My Beautiful Enemy (13 page)

Mrs. Reynolds turned her teacup around on its saucer: It was one of Annabel’s running jokes that it was easier to milk a stone than to pry words out of him.

“I enjoy listening to Miss Chase,” he said. “I am convinced that every time she speaks, a rainbow appears somewhere in the world.”

“What an extraordinarily lovely sentiment,” said the woman who specialized in turning his life upside down. “Miss Chase is a very fortunate young lady.”

“No,” he said, “I consider myself the far more fortunate one.”

She traced the tip of her index finger along the handle of her teacup. Her hand, slender and elegant, gave every impression of delicateness. But he remembered the calluses on her palms, the calluses of one who always had a set of reins in her hands. And he remembered the sensation of those calluses under his lips—and upon his skin.

“I am sure you and Miss Chase will be very happy together for years to come,” she said.

Would they?

He tried to detect an undertone of mockery, but could not.
She believed it, that he would settle into an easy wedded bliss, untroubled by such things as her reappearance in his life.

When he hadn’t breathed since the moment he’d recognized her.

“Speaking of my niece,” said Mrs. Reynolds, rising, “Captain Atwood and I had better leave soon to retrieve her—and my sister—from Mr. Madison’s house, before this fog gets any worse.”

Miss Blade walked them to the door. “Thank you for calling on this dismal day, Mrs. Reynolds. And it is excellent to see you, too, Captain—as always.”

C
atherine thought it a little odd, the way Leighton Atwood placed himself in the vestibule, as he and Mrs. Reynolds retrieved their overcoats. When they had departed, she immediately noticed that he had left his walking stick behind—he had been blocking the older woman’s view of the umbrella stand so that she wouldn’t realize this omission.

Catherine opened the door and listened. They descended one, two, three stories before they halted and exchanged a few murmured words. And now one set of footsteps reascended at an easy, healthy pace.

It was because of this gait that until she saw his face, she had believed Mrs. Reynolds to have brought Marland Atwood.

She left the door ajar and carried the walking stick with her into the parlor. The stick was straight, slender, and surprisingly dense, forged entirely of blue steel. As a weapon, it was sturdy and well balanced, with just enough flexibility to make things interesting—for a short burst of use, that was. As a cane . . . she would need a severe disability to turn to something so heavy.

He was now on the sixth floor, approaching her door. Following a moment of silence, he entered—and closed the door
behind himself. The curtain of beads parted and swayed, a sprinkling of mineral raindrops.

Ever since they’d parted ways eight years ago, she had wished for this moment, her lover walking back into her life again. Through hundreds of doors and in thousands of guises he would return, crossing the line that separated life and death. And now here he was, somber and beautiful, the only person other than Master Gordon to have believed that something wonderful would become of her.

Perhaps Mr. Cromwell was right. Perhaps the summer of her life had not yet passed her by. Perhaps—

“Did you know Mrs. Chase’s assailant, the man you sent overboard?” he asked, his manners entirely official.

She wanted to laugh—to keep from crying. So much for dreams coming true. The walking stick left her hand, passed an inch before his face, and landed with a hard rattle inside the wrought iron umbrella holder, fifteen feet and a strange angle away. “Why do you want to know?”

To his credit, he didn’t bat an eyelash—not that he ever had: Her deadliness he simply took for granted. “Not many men can injure you in single combat.”

“So?”

Only after the word left her lips did she realize that she had never told anyone, least of all him, that she had been injured.

“There was only one man you feared.”

That man had killed her daughter.
Their
daughter. But Leighton Atwood knew nothing of what had happened afterward. He had gone back to India, attended garden parties, and saved boys from escaped tigers to universal acclaim, while she had buried their child alone.

“I did not know Mrs. Chase’s assailant. And I fear no man, now or ever,” she said coldly. “You should go, Captain. You don’t wish to keep Mrs. Reynolds waiting, do you?”

Chinese Turkestan

1883

T
he girl moaned hot, obscene words like a cat meowing before a dish of fried fish. The Tajik warlord growled in approval and pumped into her with renewed frenzy. She opened her legs wider and began to emit short screams of delight.

Her smooth skin glistened in the dancing orange light of a crackling fire. His large body straddled hers like a bear vanquishing its prey. Their frantic shadows jiggled on the arabesque tapestry that covered the wall. Silk pillows were falling off the low bed, one soft plop after another.

Ying-ying, on the roof, barely heard or saw anything. She was in distant Darjeeling again, walking between rows of tea bushes, the Persian next to her.

Was there enough room for a couple to walk abreast between two rows of tea bushes? Probably not. She might have to put him beyond the next row, just slightly out of reach. And what would she be wearing? Definitely something other than this grimy old coat. Perhaps something Indian, dazzlingly bright and shot through with gold threads—or maybe even something English, very prim and proper, with a lace parasol to match.

He, who had seen her only in her ratty coat—and liked it—would be full of admiration for her lovely new clothes. And would ply her with Swiss chocolate. They would—

She was brought out of her reverie by a rafter-shaking roar. But it was only the Tajik warlord, at last done. He collapsed onto his Chinese concubine, who stroked his neck and shoulders and praised his prowess in a mixture of Chinese and Turkic.

Da-ren, despite his anger at his exile, devoted himself to his post. He saw his role as far more than keeping peace and collecting taxes. No, it was up to him to make sure that Chinese Turkestan never slipped from the control of the Imperial Court again.

The land itself was harsh. Agriculture was practiced only on a minor scale. Nor did the earth yield enough precious metals to recuperate the cost of holding it. Yet from the Tang Dynasty onward, those who ruled the Central Plain had tried to impose control over this vast tract of territory.

Bound on the north, west, and south by impassable mountains ranges, with the great Takla Makan Desert blocking any direct passage across, Chinese Turkestan, under the dominion of the Imperial Court, assured security on China’s western border. But the natives were restive. The Russians openly coveted it. And who was to say the English, who already held the Subcontinent, would not be similarly greedy?

Da-ren had decided in the earliest days of his tenure that pacification of the natives was key to his goals. Among the tactics he employed to achieve that end was the gifting of beautiful Chinese girls to influential local chiefs.

An old tactic, probably one of the oldest there ever was. China produced an endless supply of lovely, clever girls whose parents had no use for them. They were grateful to be purchased by Da-ren, instead of by a brothel, and eager for a chance to become a warlord’s favorite concubine.

But Da-ren did not trust them. Some might be content simply to be fed. And some might be content simply to be a
favorite, forgetting that they were there to pillow-talk closer links to China.

When Lin had proved a danger even at eight thousand
li
from Peking, Da-ren had wanted to send Ying-ying back to the interior of China and hide her under heavy guard. But such a fate would have been almost worse than death, so Ying-ying proposed instead that she be the one to go from one warlord household to the next, spying on the girls in their nocturnal duties, rewarding successes, and putting fear in those who slacked in their efforts.

At first, Da-ren had adamantly refused. It was too dangerous. How would he answer her mother in the afterworld if something happened to her? But Ying-ying persisted. To be surrounded by a contingent of guards was tantamount to announcing her exact location to Lin; far better to pass herself off as yet another weary—and male—traveler, in a land that was still a crossroad between China and the world to the west. Besides, could Da-ren really entrust a man to deal with dozens and dozens of pretty and shrewd women?

In the end, Ying-ying had prevailed. For three years, until she was satisfied that her Turkic was good enough, she’d dressed as a Mongolian boy. And now, taking advantage of her fluent Turkic and her malleable features, a Kazakh youth.

“I’m so glad Da-ren gave me to you,” the girl with the Tajik warlord whispered. “I never knew such pleasure was possible.”

The man flipped on his back and grinned broadly.

The girl dabbed off his sweat and drew the covers over him, all the while speaking in that lovely, hypnotic murmur that she had been taught. She told him how she could not live without the bliss he brought her nightly, that he must not put himself in danger. When the natives rebelled, men died, and all they’d get was a new foreign master. Let the others assuage their doubts of their manliness that way. He didn’t need to. Didn’t he hear her moans of joy?

The man nodded sleepily. Ying-ying wondered whether the
Persian could be steered like that, with a pair of soft thighs and a great deal of flattery. She liked to think that he would see through such staged affections, but she could not be entirely certain. Men were as stupid about women as women were stupid about men.

Tomorrow Ying-ying would have some coins for the girl. After that, the road to Kulja, on which she hoped to travel fast and make up for some lost time. But first, at sunrise, she would mark off one more day on the little calendar she had made for herself.

Three hundred fifty-four days, the Persian had said, the length of an Islamic year. She meant to be there at the brothel in Kashgar. And if he came, if he was true to his word, then she would go to India with him, see the holy river, the white marble tomb, and, of course, Darjeeling, in the foothills of the Himalayas.

And perhaps then, her life would truly begin.

She rose to her feet, bounded to the next roof, and then the next, sinking to a crouch between each leap to make sure she hadn’t been seen. But from the last roof to the fortified earthen wall that surrounded the warlord’s compound, the distance was too great for a single leap.

With some reluctance, she dropped into a narrow alley between two buildings, grimacing at muscles made stiff by lying motionless several hours in the still-cold night. There came a whimper. She tensed, expecting to see men on patrol. But no one came. Her task was only to make sure the Chinese concubines did as Da-ren bid. Night thieves, illicit trysts, and other goings-on in a warlord’s household were no concern of hers.

But if the warlord had dealings with Russians . . .

She clambered up the roof again.

L
eighton heard the soft landing. If someone had leaped off the roof, that someone had remarkably quiet feet. He moved a step backward. Edwin Madison, feverish, whimpered before Leighton could clamp a hand over his mouth.

Leighton had arrived in Yarkand eight days ago, to be met with ill news. Madison and Singh, their Punjabi stepper, had been caught on the periphery of an argument involving a Tajik chieftain’s nephew. And when a horde of the latter’s men descended on the scene, they had been taken to the chieftain’s custody stronghold.

The other Punjabi on the mission, Roshan, had attempted a rescue and almost got himself killed for his trouble. Under different circumstances they would have taken their time and bargained for the release of the prisoners—a long, drawn-out process that the warlords and their underlings enjoyed, to see how much profit could be squeezed out. But now there was no time for such leisurely proceedings: In a week or so, Madison’s hair would start showing its not-so-black roots, and the Tajik chieftain, said to be on friendly terms with his Ch’ing overlord, might turn Madison over to the governor of Ili.

Half of the remaining members of the expedition had set out with Leighton. The Tajik chieftain’s stronghold was north of the Takla Makan Desert and farther east on the caravan route than where Leighton had met the girl—his chest had felt quite hollow as he’d galloped past the open-air eatery.

It was spring. Was she sightseeing?

He had needed to touch the jade bead from her sword to reassure himself that she did not give such gifts lightly. That he would see her again in little less than a year.

At least the rescue attempt seemed to be going off smoothly. The moon was nearly full, but they had stumbled upon the chieftain’s birthday celebration. A little stealth and handkerchiefs soaked in chloroform had done the rest.

And they weren’t that far from where he and Roshan had climbed in and hidden the rope ladder. Ten more minutes, and he would have them safely out and on the road again.