Tempted Tigress (11 page)

He told me

He was very sorry

I can't write it! He can't be! But Samuel brought me a doll. It wasn't from England. He said it was Italian, and that my father would have bought it for me if he could. But he couldn't because

Samuel said it was yellow fever. That lots of sailors died from it. Samuel said Father loved me very much and he heard from the captain that his last thoughts were of me and how much he loves me.

I told him he was lying. I threw the doll at him and ran from the room. He must have left the doll behind when he left because
Susanna has it now. Says it was a gift from her mother. Except I know it wasn't. She's a filthy liar. And my father is not dead. He is NOT dead!

Samuel told me something else though. He told me the name of Father's ship. I'm going to go to the ship tomorrow. I'm going to leave right after evening prayers. I know how to get to the dock. I'll find his ship and my father. He
isn't dead. He'll give me a real doll from England like he promised.

I am not an orphan! I have a father!

[We] shall teach such a lesson to these perfidious hordes that the name of European will hereafter be a passport of fear, if it cannot be of love, throughout their land.

—The Times of London

Chapter 5

Zhi-Gang wrapped one hand around his dragon while the other stretched across the edge of the tub to touch Sister Marie's shoulder. He pretended to hold her down but in truth he simply wanted to touch her skin, to feel her heat, and to know as precisely as possible her reactions to all he did.

Her eyes were huge as she perched her chin on her forearms. And only because he had his hand on her shoulder did he know that tiny tremors shook her. She was not nearly as sanguine as she appeared, and he smiled in real delight.

How unusual was this little fake nun. She had probably seen a man's dragon before; her reaction when snatching away the sponge had been one of mild curiosity, not a virgin's terror. And yet she was not nearly as hardened as the usual opium runner, male or female.

"Did you work in a mission hospital?" he asked abruptly.

She jerked at his question, her gaze rising to his face. "What—I—" She swallowed then flushed at his smirk. "Yes, I did." Then he felt her straighten her shoulders and pretend to a disaffected shrug. "I saw many male organs there. Many much larger than yours."

He nodded, believing her. "Of course you did. But it is like seeing a sword in an armory. You can see them lined up in a row, care for them, even compare length of the blades, the girth of the hilts, and measure the sharpness of the tips. But until you see one in the hands of a master, wielded by one who knows it as intimately as his lover—well, then, you know nothing about swords at all, do you?"

She blinked as she thought about his words. With understanding came a sweet blush to her features—a virgin's innocence, despite extensive hospital experience and a somewhat bold nature.

A
very
bold nature, he corrected. Her gaze had already returned to where he massaged his dragon with long, slow strokes. When she spoke, her tone was mocking. "And you claim to be a master, of course."

"Oh, no," he returned with false modesty. "I am much too young to have attained that status. I am more of an apprentice in the bedroom arts." Then he slowed his stroke, pinching the mouth of his dragon so that a yang pearl seeped out. She stilled in surprise and curiosity, and he leaned forward to push his advantage. "But I learn quickly," he drawled.

He reached down and lifted the pearl onto his forefinger. "Here," he whispered as he held the sacred substance before her lips. "My gift of yang to you."

She did not know what to do, but she was smart: She understood his implication. And yet, even without touching her, he could feel the war within her. Yang emissions were not typically appealing to a virgin. But she was pretending to be world-weary, and he was enjoying discovering the edges of her experience.

She frowned at his finger, and her nostrils expanded as she quietly sniffed. Then she extended the tip of her tongue. It protruded slowly, as if she had to force herself. She clearly had no idea how erotic the sight was to any man: a woman's shy, questing tongue, nearly touching him. Nearly...

He could not resist pulling his finger away, just out of her reach. How beautiful was the sight of her open mouth! He could see the white of her teeth and the soft darkness beyond.

Then, while he was lost in the recesses of her sweet mouth, she lifted up on her knees and abruptly snatched away the pearl. She did not touch it with a quietly questing tongue; she abruptly surged forward and wrapped her entire mouth around his lifted finger.

Wet heat surrounded him, her swirling tongue. She added suction as she drew back, pulling at his finger. He felt as if his entire spirit went with the yang pearl, drawn into her body as swiftly and as inevitably.

Heat exploded through his body, shocking both him and her. Without his conscious intent, his dragon disgorged its yang fire. Zhi-Gang gasped in release, his mind overwhelmed by all that he felt as it and his qi spilled onto his chest and into the water. Wasted! Yang power and male seed spilled uselessly.

Except, it did not feel as if his energy fell away. He sensed it entered her, drawn in by some white magic. His awareness, too, seemed to connect with her. He flashed briefly upon this woman's heart—her trembling confusion and deep sweetness. He also knew for one brief instant an overwhelming darkness. She was angry, and bitterness stained her spirit.

So like his own. Her spirit and his—both were angry, both were stained. Both of them were acquiescing to darkness like ink spilled on parchment. He felt a bizarre kinship with this white woman, and his spirit shivered in alarm. His body though still disgorged its essence. It could not stop. He could not stop.

Never before had he felt the flow of qi as he did with this woman. Never before had he felt himself merge—even for the briefest instant—with anyone. He stared at her in open shock, but deep inside he knew a link had been forged. Two people lost in a black fog were now connected at their deepest core.

The thoughts were ridiculous, and yet they were also divine. Any idea that appeared in that moment of release—when qi flowed at its strongest—was deemed Heaven-sent. He believed that now, and the horrifying concept—that this woman might be the only way out of his darkness—made him push away from her in panic.

He reared out of the bath, splashing water every which way. His legs were not capable of sustaining him, and he stumbled. Without conscious decision, he steadied himself by gripping her shoulders, thereby continuing their unnatural connection. The fullest strength of it was gone, but there was still an echo, a whisper of knowledge—spirit to spirit—that made him rear backward again.

"Jing-Li!" he bellowed. "Jing-Li!"

He made it out of the bath and wrapped a thick towel about his hips. He did not look at her, but kept his back resolutely turned. He heard her move, though. And what he couldn't hear, he imagined. She would stand in maidenly shock and confusion, her eyes wide with fright. Or she would slowly stand, a secret smile on her traitorous lips. She would know that she had taken his manly energy into herself. That she had connected their qi, linking them together forever. He couldn't kill her now. It would be killing himself, slaying his own spirit, because once linked, they were joined forever.

He had bound his spirit to a white woman! Did she know what she had done?

He didn't know, and so he spun around to discern her true nature: Was she a demon sent to ensnare him, or an angel sent to guide him out of the fog? He didn't know. And he couldn't see. She was gone.

He spun around, rapidly scanning every shadow in the room. She was nowhere. He scrambled for his glasses, pulling them on too quickly so that they perched awkwardly on his head. He searched every corner, every shadow. Empty. She was gone.

"Jing-Li!"

How long had his back been turned? Not long. But still long enough for her to make an escape. Long enough to for Jing-Li to slip inside and grab her? Perhaps. He wasn't sure.

"Jing-Li!" he bellowed again. Then when his friend still did not appear, he rushed outside still clad in his towel.

The boat crew said nothing, of course. They merely averted their eyes at his unorthodox clothing. He didn't care. Where was she?

"Jing-Li!" Still there was no sign of the people he wanted, and that horrible dread expanded inside him. Could his friend have decided to help him? Could Jing-Li be right now killing her?

He grabbed the nearest worker—the man who beat the drums for the trackers. "The woman," he demanded. "Where is the woman? My wife!"

The drummer merely shook his head. It took a moment for Zhi-Gang to realize the man shook his head because he didn't understand Mandarin. The boat people had their own dialect, which Jing-Li spoke.

Spinning away from the drummer, Zhi-Gang scanned the deck and the rocky ground nearby. They had moored for the night, the sanpan tucked tightly against the bank and held in place by a half dozen thick ropes. Any young boy could run along those cords and make the bank. Then it would be an easy matter to hide amidst the shadows and rocks.

Not so much more difficult to drag an unwilling woman ashore—or better yet, carry an unconscious woman like a sack of rice. Was that the rope ladder unrolled off the side of the boat? Yes! Someone had definitely gone ashore! Could Jing-Li have carried her off, dropped her behind a large rock, then slit her throat? His friend would think it a kindness to take such an unpleasant task away from Zhi-Gang.

"Jing-Li!"

In his rational mind, he knew there hadn't been enough time for such a thing. Zhi-Gang would have heard if Sister Marie had been dragged off or hit on the head. He would have heard something! But where was she? And where was Jing-Li?

What if she attempted to escape? That would be most definitely in her character. And if Jing-Li saw, then he would follow her, wait until the perfect moment to leap upon her. He could be skillful with his knife. The whole thing would be quick and quiet.

"Jing-"

"You bellow like a trapped water buffalo!" his friend groused, popping his head above deck. Zhi-Gang rushed to the edge of the boat where the man was nimbly climbing the rope ladder. "What are you doing out here? Dressed like that?"