Tempted Tigress (5 page)

The only whites allowed in the interior of China were missionaries. And yes, she had preached the Gospel, yes, she had daily labored in the hospital bringing relief to the sick and dying. She had even considered going through the motions of marrying Christ Jesus. But the truth was that she carried opium under the guise of being a missionary. Jesus had done nothing for her, and why should He? She was a liar and a fraud. She was an opium smuggler, a runner who carried the drug into China under the lie of religion. The punishment for such a crime was death. Quick or slow, brutal or not, her death was a just and lawful punishment. At this moment, she wished for only one thing: to smoke that which she carried.

She licked her dry lips, imagining the hot caress of opium across her tongue. It would fill her mouth and lighten her mood. Her body would relax and float away into the beautiful blue sky. She wouldn't notice... so many things. And in this way, she could die—if not in peace, at least in ignorance.

Time passed without conscious reckoning. Pretend bliss wasn't nearly complete, but it let her mind drift to where it always went: the dark eyes of the Enforcer and his bloody knives. He was relentless in his pursuit of her. And she... she wasn't running this time. She stopped and turned to him. She slowly, erotically, undressed before him. Then they were kissing, touching, joining in the most basic of ways. Her body began to soar, her skin tingled with his caress, and then all ended as a sound woke her from her doze. A man entered the little cavelike chamber, lifting the silk tapestry from the opening such that a fresh breeze stroked the top of her head. It was gone before she could raise her face to it, but the memory lingered, as did the dream.

She opened her eyes without planning to, blinking to bring the dark figure into focus. It was the mandarin, looking as austere as before. He wore dark clothing, loose pants, and an embroidered jacket that sagged open across another richly decorated tunic. She knew who he was, recognized him from her memory fragments and nightmares. It was rather disconcerting to know that her opium dreams had become truth. The Emperor's Enforcer was indeed going to be the one who executed her. She knew his piercing black eyes and his long elegant fingers, for they had haunted her dreams since the night three months ago when she watched him kill Governor Wan.

What she didn't see was his weapon of choice: two deer-horn knives that he usually carried strapped to his hips. That meant he probably wouldn't kill her right away.

Relief slipped into her body, releasing some of the tightness in her chest. Surprise came second as she realized she cared. She was actually thankful that she wasn't going to die right then. And as her fear lessened, passion returned. It made no sense to lust after the man who would kill you, and yet she could not shake her dream of sweet caresses and slow lovemaking.

The Enforcer said nothing as he stood before her. His feet were spread wide on the deck, and his hands rested firmly on his hips as he glared at her. With a curse of disgust, he reached under a fold in his shirt. She tensed in reaction, knowing many men who kept pistols hidden there. But before she could do more than gasp, he drew out a thin wooden case. Not bamboo, but smooth polished mahogany. With a snort that sounded almost like defiance, the Enforcer flicked open the case and drew out a pair of gold wire glasses. He set them carefully on his nose, adjusting the ear hooks with practiced ease, then carefully tucked the case back into his breast pocket.

Only then did he peer at her, clearly frowning. "You stink," he snapped in English.

"You're cruel," she replied, before she thought better of it.

He reared back as if struck. "Prisoners are to stay silent," he roared in Chinese. Then he clapped his hands twice.

On cue, the silk tapestry doorway pulled open and servants poured in. One carried a chair, another a small table. Yet more brought in a rolled scroll and a scholar's desk set. All was arranged with speed before the servants bowed to the ground and backed out of the chamber. Only one servant remained: the tall one with the familiar manner. The one who had stopped his master from killing her by the canal.

That servant rolled open the scroll and waited patiently while his master wrote a series of characters with clean, deft movements. Anna found herself mesmerized by the sight. This man was the Enforcer, the Emperor's killer, and yet his hands were elegant, his fingers long and precise. She knew without looking that his calligraphy would be a work of art. This was no brute of a killer. This man was a poet who killed, and the dichotomy fascinated her. How nice that her executioner would look beautiful as he killed her. He did not glance up when he asked—in English—for her name.

She didn't answer. She was dead anyway. She would take what little joy was left to her in annoying this arrogant mandarin.

He looked up, the long strokes of his eyebrows drawn together in disapproval. "Name!" he snapped.

She lifted her chin and did not answer. Before she completed the motion, the servant crossed the room and brutally backhanded her. "You will answer!" he boomed in Chinese.

"He said prisoners do not speak!" she cried, furious to realize that her eyes watered from pain and humiliation.

"You are not a prisoner," the Enforcer responded evenly.

She blinked, completely thrown. "I'm—"

"Name!" bellowed the servant.

"Sister Marie," she answered in truth. Except, of course, it wasn't the full truth. Marie was her religious name, and the one she had been given the day she began swabbing the floors of the Shanghai mission when she was eight.

"Missionary?" the servant demanded. She blinked, thrown by his demand when all of her attention centered on the Enforcer. It was almost as if the servant wasn't even in the room. Except that, when she didn't answer his question, the man began to dig at the blouse covering her chest. She tried to shove him away—finally forcing her gaze from the mandarin—but she had no leverage, especially as he backhanded her again. The blow pounded through her skull and her head snapped backwards to crack against a bamboo slat. Her breath felt choked off at the source but she could still smell the ginger that clung to his thick, clumsy fingers as he pulled open her collar.

He hooked a finger beneath the coarse twine about her neck and lifted out her large wooden cross. The heavy wood scraped roughly against the inside of her breast as he dragged it out, and tears stung her eyes from pain. The twine cut harshly into the back of her neck as he hauled the cross forward, tilting the polished wood to his master. "Missionary," he repeated with a sneer. Then, with a snap of his wrist, he jerked it off her head.

She swallowed and let her gaze slip back to the mandarin. Internally, her soul quieted despite the servant's abuse. It felt right that the cross be removed: She shouldn't die with a lie around her neck. Meanwhile, the Enforcer dismissed everything with a flick of a single tapered finger.

"Surname?" he inquired in English.

Anna shook her head, her lips firmly compressed. But then the servant raised his arm to strike and she shouted at him, "It's just Sister Marie! I don't have a surname!" she lied. "I'm an orphan!"

The servant's arm remained poised to strike, but no blow fell. Instead, he glanced at his master, who stared at her with quiet eyes and a blank expression. In the end he grunted, then calmly dipped his brush in the ink. "Marie Smith," he spoke aloud, stroking characters on the paper.

She frowned, startled that he knew enough about the English to guess at common surnames. It had been remarkable to hear him speak in barely accented English, but that was not too uncommon among the Chinese elite. That he would assign her the name Smith was... interesting.

"Why aren't I a prisoner?" she asked. Then she frowned and rephrased in Chinese. "People who are not prisoners should not be shackled." Then she held out her arms as if expecting the chains to be removed.

The Enforcer didn't respond; he simply finished what he was writing and carefully rinsed and stowed his brush. That strange fascination with his movements overtook Anna again. She barely even noticed when the servant left her side to stand silently by his master. With great ceremony, he opened a distinctly Chinese box and pulled out a long ivory chop. The mandarin lifted the identifying seal, then carefully pressed the square stone into the red paste used as ink. With equal pomp, he set the chop on the scroll.

It was tantamount to signing an official document, and Anna could not help craning her neck to see what was written. She couldn't see much, and worse, her command of written Chinese was sketchy at best. She saw long lines of Chinese characters, and—shocking—two words in beautiful English letters: Marie Smith.

She gasped. "You can write English?"

Servant and master exchanged an alarmed glance. Then the servant abruptly rolled up the scroll and tucked it into a bamboo case. He did not even look at her as he turned to back out of the little hut. He did, however, pause just before the threshold to whisper urgently to his master.

"Kill her soon," he said. Then he backed out.

A shiver of terror slid down Anna's spine, but she ignored it. She had been in fear for her life for so long that she easily hid it with bravado. She straightened her spine and extended her hands. "I am not a prisoner," she pressed. "Release my chains."

The Enforcer made no move toward her. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and inspected her in a long, leisurely fashion, a grim smile on his face. "You are not a prisoner," he said coldly. "You are my concubine. By both our laws, I can legally do much worse than shackle you."

He spoke in Chinese, so it took some moments for his meaning to sink in. When it did, her body stiffened in horror. "Married?" she gasped. "We aren't married!"

"Of course we are. Have I not just made it so?" He gestured negligently at his desk before him.

"That scroll?" she whispered. "That was our wedding?"

He nodded.

"But the priest? The vows? The... the..." She clamped her mouth shut. She was being ridiculous. The Chinese were heathens. Women were bartered and sold with complete impunity. First wife or concubine made no difference. It was merely a matter of timing since all were bought or disposed like old clothes. A wealthy Chinaman could record on a scroll their false wedding and then with complete legality kill his new woman. And no doubt he thought the entire procedure completely civilized.

"You can't marry a white. Your Chinese friends will be appalled. You will be thrown out of court. You..." She was babbling, scrambling for anything that might end this farce. But he simply shrugged.

"White women are sometimes gifted to us. Prostitutes, usually, but beautiful like you. They all die in the end without any man—Chinese or English—making a complaint."

She stared at him, knowing what he said was true. "I am no whore," she murmured.

"Of course not," he returned, his tone bland. "You are my concubine."

"Until you kill me."

He smiled, the expression bizarrely friendly. "Exactly."

She had no idea what to make of this man. Was he the terrifying Emperor's Enforcer or a madman? Or both? She had no idea, so she focused on what she could control. She held out her bound wrists.

"Your new wife shouldn't be in shackles," she said. "It isn't fitting for your station." She was being stupid. She had no hope of escape. Trapped on a boat with servants and soldiers loitering on every spare inch of the deck, she couldn't run with or without chains. And yet some tiny spark within her refused to die. She had better odds without her chains, therefore she would try to get them removed however she could.

"It isn't fitting that she stink either," he drawled.

"Then allow me to bathe."

He didn't respond, just continued to stare at her. It wasn't an intense gaze, more of an abstract look in her direction while he thought of other things, and yet she felt the weight of it as a physical pressure. And worse, because of that dream, her body tightened in passionate hunger. She twisted awkwardly against the wall, wishing for a more comfortable—more dignified—position. She wished for something to do with her hands or perhaps... yes: a hot bath. Anything to take her mind off—

"Do you not know how to sit quietly?"

She abruptly stilled, her thoughts awhirl. She stared at the Enforcer and felt her interest sharpen. After a decade of living in this country, she thought she understood the Chinese better than anyone. But this man seemed different. Murderous one moment, then calm and deliberate the next. In a country where serenity was prized, he had allowed his fury to flow, and yet... She narrowed her eyes. His quiet now told her his earlier display might have been just that: a display. But why?

And more important, why did she care? What did it matter if he had an agenda? In her experience, high-ranking Chinese were always plotting something. What would it gain her to figure out his motives, to match wits with a man raised on stratagems?

She jingled her chains. "Why should a doomed concubine sit still?" she challenged.

"To prepare for death?"

Her life, then. The prize was her life.

"And if I am already prepared for death?" she asked, secretly fearing she was not nearly prepared.

"Then you should be at peace, your body and your mind quiet in acceptance of final judgment."

"How very Christian of you," she drawled. It was not the statement a missionary would make, and yet she found herself unable to stay silent. A spark had kindled inside her, an interest that she had not felt in a long time.