White Tigress
Page 3
—Traditional Chinese proverb
~
Chapter 2
Lydia felt absolutely wretched. Her head ached. Her lips felt parched. But mostly she just wanted the entire world—including her aching body—to go away. Unfortunately, she had other matters to attend to first. Like using the necessary.
Now.
She never would have made it by herself. She barely managed to put her feet over the edge of her bed when a groan escaped her raw throat. Then a miracle happened. A maid appeared at her side, silently assisting her to just where she wanted to go.
It wasn't until after she was done, sitting back on the bed with a glass of water gently being held to her lips, that Lydia realized the maid was actually a boy. A young man, really. Chinese. With a bland face and a long queue of black hair that fell halfway down his back.
She would have choked on the water if she hadn't already drained the glass. As it was, she simply stared at him, a dull rush of embarrassment flowing through her entire barely clad body. Unfortunately, right behind it came a full wave of dizziness and even a bit of nausea.
Not good. Not good at all.
And while she was struggling with that, other disconnected thoughts whirled through her foggy mind. What was she wearing? A coarse white nightshirt. That wasn't hers, was it? Where were her clothes? Was she on the boat?
There was something else as well. Something different about her body. But what? She couldn't quite focus her mind on the question. On much of anything. Yet she still found the strength to look at the young man directly and to croak out a question.
"Where am I?"
He didn't respond, merely urged her to lie back in bed. Some small part of her brain registered tiny details of her environment. She lay in a simple bed, well padded and rather large. The room was sparse as well. There was one window, very high up, with decorative lattices over the opening, an ornately decorated screen, and behind that the privy. But where was...
"Max," she croaked. "Where's Maxwell?"
Again, the Chinese man didn't answer, and before long she discovered she was lying back on the bed, her head gently supported by a silk-covered pillow. Truly, it was quite nice to lie here and simply let her cares float away.
She might have done just that if it hadn't been for a flash of memory. Or of nightmare. Or something. She remembered a sickly sweet taste and a dark room with... shackles?
"No!" She struggled upright. She needed to escape. She needed to find Max. She needed...
"Safe."
She blinked. She had heard a word in English. From the young man.
Blearily, she focused on him as he pushed her firmly back on the bed.
"You safe," he said clearly. Slowly.
She nodded, understanding his words, her fear beginning to abate. Why she trusted him, she didn't know. But she certainly didn't seem in danger now. And she was so very, very tired.
"Max?"
"Well. You are well."
No, she began, but her mouth would not form the word.
She slept.
* * *
She woke quickly the next time, the nightmare fading, only to be replaced by a dreamy reality as confusing as the first. The young Chinese man was at her side again, feeding her something she now realized was not water at all, but weak tea with a tangy flavor. She'd thought it quite strange at first, but now she was beginning to like it.
As always, he assisted her to the necessary, waiting politely on the other side of the screen while she accomplished her business. He laid out a change of clothes for her—another plain white nightshirt—and never spoke except to assure her she was safe.
As she stared at the boy, for she guessed him to be about seventeen years old, questions began to form in her mind. Where was she? She was obviously on land, likely Shanghai. She had unfortunately begun to remember the other house—the one that the captain had taken her to, claiming it was Maxwell's. Well, if that was Maxwell's home, then she was a purple toad.
But how had she escaped that terrible place and come here? Who was paying for this home and the Chinese servant? And who had... performed the change in her body?
That was another thing she had figured out. What before had felt a nameless difference, she now saw in the stark light of day. She was completely shaved. Totally hairless. Not the hair on top of her head, for that remained neatly braided in a long queue down her back. It was all her other hair—from her legs, her arms, and her... From everywhere.
But who had...? And how? Not this boy. He couldn't—
She didn't know what to make of the situation, and she certainly couldn't ask, even if she thought the man understood English. Her only option was to wait and see. It was probably some traditional Chinese medicine or some such nonsense. One never knew what bizarre customs a primitive culture might have. She didn't have to think beyond that.
But where was she? And how had she gotten here? If she had to guess—and that was all she could do—she figured somehow Maxwell had discovered where she was and rescued her. This little apartment was her new home until she was well enough to speak her vows. Maxwell was always one for observing proprieties.
Yet she couldn't understand why he absented himself so much. Likely some business deal had stolen him away. He had written that he'd saved enough money to buy property, that he was merely looking for the right investment. He would come to her soon enough, bringing roses and an engagement ring. Something large and beautiful to replace the one that had been stolen from her.
So Lydia schooled herself to patience as the Chinese man brought her a thick soup. In truth, she felt much better, and so she smiled brilliantly at him.
"Thank you. Good food."
He nodded. "Good food. Yes."
"You may tell Maxwell I am well enough to see him now. He can come any day."
"You are well, yes."
Lydia sighed. You'd think a man as meticulous as her fiancé could have found a servant who spoke some English. But perhaps they were in short supply, she reasoned. She would have to learn the language eventually. She might as well start now.
But when she tried to converse with the boy, he merely smiled his bland smile and bowed himself out of the room. So much for learning a new language today. Instead, she had to content herself with looking at the decor, sparse as it was, and wondering at the other strange sensations in her body.
First off, her belly seemed to be rumbling quite a bit. Embarrassing, often painful sounds kept emanating from her lower region. It felt like a tiny cauldron was burbling and gurgling away down there. That alone would be bad enough, but whatever was happening gave her the most awful flatulence. It was just as well that Maxwell wasn't around, she told herself firmly. He definitely preferred refined women, and such a noisy body would not appeal to him.
Though she doubted he would mind, of course. He loved her. She simply wanted to appear her best before him. And farting loudly was not at all appropriate when seeing one's fiancé for the first time in nearly three years.
If only he'd thought to give her a book to read or something else to do. Some clothes, perhaps, beyond this basic nightshirt. Even the window was designed for ventilation, not viewing. It was much too high to look out of unless she had a chair to stand on, which she did not. Nor did she have a sketchbook or her charcoals. Or a journal. Not even some stitching.
Just a rumbly stomach and a bored mind.
So it remained for another hour at least, until she heard the low murmur of men's voices from the other room where the servant resided. She had been dozing, but came instantly alert as the doorknob jiggled. She was immediately flooded with excitement, along with a good deal of trepidation, as she rapidly patted her hair and adjusted the covers.
Maxwell was here at last!
Except that when the door opened, another Chinese man walked in. Or rather, he strode in, his black eyes piercing as he looked at her.
Disappointment cut through Lydia at the same moment that she released an enormously loud burst o
f flatulence. She felt her face heat almost to burning as she rapidly pulled the covers up to her shoulders, for she was not suitably attired for strangers.
And all the while the man just stood there, staring at her, his thin eyebrows pulled low over his coal black eyes.
He didn't say anything and neither did she, for she was much too mortified. But though her tongue appeared frozen, her eyes were not. She looked at him in stunned amazement, seeing her very first well-dressed Chinese man up close.
He wore silk, that much was obvious, a gray tunic with dark black pants and the ever-present roundish hat over his long black Manchurian queue. All in all, it was the standard Chinese attire from what she remembered of her quick rickshaw ride through Shanghai. But what stood out, what seemed truly exceptional, was the embroidered design on his tunic. A dark green dragon wove in and around his upper body, its flame tongue coiling into the red Chinese buttons—frogs, she thought they were called. On the opposite lapel, an embroidered ball of fire hung just out of reach. A truly exceptional design, she thought, and fabulously executed, for it made the wearer appear both man and dragon. An awesome sight indeed.
"Excuse me," she squeaked. Then she cleared her throat, doing her best to sound strong and not at all intimidated by this dark man towering in her doorway. "Excuse me," she said more firmly. "But why are you in my bedchamber?"
She had meant to sound powerful, for Max had written that the only thing these barbarians understood was strength. He'd meant the strength of cannons blazing from warships, but she figured the notion applied in person as well. Unfortunately, her words did not sound powerful as much as haughty. And in a squeaky, little-girl voice to boot.
The man continued to stare at her in some dark Chinese way. It wasn't like when the servant looked at her. The boy's face often went blank from incomprehension. This newcomer's expression was clearly a mask. Carved wood gave more away than his brooding eyes. She rapidly began to squirm under his scrutiny.
Abruptly, he spoke in rapid-fire Chinese to the boy who waited impassively just outside the bedroom. The boy answered, also in Chinese, while Lydia sat, uncomprehending. It was excruciatingly difficult, and for a moment she had the strongest urge to cry.
Rather than do that, she stiffened her spine and consciously released the blanket from where she'd held it almost up to her chin. It drifted down, thankfully not slipping below her cleavage. "Please, sir," she said as calmly as she could manage. "When will Maxwell be coming?"
"Maxwell?" he asked, his voice strangely melodious.
"Yes. Maxwell Slade. He is my fiancé."
"You have no fiancé," he snapped. "You are..." He struggled a moment with the English word. "My servant."
"I most certainly am not!" Thankfully, she was still struggling with an upset belly or she would have leapt straight to her feet despite her lack of clothing. Indeed, she wondered if she could slap his face from her position on the bed.
Fortunately for her dignity, he merely dipped his head in a semblance of a bow. "My apologies—"
"I should think so!"
"You are my..." Again the pause as he struggled with the language. Abruptly he brightened, his eyes actually lightening to a kind of reddish brown. "Slave."
At her gasp of shock, he continued, still with that ridiculously pleased expression. "I have extended myself greatly to purchase you. You were most expensive." His tone indicated disapproval, almost anger. "But it is done now, and you will perform such tasks as I require when I require."
"I most certainly will not!" Throwing caution to the wind, Lydia tossed her covers aside. If he'd thought she was a sickly, retiring female, he was about to get a surprise. Ignoring her state of undress, she stood directly in front of him, poking him right in the embroidered dragon's eye. "I am Lydia Smith, fiancée to Maxwell Slade. And you will take me to him immediately!"
She didn't even see him move, neither him nor his servant. But almost before her words were finished, he had grabbed her wrists and pushed her backward onto the bed. From out of nowhere appeared straps—thick leather straps that he and his servant snapped around each of her wrists and ankles, tying her to the iron grid that supported the bed's mattress. And no matter how much she fought, how much she bit or tried to claw her way free, she ended up flat on her back, her arms and legs spread, her nightshirt halfway up her thighs.
She screamed, screeching out her anger and horror and that she was an Englishwoman and they had no right to treat her this way. And yet they did nothing. They simply stood and watched her, no matter how much she said Max's or her own name. No matter what she threatened or babbled or pleaded. In the end, she lay exhausted on the bed, tears of frustration flowing freely down her cheeks.
The dragon man approached her. Looking down, he smiled almost beatifically, and in the oddest gesture of reverence, he reached out to touch her face. She tried to turn away, but there was nowhere to go, and soon his forefinger was wet with her tears. He lifted his finger slowly, closing his eyes as he brought it to his mouth, obviously tasting and enjoying the salt of her tears.
She stared at him in shock and horror, not knowing what to make of his action. And then he looked back at her, his smile more natural.
"Shi Po was right. You are an overfull cup." Abruptly he turned, his long queue snapping behind him like a serpent's tail. "Your lessons will begin tomorrow."
And then he was gone.
* * *
Her lessons did not begin the next day. Indeed, nothing began the next day because she would not allow it. She fought, she struggled, she refused to eat. She even fouled her own bed. Only to find out that fighting rubbed her skin raw, giving her painful welts that burned and bled. When she refused to eat, she didn't eat. No one particularly cared. And when she fouled her bed, no one cared either. She lay in her own filth, miserable and abandoned.
And worst of all was knowing Maxwell had abandoned her. He was nowhere to be found, though she sobbed his name like a litany.
In her more rational moments, she knew Maxwell wasn't at fault. In fact, her fiancé was likely blissfully ignorant of her state, happily believing his future wife safe at home in England. It would be months before enough messages crossed between Shanghai and England for both him and her mother to discover she had disappeared. Months. In the meantime, Lydia would be trapped here, slave to some deviant Chinese monster.
Months. As a slave.
The thought was insupportable. Impossible. And yet she could not deny the reality of her situation. When she was rational, that is. And so she spent as much time as she could irrational.
Or at least she pretended. A couple of days of raving lunacy convinced her that insanity got her nowhere. It did not relieve the agony in her mind, nor did it affect her captors in any appreciable manner. So she tried a different tack, feigning exhaustion—even cooperation—in the hopes that she could overpower the servant boy and escape.
She failed. The boy was stronger than he looked, more than a match for her. And when she was left alone—unbound—in her room, she found that the door was locked and the small, high window barred. That beautiful iron latticework she'd so admired was in truth iron fixtures designed to prevent escape.
Still, she raised herself up as high as she could, screaming herself hoarse in the hopes that someone would hear her and come rushing to her rescue. Maxwell was in the forefront, of course. But though she screeched her throat raw, no one came to her aid.
And all the while, her hatred of the dragon—that was what she had come to call him in her mind—grew. She who hated to kill a mouse would have easily, happily wrung the dragon's neck and danced upon his dead body.
Indeed, she had elaborate fantasies, each more gruesome than the last, as to how she would kill her captors. God would give her inhuman strength and she would crush them with her two fists. God would give her a voice that could shatter eardrums, and she would scream until their heads exploded. God would give her fantastic powers of the mind, and she would overpower them with a thought.
So it was, around a week later—at least, she thought it was a week; time was difficult to track in this place—when the dragon stepped into her room. Lydia was curled on the floor in a corner, quietly humming to herself. The tune an old nonsense rhyme that her mother had once sang to her, and which she found oddly comforting.
She knew she was a disgusting sight. Matted hair, filthy nightshirt, bruised and swollen body from the more violent encounters with the houseboy. But she did not care what the dragon thought of her. Indeed, she very much hoped she disgusted him and he would toss her out on the street.
But that did not happen. Instead, he came to stand over her, glaring down in fury, his lip curled in disgust.
"Are you done with this now?"
She didn't answer, so eventually he continued.
"Have you accepted your situation? Because I swear to you that my patience is at an end. If you do not stop your fighting, then I shall return you to the whorehouse where I first found you. I will recover whatever monies I can, and I will be done with you forever."
She looked up, hope sparking within her. He crushed it.
"I do not know if you remember what happened at that place, but I can tell you what will happen when I return you. You will be beaten, that much is assured. Then you will be addicted—to opium, no doubt, because it is easy and will make you docile. Then your virginity will be sold as many times as they can manage until you become an old harlot."
Her mind exploded. She screamed. She launched herself at the dragon.
He was prepared, of course. And strong. He had no need of the boy to assist him in slamming her onto the bed. Then he continued speaking, his voice low and implacable.
"But it will not end there, ghost woman. No. If you learn quickly and spread your legs easily, they will keep you on for as long as you bring in customers. All the while your craving for opium will increase. You will do anything for the drug. You will spread your legs, debase your body and others', anything and everything, just for another taste of that vile drug. And then, when you are old and wasted, they will throw you out on the street to die. But you won't die. You will crawl into the Shanghai slums, find a shack and a filthy piece of wood so that you can spread your legs for whoever will give you another taste. In the end, you will die in that black hole of your own filth, and no one, least of all your precious Maxwell, will ever know or care."