wanting him as he did her. The reality of her shook him, as did her bright laugh. Reality, he thought, an odd word, something to avoid, to escape. He’d never heard her laugh before. He’d cursed himself again and again for ever taking her to the auction. He should have kept her with him, sailed from San Francisco and taken her to the far reaches of the earth. But for what reason? He shook his head, his thoughts tangled. His hand roved over his belly, rubbing frantically, and the pain made him think clearly.
Now she was married to that damned do-gooding bastard Saint Morris. He closed his eyes a moment against his anger. If only he’d kept her with him, if only he’d managed to take her the night of the Stevensons’ ball, if only . . .
He wanted her. And he was here, and he was going to take her, had to take her, and her husband, Dr. Morris. Oh yes,
he had to see Saint Morris, had to . . . He winced at the increasing pain, but forced his mind away from it, forced his mind to plot, to come up with strategies. He had to have focus. No, he wouldn’t dig into his opium supply until the pain made him want to howl.
Your last grand gesture, he thought suddenly. Your last gesture to affirm that you are alive, that you managed to win one last time. And he knew it was true. Juliana now represented both life and death to him. He smiled a bit, remembering how Hawkins had come to him, a huge grin splitting his ugly face. “Yessiree, they’re off early, bound for the nigger town.”
So easy, Wilkes thought. He wondered if Juliana now believed herself safe from him.
Saint Morris was here to deliver the Hammonds’ child. Wilkes had only to remain out of sight and wait for his opportunity.
It would come, oh yes. He knew suddenly, at that precise moment, with the bright sun overhead, exactly when and how he would strike.
Jules was striding down the street beside Thackery and Little Tony, a black man who would intimidate the bravest of men. His size was formidable, his body hard with muscle, and he had the gentlest eyes Jules had ever seen.
She was listening to the two men talk. Although Thackery had never said anything to her, she realized now that he missed being here, missed being part of the town’s growth. She silently cursed Wilkes.
“I must get back to work now, Miz Morris,” Little Tony said, pausing a moment before a freshly painted wooden building. “This is where we keep all our records,” he added, pride in his voice.
“Please call me Jules,” she said, but knew that he wouldn’t. Old habits were hard to break.
Little Tony nodded to her from his great height.
“Thank you for the tour,” Jules said. “Now,” she continued to Thackery, “why don’t we go for a ride? I should love to see the land around the town and all the planting and all the new building.”
Thackery agreed and they walked to the livery stable. “Little Tony was telling me how much trouble they’re having with names.”
Jules cocked a questioning brow.
“Slaves have only one name,” he said tersely. “Outlandish names, given by white owners.”
“What are you doing about it?” Jules asked, fascinated.