The Dragon Earl

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The Dragon Earl Page 11

by Jade Lee


  "But—"

  "Don't argue, Evie. Please let me keep my honor intact."

  She sighed, not knowing what else to do. Christopher's sense of honor was a confusing and prickly thing: he could strip the rightful heir of his tide, but he couldn't bed a will­ing woman who would soon be his wife. And they thought women were irrational creatures!

  Chapter Seven

  Evelyn couldn't sleep. There were too many thoughts spin­ning in her head. Mostly her mind kept returning to one question: what did she want? The answer was obvious. She wanted Christopher and the life she'd been born to live as a countess. Unless, of course, she wanted those things because she'd been told all her life that she did. How could she tell the difference? Was she so obedient to the dictates of society that she'd never actually learned what she wanted for herself?

  But if she didn't want Christopher, then what did she want? Not Jie Ke. That much was a certainty. Though she couldn't forget how electric his kiss had felt or how her belly heated at the thought of kissing him again.

  She glanced out her window. No storm tonight. She wished there were a booming, thundering, mind-splitting apocalypse out there right now. Only in the center of such a storm did all her thoughts disappear. She was wiped away during those, leaving just the crashing turbulence of the storm around her—huge, seething, so alive. That's what she wanted. But there was no storm tonight, and besides, she had promised Christopher she wouldn't wander in them any­more.

  She sighed and got out of bed, dressing quickly in a warm gown. Without stays, it was large and loose on her, but she could button this one on without her maid. It was in the Chinese style, with clasps at the shoulders and down the side. Then, as quietly as possible, she slipped out of her room, down and out of the house. There might not be a storm to­night, but there was the night as large and alive in its own way as a thunderstorm. One just had to quiet oneself long enough to feel the textures of the darkness, to be at one with the whispering world. And if she was very lucky, she'd meet the boy from her memory, the night sprite who had danced with her so many years ago.

  She had several favorite paths for her nighttime wander­ings, but only one brought her to the place she wanted, close enough to the house for safety but still sheltered by trees, and far enough away for silence. She found the open grove where Jie Ke and his friend had sparred. Her destination was the far side of the clearing, a place that could not be spied from the windows or doors.

  She walked quickly along the path, rounded the shrubbery, and saw a figure sitting in the center of the clearing. It was he. Not the night sprite, the fond memory of her childhood, but Jie Ke. How odd that part of her knew he'd be there. She couldn't possibly be so attuned to him as to know where he would be in the middle of the night. And yet, she wasn't sur­prised to see him. His legs were crossed oddly, his body ab­solutely still. He was at one with the night, and so she quietly slipped around the edge of the copse to sit where she'd in­tended to sit all along.

  Her back was not so strong that she could mimic his posi­tion. Her legs might contort like that, but her back would scream within moments. So she settled against a tree at the perfect angle to see but not disturb him. She tried to sit with her knees bent, but in the end she stretched them out before her, allowing her skirt to settle warmly about her bare legs. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe in the night. The wind rustled sweetly through the trees, and somewhere a dog barked before quieting. And soon she became part of the darkness, just another living thing taking her ease. If she kept at it long enough, she knew what would happen. She would remember every moment of a stormy night when she was eight. She would taste the wetness on her tongue, feel the crash of the thunder overhead, and know the playful touch of her sprite.

  But she could not find that memory tonight. As much as she tried, she could not forget the man sitting less than five feet away. He was not simply part of the night. He was an en­tity all his own, and she could not force him to fade into the background or expand into nothingness. He was there, and he was watching her.

  She opened her eyes. He was not watching her. The disap­pointment cut at her keenly. She closed her eyes.

  Quiet. Calm. Would he be looking at her now? He was dressed in his bizarre robes again, but with bare feet. Was he cold? It was a chilly night. This was ridiculous. He was in­vading her private moments. She ought to leave. She could find another of her quiet spots. She huffed and opened her eyes.

  His eyes were closed. She waited, irritated with him for no reason at all. She should leave. After all, he had been here first. Instead, she waited for his attention.

  Eventually, he opened his eyes. They were so very white in the darkness. And he and she looked at each other.

  "Christopher wants me to help you." Why in the world had she said that?

  He arched a brow. "Why?"

  "I am very smart and I have studied China. I could prove that you are a fake, that you are not Jacob."

  He dipped his chin in a slow nod, then closed his eyes again. "I am not Jacob; I am Jie Ke. And you are not restful right now."

  She frowned. What did that mean? It had not sounded like a criticism. And yet, it certainly wasn't a compliment. "Why are you out here?"

  He didn't open his eyes. "Sometimes it is easier to lose oneself in darkness than in daylight."

  "I know exactly what you mean." She took a deep breath. "Sometimes I come out and sit for hours. I have a favorite spot at the top of a rise that is perfect for that. My maid knows to find me before everyone else wakes. Mama says that future countesses sleep in beds; only peasants sleep on rocks."

  He glanced about the clearing. "Is this your favorite night­time spot?"

  "No. It is over that way."

  "Then how will your maid find you in the morning?"

  She shrugged. "Maybe I don't want to be found."

  He didn't respond, but the air between them changed. In­stead of simple quiet darkness, suddenly there was sexuality in the air. She had not intended to put it between them, and yet whenever she looked at him, it was there, an echo or a call to her most primal self. She did not want to hear it, but she could not deny how it thrummed in her blood.

  "I should go inside," she said, but she didn't move. "This was a bad idea."

  "Why?"

  She heard no underlying current in his voice, but awareness sparked in his eyes. As she watched him, her nipples tightened, her belly shivered, and she swallowed in nervous excitement. She recognized the symptoms of flirtation, of beginning ex­citement, but with him in this dark place, she felt so much more. It was wrong of her to be here, and yet she didn't want to leave. To distract herself, she leaned back against her tree and switched topics.

  "What is it like to be a monk? What is China like?"

  "What is England like?" he countered. "There are too many answers to those questions, and each would be correct for someone different."

  She leaned forward. "But I want to know how you answer."

  "For me"—he closed his eyes and took a deep breath—"China is quiet. The serenity of a cloud or a mountaintop. And that is my answer to both your questions—about being in China and being a monk."

  She frowned. "Quiet? Truly?"

  "Honestly? Not in the least." A smile pulled at his lips. He had a beautiful mouth: even teeth, full lips, and powerful jaw. "China is loud with animals and people squabbling, just as in any other country. But at the temple, it is quiet. Not a quiet of sound, but a quiet of spirit." He looked down at his lap. "I miss it."

  "But if a soul is quiet, wouldn't it be silent wherever you are? I mean, your soul is inside. If it is still, then what does it matter if you're in England or China or America?"

  His gaze sharpened on her. "That is exactly what Zhi Min would say." Then he grimaced like that wasn't a good thing.

  She didn't care. She liked pricking him, forcing him to ac­knowledge her. "So, your soul isn't quiet in England. Why? What bothers it?"

  Instead of answering, he lifted his chin
in challenge. "Why do you come to the dark?" he asked. "What do you seek?"

  A boy who danced with me. But even as she thought of her sprite, she knew she was lying to herself. She didn't seek the boy; he was long gone. She sought the happiness he'd shown her. "In the dark, I am only myself. In a storm, I am without trappings—not a countess-to-be or lady of this land or even Miss Stanton. I am free of everything but a darkness and a fury so wild that I am nothing beside it."

  "You seek nothingness? That's very Buddhist." He sounded surprised and a little impressed.

  She knew a small bit about Buddha. She had read about him, but knew nothing of his teachings. "If I asked, would you tell me about your religion?"

  "Of course."

  "Even though I am a girl? Even though it's not a proper thing for a woman to press into a monk's religion?"

  "If you ask, I will teach. To do otherwise would be wrong."

  She leaned forward, intrigued. "Then tell me, please! Tell me everything!"

  So he did. Without preamble, he began speaking of what he'd been taught while she peppered him with questions comparing his faith with Christianity. He knew little of the Anglican Church beyond the holidays and basic forms. He had a child's understanding, she realized, something that might be remembered from a boyhood in England. But his knowledge of Buddhism was vast and complex. She strug­gled to comprehend it all. And then . . .

  And then he fell silent.

  "What?" she pressed. He had been speaking of the Chinese nine Immortals and trying to distinguish them from Buddha.

  "You have a mind like Zhi Min," he said softly. "You question everything, explore the corners of thought that I once believed were unshakable until I wonder if I know anything."

  She frowned, unsure whether he admired or reviled her. "Christopher doesn't like that I ask questions. He says that I'll learn more if I just listen. Eventually I'll hear whatever I need to know."

  Her companion snorted. "Chris always had a lot more pa­tience than I."

  "Me, too," she said, laughing for the first time since her aborted wedding. Or perhaps it was longer than that. Since the last thunderstorm. Since the last time she had lost herself into the night. But she wasn't alone this time, and she cer­tainly wasn't lost. She was here with an Englishman turned Chinese monk, and his very presence energized her as much as a thunderstorm.

  Her laughter faded, and she looked at the dark figure across from her. She saw him as a man, and yet she felt so much more from him. Something elemental that called to her.

  He noticed the change, of course. Perhaps he was the orig­inator of it. Perhaps he created the sudden sexual awareness that seemed to fill the space between them. The darkness grew thick with their intimacy, and her breath quickened.

  "Chris has given permission for me to woo you?" he asked. "And here you are in the middle of the night. Do you know what danger you face from me? I could overpower you in seconds."

  She lifted her chin. "I thought you were a monk. Don't monks foreswear physical pleasure?"

  "I have not taken my vow of celibacy yet."

  His words were spoken softly. She felt the danger underly­ing his words, the certain knowledge that he wanted to bed her whether she wished it or not. Excitement shivered down her spine, and that far-off call of man to woman grew louder in her ears.

  "If you attack me, then you will be exposed," she said. "I don't believe your Zhi Min will want a rapist in his temple. And one scream from me will bring the whole house run­ning. You will be tarred and feathered by morning."

  He inclined his head, acknowledging her point. But in his eyes, she still saw desire. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted him to lay her down and ravish her, if it meant that she would be as consumed as she had been this morning. If one kiss could obliterate all thought, if one touch could imprint itself on her mind as a thousand of Chris's kisses had not, then she wanted him to do it. She wanted to know—-just once—what it was like to be consumed by the storm. But the damned man would not move. And she was not that bold.

  "There is a technique whispered among boys at the temple," he suddenly said. "A game that only the masters play. It is a way of touching a woman without even coming near her."

  She frowned. "How is that possible?"

  "When a master meditates, he becomes one with all that is. There is no separation between him and the . . . the All."

  She nodded, waiting for more. When he said nothing, she had to confess the one thing she hated to say above all else. "I don't understand."

  "Are you not part of the All?"

  "Of course."

  "Then if I am one with the All, I will be one with you as well."

  "And you could touch me then, without hands but with ... your mind?"

  He nodded. "Yes."

  "I do not believe it!" She laughed, but it was a nervous gig­gle, because she was titillated by the idea.

  "Perhaps I should prove it to you? Perhaps I should see if I am a master."

  She leaned back against the tree and shut her eyes. "Per­haps you should." She waited, breathless with excitement. It wasn't possible, of course . . . but what if it was? What if he had powers of the mind unheard of in England? What if?

  Nothing happened. She had been a fool to imagine it could. She exhaled her disappointment only to be startled by the stroke of a hand on her ankle. She jerked her eyes open to see him kneeling beside her. One hand stroked the inside of her ankle, then slipped slowly up her calf.

  "It would appear that I am not a master."

  She swallowed. "You are too familiar, sir!"

  "And yet you want this." His hand drew higher to the in­side of her knee and began stroking circles on her thigh.

  "Stop!" she gasped.

  He stilled his hand, but his mouth moved closer. Closer. Slowly, he touched his mouth to hers and then turned his head back and forth so that their lips brushed. "I am on fire," he whispered with awe. "I need to touch you. I need it. Do you feel it?"

  "Yes," she answered, her heart pounding to the rhythm of his caress. It was the danger of the moment that excited her so, she thought. No one had ever dared boldly slip his hand up her skirt, fingers dancing along her thigh. Christopher never did. He wouldn't even if she begged. And she would scream if any other man tried.

  But Jie Ke was different. Whenever he was near, she felt the pulse of the storm, a fire in her belly, and the blustering whirlwind of power that obliterated all thought. Her legs re­laxed, slipping open, and his hand moved higher. She had no undergarments on. She hadn't wanted to bother wearing anything beyond her simple shift, so his path was clear of ob­structions.

  "Have you ever touched yourself, Evelyn?" he asked in a whisper. "In the seclusion of your bedchamber when the sameness of your days sets your mind to screaming, have you touched yourself and lost your mind to the sensations?"

  "Yes," she answered, her mind completely absorbed by the feel of his hand on her thigh. She shouldn't let him. She couldn't. But oh how her breasts ached and her belly quiv­ered. Blood roared in her ears like thunder.

  "Boys at the temple are no different. I have touched myself, I have peered at the women doing laundry and stroked myself until the rush overcomes me."

  She swallowed. She knew about the rush, and she knew how short-lived it was. Would it be different with a man? Would it be different with this man?

  His voice was quiet as he admitted, "I watched Zhi Min with a woman once. I spied on him as he undressed her and put his mouth to her breasts." He looked down, and Evelyn felt his gaze as clearly as if he were touching her there, too. "How does it feel?" he asked. "How does it feel for a woman?"

  She closed her eyes and imagined her breasts bared to the moonlight. She thought of his hands and his mouth on her nipples and her belly quivered. No man had ever touched her like that, but she had caressed herself. She imagined what it would feel like. "Lightning flashes through my blood," she answered. "Bright sharp explosions of light and color pulse behind my eyes."

 
"Spread your legs, Evelyn. I won't take your virginity, but I want to know what it feels like for you. Tell me what you feel." She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Now was the time to decide. She could step away from him, she could obey the dictates of society and flee these sensations. Or she could trust him to give her what she had desired for so many years now. Which would she choose?

  She widened her thighs. "Show me what a monk can do."

  She almost laughed at her boldness. She almost laughed the way she did when she stepped into a thunderstorm and let the buffeting winds sweep her away. Almost. Instead, she put her hands to her breasts and flicked her nipples. Bright flashes of sensation burst through her mind. But those flashes were nothing compared to her body's reaction to the exploration of his fingers. He pushed her most intimate flesh open, slid his thumb all around.

  "Tell me what you feel," he ordered.

  She gasped then nodded. "I feel you," she said. "Your fin­ger is long and. . ." She swallowed. "And slow. I feel your calluses, your knuckle."

  "But how does it make you feel?" he pressed.

  "Wild," she answered. "Free."

  He moved upward to where she was most sensitive. A knuckle that was too hard, too forceful, and she flinched backwards. She gasped and he stilled.

  "Has anyone ever touched you like this before?"

  She didn't want to answer. She didn't want to confess that this was unique, that he was special beyond reason. She did not want to give him that power.

  "Tell me!" He used his other hand and pulled her legs as wide as her skirt would allow. With an impatient curse, he used his free hand to push the fabric higher. She felt the air kiss her thighs, but her most inner core was covered by his hand and she shuddered at how vulnerable she felt and how she loved it.

  "A thousand men!" she burst out, her gaze trapped by his. "A thousand and one!"

  "In your fantasies," he pressed.

  "Yes."

  "And in your dreams, did you ever once imagine a man would drink of your essence? The Chinese write poetry about the taste of a woman. They believe it is magic—that it will bring a man long life if he drinks it daily."

 

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