Tempted Tigress (6 page)

While she was occupied by her own thoughts, the mandarin began to lean forward. His eyes fired with a dark light and he gripped his small table with a fierceness that made his knuckles white. "Do you think the
Christians"
—the word came out as a sneer—"are the only ones who understand damnation? Do you not think the Chinese believe in judgment after death? How arrogant you are, even in chains! I despise your vanity!"

She drew back, her eyebrows rising even as her soul remained quiet. The spark of interest flared hotter as she mulled over his reaction. She had touched on something in him, something painful. Something primal.

Without conscious thought, she found herself on her feet despite the rope around her ankles. She stood before him as straight as possible, one shoulder braced against the wall, and said nothing. She faced him as she would face a firing squad. And in that moment, she made a decision.

She wanted to live. Against all odds, despite the darkness that already tainted her soul, she wanted to live. And to that end, she would do anything—anything at all—to attain that final freedom away from China. Lying, cheating, thieving—these were the smallest prices she would pay. After all, she had already done these things. But now, with conscious thought, she decided any of the cardinal sins were available to her hand. She would kill, she would whore, she would do whatever it took to escape this accursed country. And when she at last boarded the boat away from China, she would begin a new life of atonement. At that point she would beg forgiveness for her sins. She might even become a nun. But first she had to get to that boat. She had to find a way around this man and out of China.

It was a hard decision to make, perhaps the hardest of her life, to know that no depravity was beyond her so long as it furthered her goal. Yet it was made in an instant. And once made, the chains of morality slipped from her soul. A giddy weightlessness filled her heart—black though it was—and she began to smile.

The Enforcer's anger cooled. Only a few moments in his presence, and she saw that he was a man of mercurial moods. His anger was fierce, but it quickly faded. He frowned at her, obviously startled by her smile. And so she deepened it, made her stance less confrontational, more mysterious. More womanly? Was he a man to be tempted by a woman's appearance?

He sneered and turned his face away.

Not sex then. What else could she sell? The answer was obvious. The weight of the opium beneath her skirt was a constant drag upon her thoughts and energies. She knew the Enforcer wouldn't take it. As far as she could tell, he was incorruptible. But his servants? The sailors and his soldiers? Maybe they could be bribed. She would have to be careful. If any knew what she carried, they could simply take it and leave her with nothing. If the Enforcer found it, she would likely die before she could draw her next breath.

No, she would have to barter something else now, reserving the opium for later. But what? She tilted her head in thought, her words light and conversational when she spoke.

"You have kept me alive for a purpose. What is it that you want?"

The mandarin shrugged. "Entertainment? To relieve the tedium of a long trip."

As if on cue, the boat crew began a low chant. They had been calling to one another in their own boatman's cant for some time. But now the chanting began. The junk was moving, and Anna's smile became genuine. The boat moved smoothly, didn't jerk roughly, every inch dragged from a hundred coolies pulling against the flow of the water. That meant they were traveling south; nearer and nearer to Shanghai and the boat that would take her away.

"Arabian Nights, then," she said. "I accept."

He clearly did not understand the reference. She explained.

"There is a book. It tells the story of a woman trapped by a wealthy man. She is tasked with entertaining him every night. If her stories bored him, she would be killed in the morning."

"How long does she live?"

"A thousand nights—until she is set free," she lied.

"After telling stories?"

She nodded.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "I will not be amused by stories."

She had not expected he would, but it was a place to begin. "Are you so sure?" she challenged.

His smile was slow in coming, but it spread evenly and thoroughly across his face. "I am very sure. But you are welcome to try."

"Then you must leave now and allow me to bathe. Send fresh clothing and a trunk for my effects."

He arched a brow. "Why would I do that?"

"Because an entertainer must have her props. I must be allowed to present my tales in the most pleasing manner possible, and use what meager things I have in secret." She swallowed, knowing she had to force this issue. "My trunk of clothing must be inviolate. How else could I surprise you?"

He stared at her, his eyes like dark ink pools: completely black, completely indecipherable. She waited in silence, forcing herself to remain still.

"Very well," he said, his tone laced with... disappointment? "It will be done." He pushed up from his chair. "And I will tell Jing-Li to sharpen my knives for your execution."

September 18, 1876

Dear Mr. Thompson,

Nine months have passed since your sweet wife Cassie breathed her last. During that time, I have cared for Anna as if she were my
own
.
She has eaten at our table, slept in the same bed with my Beth, and even attended Sunday
services with us.

But my Sam is not a wealthy man and we have another child on the way. Without word or money from you, we cannot keep her any longer.

Were she a different child—a calmer child—perhaps we could reconsider. My boys adore her, you know, but she frightens Beth with her loud voice and her boyish ways. You perhaps have not noticed since you are at sea so much and home so rarely, but your Anna has a temper. Angry at times, sulky the next. We never know what moves her from smiles to fury, all in an instant.

Therefore, I have left her with Mother Francis at the Benedictine mission. I have told her all that I relay to you. Perhaps after a spell with the nuns, the wildness will be ironed out of her. Then perhaps, with appropriate compensation, of course, I could bring her back to my home. As it is, she simply eats too much.

Mother Francis
was most understanding.

In Christ's love,

Mrs. Susan Miller

The use of opium is not a curse but a comfort and benefit to the hard-working Chinese.

—1858
press release from the British firm of Jardine, Matheson & Co., China's biggest opium importer

Chapter 3

Zhi-Gang allowed the white woman the illusion of privacy. He called for a bath and even had Jing-Li empty out a small trunk for her. But he was no fool; he knew she was a drug-runner posing as a missionary. He had seen enough of them—killed enough of them—to recognize the look. And yet there was something truly uncommon about this woman. Something that drew him even as it enraged him.

He gave her false security so that she could hide her opium or her money. Or perhaps it was something worse. It didn't matter. Jing-Li would discover it, and in truth, Zhi-Gang was loath to learn of it. He wanted his mysterious white woman to be something special, someone to justify his fascination, even though he knew she was nothing more than a despicable drug-runner who deserved an ugly, brutal death. He knew, and yet he did not kill her. He hated her, and yet he respected her privacy and allowed her a place to store her secrets.

He was an inconstant man plagued by irrational fits and moods, and he hated himself for it. That too was nothing new. So he chose to sit quietly beneath the second sail. The breeze was strongest there, and the beat of the drum for the coolie trackers not so overwhelming. Best of all, he could read if he chose. That was the one activity where he did not long for his glasses, and so he doubly cherished those moments of serenity.

By now, all the boatmen knew he wore glasses and no longer warded themselves from evil whenever they saw. But Jing-Li worried—with good reason—at the appearance of anything western. Now was a dangerous time to be seen as someone who sympathized with—or used anything created by—the ghost barbarians.

Zhi-Gang smiled. If Jing-Li feared a display of western glasses, how did he feel about a white concubine? It had been Jing-Li's idea, of course, but only to keep the murder out of the public eye. He would not have imagined that Zhi-Gang might keep the woman alive. He'd probably be terrified enough to kill the woman himself, no matter what his orders were.

Zhi-Gang abruptly straightened from his seat against the mast, his unfocused gaze searching through the increasingly vague shapes at the back end of the boat. He saw nothing useful, and he heard... nothing unusual. No female screams or curses. But no slosh of water, either.

He was on his feet, moving quickly through the coils of bamboo rope littered about. He walked by touch and memory, having spent long hours learning the pathways along the deck. By the time he made it to the rear, his entire spirit felt like a disordered brush.

"Jing-Li!" he bellowed, heedless of how such an unseemly display would reflect upon his dignity. "Jing-Li!"