The Dragon Earl

by Jade Lee

  He was undeniably beautiful. His muscles were lean and long, his torso broad in just the right way. Even the hair on his skin seemed sleek to her, like the fur covering of a stun­ning wild animal. She could have sat and stared at him for hours, watching the way he moved and slept.

  Or she could have if she weren't so cold. If it weren't the middle of the night and she had no responsibilities in the morning. Or if she didn't wish to be in a warm house with a bright fire and a thick cup of hot chocolate. Obviously, Jacob was used to this kind of weather. He had traveled here from China, often on foot. Sleeping outdoors was part and parcel of his life. But not hers.

  He wanted to be a monk—she wondered if that meant a celibate monk—in China, of all places. He fought like a de­mon and had killed people. The things he did and said were so alien, even if they fascinated her. Who thought of "giving over" his revenge? She still had no idea what that meant.

  The inner workings of his mind were yet another fascina­tion. She could spend her entire life trying to understand the complicated man lying before her and still have more to ex­plore. And yet, did she want to?

  The thoughts she had been trying to hold at bay—the regret at her loss of virginity, the knowledge that she had a family who expected her to act in a certain way, the fiancé she had just betrayed—all crowded into her mind. She had thought they would wait until morning, prayed that she could have one night of bliss.

  Well, it had been blissful, and now . . . She sighed as she gently covered Jacob in his robe, not knowing what to think.

  She closed her eyes and tried to think of Christopher, but within moments her mind slipped and replaced him with the image of Jacob. She saw how he looked at her that first night after he had—after they had—begun their sexual explo­rations. He had resettled her clothing, then stood. She re­membered his words so clearly.

  To see the truth with clarity, and to search for a better answer. That is what it means to be a monk.

  He had told her right then who he was. He had said what he wanted and how he struggled every day to grow into a better man.

  She realized now that she had fallen in love with him at that very moment. What man worked so hard against his own frailties? No one she had met. Even Christopher, whom she adored, focused more on his strengths, on maximizing his ac­complishments without regard to . . . to . . . well, to anyone else, including herself.

  But Jacob was different. And now that she knew more of his past, of what he had suffered in China, she was even more impressed. Add to that his encouragement for her to explore her life—it was her own life, he said, her choices were her own—and her heart could not fail to follow. She was becom­ing more because of Jie Ke. And the shared sexuality was only a small part. She would never have dared see a fight before, would never have thought to visit Gladys, would never even have imagined a different role for herself than what had been presented to her. But now she had.

  Jie Ke was an impressive, admirable man. And he'd made her into a woman who could grow into something equally amazing—not a countess, but something more. And that something more was something she'd never thought possible. In less that a week, she'd become a woman who could learn from Gladys, who could attend pugilistic matches without shame, who could challenge the world on her own terms. Who knew what was possible in her future?

  And therein lay the conflict. Her spirit yearned to become more, to grow, to explore, to be a woman in ways that she'd never imagined. But she wanted to do so from the comfort of a warm bed in a house with servants who would do her bid­ding. She was a revered member of her little community, and her status would only increase when she became a countess. She would host balls and create opportunities for intellectual discourse, for political change, for art and society and civiliza­tion. That was no small thing, and she had been groomed from birth for such a life.

  But that was a life with Christopher, not Jie Ke. It was the life she knew. It was categorically not a life following a monk on his travels back to China. And yet, as she sat there, watch­ing the wind ripple through the fabric of Jie Ke's robes, tears began to slip from her eyes. Her heart swelled when she looked at him. Her body tightened in lust, and love seemed to expand out of her to surround and infuse him. She loved him. Oh God, she truly loved Jie Ke. She loved how he made her feel. She loved who she became—or had the chance of becoming—when she was with him. She loved everything about their time together. And yet. . .

  "I can't," she whispered, horrified to realize that she was so small a person. "I just can't give up everything I've ever known."

  Would that she had realized this an hour ago. Would that she had come face-to-face with the knowledge of her cow­ardice long before she had walked up the rise and into his arms. Before she had betrayed Christopher. How was she ever to explain this? How was she ever to look at her own children and say, "Grow strong, my children, and fly free because I was too frightened to do it myself."

  She tried to choke back a sob but failed. Jie Ke stirred, opening his eyes and focusing on her with sudden clarity. She tried to hide her sorrow, wiping at her cheeks, but he saw. He understood. And true to his nature, he didn't bluster or de­mancl an answer. He merely rose slowly to a sitting position before her. "Evelyn?"

  She touched him. How could she not? He was even more beautiful when he looked at her like that. He waited for her to speak, giving her his complete and total attention. What man would ever listen to her like this again?

  "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

  "I. . . um . . . Shouldn't I be apologizing to you?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "I don't regret it. I don't regret any of it!"

  He stroked his hand across her cheek. "It doesn't look that way to me."

  She turned her face, pressing her lips into his palm. "I love you," she said. She thought she spoke too quietly for him to hear, but she felt the shock go through his entire body. His hand jerked against her skin and then abruptly stilled.

  "I'm so sorry," she repeated, louder this time. "It's so stu­pid. You haven't even asked. In fact, you've even said you don't want me, so it doesn't matter." She pressed a last kiss into his hand, then pushed to her feet. "Which is for the best. I can't marry you. I have to be with Christopher." Her voice broke on her fiancé's name. She didn't want Christopher. More important, she didn't want to be so small a person as to need the security and comfort and wealth of his position. "I wanted ... I thought I wanted to be so much more, but I'm . . . I'm not strong enough. I'm just not." She held her head up for a moment, looked into his eyes. He was staring back at her, obviously confused. He was giving her all his at­tention, but that didn't mean she made any sense to him.

  It didn't matter, anyway. She'd made her decision. She pushed to her feet, wanting desperately to stay with him. She hovered there a moment before him, praying he'd say something. Maybe if he said the right thing, if he did the right thing, she would find the strength. Wouldn't he please make everything right?

  He said nothing. How could he? He was still half asleep, he didn't understand what she was thinking, and there was no solution. She knew that, and yet she still hoped.

  "Tell me," he said. "Evie, tell me how to help."

  "You can't," she confessed. "I want you to, but there's nothing you can do."

  Feeling like the worst kind of fool, she leaned down and kissed him on the mouth. She poured everything into that kiss—her love, her regret, the future she wished she could have—and then, as his fingers tightened on her shoulders and her breaths shortened with desire, she ripped herself away. She didn't stop running until she'd made it back into her toasty warm bedroom and curled sobbing beneath her down coverlet.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "Out of bed, lazy slug."

  "I can't breathe," Jie Ke lied. "Don't make me move." Zhi Min wouldn't be fooled. He never was, but the long silence gave Jie Ke hope.

  "You breathed well enough last night."

  Jie Ke kept his eyes resolutely shut. It was hard enough lying
to his friend like this; he'd never get away with it if he looked Zhi Min in the eye. "I was stupid last night." That was cer­tainly true. "Today I confess to it, so let the idiot die in peace."

  "You aren't dying."

  Jie Ke opened his eyes. For a brief moment, he let his de­spair show. "Yes, I am."

  His friend watched him closely. Jie Ke had intended to roll away, but he couldn't. Not when Zhi Min became a monk of the Xi Lin order. It was a transition that few could see and fewer still understood, but Jie Ke had seen it in others and was mesmerized as it happened to his friend. He watched Zhi Min become more than himself. His body faded from sight and a glowing orb of light replaced him. Zhi Min became power in its purest form, channeled, directed, and so perfect as to bring tears to Jie Ke's eyes. That was what it meant to be a Xi Lin monk, and it was what he had wanted for himself for so long.

  Yet right now, it seemed so meaningless. I love you. I have to be with Christopher.

  He closed his eyes and rolled away, turning his back on Zhi Min. "I hurt too much," he said to the wall.

  "That is the first truth you have said this day."

  Jie Ke resolutely kept his eyes shut, and in time Zhi Min left him alone. Unfortunately, being alone was not as won­derful as he had thought. His body was indeed exhausted, but his mind would not quiet. He kept reliving every moment with Evie—every breath, every kiss, every shared secret.

  Nothing has changed, he told himself. He had come to England as his last task before becoming a full monk. He'd never intended to remain here, never intended to do anything more than kiss his grandmother hello and then turn back to China. All the rest had simply been for show so that Zhi Min would see he had done what his parents would have wanted, attempted to regain his tide and marry the woman betrothed to him.

  That was all, and it was over and done. Or it was nearly over, since he had yet to make peace with his grandmother. But that could be accomplished soon enough, and then it would be time to go home. Evelyn had made her choice—she had chosen his cousin Christopher—and so everything had worked out as was intended. He could become a full monk now. All he needed to do was speak with his grandmother.

  He pulled the blanket over his face. When that didn't work, he made himself some of Zhi Min's tea for pain. Moments later, unconsciousness crept black and ugly over his thoughts.

  He welcomed it with a smile.

  "Wake up! Your grandmother awaits you."

  Jie Ke braced himself without moving. He knew Zhi Min would kick the bed when he didn't respond. Next would come a smack to the head. Then the final insult, a bucket of cold water—but that was at the temple where pallets dried quickly in the sun. Here, he would likely be—

  Splash! Icy water hit hard and full, stealing his breath and freezing him to his bones. He burst upright with a sputtering gasp. Zhi Min stood in front of him, eyes hard.

  "I am done playing in this freezing country with you, En­glish boy."

  "Zhi Min!"

  "Shut up! I left you to sulk for a full day. I lied to your fam­ily and your grandmother, saying you were too ill to move—" "It wasn't a he."

  "But you have not come to your senses. So now I must force you, apprentice monk. Present yourself to your grand­mother and be done with this farce."

  Jie Ke frowned. His head ached, his breath was foul, and now his sheets stank. Or perhaps they already had. A full day and night in bed had not helped him any. Neither, apparently, had it helped his friend.

  "What disrupted your serenity?" he groused as he pushed aside the sodden sheet.

  "My serenity is fine."

  "Dragon monks don't lie."

  Zhi Min glared at him. "You do."

  "I am not a full monk."

  "Nor will you ever be if you don't finish this. Today."

  Jie Ke stopped. He had been searching for a dry corner of the sheet to use as a towel, but he paused now to look at his friend. Something in Zhi Min's tone of voice was different. He narrowed his eyes.

  "What aren't you saying?" he asked.

  Zhi Min curled his lip and turned away. It was the most emotion the man had displayed since becoming a full monk.

  Jie Ke grabbed his arm and pulled him back around. "What aren't you telling me?" he demanded again.

  Zhi Min frowned. "Ever since you entered the temple grounds you have wished to be me."

  "That's not true!"

  "It is true," Zhi Min snapped back. "You wanted parents, and my mother cared for you. You saw me fight and you wanted to learn."

  "Of course I did—"

  "Shut up, idiot, and listen!"

  Jie Ke reared back. Never, even the night before Zhi Min's initiation, had Zhi Min ever been so rude to anyone. To hear it now was beyond shocking. Jie Ke closed his mouth.

  "Good. Now hear me, white man. You wanted my mother, you wanted to fight, and then you wanted to be a monk. .. ."

  When his friend didn't continue, Jie Ke threw up his hands. "That is the normal progression, isn't it? To see, to learn, to want more?"

  Zhi Min poked a hard finger into Jie Ke's chest. "Who are you, white man? Do not look to me for your answer. Do not think, 'I want that.' Think, 'Who am I?' Then you will be what you were meant to be, not someone else's dream you are chasing."

  Jie Ke stood slowly, coming to face his friend eye to eye. "I was meant to be a monk." He said it clearly and firmly. He spoke with all the conviction in his heart, and he believed it.

  But as he spoke, he heard, I am meant to be with Christopher.

  Zhi Min looked him in the eyes. Jie Ke knew he was being weighed and judged and measured. "Be sure, Jie Ke," his friend said. "It is not the only path. It is not an easy path—" I am sure.

  Zhi Min sighed. "Very well then. Make peace with your grandmother and we will leave." He said it like a death knell, as if Jie Ke had just chosen to die. What was wrong with his friend that he spoke so full of sorrow? But Jie Ke got no further than an indrawn breath to question before Zhi Min held up his hand.

  "I have told you, do not look to me for your answers. I have none." And with that, Zhi Min stomped out of the room.

  His clothes were choking him. High collars, stiff fabrics, and the constant pinch of new shoes—Jie Ke remembered dislik­ing this as a boy, and he despised it now. But he was sitting in a carriage with his grandmother and Evelyn on the way to Nana's home. It wasn't far from Evelyn's manor, but the road was pitted and the horses slow, which meant an eternity in these terrible clothes. Plus he remembered how she used to scold him when he fidgeted, so he sat still and tried not to breathe for fear of another sneezing fit. Powder and starch— who wore such irritants? Certainly not Evelyn, who was sit­ting beside him, her body stiff, her manner so reserved as to make her seem like a cold statue.

  He knew how to unfreeze her. He knew where to touch her and what to whisper into her skin to make her warm up to him. But that had been a different time and a different place, and she had made her choice. He simply had to survive this day and then he could leave all of England behind.

  "You needn't have come," he said to her stiff profile. "I'm sure grandmother and I would have rubbed along quite well without—"

  "I insisted, Jacob," his grandmother inserted. "A husband and wife should get to know one another without others interfering and gossiping. This was the perfect opportu­nity—"

  "Please, Lady Warhaven," Evelyn interrupted. "Please don't say such things. You know that. . . that Jie Ke and I will not marry. He wishes to go back to China, you know."

  "China!" the old woman said with a gasp. "But the earl must remain here. In England."

  Jie Ke smiled at his grandmother, remembering a different argument long ago. She had lost then/too. "My father went to China despite your protests. And you must know that they will not give me the tide back. My cousin Christopher will make an excellent earl, someday."

  "Christopher will make good whatever he does," she an­swered with a sniff. "We are speaking of you and your rights."

  He opened his mou
th to respond, though he had no idea what he intended to say. Sneezes came out instead, a whole slew of them, and by the time he caught his breath, they had arrived at his grandmother's home.

  The family estate at Warhaven was huge and depressing. The stone and mortar edifice had once set his boyish heart beating with excitement. It was perfect for a child who wanted to live out pretend battles of knights and dragons, sieges and heroism. Looking at it now, he well understood why Uncle Frank and his family chose to live in the London residence instead. This place was dark, old, and probably freezing cold in the best of weather. Yet this was where his grandparents had lived for as long as he could remember, and this was where he had spent a great deal of his childhood.

  "Come along, come along," his grandmother said as she disembarked from the carriage. "I sent word ahead. Cook will have prepared a luncheon." She turned and gave him a wink. "Banbury buns, Jacob, just for you."

  Evelyn descended next, her movements as graceful as ever as she took the footman's hand and stepped out onto the gravel path. She smiled as she went, the expression as uncon­scious as it was beautiful. The servant blushed. Jacob felt his hp curve in a sneer as he stepped out of the vehicle. Then he pulled up short, his breath frozen in his chest.

  He looked up to see the sweeping entrance of the Tudor mansion. His gaze skimmed the wide open doorway, the very English proliferation of chimneys and the patterned red brick. But what he saw instead was in his mind: a walkway covered in icy snow. He remembered wading knee-high through it while his nanny tried to call him back. He had climbed every tree here, front and back. The old oak on the west side had been his favorite.

  "Jacob, Jacob! Come inside!"

  He blinked, coming out of his reverie, but not completely. It was as though he waded through air suddenly thick with half-felt emotions and clogging thoughts. He desperately wanted to leave, but he forced himself to remain, to walk slowly and enter the house of his childhood.