Her panic faded.
Her pain receded. A bit.
And finally her breath returned—albeit in a stuttering flow through a raw, agonized throat.
Only then did she focus outward. Only then did she open her mind to what her senses were telling her. She was on a bed in a small room without even a window. She was naked to the waist, since the sheet and blanket had fallen away from her. And she had her hand over a man's mouth. A Chinese man.
The Chinese man. The Mandarin who had hurt her in the first place.
She squealed in fear, scrambling backward as fast as she could. Except the squeal released another firestorm of agony in her throat, closing off her breath again. She ended up curled on her side, her body clenched in a tight ball of horror. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to help herself. She didn't know anything but fear and pain and—
"You are safe here. Do you not remember my pledge to keep you safe? Do not fear, barbarian. You will not be harmed."
She opened her eyes enough to glare at him. His assurances meant nothing. If it weren't for him, she wouldn't be in this position right now She wouldn't be gasping for her breath. She wouldn't be...
Well, she might have been severely hurt by the bandit revolutionaries. In fact, hadn't they said they wanted to kill her? Hadn't they been about to do just that? This man had stopped them. If it weren't for him, she would probably already be dead.
She frowned, trying to sort through her confusion. Obviously the Manchurian didn't want her dead. He already saved her life once, and was now warning her to remain calm so that she wouldn't choke? Therefore he did not intend to kill her.
But there were worse things than death. And one of them might just involve being locked naked in a tiny room with a depraved man. She relaxed her arms from about her knees, lifting her head enough to inspect the man beside her.
He looked much as he had before. He wore loose peasant clothing, had a serious face—cleaner than she remembered—and the dark, fathomless eyes of a man who kept secrets. And that was when she remembered why she'd been hit in the throat.
He was a Manchu—most likely one of their princes—traveling in secret, probably on a dangerous mission. And she'd figured it out. And, idiot that she was, she'd told him her deductions. That was when he'd hit her throat, knocking out her voice and her breath at the same time.
She bit her lip, wanting to talk but knowing better than to try. She had no wish to revisit that kind of pain again. Instead she slowly straightened, intending to find a way to promise him she wouldn't tell. His secret was safe with her. Honest.
Except her movement recalled one more fact to her attention: She was naked. On a bed. With him.
She sat up, wrapping the sheet about her. She pulled it and the blanket tight and glared in question at him. Why exactly was she naked?
Apparently he wasn't immune to shame. His tan features flushed with embarrassment; then he slowly stood, easing off the bed and onto a simple stool nearby. There was a table as well, covered with scrolls, but he ignored them. And behind the table was a small washstand and a dressing screen covered with an elaborate painting.
"Are you feeling calmer now?" he asked.
She nodded, but did not for one moment lessen her glare.
"You are perhaps wondering about your clothing." He glanced around the room. "Perhaps even about where you are and what is going to happen." He sighed. "Unfortunately, that will take some time to explain."
She lifted her chin, folding her arms more securely across her chest, trapping the blanket where it was. As far as she knew, they had plenty of time.
"If you can remain calm, I promise to explain things as best as I can." He paused. "But first, are there any... any body functions you wish to take care of? Any pain—other than your throat—that needs attention?"
She hadn't been thinking about that. Up until now most of her focus had been on breathing. But now that he mentioned it, she did need to use the necessary. She straightened, glancing about the room.
There was nothing she could use, unless it was behind...
"You will find what you require behind the screen," he acknowledged as he extended his hand. "There is clothing there as well."
She took his hand reluctantly, but it was the easiest way off the bed while still keeping the sheet and blanket around her. He gave her as much distance as he could, supporting her hand as she climbed down, then released her immediately afterward.
She crossed the tiny room, ducking behind the screen as her urgency increased a hundredfold. She barely got the sheet unwrapped in time. And then she received another shock—one that made her cringe in horror, not once, but multiple times as the implications sank in.
She was hairless. It was all gone! And not from her head; that was neatly braided in a queue down her back. It was her other hair. Gone!
At first she thought it had fallen out, that something had made it just disappear from her body. But that, she realized, was ridiculous. It had been shaved off. Someone had spread her open, taken a razor, and neatly, carefully shaved her clean.
The very thought gave her chills. Who would do such a thing? And why? The when was obvious: She'd been unconscious for who knew how long. But why? And what did it mean? What was going to happen to her?
The questions spun in her mind, creating a clutter that threatened to break her control. But she dared not risk choking again. So she modulated her breath and tried to think clearly.
She didn't have any answers, so—obviously—her first step was to get some. If she was a prisoner, she would have to find a way to escape. If the Manchurian was a depraved monster, she would have to find a way to defend herself. Simple. Easy. And not something she could accomplish while hiding naked behind a privacy screen.
Carefully she cleaned herself up, checking her body for any other changes. There weren't any, except for the lack of hair. So she finally straightened, searching for the clothes the Manchurian had mentioned.
But there weren't any. Not real clothing, at least. There was nothing except a flimsy silk robe of the darkest burgundy, which, in truth, was quite beautiful. It slid onto her body like... well, like silk—all slippery and cool in the most sensuous of ways. The design was interesting as well. It was of a tiger climbing up a mountain, not down out of a tree, as in the traditional design.
Another robe rested beside hers. This was a larger one, obviously meant for a man. It was dyed blue, and it displayed in green thread a mountain dragon slipping in and out of the clouds. An interesting pairing, she thought. A tiger climbing a mountain. A dragon slipping in and out of clouds. Truly, she wondered if these things had been placed here by chance, or if there was some meaning. Perhaps...
"Miss Crane?" came the Manchurian's voice from the other side of the screen. "Miss Joanna Crane, are you unwell?"
Perhaps, she thought with a sigh, she was simply avoiding what awaited her on the other side of the screen. But it was time now. She took a deep breath and tied the robe securely about her waist. Then, before she emerged, she grabbed the other robe. Its dark blue belt might be useful. As weapons went it wasn't much, but it was all she had. And as luck would have it, both robes had pockets. She quickly slipped the tie into one and did her best to disguise the bulge.
"Miss Crane?"
She would have said something, but she couldn't. Still, the urge to speak was difficult to suppress. So she stepped quickly from behind the screen, smiling slightly to indicate she was fine.
He inspected her from head to toe. His eyes didn't linger anywhere in particular, but she couldn't help wondering about the hair. Did he know? Had he been the one to do it? Her face heated in embarrassment, but she quickly pushed that aside. Anger would serve her better, and so she held on to that emotion, pushing her fears down as much as possible.
"You are unhurt?" he asked, his voice cool and detached.
She nodded, then passed him, heading for... where? He was sitting in the only chair in the room. He abruptly stood, crossed beh
ind the screen, and grabbed the chamber pot. Without another word he picked it up and carried it to the door. He had to pause to unlock it, pulling a key out of some secret pocket within his clothing. He accomplished the task quickly, opening the door and setting the chamber pot outside. Joanna had a brief glimpse of a sunlit hall, and the faintest scent of incense was carried to her upon the soft notes of a Chinese lute. It was a strange thought, but then this was a strange place.
Then the Manchurian was back, carrying a tray of something steaming in a small bamboo container. She might have escaped right then. She might have made it out before he set down the tray and relocked the door. But her stomach was rumbling, and she was suddenly starving as she caught a whiff of the sweet meat dumplings she was now sure waited within the bamboo container. So Joanna stood quiet, reasoning that there was little she could accomplish in a robe and with no voice.
Besides, the Manchurian had promised to tell her what was happening. She settled in the chair—his chair—and awaited her meal and explanation.
She was not being polite. Indeed, she was well aware that in Chinese society the woman often stood while the man ate. But she was not Chinese, and he might as well begin to accept that now. In her society, if anyone was going to stand it would be her jailer—for that was indeed how she had begun to see him. After all, he was the one with the key.
He turned, frowning slightly at her position and attitude. But she simply lifted her chin, so he shrugged, choosing to sit across from her on the bed. Indeed, he reclined in such a negligent pose that she began to think he had the better seat. And that he looked very handsome in that pose. His muscles, though lax, were clearly defined. His chest was obviously broad, and his eyes—those damnable dark Chinese eyes—seemed even more intense than before.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
She nodded, unsettled by her thoughts. He offered her a bowl of white rice and chopsticks. She took them greedily, but he did not immediately release them.
"The sleeping potion will sometimes make one's stomach sensitive. Please eat slowly."
She nodded in understanding. Then she looked down at her bowl. What she had initially believed to be rice was actually more like rice porridge. Or mush. How was she supposed to eat this? And with chopsticks?
She looked up at her jailer. His bowl contained fine Chinese rice. It was stickier than most Caucasians preferred, made for eating with chopsticks, but was of obvious good taste and texture. He was eating with relish. Then he deftly nabbed two steaming dumplings from the bamboo container and dropped them into his bowl.
Joanna leaned forward, looking for more of the succulent-smelling dumplings, to find the container now held only sauces of a variety of colors: mustard yellow, thick reddish brown, even a thin, oily orange. But no dumplings.
Of all the greedy pigs! she thought with disgust. There had been two dumplings—one for each of them. Well, she refused to be denied so wonderful a treat. She set down her bowl, reaching for the teapot. It was Chinese tea; she recognized the scent. Likely it would have tea leaves swimming in the brew, but she'd tried it before and it was actually quite pleasant.
She smiled sweetly at the Manchurian and filled two cups. Then, contrary to her upbringing, she did not hand him the tiny porcelain but left it on the tray. He smiled his thanks, leaning forward to take his cup. When he did so, she neatly plucked one of the dumplings from his rice bowl.
He noticed her action immediately, and his eyebrows shot straight up on his bare forehead. Joanna simply lifted her chin, smugly raised the dumpling with her chopsticks—no mean feat—and dropped the whole thing into her mouth.
It tasted heavenly. The meat was sweet and tender, the dough a perfect, fluffy accompaniment. Obviously this household had an excellent chef and a large purse. Even she, with all her father's money, had trouble finding meat this tender.
And then she swallowed.
She hadn't forgotten her tender throat. Indeed, she was excruciatingly aware that she must keep each and every breath a shallow, calm flow of air. But there had been so much else to worry about that she had forgotten to think ahead regarding swallowing. No meat, no matter how tender, would pass through her throat without the most severe pain.
And severe pain was exactly what she got. Severe enough to make her gasp, dropping her food bowl as she gagged. And gasped. And whimpered. A cup of tea was pressed into her hands.
"Drink. It will help," the Manchurian urged.
Joanna didn't question. She brought the nearly transparent porcelain to her lips and sipped the hot, soothing water. For that was exactly what it was: steaming hot, greenish water that eased the constriction in her throat. She didn't care that it tasted vile. Nor did she care that, as she drank, the back of her mouth and tongue grew numb. Numb was exactly what she wanted. And as the pain eased and her breath returned, she began to understand what she'd just done. She'd stolen food that she couldn't eat and been properly repaid for her efforts.
She would have apologized. She would have said something, but of course she had no voice to speak. So she simply looked at her lap in shame and frustration. If she could talk, she would have demanded an explanation by now. If she could talk, she would have stomped to the door and screamed until he unlocked it or someone came to rescue her.
But she couldn't do any of those things. She couldn't even eat her favorite food when it was brought on a beautiful platter to her door. All she could do was sit there and feel miserable while waiting for an explanation that obviously wasn't coming.
At that thought, she lifted her gaze and glared at her captor. She didn't know if he could understand her thoughts. Indeed, he appeared supremely indifferent as he calmly pressed her bowl of rice gruel into her hands and returned to his lounging position on the bed. She tried glaring at him some more, mentally sending thoughts of fury his way. But they had no effect, and in the end her own growling stomach forced her to eat her rice paste.
It was a daunting meal, a lumpy white paste that looked as appetizing as wet clay. But she was starving, so she lifted her chopsticks and tried to scoop up a bit. She had learned the use of chopsticks when she'd first gotten to Shanghai. Her Chinese nanny had taught her, and Joanna still occasionally enjoyed private meals where she used them. But scooping up wet paste on two bamboo sticks was beyond her current skills. She barely got any food at all, and was nearly sobbing in frustration when her captor released his own frustrated sigh.
Abruptly setting aside his food, he quickly stepped outside the room. But he didn't actually leave. Instead, he gestured to someone and waited quietly for that person to join him.
Joanna didn't move. She simply waited, choosing to watch rather than struggle uselessly with her rice paste. Her jaw dropped in shock as a stunningly beautiful girl stepped up to her captor, head bowed.
The girl's pose was all that was subdued about her. Her skin glowed, and her eyes were alight with intelligence as she glanced coyly inside the room at Joanna. She and the Mandarin spoke quickly, in voices too soft for Joanna to understand. Then the woman bowed and quietly slipped away, returning moments later. She carried a single Chinese soup spoon of the finest porcelain, obviously for Joanna's use. She handed it over, bowed, and retreated.
In short, the girl did nothing remarkable—merely fetched a spoon. But Joanna watched, feeling mesmerized by the willowy grace with which she moved. The girl seemed to flow through space, as if her entire being harmonized with her task, with her environment, and with herself.
Indeed, that perhaps was the true source of the girl's beauty: simple elegance of motion, rather than of face or form. Objectively speaking, the girl's features were not particularly remarkable. In fact, thinking back, Joanna thought her nose rather small and her eyebrows thick. But the peace radiating through her gave the impression of surpassing beauty.
Without thinking Joanna stood up, wanting to go to the woman. She wanted to talk to her, to learn how the girl maintained such a wondrous appearance. But before she could do more than stand, her c
aptor closed the door and returned, spoon in hand. Joanna looked mutely at the door, and he shook his head.
"You cannot go out, Miss Crane. You and I are fated to stay in this room for a long, long time, I am afraid."
Joanna blinked, the heaviness of his words hitting her almost as forcefully as his meaning. He sounded as if he dreaded the coming days. But why? What were they to do in this chamber, locked together?
She let out a tiny gasp of alarm, but he was gentle as he pressed the spoon into her hand.
"Do not be afraid. In truth, you and I are richly blessed. We are to learn the secrets of a very exclusive sect of Taoism. We are to study together, to seek enlightenment."
She narrowed her eyes, reading his expression. His body seemed heavy and dull. Indeed, if she hadn't understood his words, she would have guessed he was speaking of death or some excruciatingly unpleasant task.
She set down the spoon, choosing to remain standing as she stared at him. Then, very deliberately, she folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. She made her movements slow and very firm so he would understand. She would not study anything with him. Certainly nothing that required parts of her body to be shaved. What he did was his own affair, but she would not participate.
Indeed, she absolutely demanded to be returned home.
He settled back on the bed, reclining not so much with ease as exhaustion. Joanna frowned, glaring at him, trying to make him understand. When he returned to toying with his food, she actually stamped her foot to gain his attention. She stomped her bare heel. No reaction. Twice she stomped. Even a third time, hard enough to jar her bones all the way to her hip.
Nothing. In the end she stomped to his side, folded her arms with crisp, hard movements, then shook her head no.
He looked at her, his expression dark and empty. "I understand your anger, Miss Crane. Indeed, I share it. But there is nothing we can do but make the best of this situation." He straightened, coming to stand directly before her. "You will not be going home. You will not be speaking with anyone." His voice caught on those last words, and he had to clear his throat before he could continue. "You will learn to accept the situation as it is and hopefully benefit from the experience." He sighed, leaning back on his heels as he, too, crossed his arms over his chest. "There is nothing we can do to alter this path. And anger serves no one."
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