Lydia looked aghast. “Wicked,” she said finally, shaking her gray head. “I’ve heard of the Crooked House, of course. You did a fine thing, Saint, yes, a fine thing.” She looked toward the ceiling, a frown crinkling her brow. “Poor little mite. What are you going to do, Saint?”
He downed the rest of his coffee, and rose from his chair. “An excellent question. Right now, I want her to wake up. Lord only knows how much opium that bastard gave her.
“I’ll cook up a big breakfast for her,” Lydia said. “Good food will clear out her system.”
Saint nodded, and walked from the kitchen. Lydia stared after him, a thoughtful look in her sharp blue eyes. She was fond of Saint, more than fond, she thought. He was like a son to her, a son to be proud of. She thought of her only son, dead now for three years. Rory had wanted gold so much, too much, and he’d died of dysentery in a wretched mining camp near Nevada City. And she’d come here alone with practically no money. She’d worked in the Stevenson home for two months, until the daughter of the house, Penelope, drove her so distracted she’d simply walked out. She blessed, every now and again, that awful cold she’d gotten, for it had given her Saint. And now there was a girl upstairs, a young girl who had dropped into his life out of his past.
She turned slowly away from the table and began to lay strips of bacon into a skillet. Saint needed a wife, but first she had to get to know this Juliana DuPres.
Jules felt a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her, heard a soft man’s voice speaking to her. She froze inwardly, terror consuming her, until her mind, less dull and heavy now, forced her to open her eyes. She saw Michael leaning over her, his face concerned, his eyes intently studying her. She felt so sluggish, it was an effort to keep her eyes open. Michael, she thought. He was here, with her. It didn’t surprise her.
“How do you feel, Jules?” he asked, taking in the physical signs as he spoke. He knew how she felt without having to ask.
“I remember,” Jules said, trying to weave her wayward and tangled memories together.
He tensed, afraid to say anything.
“Is Jameson Wilkes dead? Did you kill him?”
He was relieved at her tone—angry, aggressive. “No, but I did slam my fist into his face. I don’t imagine he’ll feel very well for a while.”
“Yes,” she said again. “I remember. He drugged me, forced wine down my throat when I refused to drink it.” She fell silent, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I remember now that you hit me. My jaw hurts.”
“I’m sorry, Jules, but I had to get you out of there fast. I think you believed I was one of those bas . . . rotten men, and you fought me.”
“Well, I just hope that you hit Wilkes much harder.” She yawned, and raised her hand to cover her mouth. She paused, staring at the long sleeve that fell over the tips of her fingers. She looked at him, puzzled.
Saint became all professional. “I’m a doctor, Jules. I had to make sure you were all right. That’s one of my nightshirts, my only one, in fact. It’s yours until I can buy you something else.”
His very bland, cool tone would have worked if she hadn’t spent two weeks faced with what men did to women. He’d stripped off that awful gown. He’d seen her naked. She’d seen Wilkes’s leering looks when she’d been without any clothes in front of him. How had Michael looked at her? It was too much. Tears shimmered in her eyes and began to course down her cheeks.
“Jules! Come on, now, sweetheart. That’s no way to greet an old friend after five long years.”
He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but he held himself still. He said roughly, “Buck up, Jules, the world hasn’t ended. Nothing happened. You’re safe here. Don’t turn into a watering pot on me now.” God, at least I pray nothing happened.
She sniffed, trying to swallow the tears, and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. “You’re right,” she said. “You’re not like Wilkes.”
“No,” he said very gently, “I’m not.”
“I don’t understand how you saved me,” she said, her attention wandering inward even as she spoke. Something was gnawing at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
“I was told by one of the Sydney Ducks that Wilkes had a missionary’s daughter from Lahaina. When I heard the description, I knew it had to be you. The rest was planning, that’s all.”
He saw that she was frowning at a point beyond his shoulder. He waited patiently, knowing that if she remembered the happenings of the previous evening, he would simply have to deal with it.
Jules said abruptly, her eyes suddenly intent upon his face, “You haven’t changed at all, Michael. You’re still large and hard and handsome, and your eyes still crinkle.”
He wished she’d used some word other than “hard.” “I’m nearly an old man now, Jules.”
“Ha! You’re ten years older, that’s all. I remember you used the same argument on me when I asked you to marry me at the advanced age of fourteen.” She flushed at her words. A child’s words from the past. Something nibbled insistently at the edge of her thoughts, but she couldn’t seem to grasp it, to understand. It was frustrating and disconcerting. Slowly she raised her hand to touch his face. “You still feel like you used to,” she said. Then suddenly she said, her voice intense, “I dreamed you came back to me in Lahaina, and we were together again.”
“A dream,” he said cautiously. “And I did come back to you, in a sense.”
“Yes, I suppose. Your eyes are so beautiful. The hazel is so much nicer than my . . . slime green.”
He laughed at that. “Oh no, not slime, Jules. Don’t you remember how you got your nickname?”
She smiled, two dimples deepening in her cheeks. “Yes, but it’s you who have forgotten, Michael. My nickname is from my awful hair, not my eyes.”