The Last Honest Seamstress Page 4

  "No, it's not that." Why did she stammer? "I came to see you about a confidential matter."

  "I know of an intimate cafe. The staff is discreet. I conduct my most secretive business there. Not a word of it has ever leaked out."

  Mr. Tetch was watching their exchange and smirking. Maybe it would be best to be out of his hearing. "All right then. I'll entrust my secrets to your taste in restaurants, Captain O'Neill."

  "Thank goodness. I thought you were hesitating about being seen with such a scruffy sailor. I haven't had time for a beard trim or a haircut."

  For some reason it pleased her that he was embarrassed by his appearance. To be quite honest, she would have dressed up a bit more herself if she’d known she was going to be in a position to propose to him today.

  "This way, Miss Sheridan." The Captain guided her gently by the elbow out of the office and into the glare of sunshine outside, his fingers emitting unsettlingly pleasant warmth through the thin cotton of her shirtwaist sleeve.

  The Captain led her two blocks up from the wharves to a small, dark cafe run by a Chinese family. They greeted him by name, but otherwise appeared to speak little English. The patrons seated at tables in the dining area were largely Chinese, but no one seemed surprised to see the tall, auburn-haired captain.

  They were seated quickly and served bowls of thin egg drop soup and tiny cups of green tea. Their waitress, who Fayth guessed was the wife of the owner, seemed to scold the Captain in a foreign tongue. He merely laughed, then reached inside his pocket and procured a packet of letters and handed them to the waitress. Her face glowed as she received them, nodded her thanks, and started to walk away. The Captain called out to her as she left and she smiled over her shoulder and laughed, nodding again.

  When he turned his attention to Fayth, he was clearly amused by her expression. "The owners are friends of mine. They come from my hometown, San Francisco. I carry mail back and forth between them and their family there. They don't trust the US Postal Service, even though I am the US Postal Service. The government awarded me a small mail subsidy a number of years back." He smiled broadly. "I'm not as generous as you might think; in return for the favors I do for them, they give me my meals free. Mrs. Wong was teasing me about bringing a guest to dine off their favor."

  "I can pay for my own meal."

  He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "She was only teasing."

  His hand was too warm, too strong, too virile. His touch made her pulse leap in the most pleasant and disconcerting way. She nearly lost her resolve. The man was confident to touch her and her reaction most dangerous.

  Startled by his bold move, she pulled her hand away and hid it in her lap, trying to forget the heat his touch created in her. She cleared her throat and tried to act as if she were not blushing or thinking about how his hands would feel on her cheeks or around her waist. "You speak their language?"

  "A little, and they speak a little English, but not enough to compromise our confidentiality." When he smiled, deep dimples hollowed his cheeks and his hazel eyes sparkled.

  "Oh.” Fayth let an awkward silence follow.

  Fortunately, the Captain was an outgoing man. He filled the ensuing silence easily. "I'm glad you came to the wharf today, Miss Sheridan. It was such a pleasant surprise. I was planning to come to your shop later, after I'd cleaned up a bit."

  Before today, it had never occurred to her that he would fix up before he came to see her.

  "I'm in need of a new suit." He blew on a spoonful of soup.

  She sat quietly waiting for her soup to cool, studying the man across from her, wondering whether she could live with him. His hair was coarse and wavy, and long enough to curl up over the back of his collar. Where his shirtsleeve strained back as he held his spoon, a spray of freckles showed beneath the curling hair on his forearm. Her attraction to him was puzzling. She had never cared for any shade of red hair, auburn included. Drew had straight, black hair, and . . .

  She didn't want to think about him. "Please do stop by.” She put a tease and a hint of flirtation in her voice, even though she knew she shouldn’t. What had gotten into her? “It’s always a pleasure to dress a man who wears his clothes so well."

  Had she really just said that aloud? The man muddled her thoughts. He was going to get the wrong idea. What she meant was . . . What had she meant, exactly?

  “I mean who’s so well proportioned.” She felt her blush creep up into her hairline. Wrong thing again. She wasn’t getting her thoughts across properly. She didn’t want him to think she’d been studying his proportions, or worse, ogling him as she measured him.

  He smiled, looking as if he were trying not to laugh at her discomfort. “A good tailor makes any physique look good.” His eyes sparkled.

  “Um, yes, certainly.” What an inane thing to say back to him.

  She was all mixed up and flustered. His surprisingly warm tone and the way he was looking at her now, made her suddenly anxious. A small, worrying thought niggled at her. Could she have misread the Captain? Could he be interested in her after all? And worse, was she more physically attracted to him than she’d been previously aware?

  For heaven’s sake, think freckles, Fayth!

  When she replied her tone was stiffer than she intended, "Thank you, I'm glad you like my work."

  She expected a compliment in reply. Something along the order of, Of course I do. You’re the prettiest tailor I know. Something any other single man in Seattle would have said. Instead, his reply was remarkably astute and terribly disappointing.

  "You're suddenly very serious, Miss Sheridan."

  She bit her lip. "Talking about my work reminded me—I have serious business to discuss with you."

  He didn't lose his smile. "Can it wait until after we've finished our meal? I know for a fact that Mrs. Wong is in the kitchen cooking one of her finest meals with a fury. She'll be insulted if we don't appear to enjoy it and ourselves. To be honest, I've never not enjoyed something she's made for me. While I'm at sea eating the gruel my cook serves up, I'm always dreaming of Mrs. Wong's egg rolls. Let's not let business spoil them. Have you ever eaten Chinese food?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then you're in for a treat."

  He entertained her with stories through three full courses. Tales of the sea, life in San Francisco, anecdotes from his latest voyage. He asked Fayth questions about herself, which she gracefully evaded. To Fayth's surprise, his manner put her so at ease that she forgot her nervousness. Without analyzing it, she felt as if she had known him forever.

  Mrs. Wong arrived and cleared the dishes from the last course, leaving them alone again.

  "Okay, Miss Sheridan. Our meal is over, time to discuss serious matters. What is this mysterious business you've come to see me about?”

  She found herself suddenly mute.

  “You want to ship something?" he said when she didn’t answer.

  His smile was no longer infectious. Her stomach clenched and her heart raced. She was turning coward on herself.

  "Something valuable, perhaps something that no one knows you have? Jewels, bouillon, gold doubloons?" His eyes creased at the corners as he spoke and his tone was teasing. "You may trust my discretion in delicate, confidential matters of shipping."

  She hoped she could trust his discretion, period. "I have nothing to ship." She masked her expression, trying to keep her tone even against the hammering of her pulse and the dryness of her mouth, displeased with herself for the disquiet that had overcome her.

  “You need warehouse space perhaps?"

  She could see from his expression he was genuinely pleased she had sought him out, that he was trying to keep the mood light. But because of where the conversation was heading, she was uncomfortable, all nerves now that the moment had arrived. Her thoughts tumbled one over another in a panicked stream. It seemed there was no easy way to voice her proposal. At a loss, and needing to speak before she lost all nerve, she took a deep breath and blurt
ed out, "I need a partner."

  The Captain simply stared at her. The first reasonable expression she could attribute to him was pure confusion. Finally, he leaned back in his chair. "Miss Sheridan, I know nothing about the tailoring business."

  "Oh." She laughed nervously. "I'm not talking about that kind of partner—I'm talking about a marriage partner."

  His eyes darted over her as if he were trying to determine whether she was actually serious. "You're asking me to marry you?"

  "Yes." She admired his composure. Hers had abandoned her. The hands she kept demurely in her lap were knotted together in a death grip. Too late, she developed not just pity, but real empathy for all the men who’d proposed to her. This was torturous business, even when the heart wasn’t involved.

  He continued staring at her in an unnerving way, as if he were searching her for something and finding it lacking. "Why me?"

  It wasn’t the response she’d expected. In fact, she was taken aback by his question. She wasn’t vain, but women were in appallingly short supply in Washington Territory. Any other single man from here to Alaska would not have questioned his good fortune, but jumped in with an emphatic, yes. "Why not?"

  His smile vanished. "In a town with a predominantly male population, you must have your share of men proposing to you. Why ask me?" His tone was gentle, and almost hopeful. The Captain appeared unflappable and steady, qualities she desired. He continued to study her.

  "Because I'm not interested in any of the men who’ve proposed to me.” Was it her imagination or did his eyes just leap with hope? She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. She continued before she lost the last shred of her nerve. “Those men want more out of marriage than I want to give."

  He frowned, looking truly puzzled. "What is it you don't want to give, Miss Sheridan?"

  "Myself, my heart."

  The light left his eyes. "Then why marry?" His tone turned suddenly stony.

  "This is a wild town, Captain, with far too many men. To be quite honest, I'm tired of their advances." That came out wrong again, sounding too selfish. She had to show the advantages to him, explain the arrangement—

  "You need a husband to chase them off? Hire a bodyguard. They're a lot less trouble."

  Fayth thought his tone unnecessarily harsh, but she had already gone too far to draw back from her plan. "I'm not in any fear for my physical safety. It’s just . . .” Why couldn’t she frame her thoughts? “You've never shown any interest in me—"

  He shook his head and looked stunned. "And you assume that means I'm the kind of man who wouldn't require a wife's love and affection?"

  "You've never struck me as a man who’s passionate about women."

  He cocked a brow. "I hope you're not implying that I prefer men?"

  Flustered, she couldn't tell whether he was teasing or not. She felt the heat of embarrassment all the way to her toes. This was going from bad to worse. She couldn’t seem to say anything right. "No, of course not. I simply meant that it seems to me that the sea is your first love. A woman would always be secondary. That's why I think the relationship I envision could work so wonderfully. Let me explain."

  To her surprise, he didn't make any move to interrupt her. But his calm stare only served to fluster her further and she was rattled enough as it was. She’d made a mess of everything so far. She swallowed hard.

  "I’m proposing a business arrangement, of a sort. I need a husband to cast votes favoring my business interests. To advise me on repairs and hire contractors. I need the financial clout of marriage. I don't mean I want my husband's money. I intend to support myself. But the banks won’t lend to a single woman. I need a husband to get the loan I need to stay in business."

  Spoken aloud, her list sounded manufactured and self-serving. She should have stated the advantages to him first. A man would know how to act with more finesse. How did men do it, convince women to marry them? Turned out, she needed a man just to make the proposal.

  "And what would I get out of such an arrangement?" The amusement had left his voice.

  "A very competent business manager."

  "I have Mr. Tetch."

  "You'd be foolish to trust Mr. Tetch, or any employee, implicitly. You need someone whose fortune is vested with yours. Mr. Tetch just about cost you a customer today. Would the man I met in your office earlier have stayed with you if you hadn't been in town to intervene?"

  "You don't hold back your opinions, do you?"

  She ignored him, concentrating on the carefully rehearsed arguments that came back to her a bit at a time. "You need a home to come home to, homemade meals, stability, the respectable stature that marriage brings to a man in the community."

  "Love? Children?"

  "I'm talking about a business marriage here, Captain. A marriage of convenience."

  "You don't believe you could ever love me?"

  What did he want her to say? She didn’t believe she could love any man ever again.

  "No offense intended, Captain O'Neill. You are an attractive man. But I wouldn't want to love my husband, no matter who he was. I don't believe in romantic love anymore. The most I hope for is that I can respect him." She thought she’d said that rather well.

  "I've been all over the world, seen more hideous cruelty than you could imagine, Miss Sheridan, and even I am not that jaded." He pushed back from the table as if their interview were over.

  She set her jaw and lifted her chin. "You're going to refuse me?" She couldn’t believe what she was saying.

  He nodded.

  She was stunned, shocked. Yes, her proposal was unconventional, but it was eminently logical and mutually advantageous. Surely he could see that?

  "I'm sorry, Captain. I mistakenly believed you were a man of reason. If I'd known you were such a romantic, I would have withheld my offer. You're making a mistake, in my opinion. Women are few enough here, at least women worth having as one's life mate. Companionship is priceless compared to love. And I did intend to give you the very best of myself in that regard."

  She shook her head in a deliberately chastising fashion, trying to cover her own embarrassment with a judgmental attitude. "I didn't realize men could be so sentimental. We could have made a very equitable arrangement and both prospered because of it. Thank you for the wonderful meal."

  She rose to leave. "Stop by the shop. I'd be very happy to make your suit for you at cost. A man deserves something for enduring such embarrassment."

  She walked from the table with her chin out and back straight, leaving the Captain before he could reply. She had to escape, get out of the restaurant before she lost her composure completely. As she tried not to cry, she had new respect for all the men she’d turned down. Not one of them had broken down in tears. Wretched, womanly emotions.

  Con watched the door close behind her. A woman with less class would have slammed it. He couldn't help leaning toward the window to gawk at her as she retreated. At any other time her regal posture would have caused him to break into an appreciative grin.

  Miss Sheridan was unlike any woman he'd ever met—utterly delightful. Who of his acquaintance, even those he counted most brazen, had the confidence to propose to a man? And to support such a brash proposal with logical rationale?

  Mrs. Wong rushed over and spoke in hushed Chinese. "The lady no like my food?"

  "I believe it's the man she has a distaste for."

  "Shame on you." Mrs. Wong shook a finger at him. "You scare off only girl I ever see you with."

  He couldn't defend himself, but what choice did he have? Despite what she must think of him and how she must now view him, he wanted Fayth Sheridan in the worst way a man could. He wanted her body. He wanted her love. He wanted to possess her and be her husband in every sense. And he’d settle for nothing less. She'd just offered him up a challenge—he had to make a romantic out of her, too.

  Chapter 3

  Con walked into Finley's craving a drink like his life depended upon downing a beer. Tobacco smoke fogged th
e room, giving him a hazy protection from scrutiny. Con was not a man who wore his emotions for all to see, but after his surprising and upsetting meal with Miss Sheridan, he was having a hard time maintaining his usual calm facade.

  "It's the Con!" A voice boomed from the bar.

  "Bailey!" Con wound his way through the room and slapped the small, dark man on the back as he pulled up a stool and signaled for a beer.

  "What's the Con doing back in Seattle so soon?"

  Con shook his head. "Having a hell of a time of it."

  "The city didn't welcome you home? You need to find yourself a pretty whore. They’re always good for a welcome."

  Con shook his head. The last thing he needed was a whore. "Seattle's always beautiful to come back to. It's the people who inhabit her that are giving me fits."

  Con had known Bailey for more than fifteen years, since they first had crewed together as boys and Con acquired his nickname, the Con, for his ability to steer vessels safely through narrow straits and fog. Con's a nautical term for the station of the person steering a ship and Con was a natural born navigator. Even as a boy, he’d saved Bailey’s tail more than once.

  "Someone in particular?" Bailey asked.

  "Tetch almost lost me a valuable client. Scheduled two ships to wharf at the same time. Left my man with his goods spoiling in the Sound. If I hadn't been in the office because we docked three days early, I'd have lost him."

  "So fire Tetch. The man's a slimy bastard."

  "I can't. Not over this."

  "He's more than likely robbing you blind. Hell, Con, you're never in town to watch him."

  Bailey was right, of course. Not that Con would admit it. "You know I don't give a damn about money. I do care about my reputation."

  Bailey shrugged. "So do something about it. Speaking of money, you may not care much about it, but some of us do. I'm celebrating tonight. Just got word our mail subsidy's been renewed. Thirty-six thousand a year."

  Con whistled. Thirty-six thousand a year was a small fortune. “That deserves a drink.” He signaled to the bartender. “One for my friend here, too.”