My Beautiful Enemy (6 page)

Behind that front door, however, life had been anything but ordinary: years of grueling, secret training under the tutelage of her amah, undertaken not because Ying-ying had burned with a particular desire to master the martial arts, but because she would otherwise always be at the mercy of others, a girl with no say in the direction of her existence.

Being deadly, however, was no assurance that one would be free from misfortune. Amah’s death at the hands of an enemy had come as a devastating blow to Ying-ying—that night she had truly become an orphan, bereft of everyone who had ever cared for her.

By strange coincidence, the next day, a decree had come
down from the Forbidden Palace, appointing Da-ren, Ying-ying’s stepfather—her late mother had been his concubine—to the governorship of Ili.

It was a punishment, an exile to the farthest corner of the empire, where Da-ren would no longer be able to agitate for reform and modernization at the imperial court. His family was granted leave to remain behind in Peking, but he chose to bring Ying-ying.

Trouble in the form of Lin, disciple of Amah’s enemy whom Ying-ying had killed in self-defense, found her within weeks of their arrival in Kulja, the capital of the territory. She’d managed to escape Lin’s wrath, but it became clear that she could not remain in one place.

So she roamed. The hardship of the road was beyond anything she had known: the bandits, the monotony, the unrelenting heat, and the terrible cold—these last two often within the same day. Yet every time she returned briefly to the governor’s residence in Kulja, by the next day she was already preparing to set out again.

She was no more truly free than a kite, but still, it was the most freedom she had ever known. Except . . . when the young girl who was not even allowed to venture into the streets of Peking had dreamed of the outside world, she had not thought it would be so lonely.

Was that why she kept delaying the hour she rid herself of the Persian, because no one else ever wished to accompany the prickly traveler that she was?

At the end of their meal, he rose to do the washing up. She stared at the hem of his robe, golden in the firelight, strangely fascinated by its billow and swirl, which accentuated the fluidity of his every movement.

When he was done, he sat down on the opposite side of the fire and fed it another handful of broken branches. “What do you do in the evenings, my friend?”

She performed her breathing exercises and practiced with
her blades and her hidden weapons—Lin could find her at any moment and she desperately needed to be as accomplished as he to have a chance to surviving their encounter. “I study the fires I make.”

“You never stay at inns?”

Most inns she came across were not luxurious establishments. And even if she fancied sharing a room with a half dozen men, she wouldn’t, for the simple fact that in the wilderness she could see Lin coming from miles away, but in more civilized surroundings she might not have any warning until it was too late.

“They have fleas.”

Again that smile, again that delight: He found her company, which she would rate as questionable at best, a first-rate pleasure. She could not understand his reasons, but she could not deny that his smile was warm and gorgeous.

“And of course my friend is fastidious,” he said, his tone plainly teasing. “I can tell from your attire.”

She was half annoyed and half amused that she, who truly was rather fastidious—or at least used to be—should be going around clad in such rags.

“What do you know of good fabric? This is made from the wool of the frost sheep, which graze on the highest slopes of the Heavenly Mountains.”

“And only wool from the first shearing of virgin ewes, of course. Am I correct?”

Now he was openly making fun of her. She thought about brandishing her knife in a show of force, but she actually did not mind being called out good-naturedly when she was just making things up.

“My sword is forged from the adamantine remains of a meteor that fell to earth,” she said.

“And Allah the great and merciful plucked stars from the night sky for your eyes, I do not doubt—your very manly eyes, that is.”

She had to make an effort not to smile.

He leaned forward slightly. “Would you like to hear a story?”

She’d never had such an offer in her life. “As long as it is not about my manly, starry eyes.”

“No, but it does have thieves.”

She stretched out her hands to the fire. “Go ahead.”

And so he told her the strange and wonderful “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.” He had a raconteur’s voice, rich and seductive. When he described the cave, she could see the glow thrown off by the treasures and hear the trickle of the coins as they fell off too-high heaps in golden rivulets.

She gazed at him as he spun his tale. It had been a very long time since anyone took the trouble to entertain her, or even cared whether she enjoyed herself. But the Persian cared: It was as if he sensed not only her hunger for the outside world, not only her desire for a thrilling narrative that culminated in a satisfying outcome, but also her deep-seated need to know that such a happy ending could be made possible by the efforts of a woman. For though Ali Baba and the thieves were named in the title of the tale, it was the slave girl Morgiana who saved the day again and again, and who was, in the end, rewarded for her cleverness and her resolve.

And that hint of understanding on the Persian’s part was an enchantment far more powerful than that of any mere story, no matter how fantastical.

Even after he lay down in his bedroll, she kept studying him. Amah had warned her, when she turned fourteen, to beware of mindless attachment to a man. She had not given the advice much credence then: Just because Amah had lost her head over some wastrel didn’t mean Ying-ying would.

Now she was beginning to understand what Amah had meant: It was not something one could ignore. When she made herself look elsewhere, a few seconds later her eyes were again fastened to him, as if the very sight of him offered sustenance. Worse, she wanted to touch his turban, and the
fabric of his robe—perhaps even his beard, a quick graze with the back of her hand, for an idea of its texture.

Amah would counsel her to leave now, slip away in the night. Ying-ying ought to. But she only wrapped her arms about her knees, listened to the tranquil rhythm of his breaths, and gazed upon him until the fire sputtered and turned to ashes.

England

1891

M
ost of the time, Leighton Atwood could hike for fifteen miles and not feel a twinge of discomfort, his limbs as fresh and nimble as those of an adolescent. This state of health and well-being would go on for weeks, sometimes months. And then, without warning, without rhyme or reason, the agony would return, like a hook piercing through his flesh.

In much the same way, the girl from Chinese Turkestan would fade from mind, long enough for him to almost believe that she no longer mattered to him. To almost cease turning sharply in the street when a dark-haired woman of similar figure and gait passed by. But the memories always came back: her face in the firelight, her laughter, the dirty overcoat she had worn as part of her disguise, the embroidery on the lapels hopelessly soiled.

He preferred the physical torment. Pain as a matter of seared nerves cleared the mind beautifully. He took no laudanum and forced himself to never curtail his activities
during those attacks, to walk, ride, and even run, launching himself headlong at the pain.

Against the pain of
her
, however, there was little he could do. He would jerk awake at night, unable to breathe for the weight on his heart. There were others he missed as ferociously, but they were dead, whereas she was presumably still alive, still somewhere in this world.

He had not recognized the woman who came with Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Chase. She was different—that much he had sensed instantly. But he had not connected the subdued, almost fragile-looking woman in the old-fashioned brown traveling dress to the girl who had stolen his heart with her swagger and vitality.

Until he looked into her eyes, the color of the Atlantic in winter, and understood the joke fate had chosen to play.

The chaos inside him had been such that he forgot the pain in his leg, which, until that moment, had demanded nearly all his attention, so that he would not lose his balance to the next spike of agony.

He could only hope he appeared normal at luncheon: It was all he could do to not stare at her. It was her, of that much there could be no doubt. But to experience her speaking the Queen’s English almost without accent and in general conducting herself with ladylike modesty—his disorientation, fierce to begin with, turned dizzying.

Who was this woman, all her sharp edges sheared off and scrubbed smooth?

He was grateful for the conclusion of luncheon—he wasn’t sure how much more of it he could have taken. They had risen from the table and were saying their good-byes when Annabel turned to her and asked, “Won’t you join us for dinner, Miss Blade?”

Of everything disconcerting about her reappearance in his life, that she had a name probably ranked near the top: For eight years he had thought of her only in pronouns.

Miss Blade.

Real or not, it was a fitting name, bright, sharp, and potentially deadly.

“It will be a very small affair,” Annabel continued. “Just the present company, plus two of my cousins and a few of our friends.”

He had an urge to warn Annabel. But of what, exactly?
She is a creature of venom and fangs—approach at your peril
?

“A marvelous idea.” Marland took up the cause, Marland who had no idea the kind of woman he was speaking to. “I would love to hear more about your life in China, Miss Blade.”

Her life in China. Leighton’s own memory of the north of China was built on a foundation of immense cold—he had arrived in the middle of winter and departed before the beginning of spring. Everything seemed to have been white or red: Snow blanketed fields, roads, and the curved roofs of temples and manors; against this pristine backdrop proliferated red doors, red lanterns, and innumerable squares and rectangles of red paper, inked with wishes for happiness and prosperity.

He could not place her in that world, a place that hid its women behind walled courtyards and covered litters. Could not imagine her without a fast horse and a gleaming sword.

It would be like locking a wolf in a broom cupboard.

“Yes, do come, Miss Blade.” Mrs. Reynolds added her voice to the chorus. “You should make it a priority to broaden your circle of acquaintances.”

Even Mrs. Chase, indebted to Miss Blade for saving her life, was obliged to mumble syllables of agreement.

Leighton said nothing.

Miss Blade smiled. “What a lovely invitation,” she murmured. “But I don’t wish to intrude on an intimate family gathering.”

He could not get used to her demureness: The most decorous of spinster aunts would barely rival her in propriety—this, from the same woman who had once said,
The girls there would fuck my horse if he trotted in with enough gold.

That might have been the moment he fell in love with her.

“But it will be fun for everyone,” said Annabel. “Just think of how much more diverting it would be to spend your evening among friends.”

That sentiment was heartily echoed by Marland. But Miss Blade very correctly declined again. “It is most wonderfully kind of you, but I shall feel quite overwhelmed to be out and about so soon after my arrival. Better for me to proceed at a more manageable pace.”

There was no arguing with such reasonable prudence.

“In that case, let us wish you a very pleasant day,” said Mrs. Reynolds. “I hope we will have the pleasure of calling on you very soon.”

“I look forward to it,” said Miss Blade. Her gaze skimmed lightly over Leighton, a caress like fire. “I look forward to meeting everyone again—at the earliest opportunity.”

M
rs. Reynolds’s private carriage had smelled of beeswax and freshly cut tulip stems. The interior of the hansom cab Catherine had hailed, on the other hand, reeked strongly of tobacco, spirits, and a large dose of turpentine that had been used to clean the upholstery.

The driver spoke with an accent she found difficult to understand—had he come from the provinces? But at least he did not say much, except to warn her to be careful as she climbed in.

Rain still fell, stolid and gloomy. The pedestrians shielded themselves with large black umbrellas. The drivers of hansom cabs and private carriages hunched beneath their black raincoats. London was like a living photograph, leached of color, leaving behind only shades of charcoal and grey.

Before his death the same night as Amah’s, Master Gordon, Catherine’s English tutor and her only true friend, had always liked to brew Darjeeling tea during Peking’s few wet days.
Together, they would listen to the sound of rain falling on his roof.

Once she had written out for him a Sung Dynasty song that her mother had loved. After his death, she had found the poem among his possessions, along with an English translation he had been working on.