Seger, Maura (8 page)

"Of course I do. I would hardly be trying to buy goods without it."

"You show me."

That was going too far. Did he truly believe she had wandered into the store simply to waste his time? "I will do no such thing, at least until I am certain you have something I wish to buy."

To her astonishment, the man shook his head. "Not good enough. If you wish to see my silks, you must show me money first. Then I will consider doing business with you. But," he cautioned sternly, "I will not bargain with a woman. I will say price, you say yes or no. Nothing else."

"But that's absurd! You can't expect me to take the first price you offer, when everyone bargains."

"Not with a woman. I would lose face."

"Face? What is that?"

The man sighed exaggeratedly, coming as close to outright rudeness as anyone Erin had yet encountered in a land which seemed devoted to rigorous courtesy. "Pride," he explained grudgingly. "Honor. Women do not know of such things, but they are all- " important to men. I will not lose face just to do business with you."

"I see ..." Erin said slowly, although she most certainly did not. "Perhaps it would be better if I took my business elsewhere." To add emphasis to her words, she turned in the direction of the door.

She had thought the merchant would relent when he realized she intended to leave, but instead he merely shrugged. "Go, then, but do not expect to find any difference elsewhere. Face the same for every man."

Surely he wasn't right, Erin thought after she had stifled the angry retort that sprang to her lips and let herself out of the shop. Just because one silk dealer was doing so well that he could turn away business did not mean that others were equally arrogant.

Or did it? At the next shop, no request was made to see her money. She was merely told in no uncertain terms that the owner would not do business with women and was ushered out. Her next stop was equally unrewarding. There she was simply ignored until she finally gave up and left.

Back outside on the narrow wood-plank walkway, Erin struggled to keep her temper in check. Getting angry would serve no purpose. She needed all her wits to confront this unexpected problem. How could she hope to secure cargoes for the
Nantucket Moon
and the
Emerald Isle
if no one would sell her goods? It didn't seem to matter that she had the money to pay for them. The Japanese she had spoken with so far that morning were adamant in their refusal to deal with a woman on anything approaching equitable terms. And her pride—not to mention her pocketbook—made it impossible for her to accept anything less.

Aware that she was becoming the subject of unwanted attention by standing alone outside the row of stores, Erin looked around for some place where she might sit down for a few minutes to think over her predicament. A small, not particularly clean tearoom across the street seemed her only alternative. Lifting her skirt clear of the mud, she crossed the road in between heavily loaded wagons, speedy carriages and riders on horseback who seemed disinclined to give way to anyone.

A soft groan of disappointment escaped her when she realized upon closer inspection that it would not be wise for her to enter the tearoom after all. It was jammed with large, boisterous men who clearly preferred the fast-flowing whiskey to any milder beverage. Several turned as she peered in the door. Their reception left no doubt that were she so foolish as to venture inside, she would be caught in a situation from which there might well be no escape.

Backing out hastily, Erin continued to make her way along the street. Her feet were beginning to hurt and she could no longer deny that she was feeling decidedly discouraged. But determination stiffened her spine. She would hardly be worthy of her seafaring forebears if she let just a few disappointments throw her off course.

Perhaps the silk merchants would not do business with her, perhaps she would have to spend some of her small cache of funds to hire an intermediary to deal with them. But there were other shops along the street selling other types of goods. Perhaps she would have better luck in some of them.

It did not turn out that way. By afternoon, Erin was forced to admit that no Japanese merchant she could find was willing to negotiate with a woman. In store after store, the response was the same. Either they would not talk with her at all or they would simply quote an outrageous price for their goods and leave it to her to decline.

Frustration gave way to anger and finally to deadening weariness. But she could not afford to relax. Like the men in the tearoom, too many of those she passed on the narrow walkways made it clear they would like to know her better. Though she prided herself on being neither fainthearted nor prissy, some of the suggestions they made caused her face to flame. Despite her fatigue, she walked faster while debating whether or not she should give up for the day and return to the Carmodys'.

The decision was not yet made when a disturbance up ahead brought her to a sudden stop. At first, she had difficulty determining what she was seeing. In the midst of the genial chaos that was a normal feature of the bustling market, the sight of men arguing did not immediately spell danger.

Only when she realized that their fierce demeanor, bulky armor of interwoven leather and steel strips, horned helmets, and the double swords they wore buckled around their waists marked them as samurai did she feel the first stirrings of concern. In the back of her mind, she remembered hearing that such men followed a rigorous code of honor and discipline. They rarely gave the slightest evidence of their feelings, but when they did, the repercussions were likely to be severe.

Certainly the other people in the market- place thought so. In the space of seconds, the packed street emptied. Shop owners rushed to yank merchandise from the outside display tables and slam down heavy shutters over doors and windows. Wagons and buggies vanished around corners at top speed, their drivers heedless of the bundles that went flying off them. Top-hatted shipowners, kimono-clad merchants, bewhiskered sailors, all fled. Only the samurai remained, now clearly divided into two sides, with each hurling taunts at the other.

Erin instinctively pressed back against the nearest wall. She had no idea what was happening or how grave the danger might truly be. But she could not ignore the all-pervasive sense of fear that swept the street from one end to the other.

Frozen by mingled terror and bewilderment, she stood without moving until the sudden clang of steel and the shouts of men intent on battle woke her to the full extent of her peril. By then it was too late. All the shop doors were securely bolted, the windows barred. There was no place to hide, nowhere to run. She could do nothing but shrink farther back against the wall, praying she would not be seen.

At first, it seemed that her prayer would be answered. The warriors were too intent on each other to notice her. Hideous shouts reverberated off the walls of the surrounding buildings as razor-sharp weapons slashed through the air. The men moved in what almost appeared to be a choreographed dance of death. The steps were slower and more formalized than the way she imagined Westerners might fight, but the results were the same.

If the wounded hoped for any mercy, they did not show it. A scream caught in Erin's throat as she saw a young samurai, bleeding heavily from the chest, laugh disdainfully at his opponent before hurling himself directly onto his blade. That the man appeared to die instantly was slight consolation. Her stomach whirled sickly as she turned away, pressing her face into the rough wooden wall.

Even that small motion was a mistake. While she stood perfectly still, her brown linen skirt and jacket blended into her surroundings just enough to make her unnoticeable to the struggling warriors. But when she moved, sunlight caught the pearly opalescence of her skin and the rich ebony sheen of her hair.

Without taking his attention from the man he was about to kill, a blood-spattered samurai noted the presence of one of the hated foreigners who had come to defile his nation. The fact that she was a woman daring to be in the streets alone only increased his rage. A savage smile twisted his lean mouth between the draped ends of his narrow mustache. Abruptly dispatching his opponent, he moved toward her.

Erin saw him coming. She recognized the implacable intent stamped on his lean features. His dark, seething eyes held not even the faintest suggestion of humanity or compassion. Whatever tenderness he might be capable of in different circumstances was burned out of him by sheer blood lust. Not for an instant did she harbor the hope that he would spare her.

Throughout the long, bitter years of the Civil War, she had faced death many times, but never directly. Always before, she had fought to keep others alive. Now, abruptly confronted by her own mortality, she had no idea of what to do.

Only one thing seemed clear—the desperate need to escape. She turned to run, only to realize at once that there was no place to go. Both ends of the street were blocked off by fighting samurai. Already several shops were on fire, acrid smoke from the blazes spreading like a living stain against the cobalt sky. Bodies of both Japanese and Westerners unlucky enough to be caught by the murdering band littered the muddy road. A few were still moaning, but most did not move at all.

Far off in the distance she could hear the trumpet blast of the British cavalry unit which formed the major part of the Western enclave's defense. But she nurtured no hope that they would reach her in time. Long before they arrived, the samurai's deadly blade would have claimed her life.

But not without a struggle. Perhaps his code of honor called for people to submit to death stoically, but hers did not. She would do everything possible to stay alive, no matter how futile the effort might seem.

Lifting her skirts, she attempted to dart past him, only to have her path effectively blocked by a slight motion of his sword arm. His sardonic laugh and the gleam of white teeth against his sallow skin made it clear what he thought of her efforts. Again the blade hissed through the air, almost but not quite touching her body.

He's playing with me, like a great cat with a helpless mouse. I'm not even human to him.

That knowledge seared away her terror, replacing it with sheer, unmitigated rage. Mindlessly angry at such callous brutality that affronted her most fundamental sense of decency, she lost all thought for her own safety. The rage she had heard soldiers speak of but had never really credited swept over her in full force, enabling her to act with speed and strength far beyond her normal capacities.

Again she tried to dart past the samurai, and this time she almost succeeded. Despite the hampering weight of her clothes and the shaking of her limbs, she might have made it were it not for his superbly conditioned reflexes. As his blade rose once more to stop her, she thought she caught the faintest gleam of admiration in his hooded eyes.

The look was gone the instant it appeared. He muttered something harsh in his own language and took several purposeful steps toward her. Erin needed no translation to understand that he was tired of the game. Other, more worthy foes awaited his attention. He would dispatch her quickly and be done with it.

A sob tore from her throat, a desperate acknowledgment of what she could no longer deny. She stood absolutely still in the bright sunlight, watching the downward slash of the blade, thinking of Storm and all the stupid things that had kept them apart.

What a strange place to die, on a cluttered street ten thousand miles from home, killed by a man whose motivations she would never know. There was so much she regretted, so much she still wanted to do. No time left. No time. . . .

The world narrowed down to a single heartbeat. The rush of blood through her body blocked out all other sounds. The air, sour with the smell of smoke, seemed to have turned into a heavy curtain through which everything moved in excruciatingly slow motion.

Far in the back of her mind, someone screamed. The cry of lament and outrage went on and on, until she thought it must surely split her skull. She felt herself drawing inward, tighter and tighter, into a coiled spring ready to launch itself forth the moment the way was open.

With almost objective calm, she saw the instrument of her death come closer and closer, cleaving the air as easily as it would her body. She could feel the downward rush of wind before it as though the sword itself was breathing. The man who held it faded into insignificance. There was only the burnished metal reflecting the golden sunlight, the last breath filling her lungs, the final gathering in of everything she was and had hoped to be.

Her eyes snapped shut, seeking the darkness in the instant before it became eternal. Frozen in a second torn out of time, she waited . . . waited . . . Someone screamed. Not her. A harsh, guttural sound raw with surprise. The iron stench of blood filled her breath. So much blood.

Her eyelids trembled, opened gingerly, only to close again at once. She swayed weakly, overcome by the sight before her. The samurai was sprawled on the ground, his arms and legs thrown out, his sword still grasped in one hand. Several feet of muddy roadway lay between the bleeding stump of his neck and his head. His helmet was still in place, shielding sightless eyes that stared up at the sky in silent astonishment.

Bile burned the back of her throat. She put a hand to her mouth and bent forward, but not before her horror-dazed mind registered the identity of the man standing before her.

Storm.
And yet not Storm. Stripped of the veneer of civilization she had always sensed was little more than skin deep, he stood there the epitome of male strength and ferocity. A sword much like the dead samurai's own was grasped in his right hand. Another, shorter blade remained strapped around his taut waist.

Soot and blood streaked the rugged features beneath glossy chestnut hair. His eyes glowed like molten silver afire with forces Erin could not begin to imagine. Black trousers clung to long, sinewy legs. A billowing white shirt was open almost to the waist, exposing his massive chest covered by a thick pelt of dark curls glowing with perspiration.