Shades of the Orient

By Stephanie Guerrero

In this action-packed suspense in the exotic Orient, a classic tale of good versus evilspies, smugglers, and betrayalwho will be unmasked?

The Smuggler

Black Jade is many things. Hiding behind a prominent name by day and a Chinese mask by night, he can be anyonejust not the man he wants to be. Trapped in an ever-tightening web of deceit and pursued relentlessly by the White Dragon, he must choose which man he wants to be. When a way out is offered from a surprising source, will he choose power or let it go?

The Spy

A Spanish officer, a black market dealer, a shipping executive, an intelligence officerPhilip Montero is skilled at wearing masks to defeat the enemy, but this time he must face the enemy within. Plagued by nightmares, he must unlock his past in order to survive. Time is running out, though, and Black Jade has targeted the woman of his heart. Betrayed by his family, his former fiance, and his fears, who can teach him how to trust again?

The Senorita

Shipping-heiress-turned-missionary-nurse Francesca McRae is a target everywhere she turns. Desired as an heiress by power-hungry men and hated by the Chinese Boxers for her interference in the culture, she is surrounded by deception and hatred. None of her suitors are who they seem, yet one has stolen her heart. When loving others becomes more than she can handle, who can she trust?

Where do you turn when life is too much to handle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449732561

Stephanie Guerrero

Stephanie Guerrero holds her bachelor’s degree in interdisciplinary studies, specializing in reading. A former middle school reading teacher, this pastor’s wife and homeschooling mom of four has a passion for the redemptive, life-changing impact of a great story. Her husband of nineteen years is her delight and inspiration.

Book preview

Prologue

Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God.

John 3:20-21

Shanghai, China

December 22, 1883

M i dnight… I am going to hang!

Lord Miles Stafford swore through clenched teeth and glanced nervously down the dark alley. His black market contact had never been this late. He pulled a red silk handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. Even in the crisp December night air he was breaking a sweat. He shook his head at the delay reminded of the past choices that brought him to this moment.

The market for Chinese antiquities had increased dramatically since 1860 when Imperial treasures were lifted from the Summer Palace before the British government had it burned. As the second son of a British Lord, he had been intrigued with the idea of making his fortune off of Oriental plunder and quickly signed on with an East India Company ship. China held millennia of treasure just waiting to be tapped, and tap it he had.

Miles tapped his chin and a slight smirk lit his face. He could not have soared to such great heights without the legitimacy of his partner. He and Adam McRae may have started their shipping business as a means of smuggling opium, but when Adam became religious, they ceased shipping the drug. The legitimate shipping business had made them both wealthy.

Miles shook his head. Though he was wealthy, like an addiction, he kept smuggling. He shivered in anticipation of the thrill of outwitting the authorities.

Checking his watch again, he shifted position in the alley. Twelve forty-five! He pounded his fist into his hand, furious at the delay. Every minute that went by was one more minute he risked exposure as an esteemed member of Shanghai’s British society.

The sound of furtive footsteps caught his attention, and he moved back into the shadows. He strained to look down the length of the dimly lit alley. Nothing! Fifteen more minutes went by before he heard footsteps again.

Wang Ku Chong! he snapped.

The Chinaman bowed wordlessly in greeting.

Stafford’s blue eyes darkened as he glanced behind the small man in an effort to see what he had brought. He crossed his arms in displeasure.

You’re late! He gritted in Mandarin.

"I was being followed by members of the I Ho Chuan. Perhaps you have heard of the secret society of Righteous Harmonious Fists. The old man flashed a malicious and toothless grin. If they knew I was meeting with you to sell our imperial treasure, both of our lives would be endangered."

Stafford refused to be intimidated by the old man’s threats of danger. He would not yield a penny more than the agreed upon price. Risk was part of the job, part of the thrill. They both knew that. He stamped his foot in impatience. He had already been in the alley for almost two hours. He was not in the mood to play games with the weathered old con-man.

Where are the goods?

Surely, you do not think me foolish enough to bring them with me? he replied.

The blood vessels on Stafford’s temples swelled as his temper began to boil.

You know I must see the goods before payment is made! That was the deal! It appears I have wasted my time. He turned to go. The old man reached a gnarled hand out to stop him.

"Ah… do not be so impatient. I have brought with me a small sample. The rest is in a lorcha just off shore with the other junks. He reached beneath a tattered green vest, pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine, and slit it open. Gold glistened in the dim light as he removed a solid gold statue of Buddha with an emerald jewel protruding from its generous belly. He thrust it under Stafford’s nose.

You are not disappointed I see, he mocked. He quickly stuffed the idol back into the nondescript paper. This item alone is worth much, as are the others aboard my lorcha.

This is from the Imperial Palace you say?

One of the older consorts just died. It was one of the many possessions given to her by the last emperor. You will buy?

I will buy. Deliver them to this location, he said handing him a scrap of paper indicating a wheat warehouse and two story British manor house sitting directly across from The Bund at the mouth of the Huang Po River and Suzhou Creek.

The side door will be open, and a newly arrived wheat shipment waits just inside. Bury the goods in the third stack. I will meet you there with payment in two hours. He paused and added…Wang, do not be late!

Stafford waited as Wang bowed and scurried down the alley onto the peer. He shuddered. Whether from the cold or from some trepidation he could not tell. He thought he heard another set of footprints. Something did not feel right about this job. He sloughed it off as fatigue and his imagination.

If all went well the payoff would be unimaginable. Imagine selling the personal treasures of the former Emperor’s favorite concubine. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and proceeded toward the rendezvous point still feeling as though something was wrong. His little used conscience pricked him for using his Spanish-American brother-in-law’s oversees warehouse to pass along this shipment of goods, but he shoved the conviction aside.

His normal drop point was too hot right now since he had just closed several dangerous deals. He would not have even considered taking on another shipment if it were not for the nature of the treasure.

The wheat sails to Nanjing tomorrow where my man will pick up the goods rerouting them to Hong Kong. Things will be fine. No one will be the wiser, and Enrique will never even know the treasure was there.

Again his conscience pierced him for using his brother-in-law’s humanitarian relief for his illegal activities. Like Adam McRae, Enrique Montero was a good Christian man who did much for the starving people of China, often providing shipments of wheat from his own rich California farms.

As he had on so many other occasions, Miles shoved his conscience back under lock and key pushing the guilty thoughts from his mind. It would take him the full two hours to maneuver the back alleys of the seedy side of Shanghai.

Gaudy laughter and exotic odors of incense and opium emanated from the local brothels and opium dens mixing with the repugnant odors of refuse and garbage coming from overcrowded rooms in the poorest section of the great city. Tonight he resisted the temptation to take refuge from the cold in the arms of an Asian beauty, though he had tasted of such pleasures many a night before. His fleshly desires must wait. On this side of town many patrons of such places ended up shanghaied on some ship bound for Madagascar.

He paused. He was nearing The Bund. It would not do to be seen by a patrolling policeman. He slipped easily through another tight alley and turned a corner emerging into a much more pleasant neighborhood. He could see his sister’s house a few blocks away.

Not much farther now, he thought. The wooden gowdown attached to the back of Enrique and Marianne’s house should be just around the corner.

Suddenly, he paused sniffing the air. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils. Fear gripped his heart. The furtive footsteps just before and after Wang’s arrival at their meeting place… Wang’s warning about the I Ho Chuan; it all came rushing back.

Surely it is nothing more than a beggar’s fire.

Then he saw it… a thin plume of smoke swirled upward in the distance. He froze in horror. The wheat was on fire! Sprinting madly toward the building, his only thought was to extinguish the flames before the Imperial treasures were destroyed.

Two blocks… only one more to go. As he neared the warehouse, he watched as the back door flew open and a dark form too tall to be Wang slipped out, dashing around the corner out of sight. Miles watched from a block away as the wheat burst into flames.

A myriad of reds, blues, and greens bounced off the windows as the building caught fire and a thousand red tongues threatened to consume the structure. A strong sea breeze blew in from the bay, fanning the flames into a giant inferno causing the fire to spread to surrounding buildings just moments after the initial blaze.

Miles panicked. Marianne… Enrique. He dashed frantically in the direction of the house and watched in horror as the wind shifted, catching the southeast corner of the roof of the manor home on fire. He reached the front door just as a small portion of the roof caved in. It appeared to be above the master bedroom.

He tried the door. It was locked. He banged loudly. No response. Miles searched for something to break the windows, but to no avail. More of the roof caved in as he stood by helplessly watching as the flames consumed his sister’s home.

Eleven-year-old Phillip Montero awoke. His tongue tasted of bitter ash causing him to cough and gag as the acrid smell of smoke filled his nostrils. He slipped from his bed and crawled toward the door crying out for his mother and father. No answer.

He tried the doorknob. Intense heat seared his fingertips. Not caring about the burns forming on his small hands, he pounded on the door. Still no answer. Sobs threatened to well up in his throat and terror wrapped its iron fingers around his mind. For a moment, he could not move. He gazed sluggishly up at the ceiling, mesmerized by the billowing smoke that fashioned circles around his head. A bright flash in the far corner of the room caught his eye and awakened him from his stupor.

Fire! It was in his room! He glanced in the direction of his door, then down at his hands and realized that he could not escape in that direction. Running to the window, he threw open the sash and glanced down. A narrow ledge ran from his window to the balcony of the guest room next to his.

On numerous occasions he had used this means of escape to avoid another of his mother’s ladies functions and head for the docks and fishing. Tonight his escapades paid off as his hands and feet made their way methodically to the temporary safety of the balcony.

He glanced toward the corner of the house and panicked at the sight of his parents’ room ablaze. Truth settled onto his shoulders like a dead weight. If his parents were alive they would do everything to reach or cry out to him. He listened. There was only silence. Even now clinging to the side of the house, he glanced about below hoping to see them waiting for him to jump. He hoped against hope that his heart was wrong. He watched. No one appeared.

Phillip felt his way along the black wrought iron rail, his eyes too wet with tears to see. Sparks burst from the roof as gusts of wind sent tiny shards of burning ash swirling into the air. Pain shot through his body as the blisters on his palms bore his weight against the hot trellis.

Only a couple more feet to safety…

The balcony above him began to give way. He jumped just as the second story came crashing into the first, turning his home into a blazing inferno.

Miles Stafford rounded the corner of the burning house. Never in his most horrific dreams had he envisioned this. Powerless to stop the blaze, his fear turned into horror. Had he been set up? Had the fire been meant for him? He rubbed his temples and swallowed hard. He must think.

Whoever had set the fire must not know my name, he reasoned. Otherwise they would have set my home ablaze instead of my sister’s!

A cry rang out. Miles raised his eyes and waved a hand in front of his face to clear the smoke. He was sure he had heard someone. His heart beat faster hoping against hope that his sister had made it to safety. He could not bear it if she died at his folly!

He sobbed and reached through the haze hoping to catch a glimpse of her auburn hair. The sight before him filled him first with hope and then with fear. Two dark figures approached a smaller form in the smoke. At first, he thought it must be Enrique, Marianne and little Phillip. He breathed a sigh of relief, but his breath stopped mid-stream as the forms drew closer. The two adults were Chinese!

He looked at the child again. Phillip! Watching in horror, he stood frozen as Phillip was beaten, gagged, and dragged away kicking through the gray smog. His heart urged him to follow and fight to rescue his nephew. He glanced around furtively and battled with his conscience until fear of being discovered… of facing Phillip with answers he didn’t want to give, won the battle for his heart.

He turned his back. It was easier to give up Phillip’s small life than to unmask himself to the public as the thief and now murderer that he was. He edged his way into a back alley and slunk back the way he came more tired than he could remember. The intoxicating smell of opium beckoned him toward one of the more notable smoke houses along the wharf. He shoved aside a long beaded curtain where a lovely young oriental girl bowed low, offered him a pipe and motioned for him to follow. He smiled. He would lose himself in a sea of forgetfulness.

I will give up smuggling, he told himself. Then as he settled into a pile of red velvet cushions a thought struck him. Perhaps the fire had not been his fault at all. Could it not have been directed at Enrique, or maybe caused by some wayward sailor looking for a place to sleep for the night? He smiled peacefully. He was already forgetting…

Phillip awoke with a low moan. Every part of his body was in pain from the fire… the beatings. Slowly a small room came into focus. A low table and black and gold rug comprised the entire makeup of the room. A tiny window in the upper right hand corner provided the only source of light. Behind the only door he heard voices arguing in Mandarin. His understanding was patchy.

What… do with… boy?

Sell… slave… good price.

Wait!… Family… pay… or slave…

…treasure?

Safe.

Phillip struggled frantically with his bonds. He had heard of the child slave market. His father would often come home frustrated with the legal practice of mui tsai where children, usually girls, were legally sold into servitude often for immoral purposes. Few on the black market would bother to question a foreign child being sold.

His bonds refused to budge. Sheer exhaustion from the struggle to survive the fire, the torture and overwhelming grief forced him to momentarily cease straining against the ropes. His captors had mentioned offering him to family for ransom, but who did he have left to save him? One tiny hope surfaced. They would contact Uncle Miles! Expectation and relief flooded his heart at the thought of his uncle. The tension in his muscles relaxed, and he nodded off with one sure belief… Uncle Miles would do whatever necessary to redeem him. Uncle Miles would never leave him alone.

Miles awakened from his stupor the next morning in the opium den he had entered the night before. All the pain numbing sensations he had worked so hard to achieve had worn off, leaving him to confront the truth of what happened. Flashbacks of the fire, his inability to save his sister and Enrique from a horrible death haunted him, but none so deeply as the sight of his young nephew being dragged away and beaten. He had not lifted a finger or even fired a shot. Miles threw his head in his hands and sobbed. What had he done? He looked at the young woman who lay beside him and suddenly was disgusted by the man he had become. He staggered to his feet.

Once outside the door the repugnant smells of bad sanitation mixed with the heady fumes of opium. His stomach rebelled, and he felt the burning sensation of bile well up in his throat. His mind reeled with memories of his sister’s laughter, Enrique’s kindness, and Phillip’s hand in his: each one accusing him with every step of the guilty actions and inaction that had cost them their lives. He doubled over and wretched on the side of the road. Again and again his body sought to relieve itself of the sickness inside, but no amount of vomiting could cleanse him of the guilt he felt.

Once safely back at his hotel suite, he rushed to clean up and throw a few things in a bag. He would tell the front desk to deliver a note to Adam about his departure. Adam would take care of any problems that came along. He always did.

He glanced at his watch. He must hurry if he wanted to catch the Victoria. She was scheduled to leave port for Hong Kong in an hour.

Miles grabbed his bag and gazed at the ashen complexion in the gilded hall mirror. He simply would not be here when the world discovered that his sister and her family were gone. His conscience urged him to stay and fight.

Perhaps it’s not too late to save Phillip! He shook his head. Maybe when he got back and things had cooled off he would make some inquiries among his black market connections, but not now. The memories and guilt were too fresh. He simply could not face the community he had deceived for so long. Besides, the boy was probably already dead. No… he would leave his note for Adam and be gone. He would face them all another day.

January 05, 1885

Phillip clawed his way out of the nightmare once again. For two weeks he had awakened terrified from the same recurring dream… a form in the darkness… so familiar. Each time he would reach out hoping to be saved, and each time that figure turned and walked away leaving him to be beaten and bruised. Never was there a face in the dream, only a shadow.

It had been two weeks and no word from his uncle. Every day brought new beatings. He was forced to repeat that his father was no good and nothing but a thief. At first, he had tried to argue, to say his father was a good man who helped bring relief during famine. But with each argument came another unmerciful cruelty, and gradually he learned to hold on to the truth in his heart while telling his captors what they wanted to hear.

As a result of his newfound obedience, he was allowed to eat the thin vegetable stew they placed at his door. With each dawn that rose he held out hope that today would be the day someone would come for him, but each day he grew weaker from the pain, loss of blood, cold and starvation.

On this January morning he had all but given up. In his weakened state he could no longer sit, nor could he lie on his bleeding back. Instead, he lay on his side, staring at the door in dread. He could tell by the sun that they would be here soon.

God, please let me die, he moaned softly.

Adam McRae walked into his office with a heavy heart and settled into his comfortable leather chair to peruse his mail, concern edging his thoughts. Why would his partner have taken off for Hong Kong so suddenly just before Christmas? He had not been aware of any pressing business in that port, and although Miles occasionally took a day or two off now and then from what Adam suspected were hangovers after an evening carousing, he was rarely, if ever, rash… especially about business.

On the heels of Miles’ strange departure came the devastating news of Enrique and Marianne Montero’s tragic death. It was being rumored that the fire was not an accident, but the result of arson and a smuggling deal gone wrong. The fingers were pointing at Enrique though Adam refused to believe it. Enrique was a friend and a brother in Christ who had helped him many times in supporting the small Christian mission Adam had started in the past year.

He was almost finished sifting through the usual bills and memos when a small dingy note scribbled in broken English fell out of the stack and onto the rich mahogany desk directly in front of him. His eyes widened with wonder and incredulity as he read the brief note.

Have the boy named Phillip Montero.

Require ransom of 100,000 Chinese cash

Or you’ll never see boy again.

Send your answer with messenger boy.

I Ho Chuan (Righteous Harmonious Fists)

Adam rose immediately to his feet and yelled for his secretary.

Marge! Marge!

The door flew open at his urgent cry and an elderly woman came rushing in. Yes, Mr. McRae? What is it? Her eyes bulged with panic.

Marge, is there a young messenger outside waiting for a reply?

Yes, Mr. McRae. Shall I send him in? He says he’s been waiting every morning for the last two weeks, but no one was in the office because of the holidays. I just told him I would speak with you.

Send him in! It is most urgent!

God, help me to not be too late!

A few short hours later, the arrangements were made.

Rushing out the door, Adam turned and spoke, Marge, ask my wife to ready the guest room. Tell her I will be bringing Phillip Montero home!

The door to Phillip’s room creaked. He cringed as a wrinkled old woman he had never seen beckoned him with a gnarled finger and spoke in broken English.

You come. We clean up. A smile broke upon her weathered face. Someone pay good money for you.

Phillip cried out in pain as steaming water was poured over the open wounds on his back. Two weeks of ashes, blood, and human filth were scrubbed roughly from his body. His clothing, too scarred and torn from the fire and the beatings to be salvageable, was discarded for a rough brown tunic and black britches.

No bandages or ointments were applied to his wounds or burns as a message that no mercy would ever be shown the traitorous foreign devils. His hands and feet were rebound, his mouth stuffed with a not so clean rag, and he was thrown into the back of a vegetable cart. Each bump caused him excruciating pain, but he bore it silently knowing that any cry would only bring more punishment. He knew not to whom he had been sold. He had ceased to care. He only wanted to die quickly.

He closed his eyes too weary to move. The cart turned down a dingy alley and stopped suddenly. He heard voices arguing in Mandarin, and then… retreating footsteps. Suddenly, gentle hands lifted his bruised body from the cart, and he was staring into the kind green eyes of his father’s friend and his uncle’s partner, Adam McRae.

Tears of relief and gratitude spilled from Phillip’s eyes as he clung to McRae’s neck. Tears turned into sobs that wracked his frail body. He cried out in pain and passed out.

McRae gazed down stunned at the boy he had just rescued. The healthy eleven-year-old he had seen a month before had been replaced with the pale, emaciated, broken body before him. The boy’s face was swollen almost beyond recognition.

He bit his lip as he removed the back of Phillip’s tunic to replace it with a soft warm shirt and found the whip-marks still bleeding and caked with dirt that no one had taken time to scrub out. He gasped. Philip’s back was a mass of bleeding lash-marks from his shoulders to his waist. A couple of the lad’s fingers were broken, as well as several ribs.

How can anyone abuse a small child this way! Tenderly, he held him all the way home.

Awakening between cool silken sheets, Phillip wondered if death had finally come. His surroundings felt like heaven. His back no longer stung like fire, and he could move the fingers on his left hand. A gentle hand placed a cool rag on his feverish head. His eyes fluttered open to see a young girl of about five sitting beside him.

I thought angels had gold hair, he muttered. Is this heaven?

The young girl with the soft raven curls giggled. No. This is my house…and your house now too. My daddy brought you home, but you were very sick. The doctor came and mother and father took care of you all night, but now everyone is busy, and I get to help. Would you like some water?

Phillip paused confused. The little girl looked familiar, but he could not think why.

What’s your name? He asked the angel, trying hard to remember what happened.

Francesca McRae, was her happy answer. My daddy and your Uncle Miles work together. Uncle Miles is in Hong Kong, so you get to stay with us.

Then he remembered… his father’s friend had cared enough to redeem him from the I Ho Chuan. Memories of McRae holding him close in the carriage flooded over him. He had come for him and loved him enough to pay for his release. He heard the price his captors had demanded and knew it was enormous. Why hadn’t Uncle Miles come?

If he worked a thousand years, he could never repay McRae for what he had done. The best he could do was to become the kind of man that would make McRae glad. He resolved to be that man. He turned to the little girl beside him.

Thank you for the cloth. It feels nice. He coughed a dry hacking cough, sipped the offered water and drifted off into his first peaceful sleep since the fire.

Chapter One

‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’

Jeremiah 29:11

Military Steamer

Pacific Ocean

March 13, 1898

H ideous, gray smog burned his lungs as he gasped for air around the gag in his mouth and struggled against the next beating.

No!

Twenty-six year old Phillip Montero bolted upright from the nightmare, knocking his head against the metal bunk just inches above his own.

Ow!

Phillip shut his eyes against the pain throbbing in both his temples and his heart. Whoever designed the crew bunks on a military steamer did not take into account the need for personal space. He flopped back onto his pillow, ripping the portrait of a lovely young lady from where it had been stuck on the bottom of the overhead bunk and stared hard into the tender face looking back at him. It just added insult to injury.

Marissa… He groaned and searched the face deeper. You deceived me. I gave my whole heart and soul to you, but it wasn’t enough. A black pit of pain and betrayal washed over him bringing with it the familiar taste of fear and dark haunting memories from a past older and darker than his fiancé’s infidelity. He broke out into a cold sweat and began to shake.

God, Father… please, no! Don’t let the nightmare return again tonight! You said you would never leave me or forsake me, and tonight I am holding onto that promise by a thread.

The tremors increased. Lord, Marissa ripped my heart in two. Her betrayal cuts deep just like my childhood nightmare of the man who left me to die.

He sobbed into his pillow, grateful for the moment that the quarters he shared with another officer were empty.

I need you, God. Please… just grant me peace tonight. The shakes eased off, and the fear that skulked in the dark corners of his mind receded at God’s presence. His breathing slowed and became steady as the hand of his Almighty Father rested upon him bringing peace, and something else… a pleasant dream… one of a tiny angel with black hair soothing his beaten brow.

Two hours later, a knock woke him from a deep, peaceful slumber. Moaning, he stretched his six-foot-two-inch body as best he could before opening the door.

Major Montero, Sir… a young ensign stood just outside the officer’s quarters with a delicate envelope in his hand. Apparently, the mail we picked up in Frisco is just now being sorted. This came for you, Sir.

Phillip dismissed the young man and glanced down at the feminine handwriting. What woman would write him? Marissa stopped writing long ago. A mixture of vanilla and orchids toyed with his nostrils as he ripped open the envelope.

Dear Phillip,

Do you still remember the little girl you used to keep out of trouble in Shanghai? So much time has passed since I last saw you. (Has it been almost nine years?) Father informed us of your new assignment to China. I am now a nurse and spend my time divided between Alice Springs Hospital in Hong Kong, some local clinics in Shanghai, and the jungles of Luzon in the Philippines.

Father mentioned just briefly that your engagement did not work out, but somehow I sense that it is something much deeper than just not working out. Knowing you like I do, I bet you offered her your soul, and she cut it into pieces. I’d like to punch her eyes out! Yes, I’m still a little unconventional, but I’ll bet you’ve forgotten how to smile! All my crazy childhood antics used to bring a smile to your face. Like when I snuck out to sell hot chestnuts for warming pockets only to catch a few of them on fire… you spirited me down a back alley to home with no one the wiser. Then there was the stray cat I tried to rescue that ended up destroying a street vendor’s wares and your face, but you managed to rescue me, the cat, and pay the damages. (That one might not have made you laugh at the time.)

Through grade school and then my first lonely year of boarding school in San Francisco, you were my defender (and tormentor), but you raised my spirits more times than I can count. I’m ready to return the favor. Just let me at Marissa! (See… I bet you just smiled!)

I must run to post this before I leave port. I hope to be home for your arrival. You are in my prayers.

Until we meet again,

Francesca McRae

Phillip sat down on his bunk, breathed deeply the ladylike scent, and tried to envision Adam McRae’s daughter grown up. He threw his head back and laughed for the first time in a long time at such an incongruous thought. Other than one Christmas when he picked her up at boarding school, the petite, little monkey had always been up a tree or running around in an outfit designed more for a Chinese coolie than an American heiress.

The thought of her all grown up and ready to punch prim and proper Marissa in the eye had the effect Francesca intended all along. Laughter bubbled forth from his gut to his eyes resulting in tears until he couldn’t laugh any more.

He grinned, Thank you, Lord for the sweet dreams and now the laughter. I guess you’ve been showing me for a long time that Marissa wasn’t the woman for me. Thank you for keeping me from a marriage devoid of laughter, and wherever she is… please bless and protect little Cesca for me. She always has been an angel of delight.

Peking, China

Darkness covers the temple with an inky blackness making the air ripe for treachery. It is a fitting night for men to brood quietly in dark corners and plot their schemes, the leader mused.

Amidst the silence, cautious footsteps made their way to the little known gate leading out of the temple gardens. He paused and stepped out of the shadows to address several of his colleagues.

Are we sure this is the path we wish to take? he barked harshly. Once we cross this gate there is no going back! His slanted eyes narrowed as he eyed each of the gentlemen with him, waiting for their response.

We have no choice, a muscled man in military garb responded. The Emperor is capitulating to the nations. With the Guangxu Emperor’s new western reforms in education and industry, the influence of the world powers will only increase in China. I tell you, we need the strong hand of the Dowager Empress in power, not her milksop of a nephew who would have us change the old ways! He has done China more harm than good as Emperor!

Agreed, a third man spoke up. But we must not argue here. Let us go quickly, or we will be discovered by Guangxu’s spies.

As they moved to leave, he swung the small gate back silently on its hinges, marking the finality of their decision.

Riding further through the night, they reached the Summer Palace, home to Cixi, the former Empress of China. As they walked down the long outer corridor leading to the Hall of Jade Billows, they passed beneath red, blue, and yellow motifs and landscape scenes painted on the roof.

The four-tiered roof towered above everything else in the landscape and overlooked the azure waters of a magnificent lake. Empress Cixi had rebuilt the Summer Palace that Britain destroyed, but it had cost the country of China a great deal. Money that should have been used to raise a Chinese navy had been used to further the luxurious lifestyle of the Empress.

Better our money go to the Empress’ coffers than to that of the foreigners, thought the leader. We must hold China together and maintain her ancient traditions.

Once in