White Tigress (7 page)

She hadn't expected him to consider her request. But nothing in China went as she expected. She was stunned when he at last nodded.

"When this is done, I will consider releasing you."

She stared, hating the hope that sparked within her. It had already been extinguished so many times. "You will release me?"

"If you give me what I want."

Her blood chilled, but she forced herself to ask the obvious question. "Wh-what do you want?"

"Yin." And when she did not understand, he tried to explain. "Your water. Your womanly water to balance out my yang. My fire."

She swallowed, terribly afraid of what he meant. "My tears? You wish my tears?"

"I need a great deal more than that." Then he glanced out the window. "And it is time we began. Arrange yourself on the bed. Seated. Facing me."

She knew better than to refuse, but she moved as slowly as possible, terrible images forming in her mind. Did he mean to stab her? To bleed her as a means of getting her water? "If you hurt me, I could bleed. And if I bleed, I will die and you will get no water."

He started, his body jerking slightly as he settled on the bed. "I have no intention of bleeding you!" He sounded insulted. "I am an honorable man."

"Who keeps a female slave!"

He blinked, obviously not understanding. "Yes?"

And at that moment, she saw the truth in his eyes. "This is commonplace, isn't it? Many men keep women here." Her voice was a mere whisper, but he understood anyway.

"Of course. Such is the way with men and women."

She stiffened. "Such is not the way with men and women in England!"

"Then you should have stayed in England."

And right there was the crux of her problem. She had left England, left the safety and security of her home to come to China, a land where one woman was not more than a ninth the value of a single lame boy. And now...

She had no more thoughts as a hand reached out to untie her robe.

She scrambled backward, instinct taking control. From the doorway, Fu De sighed in frustration, and she saw fury build within the dragon. His face hardened, and the embroidered eye of his robe seemed to narrow in hatred.

"Return to your position," he said—not in a bellow, but a low hiss of controlled rage.

She swallowed, but could not otherwise make herself move.

"I have told you that my patience is at an end. If you will not present yourself for training, then Fu De shall make arrangements immediately for your return to the Garden of Perfumed Flowers."

The whorehouse. The terrible place where...

No, she resolved. No, she would not go back there. So she would have to do as she was ordered.

She moved slowly, but as she did, her thoughts kept returning to one question. How was this any better than that? How was the dragon any easier a taskmaster? After all, perhaps there she would have better opportunity to escape.

But in her heart, she knew that was not true. At least here she wasn't shackled or drugged. And yet that did not make obeying the monster's commands any easier. Nor any less humiliating.

Still, she knew she had pushed her luck too far. She returned to her place, kneeling in front of the dragon on the bed. And when he reached for the tie of her robe, she merely closed her eyes and tried not to breathe. Or sob. Or even to remain conscious.

He loosened the tie and pushed the robe off her shoulders. The silk slipped free to pool around her hips, covering everything from her waist down but leaving her entire upper body exposed.

Unbidden, tears began to flow from beneath her closed eyelids. Then she felt his hand, a brief touch on her left shoulder, and she flinched.

She could get through this, she repeated silently to herself. No matter what happened, she could survive. Eventually, she would find Maxwell again and everything would be all right. She would become his wife, they would have happy children, and everything would be all right. It would be all right.

Finally, she heard the monster sigh. It was such a strange, unexpected sound, that she opened her eyes in confusion, having to blink several times to clear her vision.

He was looking at her, his Chinese face unreadable, but his sagging shoulders told her that he was disappointed. He even pulled her robe back around her, his movements reluctant and heavy.

Anger flashed within her. Well, what did he expect? That she would rush gleefully into ravishment? She reached up, gripping the fabric closed between her breasts.

"What is your name?" he asked, his voice abrupt but not hard with fury.

"I-I beg your pardon?" she stammered.

"Your name," he snapped. "What is your name?"

"L-Lydia." She swallowed back some of her misery to speak clearly. "My name is Lydia Smith."

"I am Ru Shan. In your language it means 'Like a Mountain,' in that I am steady and constant." He sighed. "Or I would be if all my elements were in balance."

She hesitated a moment, scrambling to fit the pieces together. It took a while, but eventually she thought she understood.

"That's why you need me. My water. You think that I will... will quiet your fire." This, at least, was a concept she recognized. She had heard other people—one of her uncles most especially—who became downright surly if he did not have relations with his mistress on a regular basis. Clearly, he was like her uncle, needing relations on a regular basis. "No matter what the country, men are still men," she intoned bitterly.

He nodded. "Yes, I suppose that is so, but I believe you will find a significant difference with me."

She did not respond, though she suspected her opinion was clear upon her face.

"You do not believe me," he said gently. "Fortunately, my nature does not require your approval. What I require is your yin. Your water."

She shook her head, frustration making her surly. "I don't know what that means."

"It means that I require your feminine fluids. But not your virginity."

She blinked, sure she could not have heard him correctly. "You do not intend to ravish me?"

He shuddered—he actually shuddered—at the thought. "I am working to become an Immortal. Ravishment, as you put it, would require a release of my yang power—my manly fluids and energy—into you. That would decrease my ability to attain Immortality."

She frowned, trying to understand. "But you need my female energy, my—"

"Yin."

"My yin to..."

"To mix with my yang energy and create the power that will take me to the Immortal Realm."

"You'll die?" she gasped.

She thought perhaps his expression lightened at her dramatic statement, but his tone remained level. "No. I will become an Immortal. Any man or woman can visit Heaven, but only if they have sufficient spirit to take them there."

"Spirit? You mean a mixture of your yang and my yin."

He nodded. "Yes."

"But that is..." She stopped herself short of saying ridiculous. She knew better than to insult any person's beliefs, no matter how preposterous they sounded. "It sounds impossible," she finally finished.

"Perhaps it is for one such as you."

She grimaced. "You mean a woman?"

He shook his head. "Many believe the women have an easier time, since their fluids stay within their bodies."

Then he looked sadly down at her. "It is impossible for ghost people."

She frowned. "Because I am English?"

"The ghost people do not have enough substance to attain immortality," he explained.

She stiffened, absurdly insulted. "But you seem to think my yin essence substantial enough for you."

He nodded. "In my particular case, you have exactly what I require. Or so I hope."

She opened her mouth to ask another question, but he stopped her with a single upraised hand.

"Enough questions," he said firmly. "I promise you that I have no interest in your virginity. I also promise that if you provide me with what I require, then I will release you to your Maxwell."

"My... I..." She swallowed, sure she could not have understood correctly. "You will return me to Maxwell? Still a virgin?" she pressed.

He nodded, one firm slash of his chin. "Yes. But first you must ready yourself to give of your yin." He straightened. "It will not hurt, especially as you have an overabundance. Now present yourself," he ordered. "I have already lost much time on you. I will not tolerate more delays."

She nodded, absurdly pleased with the bargain. After imagining every possible future for herself, this seemed ridiculously benign. "Do you want me to cry?"

"Do not draw away." And then, once again, he opened her robe, pushing it off her shoulders so it pooled about her hips.

She tried not to flinch. Indeed, now that she understood she was not about to be raped, she felt the burn of embarrassment more than fear. But then he pressed the four fingertips of each of his hands on her collarbone in the center of her chest.

She stiffened. She could not help herself.

He frowned. "How can you let your yin flow freely when your body is tight, your breath caught in your chest?"

She had not even realized she was holding her breath, yet even knowing that, she could not release it. She could only remain as she was, kneeling before him, her eyes pulled wide as she stared into his dark eyes.

"I am going to move my hands now. Slowly. Breathe out with my movement."

She couldn't even nod. But then he began to stroke his fingertips down on the hard bone between her breasts, and almost by magic her breath slid from her body.

"Good."

His hands continued, flowing underneath each breast, circling back around to the starting point.

"That is one circle," he said softly. "We will do seven times seven circles, and then seven times seven again in the other direction."

"But why?" The question was out before she could stop it, but he nodded as if pleased.

"We must purify your yin before it can be of any use." He began another circle, and she found herself breathing with his movements despite her curiosity. "This motion pushes the waste from your body and encourages new yin liquids to form. Do you feel a change in your body?"

She did, but she was too mortified to say so. Indeed, she had been doing everything in her power not to think of his hands as they circled her breasts, of the slightly rough texture of his fingers as they stroked her, of the warmth she felt seeping into her body from his hands. And most of all of the tingling he produced inside her. A tingling and a fullness.

"Tell me what you feel!" he ordered, his voice sharp. But his hands continued to move despite his tone. "I cannot tell if the exercises are working otherwise."

She swallowed, unnerved to have to say these things out loud. Certainly not in front of a stranger.

"Li-dee!" he snapped, mispronouncing her name.

"I...," she stammered. "I... no one has ever touched me here before."

"Speak with the downstroke," he ordered, though his voice had gentled.

She nodded, adjusting her thoughts to his rhythms. "I do not think this is proper," she said. And then she closed her eyes in horror. Of all the ridiculous things to say! Of course this wasn't proper. None of this was proper. But what she meant was that these feelings he engendered, this tingling awareness, that was not proper.

"Why?" he pressed, as if he could guess her thoughts. "Your breasts are part of your body. Why is it not proper to make them young and healthy?"

She bit her lip. She had no answer.

"Perhaps you believe what you are feeling is wrong? Perhaps you enjoy this feeling and so you feel shame?"

She turned her head away. She knew better than to try and shrink from his touch. Besides, for some reason, she did not want to move away. She found his strokes... soothing somehow. And all the more unsettling because of it.

"Look at me!" he ordered, and she had no choice but to obey. "This is a restful stroke. One designed to bring peace to the woman. Is that how you feel?"

She nodded, though not with certainty.

"You feel more than peace?"

She wet her lips. She could tell by the intensity in his expression, by the focused stare of his dark eyes that she would have to answer. And so she tried to explain. "I feel uncertain," she said. And then her eyes dropped in shame. "And it feels... nice."

He smiled. It was a small movement, but one that softened every feature in his Chinese face. As if he removed a tiny bit of his mask to reveal a gentleness she had not expected. "Honesty is good. Honesty with me is excellent. Honesty with oneself is absolutely necessary." Then he leaned forward, his voice dropping lower as his breath skated across her cheek. "I am going to reverse the stroke now. Look into my eyes and tell me exactly how it feels. What you feel. Do not think of me or of anything but my hands on your breasts."

She flinched slightly at his bald word, but then chided herself for such stupidity. He had been touching her for a good twenty minutes or more; why would he draw back from simple words? He was touching her breasts, she told herself firmly. And it felt...