My Beautiful Enemy (18 page)

He seemed surprised by her statement. He tilted his head to one side and answered only after a long moment. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

Now it was her turn to hesitate over what she was about to reveal, this secret sense of foreboding that had long festered at the edge of her awareness. “Ever since I was a little girl, everyone around me has always feared for my future—everyone except my friend who loved tea from Darjeeling.”

Mother, Amah, and Da-ren, they all sensed something in her—a wildness, an intractability—that would prove to be her undoing. It had been there in Mother’s anxiety, in Amah’s watchfulness, and in Da-ren’s case, something akin to resignation beneath his sternness. Her hopes and dreams, such as they were, must always pass through this inner prism of dread and emerge on the other side muted. Lesser.

“I don’t believe it,” said her Persian. “I see wonderful things for you, many, many wonderful things.”

The music of the spheres could not have sounded lovelier. And the warmth and certainty of his expression—for the first time she knew what it looked like when someone had complete faith in her.

She had to turn her head away to hide the tears in her eyes.

T
he mouth of the cave opened to a rock fissure that was barely wide enough for one person to walk through without turning sideways. The fissure angled several times before giving onto a green slope. From the slope, Ying-ying had a panoramic view of a wide meadow turned purple-pink by the flowers of spring. In the distance rose the sky-piercing peaks of the Heavenly Mountains.

When Da-ren had told her that she would come with him to Chinese Turkestan, she had thought it would be nothing but a vast wasteland beyond Jiayu Pass, the westernmost terminus of the Great Wall. And even after she discovered that there was far more to the territory than desert and desolation, some part of her still thought of it as a prison, a prison two thousand
li
across, but a prison all the same.

But now, with the sky the blue of mountain lakes and everything drenched under a clear, warm sun . . . she was filled with a fierce gladness that she had lived to see this land once again. A fierce gladness to be alive, no matter what loomed ahead.

And along with that came the realization that this time, she would not let go of her Persian.

But to need anyone was to risk losing them. Mother, Amah, Master Gordon—she was still picking up the wreckage left in the wake of their departures. Did she really dare to open herself to that kind of devastation again?

The Persian had carried the saddles out and placed one of them on the grass as a seat for her, so she’d have some fresh air while he groomed the horses. The gold cords in his black turban flashed in the sunlight. His movements were efficient but without haste. And such an innate calm radiated from him, a mesmerizing tranquility.

She tried to imagine going back to her old life, the one
without him—and the void in her heart was instant and fathomless.

He set the other saddle on the back of his horse and she grew alarmed. “Where are you going?”

Her tone must have been strident, for he glanced at her, surprised. “We need more food. Or there will be nothing to eat for supper.”

Right, of course—she’d eaten everything except the cheese. But her fear was not entirely assuaged. “What about your friends? Have they already departed for India or are they waiting for you?”

And how long could he keep them waiting?

Did he frown? “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “They are grown men.”

“But won’t they worry about you?”

“They know I can take care of myself.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. What she really wanted was to make sure he didn’t go anywhere without her, but she hadn’t the least idea how to broach such a subject. “When will you be back?”

He came toward her. As he approached, her anxiety faded—and even began to seem ridiculous: His calm was already beginning to envelope her.

“A couple of hours, perhaps a little more,” he said, “depending on how long it takes me to find the nomads and whether I come across suitable game for hunting. Will you keep this for me, while I’m gone?”

He handed her the pouch of gems. She closed her fingers over it, knowing that she was holding a promise.

She grinned at him. “There will be only pebbles inside when I give it back.”

He smiled back. “I would rather have pebbles from you than the Koh-I-Noor from anyone else.”

She watched him ride away, her heart as bright and sun-drenched as the day.

L
eighton bartered for food from the Kazakh and Xibe nomads who had their yurts nearby. And as he wasn’t far from the stream that marked the way to Ili Valley, the administrative center of the region, he caught several fish, cleaned and filleted them, and wrapped them in wax paper to take back to the cave.

He arrived to see her sitting cross-legged on the makeshift bed, her eyes closed, one hand over each knee. He watched her for a minute, taking in the straightness of her posture and the evenness of her breaths—he loved seeing her strong and hale and she was well on her way to full health.

Leaving her to her meditation, he scoured the surrounding area for edible plants. When he came back to the cave again, she was just about to step out, the bucket he had bought from the nomads in hand.

“Don’t tire yourself,” he admonished her. “I’ll do it.”

He fetched water from the nearby waterfall, heated it up for her, and left for a wash of his own. At dusk, upon his return, a mouthwatering scent greeted him. But instead of bending over the fire, cooking, she was studying the walls of the cave.

“Have you seen this?” she asked, cleaning the wall with a piece of wetted bandaging, uncovering the painted surface underneath.

With proper restoration, the images of Buddhas and bodhisattvas would have been almost unbearably brilliant, saffron and lapis lazuli against a background of ivory and black. But even after a millennia of neglect, the mural was still vivid and colorful, a fluid playfulness animating the eyes and faces of its enlightened subjects.

“It’s the reason I know about this cave,” he answered.

She wiped at the hem of a painted orange robe. “Oh? How?”

“When I was a child, I was told the story of a tremendous
treasure, hidden by Buddhist monks during a time when their monasteries were destroyed all throughout China.”

She stilled. “I didn’t know people outside China knew this story.”

“You have heard of this story yourself?”

“Yes, many years ago. It’s a legend.”

“And legends travel. The story left a deep impression on me.”

Not that he believed in a hoard of gold somewhere, but anytime
Buddhist
and
cave
were used in the same sentence, he was always deeply curious. In India he had visited the Karla Caves and the Ajanta Caves. When he passed through Afghanistan, he’d made a trip to the Buddhas of Bamiyan and the nearby caves. And when he had met her, it had been just after his visit to the Kizil Caves farther east on the caravan route.

“I came through this area earlier on my trip,” he continued. “A nomad told me that there was a Buddha cave nearby, so I investigated. And this was what I found.”

“But it’s so far from anywhere.”

“Probably it was the home of a single hermit monk.”

She wiped some more at the walls. “And now we are cooking fish in his temple.”

“That tends to be the fate of temples after a thousand years.”

She turned around. “Do you know—” She gasped. “Your hair is still so wet! You will catch a chill!”

He had a knife wound and she a miscellany of injuries. But she was worried about wet hair? “It’s almost summer.”

“All the more reason not to be careless.” With her foot, she pushed one of the saddles to just in front of the bed. “Sit down.”

He obeyed, wincing slightly at the discomfort to his leg. She sat down behind him and, with a thin towel, rubbed his hair vigorously. Mercilessly.

“Ow.”

“This is how my amah always dried my hair. Now take it like a man.”

He smiled.

They were quite close; the ends of her hair brushed the back of his hand. He had to grip onto the edge of the saddle to keep from taking a strand of her hair between his fingers.

“What were you going to say when you noticed my wet hair?” he asked, to distract himself from her nearness.

“Oh, right. About that legendary treasure, it is said the Buddhist monks made three jade tablets that together would point to its whereabouts. After the First Opium War, the British took two of the three tablets out of China. But I’ve seen the third—or at least a copy of it.”

“How?”

“You remember that my amah was a thief? She stole it.”

He was astonished. “So you have it, this jade tablet?”

“No. But I know where to find it.”

“Have you ever thought of stealing it back?” He almost hoped she would. It would be quite something to see if there was any truth to the legend.

Her voice turned stern. “Absolutely not. If my amah had never brought home that jade tablet, she might still be alive today—as might be my friend who loved tea from Darjeeling. So no, I don’t ever wish for anything to do with the jade tablet. Not even if it were given to me, free and clear.”

She tossed the towel onto the bed. He thought she was done, but she slid her fingers into his hair. Heat penetrated beneath his scalp, warm, strong currents that dispelled any lingering damp from his trip under the waterfall.

“How do you do that?” he marveled.

“Magic,” she answered. “I guess I can always become a barber if all else fails. I don’t mind putting a blade to a man’s throat and I can give quite a head massage. Do you think I will have customers?”

“Not many, probably, but they will be the bravest men in the world.”

She laughed softly. It was the first time he had ever heard
her laugh without derision or harshness—his heart constricted with the beauty of it.

After a few minutes, she removed her hands and said, “There. Now you won’t suffer any ill effect.”

He did not get up. He didn’t know when he would have another chance to sit so close to her, almost in an embrace.

The fire threw their shadows on the wall. The shadow of her hand reached out and touched the shadow of his hair. Her master thief’s fingers were so light and delicate that had he not seen it, he would not have felt it.

And then came the sensation of her hand on his nape, a barely-there touch, yet one that immediately set him on fire.

Before he could react, she rose. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

B
efore the Persian, Ying-ying had never touched a man, except in combat: With Da-ren, she only ever came close enough to kowtow; even with Master Gordon, in all their years of friendship, there had never been any kind of physical contact.

Nor had she ever
wanted
to touch a man.

But the Persian was like a magnet, pulling her toward him. Even after she’d mortified herself with her fingers on his nape—he had tensed as if she had put a knife to him instead—she still wanted more.

They ate silently, she tasting nothing of the simple stew she had made with the fish and the leaves he’d brought back.

“This is delicious,” he said when he was done. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Why would you think I couldn’t?”

He glanced at her. “You always made me do the cooking.”

“Why should I lift a finger for a man, before he has taken the trouble to save my life?”

She had meant to tease, but with the state of her nerves, the question had come out all wrong: sharp and accusing.

He made no answer, only collected their utensils to wash outside. She grimaced. While she’d lived in Da-ren’s household, she had been so sweet tongued, never without a compliment for anyone she came across. Her years of solitude had turned her into a boor.

Or perhaps more accurately, in the wilderness of Chinese Turkestan, she had tossed aside all the layers of courtesy under which she had hidden her true nature.

When he came back inside the cave, she said, “Forgive me. I can be prickly.”

He had put some water to heat while they were still eating. Now he poured the hot water over a handful of herbs. The fresh, cool scent of mint rose with the steam. “It’s all right. I already know that you have thorns.”

Some of her agitation melted away at the quiet, reassuring tone of his voice—he was not angry at her, or otherwise displeased. But at the same time, an even greater ferment came to be. She wanted to know . . . she wanted an answer, even though she couldn’t yet arrive at the exact question.

She gathered up her courage and went at it obliquely. “Why do you put up with me?”

He gave her a cup of the mint infusion and shrugged.

Perhaps that question wasn’t so oblique after all. Perhaps it was as direct and aggressive as an unsheathed sword. She bit the inside of her lip. “Please give me an answer.”