Tempted Tigress

by Jade Lee

  He sneered and turned his face away.

  Not sex then. What else could she sell? The answer was obvious. The weight of the opium beneath her skirt was a constant drag upon her thoughts and energies. She knew the Enforcer wouldn’t take it. As far as she could tell, he was incorruptible. But his servants? The sailors and his soldiers? Maybe they could be bribed. She would have to be careful. If any knew what she carried, they could simply take it and leave her with nothing. If the Enforcer found it, she would likely die before she could draw her next breath.

  No, she would have to barter something else now, reserving the opium for later. But what? She tilted her head in thought, her words light and conversational when she spoke.

  “You have kept me alive for a purpose. What is it that you want?”

  The mandarin shrugged. “Entertainment? To relieve the tedium of a long trip.”

  As if on cue, the boat crew began a low chant. They had been calling to one another in their own boatman’s cant for some time. But now the chanting began. The junk was moving, and Anna’s smile became genuine. The boat moved smoothly, didn’t jerk roughly, every inch dragged from a hundred coolies pulling against the flow of the water. That meant they were traveling south; nearer and nearer to Shanghai and the boat that would take her away.

  “Arabian Nights, then,” she said. “I accept.”

  He clearly did not understand the reference. She explained.

  “There is a book. It tells the story of a woman trapped by a wealthy man. She is tasked with entertaining him every night. If her stories bored him, she would be killed in the morning.”

  “How long does she live?”

  “A thousand nights—until she is set free,” she lied.

  “After telling stories?”

  She nodded.

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I will not be amused by stories.”

  She had not expected he would, but it was a place to begin. “Are you so sure?” she challenged.

  His smile was slow in coming, but it spread evenly and thoroughly across his face. “I am very sure. But you are welcome to try.”

  “Then you must leave now and allow me to bathe. Send fresh clothing and a trunk for my effects.”

  He arched a brow. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because an entertainer must have her props. I must be allowed to present my tales in the most pleasing manner possible, and use what meager things I have in secret.” She swallowed, knowing she had to force this issue. “My trunk of clothing must be inviolate. How else could I surprise you?”

  He stared at her, his eyes like dark ink pools: completely black, completely indecipherable. She waited in silence, forcing herself to remain still.

  “Very well,” he said, his tone laced with… disappointment? “It will be done.” He pushed up from his chair. “And I will tell Jing-Li to sharpen my knives for your execution.”

  September 18, 1876

  Dear Mr. Thompson,

  Nine months have passed since your sweet wife Cassie breathed her last. During that time, I have cared for Anna as if she were my own. She has eaten at our table, slept in the same bed with my Beth, and even attended Sunday services with us.

  But my Sam is not a wealthy man and we have another child on the way. Without word or money from you, we cannot keep her any longer.

  Were she a different child—a calmer child—perhaps we could reconsider. My boys adore her, you know, but she frightens Beth with her loud voice and her boyish ways. You perhaps have not noticed since you are at sea so much and home so rarely, but your Anna has a temper. Angry at times, sulky the next. We never know what moves her from smiles to fury, all in an instant.

  Therefore, I have left her with Mother Francis at the Benedictine mission. I have told her all that I relay to you. Perhaps after a spell with the nuns, the wildness will be ironed out of her. Then perhaps, with appropriate compensation, of course, I could bring her back to my home. As it is, she simply eats too much.

  Mother Francis was most understanding.

  In Christ’s love,

  Mrs. Susan Miller

  The use of opium is not a curse but a comfort and benefit to the hard-working Chinese.

  —1858 press release from the British firm of Jardine, Matheson & Co.,

  China’s biggest opium importer

  Chapter Three

  Zhi-Gang allowed the white woman the illusion of privacy. He called for a bath and even had Jing-Li empty out a small trunk for her. But he was no fool; he knew she was a drug-runner posing as a missionary. He had seen enough of them—killed enough of them—to recognize the look. And yet there was something truly uncommon about this woman. Something that drew him even as it enraged him.

  He gave her false security so that she could hide her opium or her money. Or perhaps it was something worse. It didn’t matter. Jing-Li would discover it, and in truth, Zhi-Gang was loath to learn of it. He wanted his mysterious white woman to be something special, someone to justify his fascination, even though he knew she was nothing more than a despicable drug-runner who deserved an ugly, brutal death. He knew, and yet he did not kill her. He hated her, and yet he respected her privacy and allowed her a place to store her secrets.

  He was an inconstant man plagued by irrational fits and moods, and he hated himself for it. That too was nothing new. So he chose to sit quietly beneath the second sail. The breeze was strongest there, and the beat of the drum for the coolie trackers not so overwhelming. Best of all, he could read if he chose. That was the one activity where he did not long for his glasses, and so he doubly cherished those moments of serenity.

  By now, all the boatmen knew he wore glasses and no longer warded themselves from evil whenever they saw. But Jing-Li worried—with good reason—at the appearance of anything western. Now was a dangerous time to be seen as someone who sympathized with—or used anything created by—the ghost barbarians.

  Zhi-Gang smiled. If Jing-Li feared a display of western glasses, how did he feel about a white concubine? It had been Jing-Li’s idea, of course, but only to keep the murder out of the public eye. He would not have imagined that Zhi-Gang might keep the woman alive. He’d probably be terrified enough to kill the woman himself, no matter what his orders were.

  Zhi-Gang abruptly straightened from his seat against the mast, his unfocused gaze searching through the increasingly vague shapes at the back end of the boat. He saw nothing useful, and he heard… nothing unusual. No female screams or curses. But no slosh of water, either.

  He was on his feet, moving quickly through the coils of bamboo rope littered about. He walked by touch and memory, having spent long hours learning the pathways along the deck. By the time he made it to the rear, his entire spirit felt like a disordered brush.

  “Jing-Li!” he bellowed, heedless of how such an unseemly display would reflect upon his dignity. “Jing-Li!”

  “Here!” His friend rushed forward, dropping onto his knees then flat onto the deck in a kowtow. The action was completely appropriate for a servant, but the look of annoyance was not.

  “What have you been doing?” Zhi-Gang demanded.

  “What you ordered, master! Water for the bath. Silks for a gown.” He dared lift his head then. He didn’t speak, but his face clearly showed confusion.

  Zhi-Gang squinted, trying to discern the details of his friend’s face. He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “What were you doing?”

  Jing-Li straightened his arms, lifting his torso off the deck. “What I do best.” When Zhi-Gang didn’t speak, he finally confessed the truth. “Watching,” he hissed.

  Zhi-Gang frowned, trying to understand. When he did, he felt a total fool. Of course there were peepholes in the tiny hut at the top of the boat; the walls were made of bamboo mats! Of course Jing-Li would find the gaps and peer into Zhi-Gang’s bedchamber. That’s what Jing-Li did: He spied. And thanks to that talent, they were now on this mission to a southern port and not dead or imprisoned with the Emperor in the Summe
r Palace. Still, Zhi-Gang couldn’t suppress a surge of anger.

  “Where?” he demanded. He gripped Jing-Li’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “Show me.”

  “You are the master,” Jing-Li hissed. “It’s not fitting…” His voice trailed away. He obviously knew Zhi-Gang would not be deterred. And so, with a sigh, he led the way.

  They wove as silently as possible around the bamboo slats supporting the mat walls. At the edge of the boat, braced on both sides by barrels of water, a small hidey-hole appeared. Jing-Li had even managed a worn blanket set as a cushion to allow a spy to sit more comfortably.

  Zhi-Gang frowned. “How often do you look in on me? Do you watch me as I shit?”

  Jing-Li shrugged, straightening. “My life rests in your hands. I do not take your safety lightly.” Then he grabbed hold of a barrel and began to shift it for more room.

  Zhi-Gang’s hand shot out, gripping his friend’s arm. “Go find out when we will arrive in Jiangsu province.”

  Jing-Li’s face held genuine surprise. “But… why?”

  He couldn’t answer. His friend had reason to be startled. How many times had they spied together on the lesser women in their quarters at the Forbidden City? From the ages of thirteen to fifteen, Jing-Li’s aunt’s home had been a particular favorite, with excellent peepholes into the women’s area.

  And yet, this woman was different. This time was different. Zhi-Gang had no tolerance for his friend’s prurient lusts. It sullied the white woman in some indefinable way. That he did not understand his attitude bothered him, but it did not change his mind. “You will not spy on this woman.”

  Jing-Li’s face darkened, and his fists tightened. “Enjoy her if you must, Zhi-Gang, but do not grow attached,” he warned. “She must die before we reach Jiangsu.”

  Zhi-Gang knew it was true, and yet he could not stop the surge of fury that boiled through him. “Do not seek to instruct me!” he snapped. “Without me, you would be dead alongside the Emperor’s guard!” For all Jing-Li’s spying, it had taken his own Enforcer’s blades to make their escape. And even then, they had been unable to save the Emperor.

  Jing-Li did not answer, though he obviously struggled with the desire to speak. In the end, he bowed and backed away even as he threw in a final suggestion: “Use her roughly, my friend, and loudly. I will make sure her death looks like rigorous enthusiasm.” Then he slipped around the barrel and disappeared.

  Zhi-Gang forcibly restrained himself from bellowing after his friend. He had never enjoyed violent bed sport like many others of his age and status. The sight of bruised and bloodied women disquieted his qi to the point of illness. The process of strangulation during bed play was another barbarian import that appealed to only the most corrupt of his countrymen. And yet, it would be a ready excuse for a concubine’s demise.

  A noise from within his chamber drew his attention: a soft, feminine gasp and a large splash. He struggled with his conscience but could not stop himself. He wanted to see the white woman. He needed to understand what about her drew him so strongly. His discussion with Jing-Li forgotten, he settled quickly down on the blanket and pressed his eye to the peephole. Two peepholes, in fact, perfect for relaxed spying. But he saw nothing. With a silent curse, he drew back and put on his glasses. Then, at last, the chamber grew distinct, the muted light became bright enough to see.

  No one. He could see the outlines of the wood tub, but… A leg. One long leg lifted out of the water, barely discernable before the view was cut off by his desk. Whatever had possessed him to leave his desk there?

  A sudden eruption of noise and form: the woman rising up from where she’d been submerged beneath the water. He had not realized how every sound carried so clearly. He could hear the splash of droplets on the deck, her gasp of breath as she stretched upward, and the rush of water that streamed from her hair back into the tub.

  She was… bouncy. That was his first thought. Given his youthful pursuits and his current age and status, he had seen and enjoyed many a Chinese female. They were, as a rule, small with crippled feet, tiny hands, and little breasts. Not this woman. She dwarfed the round wood tub in which she sat. Her legs—what he could see of them—were sturdy. Her hands were large by comparison and her shoulders broad. But what riveted his gaze were her breasts. Big breasts. Large bouncing breasts that jiggled as she wrung out her hair.

  He was fascinated. She was arched over, her back a long, beautiful line on which he detected the shadow of ribs on a body deprived of rich foods. And yet, even as she revealed her thin body, her breasts dangled like ripe honey pomelos. Would her skin be resistant like their rinds? His hands itched to touch, his mouth watered just thinking of their sweet taste. Her flesh would fill his hands to overflowing, and still there would be more to suckle.

  She finished twisting the water from her hair, and she straightened and wound the thick mass on top of her head. With her arms raised, her breasts lifted even higher and he at last caught his first sight of a white woman’s nipple. He had thought they would be pale like the rest of her skin, but now he saw it wasn’t true. Her nipples were dark, like ink made from tea leaves. They were puckered from the chill air and shaped differently than he expected—flatter, more round, and yet no less pleasing. Indeed, he spent much time watching, trying to decide on the best flower analogy for those lifted brown tips. None came to mind, though his mouth and tongue grew restless imagining their shape and texture.

  Blood pounded in his ears, and his legs spread naturally to give his sex more room. He longed to touch himself, to relieve the ache inspired by this woman, but he held himself back. It was not dignified for a man such as himself to sit on a boat deck, hidden though he was, and fondle himself.

  Yet, he did not stop watching. The woman leaned over the side of the tub, reaching with long fingers for something on the floor. Soap. It was Chinese cake soap such as any fishwife might use. For the first time since fleeing Peking, he mourned the loss of his western rose soap. How sweet she would smell with the scent of flowers upon her skin.

  She applied the soap vigorously. He had heard the whites were fastidious in their bathing, but he had not expected such furor. Every curve, every dimple, every inch was rubbed until he could see a fine pink cast even from this distance. Her face, her long neck, her white shoulders, and the full length of each arm grew flushed from her ministration. And his cock throbbed thick and heavy against his thigh.

  Her breasts came next, and he was disappointed that she spent no more time there than anywhere else. And yet, there was still excitement in the tantalizing way she lifted and moved them. And when she squeezed the sponge, sluicing water down her chest, he nearly released his seed right there. His mind seemed to fixate on that rapid gush of water. It flowed over her breasts, sluicing across her nipples, only to cling there, hovering, beading.

  In truth, he couldn’t see these tiny details, but his mind created them. And in his thoughts, he was inside, licking each sparkling drop.

  He must have made a sound. He must have done something to alert her, because she abruptly froze. He saw her straighten. She tucked her knees beneath her such that she was kneeling in the water, her hands tight on the tub rim. Then she turned, slowly rotating so that she could see every darkened shadow in the room.

  The sight made Zhi-Gang’s blood heat even further. The way she turned, shifting slowly as she craned her neck one way or another—it gave him a full and glorious view of her. He saw her breasts from all angles, watched them bounce with her movements, and yes, he imagined those sweet drops of water slicking her body with the most bewitching perfume.

  But then she stopped. She must have again believed herself alone, because she leaned back against the tub wall. Her knees tucked momentarily against her chest, compressing her breasts into fat pillows, then she slowly extended her legs.

  To Zhi-Gang’s great delight, she pushed each leg high in the air—probably to keep any drops of water and soap inside the tub. Tien, she had long, long legs. He had not thought her s
o tall, but of course she’d hunched to hide her white woman’s height.

  The desk that blocked his view was no problem at this angle; her limbs extended above the plane of its hard surface. And she moved with such languid care that he could watch the way her thigh and calf muscles flexed beneath the smooth expanses of her porcelain skin. She allowed one leg to dangle over the tub edge, bouncing slightly against the side. The other foot was drawn close in as she began to soap it. He noted the high arch and tiny toes on her large, healthy feet. He had never liked . the Han Chinese tradition of binding, and he smiled as she took her time slipping her fingers between each of her tiny toes.

  How beautiful a full foot was! He vividly remembered his sister’s screams during the binding process, and ever since then, the sight of crippled golden lotuses had always nauseated him. But this woman was whole, this woman’s body strong in its full perfection.

  She moved to soap her ankle and calf, flexing and arching her foot as she slowly thrust her leg through the circle of her hands. Up, up, up her leg went, while her hands slipped from around her ankle to underneath her calf, then she rounded the slight bend in her knee before drawing high on the inside of her thigh.

  Zhi-Gang’s breath caught, his mouth dropping open as she paused—leg still raised—to soak the sponge with water. Then, to his absolute delight, she drew her leg back in, raised her arms high—which also lifted her breasts—and squeezed the sponge. The deluge felt like a release to him; water sluiced down and he sighed in delight.

  A single large bubble perched on her ankle. As the water hit, it popped and disappeared, but not in his imagination. In his mind’s eye he saw that bubble slide up her leg, coiling around beneath her calf and knee until it settled into the dark hair that was hidden from his view. The thought was so compelling that he had to stifle a groan, his momentary release gone as he imagined his hands and organ plunging deep inside her. His dragon was no longer quiet against his thigh, but reared up full, proud, and very hungry. He would pierce that bubble between her thighs. He would lift her hips so that her long legs gripped him tightly behind his lower back. He would use the sponge to trail spicy perfume across her breasts and into her cinnabar cave.