Betrothed to the Barbarian

by Carol Townend

  The young man stretched himself before Fei Long, though he failed to match him in stature. ‘Not in front of Pearl,’ he implored.

  Though he trembled, the boy fought to keep his voice steady as Pearl clung to him, hiding just behind his shoulder. At least the dog managed to summon some courage. If Han had cowered or begged for his life, he would already be dead.

  ‘Step away, Little Sister,’ Fei Long commanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pearl.’

  ‘I’d rather die here with Han than go to Khitan.’

  She’d changed in the five years since he’d seen her. The Pearl he remembered had been obedient, sweet-tempered and pleasant in all things. Fei Long had ridden hard from Changan to this remote province, expecting to find the son of a dog who had stolen her away.

  Now that she stood before him with quiet defiance, he knew she hadn’t been seduced or deceived. Zheng Xie Han’s family lived within their ward in the capital city. Though lower in standing, the Zheng family had always maintained a good reputation. His sister had turned to Han because she’d had no one else.

  The tension drained out of Fei Long, stealing away his rage. His throat pulled tight as he forced out the next word. ‘Go.’

  The two of them stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Go,’ he repeated roughly.

  Fei Long lowered his weapon and turned away while they dressed themselves. Shoving his sword back into its sheath, he faced the bare wall. He could hear the shuffle of movement behind him as the couple gathered their belongings.

  The bleakness of the last few weeks settled into his gut like a stone. When he’d left for his assignment to the north-western garrison, Fei Long had believed his home to be a harmonious place. Upon news of his father’s sudden death, he’d returned to find his sister gone and debt collectors circling the front gates like vultures.

  His father’s presence had been an elaborate screen, hiding the decay beneath the lacquered surface of their lives. Fei Long now saw Pearl’s arranged marriage for what it was: a desperate ploy to restore the family honour—or rather to prolong the illusion of respectability.

  When he turned again, Pearl and Han stood watching him tentatively. Each of them had a pack slung around their shoulder. Off to face the horizon with all their belongings stowed in two small bags.

  Han bowed once. ‘Elder Brother.’

  The young man risked Fei Long’s temper to deliver the honorific. Fei Long couldn’t bring himself to return the bow. Pearl met his eyes as they started for the door. The heaviness of her expression struck him like a physical blow.

  This was the last time he would ever see his sister.

  Fei Long took his money pouch from his belt and held it out. The handful of coppers rattled inside. ‘Here.’

  Han didn’t look at him as he took it.

  ‘Thank you, Fei Long,’ Pearl whispered.

  They didn’t embrace. The two of them had been apart for so long that they wouldn’t have known how. Fei Long watched their backs as they retreated down the stairway; gone like everything else he had once known to be true.

  * * *

  ‘Jilted lover,’ the cook guessed.

  Yan Ling’s eyes grew wide. The stranger had stormed up the staircase only moments earlier with a sword strapped to his side and the glint of murder in his deep-set eyes. She’d leapt out of the path of his charge, just managing to hold on to her pot of tea without spilling a drop.

  She stood at the edge of the main room, head cocked to listen for sounds of mayhem upstairs. Her heart raced as she gripped the handle of the teapot. Such violence and scandal were unthinkable in their quiet town.

  ‘Should someone stop him?’ she asked.

  ‘What? You saw how he was dressed.’ Old Cook had his feet in the kitchen, but the rest of him strained as far into the dining area as possible. ‘A man like that can do whatever he wants.’

  ‘Get back to work,’ the proprietor barked.

  Yan Ling jumped and the cook ducked his head back through the beaded curtain that separated the main room from the kitchen.

  ‘Worthless girl,’ her master muttered as she rushed the pot of tea to its intended table. She pressed her fingers against the ceramic to check the temperature of the pot before setting it down. Cooler than ideal, but still hot enough to not get any complaints.

  It was late in the morning and the patrons had thinned, but that was never an excuse to move any slower. Lately it seemed nothing she did was fast or efficient enough. She’d never known any life but the teahouse. The story was she’d been abandoned as an infant in the room upstairs, likely the very same one where a new scandal was now unfolding.

  She paused to stack empty cups onto a tray. At that moment, the young woman and her companion hurried down the stairs, leaving not even a farewell behind as they swept out the door. Yan Ling expected the sword-carrying nobleman to come chasing after them, but only an uncomfortable silence followed their exit.

  The patrons began to whisper among themselves. Her master should be happy. This incident would have the townsfolk lingering over more than a few extra teapots worth of gossip.

  When he finally emerged, the gentleman appeared surprisingly calm. He descended the stairs with a steady, powerful stride and his expression was as still as the surface of the moon. Instead of leaving, he marched directly over to the proprietor and flashed an official-looking jade seal. At that point, even the proprietor’s wife flocked over to welcome him. They ushered him to an empty table at the centre of the room, nearly breaking their backs bowing with such enthusiasm. Her master shot Yan Ling a sharp look, which she understood immediately. Bring tea and fast. She rushed to the kitchen.

  ‘Is there a lot of blood?’ the kitchen boy asked as she pushed through the curtain.

  ‘Shush.’

  She poured hot water over a fresh pot of leaves and flew back out with her hand around the bamboo handle. Back out in the main room, the stranger didn’t even spare her a glance as she poured the first cup for him.

  His robe was of fine woven silk and richly dyed in a dark blue. He wore his thick hair long, the front of it pulled back into a knot in the style of aristocracy. She was stricken by the strength of his features: the hard line of his cheekbones and the broad shape of his face, which narrowed slightly at the chin.

  With a cursory bow, she set the pot down and moved away. There were other tables to tend to and most patrons wanted to drink their tea in peace. Yet her attention kept on wandering back to the stranger.

  Hours later, he was still seated in the same spot. He wasn’t even drinking his tea any more. Instead, he had taken to staring into his cup.

  Government official, they guessed in the back room, though he travelled without any escort and had a sullen expression that continued to sink lower as the day slipped by. Her guess was that he needed something stronger than tea.

  By the end of the day, Yan Ling moved from table to empty table in a restless circle, wash rag in hand, as she wiped away at wooden surfaces rubbed bare from use. The teahouse crowd had long returned to their homes. Only the nobleman remained, still hoarding his cold tea.

  As long as he stayed there, she was supposed to attend to him. Her master had made that very clear while he sat comfortably in the corner, tallying up the cash. The wooden beads of his abacus clicked together, signalling that the day should be done.

  Her feet ached and no matter how much she wriggled her toes in her slippers, the feeling wouldn’t quite return to them. The clang from the kitchen meant that the cook and his boy were cleaning their pots. A mountain of cups and bowls and little plates would be waiting for her.

  Cook tried to get her to pry information from the man, but of course she wouldn’t do such a thing. He’d suffered enough public scrutiny that day to deserve some privacy. She guessed him to be twenty-five years, with a slight crease between his eyes that she imagined came more from deep contemplation than age.

  Gingerly, she approached the table. ‘Does the honoured gue
st need anything?’

  She reached for the clay teapot, only to have him wave her back with an irritated scowl. For a gentleman, he was uncommonly rude, but she supposed wearing silk and jade gave him that privilege. He propped his elbows onto the table, shoulders hunched, to return to his vigil. From the emptiness of his stare, the young woman had to have been someone close to him. His wife? But no man would let his wife escape with a lover after catching them together.

  Yan Ling turned to wipe down her already-cleaned table once more when the stranger spoke.

  ‘I need a woman,’ he mumbled. ‘Any woman would do.’

  Her stomach dropped. She swung around, her mouth open in shock. The stranger raised his head. For the first time, his eyes focused on her, looking her up and down.

  ‘Perhaps even you.’

  Any sympathy she might have had for him withered away. If his tone had been leering, or his look more appraising, it might have been less offensive. But the coldly pensive way he’d said it along with the addition of ‘perhaps’, as if to plunge her worth even further—Yan Ling grabbed the teapot and flung the contents at the scoundrel.

  The stranger shot to his feet with a curse. With a choked cry, her master jumped up from his table and his wife soared like a windstorm from the kitchen, apologising profusely. Even the cook and his boy were gawking through the curtained doorway.

  ‘Get out!’ the master’s wife shrieked at Yan Ling before turning to fuss at their precious patron. The front of his expensive robe was stained dark with a splatter of tea.

  ‘We are so sorry, my lord,’ she crooned. ‘So sorry.’

  Yan Ling clutched the teapot between both her hands while she stared.

  The nobleman swiped the tea leaves away in one angry motion while his eyes remained fixed on her. He had lost that distant, brooding expression he’d worn all day. The look he gave her was possibly worse than the one she’d seen as he’d charged up the stairs. Heat rose up her neck as she stumbled back.

  What had she done?

  ‘That know-nothing, good-for-nothing girl,’ her master railed.

  Her ears rang as she ducked into the kitchen through the beaded curtain. Steam enclosed her, but the clang of the pots couldn’t block the sounds of her master and his wife apologising profusely to the nobleman.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been taunted before, but over the last years the teasing had taken on a different tone as her bone-thin figure had curved its way into womanhood. She’d learned to deafen her ears and stare ahead, never meeting any of the not-so-subtle glances thrown her way. Yet to suffer such insult from someone who appeared so refined—it was unbearable.

  Ignoring the curious stares from cook and the kitchen boy, she slipped through the back door. Her palms were damp and she wiped them restlessly against the sides of her grey tunic. Fear set her heart skittering.

  The teahouse was where she’d lived all her life, but it was not home. The proprietor and his wife were not her father and mother. This had always been clear to her and she’d had to earn her bed, this roof and every meal with service and obedience.

  One moment of hot-headedness. She’d lashed out at a well-dressed nobleman, of all people. She wasn’t even a servant when it came to this man. She was the humble servant of humble servants. Who was she to be outraged?

  She would certainly be scolded by both master and mistress, each separately and then together. Yan Ling could hear them already. She had become too much of a burden to feed, to clothe. She wasn’t even pretty enough to bring in more customers. They might even be angry enough to take a bamboo switch to her.

  A beating was all she’d have to suffer, if she was lucky.

  * * *

  Fei Long rose after no more than three hours of sleep in the very same sparse boarding room where he’d found Pearl, above the cursed teahouse. There weren’t any other lodgings in this small town. To add to his shame, he’d needed to leave a promissory note with the proprietor affixed with his family seal in return for his stay. All of his money had gone with his sister.

  The morning sun streaming through the shutters didn’t bring any more clarity. Brooding over the situation hadn’t given him any solutions either. Once he returned to the capital, he’d have to face the consequences of letting Pearl go. He tied back his hair and dressed himself, attaching his sword at his belt. The robe had dried from the tea that the she-demon had thrown at him. It was a minor mishap in an epic tale of disaster. The tragic tale had started with the unexpected news of his father’s death and would likely end with him throwing himself on the imperial court’s mercy.

  A stretch of dirt road separated the inn from the town centre, which was a cluster of wooden buildings overlooking the market area. Beyond this road, the cities would shrink to the tiny villages and settlements barely known to the heart

  of the empire.

  Pearl’s future was left to the open road and to fate now. Perhaps it was a better situation than his. His sister was free without the weight of the family name bearing down on her. As eldest son, as only son, preserving their honour was his burden.

  An attendant brought his horse from the stable. As he headed toward the animal, a small, grey figure shot out into the street.

  ‘My lord!’

  A quick glance revealed the teahouse girl scurrying in his direction. He turned his back on her as he took the reins from the attendant.

  ‘My lord, please wait.’ She sounded harried and out of breath behind him. He didn’t answer as he faced the horse to the street, leading him by the bridle.

  ‘I must beg your pardon,’ she continued, her footsteps trailing behind his.

  So, none of the impudence she’d shown the previous night. He could be generous. It was a small insult considering, and not worth the trouble.

  ‘Granted.’

  He braced his foot in the stirrup to prepare to mount, when a tug at his sleeve stopped him.

  The young woman recoiled as he turned to her. ‘Please. Forgive my intrusion, honourable sir. My lord…’

  The list of courtesies made him impatient. He frowned as he waited for her to finish. She clasped her hands together nervously and spoke faster.

  ‘I’ve been thrown out by the teahouse owner!’

  Her bottom lip trembled and she looked away, trying to hide the unsightly outburst of emotion. Her hair was tied in a simple fashion and allowed to sweep down over one shoulder. For the first time, he noticed that her eyes were red and slightly swollen.

  ‘That was not my intention,’ he replied gravely.

  Once again, he tried to mount. Again, she reached for him. This time, he stopped before she needed to tug at him. She took two steps away instead of one when he swung around. Did propriety mean nothing to her?

  ‘I am truly sorry for ruining your robe. I’ll wash it myself,’ she promised. ‘If you can just speak to the proprietor and his wife.’

  The horse tossed his head, agitated with the delay. Fei Long felt the same agitation growing within him.

  ‘This matter is not my concern.’

  ‘I’m being punished—’

  ‘As you should be,’ he replied simply.

  There was no cruelty in his words. Despite being attacked without provocation, he hadn’t demanded retribution. She was fortunate he didn’t believe in beating servants.

  ‘But I’ve apologised.’ She blocked his path now, this willow-thin girl who was all eyes and hair. ‘Sincerely, humbly, with all my soul, apologised. Please take pity. Won’t you help me?’

  He made a scoffing noise at the back of his throat, which seemed to startle her. She frowned at him.

  ‘These are your amends to make, not mine, young miss. Go humble yourself before your master and mistress and make your plea with them.’ He started to lead the horse forwards, trying to put some distance between them to show that the matter was closed. ‘Besides, you are not sorry at all.’

  For a second, her eyes flashed. Her mouth hardened much like it had back in the teahouse before he f
ound himself drenched in cold tea. If she’d had anything in hand to throw, he would have prepared to duck.

  Less than a breath later, her expression grew plaintive and accommodating. ‘But I am sorry, my lord.’ She padded beside him, taking two steps for each of his one. ‘I’ve worked for the teahouse since I was a child. There’s nowhere else I can go. A girl like me out in the streets…’

  Her voice trailed away in defeat and Fei Long halted. He was reminded of Pearl, though there was no reason for it. The girl looked nothing like his sister. Unlike Pearl, she was thin, hard-headed and she had a mouth on her.

  He’d spared Pearl from the political marriage that their father had arranged, but now she was left to wander without a home. He would always wonder if his actions had truly been a kindness. Unlike Pearl, this tea girl didn’t have anyone by her side.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  She was taken aback by the question. ‘Nineteen years.’

  A little older than Pearl, but that might be a benefit. He already had a sense that this teahouse girl was much shrewder than his sheltered younger sister.

  ‘Can you read and write?’

  ‘Only numbers.’

  A wispy cloud of an idea had begun to form while he was wallowing at the teahouse last night. A thin spark of light, before it had been effectively doused by a cascade of cold tea flung in his face. The plan came back now as he stared at the same culprit who’d snapped him out of those musings.

  ‘Smile,’ he said.

  She blinked at him warily, then forced her mouth upwards in what ended up looking more like a grimace. He looked down at her feet next. They shrank back from his scrutiny, as she curled her toes back within the slippers.

  His gaze returned to her face and he kept his open perusal for assessment purposes only: dark eyes set against smooth skin. Fair enough to pass for a lady’s. The set of her jaw was too hard and her face was on the thin side, though her features were not unpleasant to look at if she didn’t scowl so. Softened a bit she could even be…pretty. Not that beauty was required for what he had in mind.