Jade Star (3 page)

“Let me fix this blasted pump, then I've got to get home,” he said over his shoulder.

 

Saint was awakened at three o'clock in the morning by violent knocks on the front door. It was
Caesar, from Maggie's brothel. One of the men, a stranger, had beaten one of her girls.

He cursed and ranted all the way to the Wild Star, Brent Hammond's saloon. The other half of the large building was a brothel, called Maggie's.

“Dammit, Maggie,” he shouted as soon as he stepped into her sitting room. “How could you let something like this happen? Which girl got hurt?”

“Victoria,” Maggie said. “The man is dead. Ceaser slit his throat. Come along.”

Oh God, Saint thought as he stared down at Victoria, a pert, vivacious young woman who always had a ready smile for him, except now. One eye was already blackening, her upper lip was split and swollen, and she looked as pale as the sheet covering her.

“Hold still, Victoria,” he said gently as he sat on the bed beside her. “It's just me, Saint.”

Victoria closed her eyes, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out. His touch was gentle, but she hurt, badly. “Your jaw's not broken,” Saint said. He pulled down the sheet that covered her. There were teeth marks on her left breast and an ugly bruise over her lower ribs. He probed as gently as he could, feeling her tense. “Try to relax, Victoria. I'll be done in a minute. Your ribs are fine, but you're going to hurt for a couple of weeks.”

He drew the sheet lower, and sucked in his breath. There was blood clotted between her thighs. “Shit,” he said very softly. “Maggie, fetch me some hot water and some clean cloths. Now, Victoria, tell me what the bastard did to you.”

Victoria drew a shuddering breath and whispered, “He hurt me, Saint.”

Dear God, I can see that well enough!
“Why are you bleeding? How did he hurt you here?”

He listened to her jerking voice with growing anger. The man had dug his fist into her, tearing her. “He wasn't normal, Saint, and when I started yelling, he got crazy and hit me more.” She stopped, and burst into tears.

Saint gently stroked her hair from her forehead, muttering soothing sounds to calm her as he waited for Maggie to return with the hot water. “It will be all right, Victoria. Just a few stitches, and you'll be fine, I promise.” As he spoke, he remembered Maggie asking him once, teasingly, why he didn't want any of her girls. “I'd go to hell first,” he'd told her, and he meant it. He knew, in all fairness, that Maggie was greatly upset now, for nothing like this had ever happened before. But dammit, something like this should never happen!

“All right, Victoria, I'm going to put you out for a while. It's just chloroform. You understand me? I just want you to breathe in, deeply. Don't fight it, now.” She nodded, and closed her eyes as Saint gently placed the dampened cloth with its sweetish liquid over her nostrils.

He carefully stitched the torn flesh, then bathed her and pressed soft cloths against her.

“Thank you, Saint,” Maggie said quietly when he rose. He said nothing until he'd pulled a sheet and blankets over Victoria's body.

“Would you like a brandy?”

He nodded, still looking down at Victoria. “She won't be out for much longer. Yes, a brandy is just what I need. Give her a bit of laudanum in water
when she wakes up. And have one of the girls stay with her, Maggie.”

He followed her from the room.

“This is damnable, Maggie,” he said as he accepted the brandy snifter from her.

“I know.” He saw the pain in her fine eyes, and just a bit of his anger melted. “I heard her scream, and ran into the room. The man . . . well, I smashed him over the head with a lamp, then called Caesar. The man wasn't really unconscious and he began struggling. He pulled a derringer, and Caesar killed him. Will she be all right, Saint, truly?”

“Yes, in time. I think, though, that you've lost yourself a whore.”

Maggie winced at his term, but said nothing. It was true, no matter how one dressed it up fancy in one's mind. She shook her head and sank wearily onto a chair. “I'll see that she's well taken care of. But she's alone, Saint. Like all my girls, Victoria chose to be a . . . whore. Hell, she's getting rich off all the horny men in this city.”

“I wonder what her choice is now?”

“I'll take care of her,” Maggie repeated. “She's earned quite a bit of money during the past year. She'll be just fine.”

And she'll probably go through life now never wanting another man to touch her.
“She's going to need some close nursing for a couple of days. I'll see her tomorrow morning. Keep her quiet. I'll take the stitches out in a week or so.”

“Thank you, Saint. Lord, I wish Brent were here.”

“He and Byrony will be back soon enough. He couldn't have prevented what happened, in any case.”

“No, I suppose not,” Maggie said. She rose and
shook Saint's hand. “Thanks, Saint, for coming so quickly.”

“What did you do with the bastard who hurt her?”

“Caesar dumped him somewhere, I don't know.”

“I hope it wasn't in the bay. Wouldn't want the fish to get polluted by such scum.”

“I owe you, Saint.”

Saint grunted, too weary to argue or preach anymore.

He went home and drank half a bottle of whiskey before falling into oblivion near dawn.

Juliana felt bile rise in her throat as she looked down at the tray of food Jameson Wilkes had brought her. In normal circumstances she would have wolfed down the delicious-looking beef and boiled potatoes.

“You will eat, my dear.”

Her head jerked around at his very calm, hated voice. She'd seen him leave but hadn't heard him come back into the cabin.

“I can't,” she said.

“I am prepared to make allowances for your shock, Juliana, but not when it comes to your health. I assure you that I will not allow you to become a skinny wraith. Now, eat.”

“I'll vomit,” she said viciously. “All over your beautiful cabin!”

“If you do,” he said very softly, coming to stand beside the narrow bed, “I will let you spend your days up on deck in full view of my men. And you'll be stark naked, my dear.”

She took a bite of the potatoes.

“That's better. You will finish all the food on your tray, every bit of it. I will be your dinner companion, so to speak.”

“I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Wilkes—”

“You may call me Captain.”

“Nothing at all, save to insist that you return me to my parents.”

“You know, Juliana, you are really looking quite bedraggled. Your hair is encrusted with salt and tangled like a witch's mop. After you eat, I'll let you bathe. It will make you feel better, and undoubtedly make you appear more appetizing.”

“I want to go home,” she said, and he heard the break in her voice. She raised pleading eyes to his face. “Please, please, take me home.”

“You seem like a bright girl, my dear, too bright to waste your energies begging for what I cannot do.”

“Cannot?” she nearly yelled. “You mean you will not! What do you want with me? My parents have no money!” She choked on a bite of beef.

“Your show of spirit does not displease me,” Jameson Wilkes said easily. “Would you like me to thump your back?”

Her eyes widened in terror and she shrank back against the headboard of the bed.

“Finish your dinner,” he said, sitting back in his chair, his arms folded calmly over his chest.

Kanola, Jules thought, she's dead. He'll kill me too. She'd tried, during the long hours he'd left her alone, to reason out what was happening to her, but her grief and her fear had left her mind numb. She ate mechanically, chewing every bit of food ten times, as her mother had taught her to do.

When Jameson Wilkes removed the tray from her lap, Jules didn't move. She stared straight ahead at his shelves of books, saying nothing.

“Would you like to bathe first or shall I tell you where I'm taking you and why? You've gone mute
on me, huh? Very well, my dear, listen well. We are bound for San Francisco, but I believe you already know that. As to your fate, I promise you it won't be so bad. You see, Juliana, I will sell you to the highest bidder at a very special auction. With your looks and your virginity, only a rich man will be able to pay the price. I venture to say that you'll be well treated. Indeed, I would say that the man who purchases you will keep you in some amount of luxury. In short, Juliana, you will be a rich man's mistress.”

She looked at him blankly. “What do you mean, a man's mistress? You mean some man would hurt me?”

Jameson Wilkes could only stare at her for a long moment. Then he laughed. “A missionary's daughter,” he said more to himself than to her. “How can you be so ignorant, having grown up in Lahaina? You do know what prostitutes are?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Terrible men pay money to debauch—”

“These so-called terrible men pay women money, my dear. And the native women are among the most unrestrained females most men have ever encountered. Now, a mistress is much more prized than a simple prostitute. A mistress is beholden to only one man. If she behaves well with that one man, she in turn is treated well—quite indulged, really. It is not a bad life.”

“You would make me a prostitute, then?”

“You have the insistence to cut through euphemism. Yes, plainly, you will be a prostitute.”

“But you said that prostitutes are willing to do what they do, that they—”

“Unfortunately, you will not have that choice,” he
said abruptly, cutting her off. “But it is not impossible, Juliana, when the man who purchases you, let us say, eventually has had enough of your charms, that you could marry and settle down with children, or even return to Maui, if you wish it.”

She heard Kanola's cries, but could only imagine how the men had hurt her before she'd managed to escape them and jump overboard. “I will not do it,” she said.

“Ah, more spirit. I repeat, Miss Juliana DuPres, you have no choice in the matter.”

“I do! I would kill any man who tried to hurt me!”

“And I, my dear,” he said with deadly calm, “have two weeks to change that violent attitude of yours.” He rose, staring down at her. “You know, you are almost lovely enough to tempt me. Ah, I see that such a notion repels you. Perhaps you believe me too old. But it is usually older men who are the rich ones. I will return shortly with your bath.”

He left her alone. Jules looked toward the cabin door. It wasn't locked. But that fact gained her nothing. She had no clothes, and even if she did find something to cover herself with, there were all those sailors abovedeck. Even if she managed to escape them, what would she do?
Kanola jumped, knowing she wouldn't be able to make it to shore.
The thought was terrifying and impossible. She came up to her knees and stared out the porthole at the endless stretch of ocean. Miles and miles from anywhere.

Jameson Wilkes returned shortly. “Cover yourself well,” he said to her, then stood aside as a sailor entered with a stout wooden hipbath, followed by two other men who carried buckets of steaming water.

The men's eyes slid hungrily toward her when they thought the captain wasn't looking.

Jameson closed the door behind them, then turned and said, “Your bath, my dear.”

She could only stare at him.

“Come, now.”

“Get out,” she said.

“No,” he said very gently. “This is your first lesson in obedience. Have you ignored the fact that it was I who stripped you? Come, I am well used to women's bodies, and will not lose my head over the sight of you.”

“No.”

She saw his expression change, and swallowed convulsively. She closed her eyes, humiliation and fear washing through her.

“Don't make me force you.”

Slowly Jules rose from the bed, pulling the sheet with her. She walked to the tub, her eyes fastened to the soft Turkey carpet beneath her feet. She felt him jerk the sheet away from her.

Never in her life had another person seen her unclothed. Even her mother. Even Sarah, her sister.

“Get into the tub.”

She did.

Although Jameson Wilkes had studied her closely and quite objectively when he'd first brought her unconscious to his cabin, seeing her lithe body in movement made his eyes glitter with pleasure. She was quite, quite lovely. His eyes traveled up the length of her long white legs, slender and beautifully shaped, to her hips. They weren't full and rounded, but he didn't expect that. She was too young and hadn't borne children. She looked coltish, but certainly not
sexless. He mentally added another five hundred dollars to the price he'd already decided upon.

He handed her some perfumed soap. “Wash your hair well,” he said, and returned to his chair.

Jules tried to hide herself from him, but it wasn't possible. Her breasts were plainly visible, no matter how she tried to curl down into the tub.

After some moments, there was a rap at the cabin door. Jameson Wilkes said quickly, “Don't worry. You will have your privacy. 'Tis just fresh water to rinse your hair.”

Privacy, she thought, feeling what must be hysteria welling up in her, a condition she'd always considered the epitome of idiocy.

When he told her to stand up, she obeyed. He rinsed her hair thoroughly, then fashioned a turban around her head. He handed her a large towel and helped her out of the tub. He said nothing as Juliana quickly dried herself, then wrapped the towel around her. Her breasts, he thought, pleased, were nicely rounded and high, enough of a handful for any man.

He handed her a pearl-handled brush and comb.

Jules sat on the edge of the bed and began to untangle her wet hair. This is a dream, she thought, a nightmare, and I'll wake up soon, and shiver, then laugh at my own strange imagination. Then I'll go visit Kanola and play with her children . . .

“You know, your tanned face and shoulders will lighten up quite nicely, I think, after two weeks indoors. You'll be perfectly white all over. Nor,” Jameson Wilkes continued, “will we have to darken your brows or eyelashes. All the redheads I've known have had to do so, you know.”

Jules thought briefly of the faded daguerreotype of her French grandmother that her own mother kept well hidden from her father. She'd had dark brows, and her eyelashes appeared thick and curling, making her eyes look languid and quite sultry. Jules said nothing.

“Of course, such flame-colored hair as yours is unusual and not always natural. I much enjoyed assuring myself that it was natural.”

She stared at him a moment, blankly.

“The very red curls between your thighs, Juliana.”

This isn't happening, she thought frantically. It can't be happening!

He saw the horror in her eyes, saw her quickly duck her head down and stiffen. Excellent, he thought. She was no delicate, swooning maiden. She had pride, and backbone.

“I fear the next two weeks might prove a bit boring and confining for you, my dear. But there is no choice, really. I noticed that you were looking at my books. I have a good selection, I believe. Not many young ladies like to read, but I have a feeling that you are different from your sisters. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other duties to attend to.”

Jules breathed a sigh of relief, then called out frantically, “I have no clothes! Please . . .”

“No, of course you do not. And you won't.”

“But why?”

Jameson paused by the cabin door. “There are two reasons, Juliana. First of all, a gown would make you feel less vulnerable, less malleable, give you a confidence that would be illusory at best. Second, I want you to become used to being naked. You will be
spending the majority of your time during the next months in your natural state, I would imagine.”

“You are evil.”

He quirked an amused brow at her. “Didn't you hear your minister father rant enough about the evil of men?”

“I didn't really believe him.”

“Oh, incidentally, Juliana, the trunk containing my clothes is locked. I beg you not to try to pry it open. It is possible that such an act would displease me mightily.”

He left her then, sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the bath towel, her wet hair streaming over her shoulders. The pain in his belly sharpened a bit and he rubbed his stomach.

 

John Bleecher was walking beside her, and Jules knew he wanted to hold her hand. He was a nice boy—no, not a boy, she amended to herself, not any longer. He wanted to marry her. Her father wanted her to marry John. But Sarah didn't, nor did Jules. She would have paired John with Sarah in an instant, but people never seemed to behave as they should. Sarah would worship him, attend to his every word with flattering and sincere attention. Suddenly John turned, grabbed her upper arms, and planted a very wet kiss on her mouth.

Jules gasped, and began to struggle. But John didn't stop. His teeth ground against her lips, and she cried out. But it was no use, he was too strong.

“John, stop it, you idiot! How dare you . . .!”

Jules came suddenly awake, jerking upright in bed. The cabin was utterly dark. Her breathing was jerky, her head still filled with the image of John attacking
her. But of course John Bleecher wasn't there. She was alone. John had kissed her once, most inexpertly, she guessed, and when she'd frowned at him, he'd let her be. And her mind had turned him into a monster. Like Jameson Wilkes. Like those sailors who had hurt Kanola. No, she thought, I must face facts. They'd raped her, like animals. And that was what was in store for her. She wasn't certain what that entailed, exactly, and she didn't want to know. She suddenly saw that ugly rod sticking out from the sailor's abdomen, and shuddered. She wouldn't think about it.

She lay back down, pulling the sheet to her chin. What am I going to do? Certainly there was no way to escape from this ship. But when they arrived in San Francisco . . . Surely she couldn't be kept a prisoner all the time. Surely when Jameson Wilkes tried to sell her, she could scream and fight and demand justice.

How many girls had he kidnapped? How many girls had he sold? What had happened to them? Were there more girls aboard his ship right now?