Delectably Undone! (16 page)

Miku glared at Takeshi, his condescending smile of authority again provoking her anger…and suspicion. Something about this samurai’s presence made Miku wonder if perhaps her uncle’s plans to subdue her included more than just the visit of an aged counselor. Yet while she was certainly no match for Takeshi’s brute strength, Miku was still confident that her own wit and cunning would defeat this battle-hardened soldier. And once she had him sufficiently distracted, she would make her escape over the manor wall.

“Perhaps you will join me in a game of shells,” Miku said, intentionally keeping her voice light and pleasant. She lowered herself onto a floor cushion behind the
kicho
and indicated he do the same. “My poetry can wait.”

If this man must oversee her activities for the moment, then it would be on her terms. He might be accustomed to wholly subjugating all who stood against him on the battlefield, but he had never attempted to bind a spirit as free as hers…and it was a battle Miku felt certain he would not win.

Takeshi moved into the parlor and glanced at the young woman’s desk, noting a small scroll embellished with calligraphy. Though he could not decipher the script, the writing revealed an elegant, artful hand. The curving figures flowed down the page in an effortless dance that betrayed her appreciation for freedom and beauty in a way that did not require literacy to understand. This woman was becoming more and more intriguing, Takeshi realized.

“Do not fear being caught playing a woman’s game,” Miku continued coyly. “No soldiers—save you—remain at my uncle’s home tonight.”

The taunting smile in her voice made Takeshi look away from the scroll. She lounged gracefully at his feet, her hip-length hair pooling on the floor. Like the swooping calligraphy, the curving lines of her thinly veiled body made the blood within him surge. But admiring her beauty wasn’t why he had been assigned to guard her, he reminded himself. In fact, the real reason meant her loveliness would soon be unreachable forever—if he decided not to challenge the Master.

Takeshi slowly knelt across from Miku, setting his sharp-edged
katana
flat on his lap. “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he said.

Miku blinked, and a pink flush tinged her ivory face. She pushed back a strand of shiny, lacquer-black hair, confused. She had intended to disorient the samurai with her playful banter, yet somehow he seemed to be the one causing her the greater discomfiture.

“The calligraphy,” he continued. “It’s lovely.”

Her eyes opened wide with delight, her plans to thwart his unwanted oversight temporarily forgotten. “You appreciate poetry?”

“I have been told it is the most sensuous art—that it reveals the poet’s own soul, laying it bare to be tasted and enjoyed by others.”

“Do you write poetry, too?” asked Miku, amazed by how the samurai’s words seemed to echo her own deepest musings about the art form.

Takeshi was surprised by how animated the woman had become. She leaned forward now, her face upturned and her lips parted, waiting for his response.

“I am no poet. I have only heard poetry recited and seen calligraphy at the temples I have visited. I cannot read or write,” he admitted, wondering what it was about Miku’s eager face that made him want to share this secret with her.

Of course, now she would be sure to understand that, like most samurai, he was little more than an armed commoner. While a few soldiers who lived in wealthier urban centers might boast a distinguished pedigree and its accompanying education, he—like most rural samurai—was merely a hired warrior bred for raw strength.

Like the other men in the Master’s private army, most of whom were Takeshi’s childhood friends, he was simply the son of a local farmer. Takeshi had accepted a martial role instead of following in his father’s agrarian footsteps in order to protect his family from marauding bandits who often threatened their fields and homes; his true sense of duty had always been—and remained—to his family and community, not the Master.

But without the approval of the Master, Takeshi would have none of the power and privilege he currently enjoyed. And that approval hinged solely on his ability to swiftly and unquestioningly perform every command the Master gave, regardless of Takeshi’s personal opinions.

It was a reality that made him bristle, and yet he had found a way to rein in his own ambitious spirit and warrior’s pride—thus far, at least. In due time, perhaps quite soon, Takeshi knew he would move to assert the authority he unofficially held over his samurai brothers, most of whom looked to him—even as they had as young playmates—as their true leader.

And yet unlike the Master, his niece seemed to be genuinely interested in what Takeshi had to say. He was surprised by the twinge he felt in knowing that his illiteracy must disappoint her.

Not that Miku’s opinion of him mattered anyway. Not with the plans her uncle had. But not even the cold logic of that truth could douse the growing heat her elegantly curving body and breathlessly parted lips were kindling within him…and the strange desire he had to keep talking with her, to know her better, to learn more about the poetry that moved her so, even though he knew he should be keeping a distance.

“It is of no concern,” said Miku, shrugging as if his confession had neither surprised nor dismayed her after all. “There are no words to read in the shell game—only pictures.”

She reached toward the clamshells, which were arranged facedown to conceal miniature paintings inside each natural dome. The game required players to match a shell to its second half based only on careful observation of exterior ridges and lines. A correct match was confirmed by the identical paintings of the shells’ interiors.

Miku chose a shell and studied it closely, being careful not to turn it over. Her fingers moved above the remaining shells, floating like a small white bird, until she settled on a second shell and placed the two together. There was a small click as the pieces rejoined their original mate. With a smile, she opened the intact shell to reveal matching paintings on both halves.

“Maple leaves!” she said, holding the shell toward Takeshi.

He reached to inspect the artwork. As his rough hand brushed her soft ones, she pulled back, suddenly conscious of his eyes locked on to hers. Though still vexed by his role as her de facto warden, she realized she no longer found his presence undesirable. What was it about this samurai that made her feel an indefinable longing she had never known before, not even in the wild imaginings of her poetry? As a poet, her command of language usually gave her the perfect word for expressing any emotion. And yet now she was left unable to define her feelings, even to herself.

“The play goes to you,” she said finally, pulling her eyes back to the shells and trying to still the thundering emotions swirling through her thoughts.

She had written often of love and desire. Although surely this was not what she was now feeling toward a mere soldier—and one sent by her oppressive uncle to guard her every move, no less. No, it must be nothing more than the surprise of his unexpected arrival that made her normally tranquil spirit heave and jostle like the waves on the northern ocean.

Takeshi chose a shell half and rubbed his finger along its outer ridges, carefully feeling each subtle nuance. Then he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the remaining shells, moving across them slowly.

Miku watched as if in a trance as the man’s powerful hands glided across the delicate shells, the calloused fingertips seeking out a match. The hands were those of a warrior, hardened and rough, but their movement now was like an artist caressing a favorite sculpture. She was mesmerized by his slow progression across each shell as he gently touched its form before moving to the next.

With his eyes closed and his thoughts focused on the game, Miku realized she had the perfect chance to escape—yet something held her frozen as she continued to watch the soldier. Finally he paused, and his fingers wrapped around a single shell.

He opened his eyes. The young woman was perfectly still, the flick of her gaze from the two shell halves in his hand to his face her only movement. Her breathing had deepened, and a flush had returned to her face. There was a barely audible click as the shell once again became whole, and he slowly held it out to her.

“What do the pictures show this time?” he asked.

She reached for the shell, and, opening it, said, “Plum blossoms.”

“Ah, a blushing pink flower against a strong, dark limb,” said Takeshi. “Soft and hard, balancing one another.”

“You have been dishonest with me,” she said, her voice a whisper. “You
are
a poet.”

She was leaning toward him, upturned palms cupping his shell. Takeshi reached out to take it, and his hands paused as they covered hers. This time, Miku did not draw away from his touch. So he let his fingers remain.

Her eyes seemed to pierce the depths of his being with their searching gaze, taking in the overlapping tiles of his breastplate, the ridged lines of his helmet and something more—something deeper than his armor. Perhaps this beautiful poet could see what others never had, Takeshi wondered. Perhaps she could look through the battle-forged exterior to the true man beneath—the man he himself had almost forgotten existed, until now.

And without stopping to consider anything further, he bent to kiss her. Her lips received his with a small cry of surprise as she stilled before yielding to his embrace. For a moment, Takeshi’s whole world, a hardened landscape of warfare and duty, melted away, leaving only an awareness of the softness of Miku’s parted lips and her sweet taste in his mouth.

The skin of her cheek felt like warm silk beneath his rough hand, and he drew her closer to him, pressing her soft body against his armored frame. He tightened a strong arm around her waist, the thin fabric of her silk
kosode
slippery against his touch. Slowly, his other hand ran through her dark hair, gathering it up as his kiss deepened.

Miku trembled as the samurai pressed his mouth against hers, gently at first and then with greater insistence. In all the poetic flights of imagination she had taken at her writing desk and in all her clandestine escapes into the countryside beyond the manor walls, she had never known such a delightful, frightening, all-consuming sensation as the one now tingling through her veins.

He was hard against her, the leather plates of his armor pressing her breasts as his grip around her body tightened. His beard scratched the delicate skin of her face, yet its roughness was softened by the tenderness of his mouth. She felt tiny in the arms of such a powerful man, helpless to fight his passionate advances—yet not wanting to resist, not wanting his kiss to end.

In the embrace of this barely tamed warrior, she suddenly felt safer than she had since becoming an orphan. And yet what more could they ever share than this kiss?

This
forbidden
kiss.

The thought splintered her trance, and she pulled away from him. What had she allowed this samurai to do? Of course her uncle would never sanction such an embrace, Miku realized—but that was of no importance to her. She was not afraid to defiantly take the pleasures he might hope to deny her.

Of much deeper concern was her own choice in the matter. Had she really permitted this relatively unknown man to touch her so freely? After years of being hidden from the world, would she now fall prey so easily to the first man impudent enough to reach for her? Was she not of wealthy birth…and, more importantly, blessed with the richness of a poet’s soul? Surely she was not to be so easily had. Her initial anger, which had been melted by the surge of desire his touch brought, was now rekindled.

He watched her in silence now, his eyes pools of impenetrable darkness, but his mouth still moist from her lips. Her hand trembling with both fury and desire, Miku ran a pale finger down the overlapping plates of armor covering his chest.

“My uncle thought he sent a samurai to protect me,” she said with an icy stare, “but I see a scaled serpent seeking to devour a caged bird. I wonder that you dare to so boldly approach a noblewoman, the niece of your Master?”

Takeshi had no words for the poet. So he simply stood and, with hands that had just touched her with gentle passion, roughly collected the scroll from her writing desk.

“I thought you could not read,” Miku goaded him as she rose to her knees, angry with his impudent kiss—and her own hungry response.

The darkly handsome samurai nodded with a self-assurance she found infuriating and, to her own frustration, intriguing. “You are correct,” he said, “but your uncle can. And he has commanded that I not only guard you tonight, but that I also ensure no more poetry is written in his absence. He finds the verses you compose—” his eyes lingered on her lips before returning to her blazing stare “—inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate is my uncle’s desire to control me,” she said. “And inappropriate is
your
desire to…”

Her voice trailed off as a sharp heat burned her cheeks, a blush of anger mingling with the equally consuming flame of her growing attraction toward the stoic soldier. There was something undeniably intoxicating about the samurai’s dark, piercing eyes, and she could not ignore the way his powerful body—and equally powerful demeanor—was beginning to make her feel.

The soldier looked down at Miku, his apparent nonchalance in the face of her passionate response belied only by the smoldering depths of his gaze. “Do you truly believe what I want is inappropriate,” he asked, his voice a husky whisper, “or merely unexpected?”

Standing above her, his arms crossed with an air of absolute authority, Takeshi held her gaze with the confident look of a man used to complete submission—and one who knew how to enforce compliance when necessary. And yet Miku’s independent spirit was equally unaccustomed to capitulation.

“The life’s breath of a poet is her brush,” she whispered with quiet fierceness, “and her soul is its ink. You may take my parchment, but you will not control my poetry. And you will never control me.”