Tempted Tigress (23 page)

Would it be so awful? Or worse, what if it were wonderful? What if a night with the mandarin was as blissful, as amazing as a night spent in an opium haze? What if she ended up craving the man as much as she hungered for the drug? What then?

"I do not even know your name."

"Zhi-Gang," he answered. "Tau Zhi-Gang."

"The Emperor's Enforcer," she said.

He stilled for a moment against her cheek. She knew anxiety coiled in his belly, though how she could feel such a thing was beyond her.

"Yes," he finally said. "I am a man of violence, a man who kills. You know this."

"And you are a scholar," she said. "A man who studies Confucius and Lao Tzu. The two must be very hard to reconcile—being both scholar and warrior."

He pulled back, a bare inch, so that he could look her in the eye. "Yes," he whispered.

"Yes," she repeated, knowing she was yielding to whatever he wanted. In truth, her surrender was inevitable. Without opium, she was lost. And without direction of her own, his would do. She was that weak and wretched. And yet, when he feathered his lips across her neck to press just beneath the edge of her collar, she did not feel awful or lost or alone. She felt cherished.

It was a lie. She knew it to be one of the greatest—and most common—of men's lies. She knew it, believed it, and yet, when he slid his hands up her forearms to cup her elbows, she could not fight him. She wanted to believe—even for these few moments—that she was his beloved wife, cherished and adored, just as she had pretended to the other women.

"I am your adored wife?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She felt his hands slip to the clasps above her left breast.

"Of course," he responded, his low voice creating a shiver that started at her neck but traveled down her spine until it encompassed her whole body.

"And what will I be in the morning?" she asked.

"Well loved," he answered.

Her heartbeat skittered at the word "loved." Her breasts tingled even as the tight silk began to peel away. Lies, she told herself, and yet what was her alternative? A night spent sweating, mouth dry in hunger for a smoke? If she could not have forgetfulness that way, she would take the other path.

"Then make sure," she challenged, even as she allowed her neck to drop backward, lifting her breasts to him, "make sure I think of nothing but you."

She felt his lips pull into a smile against her skin. She was arched backward, his hands on her elbows. But at her words, he bent down and wrapped his hands around her hips. Before she could do more than open her eyes, she felt him lift her up. He was carrying her, easily shifting his weight so that she fell forward over his shoulder.

She squeaked in surprise, then gasped in shock as he slipped one hand underneath her tight skirt. He could not go far, but his hand felt very hot and very large as it slipped between her thighs. She tightened against him, halting his fingers' progress up her legs. It gave her something to focus on rather than the heavy jostle of movement as he carried her out of the room.

His strides were long and efficient as he moved out of the room. He barely even paused when Wife Number Three—surprised in the hallway—stopped weeping long enough to gaze in shock at him.

"Lead me to my bedchamber," he commanded.

She nodded mutely, then abruptly scurried forward. He followed with his smooth stride, but his attention—and Anna's—remained centered on his hand between her legs. She held his fingers pinned between clenched thighs, but he could still move a little. He twisted his hand, he squeezed her skin, and he wormed the tiniest bit higher. She found herself breathless with the game. Could she keep him out? Where would he touch her if she could not?

He rounded a corner and grunted a quick, "Thank you," to Wife Number Three. Then he was through the door and heading for a large bed in the center of the room.

Anna managed to lift her head enough to see Wife Number Three still staring at them from the doorway, her mouth open. But what startled Anna the most was the need in the woman's huge eyes. As if she drank in the sight of Anna flipped over the mandarin's shoulder and would hold the image close to her heart for all of her days.

Anna might have said something then. She might have screamed out the truth—that this was all an act, that Zhi-Gang was no different than any other man. But at that moment, he flipped her upward and over so that she practically flew from his arms to bounce on the large bed. The only sound that left her mouth was a squeak of surprise and a gasp, because despite her movement, he still kept that one hand between her legs.

Indeed, as she flew through the air, her legs had separated enough for his hand to slide nearly all the way up. Then, while she still bounced on the mattress, he used his knees to separate her further. She felt the silk skirt strain, then rip, as he followed her down to settle heavily against her thighs. She felt his organ, thick and heavy inside his pants, as he settled between her legs.

Then he looked down at her, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

"Shut the door, please," he called to the woman behind them. He didn't move, clearly waiting to hear the door settle into its frame. Wife Number Three took a long time doing as she was told, and so Anna had a long moment to stare at Zhi-Gang, feeling her legs open wider until her sex was fully exposed to the hot press of his belly and the rough abrasion of the fabric between them.

Finally the door shut, and Zhi-Gang smiled at her. "You must remember to scream," he murmured to her. "They will be listening at the door for noises."

Anna blinked in confusion.

He shook his head. "Never mind. I will make sure all is done to their satisfaction."

It was happening too fast. Anna could not think, could not catch her breath. She couldn't even comprehend his words beyond the low tremble of sound that vibrated between his chest and her belly. But that was all to the good, she realized.

He shifted between her thighs, gliding his hot organ upward and across her sex in a way that made her squirm. Then she felt his hand against her thigh. Had it been there all the time? She didn't know. She didn't care. The truth was undeniable now. She wanted this. She wanted
him.

He lifted slightly off her and she gasped at the sudden caress of cool air. But then his hand replaced his groin as his fingers pushed upward to touch her intimately. She felt her buttocks clench in withdrawal, but then her back arched, pushing herself more fully against him. Sensation shot through her spine all the way up through her brain.

It was fire, it was lightning, it was everything she wanted and more.

In the gloom, she saw him smile. "Excellent," he murmured.

She lifted her head to look him in the eyes. She took a deep breath, realizing in that instant that she wanted him as fiercely as she had once craved opium. She wanted him to touch her, to open her, to overwhelm her. She wanted everything he could give her and more, over and over and over until she dropped exhausted into sleep.

She lifted her chin in challenge. "You will have to work hard, Zhi-Gang Tau. I will not scream easily."

"Yes," he said, his expression smug. "You will."

April 19, 1882

To the Mother Superior of the Shanghai Mission on behalf of the Kent family, England

~

Dear Mother Francis:

It is with some consternation that I received your letter. It is my sad duty to tell you that Mr. and Mrs. Kent will not help in the matter of
Anna Thompson. In truth, if it were not for another soul of my parish, I would not even know that the Kents had a daughter. They steadfastly refuse to speak of the child who ran away so precipitously. When I put your letter
into their hands, it was immediately returned to me. They said, "We have no daughter or granddaughter in China."

Though I have tried often to change their minds, their hearts remain closed. Please understand that they were very hurt by their daughter's defection. Though all are precious in God's sight, the Kents have ample grandchildren who visit them often. I fear they will never pay for their missing granddaughter's voyage home. In short,
Anna has no family here.

In sad regret,

Father Stanton

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

from "Kubla Khan: or A Vision in a Dream.
A Fragment"

Chapter 10

Anna closed her eyes and gave herself up to the experience. She didn't want to think at all, so she sought that half-floating, half-mystical feeling of an opium dream. Let him do as he will, she thought. I know nothing. I feel nothing. I am nothing.

She couldn't find it. Without the smoke, she could not float. Without the floating sensation, she could not blunt the other things—the touch of his hands on her thighs as he slowly spread her open, the heat of his breath as it branded the skin just below his hands, or the caress of cool air across her most intimate place.