Gossamer Read online

  Gossamer

  REBECCA HAGAN LEE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  GOSSAMER

  Copyright © 1999 by Rebecca Hagan Lee.

  Excerpt from A Wanted Man by Rebecca Hagan Lee copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Hagan Lee.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 0-515-12430-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-101-65815-4

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  First Jove edition / January 1999

  Cover art of “Bouquet of pink flowers” © Andrii Muzyka/Shutterstock.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  DEDICATION

  For Karen Marie Dunlap, the original Treasure and the inspiration behind the fictional ones. Thank you for your friendship, support, encouragement, belief in me, and boundless enthusiasm for my stories—and you’ve read them all—from third grade until now.

  I hope I did you justice.

  And for the three “guardian angels” who refused to give up on this story and who worked hard to make the dream of publishing it a reality: my friend and mentor, Teresa Medeiros; my agent, Laura Blake Peterson; and my editor, Cindy Hwang.

  With love and gratitude.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Author’s Note

  Special Excerpt from A Wanted Man

  About the Author

  Prologue

  How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,

  And love th’ offender, yet detest th’ offence?

  —ALEXANDER POPE (1688–1744),

  English satirical poet

  Hong Kong

  December 1870

  SHE NEEDED ABSOLUTION from him. She couldn’t continue without it. But absolution for her sin was the one thing he couldn’t yet find in his heart to give. He needed time. Time for the horrible pain to lessen. Time for the terrible wound to heal. Time to forget.

  And so, she hid from him. She abandoned the laughter, the gaiety, the joy, the love, and the sunlight that had once made up the parts of her life. She abandoned the beautiful life she had known and existed in the darkness. She covered her face and remained in the shadows, keeping to her room with only her maid for companionship, refusing to look upon the precious countenance of the person she loved most in the world.

  She had begged his forgiveness.

  But he could not give it.

  And her unbearable sin was never spoken of again.

  He did not punish her. He didn’t speak harshly or starve her or beat her. He didn’t do any of the things she thought he should have done to relieve her of a measure of the horrible guilt she carried within her heart He had done none of the things she expected him to do when he learned of her sin. He had simply stared at her with condemnation and unshed tears in his eyes. Stared at her, unable to speak.

  She could not resume her old life, could not pick up the pieces of her life until he absolved her of her guilt, so she stayed to herself and wept. Each day and long into the night.

  No one could console her as she wept bitter, heartbreaking tears and prayed for his forgiveness.

  And each night as he lay in his solitary bed in the room adjoining hers, he prayed for the strength to look her in the eyes and tell her he understood, that he forgave her for the terrible mistake she had made—for the unspeakable sin she’d committed.

  He wanted to forgive her, wanted to love her again, wanted desperately to return to the life they had had together. Before. But now no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words she needed to hear. The words of forgiveness he wanted to utter stuck in his throat. He couldn’t push them out. And he couldn’t lie. She knew him too well, had loved him too long. She would know the difference between truth and lies. She would see it in his eyes, hear it in the sound of his voice, feel it in the touch of his hands. Try as he might, he knew that he couldn’t forgive her until he could put aside the horror of the sight burned into his memory. He couldn’t forgive until he forgot. And he knew that as long as he lived, he’d never forget what she had done.

  And as the days wore on, he continued to lie in bed each night praying as he listened to the sound of her tears. Praying she would find the strength to forgive herself even if he could not. Praying that one day her tears would come to an end.

  Until the night they did.

  One

  San Francisco, California

  April 1873

  THE SOUND OF her heartrending sobs penetrated his sleep.

  James Craig immediately identified the sound, opened his eyes, rolled out of bed, and padded barefoot across the dark room to the door connecting his bedroom to hers.

  Reaching for the doorknob, he softly called her name. “Mei Ling?”

  She didn’t answer. And the terrible grief-stricken cries continued as James felt for the doorknob. But there was no doorknob. Or door to attach it to. Only a solid wall, covered in flocked wallpaper.

  James leaned his forehead against the wallpaper, remembering. This was San Francisco, not Hong Kong. He was in a hotel thousands of miles away from the bedroom in his dreams and an entire ocean away from his house in Hong Kong. He licked his top lip, tasted the salt of his sweat, and felt another damp trickle of it slide down the curve of his spine. James took a deep breath to steady himself, to gather his bearings as he sorted through the rush of memories triggered by the sound of a woman’s grief.

  “Are you hurt?” he whispered into the velvet flocking, knowing even as he did so that the woman on the other s
ide of the paper-thin walls couldn’t hear him. Knowing, too, that any woman who cried as if her heart was broken had to be gravely wounded—in spirit if not in body.

  James heaved a weary sigh. He couldn’t begin to count the number of nights he had lain awake listening as Mei Ling cried herself to sleep. He couldn’t begin to count the times he had tapped on the connecting door offering comfort, begging admittance, only to be met with more tears. He should go back to bed, bury his head in the feather pillows, pull the covers up over his ears, and pretend he didn’t hear. Just close his eyes and will himself to sleep once again. Ignore her pain, her heart-wrenching tears. That’s what he should do.

  But James Craig had never been one to listen to logic when every fiber of his being told him to listen to his heart.

  Pushing himself away from the wall, James groped his way back to the big brass bed. He shoved his long legs into his trousers, then reached for the silk dressing gown lying at the foot of the bed. He located his leather satchel on the floor beside the bed, felt inside until he found a square of clean linen, shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of his robe, then pulled the silk garment over his bare shoulders and knotted the sash at his waist. Closing the bedroom door behind him, James quietly locked it and pocketed the key before making his way down the dimly lit hall to the adjoining room.

  He tapped at the door, then put his ear against the cool wood. Hearing her broken sobs and the little hiccuping sound she made as she fought to control her weeping, James knocked at the door again. “Miss?” he inquired softly, his voice, a deep, rough rumble not unlike the rumbling of a big cat. “Is everything all right? Are you hurt? Is there anything I can do to help? Anything I can get for you?” Calling himself three kinds of a fool for standing half-dressed and barefoot outside a stranger’s hotel room in the middle of the night, James heard himself pleading, “Miss? Please, answer me.”

  He reached down to try the doorknob, thought better of it, and snatched his hand back.

  What sensible woman would open her door to a stranger in the middle of the night? It would be as foolhardy for her to open her hotel door to a man in a town like San Francisco as it was for him to stand outside it imploring her to do so.

  James leaned his forehead against the molding on the doorframe. What was he thinking? What madness had come over him? He squeezed his eyes closed. Her crying had come over him. The sound of her utter hopelessness. James had no defense against a woman’s tears. Tears of grief so overwhelming they made even the strongest of men feel helpless. James tapped on the door again, louder this time. “Miss? I promise I’ll go away and leave you alone if you’ll just say something to let me know you’re fine. Please.”

  He thought he heard a slight noise on the opposite side of the door. He listened closely and heard the sound of her erratic breathing close by.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” James asked, hearing the phrase as an echo of the many other times he’d asked the same question.

  He didn’t expect a reply. So he was completely taken aback when the door opened a few inches.

  “Please go away,” she whispered just loud enough for him to hear. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  “I’d like to help if I can.” James stared down at her, but she kept her gaze focused on the floor. He couldn’t see her face, only the top of her head. He stared at the thick dark strands of chestnut brown hair interspersed here and there with strands of blond and a light brown. Studying the play of light and dark on her head, James was suddenly reminded of a tapestry that hung on the wall, of his house in Hong Kong. Her hair was like the threads woven into that tapestry—a mixture of browns, tans, and golds, that made up the colors of the coat of a stylized Chinese lion.

  “You said you’d go away,” she reminded him. “You promised you’d go away if I answered.” Dismissing him, she stepped back and began to close the door.

  James stepped closer and pressed his palm against the door. “I promised I’d go away if you could show me that you’re all right,” he answered.

  “Please,” she repeated, “you gave your word.”

  He had given his word. He had told her he would leave her alone if she answered him. And she believed him to be a gentleman of his word. The proper thing to do was to step back and allow her to return to her room and her solitary heartache, but James couldn’t bring himself to do so. He was balking at the prospect of leaving her alone, reaching for a way to delay the inevitable. And he knew it.

  “My name is James,” he said.

  Still she didn’t look up.

  “My name is James,” he repeated when she failed to respond, then continued on in a burst of male frustration. “I’m a complete stranger to you and I’m standing outside your hotel room door in the middle of the night like an idiot, barefoot and freezing, because I heard crying.” He took a deep breath. “Because crying disturbs—” James broke off abruptly, then impulsively reached out and lifted her chin with the tip of his index finger, tilting her face up so he could look at her. “Because your crying disturbs me.”

  James’s heart seemed to thump against his chest. He let go of her chin, took an involuntary step backward, and exhaled all his breath in a rush as he stared down at her face. God in Heaven! A man could lose himself in her eyes. Even red-rimmed and brimming with unshed tears, her deep bluish-green eyes were extraordinary—warm, inviting, and trusting—so clear and revealing, James felt as if he could discern all her secrets and look right into her soul.

  Then she blinked and the secrets of her soul were concealed once more. He watched as she fought to control the expressions of fragile vulnerability revealed in her eyes. She almost succeeded. If he hadn’t seen the soft, vulnerable look in her eyes, James would not have believed such a change was possible. But the warmth in her blue-green gaze cooled, even the color changed—hardened—until her eyes resembled a pair of sparkling aquamarine stones. Beautiful, but remote.

  In a flash of insight James realized the face he was seeing now was the one she showed to the rest of the world, the one most people saw. He knew, without being told, that only moments ago he had unwittingly caught a rare glimpse of the private young woman the rest of the world never saw. And he had the uncanny feeling that a man might live his entire life without ever again glimpsing the powerful emotions and secret longings hidden deep within her. Looking at her now, he was able to take note of her without the distraction of her extraordinary eyes and find that with her pale ivory skin, her small nose, her squarish jaw and determined chin she presented a capable, no-nonsense appearance. Other than her eyes, there was nothing else about her that gave any hint of the incredible beauty she kept hidden like a light beneath a bushel. Nothing else except her plump, shapely lips.

  Her plump, shapely, kissable lips.

  The idea lodged in his brain and seemed to grow with each draw of his breath until James Craig found himself nearly overwhelmed by the desire to taste those lips. Suddenly he knew he was in danger of being swept away by emotional waters too swift for him to navigate. He took another step backward, trying to distance himself from the powerful and unsettling feelings surging through him.

  “I’m terribly sorry.” James retreated, running for emotional cover. “I apologize for intruding on your privacy.” He gave her a slight bow. “With your permission, I’ll say good night and leave you alone.”

  He whirled around, heading back to the safety of his own room.

  “Don’t.”

  James stopped in his tracks, then turned to look at her. “Don’t what?”

  She bit her lip, clearly startled by her impulsive command. “Don’t say good night,” she finally whispered.

  He hesitated. “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t leave me alone.” She opened her hotel room door, then hugging herself tightly, stepped into the breach. “Please, don’t leave me alone.”

  James just stood there, transfixed, staring as her eyes filled with tears, unsure of his next move. Or hers.

 
A flush stole up her face. Embarrassed, and unable to meet his gaze any longer, she bit her bottom lip again and glanced down at the floor. “Forgive me.” Her voice broke and she stepped back into her room. “I never meant to disturb—”

  “Wait!” James ordered. “It isn’t that I want to leave you alone. It’s just that …” The awkwardness around women he’d suffered as a twelve-year-old boy returned with a vengeance. “It’s just that you shouldn’t trust me,” he blurted out. “I’m a stranger. You don’t know anything about me.”

  She regained a measure of her composure and shook her head. “I know you. You’re good and kind and caring. And your name is James.”

  “But …”

  “My name is Elizabeth,” she said, in an echo of his earlier declaration, her voice shaky and thick with tears. “And I’m standing in my hotel room in the middle of the night, opening my door to a stranger because he tells me his name is James and his kind eyes and voice offer comfort. Because I arrived in San Francisco this afternoon to join my brother, only to find that my brother has been dead and buried in a potter’s field for weeks. Because I lost my teaching position in Providence. Because I have no place else to go and very little money. But mostly because I’m more afraid of being left alone man I am of being accosted by a stranger.”

  That said, Elizabeth’s face crumpled and she could no longer choke back her sobs as she clung to the doorway.

  And this time James did what he had not been able to do for Mei Ling. This time, James did what he felt he should do, what he needed to do. He reached out and scooped Elizabeth up in his arms. Leaning his shoulder against the door, he closed it with a soft final click. Then he carried her over to a chair near the warming stove, where he sat down, and cradled her tenderly against his chest. He held her until her tears were spent, then removed his handkerchief from the pocket of his robe and gently dabbed at the tear stains on her face. “Shh,” he soothed. “Close your eyes and sleep. I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “I’ll take care of everything.” He cared for her as he would care for a child, comforted her as he would comfort a babe. Relying on instinct and half-remembered bits of old lullabies, James rocked Elizabeth against his chest and sang in a low, rusty baritone until she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.