The Blonde Samurai (17 page)

“Where have you been, my dear wife?” I heard James bellow in a slurred voice when I came through the front door, my clothes wet and heavy, my spirits sinking.

“I’ve been out riding—” I began, wondering what had happened to the native groom assigned to me. I couldn’t leave the mare standing outside in the rain.

“Get over here,” he ordered. “I’m lonely.”

“I have to see to my horse—”

“Isn’t your husband more important?” His eyes searched out my hard nipples pointing through my wet jacket.

“Please, James, the mare needs me.”

“I need you more,” he said, the hunger in his voice disturbing me. I stiffened as he reached for me, his hand closing over my arm. His grip tightened, making me grimace, but I refused to let him see that he hurt me. I turned away when he tried to kiss me, the smell of cheap brandy on his breath nearly suffocating me.

“You’re drunk again.”

“And you’re beautiful.” He ripped open my jacket and fumbled under my damp chemise until he found my breasts, laughing at my futile attempts to stop him. “More beautiful than those native cunts with their insidious bowing and skinny arses.”

“You’re hurting me, James, let me go.”

“That’s what
she
said, the bitch, when I bound her to the posts then laid my crop upon her nude buttocks. I can still hear her wailing and shrieking like a streetwalker as I trailed the leather across her spine, taunting her with more licks to come. I brought the crop down harder, then
harder,
until the angry red welts crisscrossed her bare arse with marks,
my
mark. Lord Carlton. I’m the son of the duke of Braystone…how dare she spit at me…the
whore!
”

I tried to cover my breasts as he poured himself another brandy, ranting on about the Chinaman who’d sold him phony liquor, the bottle badly corked without a seal, how he’d see him hang for trying to cheat a lord of the realm. I was more concerned with this frenetic mélange of threats and blows upon my person after months of his tendency toward detachment. Why now? He was dangerous. I had to protect myself.

I raced to my bedroom, opening the cedar chest, pulling out my intimate garments, searching everywhere for—

“Looking for this, my dear wife?”

I stiffened, hearing James behind me. Slowly I turned and saw him holding up my dagger and toying with its sharp point.

“I found it when I was looking for letters from Mallory.”

“Give it back to me, James. It’s mine.”

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “Who gave it to you?”

“No one. I bought it in a curio shop in Yokohama.”

“You’re lying. You intended to kill me.”

“You’re insane. It’s true I hate what you’ve done to me, to our marriage, but I’m not a fool.”

“There’s something different about you,” he said, running the point of the dagger along my rib cage, snagging the ripped velvet. “A private glow of satisfaction in your eyes.” He grabbed my crotch through my wet clothes and squeezed it, hard. I grimaced. “As if you’ve been fucked, your pussy tightening around a man’s cock, your heart pumping while he thrust into you.”

“You—you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know that look. Womanly and sensuous, no longer chaste and innocent, but knowing. Who is he, Katie?
Who is he?
”

“I swear there’s
no one.
”
Lie, lie.
By the holy saints, I felt my face redden like a harlot caught with her knickers down with the local vicar. What
could
I do? Tell him I’d given myself to a samurai, a man far better than he?

“I’ve noticed how you draw back when I try to touch you, how you sneer and laugh at me. Like the girls at Madame Dumonde’s in Paris,
laughing
because I couldn’t fuck them because
he
was there, watching, waiting, the switch in his hand. Not even when he struck my naked buttocks with the rod could I get hard enough to fuck the girl in the fancy whorehouse.”

“
Who,
James? Who was watching you?” I begged him. His eyes took on the look of a man much younger as he relived
a painful time in his life. I couldn’t believe this was my husband looking so compellingly vulnerable, a man’s whose dark side cast shadows over our marriage from the beginning and now doused what small glimmer of light we may have had forever.

“My father…the
bastard.
”

The words rushed out of him, how his father, the duke, had beat him for years, taking the strap to him, as had so many of his professors while making him recite irregular Greek verbs. The duke subscribed to the notion that flagellation promoted the release of male secretions, an ungodly one at that, but the upper class believed that surviving a whipping at school brought with it a certain cachet and membership in the exclusive Eton Block Club. (Ask his lordship, dear lady reader, if he survived Eton without a whipping and I dare say he did not.)

When James was sixteen, the duke insisted the boy accompany him to a Paris brothel, where James was so humiliated by the older man’s flailing actions with the switch, he fled out into the night, his eyes blinded by tears, where he was run down by a carriage, his leg caught under the wheel.

He survived, but with a limp.

The duke never spoke of the incident and James never forgave him. He took out his revenge by squandering his fortune and spending his time in whorehouses, whipping the buttocks of pretty girls to get back at the prostitutes who had mocked him, shaming them first before he fucked them. But tonight he had gone too far in the brothel, taking a riding crop to a singsong girl, scarring her so badly the madam cursed him for soiling her goods and banned him from her establishment, then had him escorted home.

Where he waited for me, his dear wife, so he could finish his sordid game.

Blinded by inconsolable rage, James struck me across the face, cutting my lip. I tasted blood, but I wouldn’t allow him to berate me. I realized I was up against a man of such single-mindedness that nothing could vanquish his anger toward me. We had both come to this union as damaged souls, him more than I, at the core of his tirade the issues of trust and betrayal. I can’t deny I was guilty by giving myself to another man. I have not the time nor inclination to explore the moral issues I faced then. Judge me if you must, dear lady reader, but had James not driven me to it? It was no excuse, I see that now, but you can understand what an irredeemable man I had married.

I had to get out, go anywhere, it didn’t matter. He’d kill me if I didn’t.

“I’m leaving you, James,” I said, grabbing my reticule to pack some clothes, personal items. “Our marriage is over.”

“So you can go to him?”

“There’s no one, I
swear.
”

“You’re
mine
and I demand you show me some respect.”

I had no time to react when he pushed me and I staggered across the room, dropping the valise. I had misjudged him, so fierce was his desire to possess me. With a swiftness I wouldn’t have believed, he ripped my skirt, my petticoats, then grabbed me by my hair, pulling off the black ribbon, and yanked my head back so far I thought he’d break my neck.

“Let me go, James,
you’re mad!
” I screamed, my arms flailing about as I nearly lost my balance. I tried to pull away, disgust and loathing for him making my stomach churn. He laughed at my helplessness, my eyes disbelieving, my breasts rising as I struggled with him, pain radiating across my back until I couldn’t stand it and I collapsed onto the floor. James
stood for a moment, legs spread apart, looking down at me with a strange surge of excitement on his face as I lay there, choking, then he was on top of me, grabbing at my breasts and waving the dagger around in circles.

“Don’t force me to disfigure your beautiful body, my dear wife, for I shall if you resist. Spread your legs so I can fuck you.” He got to his feet and fumbled with the buttons on his breeches, releasing his cock, holding it with one hand and brandishing the dagger in the other.

“I shall
never
submit to you, James.”

“You will do as I command, whore,
or I will cut you.
”

Fearful for my life, I pulled up my torn skirt, my petticoats, my hand shaking as I opened the slit in my drawers. His eyes widened when he saw my naked pussy, pink and moist, but I had no intention of allowing him to fuck me. I had to act now. As he leaned down over me, I brought my knee up in a swift kick to his groin, making him yell out in pain. He sliced through my silken drawers with the dagger and cut my thigh as he toppled onto the floor, mumbling. A slithery red stain drizzled down my leg like a trail of fire, burning hot.
Forget the pain.
Before he could stop me, I ripped the lacy ruffle hanging off my petticoat and wrapped it around my leg, then I ran out of the house and slammed the door behind me. I found my horse still standing in the rain, snorting, shivering. James must have released the groom, planning for us to be alone. I tried to calm her, knowing it was madness to take the mare out in a storm like this, but I couldn’t stay here. I would not,
could not
allow my husband to plunder my soul as well as my body with his debauchery. I pulled myself up onto the saddle, dragging my bleeding leg over the mare’s flanks, and took off into the mountains behind the settlement.

I was in full revolt against my husband, my womanly emotions sickened by his belligerence and humiliation of my person, my spirit. Yet I could not forget his words, knowing as he did I had given myself to another man. I knew the echo of my torment would never leave me. Yet I didn’t turn back.

I must find Shintaro.

I rode for hours, the horse’s hooves thundering over the terrain through bamboo thickets, the tension building inside me, the mare never letting up though I could tell she was chafing at the bit, yearning to run free. We slogged up the grassy hillside, me reining her in around tight curves then opening up when we came to the summit, the wind in our ears, my hair whipping at my face, the mare’s breath strong and rhythmic, giving me hope.
We wouldn’t fail in our mission.
We splashed through a stream, a fallen tree limb lay in our path, the horse taking the jump low and easy, then pounding over the ridge, a cloud of fog obscuring my view, a bluish-gray mist threatening me from all sides.

I headed for the pine groves, the driving rain stinging my face, throat, arms, until horse and rider found ourselves near the end of the cliff, nothing but a tortuous hillpath leading down into the steep valley below. The mare whinnied in alarm, veering sideways and tossing me onto the sticky brambles. I cried out as I landed, the needles pricking my bare skin, my legs shaking, wobbling so hard I couldn’t stand up. I dragged myself under the lee of an overhanging rock to rest, a rich darkness beckoning me to go farther into the natural cave, but I couldn’t. Bleeding, exhausted, my clothes soaked with rain and creek water, I lay on my back, panting, gasping for air. I must stay awake…couldn’t…it was no use. I closed
my eyes, the scent of orange blossoms filling my nostrils, knowing Shintaro must be near, that thought bringing me so much pleasure it was a sin.

I awoke to find a young samurai leaning over me, his hand touching my face, my throat, the swell of my breasts. The sight of him took my breath away. He was not simply a man, but the most beautiful young man I’d ever seen, the light streaming under the rock turning the sweat on his bare arm muscles into a delicate oil that dramatized its sensual contours. I brushed my fingers against the side of his face, smooth, so smooth I imagined he wasn’t real, but he was. Top knot pulled back, divided trousers, shoulder armor covering his left arm and forearm, leaving his chest bare, two sheathed swords at his waist. I leaned closer, infusing my senses with his beauty so that I could savor this moment, so sweet yet intense, a shiver rattling my bones with an ancient curse when I looked deeper into his eyes. What I saw there frightened me.
Desire.
Formed by the urgency of our youth, two young buds newly blossomed.

I believe at that moment I stood at a crossroads, my fate decided upon whether or not I went forward or backward. I wouldn’t know until later where the strange feelings I had for the young samurai would take me. For now, I uttered the words that proclaimed my destiny, words that would wash away the taste of fear in my mouth.

“Take me to Shintaro.”

T
ime for self-confession, dear lady reader, while my body heals during its restful abandonment, the emotional wounds mending along with the flesh, each like silken threads entwining in a pattern old yet new, for nothing is ever the same. Scars heal, but they are reminders of deeds done that cannot be undone.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…I fucked a man not my husband…I ran away from his lordship…and I’m not going back.

Shameless? Yes, but having come this far with me on my journey, we have reached a place in the road, which will determine where we go from here, you and I. You can accept my decision to ally with my samurai and experience all that I did with him and not judge me. Or we part ways here and I shall not judge you for your unwillingness to go further into the story with me. For what I shall reveal henceforth will indeed make your pussy tingle with such a rare pleasure no Occidental woman can read it without experiencing an erotic reaction that will leave you questioning your own sexual
pursuits. Be forewarned. The remainder of my story is not for puritanical souls and faint aristocrats whose sex lives are cloaked in secrecy, rarely discussed or ignored completely.

I understand that by writing this memoir
I
am bound to put forth the truth of what happened to me, while allowing myself the freedom of a writer to entertain you. Consequently, I am careful of the words I use, wishing to express myself in English while also being true to the interpretation of the Japanese language as I understood it. Be mindful, my proficiency in the native tongue was more than enough to make myself understood and I attained another level during my stay in the samurai village. Yet ’tis not my intent to place myself in a position to divine every nuance of the native culture and engage you in historical repartee, but instead to make you understand what a magnificent creature was Shintaro, a man with the power and sensuality to engage my soul and torment my body with such pleasures I would have died for him had our places been reversed.

Now that we’ve settled our discussion and you are still with me, I shan’t keep you in suspense about what happened to me the day I found myself in the arms of the handsome young samurai. Akira. A young man whom I discovered adopted a chivalrous way of speaking around me to match the knightly purity of his flowing robes when he bade me learn the way of the warrior, hoping to bring me under its potent spell
and
his. I don’t deny he saved my life. He found my lacy ruffle stained with blood and curiosity led him to find me under the lee of the rock where, for two days, I lay in the limbo world I’d been warned about by the good sisters. A place between heaven and hell where wandering souls gather to account for their sins. Or if you are Irish, to cajole and plead before your betters to be allowed to return to earth.

When it was my turn, I stated I was but an insignificant mortal, but I was from good strong stock and possessed of an avid curiosity for how this tale would end and would not disappoint should I be given leave to return. Whatever I said must have caught the imagination of the Grand Being Himself, for I found myself on the back of a black stallion with Akira’s strong arms holding me, the warmth of his body allowing me to give out an exclamation of joy at being so close to him. I must admit that a distinct throbbing in my pussy disturbed me, for how could I feel these sensations when it was Shintaro I dreamed of holding me, his hot breath burning the back of my neck, his strong arms wrapping my soul in bliss?

Was I a wanton female with no morals after all?

I rejected this thinking, knowing I was hurt, tired, cold tremors making me shake, fever making me burn, lost as I was between two worlds, for the path we followed led down into the hidden valley to the fabled home of the samurai. The day was clear, bright, the lingering scent of fresh rain driving away the smell of sweaty horseflesh under me, but it was the scenery I shall never efface from my mind. An enchanted land it was, as if the seasons all blended together here in this one spot and showered the rich earth with the glory of the blessed deities.

Down the steep path we rode, shielded on either side by tall bamboo, deep-set corrugations filled with mud indicating it was well worn, my eyes straining to push through the haze of my weakened state to see between the wooded precipices to a rolling green plain made nearly invisible by deep indigo shadows made all the more forbidding by the wooded mountain range protecting them. The farther we went, the more the mud and sharp smell of pine gave way to the odiferous laughter of orange groves, their scent overwhelming me. Clusters of pink and white magnolias dotted the hills alive
with juice-filled blueberries, shiny granite rocks and gnarled trees as the horse carried its riders over the hidden path, ankle-deep in bright yellow daisies. I did not see all this then, lapsing in and out of consciousness. I recall it now with the perception of one who has become part of this land, a broad-brimmed, straw-hatted woman in a kimono at work in the fields, her face and neck covered by an attached scarf.

A samurai woman.

I remember closing my eyes and resting my head against the young warrior’s shoulder as we passed under the ancient tall wooden gate marking the entrance to the village, a remnant of a long-ago settlement. I swore I heard Shintaro stop him with a command of surprise mixed with arrogance, then he spoke to him in a gentle manner without the coarse and brutish grunts I had come to expect from him. A chill riding on a gust of wind seized me, made me tremble, gripping me with an urgency to see his face, to touch him, but I couldn’t open my eyes, speak. Everything fell out of focus when a foul odor I couldn’t identify hit my nostrils, making my head spin.

Then the moment was gone, like a vague dream I couldn’t hold on to, and I swear by the blessed lives of the saints I cried when I felt Shintaro lift me into his arms and carry me.
I swear.
I clung to him as a fierce pain raced up my leg, as if the sharp blade of his sword slashed through my flesh.

For days I lay huddled inside a warm futon with the rushing wind outside rattling the wooden shutters, lightning ripping through a crack in the slats, followed by the rumble of distant thunder. Soft hands tended to my leg, angry and red it was, the jagged wound wrought by the dagger oozing with blood and pus. It was the rancid smell of infection that had jolted my senses when Shintaro sliced off the blood-soaked petti
coat sticking to my leg wound, his deftness with a sword cutting away the material without touching my flesh. I like to believe he stroked my cheek with his hand and brushed his lips with mine, as I would teach him to do, but such was not the way of the warrior. Curt, strong, disciplined, he ordered me separated from everyone except a woman to tend to me.

Nami.

So quiet and composed, reserved yet assured. Nami wore the same beautiful kimono I had seen on other native women, whether they be geisha or courtesan, but I noticed something vastly different about her in this society where dramatic shades of femininity existed. Most notable was the way she carried herself. Head aloft, graceful yet strong body, determined. Loyal, committed to the way of the warrior, she always carried a dirk in her obi. Yet she was curious and bright-eyed, insisting I didn’t need my armor (my corset), scrubbing the straw matting clean twice a day and lingering with me over fragrant-smelling tea to discuss the succulence of summer foliage.

’Tis her smile I see before me now as I recall my first days in the village, as if she could sweeten every cup of tea with that smile. Gentle feelings wash over me, such tenderness I feel in my heart for her and still I chastise myself for altering her fate, a fate disrupted by my coming to the village.

I must continue or I shall bring a melancholy mood to these pages and Nami would not wish that, for her spirit was one of godliness, her actions those of a saint, though you would call her a sinner, for the religious altar where she prays is different than yours. I ask that you who don your bonnet and gloves and listen to sermons on Sundays accept the fact that good women exist who do not believe in the same moral code
as you do. Nami is such a woman and I would come to know her strengths that made her as close to perfection as it exists.

Our extraordinary friendship strengthened during my stay in the single-story wooden structure set off by itself at the far end of the village (I noticed a guard posted outside day and night), a place where a samurai woman retired during her menses.
Or the birthing of a child,
Nami said, her sad face making me inquire further.
Yes,
she admitted, she had a child, but her baby died in its first year and the gods had deemed she could bear no more children. I told her about my emptiness and she nodded, saying we must be brave,
like two red beans trying to hide in a bowl of plump white rice.

On a different note, I found this females-only place had a spiritual effect upon me, an opportunity to reconvene with my inner self and to contemplate what it meant to be a woman. A sexual creature, yes, but when Nami taught me the native art of arranging flowers, I also learned about harmony, balance, stability. My favorite arrangement was combining pine with rose, signifying eternal youth with long life. I ask you, what woman could wish for more?

Imagine such a place in busy Mayfair, dear lady reader, where you could go and not have to bind your midsection into the formidable trappings of a corset when your monthly pains came, where you could forgo the use of rice powder and allow your skin to breathe, where you could wash your hair and let it hang loosely around your shoulders, the scent of rose and jasmine filling your nostrils instead of the tar and charcoal permeating the air of the London streets. Imagine…

After Nami stanched my wound, she bound it with clean strips of heavy cotton but nothing could stop the hours, the days of suffering that followed. How can I describe it? I daresay
you may be familiar with my turmoil if you have survived infection induced from childbed fever, those of you who insist on having your babies in a lying-in ward in a fancy hospital. I suffered similar agony from the dagger wound, the continual fainting sickness, burning skin, parched mouth and delirium. Fortunate you were to have a physician there to prescribe opium and calomel to soothe your pain, but I was more fortunate to have clean hands washed and scrubbed to attend me. A practice more British physicians should acquire instead of spreading the putrid residue left upon their dirty fingers from examining one pussy then another and damn their impertinence not to do so.

Forgive me for going off like a sinner begging for prayers, but I feel so strongly about the simple ways of avoiding disease I learned in the samurai village. I promise I shall restrain myself and dispense with my secular preaching and work to lighten your mood as mine was in spite of my pain. I shall instead dwell upon a less annoying ailment:
fleurs-blanches,
or white flowers, as the sticky-sweet liquid from your pussy is called when you’re caught reading erotic novels like mine.
Don’t check your drawers now.
You have but to open your legs and sniff to know if you’re afflicted. Yes, I’m laughing with a naughtiness you’ve not expected in this chapter, writing with a light touch as wholly unpredictable as my Irish tongue, but the gods were with me during that time and the infection did not spread. When after several days I could sit up, move my leg, take a few steps, my words were always the same:
where was Shintaro?

Nami would say nothing until this morning.

“He will not come.”

“Why? We are not strangers—” I stopped. How could I tell her we had been lovers?

“He is angry with Akira for bringing you to our village.”

“I
begged
the young samurai to bring me here.”

“Shintaro says Akira must take you back to Kobé…to your husband.”

“No, I can’t go…
He will kill me!
”

“I—I do not understand,” she said, helping me to my feet to find my footing in a drama where the power of my samurai’s personality, his unyielding will to force me to return to James, haunted me, tore at my soul.

“It was my husband who did this to me.” I pointed to my bandaged thigh, the wound healing, but not the memory of that day. “If Shintaro forces me to return, my death will be on his hands.”

Survival is instinctual, gut-clenching and problematic to the human psyche. It knows nothing else when its very existence is threatened. You lie, cheat, steal, claw at the fibers of your existence with the belief that if you hold on long enough, your defiance of the inevitable will somehow see you through. I wanted more than to survive. I wanted Shintaro.

And I would do
anything
to have him.

When Nami told me this morning I was well enough to move to other quarters, hope surged through me. Shintaro would never visit me here in this place of female containment, making me believe my plea to stay had moved the warrior with curiosity, disbelief or both. He intended to see me and deal with what he considered an unpleasant situation.
I
found it to be most pleasant since I harbored dreams of Shintaro holding me, our bodies locked together, him moving in and out of me in slow and rhythmic thrusts, then wrapping my leg around his thigh as he bent down to take my nipple between his teeth…

I felt confident for having kept to my conviction and not
allowing myself to be dominated or victimized first by my husband and now the samurai leader. I wore the scar on my leg with pride, for I had survived, but that didn’t stop my heart from racing, so excited was I to see the samurai village, to see Shintaro. Nami helped me dress in an indigo cotton kimono, wide daisy-colored sash, earth-toned ankle-high stockings and wooden clogs. Pleased with her handiwork, she presented me with a hand mirror so I could see my image. There I saw the face of a young woman looking back at me, the nakedness of her desire, hunger and confidence in herself making me smile.

The mirror is a woman’s soul,
Nami said,
as the sword is the living soul of the samurai.
I turned it over and inscribed on the back of the handle was a leaf from a sacred tree,
a pledge,
she said, that the owner would be faithful to the man in her thoughts when she looked into the mirror. I didn’t have to tell her that man was Shintaro.
She knew.