A Light For My Love (12 page)

"That's the romantic part of it, Jake. But I
don't suppose it's something that would interest you."

"Not really. I prefer a more direct approach.
Did you ever find out who was behind it?" His expression was
suddenly hard.

"Yes, finally." Direct approach, indeed.
China privately congratulated herself for refraining from the
mention of Althea Lambert.

Jake's brows rose while he waited for her to
fill in the rest. "And?"

"Oh, it took some checking, but Zachary
eventually admitted to sending the box and the flowers."

"Zach Stowe? It figures," Jake hooted. He
seemed angry. "I remember him. His chief talent was his ability to
balance a cup and saucer and cake plate on his lap during those
dumb tea parties you used to have here. There's a useful
skill."

It wasn't the slur on Zachary that she
minded. After all, he'd shown his true colors when the Captain
died. And in the deepest corner of her heart, China had always
harbored a slight doubt as to Zachary's responsibility for the
gift, though she'd never known why. What bothered her was Jake's
attack on the small ceremonies of life that she'd once held dear.
Those "dumb tea parties," as he referred to them, were gone
forever, and so were the people who had attended them. But she
clung to the remembrance of them, just as she sheltered her
memories of her parents and brothers. Of course, though Jake had
spent a lot of time in this house, she would never have accepted
him to participate in her social functions even if he'd expressed
the slightest interest, which he hadn't. He and Quinn had been too
busy terrorizing the town with their escapades. Jake certainly
hadn't developed an appreciation for the social skills necessary
for fine living.

"Well, what's so wonderful about someone who
can tie a sheet bend knot?" she challenged.

Jake smiled with amusement and tipped his
head, as if to compliment the fact that she actually knew what a
sheet bend knot was. He let his eyes drop pointedly to the soft
curve of her breasts and linger there, then drift down to her hips.
It felt like they left burning trails on her body, as surely as if
he'd touched her with his fingertips, and she shifted against the
velvet upholstery. He brought his gaze up to her face again, which
now felt as hot as a stove lid.

"There's a lot more to be said for a man able
to tie a decent knot," he said softly. "You can be sure he's good
with his hands."

China pressed her mouth into a tight line,
unable to think of a suitable reply to his crude allusion. It
suddenly came back to her that just a few feet away was the alcove
where Jake had kissed her that dreadful day when she was sixteen.
The memory of his mouth on hers, consuming and demanding, returned
with surprising clarity. Her face burned hotter, and she twiddled
with a pleat in her skirt. "I really don't care to hear—"

"I slept much better last night," he
continued, obviously enjoying her uneasiness. Indolently, he
stretched his spine, arching his back enough to strain the knit
stitches in his sweater. "That big bed is a lot more
comfortable."

"I'm so glad." Her words were laced with
sarcasm, but she glanced down at her lap to escape the look she saw
in his eyes. She couldn't define it, but no man had ever directed
such a look at her before. At least, no nice man.

"Here," he said abruptly, putting the
string-tied package in her lap. "Maybe you can make this fit in the
icebox. I didn't know what to do with it."

"What is it?" China asked, thrown off guard.
He was as slippery as grease when it came to changing subjects. Not
that she was sorry to leave the discussion of knots and men's hands
and big beds.

"It's a leg of lamb. Aunt Gert can fix it for
dinner."

"Leg of lamb—where did it come from?" she
asked, holding the paper-wrapped roast as though it were
diseased.

"It followed me home," he quipped. "Where do
people usually buy meat? I got it at the butcher shop."

China scowled. Now he was acting as though
she and everyone else in the house were charity cases. Noble
Captain Chastaine, bringing food to the needy. Pride pulled her
chin up, and made her sit taut and tall.

"We don't need your help, Jake. And I don't
want it." She would have stood to leave, but his eyes bored into
her and kept her in the chair.

"That isn't why I got it. If I'd said I'd
like to have lamb for dinner, you would have reminded me that this
isn't a restaurant. So I bought the roast myself."

He made a reasonable argument, but she wasn't
willing to concede. She held out the leg of lamb in mute
refusal.

He leaned forward and pushed the roast back
into her arms. "It would be a shame if this went to waste, wouldn't
it?" he asked, his voice lowered. "Just accept it, China."

The intensity in his eyes and the tone in his
voice made it impossible for her to argue further with him. He was
a natural-born leader—even as a youngster, hadn't he led a pack of
street urchins,
and
Quinn, like the Pied Piper? He was
always in command of himself and usually those around him,
excepting China. But this felt different. For an instant, she was
capable only of looking up into his face to study the gilt-edged
brows, the straight nose, the full mouth, as though he'd willed her
to do little else.

Perhaps, she considered tentatively, just
perhaps the lamb was an apology for his rudeness two nights ago.
She supposed it would be graceless not to accept it. Her arms
closed around the package. Finally, she broke away with an
impatient huff and stood up, stepping around him to take the roast
to the kitchen and grabbing the sweeper handle on her way out.

Jake turned to watch her walk away, her hips
swaying gently as she pushed the sweeper ahead of her. A long black
curl that had escaped its pins hung down her back. She held her
chin so high, he wondered how she could see to keep the sweeper
headed in a straight line.

He took a deep breath and swallowed, then
stood to go upstairs.

*~*~*

Jake got his leg of lamb for dinner that
evening, and even produced a bottle of wine to go with it. To
China's infinite irritation, this served only to elevate his
standing with the rest of the family.

"Here, Missy, let's be having some more of
that roast down here," Captain Meredith bellowed, gesturing at the
lamb with his fork. Directing his bushy brows at Jake, he added,
"By God, lad, we've eaten better in the week since you got here
than ever before. Chicken, ham, and now this." He turned knowing
raisin eyes on China and cackled, "I guess having a good-looking
young buck around makes the lady of the house want to fatten him
up."

This drew a quiet, tittering laugh from Susan
Price, who, China noticed, cast oddly pleased, sidelong glances at
Jake from over the rim of her wineglass. Susan's was a strange,
aloof personality most of the time anyway, but when she was around
Jake, her behavior was always peculiar.

China, however, didn't find Cap's remark
amusing and refused to rise to his bait. He was like a crotchety
grandfather or a toothless uncle who thought nothing of heckling a
person to the point of excruciating embarrassment with baldly put
questions and bad jokes. Any sign of weakness would only encourage
him.

Jake avoided the looks Susan sent him and
instead caught China's rather tart smile as she passed the meat
platter down to the old captain.

They lingered at the table afterward,
enjoying the last of the burgundy and a peach cobbler Gert had
baked. All the elements—the wine, the food, a lively, snapping fire
in the fireplace, this familiar dining room—made a warm,
comfortable blend, and Jake knew a mellow pleasure. Slouching back
in his chair, he turned his wineglass by its stem. Again and again
he caught himself studying China, the way her thick black lashes
framed those eyes, her small, smooth hands, the curve of her ear,
the delicate coral color of her mouth. And he almost wished again
that things had been different, that he hadn't needed to leave
Astoria.

For while he'd gained a lot in the last few
years, he knew he'd lost something as well.

CHAPTER FIVE

China dallied on the sidewalk in front of
Otto Herrmann's door, asking herself one last time if she had made
the right decision. She'd lain awake half of last night, staring at
the eerie shadows of bare-limbed trees on her bedroom wall and
struggling with this same question. It seemed to have only one
answer, but she'd not arrived at it easily. She looked up at the
watchmaker's sign again, and through the single plate-glass window.
At least he had no other customers right now. Taking a deep breath,
China adjusted her dark blue wrap and, her mind made up, walked
into the shop.

It was a tiny place, lined with glass display
cases containing rings set with precious stones, brooches, wedding
bands, gold bracelets, watches, and every manner of necklaces and
chains, all reposing on black velvet beds that made them sparkle
like a night sky.

"Ah, Fraulein Sullivan, how good to see you
again," Otto Herrmann greeted her, glancing up from his bench
behind the back display counter. He was a courtly, pleasant-looking
gentleman in his forties, but the jeweler's loupe at his eye gave
his face a strange, deformed appearance until he removed it. Spread
before him were the intricate internal workings of someone's watch.
To China, they appeared hopelessly complex and minuscule. She
couldn't imagine how he would put them back in the empty gold case
and have the thing actually tell time again.

He rose from the task and stood across the
counter from her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked. A
discernable Austrian accent clung to his speech despite his twenty
years in America. "Perhaps you wish to treat yourself with a small
adornment, yes? Or you've a timepiece needing repair?"

"You have such beautiful things, Mr.
Herrmann," she said. "That is especially lovely." She gently tapped
the top of the glass case with her gloved finger to indicate a
small cameo brooch within.

He reached down to slide open the door. "Yes,
I've just received it. It would look very nice as a collar pin." He
handed the cameo to her.

China took it in her palm, and admired the
carved female profile. Then, remembering why she was here, she
hastily handed it back. "But in fact, well, I—" she broke off
uncomfortably. God, this was so awkward, she thought. Although she
had faith in the man's discretion, she hated being in the position
of requiring it. She glanced up at his kind face, but his gray eyes
and fair Teutonic coloring suddenly reminded her of a certain young
blond sea captain, and she dropped her gaze, flustered. This was
not going well. Forcing herself to remember her objective, China
cleared her throat and began again.

"A year ago you purchased several pieces of
jewelry from me, ones that had belonged to my mother."

He nodded. "An emerald necklace with matching
earrings, and some rings."

China put her bag on the glass countertop and
removed a quilted white satin pouch. "Yes, well, I find it
necessary, um, that is, I could be persuaded to also part with this
garnet pendant and garnet bracelet." She withdrew the jewelry from
the satin. The necklace was a circle of red stones, like gleaming
blood drops suspended at intervals by short lengths of gold chain.
The pendant consisted of a large stone surrounded by tiny white
diamonds. The companion bracelet contained alternating garnets and
diamonds.

The watchmaker put on his loupe again and
took the pendant from her outstretched hand, carrying it to the
window, where feeble winter sunlight filtered through the glass. He
studied it carefully for several minutes, back and front, praising
it with wordless sounds of appreciation. In turn, he looked at the
bracelet as well.

"They are exquisite pieces," Mr. Herrmann
said finally, removing the loupe again and examining the jewelry
with his own eyes. "The stones are of high quality, nearly
flawless. They are matched well for color—one stone is almost
indistinguishable from the next. The design is a bit dated, yes,
but not so much."

China began to breathe a little easier. She
trusted him and knew he was bound to propose a fair price. She
began visualizing which debts to pay first, and wondering if there
would be something left to donate to the league's
boardinghouse.

He walked back to her and returned the pieces
to their satin pouch. "It is with great regret that I must decline
your offer, Fraulein."

China's heart plummeted with disappointment
and embarrassment. Her hands clenched inside her gloves. After
agonizing over this decision, it had never occurred to her that Mr.
Herrmann might refuse her.

He pointed to the glass case behind China.
"You see, Fraulein, I have yet to sell the emeralds I bought from
you last year." China turned and saw her mother's necklace and
earrings artfully displayed. "They, too, are lovely pieces, but
quite dear, and if I cannot interest a buyer soon, I may be forced
to the unfortunate task of removing the stones to put them into
smaller, shall we say, more attractively priced, settings."

China tucked the satin pouch into her bag
again. Discouraged and vaguely depressed by his last statement, she
felt as though a weight had descended on her chest. Which was worse
she couldn't say: knowing that a stranger wore her mother's jewelry
or hearing that it would be cannibalized and made into something
else. It seemed like a defilement of her mother's memory. She
pictured the empty settings, like eyeless sockets, plucked clean of
their green gems one by one as the need arose, and she was
horrified to feel tears gather behind her lids. She quickly blinked
them away, ordering herself to maintain her dignity. She abhorred
females who wept publicly; she considered it the height of
manipulative bad manners. So well had China trained herself that
now she never really cried, in public or in private, no matter how
much she sometimes wanted to.