“Pregnancy doesn’t necessarily follow sex, Del,” Saint said, trying to make light of his friend’s words. “Indeed, if you will recall, Chauncey didn’t become pregnant for a number of months, and I imagine that you kept her quite busy during those months.”
“True, but beside the point. You’ve got to try, Saint. No matter this weird obsession Wilkes has for her, I can’t envision him wanting to kidnap a pregnant woman.”
“No,” Saint said very softly, utterly serious now.
“You can’t continue playing the benign father to your wife! Chauncey tells me that Jules is crazy in love with you. What the hell is going on, Saint?”
Saint rose and walked to the fireplace. He looked down into the empty grate. Crazy in love with him? What utter
nonsense. A young girl’s infatuation mixed with a strong dose of gratitude—fleeting, ephemeral as the San Francisco fog. He said without turning, “Jules has been hurt very badly. Whatever feelings she thinks she has for me, if I tried to make love to her, she would be terrified. I had hoped she would forget, and perhaps . . .” He shrugged. “Last night, when she regained consciousness, she thought I was Wilkes. If you had seen her face, you wouldn’t suggest such a thing. I will not hurt her. I will not force myself on her.”
* * *
Jules looked blankly at the partially open parlor door. She felt dizzy, her head fuzzy. Slowly she tied her dressing gown more closely about her. It was odd, but she didn’t remember thinking Michael was Jameson Wilkes. Had she truly looked terrified? The men’s words wove in and out of her mind, fighting with the laudanum. She heard Michael’s low, intense voice, “No, no more, Del. I know you mean well, but—”
“You’re my friend, dammit! You of all men leading a celibate life! How much longer do you think you can stay sane living like this? And face it, Saint, you can’t keep Jules a prisoner, and you simply can’t be with her all the time.”
“I’ll think of something,” Saint said.
She heard Del Saxton rise from his chair and move toward the door. She pulled herself upright, and wobbled back up the stairs. Her head began to pound again and she curled up under the covers, closing her eyes tightly.
When she woke, Thomas was sitting beside her.
“Michael?” she whispered.
“Sorry, love, he’s with a patient. How do you feel?”
“I had this strange dream,” she began, then closed her mouth. It hadn’t been a dream. Her mouth felt full of dry wool. “Can I have some water, Thomas?”
“Certainly, love. A moment, there isn’t any up here. I’ll be right back.”
Of course there wasn’t any water here. That’s why she’d dragged herself downstairs earlier. And heard them talking, Michael and Del Saxton.
After she’d drunk her fill, Thomas said, “You look like one of those skinny little lizardfish, all pale and limp.”
“Thank you, brother,” she said.
“Saint filled in all the things I didn’t know about Wilkes,” Thomas said. “There have been a good dozen people in and out of here all morning. I think half the male population of San Francisco is looking for that bloody bastard.”
She looked at him hopefully. “Do you think he’s really gone for good?”
“I don’t know, Thomas said thoughtfully. He gently stroked her hair back from her forehead. He tried a crooked grin. “How he could want you—a tangled little raggamuffin—well, it’s beyond me.”
He wouldn’t want me if I were pregnant.
She said, “Tell me about the ball. Did you have a good time?”
“After what happened to you, very little. Del and I kept it under wraps, so not many people know.”
“I thought you said people were trooping in and out all morning.”
“I mean friends, not acquaintances.”
“Michael has a lot of friends,” Jules said.
“And so do you, love.”
“Thomas?”