He waited a moment, arching a single brow, his expression amazingly flat. She continued to glare at him. He casually leaned down and picked up his rice bowl again, then took his time returning to his place on the bed, bending his body and unfolding his legs across the mattress.
"There is one benefit to the Tigress sect," he commented, leaning back on the pillows. "The beds are much, much better than at the monastery." And with that, he smiled.
No, she decided, perhaps it was more of a smirk, although he seemed to be mocking himself more than her. And then he applied himself to his food.
Joanna stared, unable to understand what could make this man—this Manchurian prince—simply accept imprisonment without so much as a whimper of protest. With his fighting skills, he could break out in no time. She stepped forward, touching his thigh to get his attention. His leg muscle twitched beneath her fingers, shifting like a living, powerful thing. But then it stilled as he slowly raised his gaze to her.
She lifted her hands, doing her best to imitate his fighting. She had it completely wrong, of course, and must have looked like an idiot. But she hoped he understood her gestures. She pointed to the door. Would he fight their captors and escape?
He shook his head. "I have made a vow against violence. I do not fight. At all."
She arched a single mocking eyebrow. He had fought well enough against the revolu—the bandits.
"I do not fight at all—unless I am overcome by stupidity."
She lifted her chin at his insult. It was not a stupid thing to rescue her!
"If I had simply stepped aside, if I had ignored your situation as I had vowed, then I wouldn't now be here. I wouldn't be trapped in this room with you, about to be instructed in practices I believe are useless."
She might have believed him. He certainly sounded angry and bitter enough. But he was the one with the key to the room, which she indicated by pointing her finger. He could escape anytime he wanted—with or without the use of violence.
"Yes, I have the key," he acknowledged. "And without it you can go nowhere." He straightened, setting aside all pretense of eating. "But there are more ways to trap a man than a simple lock and key. I hold the key to this room. Someone else holds the key to my prison."
Joanna stared at the man, seeing his rigid body, his darkened expression. The lighting was not good in this room, sunlight filtering only partially through thin ventilation holes next to the ceiling, but in some ways that made things clearer. It gave shadowy outline to his hardened form, delineating not only his powerful muscles but the almost casual way he draped his body. There was anger there, to be sure. But also an underlying acceptance. That conflict seemed to make his body rigid and dark.
Only two possibilities existed. The first was that he truly was trapped by more than just a closed door; something else held him here, something he could not fight. Though Joanna found it hard to imagine what could keep a prince captive, she was certain that there were things he might fear. Perhaps he spoke the truth.
The other possibility was equally plausible. What if he secretly preferred it here? What if he had no interest in accomplishing his other secret mission or whatever it was he should be doing? That would explain his casual acceptance of captivity. She could well believe that a plush bed and beautiful Chinese servants were infinitely better than what awaited him in the outside world.
So was he trapped? Or was he a willing captive? She almost wanted to stay long enough to find out. Almost. But not enough to give up her freedom or her reputation. She had already been gone too long. There were ways to hide a couple days from the gossipmongers: an illness, a visiting friend, a solitary mood, for goodness' sake. She was certainly known for her shifts in temperament. And she had used such excuses to cover a variety of excursions to Chinese and Caucasian scholars. Even to speak with missionaries or statesmen—all those people traditionally denied gently bred women unless strictly chaperoned.
But the Mandarin looked like he intended to stay for weeks, if not months, and that simply wasn't possible. With a sweet smile, Joanna leaned over and grabbed the cooling teapot. Heading for her teacup, she pretended to begin to pour. Then, while he was still relaxed, she threw the tepid water at him. It wasn't hot enough to harm him, but it would startle him long enough for her to grab for the key. Then it would be a quick two steps to the door and freedom.
That was the plan, at least. And it started out well.
She surprised him—of that much she was certain. But that was as far as it went. He gasped only slightly. He moved even less. Brown water dripped down his head and into his eyes. It looked like the action even cut off his breath for a moment. But his only physical movement was to grab her hand as it went to his pocket. That was all. He didn't put his hands up in defense of his face or to clear his vision. He didn't even shake his head. He simply grabbed her hand and twisted, awkwardly torquing her arm around and forcing her to drop slowly to the bed.
She landed in a ponderous heap on the mattress, her eyes wide and her breath wheezing painfully in and out of her throat. He followed her down, still moving with slow, conscious intent. He wanted her to know he was stronger, cleverer, more dominant, and the message came through loud and clear. He settled his weight upon her, pinning her down. She bit her lip to restrain a cry even as she felt her belly quiver in delighted response. His male organ thickened against her, and she tried to shove him away. But far from flinging him from her, her legs seemed to soften, to accept. It wasn't possible. He was being horrible. And yet, her traitorous body didn't seem to care.
He let his face close the distance between them so that when he spoke, his breath heated her lips. "I had thought to give you more time," he said. Tea dripped from his hair into her eyes. "But obviously you are of stronger constitution than I expected." He made the compliment sound like an insult. "Therefore," he drawled, lengthening his words to make them very distinct, "it is time to begin your education."
So saying, he reached above her head. With movements too fast to follow he adjusted her position on the bed while still holding her down. She fought as best she could, but it was a losing battle—not only with him, but with her breath. She couldn't throw him off her without exciting herself. And the moment her inhalations deepened, pain flared, her throat thickened, and her airflow became severely restricted. In the end there was little she could do but breathe steadily.
By the time that battle was won, she had lost the fight against him. Raising her head a bare inch off the mattress, she suddenly realized the horrid truth. She was tied spread-eagle to the bed.
Our souls are transparent. Like mirrors. Through judiciously wiping away the blemishes on our souls, we will naturally come to understand the things around us.
—Lao Tzu
Chapter 4
Zou Tun pushed himself off the barbarian woman, sickened by what he had just done. He was not in the habit of tying up any creature, much less a woman. But she had to understand that there would be no escape—for either of them.
He pushed himself to his feet, still feeling the heat of her burning into his body. How could such a creature ever be considered a ghost? She seemed more substantial than most women he knew, with the exception of the dowager empress. Of course, to compare that lauded woman with this barbarian was ridiculous—and yet he could not help himself. The two had the same fire within them, and he did not like the idea of restraining such energy, no matter what the reason.
But he had no choice, and so he secured her bonds before drying the tepid tea off his face and clothing. It had been a bold move, throwing the drink at him and trying to grab the key. Bold and surprising enough that it would likely have worked with a different man.
But he had been trained in fighting at the Shiyu monastery. He knew how to read the tensing of muscles and the sly look in a man's eye. Even so, she had surprised him enough that he was now wet.
Irritated with himself, and with her for causing such strange thoughts, for pushing him outside of his center, he stomped to
the door and opened it. A girl was waiting, and he passed on a request to see the Tigress Shi Po. He was anxious to begin his training, which meant beginning the barbarian's as well. The sooner they began, the sooner this would end.
He waited impatiently at the door, passing the time by rubbing irritably at his new-grown hair. He had not yet decided if he would keep his shaved head or allow his Qin queue to regrow. And here, yet again he was showing unusual indecision. Was he a monk or a Qin heir? He wasn't sure, except to know it would be extremely difficult to be both. Indeed, he had spent the last few years trying to be both, only to end up with dead brethren, a captive white woman and a conscience so mired in guilt that he could not think straight.
That was why, he supposed, he had allowed the Tigress to trap him here. He could not return to Peking in this state of indecision. His enemies would eat him alive. So he was hiding here, "forced" into useless training while he decided what exactly he wished to do upon his return to Peking.
Because he had to return. He owed it to his father and his country to forgo the monastic life and his personal dreams of enlightenment. He was a Manchurian prince and he could not indulge himself in religious frivolity at the expense of his country. He would not.
At least, he would not for much longer.
He took a step into the hallway, his annoyance growing. He was forbidden from wandering about the large compound. That the Tigress lived in such wealth made him sneer. True religious sects disdained creature comforts as a distraction and temptation. But what could one expect from a female cult that glorified sexuality? Merely this: a focus on the lowest forms of comfort with complete ignorance of the higher possibilities.
Still, he was not above enjoying a comfortable bed or soft cotton sheets. Given his training at the monastery, he believed he could quickly master any tasks here. He would view the time as a restful vacation before returning to the capital. Fortunately, he was disciplined enough to enjoy his surroundings even when they included a barbarian.
Shi Po joined him, a servant girl following her. The Tigress moved gracefully as always, her beauty undeniable. But Zou Tun had seen the coldness within her, and so he felt no desire at the sight of her lithe figure.
"You wish to begin?" she asked, her voice low and melodic.
He nodded, gesturing behind him at the barbarian. Mindful that Shi Po believed the woman had come seeking the Tigress training, he said, "Her throat injury pains her greatly. I had to restrain her to keep her from causing further harm to herself."
The Tigress looked past him, a single brow arched. "She is violent?"
He shook his head. "Not generally. But the pain is significant," he lied. "I assume there are ways to begin training despite her circumstances?"
The woman nodded, then held her hand out to the side. The servant girl quickly handed over two scrolls, bowed and withdrew. The scrolls were then passed to Zou Tun.
"You must first purify yourselves. The instructions are written here for both you and her." Shi Po tilted her head slightly, indicating the other scrolls she had given him. "I assume you are able to read these?"
She was toying with him, seeing if she could insult him. She knew quite well that as a royal Manchurian, he would be able to read.
"Your kindness is unmatched," he drawled. "I am well able to read your secret texts, but I fear the barbarian will not be able. You will have to send someone to read them to her."
She raised an eyebrow as if in shock. "Oh, sir. All my girls are occupied with their own studies. They cannot spare the time. Nor would I ask them, as they are not knowledgeable in matters of barbarians. I am afraid you are the only one I would trust with such a task."
He barely restrained himself from growling at her. Why had he not just walked by when the Fists attacked the white woman? For whatever reason he had helped her, and now he was trapped. Naturally the Tigress Shi Po would force him to train the white barbarian; blackmail wasn't possible unless he was the one who touched the white.
Behind him he could hear the woman struggle with her bonds, her breathing controlled but no less furious. He knew she was trying to gain the Tigress's help, to silently communicate her situation. It was just as well that he was being forced to begin her training. Who knew what the Tigress might understand, even from a mute barbarian? Especially one as intelligent as Joanna Crane.
"Very well," he snapped. "I will call for you if I have any difficulty." And then, with a rudeness that belied his court upbringing, Zou Tun tried to shut the door.
The Tigress stopped him, her slender arm holding it open with a strength that startled Zou Tun. "Do not rush this process, Mandarin," she said, her voice hard. "Moving too fast will ruin it." She glanced disdainfully at the bed. "Especially with a restrained creature."
He nodded in understanding—a single, short movement—and then forcibly pushed her out. It was bad enough that he would have to purify the white woman himself He would be damned if he allowed this she-devil to watch.
He stomped back into the room, unrolling the first of the new scrolls as he did. The text was simple, the pictures graphic. He understood their meaning and purpose. It was; merely the thought of performing such actions that repulsed him.
Or should repulse him.
He set down the scrolls, turning toward the woman lying so open before him. Her robe covered her body a bit, though it would take nothing at all for him to strip her naked. Still, she remained covered now, only her ankles and a bit of one calf showing. Her bare feet remained in full view, white and pleasingly formed. But it was not her feet that would occupy him now.
He would have to touch her breasts, directly above her yin center. His hands actually twitched at the thought. He had touched her once before, but not with the intention of purifying her. He had been curious to discover her texture, her substance, and had learned she felt as warm and soft as any woman. So why was he anxious to do so again?
It was merely his baser self returning. During his time at the monastery, he had ruthlessly quelled the animal in his spirit. Every man had one, but the Shaolin subjugated that creature, channeling it into their fighting skills. But given the tiniest measure of space—such as when Zou Tun had indulged his curiosity on the road to Shanghai—it returned with full vengeance, demanding all manner of depravities.
And now he would have to give it even more space, allowing himself to touch this woman's breasts—to stroke them, to massage them, to purify them. But it would be a cold task, a necessary one done with no more interest than he would empty a chamber pot or set a man's broken leg. Such was his plan, and his only hope of returning to his center.
He sat down beside his bound charge with a determination rarely seen in even the most devoted of monks. "I must purify your yin now," he said slowly. "Yin is your female essence, your womanly energy. Time and coarse living have dirtied it, aging your body and muddying your true purpose of merging your energy with a man's. Therefore, it must be cleansed. Do you understand?"
She had gone absolutely still when he settled on the bed. Indeed, he feared she had stopped breathing. Her eyes were trained on his face, her stomach muscles rippling with tension as he spoke. Clearly she understood his words. If not, she knew he intended to touch her in ways that were not usually appropriate between strangers.
"I take no joy in this task," he stated, praying that such would be true. "I intend to complete it as quickly as possible. Do you understand?"
The woman shook her head, but not because she didn't comprehend. She was afraid, her panic making her breaths fast and shallow. She began pulling at her bonds, struggling ineffectively but with great strength. And when he lay the flat of one hand on her breastbone, her struggles increased to an absolute frenzy.
He knew better than to fight her. A mind caught in a panic had to be waited out. Quietly. Patiently. Eventually she would tire and see that he meant her no harm. Still, it was excruciatingly hard to sit impassively by, one hand pressed gently against her beating heart, while her legs and arms flailed use
lessly at her bonds. Indeed, if she continued to struggle, he worried that she might cut off the blood to her hands and feet. The leather straps were meant for gentle restraint, and yet could still do harm if one struggled too fiercely.
Fortunately for the white woman, her throat pain quieted her long before she damaged her hands or feet. She had to stop struggling to breathe without great pain. And focusing on that alone eventually stilled the frantic tempo of her heart.
"This exercise is not meant to hurt you, Miss Crane," he said, surprised at the rough timbre of his voice. "It will increase and purify your yin. There will be no pain. This I swear," he said. Though in truth, he knew little about a woman's yin. "But for your own health, you must remain calm." He hesitated. "Perhaps I can help you find your center—that place inside you of perfect peace."
He didn't know if he could do it. He had never aided a woman before, much less a barbarian woman. But things would go much easier for both of them if he could. So he closed his eyes, willing his own peace to slip into her body, his own inner quiet to silence her terror.
He felt it work. Beneath his hand her breathing eased. A moment later he knew she had accepted what would come. There were no words to describe the moment, only a certain knowledge that she had bowed her enormous pride to the inevitable.
He opened his eyes and was startled to see a single shimmering droplet slip from her eye. A tear, and then another, from the other eye. And more. They came in a steady stream without sound, without wails, without even the stuttering sobs he'd heard from many women he knew. It was a single silent tear followed by others.
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