My Beautiful Enemy Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Sherry Thomas

  Excerpt from Ravishing the Heiress copyright © 2012 by Sherry Thomas

  Cover image © Gregg Gulbronson

  The right of Sherry Thomas to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in this Ebook edition in 2014

  by HEADLINE ETERNAL

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by arrangement with Berkley,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  A Penguin Random House Company.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4722 1455 3

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headlineeternal.com

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for Sherry Thomas

  By Sherry Thomas

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: The Lover

  Chapter 2: The Kazakh

  Chapter 3: The Window

  Chapter 4: Tools

  Chapter 5: The Lady

  Chapter 6: The Ambush

  Chapter 7: The Report

  Chapter 8: The Promise

  Chapter 9: The Kite

  Chapter 10: Choices

  Chapter 11: The Dagger

  Chapter 12: The Confession

  Chapter 13: The Years

  Chapter 14: The Connection

  Chapter 15: The Pledge

  Chapter 16: Yuan-Jiang

  Chapter 17: The Nemesis

  Chapter 18: The Treasure

  Chapter 19: The Last Line of the Note

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from RAVISHING THE HEIRESS

  Find out more about Headline Eternal

  About the Author

  Sherry Thomas is one of the most acclaimed romance authors working today. Her books regularly receive starred reviews from trade publications and are frequently found on best-of-the-year lists. She is also a two-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award.

  English is Sherry’s second language – she has come a long way from the days when she made her laborious way through Rosemary Roger’s Sweet Savage Love with an English-Chinese dictionary. She enjoys digging down to the emotional core of stories. And when she is not writing, she thinks about the zen and zaniness of her profession, plays computer games with her sons, and reads as many fabulous books as she can find.

  Connect with Sherry online at @sherrythomas or www.facebook.com/AuthorSherryThomas. To find out more about her books visit www.sherrythomas.com.

  Praise for Sherry Thomas:

  ‘Ravishingly sinful, intelligent, and addictive. An amazing debut’ Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author

  ‘Enchanting . . . An extraordinary, unputdownable love story’ Jane Feather, New York Times bestselling author

  ‘Something altogether different . . . Thomas is known for a lush style . . . [and] transporting prose even as [she] delivers on heat and emotion and a well-earned happily ever after’ The New York Times Book Review

  ‘Original, vibrant, intelligent, and thought-provoking . . . Thomas makes magic’ Romantic Times (top pick)

  ‘Deft plotting and sparkling characters . . . Steamy and smart’ Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  ‘Thomas tantalizes readers . . . Lively banter, electric sexual tension, and an unusual premise make this stunning debut all the more refreshing’ Library Journal (starred review)

  ‘Sublime . . . An irresistible literary treat’ Chicago Tribune

  ‘Sherry Thomas's captivating debut novel will leave readers breathless. Intelligent, witty, sexy, and peopled with wonderful characters . . . and sharp, clever dialogue’ The Romance Reader

  ‘Layered, complex characters . . . Beautiful writing and emotional punch’ Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

  ‘Big, dramatic, and romantic’ Dear Author

  By Sherry Thomas

  Fitzhugh Series

  Beguiling The Beauty

  Ravishing The Heiress

  Tempting The Bride

  The Luckiest Lady In London

  My Beautiful Enemy

  Hidden beneath Catherine Blade’s uncommon beauty is a daring that matches any man’s. Although this has taken her far in the world, she still doesn’t have the one thing she craves: the freedom to live life as she chooses. Finally given the chance to earn her independence, who should be standing in her way but the only man she’s ever loved, the only person to ever betray her.

  Despite the scars Catherine left him, Captain Leighton Atwood has never been able to forget the mysterious girl who once so thoroughly captivated him. When she unexpectedly reappears in his life, he refuses to get close to her. But he cannot deny the yearning she reignites in his heart.

  Their reunion, however, plunges them into a web of espionage, treachery, and deadly foes. With everything at stake, Leighton and Catherine are forced to work together to find a way out. If they are ever to find safety and happiness, they must first forgive and learn to trust each other again . . .

  To Louis Cha and Gu Long,

  for making my childhood magical

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Wendy McCurdy, for the wonderful creative freedom I enjoy.

  Kristin Nelson and everyone at the Nelson Literary Agency, for always being there.

  Janine Ballard, for her invaluable guidance in shaping the final draft of this book.

  Samantha Whiting, for answering my questions about display cases in the British Museum. Her answer did not make it into this version of the story but I am no less grateful.

  My friends, for being the best friends ever.

  My family, for handling my deadlines with panache.

  And you, dear reader, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  PROLOGUE

  On a storm-whipped sea, some prayed, some puked. Catherine Blade wedged herself between the bed and the bulkhead of her stateroom and went on with her breathing exercises, ignoring fifty-foot swells of the North Atlantic and the teetering of the steamship.

  A muffled shriek, faint but entirely unexpected, nearly caused her pooled chi to scatter. Really, she’d expected more reserve from members of the British upper class.

  Then a blunt sound, that of an object striking the human body. She frowned. Was it a passenger banging into the furniture or had she heard an act of violence? She checked for the box of matches she carried inside her blouse.

  There was no light in the corridor—the electricity had been cut off. She braced her feet apart, held on to the doorknob, and listened, diving beneath the unholy lashing of the waves, the heroic, if desperate, roar of the ship’s engines, and the fearful moans in staterooms all along the corridor—the abundant dinner from earlier now tossing in stomachs as turbulent as the sea.

  The shriek came again, all but lost in the howl of the storm. It came from the outside this time, farther for
e along the port promenade.

  She walked on soft, cloth-soled shoes that made no sounds. The air in the passage was colder and damper than it ought to have been—someone had opened a door to the outside. She suspected a domestic squabble. The English were a stern people in outward appearance, but they did not lack for passion and injudiciousness in private.

  A cross-corridor interrupted the rows of first-class staterooms. At the two ends of the cross-corridor were doors leading onto the promenade. She stopped at the scent of blood. “Who’s there?”

  “Help . . .”

  She recognized the voice, though she’d never heard it so weak. “Mrs. Reynolds, are you all right?”

  The light of a match showed that Mrs. Reynolds was not all right. She bled from her head. Blood smeared her face and her white dressing gown. Next to her on the carpet sprawled a large, leather-bound Bible, likely her own—and likely the weapon with which she had been assaulted.

  The ship plunged. Catherine leaped and stayed Mrs. Reynolds before the latter’s temple slammed into the bulkhead. She gripped Mrs. Reynolds’s wrist. The older woman’s skin was cold and clammy, but her pulse was strong enough and she was in no immediate danger of bleeding to death.

  “Althea . . . outside . . . save her . . .”

  Althea was Mrs. Reynolds’s sister Mrs. Chase. Mrs. Chase could rot.

  “Let’s stop your bleeding,” she said to Mrs. Reynolds, ripping a strip of silk from the latter’s dressing gown.

  “No!” Mrs. Reynolds pushed away the makeshift bandage. “Please . . . Althea first.”

  Catherine sighed. She would comply—that was what came of a lifetime of deference to one’s elders. “Hold this,” she said, pressing the matchbox and the strip of silk into Mrs. Reynolds’s hands.

  She was soaked the moment she stepped outside. The ship slanted up. She grabbed a handrail. A blue-white streak of lightning tore across the black sky, illuminating needles of rain that pummeled the ankle-deep water sloshing along the walkway. Illuminating a drenched Mrs. Chase, nightgown clinging to her ripe flesh, abdomen balanced on the rail, body flexed like a bow—as if she were an aerialist in midflight. Her arms flailed, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth issued gargles of incoherent terror.

  A more distant flash of lightning briefly revealed the silhouette of a man standing behind Mrs. Chase, holding on to her feet. Then the heavens erupted in pale fire. Thunderbolts spiked and interwove, a chandelier of the gods that would set the entire ocean ablaze. And she saw the man’s face.

  Lin.

  A numb shock singed every last one of her nerve endings, so that she was cold and burning at once.

  The man should be dead. He had been beheaded years ago, hadn’t he? She wiped the rain from her eyes. But he was still there, the murderer of her child. He was still there.

  Sometimes she could no longer recall her infant daughter’s exact features, but always she remembered the warmth of holding the baby close—the awe that she should have been given such a wonderful child. Until she was sobbing over the baby’s lifeless body, with nothing in her heart but despair and hatred.

  A dagger from her vambrace hissed through the air, the sound of its flight lost in the thunder that rent her ears. But he heard. He jerked his head back at the last possible second, the knife barely missing his nose.

  Darkness. The ship listed sharply starboard. Mrs. Chase’s copious flesh hit the deck with a thud and a splash. Catherine threw herself down as two sleeve arrows shot past her.

  The steamer crested a swell and plunged into the hollow between waves. She allowed herself to slide forward on the smooth planks of the walkway. A weak lightning at the edge of the horizon offered a fleeting glow, enough for her to see his outline.

  She pushed off the deck and, borrowing the ship’s own downward momentum, leaped toward him, one knife in each hand. He threw a large object at her. She couldn’t see, but it had to be Mrs. Chase; there was nothing else of comparable size nearby.

  She flipped the knives around in her palms and caught Mrs. Chase, staggering backward. The ship began its laborious climb up another huge swell. She set Mrs. Chase down and let the small river on deck wash them both toward the door. She had to get Mrs. Chase out of the way to kill him properly.

  More sleeve arrows skimmed the air currents. She ducked one and deflected another from the back of Mrs. Chase’s head with the blade of a knife.

  She kicked open the door. Sending both of her knives his way to buy a little time, she dragged Mrs. Chase’s inert, uncooperative body inside. A match flared before Mrs. Reynolds’s face, a stark chiaroscuro of anxious eyes and bloodied cheeks. As Catherine set Mrs. Chase down on the wet carpet, Mrs. Reynolds, who should have stayed in her corner, docilely suffering, found the strength to get up, push the door shut, and bolt it.

  “No!” shouted Catherine.

  She preferred to fight outside, where there were no helpless women underfoot.

  Almost immediately the door thudded. Mrs. Reynolds yelped and dropped the match, which fizzled on the sodden carpet. Catherine grabbed the matchbox from her, lit another one, stuck it in Mrs. Reynolds’s hand, and wrapped a long scrap of dressing gown around her head. “Don’t worry about Mrs. Chase. She’ll have bumps and bruises, but she’ll be all right.”

  Mrs. Reynolds gripped Catherine’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you for saving her.”

  The match burned out. Another heavy thump came at the door. The mooring of the dead bolt must be tearing loose from the bulkhead. She tried to pull away from Mrs. Reynolds, but the latter would not let go of her. “I cannot allow you to put yourself in danger for us again, Miss Blade. We will pray and throw ourselves on God’s mercy.”

  Crack. Thump. Crack.

  Impatiently, she stabbed her index finger into the back of Mrs. Reynolds’s wrist. The woman’s fingers fell slack. Catherine rushed forward and kicked the door—it was in such a poor state now that it could be forced out as well as in.

  As she drew back to gather momentum, he rammed the door once more. A flash of lightning lit the crooked edges of the door—it was already hanging loose.

  She slammed her entire body into it. Her skeleton jarred as if she had thrown herself at a careening carriage. The door gave outward, enough of an opening that she slipped through.

  His poisoned palm slashed down at her. She ducked. And too late realized it had been a ruse, that he’d always meant to hit her from the other side. She screamed, the pain like a red-hot brand searing into her skin.

  The ship plunged bow first. She used its motion to get away from him. A section of handrail flew at her. She smashed herself against the bulkhead, barely avoiding it.

  The steamer rose to meet a new, nauseatingly high wave. She slipped, stopping herself with the door, stressing its one remaining hinge. He surprised her by skating aft quite some distance, his motion a smooth, long glide through water.

  Then, as the ship dove down, he ran toward her. She recognized it as the prelude to a monstrous leap. On flat ground, she’d do the same, running toward him, springing, meeting him in midair. But she’d be running uphill now, and against the torrent of water on deck. She’d never generate enough momentum to counter him properly.

  In desperation, she wrenched at the door with a strength that should have been beyond her. It came loose as his feet left the deck. She screamed and heaved it at him.

  The door met him flat on at the height of his trajectory, nearly twelve feet up in the air, and knocked him sideways. He went over the rail, over the rail of the deck below, and plunged into the sea. The door ricocheted into the bulkhead, bounced on the rail, and finally, it, too, hit the roiling waters.

  The steamer tilted precariously. She stumbled aft, grasping for a handrail. By the time the vessel crested the wave and another flash of lightning split the sky, he had disappeared.

  She began to laugh wildly—vengeance was hers.

  Her laughter turned to a violent fit of coughing. She clutched at her chest and vomited, black blood into the
black night.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Lover

  England

  1891

  For someone who had lived her entire life thousands of miles away, Catherine Blade knew a great deal about London.

  By memory she could produce a map of its thoroughfares and landmarks, from Hyde Park in the west to the City of London in the east, Highgate in the north to Greenwich in the south. On this map, she could pinpoint the locations of fashionable squares and shops, good places for picnics and rowing, even churches where everyone who was anyone went to get married.

  The London of formal dinners and grand balls. The London of great public parks in spring and men in gleaming riding boots galloping along Rotten Row toward the rising sun. The London of gaslight, fabled fogs, and smoky gentlemen’s clubs where fates of nations were decided between leisurely sips of whiskey and genteel flipping of the Times.

  The London of an English exile’s wistful memory of his gilded youth.

  Those memories had molded her expectations once, in distant days when she’d believed that England could be her answer, her freedom. When she’d painstakingly made her way through Master Gordon’s copy of Pride and Prejudice, amazed at the audacity and independence of English womenfolk, the liberty and openness of their lives.

  She’d given up on those dreams years ago. Still London disappointed. What she had seen of it thus far was sensationally ugly, like a kitchen that had never been cleaned. Soot coated every surface. The grime on the exterior walls of houses and shops ran in streaks, where rain, unable to wash off the encrusted filth, rearranged it in such a way as to recall the tear-smudged face of a dirty child.

  “I wouldn’t judge London just yet,” said kindly Mrs. Reynolds.

  Catherine smiled at her. It was not London she judged, but the foolishness of her own heart. That after so much disappointment, she still hoped—and doomed herself to even more disappointment.