Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

“The whole thing about the kapus, you see, was to curtail the native women’s freedom. They couldn’t eat with the men, couldn’t eat certain foods—bananas, coconuts, pork, even baked dog!”

“Good heavens,” said Miss Mary Arkworth, “what was there to eat then?” Miss Arkworth, who had lived on Oahu for a number of years and who knew the answer very well, could have added that all the kapus were supposedly religious in nature, but she didn’t. She was enjoying the very bright Mrs. Morris’ enthusiasm too much to dampen it.

“Sounds fine to me,” said Nathan Benson. “Let them eat cake if they’re not allowed baked dog.”

“Well, Mr. Benson,” Jules said in a tart voice, “it’s all well and good to joke about it, but there was a story about a little five-year-old girl who ate a banana. Instead of killing her, which was the punishment for breaking a kapu, they ripped out her right eye.”

Amid the gasps of outrage, Saint asked, “Weren’t all the eating kapus gotten rid of by a woman?”

She smiled at him, as if he were a very bright pupil, and nodded. Her audience quieted, leaning forward to listen. “You see,” she said in a confidential voice, “after King Kamehameha I died, his queen, Kaahumanu, announced to her young son that she would be his kuhina-nui, or vice-king.”

“Smart lady,” said Mr. Benson.

“Indeed,” said Jules. “And she was a very brave woman. To break the eating kapu, she ate a banana in front of the king, Liholiho. He, dear boy, ignored it. Then she had the temerity to eat a meal in his presence!” Jules paused dramatically.

A natural storyteller, Saint thought, smiling at her.

“What happened?” Miss Arkworth demanded.

“Nothing, not a single thing. Kaahumanu broke him down. Finally, at a banquet, the king went to the women’s table and began piling pieces of food into his mouth. The vice-king—a

woman—won!”

“What became of her?” asked Mrs. Benson.

“She died of old age,” said Jules.

“Odd,” said Saint. “I thought she died from overeating.”

Jules shot him an impish grin. “Well, like most Hawaiian women, she was immensely fat. That, you know, is what is considered beautiful on the islands.”

“Now, Jules,” Saint said when they were alone a few minutes later, “Victorian prejudices have started taking hold. Many of the Hawaiian women are forcing their healthy bodies into those awful whalebone corsets. You didn’t tell all the truth.”

She nodded and said sadly, “Civilization is not always such a wonderful thing, I think. And,” she added, grinning up at him, “I didn’t want to ruin the impact of my story.”

Saint cupped her face between his large hands. “You, Mrs. Morris, are a natural.”

“A natural what?” Jules asked, her eyes coming to rest on his mouth. She felt a bit breathless and somewhat strange, as if his fingers and his palms were warming her from the inside out.

Saint felt her lean toward him and immediately dropped his hands, saying lightly as he did so, “A natural teller of tall and not-so-tall tales. Now, would you care to stroll on deck?”

“I suppose even naturals must have exercise,” she said.

His dreams became vividly erotic, jerking him awake to stare into the darkness, his body covered with sweat and pounding with painful need. He rose several mornings before dawn, unable to lie quietly next to Jules, listening to her even breathing, the soft sighs that made him wonder what her dreams were made of. Certainly not of sex, he told himself. Perhaps of fear and dread of men, but not of sex, not of him.

They were but four days out of San Francisco when he could bear it no longer. He stayed in the small parlor where the gentlemen smoked and gambled until very late, unable to face lying down in that damned narrow bed beside his young wife. He drank too much, lost one hundred dollars at vingt-et-un, and made his way to the cabin well past midnight.

Jules was on her side, facing away from him, the sheet pulled to her chin. He sighed with some relief, eased out of his clothes, and slipped in beside her. She didn’t stir.

He slept fitfully, until finally he was lost in that vague, blurred state that seemed so real, so very vivid. Jane Branigan was beside him, touching him, laughing and teasing him, and he was in such great need of her he thought he would die. Then they were lying together and he was stroking her body, calling, “Jane, my God, Jane.” He felt her soft breasts, felt her nipples tauten from the teasing of his fingers. God, he wanted her, and now.

“Jane,” he whispered, nuzzling against her throat. She wasn’t naked, as she should have been. She was wearing something, and the starchy material scratched his mouth. He felt nothing but urgency, and rose over her, pulling the offending nightgown up above her breasts. The touch of her warm flesh made him crazy. His hands and mouth covered her breasts, her smooth, soft belly. He lay atop her, moaning aloud. His manhood, throbbing, urgent, pressed against her closed thighs.

“Jane,” he whispered, moving restlessly over her. “I can’t wait, Jane.”

He pulled her legs apart and felt his manhood surge forward. But she wasn’t ready for him, wouldn’t let him enter her. He was frantic now, not understanding.

“Jane,” he said again, “what’s wrong?”