Gateway to Everywhere

By Ernest Frankel

We first meet Shannon and Clay Alexander as they confront jeopardy on their way to Queen Victoria’s Birthday Celebration in Peking, China in 1900. Our heroine is seventeen, the stunning daughter of the American commercial attaché. Our hero is twenty-four, a graceful, engaging Marine second lieutenant with great command presence, a g

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hither Lane Press
• Release date: Jan 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9780692826553

Ernest Frankel

Ernest Frankel is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, who enlisted in the Marine Corps as a Private and served on active duty as a Platoon Commander on Okinawa during World War II, and as a staff officer in China. Recalled to active duty during the Korean War, he trained junior officers in the Marine OCS in Quantico. Returning to civilian life, he served as Commanding Officer of his Reserve Unit in Los Angeles. He received orders to report to the First Marine Division in Viet Nam for a special assignment. Awarded the Legion of Merit, he retired as a Colonel. He is the author of three novels, Band of Brothers, published by Macmillan, Tongue of Fire, published by Dial Press. And Gateway To Everywhere, available on Amazon. His work is included in Van Wyck Mason's Anthology of American War Literature. A member of the Writers' Guild and the Directors' Guild, he has worked extensively with the networks, serving as creator, writer, executive story consultant, line producer, supervising producer and executive producer on both series and movies-for-television.

Book preview

A Love Story as Big as California

Gateway to

EVERYWHERE

ERNEST FRANKEL

A riveting epic novel set against the backdrop of turn-of-the-century America, an era when the country was beginning to take its place on the world’s stage. Blending fiction and history, the story begins in China in 1900 on the eve of the Boxer Rebellion and then takes the reader on a heart-pounding escape from Peking and across the pirate-infested high seas to California, and then on to Palm Springs, an area still reeling from the impact of its on-going great drought.

At the heart of this dazzling story is a marriage, the union of two Americans living in Peking, the beautiful, charming Shannon, a mere seventeen, and her indomintable Marine husband, Clay. The reader is swept away by their multi-faceted love story, the shadow that has fallen across it, and the events they face together as they are reluctantly forced to flee China, embark on the dangerous voyage back to America, and try to make a new life for themselves in the frustrating, parched and inhospitable environment of Palm Springs, California.

The grand sweep of this stunning, visual novel is compelling. Gateway to Everywhere will envelop you in all the elements that give a reader insight into another tie and place.

WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING ABOUT…

Gateway to

EVERYWHERE

ERNEST FRANKEL

The author had me on page one, on the eve of the Boxer Rebellion in China, when I was introduced to that indomitable, beautiful, spoiled girl in her teens and the womanizing heroic Marine lieutenant she has just married…

--Catherine G. Burke, Associate Professor, Emerita, University of Southern California

"Gateway to Everywhere sets out an imagined place one wants to inhabit…a major novel with a great story to tell…a palpable sensual story to read, to listen to, and to see."

--Mark Seltzer, Distinguished Professor of Literature, UCLA

"I offer my applause for a brilliant, absorbing, moving, colorful, honest and exciting story with a great canvas and unforgettable characters…a brilliant blending of fiction and history, steeped in challenges and tragedies and romance and adventure, it immerses the reader in a compelling era, affording insights into a time and place both original and intriguing.

--Beau Marks, UCLA Television and Motion Picture Department

HITHER LANE PRESS

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Copyright © 2016 by Ernest Frankel. All Right Reserved.

ISBN: 978-0692-82644-3 (13)

Hither Lane Press

Los Angeles, California

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, excepting the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 13: 978-0692826553

Cover Photo: Morguefile.com

Cover Design: Jade at Fiverr.com

Kindle formatting & Copyediting: Cary Editorial & Book Consulting

Template: (EbookPublishingSchool.com) Tom Corson-Knowles

Proofreader: Ann Hedrick, PhD

Author photos: Adolfo Banos

Published in the United States of America

Hither Lane Press

Dedication

For Elin and Sherry, and always, for Louise

If you will listen to the song of life, if you will challenge the heavens, if you will be unwavering in your quest, then all will transpire as I have prophesied, and you will pass through the Gateway to Everywhere, and so attain the fulfillment of your most cherished imaginings. —Huan Shi-min

CONTENTS

BOOK I

A Farewell to China

BOOK II

The Flying Stag

BOOK III

A New Beginning

BOOK IV

The Song of Life

BOOK V

Challenging the Heavens

BOOK VI

The Quest

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER NOVELS BY ERNEST FRANKEL

AUTHOR REQUEST

BOOK I

A Farewell to China

Chapter One

Sir Claude and Lady Elizabeth Macdonald

Request the Pleasure of Your Attendance

For a Celebration at the British Legation

Seven in the Evening

The Twenty Fourth Day of May, Nineteen Hundred

On the Occasion of the Eighty-First Birthday

Of Her Majesty, Victoria, Queen of England, Scotland and Ireland

And Empress of India

In the Year of Her Reign, the Sixty-Fourth

R.S.V.P

As they passed through the gates of the American Compound, their open carriage cast its moonlit shadow across the immense Tartar Wall. Before them lay the golden roofs and pink walls and gray bastions and parapets of Peking. Their Chinese driver snapped the reins, and the horses clattered onto the broad avenue lined with foreign legations. Suddenly, like an omen, the moon disappeared.

Shannon trembled, overcome for an instant by a sense of nearly palpable foreboding. Clay took her hand, but she retrieved it.

The assassin, hidden in the darkness, watched the carriage draw closer. He was a tubercular, rheumy-eyed boy of sixteen, only four days from the Shensi village of his birth. He could not read the poster he had placed on the melon-colored wall of the Russian compound. He was not sure why he had to kill the first barbarians fate sent his way. He knew only that his new friends, who had given him food, and could write and had seen the evil ways of the foreign devils, had told him the Round Eyes must die.

The moon emerged again and the peasant boy peered across the road where, crouched in the shadows, were the two young men who had brought him from the Lamb's Tail Hutung, a festering alley deep in the entrails of the city. Both of them wore red bands around their wrists and ankles and red scarves around their heads. Tonight the boy would earn the red bands and the scarf. Gathering courage, he sucked in his breath and slipped away.

As the carriage passed the wall, Clay saw a rough drawing of a dragon facing the lances and swords of Chinese warriors. A threat was scrawled below it: No Mercy to the Foreign Invaders. Fists of Righteous Harmony. Clay pointed to the poster. Boxers.

 Shannon stared straight ahead. The carved ivory fan he had bought on their Shanghai honeymoon was tapping on her knee. It was a signal contrived to remind him again that this was but a cease-fire in their week-long battle. Open hostilities would resume by first light.

An enchanting child, Clay thought. But she will have to learn that my life. . . our lives. . . will be in the service, and that I won’t be dragooned by either my brother’s promises of land and money, or by her sulks and tantrums. I’ll damn well put her over my knee if I have to. He pictured himself lifting her skirts and revealing that delectable bottom, and he laughed aloud.

Shannon ignored the laughter, determined to resist the affable sorcerer’s attempt to work his magic. When she had first met him, less than six months earlier, it was not the resplendent uniform or the incorrigible wit, or the gentle Carolina drawl that charmed her. It was everything that distinguished him from the brittle junior diplomats and the rich, cultured, stiff-necked old men of forty and more who had fawned over her since she was fifteen. It was the sheer power and energy he radiated. It was the compelling personality, the command presence, the gentle demeanor. She knew that all she need do now would be to ask what he was laughing about, and then he would tease, touch, kiss, and bite—not this time! This time their future was at stake. She would not allow him to throw it away.

Forty yards ahead, awaiting the oncoming carriage, the newly recruited Boxer had climbed on top of the wall enclosing the Russian compound. He lay there now, knife at the ready. He had killed only once before. A dog. But although he had gone hungry for three days, he could not force himself to eat it. The boy saw his mentors crouched on either side of the avenue. He raised his head as the carriage rolled closer.

At seventeen, Shannon still saw the world through the eyes of the heroines in her favorite romantic novels. The Brontës, Austen, Thackeray and Trollope had created the place she wanted to inhabit. And so beyond all logic, she believed—with all the bold certitude of youth—that she and Clay were fated to live out her fabulous dreams, that they would be rich and powerful and ride at noon over their vast lands, that their lives would echo with challenge and success, that they would found a great dynasty and make an indelible mark upon the world.

Clay, six years older, was, on the other hand, certain of nothing but the incomprehensible caprices of fate, and believed in nothing except love and honor and country and the United States Marine Corps. At twenty-three, he had already won greater rewards than he had ever sought—a Naval Academy education, the respect and admiration that came with a commission as a Second Lieutenant, and a brevet promotion to First Lieutenant for exceptional valor and heroism in combat in the presence of great danger and at great personal risk.

He marveled at that.  America was incredibly appreciative of his dexterity in capturing an enemy cannon, disemboweling the Philippine patriot who was firing it, and then using it to slaughter the fleeing enemy troops.

Good fortune, he believed, had continued to favor him. Delivering dispatches to the American legation in Peking, he had met Shannon Everett, the daughter of the commercial attaché. Ten days later, he had returned to his ship to learn that the minister most urgently requests the immediate assignment of First Lieutenant Clay Alexander, USMC, to detached duty on my staff to obtain intelligence information. Clay had assumed—rightly— that Shannon had arranged the whole unconscionable idea.

Two months later, there was a formal wedding in the American compound. And now, surpassing all else, he was bound to this willful and stubborn and bewitching Shannon, not still a girl, not yet a woman. Looking at her, he exulted in pride and admiration and amusement.

Pride, because, by God, she was stunning—the penetrating green eyes shining from that delicate face, the jade-and-pearl encrusted velvet headband crowning the auburn hair, the regal shoulders, the ripe body draped with a crimson silk tunic, and the marvelous legs crossed beneath the embroidered chrysanthemums and butterflies on the long golden skirt.

Admiration, because she surely knew that her colorful Chinese-style costume would scandalize her elders, and she did not give a damn.

 Amusement, because he could already imagine the outraged hens, beaks in their champagne at the British legation, shaking their wattles and cackling over that unseemly American tart who dared dress like a singsong girl.

 Sha! Sha! Sha! The cries erupted from either side of the avenue, and in a single mad moment, the Boxer with the broken nose dashed in front of the carriage, his muscular friend pulled the driver from his seat, and the horses, frantic, shrieked in panic. The peasant boy jumped from the wall, his knife passing through the black tangle of Clay’s hair, and slashing the brown leather seat.

Shannon, in the first seconds of breathless awareness, watched as if she were on a stage, and all around her actors were performing a pantomime in which the driver fell to the ground and was pummeled by a beefy young Boxer. The horses were straining, rearing. Clay was struggling with the filthy, ragged peasant who—still clutching the knife and bent on murder—kicked out at him.

Swallowing the sour lump of terror in her throat, and without consciously willing it, Shannon threw herself on the boy’s back, smelling sweat and urine, and managed to pin his arms for an instant before he broke free. Then Clay smashed a fist into his assailant’s stricken face. Shannon scrambled out of the way as the boy fell across the seat. The horses bolted, knocking aside the Boxer who was trying to hold them. Clay and his foe, upended by the sudden movement, tumbled to the ground. The carriage, with Shannon the only passenger, raced off.

Coiled and ready, Clay waited as the would-be Boxer got to his knees and raised his weapon. The instant the knife came up, Clay grabbed his wrist, twisted the weapon away, and drove a knee to his groin. Howling, the peasant boy doubled up and fell to the road. Clay’s driver lay bleeding in the gutter, the broken-nosed man pummeling him. Drawing his ceremonial sword from its scabbard, Clay struck the attacker across the temple with the narrow, flat blade. When the man fell, unconscious, the frail old driver pulled the dagger from his assailant’s sash and, shrieking in glee, cut the man’s throat.

Clay caught a glimpse of the carriage swaying around a curve and disappearing. Before him, the Boxer who had been knocked aside by the panicked horses now got to his knees and lunged at the driver, battering him with a paving stone.

Down the road, Shannon forced herself up from the floor of the careening vehicle. Thrusting panic aside, she reached desperately for the traces, risking her balance as the carriage rocked and swerved. At last, she grasped the reins. Then, sobbing with exertion, she eased herself back to the driver's seat and tugged against the maddened, foaming horses. She saw the gate to the British legation flash by on her right, and knew that beyond her were the dense and threatening warrens of the city, and behind—now more than a mile away—was her husband, fighting alone.

The Boxer, intent on murder, read exhaustion in the barbarian who, even slumped against the wall, towered over him. Secure in that delusion, the Boxer glanced at his weeping recruit and cursed him. Instantaneously, Clay slammed his knuckles into the Boxer’s throat. His foe tottered, gasping for breath, and buckled to the pavement. Clay reached his sword before the peasant could lift it. The boy kneeled, pleading, while his mentor, in a paroxysm of wheezing, began to crawl away. Clay heard a shot, and saw crimson blossom on the Boxer's side, saw him collapse, writhing in his death throes. Still holding the point of his sword at the peasant boy's throat, Clay heard the clatter of hooves and looked up to see the silhouette of a man on horseback, pistol extended, firing again, this time into  the inert body.  Have at it, Alexander! Run that scraggly bastard through.

The shrill voice was familiar, but Clay could not place it. Then the rider urged his mount forward into the moonlight, and Clay recognized the pale, cherubic face of Lieutenant Commander Campbell Boyd, the executive officer he had served with on the Newark. If you please, sir! Go after my wife. Horses bolted with the carriage.

I stopped them, and sent Mrs. Alexander to the British legation.

I’m much obliged to you.

My pleasure. Now kill that filthy pig, and we’ll join the party.

Clay looked down at the pitted, tear-streaked face. He‘s just a boy.

If you don’t have the stomach for it, stand aside. I’ll finish him.

Clay slipped his sword back in its scabbard, and with the toe of his boot, prodded the Chinese. Clear out! Chop-chop!

Hold on a goddamn minute, Lieutenant!

The peasant, gasping, backed away uncertainly, then turned and ran.

Boyd hunched his powerful shoulders, held his pistol at arm's length, and took aim. Clay grabbed the bridle. The rider’s hand wavered. The shot went wild, and the boy was gone.

Furious, Boyd shouted, I gave you an order, Mr. Alexander! And you ignored it!

A hansom cab with a uniformed British driver pulled up. Shannon rushed out. Clay ran to her and she threw her arms around him. Oh, darling, I was so afraid for you.

In all modesty, you missed seeing me at my magnificent best.

She whispered, When you're at your magnificent best, I'm on my magnificent back!

As she laughed with him, he brushed away the tears running down her cheeks. By God, despite the fact that you’re shameless and bawdy, I love you.

Boyd, still in cold fury, rode up, acknowledged Shannon with a hasty salute, and roared at Clay. Mr. Alexander, your behavior is, at the least, patently insubordinate.

I beg your pardon, sir?

I’m appalled at your unmanly squeamishness in dealing with these animals.

Killing a defenseless boy is hardly proof of courage, sir.

 Boyd raised his voice over Clay’s. In the past, in deference to your brevet promotion, I’ve put aside my revulsion at your mush-mouthed arrogance and your fake southern courtliness, Mr. Alexander. Still, I’ve never doubted you managed to get that hyperbolic citation the same way you manipulated your plush assignment.

Clay, his steel-blue, unblinking eyes glinting with anger, did not trust himself to reply.

 Shannon visualized her husband dragging his superior officer from his saddle and strangling him on the spot. Commander, while I tell everyone at the ball how you saved my life, the two of you can spin wonderful lies about your battle with fifty Boxers.

Mrs. Alexander, I’m pleased to see that you have the skills at diplomacy that your husband obviously lacks.

Clay put Shannon in the hansom. Thank you again for your help, sir, he said to Boyd. Pardon me. He went to his battered driver, who had regained consciousness.

Lieutenant, I have not dismissed you!

Helping the driver to his feet, Clay sent him back to the American compound. The interlude had given Clay's fury time to cool, and given his mind time to frame a reply. I hope you can understand my ‘mush-mouthed’ accent, sir, when I confess that —southern though I am—I can’t possibly match the qualities of leadership and courtesy you’ve demonstrated tonight.

I will not tolerate insolence.

If I’ve offended you, sir, I regret it every bit as much as I regret the place of my birth. Now, I must see to my wife. Clay slipped into the cab beside Shannon. We’ll return to our quarters.

No! I want to go to the ball.  Just as we are, clothes in tatters, bloodied with battle. We’ll stand them on their ears, make them forget all about that doddering old queen of theirs.

Smiling, he called to the driver. Take us to the British legation. She hugged his arm. Can that pompous clod make trouble for you?

Probably not while I’m on detached duty. But hellfire, he’d put his mother on report for failing to salute. Clay laughed, waving the thought aside. I’m not being fair to him. He’s actually a first rate gunnery officer and a despicable human being.

She rested her head on his shoulder. It was impossible, outrageous, but a plan was forming in her mind, and the confrontation between Clay and Lieutenant Commander Boyd was at the center of it.

As they entered the courtyard of the British legation, Shannon, consumed by the enormity of her idea, tested it against the devastating risks. As they passed the splendid marble fountains, she was so absorbed she did not hear the intermingled accents of Italian and German and French and Russian and Japanese drivers, or the muted military band gamely playing The Blue Danube. Then Clay was calling her name, and she saw him outside the cab. Are you all right, darling?

She nodded and took his hand, giddy with the sheer danger she was contemplating.

CHAPTER TWO

Dancing on a volcano, Beverly Everett said. His gaunt face pinched in concentration, he watched Shannon and Clay glide past. My son-in-law's been right all along about the Empress Dowager being in league with the Boxers.

Edwin Conger, the American minister, nodded. A stocky little man stained from teeth to fingers with nicotine, he dusted the ashes off his waistcoat and placed his dead cigar on a passing waiter's tray. I’m lucky to have him on staff, Beverly.

And I’m lucky! Probably wasn't another bachelor alive who could handle Shannon.

Remarkable the way she fought the Boxers before the horse bolted.

 Well, my daughter’s stories tend to be hyperbolic. He smiled. But I have never known her to be afraid of anything except perhaps the Almighty, and she's only a bit afraid of Him.

Shannon blew a kiss to her father as she and Clay whirled by again.

I've been talking about the Boxers for months now, Clay said, and your only reaction was maybe a rude yawn. Now, all of a sudden, you're interested.

Now, all of a sudden, they've made it personal!

Sarah Conger, the minister's lady, acknowledged them with a thin smile as she danced by with Lieutenant Commander Campbell Boyd. There's something touching, Shannon was thinking, something almost appealing about the ashen, little boy face on Boyd’s husky body. Her heart suddenly beat faster. It was as if she stood inches away from a plunge into a black void, determined to take the perilous step, but knowing she might not survive it.

 To fanatics around the Emperor, 'Westernize’ meant more dependence on the greedy foreign barbarians whose missionaries were shoving a new religion down their throats, and whose merchants were making fortunes. Aware that Shannon was watching Boyd and his partner as they danced across the floor, Clay asked, Have you heard a word I said?

Of course. It’s all—fascinating.

Shannon, darling, how come you haven't learned that I'm older and craftier than you, so even when you're fifty, you won't be able to cozen me?

I cozen you all the time. Now go on. I haven't missed a word.

When we get home, I intend to give you a test on what I've said. And if you fail, I may sleep alone for thirty days.

You couldn't do without for thirty hours, you satyr! Now, go on about the Boxers.

Let’s see—the Emperor’s mother had her eunuchs arrest her son. Presto! She was back at the helm of the Chinese junk of state!

Shannon smiled up at Clay. There isn't a man in the room as smart, as funny, as loving, as graceful as my husband, she thought. And he's wasting himself. My God, without another war, he'll have to wait years to even be promoted.

The Boxers started as a secret brotherhood, Clay said. They practice the art of self-defense, covered over with mumbo-jumbo and charms that turn away bullets.

As they completed another circuit of the floor, the American minister waved at them. Go dance with your daughter, please, Beverly. And tell Clay I would like to see him, he said. Our allies are gathering to beat the drums of war, and he’ll be expert at goading them a bit.

Marcel Pichon, the French envoy, called out Conger’s name, and motioned him to join the group of diplomats gathered around Sir Claude Macdonald, the British minister. Tugging nervously at his silver mustache, Pichon said, We have been debating whether it is useful for us to file a joint protest with the Empress over tonight's incident.

A protest, Sir Claude said, would be as useless as teats on a boar. His deep voice with the gentle burr, his profanity, and the scars that might be old wounds earned in battle, the whispers about his forays into forbidden bedrooms—all added to his reputation as a brilliant scoundrel. He was actually neither brilliant nor a scoundrel, but he encouraged others to think so. Have your say, Edwin. As long as you agree with me.

Conger raised a glass of champagne to Sir Claude and the circle of men representing Austria, France, Spain, Germany, Russia and Japan. At least for this one night—in honor of Queen Victoria's birthday—I’m in full agreement with Her Majesty's minister in Peking. Laughter. The American minister beckoned to Clay. Lieutenant Alexander, he told his colleagues, has kept me abreast of Boxer activities, and his analysis is alarming.

Beverly Everett twirled Shannon one last time as the polka ended. Then, breathless, hands intertwined, father and daughter walked between the columns leading to the terrace. They stood there looking out at the gardens, and held their heads up to the gentle breeze.

Shannon, my dear child . . .

I know that tone of voice. You’re about to make me unhappy, father.

Since I will be unhappy if I don't get it said, and you will be unhappy if I do, one of us will simply have to be unhappy. And I prefer that it be you. He ignored the flirtatious smile she had employed since she was twelve. As you know, Shannon, you’re attractive.

Just attractive?

He sighed. And vain, he said softly. My darling, ask ten years from now, when life has made you whole, and perhaps I’ll say you’re beautiful.

She kissed his cheek. That’ll be worth the wait.

Beauty isn't enough. Too many great beauties are hollow people. They never develop character. They never feel the need to be generous and caring. They become bad friends and bad wives and bad parents.

I know. And I'm not like them at all. You keep telling me I’m like my mother.

You do have her charm. He kissed her forehead. And good nature and candor.

True! I’m certainly charming and good-natured most of the time. And I’m working on candor. Clay is a lucky man.

I believe that. What I don’t believe is that he married you expecting you would press him to abandon his profession to begin a useless life on a rich man's estate.

Not useless. Clay's brother is ill. He needs Clay, who's bright and strong and learns quickly. And in time, Henry has promised that the whole property will come to us. The alternative is thirty years in the Marine Corps. What kind of life is that?

It’s the life you chose.

I'm not proud of myself. Can't live up to Clay. Can't live up to you. . . He started to reassure her, but she held up her hand.

Can't live up to the mother I don't remember. Can't live up to Aunt Cora.

God forbid you should emulate Cora, he said. But you do act more like her every day, as if you're determined to live life two octaves above the rest of the world.

I'd like myself better if I were just like her. She didn't give a damn what anybody thought—except you. And that's because you were the only one in the family who would talk to her after she ran off with her cemetery lot salesman and lost her virginity.

You need not pattern your language after my sister.

Aunt Cora would have hated all this. . . this opulence in the midst of sickening poverty. And I do. I hate the contempt these people have for the Chinese. I hate the military minuet of calling cards and deference to rank. I hate it all. And I don't intend to spend my life doing what I hate.

Shannon, you must learn to yield in some things, or life will break you.

She held his hand to her cheek. Don’t give up on me. I'll try to do better.

Forgive me, but I doubt it! At least with Clay, please try to cultivate a cheerful disposition before you become a full-blown shrew.

Shannon saw the Austrian consul hurrying toward them as the band began to play another waltz. He was charming, but he had trouble keeping his false teeth in place, and even greater trouble keeping his right hand from wandering.

He clicked his heels. Madame Alexander, would you honor me?

As they crossed to the dance floor, Shannon caught sight of a group of ministers listening avidly to Clay. Fondly, she thought, rank be damned.  My man towers over all of them!

Y’all surely are far more experienced than I, Clay told the diplomats. So no doubt, you understand the depth of hostility the Chinese feel toward us.

I can accept that these Boxer lunatics, as well as the Manchus, are our enemies.  But not the Chinese people. They have no quarrel with us," the German minister replied.

But they believe they do, sir, Clay said. Suppose, Baron, any of us sailed our gunboats into German harbors, demanded leases on Prussia and Bavaria, took over concessions in Berlin and Hamburg, refused to pay taxes or duties, and declared ourselves not subject to German law?

An unacceptable comparison! Germans are not uncultured barbarians.

Clay shrugged. Of course not, but the Chinese, certainly the Boxers, believe you are. That all of us are. Blaming the Boxers for what the whole world sees as imperialist aggression is to stand history on its head.

Is it not futile to attempt to predict what will be tomorrow? the French consul asked the others. Mon Dieu, two weeks ago, the Boxers were only in the hamlets. Now they are everywhere.

They’re an absolute abomination! Whose country do they think this is?

Marco Giovanoni, the Italian commercial attaché, already slurring his words, paused on his way to fill his glass. If China is to be made safe for us, we must get rid of the Chinese! But there are so damn many of them, I fear there is no room to put them anywhere else! He waved to the others, and headed for the bar.

The American minister beckoned Lieutenant Commander Boyd to join the group. In keeping with President McKinley’s orders, Conger said, this gentleman is here to arrange billeting of a detachment drawn from our cruisers at anchor off Taku.

I regret that we can spare only two officers and fifty-one men, Boyd said. But then, there's some question whether the Empress will allow any additional guards for the legations.

I, for one, do not give a sizzling piss in hell what she will allow! I’m amazed that you, sir, are cowed by the old trollop, Sir Claude said. This opium-smoking bitch, this whore who has enjoyed the favors of a procession of men—and from what I hear—an occasional woman, is not fit to rule.

Boyd frowned. It seems to me reckless for our minimal troops to attempt to defend some three hundred women and children, in an area less than three quarters of a mile square, and with precious few heavy weapons, no room for maneuver, difficult re-supply, marginal communications.

You, sir, apparently favor capitulation and dishonor, Sir Claude said angrily, but Her Majesty's government will not abandon this legation. We will hold it as if it were Whitehall!

Clay, struck by the unfairness of the accusation, spoke quickly. Sir, the Commander’s evaluation of our tactical problems is on point. I’ve put together a suggested defense.

Hold on! Smarting from Sir Claude's insult, Boyd struck at a more vulnerable target. Captain Meyers will act on military matters when he arrives, Mr. Alexander. Until then, I advise you to speak as befits your rank.

He took a brandy snifter from a silver tray, drained it—his third—handed the empty glass to Clay, and stalked off.

Edwin Conger shrugged. Bad manners or dyspepsia, he said.

Shannon watched Boyd, lip curled, grim, crossing the dance floor, and signaled him surreptitiously to break in on her.

He was seething about the ridicule he had endured. Damn the limey snob! And Clay Alexander, patronizing me! Damn him, too. He saw Shannon grimacing, her eyes suggesting she was desperate for help. Boyd considered his alternatives: dance with Alexander's child bride, a luscious little piece, or endure another evening in the cramped embassy quarters he had been assigned. Making his way across the floor, he tapped the Austrian minister on the shoulder. May I?

Before her partner could protest, Shannon said, Thank you, Erich. I’m duty-bound to dance with my husband's shipmate. Stepping into Boyd's arms, they danced away. You've saved my life twice in one evening. How am I ever going to make it up to you?

Twice in one evening would be a record for an ordinary man, but as an accomplished rake, protecting beautiful women is a hobby of mine, Mrs. Alexander.

Thanks for the warning, although only a pretender would forewarn an innocent like me!

I protest! He laughed. I have earned my reputation! I’ve been raking for years. There was juvenile raking as a boy, experimental raking as a cadet, and advanced raking on numerous occasions, the latest with a grateful lady who has passed the half-century mark!

Shannon laughed. Apparently, when you’re not raking, you’re caring for the elderly!

Across the ballroom, Sir Claude waved at the American minister. You Yankees pose as virgins among harlots. Not so! Until President McKinley chose you, my dear Edwin, your country had been represented here by at least one bloody degenerate who whipped his servants, by a gaggle of drunkards, and by a boorish old predator unequaled for venery in the history of the Orient.

Pichon laughed. Mes amis, behold our American allies, who disapprove of us less virtuous nations for helping ourselves to a soupçon of Chinese territory.

Sir Claude put an arm about the American minister. Armed with moral outrage, you rescued the Hawaiians from themselves, contrived a silly little war with Spain, and gobbled up every tasty morsel in sight: Cuba and Puerto Rico and the Philippines.

Gott im Himmel! Von Ketteler said. In one year you have seized more territory than all of us put together have taken in fifty. And you, my dear Edwin, suggest we are the ‘greedy imperialists!’ You simply cannot get away with that!

Conger, laughing, said, Let me quote your own Bismarck: ‘There is a providence that protects idiots, drunkards, children and the Unite States of America!’

CHAPTER THREE

Shannon and lieutenant commander Boyd stood on the terrace, looking through the beveled glass window at the dancers whirling past in the ballroom.

Compared to you, he said, Helen of Troy was a charwoman.

What a delightful fiction! Especially coming from a confessed rake like you! She had known on the dance floor—when his hand tightened about her waist, when his eyes never left her face, when he grudgingly relinquished her to another partner only to stand watching, waiting until he might break in on her again—that he was ensnared.

You said I saved you from —whatever, twice tonight. Well, you can repay me.

She raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

Shannon, please understand the honest-to-God truth: You’re not only charming and beautiful, but funny and alluring and fascinating and. . .   He shrugged. I’d give a year’s pay for one kiss.

How dear of you, Cam! I have no idea what the Navy pays Lieutenant Commanders, but. . . Archly, she canted her head, offered him her cheek. Here. For free!

No. Properly. Just once. But properly, he said, taking her hand. We could. . . Why don’t you show me the gardens?

She had schemed for this moment, but her mouth was dry, her heart throbbing. Would you please get my wrap from the cloakroom? A black velvet cape. He hesitated. I’ll be waiting for you, she said. We’ll see if you’re a real rake or a pretender!

Laughing, he shook a finger at her, and hurried away.

Rushing inside, Shannon motioned to Clay. He pardoned himself and joined her.

Darling that awful Commander Boyd has been hovering over me like a vulture.

At least the man has taste! No scruples. No integrity, but a passel of taste!

He’s insisting I see the gardens with him. I sent him to look for a cape that isn’t there. Would you come find me in a few minutes?

Not surprised! Even that slimy bastard’s entrapped by Shannon the Fair. Clay laughed, and patted her behind. I’ll say my good nights, he told her, and hurried away to the circle of diplomats.

Shannon returned to the terrace moments before Boyd came from the cloakroom. Looked all over. Couldn’t find a black velvet cape.

Never mind. I’ll do without it.

He smiled. I would have bet you’d use that as an excuse to renege!

And leave you to rake the gardens alone? Laughing, Shannon glanced toward the ballroom. Clay was watching her. Perfect! She took Boyd’s arm. Come! Let’s escape the stodgy diplomats!

 Clay turned to the American minister. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have an obligation elsewhere. . . He started toward the garden terrace.

Lieutenant, one moment! I’d like you to repeat what you told me earlier.

  It was a signal Clay could not ignore. Conger expected him to play the goad, to be the artless, plainspoken junior officer. In my judgment, he told the others, the Empress will accede to the Boxers, who have been pressing her to order a general attack against us. It’s to be retaliation for what the Boxers call ’the theft of China by the Western powers.’

 Boxers be damned! All of us have given China far more than we’ve taken, Sir Claude said.

 Clay shrugged. But they don’t see it that way, sir. They say y’all have magnanimously given them mountains of opium. And, on top of that, they believe you’ve usurped control of Hong Kong and Kowloon and the Yangtze Basin, which, if true, would give you half of China’s territory and most of its wealth.

 There was a moment of shocked silence. All recognized that the lieutenant was enunciating the American position: the United States, with far less to lose, saw the need to address Chinese grievances before the situation deteriorated even more. In the past, Clay’s reports had been disregarded by the others. Now, he knew, he was being taken seriously. For the moment, he had forgotten Shannon.

Monsieurs, we must communicate to the Empress that if we are attacked, we will act in concert, French Envoy Pichon said. She is despicable, but not a fool. She will understand that once we have marshaled our forces, the Chinese will lose.

The Chinese always lose, Marco Giovanoni said. All of us allies living in our extra-territorial world will make certain they will lose. Do I speak the truth, Lieutenant Alexander?

Clay shrugged. The truth is that the Manchus will give them corruption. The Boxers will provide massacres. And we, the eventual victors, will give them humiliation.

At that moment, Shannon and Boyd were strolling down the marble walkway in the center of the gardens. As they passed a fountain where cherubs spat plumes of spray over a pond, Boyd suddenly stepped behind a screen of shrubbery, and pulled Shannon after him. She managed a quick look behind them, hoping to see Clay. There was only the deserted garden, the ballroom lights sparkling beyond the terrace, and the sound of the band playing a cakewalk.

 Gently, Boyd stroked her face. She was aware of his half-lidded eyes, his labored breathing, but she was thinking about the music. Damn! The first secretary of the French legation had promised to teach her the cakewalk.

The scent of you. . . Boyd kissed her tenderly. Dear lord, she thought. How did I let this happen? She pulled away, breathless. And then Boyd’s arms were tight around her again. You said. . . one time. . . She tried futilely to push him away.

Shannon could not break free. She felt Boyd’s tongue parting her teeth, thrusting into her mouth. All but overcome with revulsion, she bit down hard.

Boyd, blood running from his mouth, bellowed in pain. My God, I’m bleeding!

You’re no gentleman! She pushed him away. You’re a filthy swine is what you are!

And you’re a slut! Rotting with duplicity instead of clap, but a slut just the same, he raged, his words garbled in blood. You’ve been spraying me with your spoor all evening.

Sir!

Come now, you’re married to the premier stud of the Marine Corps, so you don’t need me to cool your heat, madam.

She turned away and he wrenched her back to face him. By damn, if the time and place were right, I’d put your twat in the dirt and have at you!

Damn you! Sobbing, she slapped him. My husband’s going to know about this!

You’re goddamn right about that! Coughing, he spat blood in her face.

Shannon fled.

The cakewalk ended and the dancers applauded. We don’t claim our policy is philanthropic, the American minister told his colleagues. Our self-interest dictates that China should be strong so she can assure us of an open door. Your self-interest dictates that China should be weak so she can be easily plundered.

Suddenly, the hum of conversation was hushed. All eyes had fixed on the entry from the terrace. Clay looked up to see Shannon standing there, sobbing. Her crimson tunic was torn and bloodstained. He ran to her and took her in his arms.

 Couples gathered nearby, watching, speculating. Sir Claude MacDonald and Edwin Conger pressed them back, and urged them to return to the floor as the band struck up a polka.

He hit me, Shannon said, gasping. Tried to put his hand on my breast . . .

Clay kissed her forehead. Forgive me, darling. Grimly, he turned to her father. Please take her home, sir, he said, and hurried out to the garden, where he found Campbell Boyd leaning over the fountain, cupping water into his hand, rinsing his bloody mouth. He looked up as Clay, his face suffused with cold fury, strode rapidly toward him.

You son of a bitch! Clay shouted.

I choose not to have heard that, and I offer you this advice, Lieutenant: Your wife needs a cane applied directly to her back.

Clay hit him, breaking his nose. Boyd tumbled into the pond. His lips cut, his nose and tongue bleeding, he gasped out the words, I swear before God, she came on to me! She invited . . .

Driving him to his knees, Clay struck another blow to the already pulpy face. Press charges. . . striking superior. . . see to it you’re cashiered.

Later, Clay would not remember trying to drown Boyd in the pond. He would not remember the four men it took to stop him. He would not remember Marco Giovanoni urging him into a rickshaw to begin a drunken ride through the serpentine alleys of Peking. He would remember only the daunting price of fury.

CHAPTER FOUR

At noon, Shannon sat alone on the steps of the minister’s residence in the legation quarter, looking out toward the central plaza and the staff village with the antique Chinese temple and gardens, beyond Coal Hill and its five pavilions of gold and green and blue and lavender, across the unending cascade of glazed, shining roofs to wherever Clay might be. Now, once more, she examined the wrenching truth: in winning exactly what she had set out to gain, she might well have lost everything.

I know where he went!

She looked up to see her father approaching. Is he all right?

Giovanoni told me he left Clay at the Golden Phoenix in the Pata Hutung. . . He stopped abruptly, aware that he had blurted out the unmentionable. He sighed. Well, no matter.

He’s safe, she said, luxuriating in an overwhelming sense of relief. But, damn him, if he’s in a crib with a whore. . .

That’s not true! Singsong girls are. . . you might say, entertainers.

And you might also say that they entertain all their customers by doing push-push!

I’ve asked you to refrain from . . . He shrugged, sat on the steps beside her. Giovanoni thinks Clay will come out at dark. It’s too dangerous to move through Peking in daylight. Boxer   demonstrations all over. Windows broken in the French legation. . .

Mr. Conger’s back, Shannon said, when the minister—head down, as if contemplating his pot belly—crossed the compound toward them.

Everett stood. Did Boyd agree not to file charges, Edwin?

No, Beverly. Nothing will satisfy him short of Clay’s dishonorable discharge.

 He’s not going to do that to Clay! Shannon was rushing toward Boyd’s quarters before either man could speak. She did not know what she would do or say, but she did know that—despite her father’s stern admonition, without an instant of hesitation, ignoring the possible consequences—she had chosen to give Campbell Boyd the power to shatter Clay’s life.

Golden Phoenix played the lute and sang softly, aware that, although his eyes were closed, the American officer was awake.

Strangely soothed by the high-pitched dissonance, the atonal, sad and exotic sounds of voice and instrument, Clay lay on a pallet, confronting himself and the flaws of character that had brought him to this moment. He realized that he was not the only one who knew those flaws, who recognized his sensitivity to the demands of honor. No, he was not the only one. Shannon, the woman he had chosen. . . no. Not yet a woman. That girl—that willful, spoiled child still in her teens —she knew him, too. And had, sure as hell, planned accordingly.

He tried to turn away from his predicament. To blot it out, he summoned all the shades and colors of drunken memory. Recalling only fragments of the night before, he saw himself pulling Marco Giovanoni in a rickshaw down the great expanse of Tiananmen, outside the crenellated pink walls of the Forbidden City. And later, they had eaten succulent Peking duck and furung chipien and tangy beef served with a hundred-year-old stock. And later, he had won two hundred liras from Marco as their crickets did battle in the tavern at Tienchiao. Shannon, he thought, would have loved that place.

Clay forced her out of his mind, thinking instead of the carousing pilgrimage from one singsong house to another, with the girls pouring wine and showing him how to crack melon seeds. And somewhere, he had sprawled on a pillowed floor, surrounded by giggling women. There, Marco, alternating between Mandarin and English, read from The Book of the Cloud and the Rain, with its precise directions and its bawdy illustrations of a hundred and one positions for coupling. And Marco had pledged that before he died, he would try every position at least once. And Clay had lied and sworn that he had already accomplished that feat. And, with the coming of dawn, they had bargained for chieh kan pu, a dry bed for the night.

Without opening his eyes, Clay remembered falling asleep, alone and exhausted, and waking, thick-tongued and thirsty. It was then that he first saw Golden Phoenix as she knelt beside him, and raised his head so he could drink suanmeitang, cold and tart with the taste of wild plums. The girl, with oval face, deep-set bright, quick eyes, was graceful. Soft, clinging silk. Hair dressed with brooches of jade and laced with peonies. Shannon loved peonies.

The crisis he faced invaded his reverie, and he thrust aside the drunken night, and thought only of Shannon —Shannon laughing, her shining hair spread against a pillow. Shannon purring, her tongue darting at his ear. Shannon nude, stretching, groaning. Shannon reading Keats aloud. Shannon, her face alive with pleasure, filching a shrimp from the pan, nibbling one end while he chewed the other.

Across the teeming city, beyond Tiananmen, in the Legation quarter’s American compound, Shannon sat beside Campbell Boyd’s bed, watching him as he slept.

Now, snoring through his broken nose, he stirred, and the swollen eyes opened to slits. Bitch! he said thickly, and ran his tongue over his puffed lips. Get out!

I’ve come to apologize.

You’ve come to try to save your husband’s hide! He held his bruised jaw, groaning with pain as he moved it slowly from side to side.

Cam, I’m not here for Clay. I’m here because I’ve done this to you. She dabbed at her eyes. Clay did this terrible thing because I lied to him.

You can forget the sniffling. I know fake tears when I see them, you slut!

Call me anything you want. I deserve it, but Clay is not to blame. Please! A court martial won’t help you, and it’ll destroy him!

Not even if you dropped your drawers and spread your legs.

Shannon swallowed her loathing. Please! I’m begging you.

You expect me to save a subordinate who humiliated me in front of the whole goddamn world?

All anyone needs to know is that you were hurt in a fight with Boxers, first when you stopped a runaway horse to save me, and then when you killed one of the Boxers to save Clay. That’s mostly true. And what isn’t, is our secret.

You’re such a devious little baggage! Who’s going to believe that story?

She sensed she had found an opening. Everyone will believe a letter of commendation from the minister suggesting that you be decorated for risking your life to obtain invaluable intelligence.

 He hesitated. It was true that Shannon’s testimony would explain his condition, would help mightily when he next came up for promotion. On the other hand, he would have to allow this conniving woman and her arrogant husband another victory. I won’t take part in the kind of duplicity you suggest. I intend to see your husband cashiered.

Shannon stood. I’ve apologized. And what I’ve gotten back is the kind of swill pigs like you wallow in. Well, you coarse bastard, since you don’t like my first suggestion, then how would you like this: the minister will report to your superiors that you tried to rape me.

That’s a lie!

Yes—and I’ll swear to it.

No court martial will believe you.

I think they will, and even if they don’t, your career will be over. You’ll never be trusted around anyone else’s wife. You’ll never command a ship.

You are a conniving bitch!

And you, sir, are a loathsome brute!

A moment of silence. And then he shrugged in defeat. If Conger writes the letter you say he’ll write, and if your stud resigns his commission before I leave today, I won’t file charges.

Clay lay naked on the pallet, only dimly aware of a distant, muffled cacophony of cymbals and drums and bells and close by, a stringed instrument. He opened his eyes.

You sleep very good, Golden Phoenix said, hesitating as she spoke each English word.

Putting aside the lute, she sat beside him. He saw that the peonies were no longer in her hair Come, sir. I bathing you. Time after, will be for very good eating.

Shee’yeh shee’yeh nee, he said, thanking her. But have to leave now.

Please not! she said, alarmed. I ho chu’an . . . I-ho-chu’an!

Boxers, Clay said.

Very much bad! She pushed aside the shutters. He could see a column of black smoke rising in the distance. Much burning places of Chinese Christian persons. She knelt beside him again. You wait for dark time.

Yong Hai! the rickshaw puller shouted, as he trotted through the crowded streets. Shannon leaned back, a scarf obscuring her face. Above the turbulent moil of traffic and commerce, she imagined she could hear the throb of her pulse. She was here, beyond the Kang Men gate in direct disobedience of the minister’s directive confining all Americans within the legation walls. She had failed to find someone who would ignore the orders, for all had heard of Boxers assaulting Westerners, burning churches, and murdering missionaries. Nevertheless, Shannon knew that if Clay did not return before Boyd left Peking, a court martial was a certainty. So, marshaling the courage to make a perilous trip into the hutungs, she had offered bribes to three rickshaw pullers until she found one whose greed exceeded his fear.

Now, bracing herself against the jouncing of the rickshaw, she kept a hand in her purse, grasping Clay’s service pistol. Aware of her jeopardy, she fixed on the scenes on every side, expecting at any moment to be discovered. So intent was she, so fascinated, that these sights and sounds and odors would be etched forever in her memory.

The wisps of clouds, hanging like kite tails in the porcelain blue sky. The surging crowds, the peddlers’ carts, the barber shaving the head of a whining, struggling child whose mother held him by the ears. The old men, huddled in their long robes, white beards tucked in snoods, playing games their ancestors invented: mahjongg, dominoes, chess, six sticks and cards. The comforting smell of roasting chestnuts. The mysterious scents of balms and unguents and herbs from the apothecary’s stall. The delicious aroma of candy birds emerging from the cooking vats. The fetid stench of a honey cart dredging night soil.

And she would remember forever her hollow-cheeked rickshaw puller, his queue bouncing between his sunken shoulders. And the moneychanger with his abacus and crooked back. The beggar threading a live snake up his nose and out his mouth. The ragged children and bent old crones listening to a storyteller with his mynah bird and red umbrella.

The rickshaw puller yelled, Wang shi! as the crowd made way for him to pass. Then, urgently, over his shoulder, he whispered to Shannon, I ho ch’uan, missy.

A troop of Boxers in ceremonial regalia marched into the square. Lances raised, flags waving, convulsed in some monstrous exaltation, they summoned the crowd to the marketplace. And in the passing of a moment, a great swarm buzzed forward to surround the hive of Boxers.

The rickshaw puller had put down the traces and was looking at Shannon, his eyes clouded with fear. She could see, not more than sixty yards away, the entry to the eight alleys of the Pata Hutung where she would find Clay. She knew she had but two choices: return to the legation, or attempt to slip past the seething mass marshaled by the crazed Boxers. Their rites were already reaching a terrifying crescendo with the staccato beat of drums and the echoing clank of cymbals and the eerie cries of the enthralled men and women clustered around the ceremonial circle.

Trembling, awestruck, the rickshaw puller ignored her when she motioned him to move on. She held out two gold coins. He shook his head. She pulled back the hammer on the pistol, and pointed it at the coolie. He studied her, his hand nervously fingering the wart on his chin. He sighed, and in that plaintive, scarcely audible lament, Shannon divined all the sadness and weariness and defeat of the man’s existence. Tears welled in her eyes. She un-cocked the pistol. Please, she said.

Although the word had no meaning for him, the tone spoke. Moving both hands flat against the concavity in his chest, he wiped the sweat off on his frayed, black cotton shirt, his gaze never leaving hers. She sensed that some mysterious alchemy had bridged the gulf between them. And then he took up the traces and trotted forward, skirting the edge of the grotesque rites.

She caught glimpses of the ritual. The leader—his imposing frame a legacy of Mongols and Tartars—was chanting. Each of the men around him moved rhythmically, raising an arm and then a leg while exerting delicate control over each muscle. They exhaled and inhaled in measured breaths. Their movements grew in frenzied urgency. They screamed curses. They struck their swords flat against the backs of prostrate comrades who jerked and twitched, wracked by paroxysms. As charms were waved above the crowd, hypnotic incantations were pronounced, and men fainted in delirium. The bystanders, as if infected with the virus of the Boxers’ hatred, joined the chanting in the center of the Square.

Sha! Sha!

 Shannon understood the words: Kill! Kill! Only twenty more yards to the alleys. The rickshaw puller was running faster and she could hear him wheezing with the effort.

 A squat, bowlegged Boxer, who was leading the chanting at the rear of the crowd, caught a glimpse of the woman in the passing rickshaw. Ting choo! Ting choo!

The rickshaw puller, hearing the order to stop, glanced over his shoulder. The Boxer was running after them, shouting. Ting choo!

Spellbound by the ceremonies, the crowd ignored the desperate race. Shannon, breathless, flipped off the safety on the pistol as they entered a narrow alley. She had been told that the names of the singsong girls would be posted in English outside every house. Now she saw the enameled signboards beneath each lamp they passed. Amber Jewel. . . Pear Blossom. . . Morning Dove. . . she whispered. She could hear the wheezing of the rickshaw puller as he burst onto a temple square.

Yang yipa, the rickshaw puller gasped, as he ran into still another alley. Shannon called out the names: Day Lily. . . Little Deer. . .

Suddenly, she heard the Boxer close behind them. The rickshaw puller, exhausted, was slowing, his shoulders heaving with effort. Without warning, he dropped the traces and ran off through an open gateway. The Boxer, gasping, reached for her. She smelled his foul breath and the sweat coursing over him, and she waited, as if paralyzed, the pistol forgotten in her lap. She did not see the rickshaw puller return, but in an instant, he was behind the Boxer, an earthen bowl raised high above his head. She heard the shattering blow, saw the Boxer’s blood spurt over her legs.

Directly across the alleyway, Golden Phoenix moved around Clay like a ballerina meticulously performing a wanton ballet. With delicate, practiced gestures, she disrobed, then pinned his arms and raised her lithe body above his so her breasts brushed the matted hair on his chest. The only commandment that counts, he thought, is, Thou shalt not get caught. His platoon sergeant, dead at Olongapo, had said that. And Clay told himself there were worse things than adultery. . . like being manipulated, trapped into a confrontation in the garden of the British legation. And yet—and yet—

Tell me where he is! The husky voice from the courtyard was unmistakable.

Clay peered through the shutters. Dear God!

Shannon, pistol drawn, was standing toe-to-toe with the madam of the house.

No here! the madam screamed.

The sign says Golden Phoenix! Shannon shouted, waving the pistol.

Stunned, Clay saw a rickshaw puller enter the courtyard. The Boxer he had killed was sprawled across the seat, legs dangling. Three boys were scavenging, removing the red bands from wrists and ankles.

Clay turned to Golden Phoenix. Ask your. . .your. . . He struggled to recall the Chinese word for madam. ". . . your. . . jìyuàn zh? xí to let the American lady come to me."

But the lady was already in the room. Shannon stood in the doorway, her face smudged, and her hair awry, her dress bloodstained. Golden Phoenix ran away.

Are you completely out of your mind? What idiot let you come past Chien Men alone? He sighed. But, bless your heart, you’ve got more sheer guts. . .

Kiss me!

You don’t need kissing. You need beating.

Probably, she said softly. But first, kissing.

Why did you come? Why?

I’m armed, she said, and showed him the pistol. Better give me what I want.

Scowling, he took the weapon, and secured it. Doesn’t anything scare you?

Lots of things. Like losing you, hurting you.

What scares the hell out of me is that I cold-cocked a superior officer, and I’m undoubtedly going to get reprimanded, and probably be passed over for promotion.

Oh, darling! She stood on tiptoes, and sought his lips.

He held her at arm’s length. Tell me why you risked your. . . He stopped abruptly. Why did you do such an insane thing?

She rested her cheek against his chest. You won’t be reprimanded.

Well, thank God for that. He grinned at her. Mr. Conger talked that lowlife bastard out of reporting it?

There are conditions.

He frowned. What conditions?

My father’s been in touch with several high-ranking naval officers. Of course, he posed the question as a hypothetical, but every one of them said it’s all but certain that an officer found guilty of striking a superior should resign or face a dishonorable discharge. She came up behind him, ran her hands over his bare shoulders. Did you do it with that Golden Phoenix?

"For God’s sake, Shannon! You’ve just told me that I’m faced