A Light For My Love (20 page)

China briefly seized her upper lip between
her teeth. Dalton gave the woman an assessing look but merely
nodded.

Peter Hollis, regarding him with a
speculative expression, said, "I know you from somewhere, Mr.
Williams. Have we met before?"

"Not formally. But I've stood on the sidewalk
outside your office once or twice, Mr. Hollis, distributing
information about the shanghaiing that goes on in Astoria and
Portland."

A collective "oh" of recognition sounded
within the group as most of them made the association between
Dalton Williams and the Sailors Protective League.

From the corner of her eye, China saw Jake go
to the brandy decanter and pour a large measure for himself. His
knuckles were white as he gripped the container. His fury was
palpable; she almost expected to hear the sound of the glass
shattering in his grip. He bolted the brandy and coughed once from
its searing heat, then poured another drink while he leveled an
ice-cold glare at her.

Emory Stanhope, dozing in the blue velvet
chair near the fire, roused himself from his partially anesthetized
state to comment. "Oh, yes, bad business, that shanghaiing. Bad.
Sn-snatch law-abiding citizens right off the street."

Dalton raised his piercing eyes from Stanhope
and settled them briefly, evenly, on Jake, who clenched his right
hand into a fist at his side. Then he let his gaze sweep the room
to rest on each face.

"Yes, that's true. Honest citizens are being
taken, but so are men who make their living by sea trade." His
voice rose and deepened a bit. "Imagine renting a room in a
boardinghouse, then being drugged or hit over the head and sold by
the landlord to a sea captain waiting in the harbor."

Douglas Buchanan shook his head skeptically.
"I don't know, Williams. From what I've seen, it's my impression
that a lot of sailors are their own worst enemies, going into the
saloons and, if the ladies will pardon me, brothels on Astor
Street, where they know it's dangerous. I don't mean to say that
crimping is right, but—if I put my hand in that fireplace," he
said, pointing to the roaring blaze, "I know I'd be burned. And
knowing that, if I put my hand in anyway . .?" He let the question
hang.

Dalton Williams nodded, walking around to a
point in the room that allowed him to face everyone present. "What
you say is often the case. But not always. The night I was
shanghaied from Astoria, I wasn't in a saloon or with a—I was
staying at the Sailors' Home on Third Street. For those of you who
don't know it, Jim Turk owns that boardinghouse." James Turk was a
notorious crimp. "So one of the goals of the Sailors Protective
League is to establish a safe boardinghouse, not like the ones
owned by Turk or the Grant family. A place where a man can get a
clean room and a decent meal without having to worry about waking
up ten miles from shore on an outbound ship."

Peter Hollis looked a bit pinched. "Don't you
feel that it's risky taking on a man like Jim Turk? I mean, it's
said he shanghaied his own son."

Dalton lifted his face slightly, then
continued with the passion of a true believer. "I can only say what
I tell everyone else. No other American adult suffers the complete
lack of legal rights that a seaman does. There is no justice for
him—no Emancipation Proclamation or Bill of Rights. But there will
be. There must be. Sailors cannot be slaves any longer." His voice
sounded like low, rolling thunder, echoing against the ceiling of
heaven. He held his audience's rapt attention as he addressed them,
his features animated as though lit by a fire within.

Dalton leaned forward just a bit, his
resonant words gathering energy and power, like the climax of a
storm.

"To abduct a man against his will, sell him
like livestock, strip away his dignity, and force him to work for
almost no wages, ladies and gentlemen, that is slavery, and it must
stop. Because until it does, no man is safe in Astoria—not plowboys
or bankers, seamen or schoolteachers, your husbands or your sons.
If it means that I challenge Turk or the Grant brothers or Paddy
Lynch, then, by God, so be it. I won't rest until the evil of
shanghaiing has ended."

A hush fell upon the room, and chills flew up
China's arms and down her back. This wasn't the first time she'd
heard Dalton speak, but it was always thrilling. Even when
addressing a larger group, he had the ability to make each person
feel as though he spoke only to the individual. The guests sat
mesmerized. Then the applause began.

Finally, Julia Stanhope spoke, her equine
face beatific. "Mr. Williams, I assume you will accept donations
for this cause. Certainly Mr. Stanhope will write you a check
immediately." Then she turned admiring eyes on Jake. "And you,
Captain Chastaine, what a courageous thing to do, to support the
Sailors Protective League. I've heard that captains who resist
buying crewmen from the crimps risk great danger, both to
themselves and their vessels. I applaud you, gentlemen."

China stole a peek at Jake and saw him
exchange a long, glittering, look with Dalton. She hoped no one
else noticed the perceptible animosity between the two men. But as
a general murmur reflecting Julia's sentiments went around the
room, Jake's thinly concealed wrath changed to bafflement and then
to uneasy, tacit acceptance of their praise. The men standing near
him shook his hand and clapped him on the back. China began to
breathe a bit easier.

Over the course of the next hour, Dalton
answered their questions and discussed plans for the boardinghouse,
carefully omitting China's very direct involvement in activities to
date. Every man present gave him a donation, and the evening broke
up shortly thereafter.

He was the last to leave, and he and China
stood at the door, exuberant over the tidy sum he'd collected. She
hoped this made up for revealing the carriage house to Jake. "You
were wonderful, Dalton," she whispered, mindful of Jake still in
the parlor. "I think you really made them understand how important
this is."

Impulsively he leaned forward and pecked her
cheek. She smelled the faint scent of bay rum. "I have a good
assistant." He glanced beyond her shoulder, as though looking for
Jake as well. "Will you be all right after I leave tonight? I can
talk to Chastaine if you think it will help."

"No, we'd better leave it alone. Don't worry,
I can handle Jake." She spoke with more confidence than she
felt.

He looked at her for a long moment. "You're
quite a woman, China." Then he opened the front door and
disappeared into the misty night. The compliment, coming from
someone she so admired, gave her enormous pleasure. Jake might pick
at her and find fault with her, but at least Dalton, champion of
the oppressed, acknowledged her value.

Though Jake remained in the parlor, he was
very aware of the whispered conversation taking place at the front
door. He couldn't hear what was being said, but the intimate nature
of it, hushed and taking place in a darkened entryway, rankled him.
He reached up and loosened his constricting tie.

That jack-tar Williams was an expert at
manipulating a crowd, that was certain, Jake thought, leaning
against the mantel. His own guests, the ones he'd wanted to meet,
had made a big fuss over Williams, like he was some kind of
celebrity. With more than a little resentment, he remembered China
staring at Williams with glowing exaltation. He had no doubt that
she was helping him with his campaign, but Jake couldn't help but
wonder if that was the extent of their relationship. She gazed at
the man a bit too ardently for a coconspirator. Oh, he'd like to
have him under his command for a week, even a day. He'd have him on
his hands and knees, holystoning the decks until they were whiter
than snow, and then he'd make him do it again.

After closing the door behind him, China
called good night to Jake with every intention of scurrying
upstairs to her room. She didn't want to be alone with him, for
more than one reason. But she'd taken only two steps toward her
goal when she heard him summon her from the parlor doorway. Hang it
all, couldn't he allow her an easy escape? She'd done everything
he'd asked of her. She turned to look at him.

"China, let me pour you a nightcap," he said,
dim yellow light framing his broad silhouette. He had turned down
the lamps, and the room glowed with the low flames on the hearth.
His tie was unknotted and hung on either side of his open shirt
collar. He didn't seem angry, but she could read nothing in his
expression. She only felt his gaze drift over her lightly, from
breasts to hips.

She hesitated. "Really, it's late and I'm
tired—"

He held out his hand. "Just for a
minute."

He ushered her into the room and went to the
brandy decanter to pour each of them a drink. Then with his large,
warm hand on her back, he steered her to the settee in the
semi-darkness of the alcove. She sat stiffly amid her puff of
taffeta moire, one hand clenched in her lap, waiting for his tirade
to commence.

He remained standing as he clinked his glass
to hers. "Here's to the night's success. You did a good job, China,
and I appreciate it." He took a swallow of his drink and leaned
against one of the tall window frames.

That surprised her. Breathing a bit easier,
she sipped the brandy and kept her eyes trained on his shoulder. It
was less distracting than looking at his handsome face, which was
beginning to haunt her thoughts almost constantly. "I'm glad it
went well," she said, and then more to herself, "except maybe for
Cap's contribution."

She thought that would make him smile, but
Jake directed a frown at her. "You'll never know how close it came
to ending not well at all. When I saw Dalton Williams walk into
this room, and you leading him, I had to stop myself from beating
the holy hell out of him. And you," he emphasized by leaning toward
her, "narrowly escaped being locked in that room in the attic."

China flinched at the sudden anger in his
voice and looked at the distance from the alcove to the door.
"Apparently you forget yourself, Captain Chastaine," she replied
sharply, mustering a facade of courage. "This is my home and I can
invite to it whomever I please."

"When I'm paying the bills, I expect to know
who's been invited to my dinners,
Miss Sullivan
."

"And if I'd told you in advance, would you
have agreed to let Dalton come?" she demanded. "I hardly think so."
She made a haughty show of gathering her skirts in preparation to
rise and leave.

Humorless, incredulous laughter escaped him,
as though she'd asked, an asinine question. He reached over and put
his hand on her arm, indicating that she would stay and listen.
"You're right, I would've said no. I asked you to arrange this
dinner because nobody would—because I wanted to make business
contacts. I need cargo for the
Katherine Kirkland
, China, or
she'll turn into a financial anchor chain around my neck. What if
having Williams come here and make his speech had offended those
people tonight? They all assumed I agree with him. What if all the
planning and spending and—" he gripped his jacket lapel and shook
it "—and dressing up had gone for nothing because of him? Did you
think about that?"

Even in the low light, she saw his tight jaw,
his rigid posture, his eyes blazing. And she felt an embarrassing,
culpable stupidity crowd her in the little alcove. No, she'd never
considered that she might jeopardize Jake's business opportunities.
She'd merely thought of the captive audience and a clever chance to
gather donations for the league.

She had to look away from the flame in his
eyes, so she drank her brandy. "Well, no, I guess I didn't think
about it," she mumbled, toying with the braid on the arm of the
settee. Then she continued with more assurance, "But everyone was
impressed with Dalton. And that only helped you even more."

"Yeah, everyone came out of it lucky," he
replied grimly. He rubbed the back of his neck, then pushed her
skirts out of the way and flopped on the settee next to her,
startling her. "So think about this: one of those people, Douglas
Buchanan or Peter Hollis or whoever, is going to repeat what he saw
here tonight. In fact, one of them might even have a direct
connection to the crimps here or in Portland. And, with gossip
traveling the way it does, eventually the wrong person will learn
that you're working with Dalton Williams. You'll make powerful
enemies among people who can do you real harm. If they didn't know
who you were before, they will now." He shook his head. "Christ, he
even named some of them."

The brandy, taken on a nearly empty stomach,
had loosened China's tired muscles and given her a careless,
relaxed confidence. It was almost comfortable to have Jake sitting
so close that his thigh bumped hers.

"Pfft, so what? What are they going to do,
shanghai
me
? I rather doubt it. No one knows about the
carriage house. And I don't care if everyone knows I'm working on
the boardinghouse. Lots of people are involved in charities.
Besides, whether you like him or not, you heard Dalton tonight.
Everything he said is true, and you know it."

For a woman reared in a genteel family, she
was as stubborn as a salt-rusted hinge, Jake thought. Headstrong,
too. That soft, protected upbringing, in its own way, had left her
defenseless. China hadn't seen much of the scummy underside of life
beyond taking care of a few sailors. She didn't know anything of
the inhabitants who peopled that dark underside, or of the
malevolence that drove them. And she apparently didn't believe him,
either.

He took a drink from his glass, appreciative
of the mellow feeling that spread through his limbs. He sighed and
considered her, stately and breathtaking in that damned dress. A
rumble of laughter rolled out of him.