The China Bride

Prologue

Shropshire, England

December 1832

She hadn't expected it to be so cold. Troth Montgomery shivered as she stepped from the shabby hired carriage, pulling her cloak more closely against the bitter December wind. She'd known that Britain lay far to the north, but a life spent in the tropics had left her ill-prepared for this bone-chilling climate.

Though she had yearned to reach the end of her long journey, now she was frightened at the prospect of meeting these strangers. Delaying, she asked the driver, "This is really Warfield Park? It is not what I expected."

He hacked a cough into his gloved hand. "Aye, it's Warfield, right enough." He hauled out her single carpetbag, dropped it onto the driveway beside her, then wheeled his horses to make a fast return to his home in Shrewsbury.

As the carriage rumbled past her, she caught a glimpse of herself in the window. Though she wore a sober navy blue gown, the most respectable and English-looking garment she owned, the reflection she saw was still hopelessly ugly, her dark hair and Oriental eyes blatantly foreign.

But she could not turn back. Lifting her carpetbag, she trudged up the steps of the sprawling, gabled structure. In summer the gray stones might appear mellow and warm, but in winter twilight, Warfield looked stark and unwelcoming. She didn't belong here-she didn't belong anywhere.

She shivered again, this time not from the wind. The owners of this house would not welcome her news, but surely, for Kyle's sake, she would be granted a bed for the night, if nothing else.

Reaching the door, she banged the massive knocker, which was shaped like a falcon's head. After a long wait, the door was opened by a uniformed footman. His brows arched at what had turned up on his doorstep. "The servants' entrance is on the other side of the house."

His scorn made her raise her head in a show of defiance. "I am here to see Lord Grahame, on behalf of his brother," she said icily, her accent at its most Scottish.

Grudgingly he admitted her to the hall. " Your card?"

"I haven't got one. I have been… traveling."

Plainly the footman wanted to throw her out, but didn't quite dare. "Lord Grahame and his wife are dining. You shall have to wait here until they are done. When his lordship is free, whom shall I say is calling?"

Her numb lips could barely form the name that did not seem as if it really belonged to her. "Lady Maxwell has arrived. His brother's wife."

The footman's eyes widened. "I shall inform him immediately."

As the servant hastened away, Troth pulled her cloak about her and paced the unheated hall, almost ill with nerves. Would the brother have her whipped when he heard? Great lords had been known to punish the carriers of bad news.

She would have bolted from the house and taken her chances with the evil northern winter, but in her head she could still hear his rasping voice: Tell my family, Mei-Lian. They must know of my death. Though Kyle Renbourne, tenth Viscount Maxwell, had some fondness for her, she didn't doubt that his ghost would haunt her if she failed to perform his last request.

Bracing herself, she pulled off her gloves to expose the Celtic knotwork ring that Kyle had given her, since it was the only evidence of her claims.

Steps sounded behind her. Then an eerily familiar voice asked, "Lady Maxwell?"

She turned and saw that a man and woman had entered the hall. The woman was as petite as a Cantonese, but with a glorious sweep of silvery blond hair that was striking even in this land of foreign devils. The woman returned Troth's stare, her expression curious as a cat's, but not hostile.

The man spoke again. "Lady Maxwell?"

Troth tore her gaze from the woman to look at him. Her blood drained away, leaving her chilled to the marrow. It wasn't possible. The man was lean and well built, with chiseled features and striking blue eyes. Waving brown hair, a hint of cleft in his chin, an air of natural authority. The face of a dead man. It wasn't possible.

That was her last, dizzy thought before she fainted dead away.

Chapter 1

« ^ »

Macao, China

February 1832

Kyle Renbourne, tenth Viscount Maxwell, concealed his impatience as he politely greeted dozens of members of Macao 's European community who had gathered to meet an honest-to-God lord. Then, his social duty done, he slipped outside to the veranda so he could contemplate the last, best adventure that would begin the next morning.

The sprawling house stood high on one of South China 's steep hills. Below, a scattering of lights defined the sweep of Macao around the eastern harbor. An exotic little city at the southeastern corner of the Pearl River estuary, Macao had been founded by the Portuguese, the only European power to find favor with the Chinese.

For almost three centuries the enclave had been home to merchants and missionaries and a rare mixing of races. Kyle had enjoyed his visit. But Macao wasn't really China, and he was eager to be on his way to Canton.

He leaned against the railing, enjoying the cool breeze on his face. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the wind seemed scented with unknown spices and ancient mysteries, beckoning him to the land he'd dreamed of since he was a boy.

His host, friend, and partner, Gavin Elliott, came through the shuttered doors. "You look like a child on Christmas Eve, ready to burst with anticipation."

"You can afford to be casual about sailing to Canton tomorrow. You've been doing it for fifteen years. This is my first visit." Kyle hesitated before adding, "And probably my last."

"So you're going back to England. You'll be missed."

"It's time." Kyle thought of the years he'd spent in travel, moving ever eastward. He'd seen the Great Mosque of Damascus and walked the hills where Jesus had preached. He'd explored India from the brilliantly colored south to the wild, lonely mountains of the northwest. Along the way, he'd had his share of adventures, and survived disasters that might have left his younger brother heir to the family earldom-and wouldn't Dominic have hated that! He'd also lost the angry edge that had marked him when he was younger, and about time, since he'd be thirty-five at his next birthday. "My father's health has been failing. I don't want to risk returning too late."

"Ah. Sorry to hear that." Gavin pulled out a cigar and struck a light. "When Wrexham is gone, you'll be too busy as an earl to roam the far corners of the globe."

"The world is a smaller place than it used to be. Ships are faster, and the unknown is being mapped and explored. I've been saving China for last. After this visit, I'll be ready to go home."

"Why is China last?"

Kyle thought back to the day he'd discovered China. "When I was fourteen, I wandered into a curio shop in London and found a folio of Chinese drawings and watercolors. Lord knows how it made its way there. Cost me six months' allowance. The pictures fascinated me. It was like looking into a different world. That was when I decided I must travel to the East."

"You're fortunate that you've been able to fulfill your dream." There was a hint of bleakness in Gavin's voice.

Kyle wondered what the other man's dreams were, but didn't ask. Dreams were a private affair. "The ultimate dream may be out of my reach. Have you ever heard of the Temple of Hoshan?"

"I saw a drawing once. About a hundred miles west of Canton, I think?"

"That's the one. Is there any chance of visiting it? "

"Out of the question." Gavin drew on his cigar, the tip flaring in the darkness. "The Chinese are dead serious about keeping Europeans quarantined in the Settlement. You won't even be allowed within the city walls of Canton, much less permitted to travel into the countryside."

Kyle knew about the Settlement, a narrow strip of warehouses between the Canton waterfront and the city walls. He'd also been told about the infamous Eight Regulations that were designed to keep foreigners in line. Still, in his experience, men with money and determination could usually find a way around the rules. "Maybe crossing the right palms with silver would give me the chance to travel inland."

"You wouldn't get a mile before you were arrested. You're a Fan-qui, a foreign devil. You'd stand out like an elephant in Edinburgh." The Scottish burr that lingered from Gavin's childhood strengthened. "Ye'd end up rotting in some prefect's dungeon as a spy."

"No doubt you're right." Nonetheless, Kyle intended to investigate further during his stay in Canton. For twenty years the Temple of Hoshan had lived in his imagination, an image of peace and unearthly beauty. If there was a way to visit, he'd find it.

In dawn light, a Chinese garden was a mysterious, otherworldly place of twisted trees and living rock. Silent and shadowless, Troth Mei-Lian Montgomery moved through the familiar precincts like a ghost. This was her favorite time of the day, when she could almost believe that she was within the walls of her father's home in Macao.

This morning she would perform her chi exercises by the pond. The mirrorlike water reflected graceful reeds and the arch of the bamboo footbridge. She became still, imagining chi energy flowing up through her feet from the earth. Muscle by muscle she relaxed, trying to become one with nature, to be as unself-conscious as the delicate water lilies and the gleaming golden fish that flickered silently below.

Not that she often achieved such a state of grace. Grace itself was a word that came from the foreign-devil part of her, which stubbornly refused to disappear.

She felt herself tensing, so she moved into the first slow steps of a tai chi form. Precise but relaxed, balanced yet alert. After so many years, the pattern of movements was second nature to her, and it induced a sense of peace.

When she was small, her father would sometimes enter the garden with his morning tea to watch her practice the routines. When she finished, he'd laugh and say that when he took her home to Scotland she'd be the belle of the assemblies, able to outdance all the Scottish lassies. She would smile and imagine herself dressed as a Fan-qui lady, entering a ballroom on her father's arm. She was particularly pleased when he said that her height would not be unusual in Scotland. Instead of looming over all of the Chinese women and half the men, as she did in Macao, she would be average.

Average. Like everyone else. Such a simple, impossible goal.

Then Hugh Montgomery had died in a taaî-fung, one of the devil storms that periodically roared in from the ocean, destroying everything in its path. Troth Montgomery had also died that day, leaving Mei-Lian, a Chinese girl child of tainted blood and no worth. Only in the privacy of her mind was she still Troth.

She began a wing chun routine that required quick footwork and simulated strikes. There were many forms of kung fu, fighting arts, and she'd been trained in the version called wing chun. The exercises were vigorous, and she always practiced them after warming up with the gentler tai chi. She'd almost finished her routine when a cool voice said, "Good morning, Jin Kang."

She stiffened at the approach of her master. Chen-qua was chief among the merchants' guild called the Cohong, a man of great power and influence. He had been the agent who handled her father's goods, and it was he who had taken her in when she was orphaned. For that, she owed him gratitude and obedience.

Nonetheless, she resented that he always called her Jin Kang, the male name he'd given her when he first set her to spy upon the Europeans. Though she was ugly, too tall, and with huge unbound feet and the coarse features of her mixed blood, she was still a woman. But not to Chenqua, or to anyone in his household. To them she was known as Jin Kang, a freakish creature neither male nor female.

Suppressing her resentment, she bowed. "Good morning, Uncle."

He was dressed in a simple cotton tunic and trousers like hers, so he had come to practice two-person kung fu exercises with her. He lifted his arms into position to begin formalized sparring.

She pressed the backs of her arms and hands against his in the posture known as sticking hands. His skin was smooth and dry, and she felt the power of his chi energy pulsing between them. Though he was over sixty, he was taller than she, strong and very fit. One of her uses to him was that she was the only person in his household capable of giving him a good kung fu workout.

Slowly he circled his arms in the air. She maintained contact, sensing the flow of his chi so she could anticipate his movements. His pace quickened, becoming more difficult to follow. To a casual observer, they would have looked like partners in some obscure dance.

Chenqua attempted a sudden strike, but was unable to elude her blocking wrist. While he was off balance from the failed blow, she countered by lashing out with the heel of her hand. He deflected her punch so that it only clipped his shoulder. Once more their hands came together in a pattern of motions that looked formal and graceful, but concealed dynamic tension. Like two wary wolves, they tested each other.

"I have a new task for you, Jin Kang."

"Yes, Uncle?" She made herself relax so that she felt rooted into the earth, impossible to knock from her feet.

"A new partner will be coming to Gavin Elliott's trading firm, a man called Maxwell. You must take special care with him."

Troth's stomach tightened. "Elliott is a civil man. Why should his partner be difficult?"

"Elliott is from the Beautiful Country. This Maxwell is English, and they are always more trouble than the other Fan-qui. Worse, he is a lord and surely arrogant. Such men are dangerous." He tried again to break through her guard, without success.

She was fighting well today. Buoyed by the exercise, Troth made a request she had been considering for years: "Uncle, may I be released from spying? I… I do not like the pretense."

His dark brows arched. "There is no harm in it. Since I and the other Cohong merchants are responsible for everything the foreign devils do, it is necessary for our safety to know their plans. They are unruly children, capable of causing trouble far beyond their comprehension. They must be watched and controlled."

"But my life is a lie!" She lashed out at him but misjudged, giving Chenqua the opportunity to jab her upper arm. "I hate pretending to be an interpreter while secretly listening to their private words and studying their papers." Her father, as honest a Scot as had ever lived, would be appalled at her life.

"There is not another person in the world who is equally fluent in Chinese and English. Watching the Fan-qui is your duty." Chenqua tried to shove her off balance.

Fluidly she evaded his movement, grabbing his arm and adding her own momentum to his. He fell, rolling onto the soft turf. Immediately she regretted her loss of control. Chenqua was very skilled, but she was better. Usually she took care not to overcome her master in the sparring.

He recovered and was on his feet swiftly, a spark in his dark eyes. Abandoning the sticking hands, he dropped into a watchful stance, slowly circling her and waiting for an opportunity to engage. "I have fed you, housed you, given you privileges unlike those of any other female in my household. You owe me a daughter's gratitude and obedience."

Her rebellion crumbled. "Yes, Uncle."

Distress had unbalanced her energy, so it was easy for him to punish her for forgetting her place. He feinted, then struck her with one hand and one foot together in a double blow that explosively combined strength and chi. She hit the ground with bruising force. Instead of instantly leaping up, she lay gasping for a moment, allowing him the victory. "Forgive me for not thinking clearly, Uncle."

Mollified, he said, "You are only a woman. It is not to be expected that you should act with logic."

Troth Montgomery, a Scotswoman, would dispute that. But Mei-Lian only bent her head in submission.

Chapter 2

« ^ »

The final approach to Canton reminded Kyle of the port of London, only twenty times as crowded and fifty times more raucous. Foreign trading ships had to be moored a dozen miles downriver at Whampoa, with cargo and crew transported the final distance on a ship's boats. The vessel carrying Kyle and Gavin Elliott sliced boldly between giant lorchas and junks with huge eyes painted on their prows to watch for demons. Gangs of rowers sent some boats flying across the water, while others were propelled by paddle wheels turned by men on treadmills. Often collision seemed inevitable, but their craft always slid away in time.

A gaily decorated flower boat glided by, primped and pretty Chinese girls hanging over the railings as they called and beckoned to the Fan-qui with unmistakable gestures. "Don't even think about going aboard a flower boat," Gavin said dryly. "They may be the most attractive brothels in the China seas, but they say that Europeans who sample the girls' wares are never seen again."

"My interest was purely intellectual." The statement was true. Though Kyle found the dark, slender women of the East very attractive, for the most part he'd been celibate during his years of travel. He had loved once, and when his desire for the touch and taste and scent of a woman overcame his better judgment, he was always reminded painfully of how inferior lust was to love.

Nonetheless, his gaze lingered on the girls until the flower boat disappeared behind a junk. It was easy to understand why many of the European traders who had homes in Macao kept Chinese concubines.

"There's the Settlement."

Kyle turned to study the narrow, bustling strip of land between the river and the city walls that was the only place in China where foreigners were allowed. A row of structures lined the riverbank, European and American flags snapping in the wind overhead. These were the hongs, huge warehouses where the foreigners stored and shipped their wares, living on the upper floors during the months of the winter trading season. "Strange to think that most of the West's tea comes through those warehouses."

"A trade that creates enough wealth to make men kings." Gavin squinted against the brilliant tropical sun. "We've a reception committee waiting at the water gate. The fellow in the embroidered silk tunic is Chenqua."

Kyle had heard of Chenqua, of course. The man was the chief merchant prince in Canton, perhaps the greatest in the world. Besides being head of the Cohong guild, he personally handled the affairs of Elliott House and several of the largest British and American trading companies. A spare man, tall for a Chinese, he had erect posture and a wispy, gray-streaked beard. His immense dignity was visible even across the water. "How did he know that we were arriving? "

"Information flows down the river swifter than water. Chenqua knows everything that involves a Fan-qui trader. In fact, he has one of his spies with him."

"Good Lord. Do the infamous Eight Regulations say that Europeans have to accept being spied on?"

"No, but I can't say that I blame Chenqua for wanting to keep an eye on us. You British lot are particularly rowdy, often breaking the regulations from sheer contrariness."

"Don't blame me for the sins of my countrymen!"

Gavin grinned. "I'll admit that you're fairly well behaved for an English lord. When you feel the urge to be outrageous, remember that Chenqua and the other merchants are the ones who will be punished for your sins. Heavy fines if they're lucky, and it's not impossible that they and their families could be arrested and tortured or strangled to pay for Fan-qui crimes."

Kyle stared at him. "You're not joking, are you? "

"I'm afraid not. This is China. They do things differently here. The Cohong merchants are probably the most honest men I've ever met, yet they can lose everything they possess because of Fan-qui shenanigans."

The information was sobering. Kyle scanned the group of men clustered on the water gate they were approaching. "Which one is the spy? "

"Jin Kang is the rather spindly youth to Chenqua's left. Technically he's an interpreter who works for the Cohong. They call them linguists, though none are very competent-it's beneath their dignity to actually study the language of barbarians, so few of them know more than the pidgin English spoken by most of the people who work regularly in the Settlement. Just enough to handle basic trade questions." Gavin's voice dropped as they came within earshot of Chenqua.

A barefoot sailor jumped nimbly from the boat and moored it by the steps that led up to the water gate. As the passengers disembarked in the walled area called the English garden, Kyle saw that Chenqua was even more impressive up close. His dark blue layered tunics were of the finest silk and decorated with embroidered bands around the wide sleeves, while ropes of beautifully carved jade beads hung around his neck.

His rank was indicated not only by the richness of his garments, but by an embroidered panel on his chest and a blue button on top of his cap. The button was the mark of a mandarin, with the color denoting the official's importance. A mandarin who offended his imperial masters risked losing his button. To a Westerner, it sounded amusing. Here, the matter was deadly serious.

Gavin bowed. "Greetings, Chenqua," he said with pleasure. "I am greatly honored that you have come to welcome us."

"You have been too long from Canton, Taipan," Chenqua said, using the term for the head of a trading house.

Gavin introduced Kyle, who added his best bow to the formalities. "It is an honor to meet you, Chenqua. I have heard much about you."

"The honor is mine, Lord Maxwell." A shrewd, black-eyed gaze ran over Kyle before the merchant turned back to Gavin. "Forgive my rude haste, but there is a matter of some seriousness. Can you come to Consoo House now? "

"Of course." Gavin glanced at Kyle. "With your permission, Chenqua, could Jin Kang escort Lord Maxwell to my hong and see him settled?"

"Of course, Taipan. Jin, attend to Lord Maxwell."

After Chenqua and Gavin left for Consoo House, the nearby headquarters of the Cohong, Kyle turned his attention to his guide. Jin Kang was much less impressive than his master. He wore the shapeless, high-necked tunic and trousers that served as a uniform for both sexes. The garments were a plain dark blue, with only a narrow band of embroidery edging the wide sleeves.

Wanting to explore his new surroundings, Kyle said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to stretch my legs and look around the waterfront first."

"As Sir wishes." Jin's soft voice was as self-effacing as the rest of him.

They left the English garden to brave the busy wharves. European goods were being unloaded while crates of Chinese tea and other products were packed into chopboats to be ferried to the trading vessels anchored at Whampoa. Kyle and his companion had to dodge swinging bales and sweating stevedores as they made their way along the waterfront. The intoxicating singsong rhythm of Cantonese filled the air.

As they moved away from the turmoil of the docks, Kyle studied Jin from the corner of his eye. The young man's blue cap covered his head from midbrow to the top of the thick queue of dark hair that fell down his back. He was dressed better than a laborer, and a small money pouch hung around his waist, but his downcast eyes and bowed shoulders made him an unprepossessing specimen. Even though he was taller than average, if he stepped into a crowd of his countrymen he'd disappear in an instant.

Of course, being overlooked would be useful for a spy. Jin Kang must have hidden talents, such as intelligence. Kyle looked more closely. Almost girlishly pretty, Jin had a pale, delicate complexion and features that were subtly different from those of the Cantonese around them. Perhaps he was from northern China. Northerners were said to be taller than Cantonese, and there might be other differences.

Since Jin's expression gave nothing else away, Kyle turned his attention from his guide to his surroundings. Beyond the wharf area, a floating village of boats was moored together like clusters of houses, leaving just enough water between the rows for a sampan to pass. Each houseboat had a little cookstove at the stern, and often squawking fowl were slung over the sides in wicker cages, awaiting their future as dinner. Whole families lived in a space that made an English laborer's cottage look large.

Kyle was about to turn away when a small child tumbled over the edge of the nearest houseboat. He caught his breath, wondering if the fall had been noticed, then realized that a wooden buoy was tied to the child's back in anticipation of such accidents.

Hearing the splash, an older sister materialized and fished the child out, scolding ferociously. "That little girl was fortunate to have that floating device," Kyle remarked.

He didn't expect a response, but Jin Kang said, "Boy, not girl." It was the first thing the youth had volunteered since they'd been introduced.

"How can you be sure it's a boy?"

"No floaters for girls," Jin said flatly. "Not worth it."

Thinking he'd misunderstood, Kyle said, "Daughters aren't worth saving?"

"Raising a daughter only to marry her off is like fattening a hog for someone else's banquet." Jin sounded as if he was quoting an old proverb.

Even by the callous standards of Asia, that was harsh. God help Chinese women, Kyle thought.

Turning away from the boat people, Kyle walked to the square, the open area between the waterfront and the hongs. The space resembled an English fair, teeming with beggars and fortune-tellers, food sellers and loiterers. Kyle attracted glances, but they were brief. This was the one place in China where a European was not an unusual sight.

A line of blind beggars lashed together on a rope shuffled into the square, wailing mournfully and banging sticks and pans together. The clamor was enough to raise the dead. His expression exasperated but unsurprised, a European emerged from one of the hongs and gave a pouch to the lead beggar.

The leader bowed, then turned and led his fellows back toward the city. Kyle wondered how large a gift was required to get rid of the rackety crew. "These fellows could teach the London beggars a thing or two."

Jin said, "Beggars belong to Heavenly Flower Society. Very old guild."

"Ah, a guild. Of course." A few weeks in Canton would seriously damage Kyle's capacity for surprise.

Ahead, a large crowd had gathered around a juggler, who was swinging a rock on a rope to clear people away enough for him to perform. There wasn't much space to spare in the square. Kyle cut around the crowd, moving to the river's edge. His gaze was on a brightly flagged mandarin gunboat when he heard a high-pitched shout: "Sir!"

An instant later he was wrenched sideways as a net full of tea chests fell from a crane and smashed down where he'd been standing. He and Jin ended up in a heap on the ground as dust and wood fragments sprayed them.

Kyle pushed himself up with one arm, and for an instant his gaze met Jin's. The young man's eyes were medium brown, not black, and showed sharp intelligence.

But the color wasn't what riveted Kyle. On a handful of occasions he'd met someone and felt an instant, powerful sense of connection. Most recently there had been a ragged holy man in India, who with one glance had seemed to see into Kyle's soul. The same had happened with Constancia at their first meeting. That bond had lasted until she died, and beyond. Now, strangely, something in this young Chinese man resonated intensely.

Jin Kang dropped his head as he started to scramble to his feet. As soon as he placed weight on his right ankle, it turned under him and he gasped with pain.

A crowd had gathered, the stevedores babbling in pidgin what sounded like apologies for the broken rope that had caused the accident. Ignoring them, Kyle said, "How bad is your ankle? "

"Not… bad." Jin tried to stand again.

When Jin's face twisted, Kyle took hold of the younger man's arm to steady him. "Which is the Elliott hong?"

"That one." Jin gestured toward a building in the center of the row.

"Can you walk that far with my help?"

"It is not fitting for you to aid me! My master, Chenqua, would not like it."

"A pity, since I have no intention of overlooking the fact that you saved me from being crushed." Supporting Jin, Kyle started toward the hong. The young man managed to hobble along reasonably well. Probably the ankle was only sprained.

As they crossed the square, Kyle again recognized how much strength was contained in Jin's slight body. He was incredibly fast as well, to have knocked Kyle out of the path of the tea chests without being injured himself. But now he was shaking, probably in mild shock from the ankle injury.

They reached the gate that led into Elliott's hong. Kyle identified himself to the porter, then helped Jin through a set of wide doors. They entered a vast storage area rich with the scents of sandalwood, spices, and tea.

Jin gestured to the right. "Office there."

A narrow aisle between stacked boxes of export porcelain was just wide enough for them to pass. They entered the office, creating a stir among the half dozen workers. A man with an air of authority got to his feet and said with an American accent, "Lord Maxwell. We've been expecting you."

"You're Morgan, the senior manager, I presume? Elliott always speaks most highly of you. Order a pot of tea for Jin Kang," Kyle said. "He'll also need someone to examine and bind his ankle. He just saved me from being flattened by a load of tea chests when a hoist broke."

"There's a doctor at the English Factory." Morgan gestured to a young Portuguese, who scurried off. "Well done, Jin."

Kyle helped Jin Kang to the nearest chair. The young man's hunched posture conveyed acute embarrassment at causing so much disruption, and he was still shaking. Was he really so much in fear of Chenqua? Or had Kyle violated some taboo by touching the young man?

Kyle had a great deal to learn about China. A pity he had only weeks in which to do it.

Chapter 3

« ^ »

Chenqua looked up from his writing table, brush poised in his hand. "The new Fan-qui, Maxwell. What is he like?"

Troth tried to set her jumbled thoughts in order. Her master had no interest in Maxwell's handsome face, broad shoulders, or disturbing touch. "Maxwell is a decent and thoughtful man, I believe. Not a troublemaker, but… used to getting his own way."

Chenqua's eyes narrowed. "Fortunate that he will be here only a month. Keep a close watch on him." He bent to his writing again, dismissing her.

She limped from the room, using the cane Maxwell had found for her. He'd also walked her to the wharf after the binding of her ankle, though mercifully he had not touched her again.

She'd tried to send him away, but he'd insisted on waiting until she was safely in a boat that would carry her to Chenqua's palace on Honam Island, across the water from Canton. Of course his solicitude had not been for Jin Kang as a person, but because of the service she had rendered. Like a faithful watchdog or a horse, she had done her duty and would be treated accordingly.

Face impassive, she climbed the two flights of steps to her small room at the top of the house and locked the door behind her. Then she folded herself onto her low, narrow bed, shaking. Not from the pain of her twisted ankle-she had experienced her share of kung fu injuries and knew the hurt would heal quickly.

But she would not soon recover from Maxwell. Not since her father's death had a man touched her in kindness, and she was shocked by her reaction. Perhaps if she hadn't gazed into those piercing blue eyes she would not have been so unsettled. Or if he hadn't touched her foot and ankle, which were very private and erotic to a Chinese lady.

His touch had been quite impersonal-he would have done the same for anyone needing support. But she, foolish woman, had been left trembling with shock and yearning, her female yin energy aroused and seeking the balance of his male yang. She had wanted to press against him, feel the length of his body against hers.

What would it be like to have such a man look at her with desire?

She stared dry-eyed at the ceiling, not allowing tears. It was not her fate to be concubine, wife, or mother. She must be content with the comfort of her life. She had a full belly, a certain respect from her master, and blessed privacy in her small room. She even had a measure of freedom, more than any other female in the house. But that was because she was not considered truly female, any more than she was truly Chinese.

Her gaze moved over her sanctuary. She had arranged it with painstaking care, using the principles of feng shui, harmonious placement. There was no clutter, only a handful of furnishings that she loved. The bed, a chair, a table that served as a desk. A soft carpet in shades of blue and cream, storage chests in several sizes. An embroidered wall hanging portrayed the world in Taoist symbols of water, earth, air, and fire.

In one corner she had created a small family shrine where she could honor her father and mother, who had no one else to remember them and care for their ghosts. Her father had raised her to believe in the Lord Jesus, but in China, older gods also walked, and it would not be wise to neglect them.

Opposite her bed was the lacquered chest that contained her most private possessions. Perhaps indulging her secret self would relieve her emptiness. Moving awkwardly because of her aching ankle, she knelt by the chest and fished out the key that hung on a silk cord around her neck.

The scent of sandalwood wafted out when she unlocked the chest and lifted the lid. At the bottom of the chest were her father's Bible, other English books, and the padded silk box that held her jewelry. On top were her treasured female garments.

It had taken years to accumulate her secret wardrobe. Chenqua made her a small allowance, and sometimes Fan-qui traders would give her money when they were especially pleased with tasks she had performed. Those hoarded coins had gone to furnish her room, and for women's clothing and adornments.

Since Chenqua forbade her to leave the house unless she was dressed as a man, she would pretend to be looking on behalf of a sister when she haunted the used-clothing stalls. She'd even walked to the far side of the sprawling city so no one would recognize her as she sought garments large enough to fit.

Gently she removed the blue silk robe that was her special pride. Though worn and patched, it had once belonged to a grand lady, a tall Manchu woman from the north, perhaps. She removed her male garb and unbound her breasts, then pulled on undergarments and trousers. The silk was smooth and sensuous against her skin.

She tossed her cap aside and undid the long queue that marked her as a male, raking fingers through her thick hair to loosen it. After a thorough brushing, she dressed it high on her head in the elaborate style of a court lady, securing the dark coils with long hairpins tipped in chased gold. They had been a gift from her father to her mother.

A touch of perfume at her throat, a brush of color on her lips. Then she donned the richly embroidered robe. Even the jade beads that slipped through loops to secure the garment felt luxurious against her fingertips.

Last came her jewelry: jade bangles for her wrists, ropes of glass and carved wooden beads, the delicate handkerchief every lady carried. Straightening to her full height, she lifted her head high as if she were a great beauty.

Her mother, Li-Yin, had been beautiful. Li-Yin had loved telling the story of how Hugh Montgomery bought her as his concubine as soon as he laid eyes on her. At first she'd been terrified of the huge barbarian, with his strange red hair and gray eyes! But he'd been kind to her, and soon she was grateful to have him as her master.

Troth had listened to the story again and again, imagining that one day a Fan-qui gentleman would see her and fall instantly in love. She'd been very young then.

She skimmed her hands down the coat, the embroidered roundels faintly rough against her palms. Peonies for spring, bats for good fortune. Feeling deliriously feminine, she slowly pirouetted, the heavy silk swinging away from her body. Would Maxwell find her pleasing if he could see her now?

Her glance touched the mirror on the opposite wall, and her expression crumpled. East or West, she was ugly. Why did she torment herself by dressing up and pretending to be what she could never be? As a girl in Macao, she'd admired the beautiful Fan-qui ladies with their varied hair colors and features. With her hulking body and huge servant-girl feet she would be less conspicuous among them than with the delicate Cantonese ladies, but never would she be considered pretty.

A rap sounded on the door. "Jin Kang?"

It was Ling-Ling. "Lovely Bell" was Chenqua's Fourth Lady, the youngest, prettiest, and liveliest of his wives, and Troth's closest friend in the household. Not wanting to be caught in her forbidden garments, she called out, "A moment, Ling-Ling."

Swiftly she removed her finery and folded it back into the chest, then pulled on her trousers and tunic. There wasn't time to replait her hair, but as Ling-Ling called impatiently Troth yanked out the pins and shook it loose over her shoulders. Only then did she open the door.

Ling-Ling entered, exquisitely made up and swaying gracefully on her tiny bound feet. Her "golden lilies" were only three inches long, a fact of great pride to her. She looked up at Troth, surprised. "What a lot of hair you have, and with that odd yellow color. Not properly black. Your Fan-qui blood, of course."

Troth suppressed a sigh. Her friend was nothing if not forthright. Dressed in a queue, Troth's hair looked decently dark, but loose it showed rusty highlights. "We can't all be as fortunate as you, Ling-Ling."

"Very true." Smiling mischievously, Ling-Ling perched on the only chair. "You've unbound your breasts, I see. You're so large.'"

"More of that dreadful Fan-qui blood."

Ling-Ling nodded. "The barbarians are enormous, aren't they? And so hairy. The last time my lord entertained some at dinner, I watched from behind a screen. How horrible it would be to belong to one!"

"A terrible thought. You might have ended up with a child like me."

"It's not your fault you have tainted blood."

Knowing her friend meant no insult, Troth settled on the bed, stretching out her injured ankle. "Did you come up here for some special reason? "

Ling-Ling leaned forward in the chair, her eyes glowing. "I think I am with child!"

"That's wonderful! Are you sure?"

"Not quite yet, but I feel it in my bones. I will give my lord a son!"

"It could be a girl."

Ling-Ling shook her head. "I have prayed at the temple of Kuan Yin, and burned joss sticks to her daily. It will be a son. My lord wants that, too, or he would not have released his seed. He will be so pleased."

Ling-Ling's frank chatter had taught Troth much about what happened between men and women in bed. She always listened with queasy interest, intensely curious but feeling that it was improper to hear about such private matters. She couldn't imagine Chenqua as a lover, though according to Ling-Ling, his kung fu strength was equaled by his amatory endurance. If he'd fathered another child at his age, he was fit indeed.

"Boy or girl, I envy you, Ling-Ling."

The girl tilted her head to one side. "Truly? I didn't think you were interested in a woman's life."

"I've had no choice but to be Jin Kang." Troth's mouth twisted. "No man would have me."

"No Chinese man would, of course, but a Fan-qui might," Ling-Ling said thoughtfully. "Such a man would be honored to have a concubine who carried the blood of the Celestial Kingdom."

Troth had often secretly studied the European traders, wondering what it would be like to be with one of them. Gavin Elliott in particular appealed to her, for he reminded her of her father: tall and handsome, honorable and clever, courteous to all. But Lord Maxwell-Troth flushed when she thought of him. He had fired both her blood and her imagination, even though any such relationship was unthinkable.

"Aiiee, is there one you fancy?" Ling-Ling asked eagerly. "Shall I ask my lord tonight when we lie together to give you to the Fan-qui you desire?"

"No!" Troth made herself shrug as if indifferent. "I may be half barbarian myself, but that doesn't mean that I want to mate with one."

Ling-Ling nodded approval. It was a very proper sentiment.

A lie, of course. Though marrying a Fan-qui was impossible, Troth certainly dreamed of mating with one.

Gavin poured a cup of steaming tea into a handle-less Chinese cup and offered it to Kyle. "What do you think?"

Kyle tasted it thoughtfully. Under his friend's tutelage, he'd become something of an expert at evaluating teas. "Rather bland."

"You're being charitable. It's dead boring. But… offered at a very attractive price…? I wonder if it's worth shipping all the way to Boston."

Kyle took another sip. "What if you add some kind of flavoring? The basic tea taste is fairly strong. Blending in something else will add interest."

Gavin looked intrigued. "Any suggestions?"

"I've had tea flavored with cardamom in India. It has a lovely taste and scent. Or you might try some kind of citrus. Either lemon or orange."

His friend nodded thoughtfully. "I'll order a goodly amount of the tea, and we can start experimenting with flavors. I'll make a merchant of you yet. Care to help establish a London branch of Elliott House?"

"You're expanding your trade into England?"

"It's the logical next step. Britain has many more customers than the United States." Gavin grinned. "When I was a lad in Aberdeen, I quite fancied myself as the master of one of the world's great trading companies."

"You're well on your way." Kyle hadn't done badly himself. He'd started dabbling in trade to learn whether he was capable of success unrelated to his rank, and he'd found satisfaction and profit in his ventures. Though he was returning to the staid life of an English gentleman, he wanted to maintain his connection with the East, and that was probably a factor in Gavin's decision to expand Elliott House's operations. "I think a London office is an excellent idea-it will save me from respectability."

It would also give Kyle an excuse for future travel, though not until he'd done his duty by marrying and getting an heir or two. It was a dull prospect, but no longer unbearable, as it had been when he'd left England. Surely he could find a good-tempered young woman who would make him a comfortable, undemanding wife. He did not expect great love. That came only once in a lifetime.

Gavin added some figures to a sheet of paper he produced from an inside pocket. "I'm late for a meeting at Consoo House. Will you ask Jin Kang to write this letter to Pao Tien, the merchant who sent me this tea sample? I need to place an order."

"Can Jin read English?" Kyle asked, surprised.

"I doubt it. Just read the letter out loud. He'll translate it into Chinese and add all the right flowery phrases."

"I'll take care of it right away." Kyle was glad of an excuse to seek Jin Kang out. Perhaps he could learn why the young man had made such an impression on him at their first meeting.

He was turning to leave when Gavin said, "Don't forget that tonight is the grand dinner in your honor at the English Factory."

Kyle groaned. "I've been doing my best to forget it. Why do the East India Company fellows feel the need to give me an official welcome? I've already met every Western trader in Canton, I think."

"Because there's damned little to do in Canton. No wives or mistresses allowed, all of us confined to a piece of land not much bigger than a cricket pitch- any excuse for diversion will do. Entertaining a visiting viscount is a good reason to break out the best silver."

That made sense. Though Kyle was intrigued by China, he'd go mad if he had to spend half a year living such a restricted life. After only three days, he was already longing for a good gallop through open country. That would have to wait until he went home to Dornleigh. As he threaded his way through the crowded warehouse, he could almost feel a cool English wind on his face. Yes, it was time to return home.

But he still had a month in Canton. Even if he couldn't arrange to visit the Temple of Hoshan, he must learn as much as possible about the China trade. When he inherited the earldom and took his seat in the House of Lords, he'd have to deal with issues of trade and foreign policy, and there was no substitute for firsthand knowledge.

Opium was an integral part of the China trade, and public sentiment back home disapproved of the fact that British merchants were purveyors of drugs. Kyle agreed. A major reason he'd saved Elliott House from bankruptcy was because the American firm was one of the few companies that didn't deal in opium.

Of course, America had furs and ginseng and other products the Chinese wanted. Traders from other nations weren't so lucky. China wasn't interested in European manufactured goods-but opium from Turkey or British India was quite another matter.

He entered the office. Half a dozen clerks were there, most of them Portuguese. Jin Kang sat at a corner desk working the odd collection of beads known as an abacus. The thing looked like a child's toy, but was supposed to be useful for calculations.

Making a mental note to get someone to explain it to him later, Kyle silently approached Jin. "How is your ankle, Jin Kang?"

Jin gave a swift, startled glance before dropping his gaze to the abacus again. His eyes were indeed a warm brown rather than black. "It is well, sir." His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.

Kyle drew up an empty chair and sat beside the desk. "Mr. Elliott gave me a letter that he'd like you to write for him."

"Of course, sir." Jin set the abacus aside and pulled paper and other writing equipment from a desk drawer. Kyle watched with interest as the young man ground part of a black cake on a stone, then mixed in water to make black ink.

When Jin was ready, Kyle slowly read the letter aloud. Using a brush instead of a quill or a pen, the young man painted a column of complex symbols down the page, starting on the right side of the paper and working toward the left. Occasionally he would pause and ask for clarification of a word or phrase. Though his English was slow and awkward, he was conscientious.

When the letter was finished, Kyle remarked, "Chinese writing is very different from European writing. Elegant."

"Calligraphy is a great art. My writing is crude. Fit only for trade."

"It looks fine to me. So many different letters. Can you teach me the alphabet?"

"It is forbidden to teach Chinese to a Fan-qui.'" Jin kept his head down. He was capable of carrying on an entire conversation without looking up.

"Good Lord, why?"

"It is not for me to try to guess the reasons of the Celestial Emperor."

No doubt the prohibition was based on the general distaste of the Chinese for foreigners. Three days in Canton had taught Kyle that even the poorest Chinese looked down on the foreign devils. It was amusing to imagine how enraged a stiff-necked, bigoted English aristocrat would be to realize that a shabby Chinese boatman considered himself superior.

Paradoxically, the Chinese Kyle had dealt with personally were the soul of courtesy, and he'd seen what seemed like genuine respect between Cantonese merchants and the Fan-qui with whom they did business. This was a nation of contrasts. "Surely teaching me the alphabet would not be the same as teaching me the language."

Jin shook his head, his thick queue swaying. "We have no alphabet."

"No alphabet? Then what does this mean?" Kyle pointed at a character.

"It begs the honor of the merchant's attention." Jin set his brush on a porcelain rest, his brow furrowing as he sought the words to explain. "In your language, each letter stands for a sound. Putting them together shows the sounds for a whole word. In Chinese each character is an… an idea. Combining them produces a new idea. It is… subtle."

"Fascinating, and very different. How many characters are there?"

"Many, many." Jin touched the abacus. "Tens of thousands."

Kyle whistled softly. "It seems like a clumsy system. Surely it takes years of study to learn how to read and write."

"It is not to be expected that everyone would excel at such a high art," Jin said stiffly. "Writing, poetry, and painting are the Three Perfections. Skill in all three is the mark of scholars and poets."

"Since you can write, does that make you a scholar?"

"Oh, no. My learning is not fit to take a scholar exam. I have only the skill of a clerk." His tone implied that Kyle's question had been absurd.

"Can you show me how to write a single character? Surely that is not the same as teaching me how to write."

The corner of Jin's mouth twitched slightly. A repressed smile? "You are very persistent, sir."

"Indeed." Kyle examined the ink cake. It was octagonal, with a dragon embossed on one side. " Better to yield now, since I will pester you until you show me."

Yes, Jin was definitely trying not to smile. "A humble clerk cannot resist such force, my lord." He placed a blank sheet of paper on the table. "Watch as I draw the character for fire. The strokes must be made in the correct order." Twice he drew the same simple, star-shaped character, working slowly so that the strokes were clear. Then he freshened the ink on the brush and handed it to Kyle. "Try."

Even to the most casual eye, Kyle's attempt was not a success. "This is harder than it looks." He tried again, getting closer to the shape of the character but creating nothing like the elegance of Jin's writing.

"You hold the brush wrong. Not like an English pen. More straight. Like this." Jin put his hand over Kyle's, changing the angle of the brush.

A strange tingle went through Kyle. What the devil? Jin felt something, too, because he quickly pulled his hand away.

Could this boy be a holy man like the one in India? Sri Anshu's gaze could melt lead, and perhaps Jin Kang concealed similar inner fires. Or was the basis of that inexplicable reaction rooted in something that didn't bear thinking about?

Though disturbed, Kyle forced himself to act as if nothing had happened. "The brush should be more upright?"

"Yes." Jin swallowed. "And held more loosely."

Kyle painted the character several more times. Holding the brush differently did produce a more delicate stroke, but he still had a long way to go.

And he had made no progress toward understanding his baffling response to Jin Kang. Quite the contrary.

Chapter 4

« ^ »

England

December 1832

Troth awoke in a soft bed with lavender-scented linens. It was night, but flames crackled cozily in the fireplace to her right. She felt warm for the first time in what seemed like months.

A quiet, familiar voice asked, "How are you feeling?"

She turned her head to the left and saw the man whose appearance had caused her to faint when she arrived at Warfield Park. Kyle. Yet now that she saw him more closely, he was not Kyle, despite the uncanny resemblance. "You are Lord Grahame?"

He nodded. "And you are Lady Maxwell, my brother's wife. Before we start talking seriously, do you need food or drink? Water?"

She realized that she hadn't had anything since early that morning. "Water… would be nice."

He poured a glass from a pitcher on the bedside table, then piled pillows behind her so she could sit up and drink. His hands were kind, but they were not Kyle's hands.

She swallowed thirstily, emptying the glass. Her dizziness faded. "He didn't tell me that you and he were twins, Lord Grahame."

"No wonder you were startled at the sight of me." Grahame seated himself again. "Identical twins learn early that people become so fascinated by the idea that there are two of us that they forget we are individuals. Easier not to mention being a twin unless there's a good reason."

And there had really never been a reason for Kyle to mention the subject. At the end, everything had happened so quickly.

She studied her host's face. It was a little thinner than Kyle's and his eyes were perhaps a deeper blue, but even so… "The resemblance is remarkable, Lord Grahame."

He gave her a painfully familiar smile. "Since I am your brother-in-law, you must call me Dominic."

"My name is Troth." She plucked restlessly at the coverlet, reluctant to tell him her news. "You accept without question that I am your brother's wife?"

"You have his ring." His gaze went to her hand, where firelight picked out the Celtic knotwork. "And you look like someone he would marry. Where is he- delayed in London?"

Troth realized that despite Dominic's casual attitude, he was tense with nerves. That was why he had sat with her until she awoke. Perhaps he sensed that something was wrong, but hoped she would say his twin was fine and would be along soon. Aching, she said, "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, my lord. Kyle died in China."

Dominic froze, the color draining from his face. "No. He can't be dead."

"I wish it weren't so." Her voice unsteady despite the months she'd lived with the knowledge, she described Kyle's death in short, flat sentences.

When she was finished, Dominic buried his face in shaking hands. "I knew something was wrong," he whispered. " But I always thought that if he was dead, I would know it."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry, so sorry. His last request was that I come to tell you what happened."

He raised his head, expression haggard. "Forgive me. This must be even more difficult for you than for me."

"I knew Kyle only a few weeks." Though those weeks had changed her forever. "You knew him your whole life."

Dominic's mouth twisted. "I suppose there is no point in comparing pain."

He got to his feet, his gaze blind. "If you need anything, just tug on the bellpull and someone will come." He started to say more, then shook his head. "For… forgive me."

He left the room, moving as though he had been struck a mortal blow. Intuitively Troth knew he was going to his wife, the only one whose comfort might help after such catastrophic news.

Duty discharged, she rolled over and buried herself in the pillows, surrendering to sobs she had suppressed for too long.

Chapter 5

« ^ »

Canton, China

February 1832

Kyle blinked when he entered the high-ceilinged dining room of the English Factory, as the East India Company hong was known. Hundreds of wax candles blazed from chandeliers and in the massive candelabra that marched down the center of the long, gleaming table. "You were serious about this being an excuse to get out the silver," he murmured under his breath to Gavin Elliott. "This would make the castle of an English duke look positively informal."

Gavin chuckled. "You'd know that better than I."

Kyle noticed a crowd of Chinese dressed in plain dark garb at the far end of the room. "Surely so many servants aren't needed."

"It's traditional to have one standing behind each chair. I asked Jin Kang to take care of you. If you have any questions about customs or protocol, he'll answer them."

Jin might have answers, but Kyle thought it best to avoid asking the questions. He was still uneasy about his reaction to the young man.

"Lord Maxwell, let me officially welcome you to the English Factory." A solid, balding man emerged from a group to offer his hand: William Boynton, head of the East India Company in Canton. As host, Boynton took him around the room for more introductions. Kyle cast a wistful glance out the window at the river before settling himself to doing his duty. The first lesson he'd learned from his father had been that with rank came responsibilities. Boring ones.

"Try to keep Maxwell out of trouble, Jin," Gavin had instructed Troth before the banquet. "The man has too much curiosity and not enough fear."

She'd noticed that herself-Maxwell was trouble waiting to happen. As the Fan-qui seated themselves at the long table, she studied them. Some were wise, shrewd merchants like her father; others were indolent bigots who'd become rich from the trading system, yet despised the country and people that created such wealth. She knew them all-yet none of them really knew her.

She took her position behind Lord Maxwell, who had the place of honor at Boynton's right hand. He saw her approach and gave her a nod of recognition. In his eyes she saw curiosity and wariness similar to what she herself felt. It was some comfort that he was also disquieted.

What was it about Maxwell that affected her so? He was not the tallest man here, nor the most richly dressed, and perhaps not even the most handsome, since Gavin Elliott was present. Yet Maxwell had a compelling presence and an air of authority that eclipsed even Boynton, who as taipan of the East India Company was the most powerful Fan-qui trader in Canton.

During the long meal, weighted down by slabs of animal flesh and steamed puddings and other heavy English food, Troth had ample opportunity to memorize the back of Maxwell's head. Absurdly, she enjoyed studying the faint wave in his thick brown hair, the promise of power in his broad shoulders. And again and again, she remembered that strange pulse of awareness when she'd thoughtlessly taken his hand to show him how to hold a brush. Having little to do but stand behind a chair left the mind prey to strange fancies.

The dinner had plodded into the final phase of port and Philippine cigars when the conversation took a disquieting turn. It started with casual, rather drunken complaints about the Eight Regulations, which restricted the activities of the European traders. Troth scarcely listened. She'd heard it all before.

Then Caleb Logan, a Scot who'd once been her father's junior partner, said, "You should be working with a British firm, Maxwell, not an upstart American trading company." Though his tone was joking, there was an edge to his words.

"The Company needs some competition," Maxwell said amiably. "Besides, I like Elliott's philosophy."

"Philosophy?" Logan grinned. "Making as much money as possible is the philosophy we all follow."

Maxwell didn't reply, but a drunken Englishman, Colwell, did. "By philosophy, do you mean the fact that Elliott House doesn't deal in opium?"

Maxwell hesitated. "I'll admit that I prefer not to traffic in illegal goods."

"We aren't all lucky enough to have dead beavers and dirty roots to ship."

"American firms are fortunate to have furs and ginseng, but perhaps Britain should follow their example and look for new products to sell," Maxwell suggested. "The opium trade isn't popular back home. Many people feel that smuggling in contraband tarnishes us as a nation."

"What would our righteous countrymen say if they no longer had their tea?" Logan said dryly. "No opium, no tea. We offered other goods, but the mandarins turned up their noses at Europe 's best."

"We took pride in the fact that Napoleon called Britain a nation of shopkeepers, but no divine law says that China must trade with us," Maxwell said with equal dryness. "The government is behaving responsibly in trying to keep opium out of the country."

"Trade is the lifeblood of the world. The Chinese merchants know that even if their government doesn't. There are plenty of eager opium buyers, and that's what keeps the trade in balance." Like most of the China merchants, Logan considered the opium trade in terms of business, not morality. Having seen the evil that opium addiction could do, Troth was less pragmatic. Luckily, her father had not traded in opium, though he'd have made more money if he had.

Maxwell swirled the port in his glass. Troth sensed that he was uncomfortable with the topic, but he wouldn't back down. "That's been true in the past, but times change. The East India Company is probably going to lose its monopoly in the next year or two, so there will be more merchants competing here. It's also possible that Parliament will forbid British citizens to participate in the opium trade."

Heavy silence fell across the dining room until Logan said coolly, "Are you a Parliamentary spy who will run back to London and try to put us out of business?"

"I have no desire to put anyone out of business. Britain needs your skills, your experience, and your tea. I'm just suggesting that you consider diversifying."

"There's no need. This whole heathenish trading system is going to fall apart soon," the drunken Englishman said. "It exists only because the mandarins are afraid to let their people see us, because we're greater gentlemen than they are. So they say we're barbarians, and keep us penned up here. They're the barbarians."

Boynton, the British taipan, intervened. "Such talk is not fitting. We are guests in their country, and every one of us has profited handsomely by the trading system."

"We're not guests; we're damned prisoners!" the drunk retorted. "We can't sail for pleasure, or go into the city, or bring our wives and mistresses. The Royal Navy should sail up the Pearl River and teach the mandarins some manners! Then we'll be able to trade anywhere we want, not just in Canton."

"That's enough!" Boynton ordered.

"Quite," Logan agreed. "Civilized men can agree to disagree."

Yet anger was still palpable in the room, and Troth sensed that much of it was aimed at Maxwell, as if he were responsible for the problems of the China trade. Gavin Elliott shot Troth a glance. Though most of the servants did not speak English well enough to understand the conversation, Troth did, and Elliott knew it.

She kept her face blank and her eyes downcast, as if so bored that she wasn't following the discussion. She'd have to tell Chenqua about the dinner conversation, of course, but nothing new had been said. Grumbling was chronic among the Fan-qui traders. Only Maxwell, with his reasonable suggestions, was different from the usual.

"I understand why you feel imprisoned," Maxwell said in a conciliatory tone. "I've been here only a week, and I'm already restless. Do any of you defy the regulations and go into the city or inland? It would be interesting to see more of the country."

Most of the traders looked shocked at the thought. A blond Dutchman said, "We'd not get far if we tried! We foreign devils stand out too easily."

"The Portuguese Jesuits travel into China. Maybe a merchant could do the same if he wore a long black robe." Maxwell's tone was light, but Troth sensed that he was very interested in the answer.

Boynton shook his head. "It's true that the emperor tolerates the Jesuits, but even they aren't allowed to wander freely. It's all permits, guides, and regulations. A pity, or I'd be tempted to put on a black robe and try it." His comment produced chuckles.

"Then I shall have to get my taste of China by exploring Hog Lane. Perhaps I'll visit there tomorrow night. The contrast with tonight's gentlemanly entertainment should make it seem more exotic," Maxwell said with barely detectable irony. "Is the place really a foul sink of iniquity? "

"The drink shops sell the wickedest liquor in the East, and you'll see European sailors spewing in the alleys and passed out in the gutters," Logan said. "You may get your pockets picked, but since Hog Lane is part of the Settlement, at least you won't get a knife in your back. This place is safer than London."

" Hog Lane sounds tame compared to most ports. Calcutta, for example."

Maxwell's comment inspired a discussion of which ports were the wickedest, often with graphic descriptions to support the opinions. Troth found it educational, though she wondered how much was true and how much was mere boasting.

By the time the guests took their leave, all signs of discord had vanished. But as Troth faded in with the other servants, she understood why Elliott had asked her to keep an eye on Maxwell. His candor could bring trouble down on that handsome head.

Chapter 6

« ^ »

Troth worked late the next night, translating and writing letters for Boynton at the English Factory. As Chen-qua's employee, part of her job was to perform any special task requested by merchants who were clients of her master. She was grateful for an excuse not to be at Elliott's hong, where she ran the risk of running into Maxwell again. He'd haunted her dreams the night before, and she'd woken hot and humiliated. A good thing he would leave soon, never to return.

Tonight he'd intended to visit Hog Lane. Would he find the area interesting? For a man who'd traveled as widely as he, the local taverns and prostitutes would probably be nothing special. With a sharp ache, she envied him his freedom to travel. If only she had really been born male!

Because her mind kept wandering from her work, it took her longer than usual to do the translations. Her brushwork was clumsy and several letters had to be redone. She was startled to hear the office clock striking midnight as she finished. Perhaps in the morning she'd skip her exercises and sleep late.

Yawning, she left the English Factory. The porter who guarded the gate nodded farewell, used to her irregular hours.

Though Hog Lane, a mere block away, hummed with lights, noise, and activity, the waterfront was quiet, with only a handful of sampans gliding silently over the water. She was heading toward a cluster of taxi boats to get a ride across to Honam Island when a dark, stealthy figure approached. "Jin Kang?"

She recognized the whisper of a young man who worked at a drink shop on Hog Lane and sometimes supplied her with useful bits of information. "Good evening, Teng. What brings you away from your business at such a busy hour?"

Teng drew close, his voice dropping. "I heard something you should know."

He'd obviously also heard that she was working late. There were few secrets in this narrow strip of land. "It's very late." She covered another yawn. "Is your information urgent?"

"Two toughs from one of the gangs were in the shop. I heard them discussing the money they'd earn for killing a Fan-qui, one under Chenqua's protection."

Troth stared at him, her fatigue forgotten. "No one would dare kill a Fan-qui!"

"Maybe not, but they were laughing over the number of taels of silver they'll earn when they break the skull of the new Fan-qui lord, Max-Well."

Gods above, if he was still in Hog Lane, he'd be an easy target! "Have you seen this Lord Maxwell tonight?"

Teng shrugged. "I don't know the man, but the street is full of Fan-qui sailors on leave. He might be among them."

"When did you hear the men talking?"

"Only a few minutes ago."

Seeking help would take precious time. Hog Lane was a small area, and gods willing, she'd find Maxwell before the gang members did. She was whirling to leave when Teng caught her sleeve. "My information is valuable?"

She yanked free. "You'll receive your reward tomorrow, I swear!"

Then she bolted, racing along the silent fronts of the hongs toward the noise and lights of Hog Lane.

Sin was sin the world round, Kyle decided. Still, the rough friendliness of the sailors at the various drink shops was a pleasant change from the suffocating respectability of the night before.

Even dressed in his oldest clothing he was conspicuous, but since he wasn't a ship's officer he was accepted easily. It helped that he was willing to buy rounds of fiery samshu, a local liquor guaranteed to banish sobriety, and quite possibly the lining of a man's stomach along with it. He drank sparingly.

Information usually flowed freely in the lower reaches of society, and that held true here. He ambled from drink shop to drink shop, talking with sailors of several nations and avoiding the swift sporadic fights with the skill of long practice. As the evening progressed, he collected a wide range of opinions about the China trade, though his future colleagues in the House of Lords would be appalled at the ways in which he was educating himself.

The thought of their horror did not bother him. As a boy, he'd always dreamed of traveling to distant lands. Only after he'd achieved his goal had he understood his yearning. Being a viscount and heir to an earldom from the moment he first drew breath had condemned him to a life of narrow privilege. Mostly he'd known men much like himself, bred to power and the rigid customs of his class. That was why he was drawn to people who were different. One of many reasons for loving Constancia had been that she was Spanish, as exotic as she was warmhearted.

But it was in Asia that he had truly discovered people, ideas, and communities very different from his own. The Indian holy man whose eyes had burned with knowledge had not cared that he was Viscount Maxwell. Neither had his shipmates when they'd fought side by side against murderous Spice Islands pirates. After the battle the bosun had told him that " 'is lordship didn't fight like no damned gentleman." Kyle thought it one of the finest compliments he'd ever received.

In his journeying he had discovered himself, and he'd gained freedom and tolerance. Even if he never left England again, he was a better man for what he'd learned. He supposed that was why he now felt ready to return home. Still, he would enjoy these last days in a land so different from his own.

Hog Lane ended at Thirteen Factories Street, which paralleled the massive city wall a couple of hundred yards away. Deciding it would be best to explore the maze of shops and alleys on the other side of the street during daylight, he was about to head back to his quarters when a small boy scampered from an alley no more than seven feet wide.

The boy bowed, then said in the pidgin spoken by most of the local shopkeepers, "Sir want to see vely fine singing clickets? My master has best clickets, best plices, sir!"

Singing crickets? Amused, Kyle asked, "Where is your master's shop?"

"Just up here, sir!" The boy bowed again, then trotted down the alley, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that Kyle was following. Most of the businesses they passed were closed, but he saw a lantern illuminating an alcove ahead where minuscule cages hung from nails driven into the wall. As he approached the tiny shop, the shrilling of insects pierced the noise of Hog Lane.

Listening to the crickets, he didn't hear footfalls behind him, but a swift-moving shadow triggered an instinctive sidestep. He spun around just in time to avoid a swinging club. "Bloody hell!"

Three Chinese men moved in behind him, and three more were coming from the far end of the alley. The boy had vanished, his job done. Swearing, Kyle charged at the men who blocked his retreat. If he could reach the drunken European sailors two blocks away in Hog Lane, they'd happily help him fight off robbers.

Weight and speed nearly broke him free before another club smashed across his left side and shoulder. He staggered and almost fell, his side going numb.

Since he carried little money and no valuables, it might be wiser to toss his purse and run, but surrender was against his nature. He grabbed the nearest man and flung him into his two companions.

The attackers from the end of the alley closed in, their grim determination visible even in the darkness. Damnation, they meant to kill him! Retreating until his back was against a wall, Kyle shouted for help in the faint hope that his voice would carry above the clamor of Hog Lane.

He used every vicious trick learned in fighting pirates, bandits, and thieves to keep the attackers at bay. But there were six of them, and he'd been damned fool enough to come without his pistol.

Thanking God for the knife in his boot, he whipped the weapon out and stabbed his nearest attacker. The man fell back, dark blood flowing over his hand. A menacing growl came from the others when they saw their victim was armed. Two of them pulled knives of their own.

Another club struck a glancing blow to his skull. He fell to the ground, stunned, blackness closing in on him. Kicks crashed into his ribs and belly as he helplessly watched a flashing blade raised to strike. Dizzily he thought that it was a hell of a way to die, in a "safe" city just before he was to return home. Dominic would be stuck with the earldom after all.

A blood-freezing shout sliced through the air. An instant later, a dark-clad figure cannoned into the attackers. Moving with balletic grace and unbelievable speed, the newcomer kicked one man in the crotch, chopped the throat of another with the side of his hand, and slammed the heel of his hand into the nose of a third. All three of the toughs collapsed, crying out with agony.

The gang turned on this new threat, but were unable to come to grips with the man, who was elusive as a shadow and fierce as a raging tiger. Sliding away from clutching hands and swinging clubs, he kicked a drawn knife, sending it spinning into the darkness, then dropped another man into a crumpled, moaning heap with another throat chop.

Two of the thugs tried to pin the dark-clad stranger against the wall. Leaping into the air, the man somersaulted over the back of one assailant as if they were acrobats practicing a routine.

Seeing the flash of a knife, Kyle shouted a warning and tried to struggle to his feet to help, but the effort was too much. Pain seared through him and he collapsed into darkness.

Giving thanks that none of the attackers were trained in kung fu, Troth used one man's own momentum to slam him into a wall. He fell to the ground and didn't rise again. The two still standing fled into the night.

Not wasting a glance at them, she dropped down beside Maxwell, her heart pounding. His shout had drawn her to the alley, and he'd still been fighting strongly when she arrived. Gods willing, he wasn't mortally hurt.

Pulse strong, skull not crushed, little blood. He should survive. But what to do? They couldn't linger here-three of the men she'd brought down were groaning and making feeble efforts to rise, and the ones who'd run might return with reinforcements.

Help in moving Maxwell was readily available in Hog Lane, but then word of this attack on a European would become public knowledge, with catastrophic results for Chenqua, since the Cohong merchants were considered responsible for everything their Fan-qui clients did. The attempted murder would bring a huge fine down on Chenqua, possibly even imprisonment. His wealth and power had made him many enemies.

She must get Maxwell back to the hong without anyone realizing what had happened. Elliott would cooperate in keeping this quiet-it was in his best interest that Chenqua not be punished.

She found Maxwell's knife where he'd dropped it and slid it back into the clever sheath concealed in his boot. Then she shook his shoulder. "Get up! We must go now."

He groaned, but didn't move. She shook him again, harder, but he was too deeply unconscious to respond.

A fragment of conversation she'd heard between Maxwell and Elliott floated back to her: Maxwell had said that he'd had a Scottish nurse when he was a boy. Perhaps an authoritative voice that sounded like one from his childhood would affect him in a way that her whispery, Chinese-accented English didn't.

Speaking with her father's accent, she snapped, "Get up, ye damned lazy fool! Do ye want your gizzard sliced to ribbons?"

It worked. Feebly he attempted to rise. She dragged him upright, needing all the strength she'd developed in her years of wing chun training.

"I'm taking you home now, laddie." Pulling one of his arms over her shoulders, she guided him toward the end of the alley. Thirteen Factories Street would be quiet at this hour, and with luck, anyone seeing her would think her companion merely drunk.

Maxwell was weaving, but he managed to stay upright. As they moved into Thirteen Factories Street, he said in a gasp, "You can't be… a Scotswoman. No European females… closer than Macao."

"I'm no Scotswoman. Your wits are wandering." She prayed he'd remember none of this later.

She was drenched with sweat by the time they reached Elliott's hong. Maxwell was heavy, and she was barely able to keep them both from falling to the street.

Disguising her voice, she spoke in Chinese to the porter in the gatehouse. "Your Fan-qui has no head for samshu."

The porter laughed as he opened the door. "Need help, boy?"

"And share the tip he gave me to get him home? No, thank you!" She moved inside. With Maxwell draped over her like a shawl, the porter probably wouldn't recognize her, and she knew how to slip out later without being seen.

She was tempted to lay Maxwell out in a quiet corner of the warehouse, but it would be better to take him to his bedroom even though it meant climbing two flights of stairs. Luckily she knew the hong well enough to find her way in near darkness. When they reached the back stairs, she used her Scottish voice again. "Steps. Climb."

He was starting to recover and used the narrow iron railing to haul himself upward. With her as a human crutch they managed, though twice they almost lost their balance and pitched down the steep staircase.

Panting, she finally got him to his bedroom door. "Do ye have the key, laddie?"

Maxwell fumbled toward an inner pocket. She reached into his coat with her free hand and pulled out the key, then opened the door.

Inside the room, she steered him to the bed and dumped him unceremoniously. She would have loved to fall onto the mattress to recuperate, but the sooner she escaped, the less likely he was to remember her involvement. Being seen to fight off six gang members would draw too much attention to Chenqua's meek clerk. She would wake Gavin Elliott and let him take charge of his trouble-prone partner.

After lighting a lamp, she performed a more thorough examination than had been possible in the street. Maxwell would have plenty of bruises and the devil's own headache, but there didn't seem to be any serious damage. Already his eyes were flickering open. "You're not so badly off, laddie. I'll send someone to care for you."

She was turning from the bed when his hand shot out and caught her wrist. Blinking to focus, he asked, "Who are you?"

"No one you know."

"But I do know you. Jin Kang?" His brows drew together as he stared at her, struggling to clear his mind. Amazing eyes, intensely blue and edged in darkness.

She tried to pull free, but his grip was surprisingly strong, and she didn't want to risk hurting him by using too much force. She rattled off several sentences in Chinese, hoping he'd remember that rather than the English she'd used earlier.

Before she could twist away, he reached up and pulled off her dark blue skullcap, baring her head. "My God," he whispered. "Jin Kang is a woman."

Chapter 7

« ^ »

She looked like a trapped fawn, her brown eyes huge and alarmed. Removing her cap revealed that she didn't shave the front part of her head as Chinese men did. Her shining hair was dark but with subtle auburn highlights, unlike the blue-black of most Cantonese. The features that had seemed almost too pretty for a man were now so obviously female that he wanted to kick himself for his stupidity.

And not only female, but strikingly lovely. Shaken, he released her wrist. "I'm relieved to learn that my response to you was not so odd as I thought. You're Eurasian?"

She nodded, watching him warily. He guessed that she wanted to bolt, but knew that it was already too late for that.

He pushed himself to a more upright position against the pillows, gasping at the pain. "Sit down, I won't hurt you. But if you don't tell me who you really are, I may perish of curiosity, which would be a waste of your rescue."

With a tired sigh, she perched on the edge of the bed. "I am truly Jin Kang, Chenqua's linguist. But once I was Troth Mei-Lian Montgomery."

That explained the crisp Scottish accent. Her natural voice was very different from the hesitant tones of Jin Kang. Listening to her made him homesick for his mother's Highland home. "Your father was a Scottish trader?"

"Yes. His name was Hugh Montgomery. My mother was his concubine. I was born and raised in Macao, and educated in both languages and cultures." Unlike diffident Jin Kang, Troth Montgomery met his gaze with the directness of a Western woman.

"Your father died?"

"When I was twelve. My mother had died the year before. There was no money, so Chenqua took me in. He'd been my father's agent. Since I could be of more value to him as a male, I… became one. I have been Jin Kang ever since."

"All the time? To everyone?"

She nodded. "Chenqua's household knows I am female, but there is a… a kind of tacit agreement that I am officially male. That is how I dress, and how I am treated."

He tried to imagine her life-denied her true nature, a product of mixed blood in a nation that despised foreigners. "So you live between worlds in more ways than one."

For the first time her gaze dropped, concealing her thoughts. He took the opportunity to study her more closely. The slant of her eyes was pure Chinese, exotic and lovely, but her Scottish father's influence was in the modeling of her features, longer and more pronounced than the face of a Cantonese woman. She'd also inherited height from her father, but her build was light and graceful, more Asiatic than British.

It was hard to tell much about her figure. The loose, high-necked Chinese garments concealed her body very effectively. Her masquerade would be much harder to carry off in Britain.

How could that slender frame conceal such strength? Knowing she had the ability to defeat half a dozen men was both intimidating and curiously alluring. "I've never seen anyone fight like you. How the devil did you do it?"

"I am skilled in kung fu, the fighting arts," she explained. "There are many forms. I practice wing chun, which was originally developed to use female strengths and weaknesses."

He rubbed his throbbing head, trying to absorb the wild improbability of the young woman in front of him. Troth. A fine Scottish name, meaning truth and loyalty. "I've never seen anything like your wing chun. Can all Chinese do what you did? "

"If they could, you'd be dead," she said dryly. "Mastery of the fighting arts is rare and secret, the skills passed from teacher to disciple. My nurse in Macao was hired to be my mother's servant and protector, and she was an expert in wing chun. She began to teach me as soon as I'd learned to walk."

"I didn't know that Chinese women could be warriors."

"There have been some. Once there was even an army of widows. One of China 's favorite legends is about Mu-Lan, a dutiful daughter who took her father's place in the army and served with great valor." She rose and donned the dark cap again. Her demeanor changed, her shoulders slumping and her expression blank. "I must go now."

"Wait!" Not wanting to lose her so soon, he raised a hand involuntarily and was rewarded with another stab of agony for his trouble. Biting back a curse, he said, "It's late now, but I want to talk with you again soon, Miss Montgomery."

"There is no Miss Montgomery. Only Jin Kang."

"That's not possible, now that I know better. There is so much I can learn from you." He gave her his best smile. "Surely there is no harm in our talking."

"No harm to you. For me, yes."

"Would Chenqua be angry that your identity is known?"

She hesitated. "He would be most displeased, for he gave strict orders that no one in the trading community could know my true nature. Female servants are not allowed among the Fan-qui, and if the governor's people learned of me, Chenqua would be punished, and perhaps his whole household with him. And there are… other reasons."

"It would be too difficult to be Jin Kang if sometimes you are Troth?"

She frowned at him. "A Chinese would not ask such a question."

"But I am not Chinese, and neither are you, not entirely." The sense of connection he felt with "Jin Kang" was stronger now. Wanting to know everything about her, he asked, "Are you content with your life?"

Her chin lifted. "I am well treated and my master values my abilities. I consider myself fortunate."

"Yet your life rests on a lie, which could break underneath you at any moment," he said, as much to himself as to her.

Her gaze turned to ice. "Are you threatening me?"

"Good God, no. Destroying your life would be a poor return for your saving mine. I shall tell no one your secret."

She relaxed a little. "Thank you. It will be easier if Chenqua does not realize how careless I have been."

"You were heroic, not careless." He studied her face. "How old are you?"

"In Western reckoning"-she calculated-"twenty-seven. Soon twenty-eight."

Though she looked younger, she was a woman grown, trapped in a life where she was not a woman at all. "Have you ever wished to visit your father's land?"

For a moment, her eyes were clouded with almost unbearable longing. Then she shook her head. "My joss binds me to China."

"Joss?"

"Fate. Fortune. Joss sticks are burned to petition the gods for good luck."

He'd seen the smoldering sandalwood sticks and even heard the word used, but hadn't thought to ask the meaning. "See how much I am learning already?" Carefully he sat up and leaned toward her. "Wouldn't you like to have someone with whom you could relax and speak freely, rather than always playing a role?"

Her mouth twisted. "The fact that I saved your life does not give you the right to question me, Lord Maxwell."

Realizing that he was being damnably rude, he settled back again. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid that you fascinate me."

"No doubt you find all freaks and monsters fascinating," she said acidly. "Good night, my lord. Do not go alone into public places again. The men who attacked you were hired, and the person who wanted you dead may try again."

He frowned, realizing that he'd almost forgotten the attack. "Why would anyone want to have me murdered?"

"I have no idea. Perhaps an enemy of Chenqua wanted to create a situation that would cause my master great problems. Or perhaps you've made enemies of your own, with your too-frank tongue."

"It is the way of my people to be frank. I've said nothing in Canton to make mortal enemies." From what Gavin had told him about the local politics, it seemed more likely that someone had wanted to injure Chenqua. The death of an English lord who was one of Chenqua's trading partners would be a great scandal in both China and the West. "How did you learn that I was to be attacked?"

"An informant of mine in Hog Lane heard two gang members boasting of the money they'd earn for killing you. He had the wit to come to me as I left the hong."

"So you are indeed a spy."

"I am. And you have cause to be grateful for it."

She walked out, her chin high, every inch a Scotswoman. He guessed that she'd be Jin Kang before she'd gone another dozen steps.

He rubbed his aching head, thinking of the spark of attraction that had flared between them when "Jin Kang" had shown him how to hold a calligraphy brush. Never in his wildest imagination could he have believed that the shy clerk was really an incredible woman warrior who could defeat six thugs with her bare hands.

But now that he'd met her, how could he forget her?

Despite her fatigue, Troth reported the night's events to Chenqua as soon as she returned to Honam Island. He received her in his private study, wearing a hastily donned robe and a stern expression. "What is so urgent that you must disturb my rest?"

She bowed deeply. "I apologize most profoundly that such a useless creature as I has interrupted your sleep, but two hours ago there was an attempt on the life of Lord Maxwell."

He frowned. "Tell me."

She gave a succinct explanation, starting with the message from Teng and ending with her helping Maxwell back to his hong. She told everything except that the Englishman had discovered her true identity, and not only because Chenqua would be displeased. Speaking of that rare interval of honesty would destroy its magic.

After she finished, Chenqua asked, "Did you recognize any of the attackers?"

"One was Xun Kee, of the Red Dragon gang. I think they were all Red Dragons."

He stroked his beard. "Zhan Hu, the Red Dragon leader, would never condone such an attack-it must have been a private commission. I shall consult Zhan. Between us, we shall learn who hired these louts, and assure that they are suitably punished."

Troth felt a chill down her spine. Her identification had just condemned half a dozen men to torture and death. Though they undoubtedly deserved it, she was enough her father's child to deplore the ferocity of Chinese justice.

Chenqua continued, "You must protect Lord Maxwell until he leaves Canton. Stay close to him. Enlist Elliott's aid to achieve that if necessary-he will also be concerned for Maxwell's continued health."

Dismayed, she knelt before him. "Please, lord, choose another. I am not worthy of so great a responsibility."

"You saved him from six Red Dragons bent on murder. There are few men in Canton who could do as much, and none are in my employ."

Instead of accepting dismissal, she said, "Maxwell is more perceptive than most Fan-qui. I fear that if I spend much time with him, he may see through my disguise."

Chenqua gave her a faint, dry smile. "I have faith in your ability to deceive him."

She bowed again, then withdrew, weary to the bone from fatigue and the bruises she'd acquired in the fight. Though Maxwell and Chenqua had been impressed by her performance, she knew that it had largely been the element of surprise that enabled her to prevail against so many. She'd certainly taken her share of blows.

In her room, she undressed and donned a cotton robe, then released her hair and gazed into the mirror. The image that looked back at her was harsh and unattractive, but it was undeniably the face of a woman, not sexless Jin Kang.

Slowly she ran her fingers through her hair, loosening it into waves that fell to her waist. What about her had brought that intensity into Maxwell's gaze? Her sheer strangeness, probably. Yet for a moment she let herself believe it had been admiration. If nothing else, at least he had not been shocked by the fact that she was a mongrel.

Are you content with your life? She turned from the mirror. Of course she was content. Only a fool yearned after the impossible.

Have you ever wished to visit your father's land? Dear gods, how she had wished for that! For the first dozen years of her life she'd looked forward to the day when her father would take her to Scotland as his acknowledged daughter. She had not known then how doting a parent he was compared to most. In his eyes, she had been beautiful, and while his uncritical love had not prepared her for what others would think, she could not be sorry that she had been his beloved pet. If only he had not died…

Wishes could not change fate. She knelt before the small altar and lighted three joss sticks in honor of her father and mother. The scent of the burning sandalwood soothed her. She was fortunate to be part of a powerful household, to be educated in two languages from birth when many Chinese women could not even read or write, and to have the freedom to move around Canton. She would have gone mad if Chenqua had turned her into a maidservant who was never allowed to leave the compound.

But was this the life her father would have wanted for her? She watched the smoke spiral up from the glowing tips of the joss sticks. He would have been grateful that Chenqua had saved her from starvation- with her looks, she would not have been desirable as even the lowest kind of prostitute.

But Hugh Montgomery would not have been pleased to see his only daughter as a fraudulent clerk, ashamed to raise her head or look anyone in the eye. When she was small he'd told her bedtime stories of Mary, Queen of Scots, who'd led her men into battle with her long red hair flaring behind like a banner. He'd explained how in Britain women were forces to be reckoned with, not humble creatures with less value than even the least important man.

And he'd raised her to be a Christian who believed in heaven, and who had no need to make offerings to the dead so that they could survive in the shadow world.

Damn Maxwell! It was his fault that she now remembered her childhood dreams of riding recklessly across Scottish moors, and arguing with men as an equal. Of being a woman and proud of it, rather than hiding her female garments like a shameful secret.

She set the smoldering joss sticks into a porcelain holder and rose to pace about the small room in agitation. Maxwell had no interest in her, except to the extent that she could appease his traveler's curiosity. He would not lie in bed at night, dreaming of her in his arms, as she would lie yearning for him…

Shaking, she came to a halt and pressed her hands over her face. Soon he would be gone, and she would be content once more.

Yet when she finally went to bed, she wondered bleakly if she would ever know peace again.

Chapter 8

« ^ »

Kyle awoke early the next morning, muscles aching ferociously from the kicks and blows he'd received. Troth must have decided that if Kyle was well enough to argue, there was no need to rouse Gavin Elliott. But Gavin must be informed now.

After splashing cold water on his face, he limped down the corridor to his friend's room, which also faced the river. Junior members of the firm had to make do with breezeless rooms looking onto narrow courtyards or toward the city wall.

When he knocked, Gavin called, "Come in."

Kyle entered to find his friend working on correspondence at his desk by the window. Wearing a loose Chinese robe and surrounded by a mixture of Western and Eastern furnishings, he was the portrait of a merchant prince. He'd recovered from the financial difficulties he'd inherited along with Elliott House and was well on his way to becoming one of the richest men in America.

Gavin gave a low whistle at the sight of Kyle's bruises. "What the devil happened? Did you decide your visit to Canton wouldn't be complete without joining a sailors' brawl on Hog Lane?"

"I only wish that was it." Kyle helped himself to a cup of tea from the tray on Gavin's desk, nodding with approval at the taste. "I like this blend. Lemon?"

"Right. It's the best yet, but I'll keep experimenting. And don't change the subject-what happened last night?"

Kyle settled carefully on a wooden chair. "I was lured from Hog Lane by the promise of singing crickets, then attacked by six members of a gang. They seemed interested in murder, not robbery."

"Good God!" Gavin laid down his pen. "That's unheard of. Within the Settlement, Europeans have always been completely safe. How did you escape?"

Kyle had already worked out an edited version of the truth. "Luckily I had a knife. Though I was roughed up some, I managed to return to Hog Lane without any serious damage. Jin Kang saw me-he'd been working late at the English Factory, and he helped me back here."

Gavin crossed his arms on his chest, frowning. "Did Jin have any idea why you might have been singled out for attack?"

"He thought it might be the work of one of Chenqua's enemies. My damned title again-killing a lord would produce a far greater scandal than killing a normal person."

"Too true. Chenqua will take care of this-the men who attacked you will probably end up being sliced slowly into dog meat within the next forty-eight hours. But you'd better confine yourself to the hong until you leave."

"No." Kyle got to his feet. "There's already little enough of China that I can see. I'll be damned if I let myself be confined to a single warehouse. If it will make you feel better, I'll carry a pistol, and not go out at night or unaccompanied."

"Be discreet with the weapons-we foreign devils are supposed to be unarmed."

Kyle nodded. "Can I use Jin Kang as an escort when I go out? He has enough English to carry on at least limited conversations."

"A good choice. He'll keep you out of harm's way for Chenqua's sake. Do you need a doctor? You've got quite a black eye there."

"Not the first, and probably not the last." Kyle withdrew, feeling pleased. He had sworn not to betray Troth's secret, but at least he could have her company.

Troth was working at Elliott House that morning, translating a set of documents, when her neck began to prickle just before she heard a familiar voice.

"Good morning, Jin Kang. Elliott has given me permission to borrow you for my own use today."

Alarmed, she glanced up at Lord Maxwell, who managed to make his bruises seem dashing. Though his words to her would not arouse curiosity in an onlooker, there was definitely mischief in his eyes. Warily she swished her brush in the water dish to clean it. "You have work for me, sir?"

"Since Elliott says you know the best shops and showrooms in the Settlement, I'd like you to accompany me to buy presents for my family."

His family. Of course. "It will be my pleasure, sir. I'm sure your wife and children will be honored that you will select gifts with your own hands."

His expression tightened. "I have neither wife nor child, but there are plenty of other family members to indulge. Are you free to go now?"

"I am at your lordship's command." Though it was ridiculous to care, she was glad that no beautiful Englishwoman waited passionately for her lord's return. Even in her dreams, her sober Scottish side forbade adulterous thoughts. The Chinese part of her didn't care, though. Mei-Lian would accept being one of Maxwell's junior wives. Or even a concubine, with no legal status at all, as long as she was his favorite…

Ashamed of her thoughts, she followed Maxwell out into the square, which as always was crowded with people bustling about their business. The crowded conditions made her nervous. It would be easy for an assassin to jostle up to Maxwell, slide a knife between his ribs, and be gone before anyone saw.

Luckily, Maxwell was no fool. He had the quiet alertness of a man who had survived in more dangerous lands than this. Between the two of them, he should be safe. Just in case, she now carried a concealed knife.

Two lanes ran between the hongs to connect with Thirteen Factories Street. By unspoken consent, they used Old China Street rather than Hog Lane. As they walked, he said, "Try not to look so gloomy, Jin. The object of the day is not only to buy presents and learn more about local trade goods, but to find amusement."

She slanted him a glance. "Amusement, sir?"

"You are too serious for a young man." Maxwell paused in front of an open-fronted shop and picked up a set of nested ivory balls, each intricately carved within a larger ball. "My brother would find these intriguing. What incredible carving skill." He tossed the ball at Troth.

She was so startled that she almost dropped it. "A set of these takes a craftsman many months to carve, sir," she said, unsure how to deal with Maxwell's antic mood. "A very fine gift. What else do you seek?"

"Clever little toys to intrigue children. Jewelry and lacquer boxes and silk for the ladies of my family. Perhaps some pieces of furniture." He wandered into the shop and paused in front of a display of tiny bottles carved from precious materials like jade and amber and turquoise. "Lovely trinkets like these."

Looking hopeful, the shopkeeper approached and told Troth in Chinese that there would be a commission for her on anything the Fan-qui purchased in this shop. Curtly she refused his offer. As a point of pride, she wanted to see that Maxwell left Canton with the finest goods at the lowest possible prices. In English, she said, "There are better goods elsewhere, my lord."

Understanding the gist of Troth's comment, the shopkeeper protested in energetic pidgin. Maxwell played along with her as skillfully as if they'd rehearsed this beforehand. Half an hour later, a sizable number of bottles and carved ivory were being packed carefully for delivery to Elliott House.

They moved on to shops that dealt in jewelry, lacquer wares, and porcelain. Maxwell had an eye for quality and an impressive ability to bargain. They worked out a wordless system in which he would glance at Troth and she'd give a tiny nod or shake of her head to let him know if he had reached a fair price, or whether he should continue bargaining. He was very good at giving a bored shrug and turning to leave, which always produced a new and better price.

Troth was enjoying herself, just as Maxwell had wanted. She found vicarious pleasure in helping Maxwell to spend large amounts of money. Though Chenqua was surely far richer, she'd never had the chance to spend any of his wealth.

As they left a shop where Maxwell had purchased a dizzying number of fans in painted silk and carved ivory, she asked, " Your homeland is so small that you can buy gifts for everyone in England?"

He laughed. "No, but I want a stock of trifles suitable for friends and servants. For a person who has never been more than twenty miles from his place of birth, a fan or perfume bottle will be rare and special. A reminder of what a wide world we live in." He fingered the only bottle he'd carried with him from the first shop, a lovely little vial carved from crystal shot through with dark veins. "And of course I want to buy the affections of my young nieces and nephews, whom I've never met."

She doubted that he'd ever had to buy anyone's affections, but he would certainly be a favorite uncle with the showers of presents he would pour over those unknown children. Her father had been like that. Every time he returned from a trip, she had danced with excitement as she waited to see what treasures he had brought.

Despite her enjoyment, by midday she was flagging. She'd known it was tiring to shop when one had little money, but had not realized that it was equally fatiguing to buy everything in sight. "Are you ready to return to the hong for luncheon, sir?"

"Not particularly. What do Cantonese eat?" Maxwell's gaze went to a noodle stall on the opposite side of the street. "People are getting food there. Let's have some."

"Sir, you cannot eat from a noodle stall!"

"Why not? Are Fan-qui and Cantonese stomachs so different?"

"It… it is not dignified," she said uneasily, knowing this was not how Chenqua and Elliott expected her to care for Maxwell.

"What is the point of dignity when it deprives one of interesting experiences?" He purposefully crossed the street to the stall.

Resigned, Troth ordered them two bowls of noodles in broth. Then she had to instruct her charge in the use of chopsticks. He didn't do badly for his first attempt.

Finishing the noodles, he said, "Excellent. What do other vendors sell?"

Troth introduced him to fragrant rice congee, dumplings, and sweetmeats, followed by a visit to a teahouse for a relaxed cup of tea. Everywhere Maxwell was watched with amazement by people who'd never seen a Fan-qui eating street food. He ignored the stares, apparently used to drawing attention wherever he went.

Troth studied him covertly, intrigued by his interest in the daily routines of Cantonese life. His enthusiasm was contagious. He had been right to say she was gloomy. For many years, her life had been defined by duty and service. Now his presence was causing her to see her world with new eyes.

She sipped her tea, sadly aware that soon he would go back to his English world and her life would once more be drab routine and loneliness. But there was a kind of friendship between them, and she would be left with a few bright memories.

Chapter 9

« ^ »

After the teahouse they stopped at a shop specializing in perfumes. Under the pretense of offering advice, Troth had an intoxicating session of sniffing and enjoying. If she were allowed to be a woman, she'd always wear scent.

The next visit was to a dealer in spices and flavorings. Maxwell bought samples of many, frowning when he reached the final jar. "Dried bergamot peel, I think."

Troth had never heard of it. "Bergamot?"

"A fruit something like an orange." Maxwell added it to his substantial order, and they moved on to the last stop, the grandest silk showroom in the Settlement.

The owner had heard of Lord Maxwell's expensive passage through Thirteen Factories Street and waited with deep anticipation for their arrival. When Troth brought Maxwell into the showroom, the owner bowed low. "You honor my humble shop, my lord. Pray allow me to show you my poor wares."

At his nod, assistants began unwinding bolts of silk. Yards of shimmering fabric cascaded to the floor until the showroom was a festival of brilliant colors. After Maxwell chose two dozen bolts of the finest material in the shop, he said, "I should also like to purchase ladies' garments made in the Chinese style. Do you have any made up?"

"A few." Another order, and a dozen finished robes were brought from the back of the shop and laid reverently across a table.

The garments would not have disgraced the ladies of the imperial court in Peking. Trying to conceal her longing, Troth stroked an exquisite peach-colored robe made from kesi, a brocade with patterns woven into the fabric. "The quality is acceptable," she murmured, as if her only interest were in its value.

Maxwell said, "That looks as if it might fit my brother's wife, and the color would be good on her."

"A Fan-qui lady is so small?" Troth asked, surprised.

"Meriel is, but my sister is tall." He lifted the largest garment, a brilliant scarlet splashed with embroidered flowers and butterflies. Probably it was a bridal robe, since red was a fortunate color and always worn for weddings. "Lucia is about your height."

He held the robe up to Troth's shoulders. "Would a woman like this, Jin?"

As soon as his fingers brushed her shoulders, a wave of energy pulsed through her, even stronger than when she'd shown him how to hold a calligraphy brush. In his eyes she saw the same shock. After a frozen moment, she said, "Your… your sister would surely be well pleased with such a magnificent gift, my lord."

He swallowed, then stepped back and laid the scarlet robe across the table. "Thank you for your opinion."

As he completed his purchases, she retreated to a corner of the showroom. He had not given away her identity-yet the fact that he knew she was a woman had changed everything between them. She could not be sorry.

After the shopping expedition, Troth returned to her desk to complete her translating tasks, though she would have preferred to go home after a day that had been tiring in more ways than one. Shadows were darkening the office when she finished her work. She had just cleared her desk when Maxwell appeared and handed her a bulky paper-wrapped parcel. "For you. A small thanks for your help."

Startled, she said, "I deserve no special gift for doing my duty, sir."

His voice dropped so that no one else in the room could hear his words. "Last night you saved my life. Can I not give you a token of gratitude? "

Understanding his desire not to be under an obligation, she said, "As you wish, my lord."

"I wish. Good night, Jin." He gave her a private smile, then left the office.

Though she burned with curiosity, she could not open the package in front of others. Expression carefully blank, she left the hong and crossed the river with a boatman who often transported her. Only the tightness of her grasp on the parcel revealed her excitement. She hadn't felt such anticipation since she was a child awaiting her father's return from a journey.

Now that she was grown, she realized that what she'd felt was not only desire for the gift itself, but delight in the knowledge that her father had been thinking of her. It was equally warming to know that she had been in Maxwell's thoughts.

Finally she was safe in her room and could open the package. She folded the paper back, then gasped. It was the splendid scarlet robe he'd held up to her in the silk showroom. Reverently she touched the sumptuous fabric. He had seen how she looked at the garment and recognized her longing.

She lifted out the robe and discovered that the parcel also contained the crystal vial, now filled with the most intoxicating perfume from the scent shop. There was also a long necklace of carved jade beads, a set of golden combs, and the most elegant of the ivory fans. He'd noted every item that had particularly appealed to her, and that was the sweetest gift of all. No one had paid such attention to her wishes since her father died fifteen long years ago, more than half of her lifetime.

With luxurious deliberation, she removed Jin Kang's male garments and put on her female undergarments and silk trousers. After her hair was brushed out, she used the golden combs to arrange it in the style of a Portuguese woman rather than in Chinese fashion. Only after applying her cosmetics did she don the scarlet robe.

By standing on the opposite side of the room, she was able to see most of herself in the mirror. The robe was sized just right and contrasted well with her dark hair. She was an exotic, surprisingly attractive blend of East and West.

It was the robe, of course. Any woman would look striking in it, but the knowledge did not diminish her pleasure. She was pleased with her appearance for the first time since she was a child. Laughing softly, she whirled around the small room, feeling deliciously female.

What would it be like to be a woman all the time?

She halted and looked into the mirror again, suddenly sober. The Fan-qui were more diverse in their appearance than the Chinese, and if she lived among them she would not be as conspicuous as she was in Canton. Her skin was smooth, her hair thick and glossy, and if she lived in Britain with a suitable Fan-qui wardrobe, her appearance would be passable. Her height would be unremarkable and her unbound feet would be blessedly normal, not the mark of a servant or a peasant.

Slowly she sank onto her bed, her mind spinning. The dream of going to Scotland had vanished with her father's death. She had been twelve when Chenqua had come to the hillside house in Macao to give her the news of her father's death.

At first she had refused to believe that he was truly gone, until Chenqua explained that Hugh Montgomery's ship had been seen to founder on the rocks, and his body had been washed ashore and identified. She'd collapsed into hysterical grief until Chenqua had told her that such a display was unseemly. Dazed, she did her best to please him, saving her tears for the night.

It was a mark of great friendship for a merchant as powerful as Chenqua to personally settle her father's affairs, assuming responsibility for a penniless half-blood child. The storm that destroyed her father had also taken most of his trade goods and the profit that would have supported the household through the coming year. Troth had learned from her father's comprador, the highly skilled steward who ran the household, that Chenqua used his own money to settle her father's debts so Hugh Montgomery's name would not be dishonored.

Even so, in later years she'd sometimes heard Fan-qui traders mention her father's name with disdain. Not leaping hotly to his defense had been her greatest test of self-discipline.

After closing the household, the Cohong merchant took Troth onto one of his great trading junks, and they sailed the eighty miles up the Pearl River to Canton. On the voyage, he had explained that Troth's language skills would make her a valuable addition to his household, but that she must assume the role of a male. Too young to feel female stirrings and wanting to please, she had obediently done as Chenqua requested.

By the time she arrived in Canton, Troth Montgomery had been replaced by Jin Kang, who was useful as Mei-Lian never would have been. She'd accepted her life in Canton without question, grateful for the security of Chenqua's household. Though he was a distant master with high standards, he had not been unkind to a penniless orphan. He'd been the anchor of her existence ever since, and he treated her differently from any other member of his household.

Spending so much time with the Fan-qui traders had allowed her to keep her English language and nature alive, yet her life was narrow and had few rewards beyond security. Did she want to stay Chenqua's sexless spy forever? As a child she had thought in English and considered herself more Scottish than Chinese. Though she'd spent more than half of her life in Canton and now thought in Chinese, her Scottish nature endured. It might not be too late to seek a place in her father's land.

Starting over in a strange country without friends or money would not be easy. Even finding the fare would be difficult, though she would probably have enough if she sold all of her possessions. Could she bear to sell her mother's jewelry and the beautiful robe Maxwell had just given her? The thought was wrenching.

Even if she could book a place on a Fan-qui ship, leaving Canton would be difficult. Chenqua would not willingly allow her to go as long as she was useful to him.

Might one of the Fan-qui traders help her, perhaps hire her to do translation in Britain? She frowned. Possibly one of the East India Company men might find work for Jin Kang, but she doubted they would be pleased to know she had deceived them all these years. Yet she could not bear the thought of continuing as Jin Kang when much of her reason for going to Britain was so she could live as a woman.

She sighed as she thought of all the problems that would have to be overcome if she traveled to her father's land. Perhaps the freedom to live as she wished was within her grasp. But did she have the courage and wisdom to reach for it?

She feared she did not.

Chapter 10

« ^ »

England

December 1832

Exhausted from tears and troubled sleep, Troth was dozing when a tap on the door heralded a maid with a breakfast tray. The pearly light in the bedroom indicated that it was another dreary, overcast morning.

The maid crossed to the bed, her expression uncertain. "Lady likee-likee tea?"

Where had the girl learned such an absurd parody of pidgin? Troth said rather dryly, "Tea would be very nice, thank you."

The maid flushed scarlet. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I'd heard you were a foreigner."

"True, but some foreigners do speak English." Not wanting to embarrass the girl further, she asked, "Your name is…?"

"Sally, ma'am." She set the bed tray over Troth's lap, trying to conceal her fascinated gaze. Troth had received many such glances-and blatant stares, too-on the voyage and after her arrival in Britain. Had there ever been a Chinese visitor to Shropshire? Even in London, she had been an oddity.

"Would you like anything else, Lady Maxwell?"

"No, thank you, Sally. This should suffice."

The maid bowed and left Troth with a breakfast tray that included bacon, eggs, and sausage, plus warm bread, butter, and marmalade. She'd become accustomed to such British breakfasts, though a meal still seemed incomplete without rice. Hungry, she ate everything and emptied the teapot, which contained quite a nice Young Hyson variety.

Ready to face the day, she rose from the bed and found that the dress she'd worn the day before had been brushed and laid out on a chair. The rest of her paltry possessions were folded in the clothespress. Warfield Park took good care of its guests.

After dressing, she emerged from her room to find Lady Grahame curled up in a chair opposite the door, reading a book. This morning the countess wore a simple green gown, and her silver-blond hair was braided into a loose queue. She was as stunning as she'd been the night before in formal dress. Though about Troth's age, she had the kind of self-possession found only in older women in China.

Lady Grahame looked up from her book when Troth stepped into the hall. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"Reasonably so. Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Grahame."

"I am Meriel." The countess uncoiled from the chair, leaving the book behind. "Would you like to come with me to the orangery? It's a peaceful place."

Grateful for the friendly overture, Troth said, "Peace is always welcome."

Together they descended the stairs to the hall where she had entered the evening before. Kyle had said his sister-in-law was as petite as a Cantonese woman, and he was right. "Your husband-how is he?"

Meriel sighed. "A part of him has died. Kyle had promised to come home one day, and I think Dominic always believed that would happen despite the risks of travel."

"I wish there were something I could have done," Troth said wretchedly.

"My husband told me your story, and it's obvious that you were lucky to escape with your own life. By your coming here, at least we know what happened." Meriel swallowed. "That's… better than waiting and hoping forever."

"Did you know Kyle well? "

"We met only a few times, but through his letters to Dominic, he became my brother as well."

Meriel fell silent, leading the way through the house until she opened a door into wonderland. Troth gasped when she stepped into the large glass-walled orangery, feeling as if she were back in Canton. The air was tropically warm and scented from the flourishing citrus trees. There were shrubs and flowers, too, and winding brick paths and benches. Most magical of all, snow was falling outside the windows, coating the world outside in lacy white.

"This is my favorite retreat in winter," Meriel said. "A place to dream and wait for spring."

"How beautiful." Troth crossed the orangery to a paned-glass wall so she could stare out at the drifting flakes.

"Have you ever seen snow before?"

Troth shook her head. "Never. I had no idea it was so lovely." She turned to her hostess. "When I told Kyle that my master Chenqua's garden was the most beautiful in the world, he said yours was its equal. I see why."

Meriel smiled, pleased, as she seated herself on a wooden bench that looked out toward a parterre, whose geometric hedges made subtle patterns in the snow. "I'm glad he thought so. At this season the outside gardens are sleeping, but come spring you'll be impressed, I think."

Troth sat on the other end of the bench. "Forgive my curiosity if this is not a proper question, but I do not understand how your husband and Kyle can both be lords when they are brothers."

"The Grahame title was in my family and would have become extinct when my uncle died," Meriel explained. "My father-in-law thought it a waste of a perfectly good title, so he petitioned the king to have it recreated on behalf of Dominic and me."

What mother wouldn't want that for her son? Kyle had told Troth about Dominic and Meriel's children, a son and a daughter born after their uncle had left England. He'd been looking forward to meeting them for the first time…

As Troth swallowed against the tightness in her throat, a huge marmalade tomcat appeared. It gazed at her assessingly with luminous golden eyes, then suddenly leaped onto her lap. After circling several times, the beast flopped down and made itself at home. As Troth cautiously stroked the sleek fur, Meriel said, " You are now officially part of the family. Ginger likes you."

"You are too kind, Lady Grahame," Troth said helplessly. "Kyle and I knew each other only a matter of weeks, and I'm not sure the marriage would be considered valid. I came only to give your husband news. I don't deserve to be part of your family."

Meriel touched her hand, her gentleness soothing. "Tell me."

Troth took a steadying breath, then described the circumstances of her marriage. Meriel listened thoughtfully, with no trace of shock or judgment. When the account was finished, she said, "Unconventional, but real. As to whether the ceremony is legal…" She sighed. "A moot point with Kyle dead. There was no marriage settlement, of course, but your dower rights and his personal property will give you a comfortable independence, which he clearly wanted."

"I can't accept a fortune from him! He didn't love me. I was just someone he felt responsibility for."

"Did you love him?"

Troth sucked in her breath. She should deny it, but she couldn't.

Reading the answer in Troth's expression, Meriel said, "I'm glad that at the end he had someone who loved him. No one will challenge your rights of inheritance."

Troth pressed a hand over her eyes, on the verge of tears. She'd be a fool not to welcome financial security, but the acceptance of Kyle's family meant even more. She had not felt this sense of belonging since her father's death. "You are… so kind. How can you accept someone like me, who is so alien to your world?"

"For many years, I was an alien in my own home. It is love that binds us to the world, and you loved Kyle," Meriel said softly. "Our home is your home for as long as you want to stay."

The tears came again, and with them the beginning of healing.

Chapter 11

« ^ »

Canton, China

Spring 1832

"More wine, Lord Maxwell?" Chenqua leaned toward his guest attentively.

"Yes, please. Your wines are very fine." Kyle took a small sip after a servant replenished his glass. Gavin, another of the guests, had warned him to expect at least thirty courses spread over five or six hours, so moderation was essential.

Kyle had welcomed this banquet at Chenqua's palace, since he was unlikely to see the inside of any other Chinese residence. The merchant's home was a sprawling, magnificently airy structure of curved roofs, courtyards, and marble floors. The meal was equally magnificent. Musicians played from a gallery while French, English, and Chinese dishes were offered, each course served on a different set of exquisite porcelain dinnerware. Yet by Cohong standards, Chenqua was considered rather austere.

Curious as always, Kyle selected from the Chinese dishes. The textures and flavors were sometimes odd, but interesting and often delicious.

Noticing that his guest had requested chopsticks, Chenqua said, "You are interested in our ways, my lord?"

"Very much so. Your culture is the most ancient on earth. A barbarian cannot hope to truly understand the depths of Chinese society, but I must make the attempt."

Chenqua nodded at such a proper sentiment. "Better understanding between our nations will benefit us all."

Deciding the time would never be better, Kyle said, "Would it be possible for me to see more of your country? Perhaps accompanied by guards to ensure that I will cause no trouble, or traveling with the Jesuits who already know your ways?"

Chenqua's eyes darkened. "That would be… difficult. Very difficult."

Kyle had learned that Chinese hated to give a direct refusal, so the merchant's "very difficult" was equivalent to an Englishman saying, "Not bloody likely!" To avoid embarrassing his host, he said, "Perhaps at some future date, when our nations have developed stronger bonds, such travel might be possible."

"Yes," Chenqua said, relieved. "Some future date." He turned his attention to William Boynton, taipan of the East India Company, who sat on his other side.

Kyle had hoped to see Troth, but there was no sign of her. He wondered if she lurked behind the carved screens that constituted one wall of the dining area. He'd heard occasional feminine giggles from that direction and guessed that the ladies of the household were watching their lord's guests. Of course, Troth was not considered a lady.

There was a pause after the fifteenth course while a stage was erected for the performance of a play. As dishes were cleared away, Kyle asked Chenqua, "Is it permitted to stroll in the garden for a few minutes? I should like to see more of it."

"Please do. A garden refreshes the soul as surely as a banquet refreshes the body."

Grateful for the chance to stretch his legs, Kyle went outside, though actually the dining area was so open that the difference between indoors and out was somewhat arbitrary. When he and the other Fan-qui had arrived, Chenqua had personally guided them through a portion of the stunning gardens. Several acres had been shaped into hills and grottos, with water from the Pearl River channeled in to form a web of streams and lily ponds. There wasn't a straight path anywhere.

After exploring the farthest reaches of the gardens, Kyle was returning to the house when he looked across a pond and saw two figures enter an octagonal pavilion built over the water. Sure the taller one was Troth, he circled the pond and went after her.

He'd almost reached the pavilion when a small, brightly garbed female flitted out of the structure, swaying gracefully on impossibly small feet. Just before vanishing behind a decorative boulder, the young woman glanced back, masking her lower face with a handkerchief. She giggled, black eyes mischievous, then disappeared.

Startled by his first sight of a highborn Chinese lady, he was gazing after her when a voice said, "Ling-Ling is very lovely, is she not? She is Chenqua's Fourth Lady."

He turned to Troth, who was regarding him austerely from the doorway of the pavilion. "I hope I haven't violated some taboo by seeing her."

"No harm done. I suspect that Ling-Ling greatly enjoyed having a near-encounter with a barbarian."

"I do my best to entertain." He studied Troth's face. With her hair drawn back in a queue, the sculpted planes had a cool beauty that intrigued him far more than the highly polished young woman who had just left. He reminded himself that he had no business thinking amorous thoughts about Troth. She was not a joy girl to be casually bedded and forgotten. Their lives lay half a world apart. "You haven't been at Elliott House since our shopping expedition. Did I exhaust you?"

"I have been needed at the English Factory, my lord." Troth dropped her gaze. "Many thanks for your gifts. They were well chosen."

"I'm glad you enjoyed them." Wondering how she looked when dressed in feminine finery, he followed her into the pavilion. It was a teahouse, the walls like carved lace. A low octagonal table stood in the center, the shape echoing that of the building, and a padded bench was built around the walls. "What a lovely place. Is this a favorite spot of yours?"

She settled onto the bench. "I meditate here sometimes. This is the most beautiful garden in the world, I think."

He took a seat himself, deliberately choosing the opposite side of the teahouse. "My sister-in-law's garden is its equal. The styles are very different, but it would be impossible to say that one is superior to the other."

"I've never seen a real English garden."

He studied the line of her throat, elegantly defined by the dim light. "The gardens at Warfield Park, where my brother and his wife live, were begun six or seven centuries ago, and each generation since has added and refined."

"Really? I think of England as a new country compared to China."

"There is nothing as old as the Temple of Hoshan," he said experimentally.

"They say the Buddha himself built Hoshan. That's just a legend, of course, for he was of India, not China, but the temple is surely very ancient."

"Have you been there?"

"My master, Chenqua, has. In his study hangs a scroll with pictures of the temple."

Since Kyle's inquiries about official travel into China had been futile, perhaps it was time to see if he could arrange an unofficial journey. "I've dreamed of visiting Hoshan for more than half my life. Do you know of anyone who might take me there? "

"The idea is absurd. You would be stopped if you even tried to enter Canton, much less if you traveled into the countryside."

"And Fan-qui are as conspicuous as giraffes," he said impatiently. "I've heard all that-yet surely there must be a way. Perhaps traveling in a palanquin, so no one could see my ugly face?"

She stared at him. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Completely." He leaned forward. "If you gather information for the Cohong, you must know many people in low places as well as high. Surely there are men who would be willing to help me if the price is right."

She rose and began pacing around the pavilion, back and forth like a tense tiger. "It would be very dangerous. In the Settlement you are protected, but in the country, anything might happen. You would be detected very quickly no matter what your disguise, for you smell like a foreign devil."

"My smell is wrong? " Kyle was taken aback.

"Fan-qui eat too much meat. And you are too tall, and your face is impossible."

"What if my face and head were bandaged, as if I've been injured?"

She said thoughtfully, "The Temple of Hoshan is known as a place of healing."

Controlling his excitement, he said, "Perhaps a few weeks of eating only Chinese food would make me smell right. What else would need to be done?"

"Why is this so important to you? Do you want to go where no Englishman has gone so you can boast to your friends? Do you wish to sneer at pagan superstitions?"

"Never that," he said slowly. "The Temple of Hoshan was included in a folio of Chinese drawings that I bought not long after my mother died. It seemed like a vision of heaven-a holy place of incomparable beauty, floating in the mountains on the other side of the world. I… I imagined that my mother's spirit had gone there to rest. I knew it wasn't true, but there was comfort in the thought." Especially since he and his brother were becoming increasingly estranged at that point, and he'd badly needed comfort.

"There are safer ways to find beauty and holiness."

Wondering how to explain the intensity of his desire when even he didn't fully understand it, he said, "Haven't you ever had a dream that captured your heart and soul?"

"Once I had dreams," she said in a scarcely audible voice.

She looked so alone that he wanted to reach out and take her hand. He stayed where he was. "Then you know why this is important to me. It's.. a kind of quest. Will you be able to find someone to take me to Hoshan? I'd do it alone if I could, but as has been pointed out to me repeatedly, that would be impossible."

She gazed through the latticework at the still surface of the pond. Was there really a garden equally lovely on the other side of the world? "If you were caught, it would cause Chenqua great trouble."

"Would his life or his family be endangered?"

Her brows drew together. "Though it's possible, I'm sure it would not suit the government to destroy the leader of the Cohong when he produces great wealth for the city and the emperor. But he would certainly be fined heavily."

"The Cohong merchants are continually being fined, so that would be no great matter, especially since I would compensate him if that happened." His voice turned persuasive. "I really don't think that what I'm asking is so dangerous. The temple is only a hundred miles away, so the journey could be made in a fortnight or so. I'm willing to do whatever is necessary to pass undetected. All I need is a reliable guide."

She had been feeling a restless desire to change her life, and here, suddenly, was a perfect opportunity. All she would have to do was leave everything and everyone she'd ever known.

Clenching her hands, she turned to him. "I will take you to Hoshan."

"Impossible," he said, startled. "I can't allow you to risk yourself like that."

"Because I am female? How gallant," she said coolly. "But it is you who will require protection, not me. Or is that the problem? You don't trust me."

He swore under his breath. "You've given me ample proof of your abilities, Miss Montgomery. But I need a guide who lives on the edge of the law, someone who understands and accepts the risks. If you were discovered helping a Fan-qui make an illegal journey, it could cost you your job and your home. Perhaps your life."

"I'm willing to take the risk." She caught his gaze. "You said you would pay well. My price is your help in getting me to Britain."

After a long silence, he said, "I see. What kind of help do you need?"

"Passage on a British ship, and enough money to support myself until I can find work." She tried to guess how much she would need. "Perhaps… fifty pounds?"

He frowned. "Are you sure this is what you want? Your English is flawless, but Britain will seem very strange to you."

"I was raised on tales of Scotland. Yes, it will be very different, but perhaps I belong there more than in China. Certainly I will never fully belong here." Her mouth twisted. "My dream was to go to my father's homeland. I'd given up, but perhaps it is possible after all. Shall I take you to Hoshan? Or don't you want it enough to trust me?"

"Trust is not the issue." He regarded her steadily. "If you want to go to Britain, I will help you without your taking me to Hoshan."

He would really do that? Yes, he would, for he felt that he owed her his life. But she did not want anything from him because he felt an obligation. She had spent fifteen years being subservient. With him she wanted to be an equal, not a dependent. "I prefer to earn my passage, Lord Maxwell. If you will drop your lordly mannerisms and follow my instructions, we should be able to make this journey without incident."

A slow smile lightened his expression. "When can we go?"

"The best time would be when the Fan-qui ships are departing at the end of the trading season. No one will notice your absence then."

"Will you be able to leave without arousing comment?"

"I will think of a way." She hesitated. "May I take some of my possessions with me? Only small things, because I must smuggle them from my room one at a time."

"Of course. I'll get you a trunk and arrange for it to be shipped to Britain with my own belongings."

It was a relief to know she would not be starting her new life with no more than the clothes on her back. "Thank you."

He offered his hand. "We have a bargain then."

She was no longer surprised by the jolt of chi that flooded her when she took his hand, but her reaction made her sharply aware that they would be together day and night for a fortnight. Perhaps longer if they sailed to Britain on the same ship.

Once they sailed, he would be a lord and she would be nobody-but during the journey to Hoshan, they would be man and woman together. Perhaps, briefly, she might fulfill a different dream…

Chapter 12

« ^ »

Kyle poured fragrant tea into two cups. "I've been playing with different blends. What do you think of this one?"

Gavin drank. "Outstanding. What flavoring did you use?"

"Bergamot. I found some at a shop on Thirteen Factories Street, and thought it might work even better than lemon or a regular orange."

"Write down the proportions so we can blend it in large quantities. And don't tell anyone what the secret ingredient is-we might as well keep the competition baffled as long as possible." He sipped more. "We can call it Lord Maxwell Tea."

Kyle winced. "My father would be horrified to see a family title on a crass commercial product."

"Are you sure? Earl Wrexham Tea would be even better."

"No."

"Mmm… all right. Perhaps Earl's Blend then. Surely he can't object to that."

"I suppose not. But you're a snob at heart, I fear."

"Just a good businessman. Earl's Blend Tea will make Elliott House very rich. You've just justified your otherwise lazy existence here in Canton." Gavin poured another cup. "The trading season is almost over. What do you think of your visit?"

" China is fascinating." Kyle decided it was time to break the news. "I won't be sailing to Macao with you. I've made arrangements to visit the Temple of Hoshan."

Gavin swore under his breath. "I'd hoped you'd given up that idea. Did you find some local criminal willing to take you there? That could be dangerous."

"Not a criminal. Jin Kang."

Gavin clinked his cup down. "Damnation, I thought the boy had more sense!"

Kyle had discussed with Troth how much to tell Gavin. "There's nothing wrong with his sense. When I asked if he knew someone who would take me to the temple, he offered to do it himself. He's half-Scottish and wants my help in relocating to England."

"Good Lord. The way he hides his face, I had no idea he had mixed blood," Gavin said blankly. "His father was a trader?"

"Yes, a man called Hugh Montgomery."

Gavin frowned. "I never met him- Montgomery died in a shipwreck a couple of seasons before I came East. There was some kind of scandal attached to him, but I never heard the details. I didn't know he'd left a son, either."

A scandal? Kyle hoped that Troth never heard that suggested. Her fierce loyalty to her father had been obvious. "Jin left Macao after Montgomery 's death. Chenqua gave him a home and found uses for his language skills. He speaks with a rather nice Scottish accent when he isn't pretending to be a simpleminded interpreter."

"Hell. If he was raised by a Scottish father, he must understand every word he hears." Gavin gave a wry smile. "That wily old devil Chenqua had an even better spy than I realized. A good thing I've had nothing to hide."

"Young Jin is a most remarkable character." Kyle smiled to himself. "What I'm telling you is confidential, but I wanted you to know in case something happens to me and he needs your help."

"Of course. I'd have been happy to help him if I'd known he had Scottish blood." Gavin looked hopeful. "If I send him to England, will he drop this absurd plan to take you inland? "

"No. I made the same offer. He refused. Jin Kang has his share of pride."

"If he's half-Scottish and half-Chinese, his pride must rival Lucifer's." Gavin chuckled. "He certainly had me fooled. Since I'm planning to set up a London office, I'll offer him a job. With his language and clerical skills, he should prove useful."

Would the offer stand if Gavin knew Jin Kang was actually a striking young woman? Possibly-he'd been in America long enough to acquire some radical notions. Kyle hoped he was there to see Gavin's face when Troth revealed the truth.

In the past weeks, they'd worked out their plans in swift, secretive meetings in corners of the hong warehouse. All of the details had fallen into place easily once the decision had been made to go to Hoshan. He was eating only Chinese food, and in his bedroom in the evening he wore Chinese clothing that Troth had supplied. The garments felt natural now, and were more comfortable than European clothes.

Troth had been busy, too, quietly winding up the threads of her life in Canton. She'd researched the road to Hoshan, purchased the supplies they'd need, and arranged for a boatman to take them from Canton to Macao after they returned. In Macao, it would be easy to find a ship for England, and his last adventure would be over.

"When are you leaving?" Gavin asked.

"Next week, the same day you and the other members of Elliott House sail for Canton. I'm to be disguised as a crippled, bandaged invalid."

"Clever." Gavin gave a wry smile. "I must admit that I rather envy you. Over the years, I've toyed with the idea of taking this sort of trip, but I'd be thrown out of Canton if I was discovered, and I can't afford that."

" China should eventually open up more to foreigners, so you'll have your chance. But I may not have another one." Kyle's pang at returning to England was mitigated by the knowledge that he and Troth would be on the same ship for months when they sailed for England. He'd have ample time to learn more about China from her. She could teach him some of the language and give him calligraphy lessons. Her company would make the long voyage pass quickly.

It was a nuisance that he found her so attractive. Usually his response to a pretty woman was fleeting and easily shrugged off. But he was coming to know Troth as a person, and she was not someone who could be lightly dismissed. Her mind was as quick as her trained body, her knowledge broad and practical, her humor dry and surprising. Even though she was allowing him to see both sides of her nature, she was still an intriguing enigma who made him want to delve more deeply.

What had it been like to be wrenched from a European-style household and immersed in China? While she said she respected Chenqua and appreciated what he'd done for her, he was obviously no replacement for the father she'd adored. Yet she'd adjusted to a new way of life, and if she thought fate had dealt unkindly with her, she did not complain.

He hoped that Britain lived up to her dreams.

"Heya!" With a powerful twist of his body, Chenqua hurled Troth to the ground.

She rolled and lithely regained her feet, ready if Chenqua chose to engage again. Instead, he bowed formally. "That is enough for this morning. My thanks, Jin Kang. Your chi is strong today."

"Not so strong as yours, Uncle." She tucked her hands in opposite sleeves and bowed with equal formality, her insides knotted because she knew she could delay her request no longer. "This unworthy one has a great favor to ask."

He straightened his plain exercise tunic. " Yes?"

"The trading season is almost over. Already many of the Fan-qui have left. Since my services will not be needed, I would like to travel to Macao to honor the graves of my parents." She held her breath as she awaited his answer. If he refused permission, it would be much harder for her to slip away.

His shrewd black eyes studied her. She dropped her gaze and forced herself to stillness, praying that she hadn't aroused his suspicions.

"You will sail to Macao with one of the traders?"

"Gavin Elliott says I may sail on his ship. He leaves in two days."

"Very well, you may travel to Macao on your honorable mission. Let the tai-tai know when you intend to return. Do you need funds for the journey?"

"No, Uncle." She kept her eyes down, feeling a twinge of guilt at his offer to subsidize her false pilgrimage. Though she would eventually reach Macao and visit her parents' graves, that did not alter the fact that she was lying to him now.

Suppressing the urge to confess, she impulsively knelt and did a full formal kowtow, touching her forehead to the velvety turf to express fifteen years of gratitude and respect. "I am most grateful for your indulgence."

"You have earned the privilege." Thoughts already on the business of the day, he headed back toward the house.

Instead of following, Troth strolled deeper into the gardens, a little melancholy as she visited her favorite spots. It was still early, not long after dawn, a good time to say farewell to the serene beauty that had been balm to her soul.

She paused by waterfalls that had been tuned like a musical instrument, each trickle of water contributing to the overall harmony. The colorful ducks in the pond were awake and busily seeking their breakfast. Every pool and rock and twisted tree had memories, and she tried to engrave them all on her mind, aching at the knowledge that she would never see these sights again.

Her last stop was at the teahouse where she had meditated and Maxwell had made the offer that was going to change her life. If he had not seen her that day, she would not be planning her flight now.

She entered the house through a circular moon gate, so different from the boring rectangular doors of the Fan-qui. Even after fifteen years, she had not visited all parts of the sprawling structure. It was home to Chenqua's grown sons and their families as well as the merchant's wives and servants, so many rooms were private.

She would miss the courtyards, the way buildings and gardens were so intimately woven together that it was hard to say where one began and the other ended. In Britain, she gathered, it was much too cold to build homes around open spaces.

She found Ling-Ling in the lily pond courtyard, perched on the edge and gazing down at the golden carp that glided soundlessly through the depths. As always, Chenqua's Fourth Lady was exquisitely gowned and made up, her beauty almost unreal.

"You have emerged from your rooms early," Troth remarked as she seated herself on the stony rim of the pool.

Ling-Ling glanced up dreamily. "It is certain, Jin Kang. I carry my lord's child." She spread one hand over her stomach, honoring the mystery of burgeoning life.

"How wonderful!" Troth said, trying not to be too envious. "May this be the first of many strong sons. His lordship and the First Lady must be most pleased."

"They are." Ling-Ling smiled. "The tai-tai says it has been too long since there was a baby in the house."

The tai-tai was Chenqua's first and most important wife. Shrewd eyed and silver haired, the First Lady ruled the household with firmness and wisdom. By personally choosing her husband's and sons' wives, she assured harmony in the compound. She'd always been kind, in a remote way, to the half-blood orphan her husband had brought home. Troth said, "In two days I'm going to Macao to visit the graves of my parents."

"Will you burn grave goods there, or don't Christians do that?"

"It is not a Christian custom," Troth admitted, "but I will still honor my mother and father in the Chinese way, since they lie in Chinese soil."

Ling-Ling toyed with the golden blossom of a water lily. "You won't be coming back, will you?"

Troth froze. "Why do you say such a thing?"

"There are many in Macao with mixed blood. You belong there, not here. In Macao, you might find a husband who will honor you and give you sons."

"You have guessed correctly," Troth said reluctantly. "I… I must seek a life elsewhere."

"My lord will be sorry to lose you."

"Please don't tell him!"

"I shan't give you away. You have the right to leave, since you're not a slave, but it will be easier if no one knows your plans." Ling-Ling flicked water from her fingertips, creating a cluster of expanding circles on the surface of the pool. "I've always known your path did not lie here in Canton."

"Really?" Troth said, startled. "I didn't know that myself."

"You were unawakened. But you have met a man who stirs your senses, have you not? You have been different in the last weeks. Will he make you one of his ladies?"

Troth watched her friend in fascination. Ling-Ling's youth and playfulness made it easy to underestimate her perception. "There is a man who has started me thinking," she said carefully. "He will help me establish myself in my new home, but he has no wish to make me his lady."

Ling-Ling arched her elegant brows. "You have much to learn of men, Mei-Lian."

"That is the first time you've ever called me by my true name," Troth said softly.

"It is fitting, since you are leaving to become a woman."

Troth touched her hand. "I shall miss you, Ling-Ling."

Tears glimmered in Ling-Ling's eyes. "And I shall miss you. There is no one else who lets me tease as you do." She glanced at her bound feet in their embroidered lion slippers. "I would not want your life. Yet… sometimes I envy your freedom."

It was said that feet were bound so wives could not run away. Ling-Ling was proud of her position as one of Chenqua's wives and would never dream of fleeing, but her life was a narrow one, and would become narrower still. Widows couldn't remarry, so with a husband forty years her senior Ling-Ling was likely to spend most of her life sleeping alone. She might be content with that-but Troth wouldn't be.

Feeling better about her uncertain future, she returned to her bedroom and washed. Then she opened her treasure box to choose what she would carry across the river today.

Gradually she'd moved her most valued possessions to the sturdy brass-bound trunk that Maxwell had provided. Her father's Bible had gone first, followed by her mother's jewelry and the women's garments that had meant so much during her lonely years as Jin Kang.

Today she took the last of her father's books and a beautifully painted scroll, tying them across her abdomen with a band of cloth before putting on her tunic. Then she made her way to the water gate so she could cross to the Settlement. This close to the end of the season the hongs were bustling, but in two more days they would be silent, and she and Maxwell would be on their way.

She wasn't sure which was greater-her fear or her anticipation.

Chapter 13

« ^ »

A pile of mail arrived the day before Kyle left Canton, the last he would receive before he arrived back in England. He saved the letters for that night, to read after he finished packing.

His father's handwriting was noticeably shaky as he described the estate business that Kyle would take over when he returned. His sister Lucia's letter was lively and full of the details of her life, along with an uneven but earnest greeting from her oldest child, the Honorable Edward Justice, very proud of his five years.

As always, he saved his brother's letter until last. Close as shadows in boyhood, they'd grown apart when their father sent them to different schools. At eighteen, a fierce quarrel had left them estranged for years. They'd made peace just before Kyle left for the East, but there hadn't been much time to reweave the fabric of their relationship.

The letters had made up for that. For six years they'd written back and forth. Kyle had said things on paper that he would have found difficult to speak aloud, and Dominic had done the same. Though half a world separated them, he felt as close to his brother as he had when they were boys.

He savored the pages, which had been composed a few paragraphs at a time over several weeks. Dominic wrote an amusing blend of personal information and responses to the letters Kyle had written a year earlier. He ended, I suppose you might be home before this letter finds you. I wonder how many letters are chasing you around the Orient, all of them far better traveled than I?

It's good that you're returning. Wrexham is growing increasingly frail. He misses you, though he'd never admit it. I warn you, though, as soon as you show your face he'll be matchmaking. If anything will keep him alive, it's the prospect of seeing you produce the next generation's heir. You are warned.

He smiled wryly, knowing his brother wasn't joking. The Earl of Wrexham had hated having his heir leave England even though he had a perfectly good spare in Dominic. There would be a list of suitable brides ready when the prodigal returned.

He wrote a quick reply to the letter, even though it wouldn't reach England much before Kyle himself. Then he stripped and packed his Western garments in a small trunk. Gavin Elliott would take it to Macao when he sailed the next day, so Kyle would be able to reclaim his wardrobe for the trip home.

His other belongings were already on the high seas. Troth had been very firm that he take nothing European to Hoshan. The only exception was his pocket pistol and ammunition. The roads they'd be traveling were fairly safe, but one never knew.

He doused the lamp and stretched out on the bed, the sheet resting lightly on his bare skin. In midspring, the nights were already uncomfortably warm. Though he'd developed a tolerance for tropical heat in the last years, he looked forward to England 's cool, invigorating climate.

His thoughts returned to marriage. Some days the prospect seemed perfectly reasonable, even though he could never care for another woman as he had Constancia. Many marriages were contracted without love-success required only kindness, mutual respect, a similarity of background and expectations. Yet when he dreamed of Constancia, he always woke with the bleak knowledge that marriage would be a disastrous mistake, miserable both for him and whatever unfortunate woman he wed.

He'd told no one that he had married Constancia; even Dominic knew only that he'd lost the mistress whom he'd loved with the best that was in him. He'd never met another woman who could match Constancia's warmth and generosity and passion, nor one who understood him as she had. Though she had been dead for six years, she would always be the wife of his heart.

Grieving, he had obeyed her last wish and gone forth to live. But it was one thing to live, and quite another to love.

Kyle slept soundly and rose before dawn the next day, eager to be on his way. First he rubbed his face, throat, and limbs with a lotion that darkly stained his skin. Troth said the effect would last for weeks.

Then he donned the clothing she had provided. The loose blue trousers and tunic were shabby and woven of coarse fabric, purchased from a used-clothing stall. She'd been unable to find old footwear in his size, so she'd bought new shoes and scuffed them until they looked worn.

After tying a money belt around his waist under the tunic, he glanced in the mirror. He looked fairly old and worn himself, and much less like an Englishman.

A knock sounded at the door, closely followed by Gavin. "So you're going to go through with it," his friend said gloomily.

Kyle locked his trunk and handed the key to Gavin. "Did you really doubt it?"

"I suppose not. Have a good journey." They shook hands.

Kyle said, "I'll see you in Macao in a fortnight or so."

He was reaching for the doorknob when Gavin said brusquely, "Don't go, Maxwell. I have a bad feeling about this trip. I've tried to bury it, but my fey Scots ancestors keep whispering in my ear that you're running into trouble. Serious trouble."

Kyle blinked. "Did the fey ancestors say what to watch out for?"

Gavin shrugged wryly. "Premonitions are never specific enough to be much use-but I can't shake the feeling that you're risking your life. Don't go."

Frowning, Kyle went to the window and gazed down at the Pearl River, ghostly in the first predawn light. Gavin would not have said such a thing lightly. Was his trip to Hoshan merely a rich man's whim?

No, his desire was much deeper than that. Perhaps in Hoshan he would discover faith, or wisdom, or something else that would add meaning to his life. Whatever awaited him there, it was worth a risk. "I appreciate the warning, but this is something I must do, Gavin."

His friend sighed. "Then at least be careful, and do what Jin Kang tells you."

"Don't worry, I'll be on your doorstep in Macao before you know it." He left the bedroom and quietly descended the steps to the ground floor. He and Troth had chosen the early hour so no one would see him dressed so oddly.

The vast spaces of the warehouse were almost empty now, the bales of goods once stored here now on their way to Britain and America, leaving only the pungent scent of tea. Later in the day the hong would be bustling as Elliott House employees closed it down for the season. With so much going on, no one would notice his absence.

As they had arranged, Troth waited in a small office at the back of the hong, her expression stern. She'd discarded her respectable clerk's clothing for the shabby garments of a laborer. They'd make a good pair of peasants.

"You're late, my lord. I was beginning to wonder if you'd changed your mind."

"Never that. I was delayed because Elliott came by to say good-bye."

As he crossed the office toward her, she said critically, " You dress like a peasant but move like a Fan-qui lord. Put these under the arches of your feet." She gave him two lengths of thick, hard cord about three inches long.

Obediently he removed his shoes and placed the cords inside, then cautiously circled around the office. "Uncomfortable. Why do I need them?"

"To make you walk like an old man with bad joints and uncertain balance."

"Clever." He scanned the objects Troth had set on the battered table. "That thing looks like a drowned badger."

"Your wig, Grandfather." She handed him a coiled, hairy mass.

Though Chinese men shaved the front half of their heads, in order to stay in position his wig had been made to cover his skull from brow to nape before trailing into a waist-length queue. The coarse hair was more gray than black. He wondered where it had come from, but was just as glad not to know. He arranged the wig on his head. "How does it look?"

"Some of your hair is showing." She tucked an errant lock away, her fingers a featherlight brush behind his ear. He almost flinched. Maybe the threat Gavin sensed was that he'd forget himself and make advances to Troth, and she'd break his neck when repelling them. Having seen her fight, he knew she could damage him seriously.

Such speculation was nonsense, of course. Though he found her immensely attractive, he was no lust-crazed boy, unable to keep his hands to himself. There was a rare kind of innocence about Troth, and he had no intention of violating it. Still, he breathed more easily when she stepped away. "Do I look Chinese now?"

She sniffed. "Hardly. Even if your features weren't all wrong, the color of your eyes would betray you instantly. Time to cover them."

She took a roll of white gauze from the table and began wrapping it around his head. This was the part he knew he would hate, but there was no other way to disguise his foreignness. He distracted himself by trying to imagine what Troth would look like in a European ball gown that revealed the figure hidden beneath her shapeless garments. When they reached Macao, he'd commission her a proper wardrobe immediately.

Layer after layer of gauze swaddled the upper part of his head and his cheeks, ears, and nose. His mouth and jaw were left uncovered, as were his eyes. When she was satisfied with how well his face was disguised, she lightly drew a single layer of fabric across his eyes. After tying off the bandage, she asked, "Can you see?"

He turned his head, testing his vision. "Much better than I expected. The world is a little hazy, but I can see and hear quite well, and talk and breathe with no problem."

"Good. The bandage is too clean, though." She ran her fingers along the dusty edge of the floor and wiped them on the bandages. Then she placed a cap over his head. "Take a look at yourself, Grandfather."

He glanced into the small mirror she placed in his hand and saw the image of a drab, injured old man. With only his mouth visible, nothing revealed that he was foreign. "You're brilliant, Troth."

"I'd better be." Her tone was troubled. "I hope I'm not forgetting something."

He lowered the mirror. "If you really don't want to undertake this journey, it's not too late to back out. We can sail to Macao with Gavin Elliott today."

She hesitated, and for a moment he feared she would take him at his word. Then she shook her head. "No. We have a bargain, and I will fulfill my end. Besides, I wish to see the temple also."

"And to say good-bye to your mother's country?"

Her mouth tightened. All business, she scanned him with narrow-eyed thoroughness. "Take off the gold ring. No peasant would have such a thing."

The Celtic knotwork ring was so much a part of him that he'd forgotten it was on his hand. As he tugged it off, he remembered what he'd brought her. He reached under his tunic to unfasten the money belt and handed it to her. "This is for you."

Her eyes widened when she opened one of the belt's pockets and saw the carefully chosen mixture of coins and silver ingots, all worn from use and unlikely to attract attention. "Why are you giving me so much money?"

"You're the one who will be paying the bills as we travel."

Her brows rose as she checked the contents of the other pockets. "This is far more than I shall need for the journey."

"If something happens to me, you'll need funds to get to Macao and England. Gavin Elliott will help you-he even mentioned the possibility of hiring Jin Kang for his new London office-but you'll feel better if you have something to fall back on." He gave her the ring. "Pack this in there, too."

She tucked the ring into a small empty pocket of the money belt so that it wouldn't be scratched, then tied the belt under her tunic. "What is it like to be able to buy whatever you want? "

He remembered how useless his fortune had been to restore Constancia's health. "Money can't buy miracles, but it does give freedom and power. I periodically stop to give thanks that I've never had to worry about something that is a crushing concern of half the people in the world."

She touched the hard bulge of the money belt under her tunic. "Freedom and power. I've had little enough of either."

She was a brave woman. Would he have the courage to walk away from the only life he'd known? "For better and worse, your future will be different from your past."

"I hope so." She slung a knapsack over her shoulder. "Ready, Grandfather? Until we get to the stable where we'll pick up the donkey, rest one hand on my shoulder, shuffle along with your shoulders bent, and don't speak. No one will ever suspect that you're a foreign devil."

He grinned. "Lay on, Macduff. Or rather, lay on, Montgomery."

She gave a swift smile. "We'll have no quotes from the Scottish play, Grandfather. It would be bad luck."

She looked so enchanting that he raised her chin with one finger. "Then we should have a kiss to improve our luck."

He meant the kiss to be light, but as soon as their lips met desire crackled between them. She made a choked sound and drew closer, her lithe frame touching him from chest to thighs. His obscured vision increased his awareness of how soft her mouth was, how erotic the small movements of her body against his.

He was equally conscious of her uncertainty-had she ever been kissed before? Probably not-and her yearning. So sweet, so welcoming…

Hell. Wanting to kiss her senseless was the wrong way to start. Breathing quickened, he stepped back. "An auspicious beginning to our journey."

Slowly she raised her fingers to her lips, her eyes almost black as she stared at him. Then she gave a small shake of her head. " Bats would be more auspicious, Grandfather. Or cranes."

When she turned toward the door, he set his right hand on her left shoulder and followed. With the cords digging into the soles of his feet, it was easy to shuffle like an old man with bad joints and no vision. It gave him more sympathy for his father, afflicted with gout and weak eyes.

They left the hong by the back gate. Moving at a pace suitable for an infirm old man, Troth led them to a street that ran from the Settlement to the city gate a few hundred yards away. All such roads were guarded and blocked with wickets every night so no Fan-qui could enter Canton.

They reached this one just as the guard was moving the wicket aside to open the street for the day's traffic. The guard greeted Troth casually, waving them past with only a bored glance at Kyle.

The door into China had just opened.

Chapter 14

« ^ »

England

December 1832

"You don't ride?" Dominic asked with surprise as he turned from a stall containing a magnificent dark bay horse.

Troth dropped her eyes, feeling as if she'd committed a faux pas. "I'm sorry, no. Only a donkey now and then. I lived in cities, you see."

"Regrettable, but not incurable. That is, if you'd like to learn riding?" The last was an afterthought, uttered as if he couldn't imagine that anyone wouldn't want to ride.

"I should like to try it." Nonetheless, Troth eyed the bay doubtfully. It was very large, and had a challenging gleam in its eyes.

"Don't worry, I won't put you on Pegasus. He's a handful even for me." Dominic stroked the horse's handsome nose, his expression suddenly bleak. "He was my brother's horse, you know. Kyle gave him to me the day before he left England."

Troth had a swift mental image of Kyle galloping across the hills on the horse, his dark brown hair blowing in the wind. The pair of them would have been a magnificent sight. She swallowed hard. She and Kyle had had so little time…

Dominic touched her elbow, guiding her down the row of stalls until they reached a placid chestnut. "Cinnamon will do nicely for learning. Here, give her this." He placed a chunk of carrot on Troth's palm.

She nervously offered it to the chestnut, thinking that the beast could probably take her fingers off if so inclined. Horses might eat grass, but those teeth were large. Cinnamon took the carrot with the daintiness of a fine lady, her soft lips lightly tickling Troth's palm. Charmed, she stroked the horse's nose and received a friendly nuzzle in the ribs. "I think Cinnamon and I shall do well together."

"I'm sure you will." Dominic smiled, but his eyes held the haunted sadness that had been there since he'd learned of his twin's death. He treated her with great gentleness, as if her relationship with his brother entitled her to special care. "Isn't the dressmaker coming today? Have a riding habit made up so we can get you started."

She made a face. "Madame Champier must be here by now. I'd better return to the house, or Meriel will be cross with me."

"Only a fool would risk her displeasure," he said gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. Though he and his wife behaved with propriety in public, it was easy to see the powerful bond between them. Six years they'd been married, yet each still lit up like a candle when the other entered the room.

Troth thought wistfully of their marriage as she walked back to the house. Might she and Kyle have ever achieved such closeness? She doubted it, for his heart had been given elsewhere. But it made a sweet, melancholy dream.

The day was cold, with a stiff wind chasing clouds so sun and shadow changed continually. One of the first things Meriel had done was find a heavy cloak for her new sister-in-law. Properly garbed, Troth found the wintry conditions much less uncomfortable than on her original journey from London to Shropshire.

During her fortnight at Warfield Park, Troth had been accepted seamlessly into the household. The children, Philip and Gwyneth, rushed up to her when she entered the house. "Tarts!" Gwynne said excitedly.

"We're going to the kitchen to help with the Christmas baking," her older brother explained. "Would you like to come with us?"

"I'm sure that Lady Maxwell has other things to do." Their nurse, Anna, came forward and took the children's hands.

Troth brushed her fingers over Gwynne's white-blond hair. "I'm afraid that's so, but perhaps another time? I'm sure the baking will continue for days."

Gwynne left with a melting glance over her shoulder as Anna led them off to the kitchen. Five and three, the children had blithely adopted Troth as an aunt from the beginning, though there had been an awkward moment at their first introduction when Gwynne had asked why Aunt Troth had strange eyes. While Anna blanched at her charge's rudeness, Meriel had calmly said that Troth came from a part of the world where her eyes were normal, and Gwynne's would look very strange. The child had accepted that with perfect composure, and they'd become fast friends.

Troth would have enjoyed the preparations for Christmas, if the holidays hadn't meant that she would soon meet the other members of the Renbourne family. Though Dominic and Meriel had accepted her as if half-Chinese widows of dubious background were normal, Troth feared that others, especially the formidable Earl of Wrexham, would be less welcoming.

She reached Meriel's sitting room to find her sister-in-law cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by bolts of fabric and trimmings as she chatted with the dressmaker. Delighted by the countess's informality, Troth said, "I'm sorry I'm late."

The dressmaker inhaled, her avid gaze going over Troth. "Oh, milady Grahame, you were right," she said with a lilting French accent. "What a pleasure this will be!"

Troth blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I told Madame Champier that you have a unique beauty, and she is anticipating the pleasure of dressing you," Meriel explained.

Troth felt heat flooding her face. "You mock me."

Meriel rose lithely from the carpeted floor. "You truly don't believe yourself beautiful, do you?" She took Troth's arm and turned her toward a mirror. "Look at yourself, not as a woman who is neither Chinese nor Scottish, but as you are. Your graceful figure, your eyes, your beautiful bones. Even in the plainest of garments you are lovely. Dressed well at the Christmas ball, you will make men stop in their tracks and youths wilt over their poetry."

Troth stared at the mirror, trying to imagine such a wild fantasy. True, her skin was good, her hair thick, and the auburn highlights did not seem odd in England. But she still looked strange, neither Oriental nor European. Of course, Kyle had claimed to admire her appearance. Perhaps the English simply liked eccentric-looking women.

"If you say so," she said doubtfully.

Meriel sighed, but made no further attempts to persuade Troth. Instead, she and Madame Champier began discussing what fabrics and styles would best suit her.

Troth endured the consultations and measuring patiently. What was the English expression-trying to make a silk purse from a pig's ear? But Meriel was obviously enjoying herself, decorating her sister-in-law in the same spirit with which she created lavish arrangements with flowers from the glass houses. Troth owed her the amusement, for Meriel had been kindness personified.

Half a world from her birthplace, she was finally Troth Montgomery, a female and a member of the Renbourne family. She had not felt such a sense of belonging since her father died. It would be hard to leave. Dominic and Meriel had said she could spend the rest of her life at Warfield if she chose, but of course she could not accept their offer. Unlike Meriel's two sweet old aunts, who lived in the dower house and were part of the family, Troth was not blood kin, and she didn't want to wear out her welcome.

Besides, she must go to Scotland. She'd stay at Warfield through the winter, then travel north. Not to find her father's relatives-she doubted they would receive her as kindly as Dominic and Meriel had. But she must see her father's homeland-the compulsion was as strong as Kyle's desire to visit Hoshan. Perhaps she would look for a cottage that could become her home.

She had so much freedom now. She just hadn't realized how lonely freedom could be.

Chapter 15

« ^ »

Canton, China

Spring 1832

The back of Troth's neck prickled as she and her "grandfather" walked through the Dragon Gate into the city of Canton. Though she hadn't said as much to Maxwell, she thought of their passage through the city as a test. She would cancel the journey if his appearance attracted potentially dangerous attention.

If he was discovered in Canton it would be a scandal, but a minor one. The viceroy would express outrage, Chenqua would have to kowtow and apologize, a fine would be paid-but no real damage would be done. Fan-qui traders often chafed at the Eight Regulations, and Maxwell's transgression would be considered a childish prank. Being found in the countryside could not be passed off as a prank, and the consequences would be far more severe.

Still, they were off to a good start. She'd worried that Maxwell might not be serious enough about his disguise, so she was pleasantly surprised at how well he performed as a feeble old man. His slumped shoulders made his height less noticeable, and he kept his head down, though she was sure that behind the layer of gauze his eyes were eagerly scanning the teeming, noisy streets. The less that was visible of his face the better. Even with the bandages, a careful observer might realize that his covered nose was too large, his chin and mouth wrong for a Han Chinese.

His mouth…

Heat washed through her at the memory of his kiss. What a devil he was, to stir her senses so casually! Yet he had not been unaffected himself. She took comfort in that.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, as she had done regularly since they left the hong. Luckily, anyone who noticed would think her merely concerned for her aged companion. She was pleased to see that the swirling crowds were respectful of his gray hair, with people swinging wide to avoid jostling him. Though reverence for age was a foundation of Chinese society, she hadn't fully appreciated how his disguise would spare him from being constantly buffeted by strangers.

Knowing that Maxwell wanted to see as much of Canton as possible, Troth chose a route that took them by a number of the city's most interesting structures. Many were too filled with people to make exploration wise, but when they passed the Examination Hall, she paid the porter a few coins so they could go inside.

She led him into a long, narrow lane flanked by hundreds of tiny brick cells. When she was sure no one was within earshot, she said, "This is where scholars take the exams in literature and philosophy so they might qualify for the Civil Service."

Maxwell straightened and walked into one of the cubicles. "Are these cells for those who fail? They look as if they're meant for punishment."

"No, these rooms are where the exams are taken. Candidates must spend two days and nights inside as they write their essays. They are watched from that tower."

"How many examination cells are there?"

"About twelve thousand, I think."

He gave a soft, un-Chinese whistle. "Twelve thousand poor, suffering students, desperate to prove they've learned enough to qualify for a government job. No wonder the atmosphere is so oppressive. The bricks must be saturated with the misery of young men who know that their entire futures depend on how well they do."

"Suicide is not uncommon among students preparing for the exam, or those who fail." Though her male identity had given her the freedom to roam the city, she'd visited the Examination Hall only once years earlier, when she hadn't fully appreciated the significance. "It's rather… frightening, isn't it? Yet grand at the same time."

"Grand?"

"In a way, this hall represents the very heart of China. For two thousand years this nation has been civilized, creating poetry and philosophy and planting gardens." She felt a piercing sense of loss. "Periodically conquerors swept in from the barbarian north-west and declared themselves the rulers, but always they adopted Chinese ways.

"Our system of government goes all the way back to Confucius, who believed that the wisdom and temperance of scholars would provide a just and virtuous state. Every government official at every level has proved himself knowledgeable in the classics of our literature and philosophy. Is there another nation on earth that can say as much? "

"None that I've heard of. Two thousand years ago, the inhabitants of Britain were wearing blue paint and Jesus had yet to be born," he agreed. "But the stability of the Confucian system has also created stagnation and rigidity, along with far too many petty rules and even pettier officials."

"True, yet there is great good in allowing any peasant boy with ability to take the exams. If he does well he can end up a provincial governor or imperial censor. Sometimes a village will band together and sponsor a local candidate, hiring tutors to prepare him in hopes he will bring honor to the village."

"A system based on merit has much to commend it. There is nothing so comprehensive in Britain." His bandaged face swung toward her, eerily featureless. "This is the first time I've heard you say 'we' and 'our' when talking about China."

She realized that was probably true. "Perhaps I am feeling more Chinese now that I am preparing to leave."

"You don't have to make your final decision until later," he said quietly. "You can return to Chenqua's household if you choose, or stay in Macao."

She was tempted to seize on the comfort he offered, but couldn't. Though her secure iron rice bowl waited at Chenqua's, she had changed too much in the last weeks to ever be content with that again.

And it was all Maxwell's fault.

As they left the grounds of the Examination Hall, Kyle wondered how he would have done under such a system. He'd always excelled at his studies, but only because they interested him. He'd never had his whole life weighing in the balance. He had been born shod and hosed, as the saying went. Never had he been truly tested, not the way Dominic had been during his time in the army.

The clamor and color of the streets were a refreshing contrast to the stone solemnity of the Examination Hall. After weeks trapped in the narrow confines of the Settlement, Kyle found Canton exhilarating. Luckily, the discomfort of the cord rubbing his feet with every step kept him in his role of creaky old man.

Several times they passed temples, most of them small neighborhood places of worship, but one a grand and gaudy structure lushly decorated with statues and carvings. He studied the structures wistfully as he and Troth shuffled past. Before they reached Hoshan, he must get her to teach him the proper forms of worship so he could visit the temple without calling attention to his ignorance.

The crowds thinned as they passed a dismal, official-looking compound. On the pretext of steering him around broken paving stones, Troth took his elbow and said quietly, "This is the magistrate's yamen-his office and court, and a prison as well."

Kyle's mouth tightened as he saw prisoners chained to the iron bars outside, prey to the insults and harassment of passersby. Most of them crouched against the bars, heads bent and shoulders bowed. He watched as an old lady spit on one of the malefactors. In a society where "face" was considered vital, this public humiliation was a formidable punishment.

A man stumbled from the yamen, a massive square of wood locked around his neck and wrists. Kyle had heard of the device, called a cangue. It was rather like a personal and portable version of the stocks that had once been used to punish minor offenders in England.

The wearer of the cangue was a short man who might have been a street vendor. He staggered under the weight of the wooden slab, jerking his head about in a futile attempt to avoid the tormenting flies that buzzed around his face. Kyle slowed at the sight, but Troth gave a sharp jerk of her shoulder to get him moving again. Outside the magistrate's prison was no place to linger.

By the time they reached the stable that housed their donkeys, he was so saturated with images and sounds that he looked forward to the quiet of the countryside. Troth stationed him at the entrance and walked into the back, calling out in Chinese.

He would have liked to explore the establishment, but supposed that a decrepit blind man wouldn't. A pair of skinny dogs came up to sniff around his ankles, then growled. Could they tell from his scent that he was a foreigner, or were they just bad-tempered? He stood very still until the dogs moved on.

A few minutes later Troth emerged with a donkey bearing a pack and a crude saddle. It was an unkempt little beast, but looked strong and healthy. Troth took one of his hands and placed it on the donkey's neck, as if he were blind, and said under her breath, "Mount clumsily.''

He obeyed, making a show of fumbling and struggling to get one leg over the donkey's back. When he was mounted, his feet just missed dragging on the ground. He suppressed a smile at the thought of what his English friends would think if they could see him now. He'd always been known for the quality of his horses.

Troth took the reins and led the beast into the street. Surprised, he whispered, "Where is your donkey?"

"Only this one." When he started to protest, she snapped, "Later!"

Reminding himself that she was in charge, he settled down and watched the passing scene. The donkey moved no faster than a man, but they weren't far from one of the city gates, and soon they left Canton. The road that rolled north was wide and heavily trafficked.

When the suburbs of the city were behind them, Troth turned down a smaller road, barely five feet wide and with little traffic. They wound between rugged, intensely green hills that had been terraced to produce the greatest possible yields. The most common crop was rice, with peasants and water buffalo working in knee-deep water. The landscape had the same slightly unreal loveliness he'd seen in his treasured folio of drawings. The artists of those pictures had been more accurate than he'd realized.

After checking that no one was near, he asked quietly, "Why only one donkey?"

"One donkey to carry an old man would look reasonable, but two would imply prosperity, and that would be bad," she explained. "Better to appear as people not worth robbing."

"I take your point, but I really can't ride the whole way when a lady is walking."

"I'm not a lady. Remember? People would be shocked to see me ride while my honored grandfather had to walk."

"And I am not an honored grandfather." He swung one leg over the donkey's back and began walking on the side opposite Troth, one hand resting on the crude saddle as if he needed guidance. "During my time in Canton, I've been going mad with lack of exercise. I can't pass up this opportunity to stretch my legs."

"All right, but if we approach a town or village, mount up again."

"Very well." It was relaxing to be in the country again. He studied the hills, keeping his head still so as not to alert anyone to the fact that he wasn't behaving like a blind man. "The landscape is so carefully cultivated that it reminds me of a park. The scenery is much wilder in England."

"Tell me what it is like."

"In the south, many of the roads are lined with hedgerows full of birds and flowers and berries in season. There are woods, and streams that choose their own courses rather than being diverted into irrigation."

"What about Scotland?"

He began describing the moors: the rugged hills, the fleet deer and shaggy Highland cattle, the wild burns that rushed down from the hills, turning into rainbow-touched cascades after a storm. "It's a wild and lonely landscape compared to this. I have a home in the Highlands. You'd like it there, I think."

"I know I would," she said in a voice laced with longing. "My father grew up in the border country, but he took walking tours through the Highlands when he was young. He planned to retire someday and take me home to Scotland."

"So you dreamed of the Highlands while I dreamed of Hoshan," he mused. "Perhaps we were fated to meet."

"Isn't the concept of fate more Eastern than Christian?"

"Believing in fate, or luck, is part of human nature, I suspect. Tell me about Chinese religious beliefs. I've done some reading, but still haven't got the three main religions sorted out. Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism-who believes what?"

"Most Chinese follow them all." She smiled. "The Christian Bible says that 'the Lord thy God is a jealous god,' but here we believe that any religion that teaches you to be a good person is worthy.

"There are Three Ways. Taoism teaches that we must follow the laws of nature, and sees spirits everywhere. The greatest figures are Lao-Tzu, the Old Philosopher, and the Eight Immortals. The Tao is yin and yang, opposite and equal, and feng shui, the art of harmonious placement, which creates homes and gardens that nourish the soul."

"You're going too fast!" he protested. "I want to know more."

She gave an enchanting laugh. "Later. The second Way is that of Confucius, the Master. He taught people to respect one another, to cultivate discipline and learning and wisdom, to honor our elders. Chinese society and government are rooted in his teachings."

"And Buddhism?"

"He was the Enlightened One, who taught that in order to escape the cycle of death and rebirth, we must not be attached to the things of the earth. Giving up worldly desires will lead to peace and wisdom."

Kyle studied the pure line of her throat, her beautifully cut profile. "I'm definitely not ready to give up earthly desires, but I want to learn more. I'm going to make you talk until you're hoarse every day of this journey, from Canton to Hoshan to London."

"After so many years of being quiet, invisible Jin Kang, I shall enjoy having an audience," she said tranquilly.

He smiled, thinking that already this was a wonderful journey. Perhaps fate truly had brought them together for a purpose, for she was giving him China. In turn, he would give her Scotland.

If it wouldn't have been out of character for an old grandfather, Kyle would have begun to whistle.

Chapter 16

« ^ »

Time to get on your faithful steed again," Troth murmured. "The village on the hill ahead looks large enough to have an inn, and it's almost sunset."

"Are all Chinese towns and villages walled?"

"Most of them are. There have been periods in our history when bandits swarmed over the land like locusts and unprotected villages were destroyed."

Resigned to being carted around like baggage, Kyle mounted the donkey again and their small party climbed the long hill. He noted that the village had been built on a poor, rocky outcropping so fertile land wouldn't be wasted on buildings. He'd never seen land used so intensively.

Just inside the village gates stood an inn, its function as unmistakable in China as in England. Troth took them through a broad arch into a courtyard where three of the four walls had doors leading into guest rooms, while the fourth was a shed. The air was ripe with the odors of animals and frying fat.

Before Troth had even finished tethering the donkey, a middle-aged woman bustled from the manager's quarters with a tea tray. As she and Troth conversed, a cup of steaming tea was gently pressed into Kyle's hand. He raised the cup clumsily to his lips, assuming that even a deaf, blind grandfather should be able to manage tea.

After he'd drunk, Troth took the cup and went inside with the woman while Kyle relaxed on the donkey, cultivating patience. In England he'd been accustomed to servants taking care of life's menial tasks, but that had changed when he left on his travels. His long-term valet had declined to follow his master to foreign places, and the manservant who'd replaced him had left Kyle's service in India.

Unable to find an acceptable substitute, he'd decided to manage for himself while he was in Canton, and found that he rather enjoyed the privacy of not having a manservant constantly underfoot. Now Troth was handling every aspect of their journey, and it felt rather odd to return to idleness.

Still, entertainment presented itself. A very small child toddled up to the donkey. As he regarded Kyle with great solemn eyes, he squatted, his trousers opening along the crotch seam as he relieved himself on the soil of the courtyard. Kyle blinked behind his gauze bandage. While the boy's garment was a very practical design, it would never catch on in London.

Two pretty young women wearing heavy cosmetics pattered up on bound feet. Probably they were prostitutes, since the inn would be a good source of business. One took the child's hand and led him away, but the other stayed and surveyed Kyle.

Apparently reaching a favorable conclusion, she patted Kyle's knee-no, above the knee; her hand was sliding up his thigh. As she rattled off a cheerful question, he froze, embarrassingly aware that his body was responding to her practiced caress. Was this a local custom that his guide had neglected to explain?

Troth stormed from the inn, barking gruff imprecations at the prostitute. Unintimidated, the girl answered back, and a sharp exchange occurred. It ended when the girl smiled wickedly and trailed a provocative hand down Troth's arm. Then she minced away, hips swinging in invitation.

Muttering oaths, Troth led the donkey across the courtyard and helped Kyle down with a viselike grip on his elbow. The bedroom opened directly off the courtyard and was dominated by a platform bed. Kyle glanced around as she returned to the donkey for their baggage. Furnishings were sparse and the small, high windows were covered with paper that admitted only a dim light, but he'd stayed in worse places.

After Troth came in, kicking the door shut behind her, he asked softly, "What was that business in the courtyard all about?"

She dumped the baggage unceremoniously by the wall. "Wasn't it obvious? That hound-begotten slut was looking for customers."

"That I guessed, but the discussion between you seemed rather prolonged."

"I told her you were too old to traffic in trollops and that she insulted your dignity," Troth said acidly. "After which she informed me that you most certainly were not too old, and she'd service you for free because of her great reverence for her elders."

"What a hospitable nation this is!" Kyle said, amused by the absurdity.

Troth gave him a dagger glance. "Should I call that harlot in so you can take advantage of her generosity?"

"Of course not. But I'm… impressed"-he began to laugh-"at how far the Confucian 'honor one's elders' philosophy is carried."

Troth leaped at him and clamped a hand over his mouth. "For heaven's sake!" she hissed. "Do you want to bring everyone in this inn down on us? Anyone who hears will know you're no invalid grandfather."

His laughter vanished as she pressed against him. Through the gauzy bandage, he could barely see the outline of her features, but the warmth of her body was palpable. The lingering arousal caused by his encounter with the prostitute kindled into fierce need, not for any woman, but for this one. He cupped her cheek, smooth as warm silk. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman, and far, far longer since he'd desired one as much as he desired Troth.

Body took over from brain and he bent to kiss her. The brims of their straw hats collided and hers fell back onto the floor. Dangerous, dangerous folly, but her mouth was so sweet, so welcoming. As the kiss deepened, he slid his hands downward, feeling the supple strength of her back, the warm curve of her hips as he drew her close.

For a blissful moment she melted against him. Then she pulled away, her eyes wide and dazed. "I… I must stable the donkey. And food. I'll get food." She scooped her hat up and bolted from the room, pulling the brim low to hide her face.

Blood pounding, he sank onto the edge of the bed. How could he have been so stupid? The trip had hardly begun, and already he had succumbed to temptation.

It would be child's play to seduce her, but he was a man, not a child, and seduction of an innocent was profoundly dishonorable. Only a scoundrel would take advantage of her inexperience. In Britain she would have a chance to be the woman she longed to be. Intimate involvement with him now would interfere with that irrevocably.

He was skilled in self-control, and certainly that was the right course with Troth. Why did it have to be so damned difficult?

Troth brushed down the donkey with shaking hands. Gods, but it had been hard to leave Maxwell! She had wanted nothing more than to draw him to the bed so that he could teach her of the mysteries between man and woman. But that embrace had happened too abruptly. Instinct told her that there must be more between them than passion, or a bedding would leave them awkward and guilty: she'd feel awkward, and he'd feel guilty. In any case, the timing was wrong.

By the time she finished grooming the donkey, the beast was sleeker than it had ever been in its lowborn life. She left the stable, which was an open shed to the left of the main entrance. The gate was closed now that night had fallen, and a single wavering torch illuminated the courtyard.

Luckily, only a few rooms of the Inn of Heavenly Peace were occupied tonight, which meant that she and Maxwell would have some privacy. They were becoming skilled at conversing in voices so low that no one more than a few feet away could hear, but a momentary lapse could have serious consequences.

She stopped by the kitchen and collected the tray of food she'd ordered earlier from the innkeeper's wife. When she returned to the room, she saw with a pang of regret that Maxwell had made a pallet on the floor for her. Obviously he'd recovered from his earlier passion.

After she entered he dropped a heavy wooden bar into the brackets on each side of the door so they were secure. Then he began unwinding the bandage. "I've wanted to take this off for hours."

She tried not to stare as the familiar features emerged from behind the dusty gauze. Gentle, doddering grandfather disappeared, replaced by a man in the prime of his strength. When he removed the wig and ran his fingers through his hair to loosen it, she wrenched her gaze away before she could make a complete fool of herself. "A good thing no one can see in, Grandfather. Just remember that while the rooms on both sides of us are empty, sounds will carry far in the night."

He lit the small oil lamp in the center of the low table as she transferred the dishes from the tray to the table. It was humble fare, rice and a mixture of chopped vegetables flavored with ginger, along with a teapot and utensils. This was the real China, just what he'd wanted. She sat cross-legged by the table, searching for a neutral topic. "In the north, where winters are cold, the beds are built of brick so that small fires can be built underneath for warmth."

He folded himself down on the side of the table opposite her. "This could be useful in England. We have hot-water bottles for the feet, but they cool quickly."

"My father used to talk wistfully of the cool mists of Scotland. He never mentioned hot-water bottles." Glad that no strain lingered from what had happened earlier, she poured tea for them both and prepared to enjoy the simple food and Maxwell's company.

Awkwardness returned at bedtime. Suppressing a yawn, Maxwell said, "I'm ready to retire. Good night." Then he sat on the pallet and pulled off his shabby shoes.

"I'll sleep on the floor."

He set the shoes neatly by the wall. "No."

"The bed is more comfortable," she protested. "You should have it whether you are grandfather or lord."

"Outside this room, we are in China and I will do as you say. But when we are in private, you are a lady and I am a gentleman," he said firmly. "And a gentleman always gives the best place to the lady."

In Macao she'd seen how Europeans were elaborately protective of their womenfolk, as if the females were made of glass, but such behavior was so alien to Chinese custom that even the idea discomforted her. "I will not be able to sleep if you are not comfortable."

He rose and gave a graceful bow. "Alas, my lady, my conscience shall torment me horribly if I sleep on the bed. You must agree to my wishes if you don't wish to be cruel." He offered her his arm. "Let me escort you to your place of rest."

His courtly manner brought a smile to her face. Feeling like the lady he called her, she placed a light hand on his arm. "I yield to your gilded tongue, my lord, but I fear that I shan't sleep a wink."

He gazed down at her, humor bright in his eyes. "I'm tired enough to sleep on sharp stones, so you might as well get a good rest, too." He escorted her the half dozen steps to the bed, then left her with another bow. "Shall I put the lamp out?"

"Please."

He pinched out the flame. In the near-total darkness she heard him strip off the outer layer of his clothing before he lay down on the pallet. She removed her own outer garments, then stretched her tired body on the lumpy mattress that covered the bed.

Though she ached with tiredness, she couldn't relax, and not only because of her discomfort at having superior accommodations. She lay staring upward, acutely aware that he was only a few feet away. Memories of his embrace were painfully vivid.

Why had she foolishly pulled away? Partly it had been her sense that it was too soon, but also, she realized, there had been some fear-of the act itself, of the unknown, of Maxwell, who fascinated her but was in many ways a powerful, enigmatic stranger.

Now, too late, she cursed herself for her misgivings, for he had hungered for her as much as she had wanted him. If she'd been a little braver, she might be lying in his arms now. The knowledge made her ache with emptiness. Such a moment might not come again, for he was no randy lecher who'd bed anyone, and she was hardly woman enough to lead a disciplined man astray.

As the minutes stretched interminably, she wondered if she should make an advance tonight, while memory of their kiss still lingered. Though she would risk humiliating rejection, that would be better than knowing that she had not even tried.

She was tired, so tired, of waiting and wanting.

Not having quite enough courage to act boldly, she decided to leave it to fate. His breathing was slow and steady. If he was asleep, she would try to sleep herself. But if he was awake… She murmured, "My lord?"

"Yes?"

The sound of his deep voice sent a jolt of determination through her. She slipped from the bed and stretched out beside him on the pallet. Laying a tentative hand on his chest, she said haltingly, "You desired me earlier. I… I am here now."

He muttered an oath. "I deserve to be whipped for my behavior." His arm came around her with gentleness, not passion. "Your… generous offer is very tempting, but I can't accept. Though here women may live to serve men, English gentlemen are not supposed to take advantage of young females. You will have a new life and new opportunities in Britain. To lie with me now might damage your future."

She buried her face against his shoulder, dizzy with the pleasure of being so close. She loved his scent, so male and provocative, and the size and strength of his hard body. "There are no guarantees of what I will find in the land of my fathers. I am not a desirable young girl, my lord, and no man has ever shown interest in me. You did, at least a little." Her mouth twisted. "Or was that only because you were still feeling the heat of the harlot's touch?"

His other arm came around her, but it was still not a lover's embrace-even with no experience she could tell the difference. "I find you very desirable, and I swear that many men in Britain will feel the same. You need not give yourself to me because you fear there will never be another man for you. Believe me, your greatest difficulty will be in choosing the mate you want most."

How politely a gentleman lied. Trying to keep the tears from her voice, she whispered, "Don't British men have concubines? I would gladly be yours, if you would want me now and then."

His hand stroked down her arm, the warm palm sending tingles through her. "It's true that some men have mistresses, Troth, but infidelity is a sin. If I had a wife, I would never dishonor her so."

He'd never called her by her real name before, and hearing it quickened her pulse even as her spirits sank. "You reject me so kindly, my lord. But if I cannot be your wife or your concubine, will you not allow me to be your lover, at least for these next two weeks? I would ask nothing more of you."

"But you should ask more!" he said roughly. "You should demand to be a wife, not a mistress. To be cherished, not used."

"Even shameless, I cannot attract you." Tears stinging, she started to rise.

His arm tightened, holding her close. "You attract me greatly, but to act on that would be wrong when I cannot give you what you deserve."

Her mouth twisted. "I wish you didn't respect me so much. You may say I should settle for nothing less than being a wife, but you and I both know that a lord would never wed a penniless half-blood, and you will allow nothing else."

He sighed. "This has nothing to do with wealth or bloodlines. Any flaws are not in you, but in me."

She felt tension in his body, and it was not from desire. "What do you mean?"

After a long silence, he said painfully, "I've never told anyone this, but I was married once, very briefly. When Constancia died… my heart died with her. I am not fit to be husband to any woman who might love me."

The knowledge was startling, and made sense of his behavior. "I'm so sorry, my lord."

His fingers brushed her brow, pushing back tendrils of hair. "Call me Kyle, my Christian name."

Kyle. She appreciated the honor of his private name, though it was far less than she yearned for. "Did you marry in secret because your family was against the match?"

"My father would have been horrified if he had known. My brother and sister-perhaps they would have understood, because they both know what it is to love. But what I felt about Constancia was too… too personal to speak of."

She touched his chin, feeling bristles. He must shave in the morning, or he'd have a very un-Chinese beard. "If you speak of your beloved, it might ease the pain."

"Perhaps… you are right." Another silence. "Constancia was my mistress for many years. She was from Spain, whose people are very like the Portuguese you knew in Macao, dark haired and dark eyed and beautiful. She was a courtesan and many years older than I. That makes it sound as if what I felt for her was no more than a boy's infatuation with his first woman, but she was the warmest, most loving person I have ever known. When I was with her… I felt peace such as I have found nowhere else." His voice became almost inaudible. "Peace, and passion."

Having known the love of such a paragon, no wonder he had no interest in lesser females. "At least you had the courage to marry her even though it would be thought a dreadful mistake by your family."

"Making her my wife was the wisest thing I ever did. I only wish I'd done it sooner. It does me no credit that the thought occurred to me only as she lay dying."

Wanting to warm the bleakness in his voice, she said, "Late, but not too late. You were fortunate to have found each other, my lord."

He kissed her forehead lightly. "Kyle."

"Kyle," she repeated obediently.

She was prepared to be sent back to the bed, but he turned a little, resting his cheek against her hair. Intensely glad that he allowed her to stay, she settled against him, and soon slept.

Chapter 17

« ^ »

England

Christmas 1832

The Renbourne family was gathering for Christmas. Troth had worried about meeting Kyle's sister, but Lady Lucia turned out to be as engaging as Dominic. She also had the height, blue eyes, and waving dark brown hair of her brothers. Her husband, Robert Justice, was a quiet man with warm eyes that regarded Troth with some curiosity but more kindness.

The two Justice children were close in age to Dominic and Meriel's pair. "Dom and I married within weeks of each other," Lucia explained when the children noisily greeted each other. "Good planning, don't you agree?"

"Indeed." Troth watched the four cousins race off in a pack, marveling at the fact that she now had four children calling her aunt.

The midday arrival of the Justices was followed by a lively luncheon. Afterward Troth withdrew to the library. Not only did she crave quiet, but this would allow the Renbournes and Justices the privacy to discuss their brother's eccentric choice of a bride.

She loved the library, which had a collection of books that would have impressed even Chenqua. She chose a volume of poetry at random and settled down to read in one of the wing chairs that flanked the fireplace. It was a blustery afternoon and wind rattled the windows, but here she was safe and warm.

The book proved to contain the works of seventeenth-century British poets. Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. She smiled wryly as she read the lines. She'd been the one acting the part of the importunate lover, though Kyle had hardly been a shy maid. Instead, he'd been a man of honor.

The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. She closed the book, her eyes stinging. She would never regret her shameless behavior. The greatest comfort she had found had been Dominic's quiet statement that Kyle had died doing what he most desired, and few men were so lucky. She wanted to believe it, though she couldn't help but think that living as one most desired was far better.

The library door swung open and an elderly man stumped in with a cane. If she hadn't known that the Earl of Wrexham was coming to spend Christmas with his family, she would not have recognized him as Kyle's father, for there was little resemblance. But he had the unmistakable arrogance of a nobleman, a fierce will in a frail body.

She rose and dropped into a curtsy, her heartbeat accelerating. "Lord Wrexham."

He halted a dozen feet away, squinting to see her more clearly. His gaze lingered on her slim waistline. Was he relieved or disappointed to see that she was not carrying a child? A mixed-blood child. "So you're my so-called daughter-in-law. What part of Scotland did your father come from?"

"Melrose, south of Edinburgh."

"My wife was a Highlander. The blood runs strong in my children." He gave a harsh bark of laughter. "No bad thing, for she was far handsomer than I."

He lowered himself awkwardly into the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. "Damned gout," he muttered. "Tell me about my son's time in China."

She did, emphasizing the pleasure Kyle had found in exploring a world so different from his own, and the bravery with which he had died. The earl stared broodingly at the embers of the fire, his expression like granite.

After she finished her account, he said harshly, "I would never have permitted such a marriage, but… it's no matter now. If you gave him some happiness, I suppose I must be glad for that." He rose painfully. "You'll be well taken care of in the future." He hesitated before adding in a gruff voice, "I… I'm grateful to you for coming all this way to tell us about my boy's last days."

He left the library, leaning heavily on his cane. Troth rested her head against the chair back and closed her eyes, shaking. The worst was over now. She wasn't surprised to learn that the earl would have opposed his heir's marriage bitterly, but of course, if disaster hadn't befallen their expedition there would have been no marriage to oppose.

As Wrexham had said, it was no matter now. She did not carry an heir to Wrexham, so the family honors would pass safely to Dominic and his son. The old man could afford to tolerate her unexpected self.

It was less than she'd hoped for, but perhaps more than she deserved.

Chapter 18

« ^ »

On the road in China

Kyle might have thought the night had been a dream if he hadn't woken with Troth tucked under his arm. How foolish they'd been to end up on the hard floor rather than the bed. Yet he'd slept better than he had in a long, long time.

Though he hadn't forgotten how efficiently she'd battled a gang of villains, in repose she looked vulnerable and younger than her years. He felt intensely protective, not to mention amazed at his willpower the night before. Dressed as a man and with no more feminine wiles than a child, she was still so sensual that he'd almost thrown honor out the paper-covered window. The lustful male part of his brain had eagerly pointed out that she was of age and more than willing, but he'd had just enough decency left to resist.

Careful not to wake her, he studied the fascinating planes of her face. It was hard to believe she thought herself unattractive when she had such striking beauty. On the voyage home, he'd have to teach her to be more wary of men. At the moment, she was so hungry for kindness and admiration that she'd be easy prey for the unscrupulous.

Her eyes fluttered open, revealing hope and doubt in the brown depths. "My lord. Kyle. I… I'm glad you did not send me away last night."

"That would have been the wiser course, but I found too much pleasure in your closeness. I haven't had a bedmate in many years." He hesitated. "The hunger for the touch of another person runs deep, as does desire. It can be treacherously easy to confuse those things with love, but there is far more to love than physical feelings."

Something else showed in her gaze. Amusement, perhaps? He must sound hilariously pompous.

"I shall bear that in mind, Kyle."

She spoke so demurely that he suspected she'd just acquired her first wile. She was a quick learner. By the time they reached England, she'd be up to snuff, though he would still keep a close eye on her social progress to ensure that she didn't go astray. Might she want to be presented in London? That could be arranged, though once she encountered the acid gossip and stuffy formality of aristocratic society she'd probably lose interest in it.

How delicious it was to lie with her, only a couple of layers of cotton separating them. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss that slender throat…

He rolled over and got to his feet. "From the noise in the courtyard, everyone at the Inn of Intoxicated Repose is up and about, and we should be the same."

"The Inn of Heavenly Peace." She rose and donned her outer garments.

After they'd dressed and he'd put on his graying wig, she bandaged his face and head again, adding a few more stains. They breakfasted on tea and rice cakes and fruit, then resumed their journey.

Their road ran into a larger one with steady traffic in both directions. Troth ordered Kyle onto the donkey. Dodging dust and faster-moving travelers was nowhere near as amusing as walking and talking with Troth had been the previous day.

He was about to ask if there might be an alternative route when they heard a deep drumming sound ahead. They crested a hill and saw on the road below a body of marching troops starting up the incline toward them. Carts, pedestrians, and riders pulled off into the trees to let the soldiers through.

"Imperial Bannermen," Troth said under her breath. "Crack troops on their way to Canton, probably."

Having no desire to encounter soldiers, Kyle said, "There's a small track ahead to the right. Shall we take it?"

Troth squinted against the sun as she read the painted characters running down a signpost at the intersection of the track and the main road. "It leads to a famous waterfall and monastery. I'd thought of taking you there, so I suppose this is an omen."

She urged the donkey along as fast as it would go. By the time they turned onto the track, the Bannermen were close enough for them to see the bamboo armor and pointed metal helmets. When they'd traveled far enough to be obscured by the undergrowth, Kyle dismounted and turned to watch the marching troops. The earth vibrated to the thunder of their steps. "Do your people fear the Imperial Army?"

"Not exactly, but a wise man does not go out of his way to draw their attention.''

"That is true of armies everywhere, I suspect." Kyle watched the passing ranks in silence. Though the swords and lances were primitive compared to British rifles, the soldiers looked tough and determined. Properly trained and armed, they would be equal to anything, but at the moment they'd be cut up by trained European troops.

Hoping that wouldn't happen, he hiked alongside the donkey as they headed into wilder country. They climbed steadily over ground that was too rough and overgrown for much agriculture. Traffic was almost nonexistent.

The sun was high in the sky when they rounded a horseshoe bend and came face-to-face with a spectacular cataract. It shot from the cliff above, plunging at least fifty feet before splashing into a sky blue pool, then cascading down the hillside in series of smaller waterfalls. Kyle caught his breath at the wild beauty of the place.

"This is called the Flying Water. The monastery is just above. They are often built on mountains and near water." Troth shaded her eyes as she peered upward. "If we continue to the top, there are said to be splendid views of the countryside. It's a long climb, though, and I'm not sure where the next village is."

"We'll manage," he said, not wanting to miss such an interesting prospect.

They climbed to the head of the waterfall and past the monastery. Kyle would have liked to go inside, but it was best to avoid people as much as possible.

Though the path to the summit was steep, the effort was worth it. The view was phenomenal, extending perhaps fifty miles in all directions. Canton was a distant blur, and streams and channels feeding into the Pearl River wound through the district in a shining lattice. Small villages were scattered everywhere in the fertile valleys and well up the craggy slopes. Faint curls of smoke from the foot of the mountain ahead of them indicated that there was a village there also.

Kyle could have studied the countryside for hours, but soon a party of monks appeared on the trail below them. Troth murmured, "The good monks might wonder why an aged blind man has climbed this far, so mount up, Grandfather."

He obeyed, and they started along the much smaller track that ran down the back of the mountain through a narrow gorge. Densely forested and with a stream in the middle, it would turn into a torrent after a heavy rain.

Here and there tea gardens clung to the side of the mountain, the plants intensely green with the first foliage of the year. "Tea plants like height and moisture," Troth said as a peasant working in one of the tea gardens called out to them.

Kyle asked, "What did he say?"

"I think he told us not to spend the night on the mountain. Ghosts, maybe."

She spoke so matter-of-factly that he blinked. "Ghosts. Of course."

She grinned. "They are everywhere, Grandfather. One must pay honor to them." As they moved down the track, she scanned the rugged landscape. "There are many caves in these hills. Perhaps we can explore one later, Kyle." She liked his personal name, which had the crisp simplicity of Chinese.

Seeing a promising shadow on the stone wall of the gorge, she gestured to Kyle to stay with the donkey while she explored. She'd traveled a hundred yards or so when the undergrowth trembled, and a sleek black-and-yellow shape oozed from the shadows half a dozen yards in front of her. Tiger.

She froze in her tracks. Then, heart hammering, she slowly began to retreat as the huge beast regarded her with assessing eyes.

The tiger moved toward her, one lazy step at a time. If it charged, no amount of wing chun skill could save her from having her throat ripped out.

Might she be able to climb a tree? No, none were close enough, and a tiger could outclimb a human anyhow.

She continued her withdrawal until her heel caught in a root and she fell down. Immediately the tiger broke into a lope. She cried out as it closed the distance between them in easy bounds, unable to control her terror as she looked up into the fanged, open mouth. She'd try to jab the eyes, and maybe she could kick it in the throat…

A fist-size stone whizzed past her and smashed into the tiger's nose. The beast stopped in its tracks, blinking with astonishment.

Another rock thumped into the broad, striped chest, swiftly followed by another that struck the powerfully muscled shoulder. The tiger swung its head to gaze beyond Troth and growl a warning.

There was absolute silence until another stone slammed into a dark, furry ear. The beast spat with irritation, then pivoted fluidly and bounded into the undergrowth. As the lashing tail vanished, Kyle hauled her to her feet. "Are you all right. Troth?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"Then let's move. Luckily your feline friend wasn't hungry, but we need to be gone before he works up an appetite." He kept one arm around her waist as he hustled her back to where he'd tethered the nervous donkey.

It brayed when it saw them, tugging at the reins. As Kyle soothed the donkey, Troth asked, "What kind of fool throws stones at a tiger?"

"A fool who doesn't have a rifle." The donkey had settled down, so Kyle scooped her up and swung her into the saddle. "I've had some experience with tigers in India and was reasonably sure that stinging this one with stones would discourage him without triggering his temper. Unless they're man-eaters on a hunt, tigers usually won't go out of their way to attack humans, but when you fell, you started looking more edible."

"You're the one who's supposed to be riding," she protested as he started leading the donkey down the rough track.

"Later, when you aren't shaking like a dish of jellied eels." He gave her a quick smile, which contrasted oddly with the bandages that concealed most of his face.

He was right; her whole body trembled. She was grateful to let her companion take charge. A pity she'd been too distracted to enjoy having his strong arms lift her onto the donkey.

She must be recovering if she was beginning to think lustful thoughts again. "You throw well."

"I was reckoned to be quite a good cricket bowler at Eton." He chuckled. "It didn't occur to me at the time that the skill would prove handy with tigers. The advantages of a good education."

She smiled, her tension easing. Insouciance in the face of near disaster was one of the qualities she most liked about the British. Her father had had it in full measure. He and Kyle would have liked each other.

Half a mile down the track she slid from the saddle and took over the donkey's leading rein. Kyle fell back a step and placed his hand on the saddle in his usual position. Troth noted that except for his rescue of her, he maintained the posture and mannerisms of an old man even when there appeared to be no one around. In China, there could always be hidden eyes watching.

"It's almost sunset and I don't think we're going to reach that village by nightfall," he remarked.

She shivered involuntarily. "I'm afraid not."

"We can't spend the night in the open, since tigers do most of their hunting then. We could climb a tree, but our braying friend would be in the same position as a goat staked out as bait." Unobtrusively he pulled the strip of gauze over his eyes down so he could see more clearly. "That might be a cave over there. Shall we take a closer look?"

She nodded, hoping he was right. She wanted solid walls around her tonight.

They scrambled up the incline and around rocks, the donkey protesting until Kyle said sternly, "Stop complaining. We're doing this to save you from being eaten."

"Perhaps he complains since he needs a name."

"We can call him Stubborn Ass," Kyle suggested.

She laughed. "He's a Chinese donkey and should have a Chinese name. How about Sheng, which means victory? "

"Let's hope he lives up to that. Come along, Sheng." Kyle hauled at the animal's bridle to urge him up the rugged slope.

As they neared the cave, Troth said uneasily, "Have you noticed how well-worn this track is? I hope it wasn't made by hungry creatures who live in the cave."

"Anything short of a tiger we can handle."

Troth blinked when a pistol materialized in Kyle's hand. Where had he been hiding that? What a useful man he was in wild country.

She waited as Kyle stepped warily into the narrow entrance. His voice echoing oddly, he said, "There's a sizable space. It rather smells of sandalwood, of all things. It's obviously used regularly by travelers, but it's empty now. Come on in."

Tugging at Sheng's bridle with all her strength, Troth pulled the donkey into the cave with a clatter of hooves. The area was irregularly shaped but spacious, and dimly lit from a crevice in the hill above. To the left was a fire pit with ashes, and beyond that water flowed down the stone into a convenient little pool.

There was also a small pile of prepared torches. Kyle lit one and began to explore. From the shadowy rear of the cave, he called, "There's a passageway back here. I'm going to check to make sure nothing dangerous is hiding."

"I'm coming, too." Curious, Troth tethered Sheng to a knob of rock and followed Kyle as the passage climbed upward into the hill. She guessed it was a natural tunnel that had been enlarged and smoothed for easy walking.

She found out why when Kyle halted ahead of her and gave a soft whistle. "Good God. It's a temple."

Chapter 19

« ^ »

Stunned, Kyle studied the carved female image in front of him. Twice the height of a man and illuminated by shafts of light falling from holes in the ceiling high above, it seemed to have been carved from the living stone of the mountain. He wouldn't even try to guess how long ago. A thousand years? Two thousand?

Troth stepped to his side and said softly, "Not 'Good God,' but 'Good Goddess.' " She pressed her hands together in front of her chest and bowed. "This is Kuan Yin, the Buddhist goddess of mercy and protector of children." In the soft cathedral light, Kuan Yin radiated grace and serenity.

Kyle glanced at the drift of dried flowers at the statue's feet. "The local people must come here regularly. Will it be an offense to the goddess and the worshipers if a foreign devil spends the night in the cave below?"

"Kuan Yin is most gracious-I'm sure she won't mind if you stay in her guesthouse." Expression rapt, Troth turned slowly as she absorbed every detail of the shrine. "But this is a sacred space. Can you feel the force of the chi?"

He gave her question serious thought, and realized that he did feel… something. "Is it like the energy of a… a beating heart?"

She nodded seriously. "That is one way of describing it. Chi is life force. It permeates all existence. There is great power here."

He'd felt similar power in other places, some of them houses of worship, others sites of piercing natural beauty. "Does the power come from centuries of worship, or was it here before the temple?"

"Both, I imagine. This was probably a natural focus of chi, and for that reason it was chosen as the site for a temple." Troth's gaze lifted to the dome high above, her expression otherworldly in the pearly light. "I've heard there are many hidden shrines in remote areas, but this is the first I've ever seen. We have been blessed."

Kyle agreed. After bowing respectfully to the goddess, he led the way back down to the guest chamber. When they reached it, Troth said, "I'll bring in some firewood and fodder for the donkey."

"Don't go far. I don't want you caught out there in the dark."

"Believe me, I don't want that either!"

He unsaddled the donkey and set their baggage in a natural alcove near the entrance. Clever Troth had included a couple of coarse blankets, some food, and even a little pan to heat water for tea. They would camp in comfort.

After tethering Sheng in another of the alcoves formed by the irregular walls, he began to rub the donkey down with a rag. Troth returned twice, once with grasses for Sheng and the other time with a pile of firewood. He glanced out at the darkened sky. "Last trip. If we don't have enough wood, we'll do without."

She laid down the kindling, then brushed wood chips from her sleeves. "Agreed."

He lifted the ruggedly built wooden grate he'd found while exploring. "We aren't the only ones to worry about tigers. See how brackets have been installed to lock this in place over the entrance?"

"The Lady takes care of her own."

With the grate safely in place, Kyle stripped off his bandages and wig. The disguise was an infernal nuisance, as was acting like a feeble old man, but the relief of returning to himself was almost worth it. Taking off the disguise gave him an inkling of what it must feel like to be Troth, who'd spent fifteen years trapped in a disguise that wasn't of her choosing. No wonder she yearned for Britain and life as a woman.

They divided their chores in companionable silence and settled down to eat, each of them using a folded blanket to soften the irregular stone floor. Kyle couldn't remember when he'd felt so content.

After their simple meal, he said pensively, "Many years from now, when I'm old and gray and boring, I'll think back on this night and remember how lucky I've been."

"Lucky?"

He gestured at their surroundings with his small teacup. "I'm dining in a fascinating, mysterious place in a land beyond the sunrise, and enjoying the company of a lovely and remarkable young woman. As a boy I dreamed of such adventures."

She glanced down, uncomfortable. She'd heard European traders in Macao flattering their ladies. The compliments were charming, but meaningless. "Is that why you became a traveler-for the adventure?"

"Only in part." His gaze became distant. "Even in the nursery I was intrigued by the globe and its empty, unexplored places. On the very old maps, they'd say things like 'Here be dragons.' Yet though I yearned to see the dragons, I think the deeper reason I wanted to travel was to… to find out who I really was."

She smiled a little. "You're not Kyle Renbourne, Viscount Maxwell and heir to the Earl of Wrexham?"

"That was the obvious part." He leaned forward and divided the last of the tea between their cups. "But so much was expected of me that I was never sure what I wanted for myself. For years I envied my brother. Since he was younger, he was much freer than I-yet he would have traded his freedom for my responsibilities in a heartbeat."

"The pair of you sound like donkeys tugging at your ropes for the grass beyond your reach."

He chuckled. "Exactly. Eventually, with the help of Constancia, I realized that many of the chains I wore were of my own forging. After she died, I threw them off and started on the road that has led here."

"Have you discovered what you truly want along the way?"

"It's ironic. I used to feel trapped by the demands of running a great estate and the knowledge that eventually I must take a seat in the House of Lords and make decisions about the fate of the nation. Yet now I rather look forward to both. There will always be new challenges, and I think I'll serve my tenants and countrymen well." He gave a self-deprecatory laugh. "That sounds rather pompous, doesn't it?"

She studied the strong lines of his face, thinking he could never be pompous, much less boring. "My father said that the motto of Mary, Queen of Scots, was 'In my end, I find my beginning.' That's what you've done-gone 'round the world to discover that your destiny lies where you began. You're fortunate."

"In most ways." His face darkened, and she knew he was thinking of Constancia.

"Though you won't have the love of your life, you'll have your home, your family, your destiny," she said quietly. "I envy you."

His expression softened. "I shall help you find a home in Britain."

Their gazes met over the dying flames. She wished she could believe that the warmth in his eyes was love, but she was not such a fool. He liked her, and he desired her because it was the nature of men to desire women, but his offer was the helping hand of a friend. "At least I won't have to be a man or a spy there."

She set down her empty cup and stood, stretching her tired muscles before she removed her outer garments and the money belt he'd given her. She'd sleep in the lightweight tunic and trousers she wore underneath. Kyle was similarly attired. She watched surreptitiously as he pulled off his outer clothing, his muscles stretching the fabric of his undergarments.

She hoped he'd suggest they spread their blankets together, but he didn't. Suppressing a sigh, she lit one of the torches in the fire, then climbed up to the shrine. There she knelt in front of Kuan Yin. There was just enough light to show the goddess's faint, compassionate smile as Troth uttered a wordless prayer: Lady, I know this man is not for me. His heart has been taken, he is as far above my station as the sun is above the clouds, and his honor forbids him to dally when desire is not fueled by love. But you are the goddess of feminine truth and power. If there is a way for us to come together, even if only for an hour, please let it happen. I swear that I will not ask for more of either you or him.

Then she closed her eyes and became still. A thread of energy pulsed through her, beginning with warmth and soon bubbling into joy as she realized what she must do. As a man of honor, he did not wish to injure a feeble, innocent female, so she must convince him that no injury would be done. And, if Ling-Ling was to be believed, a man was most easily persuaded when his desire was engaged.

But how to engage that desire? Troth thought hard as she made her way back to the sleeping chamber. Kneeling on her blanket, she turned her back to Kyle and reached under her tunic to unfasten the wide bands of fabric that flattened her chest. She felt his gaze as she slowly unwound the cloth. When finished, she massaged her breasts to stimulate the flow of blood through cramped flesh. Ah, yes, he watched, and dreamed of what might be…

She turned to face him, her tunic draping provocatively over her newly female body. Seeing that his gaze was riveted to her, she untied her queue and shook her head to loosen her hair before combing her fingers through so it fell in a straight, shining mass down her back. "Sometimes I become so tired of having my hair pulled back."

His gaze was not that of a dispassionate friend. Swallowing, he looked down and spread his blanket for sleeping. "Understandable. I find the wig uncomfortable, too."

The energy was pulsing through her like a great heartbeat-female yin energy, strong and sure of its power to attract the male yang. She closed the space between them with slow, confident steps as she prepared to convince him they should become lovers. "I enjoyed sleeping with you last night."

His hand clenched on his blanket. "I enjoyed it, too, but it would be wiser to sleep separately tonight."

"Wiser for whom?" She knelt beside him on the blanket. When he looked up, she leaned forward and kissed his open mouth before he could utter more protests.

His arms slipped around her waist and he pulled her hard against him. As the kiss deepened she clung to him, intoxicated, yet sensing that he was not so lost to passion as to forget his blasted gentleman's code.

Her fear was proved when he ended the kiss and sat back on his heels. "You are a dangerous temptress," he said with a twisted smile. "But nothing has altered since last night, my dear girl."

She tilted her head, allowing her hair to cascade over her shoulder. "My understanding has changed. You are too serious, Kyle. Because you loved deeply and were terribly wounded by your loss, you fear the risk of wounding me. I honor your kindness, but will you be terribly insulted if I say that I won't fall in love with you?"

Instead of being offended, he looked intrigued. "How can you be sure of that? Is there some Chinese wisdom here that I don't understand?"

She caressed his cheek with the back of her hand as she lied. "I know my heart. If I were going to love you, it would have happened by now. But I like and trust you as a friend, and I find you most attractive." She skimmed her hand downward, featherlight over his chest. "It will be frightening to travel to England. I will be stronger, I think, if I have experience of passion. You would do me a great favor by lying with me."

"You're trying to tie knots in my thinking, and doing a damned good job of it." He caught her hand, preventing further caresses. "But virginity is treasured by many men. So great a gift should be given to your beloved, not a mere friend."

She smiled as she felt the power of his longing. His body wanted her even if his mind still resisted. "A 'mere' friend? Denying me is proof of your integrity. Suitors might try to beguile me with lies, and without experience of men I might believe them. Far wiser for me to first taste passion with a friend who wishes nothing but my good."

He took her face between his hands, his blue eyes troubled. "There is nothing I would like more than to make love with you, but I don't want you to ever suffer regrets."

"I will have no regrets," she said with absolute truth. "But I swear that if you hold to your Fan-qui notion of honor, I will have regrets to my dying day."

His clasp tightened around her face. "You win, my dear girl. You've tangled my brain and willpower like a skein of yarn." He stood and caught her hand to raise her into an embrace, mouth to mouth, body to body, heat to heat. This time he was wholly present, as committed to intimacy as she.

She caught her breath as his hands slipped beneath her tunic to circle her breasts. Gods, she had not known what pleasure there could be in touch!

As she whimpered from the sensations that blazed through her, he stripped off her loose undertunic and trousers, then removed his tunic so that her breasts crushed into the warm flesh and soft hair of his chest. "I'd wondered what sort of figure lurked behind Jin Kang's garments. You are even lovelier than I dreamed."

This time she believed his words, for there was passion in the lips that closed over her nipple. So gentle, so careful, yet she could feel the fierceness of his leashed desire.

For a moment he stepped away. She opened her eyes to see him laying out their blankets together to warm the cool stone floor. Then he drew her down to their bed and stretched out beside her. "Troth," he murmured into her hair. "Mei-Lian. Though you've lived as a man, you are pure woman, supple and strong and beautiful beyond words."

"What… what should I do?" she said unevenly, her hands restlessly running through the hair on his chest.

"Simply relax and tell me what pleases you. Another time…" He laughed a little. "Well, there are other lessons beyond this one." His lips found shocking sensitivity in the hollow of her throat and along the edge of her jaw before his mouth claimed hers again.

Hazed with passion, she obeyed him and became a creature of reactions, her choked sounds of pleasure revealing how each of his caresses pleased her more than the last. Where their bodies touched, she could monitor his desire, could feel the flex of his muscles as he rigidly restrained himself.

His warm palm stroked over her belly, arousing her unbearably. Desire coiled inside her so tautly that she gasped when his hand slipped between her thighs.

He stopped immediately. "Does that upset you?"

Her nails bit into his shoulders. "No! No, please, don't stop."

Gently he resumed his intimate caresses, so sure and knowing that she could scarcely bear it. She was all fire, burning, burning…

She moaned, clinging to him as her body exploded with a pleasure beyond any she'd ever dreamed. Ah, gods, the only greater pleasure could be when he released his control and they took flight together…

Rapture subsided, leaving her panting with her face buried against his shoulder. "That was… a good beginning," she said unsteadily. He still wore his loose undertrousers, so she slipped her hand under the waist in a tentative search for the source of the hard heat pressing her thigh.

He caught her hand again. "Let us sleep now. It's been a long day."

Her eyes shot open and she stared at him with astonishment. His face was sheened with perspiration, but his expression was calm. He'd planned all along to go only this far and no further.

"But what of you?" She yanked her hand free of his and cupped that fascinating source of male energy. "Would you deny me the opportunity to give back pleasure?"

He froze, except for the heavy throb against her palm. "You've learned some of what you wished, I think, yet nothing irrevocable has been done."

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "My lord Kyle," she said severely. "Stop being so damnably noble."

Chapter 20

« ^ »

His face lit with sudden laughter. "You're right-I take myself far too seriously. It's not as if I'm so irresistible that all women must fall in love with me."

"Then let us come together as friends, without too much seriousness." Heady with relief, she gently squeezed his organ. It reared urgently against her hand.

He sucked in his breath, then roughly pulled off his loose trousers and positioned himself between her legs. "My dearest Troth," he breathed before he kissed her. His tongue caressed hers even as his heated shaft slid moistly against her most private places with an exhilarating friction. "It is you who are irresistible."

To her amazement, passion flared anew under his caresses. Yearning became need until she was frantic to end her emptiness. "If I am so irresistible-stop resisting!"

He captured her words with his mouth, and entered her with one slow, powerful thrust. She'd heard there was pain the first time, but she felt only a quick stab that vanished in a torrent of mind-searing sensation as he filled her, then found the rhythm of her pounding heart.

Her nails scored his back as she rocked into him over and over. This was the meaning of yin and yang, male and female, separate yet whole only when joined together. They were partners, equals, consumed in each other…

She bit his shoulder as she convulsed uncontrollably. Yet despite his ragged breath and plunging body, she sensed that he had not taken flight with her.

As her tremors began to subside, he withdrew and wrapped his arms crushingly around her. Then he climaxed against her belly in hard, shuddering bursts as he groaned, "Mei-Lian, dear God, Mei-Lian…"

Sadly she recognized that even in the throes of passion he would not let himself make a baby casually with a woman who was not his mate. Though it was another mark of his honor, she mourned for the absence of that final intimacy.

She must not complain, for already she had more than she had dared hope for. The goddess had been generous to her petition. She licked his shoulder where her mouth had marked his salty skin. "Thank you, my lord."

He smiled. "It is I who must thank you. What an incredible gift you've given me."

"Why did you call me Mei-Lian?"

"I suppose… because it is your most secret name," he said thoughtfully. "A name suited to the greatest intimacy a man and woman can share."

"As Kyle is your private name?"

"Exactly. In all the world, only my brother and sister still call me that." He kissed the tip of her nose. "And now you."

"Not your father?"

"My mother did-the name Kyle is Scottish and used in her family. But I was Viscount Maxwell since the day I was born, so my father always used my title."

He stroked the length of her torso with such tenderness that she wanted to weep. Though his heart was unavailable, he was the gentlest and most thoughtful of lovers. What a lucky woman his Constancia had been to have known the fullness of his love.

As her breathing steadied, she wondered how many times they might lie together like this. A fortnight, perhaps, while they traveled to Hoshan and then to Macao? Not enough, never enough. Perhaps they could continue to couple on the voyage to Britain? That would take at least four or five months, longer if the winds didn't favor their ship.

No. She must not delude herself. This rapture must end when he was among his own people again. All she had was tonight and a handful of days beyond. She must make the most of them.

He fell asleep slowly, wanting to savor the feel of Troth in his arms. He'd not felt such contentment since before Constancia had fallen ill. Friendship might not be the same as love, but it was obviously a better foundation for intimacy than lust or a commercial transaction, no matter how elegantly the latter was disguised.

When he awoke, he reached for her sleepily and discovered she was gone. It was dawn and objects were dimly visible in the pale light. Since the grate still blocked the exit, Troth had to be near.

Suppressing a yawn, he rose and pulled on his undergarments, then fumbled his way up to the shrine. There he found Troth dancing in front of Kuan Yin. Barefoot and clad as simply as he, she glided across the stone floor with heart-stopping grace, her movements fluid as a willow in the wind. Her hair was still unbound, and it swirled and floated around her with every step. Shadowy in the low light, she had a magical beauty that was not of the earth he knew.

She floated into a slow turn that brought her around to face him, radiance in her expression. He felt a deep pang knowing that that exaltation should have been for another man, one who could love and cherish her as she deserved.

Yet she was a woman grown, in many ways wiser than he, and the night before she'd made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. Given her strange half-life in Canton, she'd needed to embrace her femaleness to build strength for her new world. It was his good fortune that he'd been her choice for teaching one of life's great lessons.

Seeing him, she sank into a bow. "My lord."

"I'm not your lord, but your friend." He caught her hands and raised her to her feet. "What kind of dance was that? I've never seen anything like it."

She smiled. "Not a dance, but tai chi-exercises for balancing chi energy. Ever since I was a child in Macao, I've done tai chi and wing chun almost every morning in the gardens. Sometimes Chenqua would join me for two-person exercises and sparring."

"Good God. How very energetic before breakfast." No wonder she was in superb physical condition. "Do the exercises really make one feel more in harmony?"

"Oh, yes. If I don't do them for a few days, I begin to feel out of sorts."

"It sounds like something I would benefit by knowing. Can you teach me?"

"You'd really like to?"

"Right now, if you don't mind teaching me."

"Then we'll start with the patterns that make up a simple form. This one is called 'repulse monkey.' " She began to glide backward, her whole body in motion and one arm sweeping up in front of her, palm out. "A monkey confronted by a tiger escapes by putting a paw on the tiger's nose while he retreats. As the monkey moves back, he alternates paws, keeping his enemy at a distance."

Kyle tried to imitate her actions, feeling clumsy. This was nowhere near as easy as she made it look. "Might this have worked yesterday when you faced the tiger?"

"Doubtful, even if I'd had the wit to try. The tiger would have just bitten my hand off before going for my throat," she said cheerfully. "Don't work so hard, my lord. This should be effortless, relaxed. Feel the chi flowing through you like a river of light."

A river of light. He thought of the image, made himself relax, and found that the movements came more easily, though he'd never have her grace.

After she taught him half a dozen different patterns, she led him in a slow version of the complete routine. He followed her across the sanctuary floor under Kuan Yin's benevolent gaze, feeling happy and carefree and completely at peace.

"Well done!" she said, laughing. "Now again. The form must become so much a part of you that you needn't think about what you're doing. Then the chi can flow freely."

"The object is to be not the dancer but the dance?"

"Exactly!" She led him through the form again, faster, and again, as he echoed her movements. Gradually he stopped thinking about his body and let his mind flow, fully in the moment as his gaze followed Troth. She was so lovely, unlike any other woman in the world, an enchanting blend of mind, body, and spirit.

How often was one happy and fully aware of it at the time? He was happy now…

The pattern changed to magpie landing on a branch. He promptly got confused, moved right when he should have gone left, and collided with Troth. "Sorry!"

Giggling, she untangled herself, as carefree as the girl she hadn't been allowed to be. "Mistakes happen. You're actually quite good for a stiff Englishman."

"Some of the evasive movements used in European boxing are similar, though that pales compared to your wing chun. What are the two-person exercises like?"

"The simplest is 'sticking hands.' We place the backs of our hands together and move them between us, testing. When one person strikes, the other must block the blow."

"I don't want to do any striking, but the exercise sounds interesting." He pressed the backs of his hands against hers. Her hands were narrow, but the fingers were long and capable. She glowed with strength and harmony. "Good God, I think I feel some of that chi coming from you. Is that possible?"

"Yes, one must sense the opponent's energy to know what he'll do before he does it. Try to break free of my hands, and I'll try to keep you blocked."

Having seen her fight, he thought it was entirely possible that she knew what her opponents would do before they did. No matter how he moved his arms, she stayed with him as if glued.

"This is rather like a fighting waltz." He added footwork to the sticking hands, and they began moving across the wide chamber like dancers. It didn't matter whether he pressed forward, slid sideways, or fell back-she stayed with him, her smile teasing and her feet swift as a Scottish dancer's. He moved faster and faster until they were both panting, yet they stayed joined like a man and his shadow.

As his blood raced through his veins, he remembered the intimate dance they'd shared the night before. Desire grew until he could think of nothing else. But how to break free of her sticking hands and do something about it?

He mustn't plan his movements, since she could read his intent. Instead, he would think of that luscious mouth, that slender, flexible body, the generosity of her lovemaking.

Jettisoning conscious thought in favor of instinct, he dropped his arms, breaking the contact between their hands. Then he caught her around the waist and swept her from the floor. "Victory! Now there's another kind of two-person exercise we must work on."

Though she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, she panted, "They say it's dangerous to go from chi exercise to mating, my lord. The fire element might take over and damage one's internal organs."

He blinked, distracted by the vibrant female form in his arms. "Really?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "But I'm not sure I'd want to risk it."

He kissed the pulse in her throat. "Surely the danger will be past by the time I transport you to the chamber below."

She gave a gurgle of laughter. "I'm sure you are right, my lord." As he carried her down the passage to their bed, she nibbled his ear, purring like a cat.

Laughing, they tumbled down together, stripping off their garments so they were flesh to flesh. Her ivory skin was like satin, infinitely touchable. He tried to kiss every bit of it as his hands roamed over her, remembering what she'd liked most.

She was a symphony of slender limbs and gentle female curves, except for the glorious richness of her breasts. "You're more delectable than Chenqua's banquet," he said huskily. "A feast fit for a king."

"I wouldn't want a king, unless he made love as you do." She nipped his shoulder as her hips ground into his.

"Mei-Lian." He separated her legs with his knees. "Beautiful Willow."

He entered slowly, in case she was sore from the night before, but she refused gentleness. Marvelously fit and strong, her body heated from the wing chun exercises, she was like a tigress who demanded equal wildness from her mate. They rolled from the blankets to the floor, oblivious to the chill of the stone.

He came to rest on his back, holding her on top of him. She gasped when he let her set the tempo of their mating, radiating delight as she experienced a new range of sensations, and the power of being in control. Until control shattered and passion claimed her, body, mind, and voice.

As her breath slowed toward normal, he locked his arms around her and rolled again so that he was above. He allowed himself half a dozen slow strokes, exquisite almost beyond endurance, withdrawing barely in time. His climax left him panting and half-paralyzed with pleasure and exhaustion.

"You, my dear girl," he groaned, "are learning the ways of lovemaking far faster and better than I am learning tai chi."

She gave a rich chuckle that reverberated against his chest. "Then you must be a better teacher than I."

He rolled to his side, glad that they'd managed to end up on the. blanket, since he was too drained to move. "Or you are a better pupil."

She slid her knee between his and relaxed with a sigh of pleasure. "How splendid to be well suited."

Well suited was an understatement. He hadn't felt such physical fulfillment in years. Perhaps never- He cut off the thought. The past had no place in this moment.

They lay twined together until it began to rain. Drops of water fell through the light holes above to patter on the floor. Dreamily Troth said, "The poets call intercourse 'clouds and rain' because that's a symbol of the mating of heaven and earth. Clouds rise up from the earth to meet the rains descending from heaven."

"You mean that some of the pretty Chinese nature paintings I have are actually symbolic sexual union?"

"It's a favorite subject for artists."

"I can see why." He stretched. "But now it's time to break camp and set off again, though I'm not sure if I have the strength to stand up, much less trek all day."

"There is a Chinese practice that might interest you." She sat up on crossed legs and began to comb her hair. "When men join with their wives and concubines, they usually do not release their ching-their seed. This conserves the yang, their male essence, so they may couple again and again without exhaustion, drawing strength from the female yin essence."

"Really?" He took over the combing so that he could bury his hands in her lush tresses. She tilted her head back trustingly as he worked the tangles loose. He took his time, enjoying the task, for he'd missed this kind of gentle domesticity as much as he'd missed having a beloved sleeping partner.

"I can't imagine how it works," she confessed, "but I'm told that when a man masters this technique, it creates both great pleasure and remarkable endurance."

He tried to imagine how that could be done. Perhaps it might be… possible. "Did you learn of this from your friend Ling-Ling?"

"She was an excellent source of information," Troth said demurely. "But there were also many books in Chenqua's library."

"I saw such a book in Canton." It had been passed around with leers and embarrassed snickers after dinner one night, along with the port. "I couldn't read the words, of course, but the pictures would be considered pornography in Europe."

She frowned. "Fan-qui men are like giggling boys when it comes to sexual relations. Taoism teaches that fulfilling sexuality is essential to a harmonious life, so there are many texts describing how to achieve it."

Perhaps that was why Troth had an openness about sex that would be unthinkable in a European virgin. "You didn't describe this part of Taoist theory. Tell me more."

"Females have endless yin essence, so a man should prolong their union to absorb as much as possible," she explained. "It's important to join with those of a happy, loving temperament, because lovers absorb energy from each other, and one doesn't wish to take on tainted energy." She smiled mischievously. "It is essential for a man to fulfill his partner, because that way he will gain the greatest yin from her."

He began braiding her silky hair into a queue. "I can see why Chinese women approve of this philosophy. But what about households where men have several wives and concubines?"

"To be truly master of his house, a man must keep all his women satisfied. That is why he withholds his ching, so he can fulfill his obligations. Ten times a night is considered a good number."

He gasped. "How many men perform regularly at that level?"

"Not too many, I suspect, but that's the traditional ideal. The books say that withholding yang produces a very powerful fulfillment called the Plateau of Delight. Releasing seed should be done only from desire to make a baby. That is called the Peak of Ching."

Enchanted by her scholarly manner, he said, "Fascinating. I shall have to experiment." And if Troth was right about the Plateau of Delight, he would be able to find his pleasure without withdrawing. European sexual practice was beginning to look downright crude by comparison.

She glanced over her shoulder with a delicious smile. "I should think that learning how to do this would require much practice."

He grinned back at her. What a splendid, splendid prospect.

Chapter 21

« ^ »

England

December 1832

Troth's trunk of personal belongings arrived at Warfield Park two days before her hosts' annual Christmas ball. She'd thought the trunk must have been lost, but apparently it had just come on a slower ship than hers.

After the departure of the footmen who'd delivered the trunk, she knelt and unlocked it. Inside were mementos of her Chinese life, just as she'd packed them in the Elliott hong. Sadly she took out the embroidered scarlet gown that Kyle had given her. She had been so excited and pleased at his generosity. She set the folded gown aside, regretting that she'd never had the chance to wear it for him.

She rummaged through her possessions and retrieved the dozen of her father's books that she'd managed to keep after his death. She found comfort in lining them up on the shelf usually occupied by volumes borrowed from the Warfield library. Belongings helped define who one was.

A knock signaled the arrival of Meriel and her maid. "Time to prepare you for the ball," the countess announced. "The seamstresses worked all night to finish your gown."

Troth admitted them, bracing herself to be buffed and polished. She would have preferred to hide in her room and read during the ball, but couldn't. Though no one had said so in as many words, the ball was being used by the Renbournes to make a public statement that they had accepted her as a member of the family.

While Meriel curled up in a chair, the maid set to work on Troth's hair in a style ironically known as à la Chinoise , which meant brushing the hair back into a braided chignon, with delicate curls at brow and temples. Though the style wasn't very Chinese, with flowers from Meriel's conservatory woven into the chignon, the effect was pretty.

Next came the undergarments, including the padded stays necessary under an evening gown. Troth endured the tightening of the laces stoically. Europeans condemned Chinese foot binding, but any society that had invented the corset had a lot to answer for.

Last of all, the evening gown was dropped over her head and the ties pulled to mold it to Troth's figure. Much discussion had gone into choosing the fabric.

Mrs. Marks, one of Meriel's aunts-except that it turned out she was not an aunt, but some sort of cousin-had explained the rules of mourning to Troth. The death of a spouse required twelve months of sober clothing and behavior. Unlike China, where white was the color of mourning, here garments of dull black must be worn for six months, and the mourner should avoid social activities. After that came "second mourning," which could include somber grays or lavenders and touches of white.

Meriel had refused to order black garments for her guest, since Chinese customs were different, but she'd agreed with Mrs. Marks that for the sake of propriety Troth's first public appearance should be in second mourning. The dressmaker had produced a beautiful figured silk in subtle shades of lavender that complemented Troth's coloring.

Having left the design in the capable hands of Meriel and the dressmaker, Troth was shocked to look into the mirror and see herself. "I can't wear this in public," she said with a gasp. "It's… it's indecent!"

Meriel frowned. "Indecent?"

Troth had become somewhat accustomed to form-fitting European dresses, though she preferred the looseness of Chinese garments. She'd also been pleased to discover that the breasts that had seemed vulgarly large in China qualified as nicely proportioned here.

But that hadn't prepared her for a fashionable evening gown. She stared at the vast expanse of bare flesh, dismayed at the way the corset conspired to make her breasts look positively enormous. "This fits like a second skin and it has no top!"

"Because you're in mourning, it's actually cut rather high, as ball gowns go." Meriel tilted her head to one side pensively. "Chinese clothing is very different?"

"A woman's body should not be exposed to the eyes of any man but her husband. Even the throat should be covered. Female garments have high collars for that reason."

"Can you bear to wear the gown?" the countess said gently. "You look very fine."

Troth took a deep breath-which made the neckline even more alarming-and tried to see herself objectively, without embarrassment. The gown was beautifully cut and fitted, and it made her look almost English, except for her eyes.

She wanted desperately to look English. "I… I can bear it, if that is your wish."

"What matters is your wish."

Troth bit her lip. Though all of the adult Renbournes she'd met encouraged her to state her preferences, she still slid automatically into deference. But she was an English lady now, a viscountess, and entitled to have opinions of her own. "I… I wish to wear this gown because Kyle would have wanted me to look my best for his friends and family."

"Very good." Meriel opened a velvet-covered jewelry box and took out a magnificent necklace made of five strands of seed pearls joined by a series of gold plaques set with amethysts. "This might help with the neckline."

"How lovely." Troth touched the silky pearls with her fingertips. "Such splendid jewelry is allowed during mourning? "

Meriel shrugged. "We have bent other rules."

"Then thank you for lending this to me."

Meriel fastened the wide necklace around Troth's neck. "The necklace and matching earrings are yours, a gift from Lord Wrexham."

"From the earl? Why is he so generous when he scarcely knows me and would never have approved of my marriage?"

Meriel sighed. "It's a kind of mourning for him, I think. He can do nothing for Kyle, so he wished to do something for you."

Troth should have guessed that herself. Carefully she removed the gold studs from her ears and put in the swinging pearl-and-amethyst earrings.

Having her ears pierced had been enormously exciting. Earrings were one of the female things she'd craved most, but of course Jin Kang couldn't wear them. She didn't care that the new earrings would hurt because they were heavy and her ears were not fully healed. Tonight she was unmistakably a woman.

"There is another gift as well." Meriel handed Troth a heavy bangle-style bracelet, a hoop made from sinuous lines of gold.

Troth's gaze dropped to Kyle's ring, which had been cut down so she could wear it on her left hand. "This is the same design as my… my wedding ring."

"They're of traditional Celtic knotwork. Both ring and bracelet came from the family of Dominic and Kyle's Scottish mother."

Troth stroked the intricate, twining pattern. "Surely this belongs to you."

"Family jewelry is not owned but held in trust. Kyle would have liked you to have the bracelet, I think."

Tears stung Troth's eyes. "You are all so kind."

"You have enriched our lives, Troth." Meriel gestured to the maid. "I must dress now. I shall collect you when it is time to make an entrance."

The countess returned after a surprisingly short interval, looking stunning in a jade green gown that intensified the pale green of her eyes and made her hair shine like moonlight. Beside her was Dominic, who said, "You look quite amazingly beautiful, Troth. My brother always had excellent taste."

With a smile he offered his left arm. With Meriel on his right, he escorted his two ladies down the broad staircase and into the ballroom. In his dark evening clothes he was strikingly handsome, and achingly like his twin.

By this time Troth had seen enough of Dominic so that she would never confuse him with Kyle, but it was impossible not to imagine what it would have been like if she'd been entering her first ball on her husband's arm. When he looked at her, there wouldn't have been the pain that showed deep in Dominic's eyes. Instead, Kyle would have regarded her with a lover's intimacy and private promises.

Swallowing hard, she concentrated on meeting the other guests. The names and faces went by in a blur-a vicar and his wife, a general, a baronet and his lady, and surprisingly, a dark, bearded man wearing a turban with his well-tailored evening clothes. The guests were startled by her foreignness, but none seemed contemptuous.

And some of the men regarded her with unmistakable male interest. Once she'd craved that kind of attention. Now it made her nervous because she couldn't imagine having anyone but Kyle as her lover.

Her initial nerves faded as the music began. Meriel's aunts had decreed that Troth shouldn't dance because she was in second mourning, a judgment that Troth accepted with relief. Though she would enjoy dancing when the time was right, for now it was better to watch and make the acquaintance of the local ladies.

As the evening progressed, she realized that there was always a Renbourne near her, unobtrusively ensuring that she was not left alone to feel awkward. Kyle must have been greatly loved by his family to have earned the care extended to his widow.

After an hour or so, Meriel approached with her face flushed from dancing. "Troth, I thought you would particularly enjoy meeting our neighbor, Jena Curry." After performing the introductions, the small countess floated away. Troth was bemused to see that Meriel had shed her silk slippers.

Jena Curry was a tall, handsome woman with dark hair and eyes. Troth loved meeting women taller than herself, such as Jena and Kyle's sister, Lucia. "How do you do, Mrs. Curry? "

"Call me Jena, everyone does. Will you join me in a stroll through the orangery? The air will be fresher there."

Troth accepted the invitation. It was a relief to visit the peaceful orangery, with its blossom-scented air.

"I love this place." Jena touched a brilliant scarlet flower. "Someday we'll build an orangery at Holliwell Grange, though it will look odd. The Grange is far less grand than Warfield, just a large farmhouse, really."

"To have such beauty all year round is worth a little oddness. I love to come here. With the heat and the plants, it reminds me of South China."

"It makes me think of India." In a rustle of skirts, Jena settled on a bench surrounded by luxuriant plants.

Troth sat next to her. "You've visited India? "

"I was born there. My father was an officer in the Indian army."

Troth searched her memory of the guests, recalling a tall, upright man with a shrewd gaze rather like Jena's. "General Ames is your father?"

"Yes. I lived in India for the first twenty-five years of my life. My mother was a high-caste Hindu."

Troth caught her breath, understanding. "Which is why Meriel wanted you to speak with me." She studied the other woman's face. "Your mixed blood is not so obvious as mine."

Jena smiled. "If you saw me wearing a sari and standing beside my husband, who is a full-blooded Indian, I wouldn't look English at all. But you're right, dressed as an Englishwoman, I merely look dark. Your Chinese heritage is more visible."

Troth leaned forward eagerly. "What is it like for an Asiatic to live among these Britons?"

"My father's position protected me from prejudice." Jena's mouth twisted. "The only time I've really suffered was in my first marriage to a man who was horrified when he learned of my 'tainted' blood. It led to… great unpleasantness. I was in the process of seeking a legal separation when he died."

There was a story to that, Troth guessed, though probably not one Jena would discuss lightly. "Your second husband is the tall Indian gentleman here tonight?"

"Yes. Curry is an Anglicized version of his family name." Jena chuckled. "Since he has chosen to spend the rest of his life in England, Kamal has adopted some of the local customs and clothing, but his beard and turban remind me that I'm not all English. Nor do I want to be."

"Have you never thought that it would be easier to be one or the other?"

"Easier, perhaps, but then I would not be myself." Jena regarded Troth with large, dark eyes. "Ease is not the purpose of life. I gather that your time in Canton was often difficult, but don't renounce your Chinese side. To be only English would be to impoverish yourself."

That was easy for Jena to say, with her features that could pass for European and a life lived under the protection of a high-ranking father. Though the first husband sounded unfortunate, the second was a striking man, with intelligence and authority in his face, and clearly the couple was accepted by local society despite their foreign blood. Jena couldn't know what it was like to live as an outcast, unable even to claim her own gender. "With my face, I couldn't renounce my breeding even if I wished to."

Jena studied her expression, but didn't take the subject any further. "Though the country folk here are rather conservative, as peasants are everywhere, there is a basic tolerance. You have married into a family that will protect you as my father protected me. When your mourning ends, you can have a rich and fulfilling life in England."

"I hope so," Troth said bleakly. "There is nothing left for me in China."

Chapter 22

« ^ »

Hoshan, China

Spring 1832

The trail cut sharply around a stony ridge, and there was Hoshan. Kyle halted, stunned by the beauty of the temple that lay below. His original print had shown water, but he hadn't realized that the temple was built on an island in the middle of a lake. With the sky reflected in the water, Hoshan appeared to be floating in heaven.

From the other side of the donkey, Troth murmured in the special, almost inaudible speech they'd developed, "It is truly lovely, isn't it? The blue tiles on the roofs are reserved for religious buildings."

Blue tiles for heaven. Kyle studied the temple and scattered outbuildings hungrily, scarcely able to believe that within the next two hours he'd finally enter Hoshan. Feeling an odd mixture of excitement and apprehension, he resumed walking along the narrow track that clung to the face of the mountain, descending to the lake in steep swoops. A scattering of other pilgrims could be seen above and below them.

He reminded himself to shuffle and hang his head like a feeble old man. It was difficult when he felt more like a youth who had just discovered the delicious pleasures of the flesh. The wonder of it made him want to burst into song or race down the mountain from pure exuberance.

Troth deserved the credit for his invigoration, of course, because she truly was discovering the pleasures of the flesh. Passionate and eager, she was irresistible. After they'd cleaned up traces of their stay and left the cave shrine, they traveled from the hills down into more populated farmland. At dusk they'd stopped in a village inn similar to the one where they'd spent their first night.

Kyle's blood had been simmering all day, and no sooner were they secure in their room than he'd caught his companion in a hungry embrace. They'd ended up coupling against the rough mud-brick wall, Troth as frantic as he.

After recovering some strength with the evening rice, he'd experimented with Taoist practices, and found that it was indeed possible to withhold his seed and prolong their pleasure. Over the next nights-and one wild, indiscreet interval by a shaded stream-Troth had entered into his sometimes clumsy experiments with laughter and enthusiasm. He hadn't known it was possible to have a relationship with a woman that was, for lack of a better term, a passionate friendship.

With Troth, there were no tears or demands or manipulations, no implication that because they were bedmates, she owned him. She was all honesty, generous and incredibly open about her physical nature. Given the intoxicated way they'd been feasting on each other, it was amazing they'd managed to reach Hoshan. But they had. Three weeks of travel, going rather slower than they'd planned because there seemed no reason to hurry, had brought them to the temple that had haunted him for half a lifetime.

As they picked their way down the trail, he was almost sorry they'd reached their goal. Until now the journey had been fueled by anticipation. The return would be anticlimactic, with every step taking him closer to the end of his travels-and of his intimacy with Troth.

A rattle of pebbles sounded below them on the path, heralding the progress of a returning pilgrim. Soon a sedan chair appeared, carried by two bearers along the narrow track. Kyle, Troth, and Sheng squeezed against the wall in a wide section of the trail as the chair was carried by, curtained so that the occupant was invisible. The sinewy bearers trotted along swiftly, unconcerned by the sheer drop.

After the other party vanished from view, Kyle murmured, "Were they moving so fast from confidence, or the belief that if they fall off the cliff and die, they'll be rapidly reborn in a better state?"

Troth smiled. "They probably specialize in carrying invalids and pilgrims to the temple and have been along this track hundreds of times."

"Better them than me." Kyle cast an uneasy glance at the abyss to the left. "The builders of Hoshan certainly didn't want their temple to be too accessible."

"If it were easy to reach, it would be less special."

Other travelers were approaching, so they fell silent. The trail ended at the lake, where a handful of merchants catered to the needs of pilgrims. After bedding Sheng down at the livery, Troth bought richly perfumed flowers and a straw basket of fruit for offerings, placing the flowers in Kyle's arms. Then she took his elbow and escorted him to the landing, where a boat waited to take them and several others to the island.

Kyle's nerves wound tighter and tighter as the boat skimmed over the water like a swallow, propelled by the strong arms of a gray-robed young man. What if he'd come all this distance and found nothing except beauty? He'd visited shrines in many lands, seeking some elusive understanding that he couldn't even name. Occasionally he'd felt that he was close to reaching what he sought. But never close enough.

When they reached the island, Troth helped Kyle from the boat with the deference due his aged and injured state, then guided him up the broad steps that led to the temple entrance. Heart pounding, he stared through the thin gauze at the details of the structure that had captured his imagination, enchanted as much by the gilded mythical beasts that marched down the curving ridgepoles as by the perfect, harmonious proportions.

Most of all, he felt the sheer power of the place. This was like the cave shrine to Kuan Yin, only multiplied a hundredfold. Hoshan radiated a sacred energy that both humbled and enlightened. He could feel it in every fiber of his being.

The sound of chanting monks wafted out the high, arched entrance, the voices eerily beautiful. Troth's grip on his elbow tightened. One would have to be made of stone not to be affected by Hoshan.

They stepped from sunshine into mystery. The vast shrine was domed with a richly coffered ceiling of blue and gold and lit by masses of candles. Sandalwood incense perfumed the air, so spicy Kyle could taste it on his tongue.

Shrines to other deities circled the sanctuary, but it was the towering statue of the Buddha, gilded and serene, that riveted his attention. Here was the heart of the temple's energy, the innate power of the image enhanced by twenty centuries of prayers.

Most of the many monks were seated in the lotus position as they chanted their devotions with an intensity that resonated in the mind, but a few were assigned to help visitors. When one approached, Troth bowed and spoke softly to him, giving him an offering of silver coins. He accepted with a nod and gave her half a dozen tall, smoldering incense sticks.

Her grip firm, Troth guided Kyle forward so they could place their flowers and fruit in front of the altar. Troth had explained on their journey that it wasn't the image that was being worshiped, but the spiritual awareness it represented. Nonetheless, in the flickering light the Buddha's face seemed almost alive, his gaze so profound it was easy to understand why some worshipers thought the statue itself was divine.

After backing them up several steps, Troth handed him three of the incense sticks. The night before she'd explained the proper ritual. First he should kneel to pray or meditate. When he finished his devotions, he must place the joss sticks into the incense pot, then kowtow before rising.

He obeyed, moving with the slowness of an old man as he knelt on the cool marble floor. Finally he had reached the heart of this journey. Behind his gauze blindfold, he closed his eyes and let the spirit of the place fill him. Power. Goodness. Mysteries beyond the ken of mortal men.

Why had a sinner like him made this pilgrimage? Not to mock, God knew, but in search of wisdom and grace.

He deserved neither. His past ran through his mind, the memories an iron knot as he recalled every instance of selfishness and anger. He and his brother had been alienated for a decade, and the fault had lain almost entirely with his own pigheaded arrogance. He'd known how much he meant to his father, both as a son and as an heir, yet he'd deliberately withheld the warmth the old earl had secretly craved.

And Constancia… She had been his shield and his salvation, yet he'd been unable to tell her what she meant to him until literally the hour of her death.

Despair swept through him in drowning waves. He'd been born blessed, and proved himself wholly unworthy of his good fortune. He was shallow, useless, a failure at everything that really mattered. Dear God, why had he ever been born?

As tears stained his bandaged face, hesitant fingers touched his left hand. Troth. He clutched at her, desperate for an anchor in a tempest of self-recriminations. Troth.

She squeezed his hand, and in her grip he felt the pulse of her chi. Pure and bright, it glowed with a compassion that warmed the depths of his darkness. That first touch of light grew like the dawn sun rising into a globe of purifying fire, burning away his pain and doubts, pettiness and regrets. He felt scalded, melted, transformed.

Yes, he'd been imperfect, sometimes dense and other times foolish, but never had he been evil. He'd never used his power to be cruel, and even at his angriest, he'd done his duty and tried to live with honor. Now, perhaps, he could learn how to do his duty with joy. He felt a vast and powerful compassion for all the world's suffering creatures, and knew it for a shadow of the limitless compassion the Divine felt for humankind-so much compassion that there was enough even for him. Exaltation welled up within him.

Was this clarity of soul what Christians called grace? How strange to travel halfway around the world to find what priests of his own religion had tried to explain in sermons he'd scarcely listened to.

In my end, I find my beginning. For him, the beginning was the discovery of soul-deep peace. The restlessness that had driven him since he was a child dissolved as if it had never existed. Inner peace was not something found only at the ends of the earth, but a quality that could be-must be-found within his own heart.

Troth shifted beside him, and he realized that his muscles were stiff and his knees aching from the polished marble floor. He wondered how long he'd been lost in his inner labyrinth.

Feeling quite creaky enough for his aged role, he set the stubs of the incense sticks in the pot and kowtowed, then got to his feet. Troth did the same rather more gracefully.

Together they circled the sanctuary to view the smaller shrines. He tried to memorize every image, every small, rich detail, so that in the future he would be able to return to the temple in his mind even though his body would never come this way again.

Leaving the temple, they went into the gardens behind. Designed in a series of grottoes ideal for contemplation, they were exquisite. In a small rockery of fantastically shaped stones, Troth said under her breath, "Would you mind waiting here for a few minutes? I want to go into Kuan Yin's garden and pay my respects before we leave."

"Of course." He settled on a bench in the shadow of a miniature mountain made of raw stone, glad she was moved to her own private worship.

It was peaceful in the rockery. The chanting was so faint that the sound might have come from another world. Nearer to hand was the faint splashing of a small waterfall that fell from the piled rocks into a pool. Bright birds he didn't recognize bathed in the water, singing joyfully. Since there was no one about, he turned and slid the bandage from his eyes so he could see Hoshan clearly once before leaving. It was even lovelier when not viewed through a haze of gauze.

His serenity suffered a severe jolt when an elderly monk entered the rockery, his footsteps inaudible over the songs of the bathing birds. The old man glanced at Kyle and froze in his tracks.

Damnation! Kyle swore at himself for forgetting the practical realities of his situation. In the afternoon sun his blue eyes were unmistakable, and once they had been seen, it was easy to discern European features under the swaddling bandages.

He reached inside for calm, and found it, along with a possible solution. Before the monk could raise a cry, Kyle stood and pressed his hands together in front of his chest in the classic Indian greeting of goodwill. "Namaste," he said quietly, bowing as he would have in India.

Recognizing the gesture, the monk's lined face relaxed into acceptance. Putting his hands together, he repeated, "Namaste."

Kyle bowed again, doing his best to convey sincerity and harmlessness, then withdrew from the rockery. He met Troth as she returned from the Kuan Yin shrine. "I was careless and a monk saw me for a Fan-qui," he said tersely. "I don't think he'll raise the alarm, but it's probably best to leave immediately."

Wasting no time with questions or recriminations, she took his arm and marched him to the landing. One of the boats was about to leave, so they found places and in a few minutes they were back on the shore.

They'd debated whether to spend a night at the lakeshore guesthouse, but now that was out of the question. Sheng was separated from his fodder and soon they were winding their way back along the track. This late in the day, there was little traffic. Kyle calculated that they should leave the treacherous track just as darkness fell. They could stay at the tiny mountain inn where they'd slept the night before.

When they reached the spur of the mountain that would block their view of the temple, he said, "Wait."

Troth nodded, and they both turned for a last look at Hoshan. In the waning light, it looked even more unreal than it had on their journey in. "I don't see any signs of pursuit." Kyle briefly explained what had happened, adding, "I felt at the time that the monk accepted me as an honest seeker and was unworried by the fact that I was an illicit foreign devil."

"Probably he was gratified at the knowledge that a foreigner would come so far and risk so much to worship here." Troth smiled. "Or maybe he thought from your gesture that you were an Indian, not a European. Whatever the reason, the peace of Buddha reigned there."

Kyle hesitated, then asked a question that he'd wondered about for some time. "How would you describe your religious faith, Troth?"

"My father raised me as a good Scottish Presbyterian, and that is my first faith," she said slowly. "But in China, one can follow more than one path. In my readings, I've found much in common between the Buddha and Christ, so I feel no conflict in my soul when I offer my prayers to Kuan Yin and the Buddha." She glanced at him. "Has Hoshan transformed you into a Buddhist?"

"Not really." He thought of an Italian painting in the Dornleigh gallery. A crucifixion scene, it depicted Christ with a spirituality as powerful as that of the Hoshan Buddha. He'd always been drawn to the painting, and now he knew why. "But I think that for the first time in my life, I am truly a Christian."

After a silent farewell, he turned away from the sacred valley and resumed climbing. The yearning that had drawn him to Hoshan had been perhaps the truest impulse of his life.

Chapter 23

« ^ »

Though Kyle's mistake at Hoshan hadn't brought on pursuit, as a precaution Troth chose a different route back to Canton. Not only did it take them through new country, but it would extend their journey by several days. That knowledge was a guilty pleasure, for every hour in his company was a delight. She had never been so happy as she was now, traveling with a man who fully accepted who she was.

On the third evening after leaving Hoshan, they approached the small city of Feng-tang. She frowned at the sight of the high mud-brick walls. "Perhaps we should go around. This is a second-class prefecture city, so there will be many government officials and troops."

"We made it through Canton safely, and that's far larger. Besides, to avoid Feng-tang we'd have to backtrack for miles or flounder through rice paddies, which would certainly irritate the owners. Safer to carry on as humble travelers."

With a nod, Troth tugged at Sheng's bridle and they continued into Feng-tang. Her disquiet returned when they passed through the western gate into a street teeming with people. Children raced by with scarlet paper streamers while their elders chattered with friends or watched street entertainers. As Sheng shied away from the explosion of a bamboo firecracker, Kyle asked softly, "What's going on?"

She glanced at the dragon kites soaring overhead. "Some kind of local festival. I'll ask when we register at the inn."

They were turned away from two inns before they got the last room at a third. The innkeeper was happy to answer questions, so when they were safe in their quarters Troth reported, "The local prefect is named Wu Chong, and this festival is for the birth of his first son. Apparently Wu is well along in years and none of his wives had borne him a child, so he's celebrating with offerings at all the city temples, a street fair, and a parade with a lion dance tonight."

"A lion dance? Let's go out later and watch." Kyle unwound the bandage from his head with practiced hands. She always loved the moment when he went from being grandfather to lover. Her lover.

She bit her lip, considering. "We should avoid public events. The festival will have drinking and rowdiness."

"I have faith in your ability to protect me." He removed the wig and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'd really like to see a festival. During Chinese New Year I kept looking out toward Canton and wishing I could join the celebrations."

She gave him a long, slow smile. "Persuade me."

"And what form should that persuasion take, my shameless one?" Eyes gleaming, he crossed the small room in two strides and scooped her into his arms. "Do you want to be ravished?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Oh, please!"

He had her tunic off before they reached the bed, and her trousers went flying moments later. How very deft he was, she thought breathlessly as he dedicated himself to a thorough ravishing. Sometimes she wanted to ask him if such fierce pleasure was normal between two people, but she didn't dare. She wanted to think that this was special, and that when they came together she was the only woman in his world as he was the only man in hers.

The only man in the world… Shuddering, she buried her hands in his hair and traded thought for rapture.

They dozed after making love, coming awake when a string of firecrackers exploded in the street just outside their window. Troth stirred in Kyle's arms, saying sleepily, "We can eat from our saddlebags. Then I can ravish you."

"What a wonderful offer." Kyle kissed the exquisite curve of her shoulder lingeringly, tempted to agree. Instead, he swung from the bed. "But I'm hungry, this is the only festival I'll see, and I can perfectly well be ravished later."

Suppressing a yawn, she rose and pulled on her clothes. "What an indefatigable tourist you are, my lord."

"Guilty," he said with a chuckle as he watched her dress. He didn't bandage his eyes until every lovely inch of her was covered. It was powerfully erotic to be the only one who knew the beauty concealed by her shapeless garments.

He wondered for the thousandth time if he should ask her to be his mistress back in England, but the answer was always the same. She was a lover beyond compare, as witty and kind as she was passionate, but as his mistress she'd once more be relegated to a half-life, barred from polite society. She deserved better than that-not only respect, but also the opportunity to meet a man who would love her as she deserved.

What would it have been like if he'd met her before he'd met Constancia? The thought was so disorienting that he suppressed it. Constancia had molded him into the man he was now. Without her influence, he wouldn't have been worth knowing, She had taught him to love-then taken his heart with her when she died.

It was the only ill turn she'd ever served him.

Troth swallowed the last bite of her honey roll, glad Kyle had persuaded her to come out. The streets crackled with merriment, lanterns lighting the night, peddlers selling delicious tidbits, and old men gambling in corners with their cronies. A fortune-teller tugged at her sleeve. "Tell your fortune, young man? Wealth and pretty concubines surely await you."

Troth shook her head. "Sorry, Grandmother, I'd rather not know what the future holds." Which was the truth, she thought wryly.

Taking a firm hold on Kyle's arm, she continued on until they reached a puppet theater. No language was required to appreciate the farcical story of honorable men, beautiful women, and evil sorcerers. She was impressed by Kyle's ability to keep his head bent feebly while drinking in every detail through the layer of gauze.

The show ended and she dropped a coin into the basket carried around by a small daughter of the troupe. Moving on, she bought two tiny cups of rice wine from a vendor, who dipped the fiery spirit from a deep jar with a lacquered ladle. Kyle was so taken with the ladle that he signaled for another cup even though the first one left him gasping. Troth grinned; rice wine was closer to brandy than to European wines.

The thunder of drums began reverberating through the narrow streets. "The parade! Come, Grandfather, so we can find a spot to watch."

Ruthlessly using Kyle's apparent age, she managed to get them a good vantage point. First the drummers marched by, booming in perfect unison. Then dancers capered past in flamboyant costumes. A group of black-robed Manchu Bannermen, the imperial soldiers, passed, and then the prefect himself in a sedan chair.

Dressed in brilliantly embroidered robes and surrounded by his entourage, Wu Chong nodded graciously to the people of his city. His eyes were snake cold, though; Troth didn't envy the wives who had failed to give him the son he wanted.

Pipes, drums, and cymbals heralded the appearance of the lion dancers. Troth caught her breath, excited as a child when the huge lion leaped into view, firecrackers banging around its feet, the brilliantly painted head snapping at masked dancers who teased the beast with fans. The costume cloaked two acrobats, and their feats turned the beast into a creature of dangerous legend as the crowd roared with delight. She watched with one hand locked in Kyle's, glad the crowd was so thick that no one would notice.

When the lion had passed, they joined the throng that followed it to the main city square. Under exploding fireworks, the prefect paid the lion dancers by tying a red bag full of money at the top of a tall pole. The lion reared up, lunging repeatedly until the lead dancer snatched the bag. The crowd cheered wildly, then broke into smaller groups to continue celebrating throughout the night.

Tired but exhilarated, Troth took Kyle's arm and headed toward the inn. Luckily, she still had enough energy to ravish him…

Disaster struck with lightning swiftness. They were a block from the inn when a group of drunken carousers approached from the other direction. Troth drew Kyle to one side of the street. From the tautness of his arm, she knew he was alert to possible danger. Shouting and singing, most of the group had passed when one drunk shoved another, sending the second man stumbling into Kyle.

"S-sorry, Grandfather." One of the drunk's thrashing hands became entangled in Kyle's queue. As he lurched away, the wig ripped from Kyle's head, along with the hat and some of the gauze bandages. As Troth gasped in horror, the drunk stared stupidly at the swinging wig. Then he raised his gaze, his jaw dropping as he recognized the alien cast of the features that had been partially revealed. "A Fan-qui spy!"

As his friends turned and crowded around, the drunk clawed at the disordered bandages. Kyle tried to twist away, but in the process more bandages were dislodged, clearly revealing his European face.

There was a hiss of shock before one of the drunks snarled, "Filthy foreign pig!"

"Fan-qui! Fan-qui!" The gang lurched forward in an attack.

Using fierce street-fighting blows, Kyle knocked three men down while Troth took care of three more with wing chun. Catching her glance, he snapped, "Come on!"

Together they raced down the street. She cried out as a stone punched her between the shoulder blades, and she saw two missiles strike Kyle. They swerved into a narrow, trash-strewn alley as the drunks came in pursuit, baying like killer hounds.

A left turn, a right, another right. Heads popped from windows as people looked out at the commotion. Kyle might have been able to escape notice under other circumstances, but not with bellows of "Fan-qui!" echoing through the narrow alleys.

Drums began to beat, and Troth realized with despair that the soldiers who'd marched in the parade had been pressed into the manhunt. They swerved into another heavily shadowed alley, stumbling through the dark and debris only to find that it was a dead end, blocked by a squat old house. Gasping for breath, Troth panted, "That roof is low. We can go over."

"No." Chest heaving, Kyle stopped beside her. "With the whole city searching, there's no way I can escape-I'm too blatantly foreign. They'll lock the city gates until they find me. The only reason for running was to get you away."

She grabbed at his waist, frantic to find the pistol he carried. "You're armed. We can still escape!"

"A few bullets are no help against a mob, so there's no point in killing. Now go!"

"I won't leave you!"

"You damned well will!" A shout rose from the far end of the alley. Before she could protest again, he gave her one swift, hard kiss, then caught her around the knees and tossed her up so that she was within grabbing distance of the lowest tiled roof. "Get the hell out of here! You'll have to get back to Canton to arrange my release. The viceroy will love the loss of face this will cost the Europeans, but I'll be all right."

"B-be careful!" Recognizing that he was right but hating to leave him, she scrabbled onto the tiles and over the ridgepole, then flattened herself on the far side of the roof and watched. Despite his optimistic words, there was a real chance that he'd be torn to pieces by the mob, and she knew that he recognized the danger. If he was assaulted, she'd be back over the roof and fighting by his side.

Heart pounding, she watched as he approached his pursuers with amazing calm, his hands raised in the air to show that he had no weapons. The first man to arrive struck him in the face, and Troth almost vaulted over the ridgepole. Before she could do so, a Manchu army officer in a spiked helmet slapped the assailant away from Kyle, barking that the Fan-qui spy must be taken to the prefect's palace for questioning. In the face of his commanding presence, the drunks fell back, leaving the Fan-qui to the soldiers.

Dizzy with relief, Troth watched as Kyle straightened to his full height, towering over the Chinese around him. Impassively he allowed them to tie his wrists behind his back. Gods be thanked, he'd survived the capture without serious injury. Though being caught so far inland would cause a diplomatic incident, it would be minor compared to some of the other conflicts between the Celestial Kingdom and the Fan-qui.

As Kyle was led away, a gruff military voice said, "The man who was with him must be around here somewhere. Tall fellow."

"Another Fan-qui?" someone asked.

"I think so. Looked too tall for one of us."

"Must have turned off at one of the other alleys or gone over the roofs, but we'll find him," the military voice said. "You two, climb up and look around."

Hastily Troth slid down her side of the roof and swung lightly to the ground, then darted into the maze of alleys. Since the searchers were looking for another European, she was safe. She'd make a quick stop at the inn and collect their more useful supplies, including a change of clothing. The rest must be abandoned-the manhunt would soon trace Kyle's movements. Sheng would also have to be left to the innkeeper, since she couldn't go into hiding with a donkey.

She'd stay the next day or so in Feng-tang until she learned the prefect's plan for Kyle. Probably in the morning it would be announced that an evil Fan-qui spy had invaded the city, but the imperial servants had bravely protected the honorable citizens. There was a good chance that Wu Chong would send his prisoner to the viceroy in Canton. If so, Kyle should be fine. He might reach the city before she did, and in more comfort.

But as Troth lost herself in the alleys and excited crowds, she couldn't suppress her gut-wrenching fear.

Chapter 24

« ^ »

Kyle was taken directly to the prefect's yamen. The palace entrance was garishly lit by festival torches. Yanked so hard that he frequently stumbled since his arms weren't free for balance, he was marched through a series of marble-floored halls.

Outside the audience chamber, he was searched with rough efficiency, losing his pistol, knife, and the small pouch of high-denomination coins he carried. He guessed that the well-made European handgun would be presented to the prefect, but had cynical doubts about the money going any farther than the Manchu officer.

Inside the chamber, Wu Chong waited in a carved throne, his dark eyes glittering in the lamplight. A wiry man with gray-streaked mustaches, he waited in icy silence as one of the guards shoved Kyle so hard that he fell to his knees.

"Kowtow!" the guard ordered.

It was one of the few Chinese words Kyle recognized. Diplomatic relations between Chinese emperors and Western diplomats had foundered over the fact that Europeans found it humiliating to bow down and knock their heads on the floor before a Chinese official. However, Troth had explained that kowtowing was merely a mark of respect, no different from bowing before the king of England, so Kyle pragmatically bent forward and touched his forehead to the cool marble three times.

Having satisfied protocol, he was yanked upright by two guards, their grips wrenching his arm sockets. Stoically he stood before the prefect as an aide yammered at him in incomprehensible Chinese. He might as well be deaf and dumb for all he understood. Thank God Troth had escaped. She could have translated, but he suspected that as a Chinese she would be treated far worse than he would be.

Then his gaze met Wu Chong's, and his blood chilled at the raw hatred he saw there. Many Chinese loathed foreigners even if they'd never met one, but the prefect's rage went far beyond that. Wu Chong must view the appearance of a Fan-qui at the festival honoring a long-awaited son as a bad omen, and he craved vengeance for that.

A plump merchant was hustled into the chamber between two soldiers, his round face perspiring and his eyes alarmed. Wu Chong rattled out several sentences. The merchant blanched, and a three-cornered conversation between Wu, the merchant, and an official who appeared to be the prefect's chief aide ensued. Kyle had the impression that the latter two disagreed with Wu, but didn't dare contradict him directly.

Bracing himself for what was to come, he was ready when the merchant turned to him, sweating profusely. The man started to bow, then stopped himself. "I am Wang. You Fan-qui spy."

"I'm not a spy," Kyle said mildly. "I only wished to see some of the glories of the Celestial Kingdom."

"Spy," the merchant repeated unhappily. "Prefect punish you." He stopped, his throat working.

Feeling sorry for the poor beggar, Kyle said, "What kind of punishment?"

Wang cast his eyes downward. "Death."

The single harsh word almost sent Kyle reeling. Good God, he'd truly not expected such a severe sentence. China was a nation of law, but he'd had no trial. Grimly he recognized that as a foreigner he existed outside Chinese law, with no more rights than a cockroach. If the prefect wanted him to die, he was a dead man.

Clamping down on his emotions, he asked coolly, "How?"

"As mark of respect for foreign devil ways, no chop head. Use Fan-qui gun death."

Jesus. A firing squad. Well, he couldn't say he hadn't been warned of the dangers of defying imperial law and traveling inland. Dry lipped, he asked, "When?"

"Dawn, day after tomorrow. Prefect give time to make peace with your gods."

"I… see." He inclined his head. "Thank you, Honorable Wang, for your explanation."

As the merchant withdrew, Kyle's mind raced. Only a day and a half left. Troth couldn't possibly reach Canton in time to summon help. Even a rider on a fast horse wouldn't be able to save him. Thank God she'd escaped, or she'd be standing beside him at the execution.

He suppressed his instinctive shudder at the thought, keeping his expression blank. With nothing left but death, how he died suddenly seemed very important. He'd not go cringing and crying. His resolve was strengthened by the triumph on Wu Chong's face as the soldiers removed him from the audience chamber.

He was taken from the yamen and marched to another building in the governmental compound. Squat and ugly, it stank with ancient filth and fear. It was an extensive prison for such a small city. How many prisoners had these aching walls held? How many men had died here?

In the guardroom, the ropes securing Kyle's wrists were cut away and replaced with heavy wrist shackles and leg irons. Then he was taken down steep stone steps to the dungeons that he guessed were reserved for the most serious crimes.

He and his escorts passed through dank corridors lined with doors. In several of the tiny windows he saw pale, despairing faces watching the new prisoner. Most were so hopeless that they didn't even show surprise at the sight of a Fan-qui.

The sergeant unlocked the last, massive door and swung it open to reveal a cramped cell. Water gleamed on the rough stone walls, with a pile of damp straw the only furnishing.

Kyle would have entered quietly, but the sergeant snarled, "Fan-qui," and struck his chest with the hilt of his sword. Immediately the other guards joined in, eager to damage without killing.

Kyle exploded into pure rage. He was going to die and Troth was safe, so there was no reason not to fight back. Swinging his chains like a weapon, he knocked the sergeant to the ground, then scythed the others down. If he was lucky, he would die here and now, fighting, rather than shot like a traitor.

But the shouts of his victims brought more guards on the run, and he was quickly overpowered. Though several wanted to continue the beating, the bleeding sergeant barked an order. Kyle was shoved into the tiny stone room with such violence that he crashed into the opposite wall.

As he spun into darkness, Kyle's last thought was another fervent thanks that Troth had escaped.

Troth's quick visit to the inn secured garments even shabbier and more anonymous than those she'd been wearing. She left none too soon. An army patrol arrived and started to bang on the door to the innkeeper's rooms moments after she fled.

With the streets still full of merrymakers, it was easy to fade away and find shelter. She shinnied over the wall surrounding the grounds of a small temple and spent the night in its garden, taking shelter under the temple eaves when rain fell.

Sleep was impossible when she was so full of regrets and questions. If only she'd obeyed her instinct to avoid Feng-tang. If only they'd spent the evening in their bed rather than joining the festival. If only they'd followed the other road to Canton, which crossed less-populated territory.

A bitter reminder that regrets were useless led to wondering about the best way to get to Canton. She'd have to go to Chenqua-he had the viceroy's ear, and within hours troops would be on the way to Feng-tang to collect Kyle. She shuddered to think of Chenqua's anger, and how bitterly disappointed he would be, but there was no other way.

She left the temple grounds at first light. It was a market day. Buying fruit at one stall, steamed buns at another, she wandered through the crowd, scarcely noticed when there was so much interesting news to discuss.

The market buzzed with rumors. Two demons had arrived to curse the prefect's baby. One had been captured, striking down five men before he was taken away, while the other flew shrieking into the night. No, not demons but Fan-qui, one of whom now lay in the city dungeon while troops combed the city for the other. Everyone leaving the city was searched, every cart stabbed with swords to ensure that the second foreign devil couldn't escape.

It was lucky the soldiers had decided that Troth was a Fan-qui. She'd be able to leave the city easily, especially if she waited until later in the day, when the search would begin to flag.

She was sipping tea at a stall when a Bannerman swaggered up beside her and ordered a cup. She drifted away, but stayed close enough to hear what was said as the owner of the tea stall said eagerly, "Tell the story, Yee! Is there truly a Fan-qui?"

The Bannerman swallowed his tea in one gulp and held out his cup for another. "He's real enough. I was one of the ones who captured the Red Bristle. A great ugly brute. Fought like three demons." He drank again, more slowly this time.

The tea man asked, "What will be done with him?"

The soldier preened, smoothing his mustaches as he drew out the moment. "Tomorrow morning he will meet the ghosts of his ancestors. The prefect is giving him a European execution. A dozen musket men will shoot him at dawn."

"Barbaric!"

The Bannerman shrugged. "Suitable for a barbarian."

Troth's vision darkened and she swayed on her feet, close to fainting. Dear gods, a firing squad! He couldn't be killed out of hand like this, with no trial or criminal charges!

But he could. She remembered the prefect's snake-cold face, and knew that he was capable of murder. Though few officials would execute a European so precipitately, she suspected that many would privately approve of Wu Chong's act.

By killing quickly and claiming he had saved the realm from a spy, Wu Chong would probably get away with no more than a rap on the knuckles from his superiors. The imperial government would apologize to the British, while pointing out that they'd merely executed a lawbreaker.

In fact, the execution could easily be hushed up. No one but Gavin Elliott had known of Kyle's plan, and there could be a thousand reasons why Kyle failed to return from his illicit journey. Only Troth could bear witness to what happened. Uneasily she recognized that both the English and the Chinese might wish to hush up an incident that had the potential to disrupt trade. Lord Maxwell would simply vanish, and her account might be ignored because it would be "inconvenient."

He must be rescued. But how?

She would find a way.

Chapter 25

« ^ »

Kyle watched as a sliver of light from the high window moved slowly across the walls, like the sands of an hourglass marking out the minutes of his life. Morning had brought no inspiration. His sentence couldn't be appealed even if he spoke the language, not when the highest-ranking official in the region wanted him dead.

Nor could he escape his dungeon. The window was too narrow to allow a well-fed rat to escape. The cell contained damp straw and four rings welded into the stones with short chains dangling from them, but nothing else. Hoping for a weapon, he'd examined the chains, and concluded that removing them from the rings would be impossible without tools and time.

Even if he managed to overpower the guards with his bare hands the next time they brought him a small portion of rice and weak tea, he'd never make it out of the compound. No, his time had run out, and it was his own damned fault.

The loose Chinese garments made it easy to sit cross-legged like a Buddhist monk on the damp straw. Mentally detaching himself from his bruises and lacerations, he reached for the inner peace he'd found at Hoshan. Mysterious were the ways of the divine. Was that why he'd been so intensely drawn to the painting of the temple, because he had a date with his own death in China?

No, he was too much a European to believe in that kind of destiny. His luck had simply run out. He'd faced danger often in his travels, and several times had survived against long odds, but no man's luck held forever.

His idle gaze fixed on a rivulet of water flowing down the side wall, one of several caused by heavy rain during the night. The moisture seeped from between the stones and trickled away down a small drain, the cell's feeble attempt at sanitation. This place was an invitation to a slow, painful death from fever or ague. At least he wouldn't be here long enough to have that to worry about.

Should he have stayed home, like a good heir? He'd have probably lived another forty years if he had.

No, that narrow, dutiful life had been driving him to desperation. He couldn't regret following his dreams, though it was a pity about the lost forty years…

The door squealed open and the sergeant entered, sword at the ready and followed by two burly guards. As the sergeant muttered what sounded like filthy insults, his men dragged Kyle to his feet and removed the chain connecting his manacles, leaving the heavy iron cuffs around his wrists. Maybe he was being taken out for another audience with the prefect?

Instead, the guards slammed him against the wall and attached his cuffs to the rusting chains that hung from the rings welded into the wall. Kyle swore and tried to fight them, but the guards were adept. A gut-punch to slow him down, then a swift snapping of locks so that he was spread-eagled against the wall.

His skin crawled at his utter helplessness, for he couldn't move any part of his body more than a few inches. The sergeant smiled, his crooked teeth white against the bruised face Kyle had given him the night before. Slowly he removed a dagger from the sheath at his side, turning it so that light glinted from the sharply ground blade. He could slice off any body parts he chose as long as the prisoner was alive for the next morning's execution.

Despite his best efforts at control, Kyle flinched when the sergeant suddenly stabbed the knife down viciously. But he wasn't aiming to wound. Instead, Kyle's loose tunic was slashed from shoulder to hem without cutting the rigid flesh underneath.

The sergeant bared his teeth with satisfaction. Another slash, this one at Kyle's crotch. Once more the glittering blade cut only loose fabric. It was amazingly sharp-Kyle thought of the Crusader story of how Saladin's Damascus steel sword had been so sharp that a silk scarf that fell on it was cleaved in half.

He made himself think of the Crusades. Had Saladin and Richard Lionheart been on the second or the third Crusade? No matter-all of the Crusades had been damn fool projects that cost countless lives.

Concentrating on history kept his face impassive during the sergeant's next two slices. Besides, the mind could hold only so much fear, and Kyle had reached his limit.

Disgusted, the sergeant sheathed his dagger, delivered a casually brutal slap across his prisoner's face, and led his men away, leaving Kyle shaking. Though his mind might have accepted death, his body was less philosophical.

He tested the chains. Despite surface rust, they were strong enough to hold an elephant. Sitting or lying down was impossible. If he fell asleep he'd hang painfully from the manacles and wake up in agony. Not that he was likely to sleep. With so few hours left, he didn't want to waste any.

Though the manacles weren't painful in themselves, being unable to move was a subtle form of torture. A rivulet flowed behind him, and soon his cotton garments would be saturated. A mosquito buzzed around his face before settling to gorge on his neck, and he couldn't slap it away. Phantom itches began crawling over his limbs.

Forget the physical irritations; at least he was still in a position to itch. Tomorrow at this time he'd be a corpse buried without name or honor, or tossed out to feed the dogs.

A series of slow, deep breaths began to restore his calm. Then the door swung open again. He stiffened. The sergeant coming back for more cat-and-mouse games?

A thin, shabby laborer entered, the door behind him slamming shut and the key turning with ugly finality. The dim light made it hard to see details-until the newcomer looked up from under the wide straw hat with Troth's beautiful brown eyes.

"Christ, they caught you, too?" Instinctively he moved toward her, only to be jerked up short by the chains, the iron cuffs biting into his wrists and ankles.

She shook her head and touched a finger to her lips, waiting while the guards who'd brought her marched away with heavy footsteps. When she was sure they were gone, she turned toward him. Her eyes widened in horror as they adjusted to the dim light and she saw how he was chained. "Gods above!"

"They've got me trussed like a Christmas goose," he said matter-of-factly. "How did you get in if you're not a prisoner?"

She embraced him, her arms sliding between him and the wall. Her hat fell backward to hang on its neck cord as she pressed her face into the angle of his throat and shoulder. She was exquisitely warm and soft, a reminder of all the world's pleasures.

"I bribed my way in," she said huskily. "In China, almost anything can be done if one has enough money to pay the squeeze required."

He'd learned that himself in the East. Even so, it was dangerous for her to have come, but he wasn't unselfish enough to wish that she hadn't. He rubbed his cheek against her hair, aching to hold her. "I'm amazed that even a bribe could get you in here to see a dangerous spy like me."

When she tensed, he said quietly, "I know that I'm under sentence of death, so you don't have to be the one to break the news."

She made a choked sound and retreated, her hands still touching his waist. "I told the guards I'd lived in Canton and knew the ways of Fan-qui, including the death ceremony that must be performed. I said if I could visit you and do the rituals that would appease your ghost, your family would be most pleased, and the guards would not have to worry about being haunted. Between that and the bribe, they cooperated gladly."

"What a clever girl you are." His gaze fastened on the curve of her ear. How could he not have noticed how elegant it was? "Lord knows I'm glad to see you, but the sooner you leave, the better. Those brutes might not stay bought for very long."

"But I came to help you escape." She looked at the chains and bit her lip.

"Perhaps with your wing chun skill it would have been possible if I weren't chained to the wall. But it would take a good steel saw and several hours to free me of these, and we don't have either."

"I'll steal the keys!"

He wanted to believe rescue was possible, but he couldn't fool himself. "No, my dear girl. If there were one chance in ten-one in a hundred, even-I'd say try, but all you would achieve is your own death. I won't allow that."

Her eyes flashed. "How the devil would you stop me from trying?"

This time he did laugh. "How fierce you are! But think of the dungeon, the guards, the archers, not to mention the walls around the yamen and the city, and the hundred miles of countryside between here and Canton. Can you honestly say there is a chance in hell of both of us escaping?"

Tears glimmered in her eyes. "I can't leave you here! What… will become of me?"

He swore to himself. By getting himself killed, he was breaking the promise he'd made to see her safely to England.

What could be done? Dominic and his wife would help her, of course, and Gavin if he set up a London office, but they couldn't do everything for her that Kyle had intended. Unless…

"Troth," he said urgently. "Marry me."

Chapter 26

« ^ »

Her jaw dropped. "Have you lost your wits?"

"Not at all. There's nothing that can be done to save my worthless Fan-qui life, but I want you to tell my family, Mei-Lian. They must know of my death. Leaving them to wonder for years would be cruel." Especially for Dominic. Kyle had almost gone mad when his twin had been injured at Waterloo. Would his brother sense his death even before the news reached England? Perhaps-but he would deny that knowledge even to himself. For Dominic's sanity, he must be told as soon as possible.

"Of course I'll inform your family, but marriage is neither possible nor necessary."

"Wrong on both counts. As my widow, you'll have an inheritance and the protection of the Renbourne family. It's the least I can do to make up for getting you into this mess. I know that in China widows aren't supposed to remarry, but in England remarriage is common. In fact, being a widow will be an advantage." It would spare her questions about her lack of virginity when she found a real husband.

She frowned, perplexed. "But how can we marry here, with no one to bear witness?"

"No witness is necessary."

"Would that be legal?" she asked doubtfully.

"In Scotland all that's required is for two people to declare themselves married. Of course we're a long way from Scotland, but we're both half-Scottish, and I own property in the Highlands, so a good lawyer could certainly make the case that a marriage between us is valid. Since there is no reason for anyone to challenge the ceremony, it will be legal enough." His voice dropped. "Please, Troth. I wanted to do so much more for you, but I can't. My name is the only protection I have left to give."

Her eyes squeezed shut, but couldn't prevent tears from sliding down her cheeks. "It is a greater honor than I ever dreamed of, my lord. I will gladly be your wife, even if only for a few hours."

He thought of his wedding to Constancia, performed by a Spanish priest as she lay dying. This time, he was the one who would end the marriage by death. He had no talent for being a husband. "The honor is mine, my dear girl."

"How do we marry ourselves?"

"Take both my hands."

She stood on tiptoe and stretched her arms, which were just long enough so they could hold hands. The position flattened her across his body. Nice. "One of the traditional forms of Scottish marriage calls for holding hands over running water," he said wryly as the rivulet behind him flowed down the wall and between their feet. "We've got that if nothing else."

She bit her lip. "How can you joke at such a time?"

"I'd rather you remembered me smiling. There will be time enough later for tears." He interlaced their fingers. "My dearest Troth Mei-Lian Montgomery, I pledge you my troth. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

She smiled up at him through her tears. "I was named for my father's sister and grandmother. I always liked being called Troth."

Hugh Montgomery must have seen into the future, for if ever a woman deserved her name, it was this one. Honest, loyal, and brave to the backbone. "Now make your pledge to me, my dear."

Voice trembling, she said, "Kyle Renbourne, I pledge you my troth, to be my lord and husband as long as we both shall live."

"You have the ring I gave you in Canton. It will do nicely for a wedding ring."

She reached under her tunic, and after a moment extracted the golden Celtic knotwork band from one of the compartments of the money belt. She kissed it, then held it to his lips so he could do the same before she slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand, where it hung loosely. She pulled the ring off and returned it to the safety of her money belt. "I don't want to lose it. I'll have it made smaller in Macao." Nor was it safe for her to wear a piece of Western jewelry until she'd left China.

But the deed was done, and it seemed very right that a Scottish ring symbolize their union. "Please kiss me, wife," he said softly. "We have a few minutes still, and I'd like to spend them with you holding me."

Her mouth sought his with aching tenderness. Amazingly, desire flared, undimmed by the prospect of death. Or perhaps death sparked passion, a bright flame defying the oncoming dark.

She felt it, too. Her mouth trailed sweet kisses across his prickly, unshaven chin, then downward. " I had not known a male body could be so beautiful, my lord husband," she murmured, her breath warm in the hollow of his throat. "No other man will ever bring me such pleasure."

"Don't say that!" He caught his breath as she parted his slashed tunic and pressed her lips to each bruise and laceration. "Mourn me for a while, but your life must not end because mine has. Search for love, because it's the most precious gift life offers."

"Don't speak to me of other men, you fool! For now, there is only you."

She tongued his nipple, the scalding pleasure obliterating his pains. Her hands slid downward, skimming his belly as she unfastened his damaged trousers. He closed his eyes, giving himself up to sensation as she stroked his heated flesh.

Then she took him in her mouth. He gave a choked cry, feeling as if he would burst from his skin. His hips began pulsing between her and the wall as passion coiled tighter and tighter. He couldn't bear for it to end, so he used the control he'd cultivated in the last weeks to stay on the knife edge of ecstasy. "Christ, Mei-Lian," he gasped, "you will kill me with the sweetest of weapons, and God bless you for it."

Sensing that his control was on the verge of fracturing, she straightened and stripped off her trousers, leaving him throbbing in the cool air for a moment. Then she locked one arm about his chest and wrapped a strong, supple leg around his hips. With her other hand she guided him into the liquid heat of her body. She made a slow tease of it with small movements that drew him in a fraction of an inch at a time.

When he could endure it no longer, he thrust away from the wall and buried himself fully inside her. The intimate clasp almost destroyed him, but she held absolutely still, her only movement the exquisite pulsing of her flesh around him.

She waited until she sensed that it was safe before she began tightening her internal muscles in a voluptuous rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart to the hammer of his. One spirit, one flesh. Her husband. Only passion existed, life so intense that it denied the future and the unbearable loss looming ahead.

"Troth," he groaned, starting to pull back. "Beautiful Willow."

"If I am your wife, give me at least the hope of a child," she said fiercely as she ground her hips into his, pinning him against the wall as their bodies clashed in mutual frenzy. Yin and yang fighting for completion, until they both spun out of control into a place where there was only shattering rapture and heart-stopping wholeness.

Trembling, she clung to him as she gasped for breath. They'd both be on the floor if not for the ruthless support of the chains. His heart pounded under hers, intensely alive, his lungs heaving like hers.

The knowledge of waiting death was a knife searing through her soul. She tightened her embrace. Surely he was safe as long as she held him. Together they were immortal, for they had shared more than mortal joy…

He kissed the top of her head. "Thank you, my dearest friend," he murmured. "You've given me the kind of pleasure most men don't find in a lifetime."

She forced back her tears, for she did not want him to go to his death with only the memory of her weeping. Slowly she untangled herself from him, almost unable to bear the separation. Her hands shook as she straightened his garments, then donned her own. He watched her, his blue eyes amazingly calm. He made her think of an angel in chains, undefeated and unbearably beautiful.

At the far end of the corridor, a closing door thumped shut. "When you reach England, go to my brother Dominic, Lord Grahame, at Warfield Park in Shropshire," he said swiftly. "Have you got that?"

"Lord Grahame, Warfield Park in Shropshire," she repeated. "Will he really believe I am your bride?"

"For my sake he will. If he doesn't… well, ask him about the time he got trapped in the priest hole at Dornleigh. He'll believe you then."

"What other messages shall I carry?"

"Give my father and sister my love, and my apologies for not managing better." Kyle's eyes closed for a moment. "I… I wish so much that I could put my arms around you, but I can't. Will you hold me for the time we have left?"

Blinking back more tears, she embraced him, memorizing his scent, the taste of his skin, the feel of his taut muscles. She wanted to cry out that she loved him, but knew that would only increase his burdens. He mustn't know the depth of her anguish.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, drawing closer. Tenderly she cupped his genitals, praying that they had made a child. "Good-bye, my dearest lord." She kissed his lips. "I swear to accomplish what you have asked."

His warm lips lingered hungrily. "Farewell, my dearest girl. Travel safely."

The key turned in the lock. She released Kyle and pulled her wide hat down to conceal her ravaged expression.

The door squealed open and she walked out without looking back.

Farewell, my dearest love.

By sunrise Kyle was in a weary state of grace, bolstered by resignation and the sweetness of his hour with Troth. He stood quietly as the guards released his chains, though his muscles ached from the long hours of being immobilized. In silence he walked from the dungeon, up the stairs, into the courtyard where pure dawn light touched the curving roof of the prefect's palace with enchantment. It was a lovely place to die.

The firing squad was drawn up in a line facing the back of the compound. He found mild pleasure in the knowledge that Wu Chong's wall would be damaged.

As he crossed the compound between half a dozen guards, a drum began to beat in time to his footsteps. Barummm. Barummm. Barummm. The death march.

Surrounded by his court, Wu Chong sat on a dais overlooking the execution ground. Kyle was brought to face him, and the sergeant growled, "Kowtow!"

He'd been willing to offer a mark of respect when first captured, but not now. When the seconds dragged and he didn't prostrate himself, the sergeant shoved him hard between his shoulders. Expecting it, Kyle pivoted and slammed his elbow into the man's throat, laying him flat and gasping on the paving bricks.

The other guards leaped for the prisoner, but the prefect snapped an order and they refrained from striking him. A high-ranking officer drew his sword and approached, the blade pointed like a cattle goad.

Ignoring the officer and his sword, Kyle crossed the courtyard to stand in front of the wall. As a Renbourne, arrogance had been bred into his marrow. He used every shred of it now. Wu and his people might despise him, but they'd not forget him soon.

He turned to face his executioners, glad they hadn't heard of the custom of blindfolding a condemned man. He didn't want to miss his last sight of the world.

The dozen matchlock muskets carried by the firing squad were primitive by European standards and not very accurate, but they would suffice. The barrels looked enormous. Any one of them was capable of blasting a fist-size hole through him. He hoped enough musket balls would strike to end it quickly.

Wu Chong's face radiated evil pleasure. God help the people of Feng-tang who lived under his authority.

Last words were also traditional, but there was hardly any point when no one present would understand them. The only one who mattered was, please God, safely away. Travel safely, Troth, with all your strength and cunning. And when you reach England-be happy.

At a signal from their officer, the soldiers raised and aimed their weapons, faces flat and emotionless under their spiked helmets.

Wu Chong chopped his hand down and barked a command.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my soul.

A crowd had gathered outside the walls, silently waiting for Feng-tang to be cleansed of the foreign devil. Troth stood apart from the others, so tense her bones might snap if someone spoke a hard word to her. Surely in the last day Wu Chong had realized the folly of killing a European. Even now he might be reconsidering his sentence.

Inside the walls, a harsh voice shouted, "Fire!"

A volley of gunshots shattered the morning air with thunder, echoing from the stone walls of the compound. As dark smoke wafted upward, Troth jammed her knuckles against her teeth to suppress her agonized cry.

Kyle Renbourne, Viscount Maxwell and lord of her heart, was dead.

Chapter 27

« ^ »

England

Christmas Eve 1832

" 'And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.' "

As the vicar's sonorous voice filled the small stone church, Troth closed her eyes and drank in the familiar words. When she was a child, her father would always return to Macao to spend the holidays with his family, and on Christmas Eve he read the nativity stories to his household in a voice not unlike that of the Warfield vicar.

Seated in the family pew between Dominic and his sister Lucia restored the sense of belonging that had vanished with her father's death. During her years in Canton she'd privately read the nativity stories from her father's Bible at Christmas, but it hadn't been the same. Tonight she felt like a Christian again. Her father would have been pleased.

In true Chinese fashion, her reverence for Kuan Yin and the Buddha were undiminished by her joy in Christmas. Kyle had understood her need to honor both spiritual paths-in fact, he'd shared it-but she doubted that many other English people would. Perhaps Meriel might-Troth suspected that her sister-in-law was more pagan than Christian. Tonight, though, the countess was entirely proper, listening to the service and choir like a serene, silver-haired angel. She was even wearing shoes.

The service ended. Voices softer and smiles warmer than usual, the worshipers left the church to return to their homes. Carriages waited for the Warfield party, but when Troth saw that a light snow was frosting the hills, she said, "I'll walk back. It's not far, and the night is so pretty."

To her surprise, Dominic said, "I'll join you, if you don't object."

"Of course not." She took his arm, and they made their way to the footpath that led to the estate, traveling half the distance that the carriage road did. As always, she found bittersweet pleasure in Dominic's company. Though she tried not to think of Kyle, in the snowy night it was impossible not to dream of what had never been.

They were halfway to Warfield when Dominic said quietly, "The holiday makes everything worse. I keep thinking that last year at this time, Kyle was alive. He spent Christmas in India, and wrote me that he missed having a proper English celebration. He… he promised he'd be here for Christmas with the family this year."

"He was looking forward to coming home and seeing you all." Troth's fingers tightened on Dominic's arm as she recognized why he'd wanted her company. As the only person at Warfield to have seen Kyle in seven years, her presence brought him a little closer to Dominic. "Strange to think that a year ago, I hadn't even met Kyle. How could such a short acquaintanceship make such a difference?"

Dominic smiled a little. "Meriel turned my world inside out in a matter of days. Love does that." His smile faded. "In my heart, I still can't quite believe Kyle is dead. Sometimes at night I feel like I could reach out and touch him. He doesn't seem gone, but there's an… an ache in my spirit when I try to find him."

She understood that ache well. "Perhaps that's proof that the spirit survives death. Somewhere he still exists, feeling sadness for what he has left behind."

Dominic glanced at her. "Do you really believe that?"

She sighed. "I want to."

They came to a stile. Dominic climbed over, then gave her his hand to help her across. Knowing him had helped her understand Kyle's gentlemanly manners, and why it had chafed him not to treat her with the gallantry he thought a woman deserved. She'd loved those occasions when Kyle had cared for her as if she were precious porcelain. Such a lovely contrast to the masculine life she'd lived for too long.

Her skirts brushed snow from the stile as she stepped down to the ground. Only a fluffy inch or so had fallen-just enough to change the wintry hills to fairyland. "Kyle said that if you didn't believe I was his wife, I should ask you about the time you were trapped in the Dornleigh priest hole. You never doubted. Surely it must have occurred to you that I was an impostor."

"Never." Dominic took her arm again as they approached an icy stretch of path. "Your love for him was unmistakable. No impostor could have shown that."

Troth blinked against stinging eyes. Had she been so transparent? She wondered if Kyle had known how she felt about him. At the time she had tried desperately to conceal her unseemly emotions. He'd wanted a guide and a mistress, not a lovesick woman. She'd used all her carefully honed skills of deception to show him the face he wanted to see.

Now that it was too late, she bitterly wished she had told the truth.