The Way of the Tigress 1-4

by Jade Lee - The Way of the Tigress 1-4

  And why was she shaking?

  He looked her up and down, his gaze missing nothing. So powerful was his stare that she would have shrunk backward had she the strength. Instead all he did was bring her attention to the ugly scrape on her leg, another on her arm, and a raw gash on her chin. Her favorite russet habit was torn in a dozen places, and her honey-brown hair kept falling across her vision, bringing dirt and dead leaves with it.

  She was a mess, and yet she couldn't focus on anything other than the man before her. He was stepping away from her, and she let out a sound—a terribly frightened, almost animalistic sound that she couldn't believe came from her own throat. But it did, though it made little difference to him. He simply kept moving. It was a moment before she realized he was walking to a rolled bundle of cloth on the ground nearby. He apparently just wanted to retrieve his sack, and his hat that lay near it.

  She watched him pick up his things, his movements beautifully graceful, his gait a kind of rolling, balanced movement she had seen only on seasoned sailors. And yet his stride was different somehow; he moved in a way wholly his own.

  She had questions, but still no voice to ask them. So she remained silent, though her muscles began to ache at the way she was curled into herself. Then, as she watched, the man unrolled a blanket from beneath his heavy pack. It was thin and coarse—a poor man's blanket—and yet she'd never felt better than when he wrapped it around her shoulders.

  It smelled of him, she realized, and she inhaled deeply to further hold his power within her lungs. Her conscious mind identified Chinese herbs and the scent of fresh weather, though what exactly that meant, she wasn't sure. But mostly she closed her eyes and felt calm slip into her soul, a quietness she rarely experienced.

  "Thank you," she said in Shanghainese. She hadn't even realized she'd spoken until she heard his question, this time in the dialect she understood.

  "Are you hurt?"

  She didn't want to answer his question. Truthfully, she didn't want to think about the bruises or pains from what had just happened. But the memories came anyway, and she began to shudder.

  "They are gone now," he said flatly. "I will keep you safe."

  She looked up at him, her gaze drawn to his. She saw the dark pupils of his eyes expand and felt pulled forward, straight into him. He was looking at her with total attention—not even blinking as he seemed to press his strength into her. So she wrapped that thought, that feeling, around her tighter than his blanket.

  "Promise?" she whispered. "You'll keep me safe?" Her voice was small in a way that embarrassed her. And yet she could not change it because she felt like a child, desperately in need of security. Or a woman who needed her rescuer—her very strong, male rescuer—close beside her.

  Then she saw his face relax. For the first time since he'd appeared, he finally seemed human. He crouched down beside her. She watched him, her gaze never leaving his until they were nearly eye-to-eye.

  "I will keep you safe," he promised. Then he put his hand on her shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but it seemed to surround her in a hot, strange wind so welcome to her chilled American soul.

  She breathed deeply again, at last easing her grip on his blanket. "Thank you," she whispered. And a few moments later, she found she was able to speak normally. "I'm not hurt," she said firmly, as much to reassure herself as to communicate with him. "They didn't have time... You came before..." She swallowed, searching for the right words, but he stopped her.

  "I understand." Then she felt his body shift as he looked around. "Is that your horse?"

  Joanna looked in the direction he indicated, and she saw Octavia calmly sniffing the dead grass. The mare stood with her injured leg tilted up, and once again Joanna felt the bite of guilt. This one day's impetuousness had hurt her mare, endangered herself, and involved this man in a terrible fight.

  "I'm so sorry," she whispered as she looked at her rescuer. "I've hurt her and..." She swallowed, seeing a swelling bruise on the man's jaw. "And you, too." She struggled to stand, determined not to cause any more problems.

  He helped her up, but when she tried to give him back his blanket, the man simply shook his head. "You are not warm enough yet," he said. And only then, as he stood beside her, did she hear the undercurrent of fury in his voice. It was a low, steady anger that had been there from the very beginning.

  "Your jaw..." she began, but her words trailed away when she didn't know what to say.

  He frowned, touching his cheek as if only now realizing he'd been struck. "I will see to your horse." He walked quickly, speaking gently to Octavia in Chinese. Indeed, his words seemed to hold more warmth for the animal than they had for her.

  Joanna abruptly stopped herself. What was she thinking? She couldn't possibly be jealous of her horse. Just because her rescuer had shifted his attention from her to Octavia? It was ridiculous, and yet honesty forced her to admit it was true. She wanted this man's attention firmly and completely on her. And what a spoiled creature that made her! After all, she was fine. Octavia was hurt.

  And so Joanna went on her best behavior as she walked to her mare's side.

  Octavia was often skittish, so Joanna was surprised when the horse didn't even blink as her rescuer began stroking her neck. He spoke more Chinese, his words low and too fast for Joanna to understand. But apparently Octavia did. The mare snorted once, then remained still as the man ran his hands across her injured shoulder, down her leg, then all the way to her hoof. His murmuring grew silent as he moved, and Joanna stepped back to give him more room.

  She didn't think he had much experience with horses. His touch seemed hesitant and slow, not at all like the sure movements of the grooms her father employed. But Octavia seemed to like this man, even closing her eyes to half drowse as her twitching skin steadied and stilled.

  There was nothing he could do to help Octavia; Joanna already knew that rest and poultices were the mare's best hope. She began to say so, but the man had such an air of attention about him that she did not want to break his concentration. So she waited in silence, watching and trying not to feel jealous as he lavished the mare with long, soothing strokes of his hand.

  Joanna stared at the man's dusty bald head, her brain finally working enough to understand that he must be a monk. Monks were the only ones in China who were allowed to shave off their long queues symbolic of obedience to the Qin Empire.

  She frowned. She didn't know of a monastery nearby. But then she saw that his head wasn't wholly bald. What she had initially believed to be dirt was actually the beginnings of hair growth, darkening his head with a soft fuzz. He must be traveling. That was the only reason new hair would be allowed.

  She extended her hand, having the most powerful urge to touch the man's head, to feel the new hair. Or did she simply want to touch him? To reconnect with this most amazing man. Whatever the case, she stopped herself, curling her hands into fists to prevent so rude a gesture.

  Then, suddenly, he was done.

  He had been holding up Octavia's hoof, but now he set it carefully back on the ground. The horse shifted immediately, settling her weight upon the leg and snorting something that sounded like approval. Joanna stared, unable to do more than state the obvious.

  "She's better!"

  "Her qi is strong. She is a good horse." Then the man stood, resting his hand on Octavia's shoulder in much the same way he had touched Joanna a few moments before.

  Joanna protested, "But she was hurt. Badly. I thought... I feared that my father—"

  "She will heal." The man glared at her. "But you should be whipped."

  Joanna reared back, shocked. It didn't matter that she'd thought the same thing just a moment before; he had no right to speak that way to her. "How dare you!" she hissed.

  His eyes widened. Apparently no woman had ever spoken in such a way to him, either. But his surprise faded almost before she understood his reaction. Abruptly he was looming over her, his entire body taut with fury. "I dare," he snarled, "because she is a
living creature of value. She is not a toy or a pet. And women need to be taught how to treat such beings before they destroy them with their stupidity."

  "I know how to handle my horse!" Joanna snapped, more irritated with herself than with him. He stood barely an inch taller than her; his clothing marked him as one of the wretched poor, and yet she felt intimidated down to the very pit of her stomach. Intimidated enough that she was fighting back with every fiber of her being, despite the fact that she already knew she had acted irresponsibly.

  So she turned her back on him. She lifted his blanket off her shoulders, folding it carefully as she spoke.

  "Thank you for your assistance. If you provide me with your name and direction, I shall see that you are well compensated for your assistance."

  "Give me your horse."

  Her head shot up, his blanket tumbling awkwardly from her grip. "I beg your pardon?"

  He stood with his legs spread, his arms folded across his large chest. "You wish to repay me. I wish for your mistreated horse."

  Her gaze shot to her mare, who stood quietly at attention, not even eating the grass but waiting patiently, as if ready to be handed over. Joanna turned back to the man. "Octavia is not mistreated!" she snapped.

  "If that were so, then she would not be lame."

  "She is not lame!" Indeed, right now Octavia looked as if she could even bear a rider. Joanna wouldn't risk it, but the horse truly looked as hale as ever.

  The man was apparently unswayed. "You owe me a debt. You said so yourself. I wish your horse. Nothing could be simpler."

  "Nothing could be more ridiculous," she snapped. "You can't even feed and clothe yourself. You cannot manage a horse as well." And with those words, she picked up the man's blanket, awkwardly tossing it at him. He caught it midflight, quickly refolding it into a tight, smooth roll.

  Then he shrugged. "I will see that she gains a good home."

  "She has a good home now," Joanna retorted, finally gaining enough fury to gather the reins. She meant to pass beyond him, to move as fast as the mare could tolerate. But the man stopped her with a single outstretched hand. He didn't touch her, but she found herself unable to physically challenge him.

  "There are Boxers nearby. Do you wish to be unprotected again?"

  Her entire body clenched at his words, and her spine seemed to slick over with ice.

  "Do you?" he pressed.

  "Then you are not..." She swallowed. "You are not one of the Fists of Righteous Harmony?"

  He straightened as if slapped. "I am a loyal Qin!"

  "Of course, of course," she soothed. "But those men. They couldn't be..." Her voice trailed away. They couldn't possibly be the revolutionaries. Not when they'd acted no more honorably than a bunch of dirty highwaymen.

  "They were," he said flatly. "And you are a fool to have thought differently."

  She nodded, too sick at heart to argue. So much for her great vision of bringing American freedom to struggling Chinese. She certainly couldn't risk contacting those men again. The very thought left her as shaken and vulnerable as when he'd first found her. The only thing she could do to steady herself was to continue talking—arguing—with this man. If she kept talking, perhaps she wouldn't melt into a puddle of terror.

  "Please, sir," she said as evenly as possible. "Come to my home. See that our horses are well cared for."

  He didn't answer at first, and she found herself twisting uncomfortably as she waited. She did not want to be alone on this road. She did not wish to be left unprotected again. And despite his arrogant behavior, she had the strangest urge to stay near him, to learn more about him, to... She started, appalled at her thoughts. She most certainly didn't want to do that with him. But she did. Most powerfully so, it seemed.

  Thankfully, he chose that moment to speak, cutting off her startling realization. "I will come," he said flatly. "But only to see that you are properly whipped."

  Some people see only the surface of things, and with just a little knowledge they think they understand it all. It is the wise person who recognizes his ignorance, and it is the person who doesn't know he is ignorant that is the real fool.

  —Lao Tzu

  Chapter 2

  Zou Tun cursed himself with every step he took toward Shanghai. Not even two weeks outside of the monastery and he had already lost his center, broken his vow. It was a simple vow, one most men kept without thinking. And yet for him, apparently he could not remain at peace for two weeks. Not even in the center of his mind, that place where all was quiet, where all made sense.

  And he'd lost his peace because of a spoiled ghost woman.

  He glared sideways at her, hating what he saw. He had never seen a female devil before. His experience with whites was limited to three Englishmen viewed from a distance in Peking. And, of course, all the stories of their atrocities.

  But the woman beside him did not look like she ate children. Her teeth did not seem especially sharp, nor did her eyes shoot fire. And if she were truly very powerful, surely she would have defended herself from the Fists. She had not. Indeed, she seemed no more than a weak and stupid rich woman.

  He should have left her to her fate. He had vowed to not raise a hand in violence again. And yet he had reacted without thought, leaping to the ghost woman's aid without realizing the cost. And now he was saddled with her. She had attached herself to him as all ghosts did, feeding off his energy.

  He ground his teeth together, the bruise on his jaw sending a shooting pain through the left side of his head—the side closest to her. Let her feed on that, he thought with smug anger.

  Then he sighed, knowing he was being foolish. He had touched this woman, held her arm, and seen the horse she rode. She was solid flesh. And though she appeared strange, she was no more a ghost than he was. She was simply an uncivilized barbarian with a poor education.

  He did, however, understand where an ignorant peasant could get the wrong idea. Walking this close to her, he noticed a kind of luminescence about her skin, a glow that could suggest the supernatural.

  But there was no otherworldly coldness about her that he could detect. Quite the contrary. In her orange fabric, she seemed like a living flame, always moving, always shifting as she trudged beside him. In fact, even though she was clearly angry with him, she struggled to remain silent. Twice now she had opened her mouth to talk, then snapped it shut as she changed her mind. How long would her control last? Not long, he guessed. She was a barbarian after all, and a spoiled one at that.

  She lasted longer than he expected, and in the end she said something totally unexpected. She apologized.

  "I have been terribly rude," she began, her voice even and low. "I have yelled and insulted you, and you have merely been trying to help. I know I acted rashly in coming out this far today." She sighed. "I fear I was in a bit of a temper. And I thought I could help—" She shook her head, cutting off what she was going to say. "In any event, it's possible that I would... if I were you... that I might also conclude—incorrectly—that I usually act this way. It's possible I might think that. If I were meeting me for the first time."

  It took him a while to sort through her words, especially since she obviously believed he was in the wrong. Still, she appeared so earnest that he might have accepted her statement at face value. Of course, she didn't know he had been raised on the politics of the Peking court, where such ruses were commonplace.

  So he turned, bowing slightly and appearing to accept her apology. Then, with a sweet smile, he straightened. "You spoke very nicely," he lied. "But you will still be whipped."

  She flinched and he almost laughed. Next would come the tears and pleas, perhaps even a sly offer of various favors. Women would do anything just to get out of a richly deserved punishment. It was all very tedious.

  Except this ghost woman did none of those things. Instead, when she'd recovered from her shock, she burst into laughter. "It must be a strange monastery indeed that teaches a monk that he can order a woman whipped."

>   Zou Tun frowned, thrown. Monastery or not, any man could inform another that his woman had endangered his horses. Surely even barbarians understood that. "You have done wrong," he said by way of explanation. "I will tell your owner such and you will be punished. And no amount of tears or begging will sway me."

  Again her humor startled him, filling the road with a bright laughter. "I assure you, sir, I have no owner. And I will not be whipped. Indeed, I am growing quite anxious to introduce you to my father so that you may try to instruct him." Her expression sobered and her voice dropped. "No one tells my father what to do. Not with his buildings, his horses, or most especially"—she turned and pinned Zou Tun with a hard stare—"his daughter."

  Zou Tun shifted, feeling unsure of himself when addressing barbarian customs. "It is a father's duty to discipline his daughter. How else will she learn appropriate behavior?"

  The woman nodded, clearly agreeing. "Exactly. It is my father's job." She paused for effect. "Not yours." Then she waved her hand in his direction. "But please, don't let me stop you from trying. In fact, I am most anxious to see what his reaction will be. If nothing else, you will certainly gain his attention."

  Zou Tun had no response. The woman's voice indicated that there was more to her words, but he did not understand her meaning. Instead he simply shook his head, speaking his thoughts aloud. "You do not behave as a woman ought."

  She didn't answer beyond a shrug. And then, at last, he understood the problem. She was a barbarian, after all. She had not been properly instructed. So he decided to moderate his attitude. In truth, it would be a sadness to mar her beauty with the lash.

  "Do not worry. I will advise your father to hire a tutor for you. You speak Chinese well enough. Your instructor will read you books on proper female deportment. It will be all you require to act appropriately in civilized society."

  "It apparently didn't work for you!" she snapped.