My Beautiful Enemy Page 13

  “I don’t believe it,” said her Persian. “I see wonderful things for you, many, many wonderful things.”

  The music of the spheres could not have sounded lovelier. And the warmth and certainty of his expression—for the first time she knew what it looked like when someone had complete faith in her.

  She had to turn her head away to hide the tears in her eyes.

  The mouth of the cave opened to a rock fissure that was barely wide enough for one person to walk through without turning sideways. The fissure angled several times before giving onto a green slope. From the slope, Ying-ying had a panoramic view of a wide meadow turned purple-pink by the flowers of spring. In the distance rose the sky-piercing peaks of the Heavenly Mountains.

  When Da-ren had told her that she would come with him to Chinese Turkestan, she had thought it would be nothing but a vast wasteland beyond Jiayu Pass, the westernmost terminus of the Great Wall. And even after she discovered that there was far more to the territory than desert and desolation, some part of her still thought of it as a prison, a prison two thousand li across, but a prison all the same.

  But now, with the sky the blue of mountain lakes and everything drenched under a clear, warm sun . . . she was filled with a fierce gladness that she had lived to see this land once again. A fierce gladness to be alive, no matter what loomed ahead.

  And along with that came the realization that this time, she would not let go of her Persian.

  But to need anyone was to risk losing them. Mother, Amah, Master Gordon—she was still picking up the wreckage left in the wake of their departures. Did she really dare to open herself to that kind of devastation again?

  The Persian had carried the saddles out and placed one of them on the grass as a seat for her, so she’d have some fresh air while he groomed the horses. The gold cords in his black turban flashed in the sunlight. His movements were efficient but without haste. And such an innate calm radiated from him, a mesmerizing tranquility.

  She tried to imagine going back to her old life, the one without him—and the void in her heart was instant and fathomless.

  He set the other saddle on the back of his horse and she grew alarmed. “Where are you going?”

  Her tone must have been strident, for he glanced at her, surprised. “We need more food. Or there will be nothing to eat for supper.”

  Right, of course—she’d eaten everything except the cheese. But her fear was not entirely assuaged. “What about your friends? Have they already departed for India or are they waiting for you?”

  And how long could he keep them waiting?

  Did he frown? “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “They are grown men.”

  “But won’t they worry about you?”

  “They know I can take care of myself.”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek. What she really wanted was to make sure he didn’t go anywhere without her, but she hadn’t the least idea how to broach such a subject. “When will you be back?”

  He came toward her. As he approached, her anxiety faded—and even began to seem ridiculous: His calm was already beginning to envelope her.

  “A couple of hours, perhaps a little more,” he said, “depending on how long it takes me to find the nomads and whether I come across suitable game for hunting. Will you keep this for me, while I’m gone?”

  He handed her the pouch of gems. She closed her fingers over it, knowing that she was holding a promise.

  She grinned at him. “There will be only pebbles inside when I give it back.”

  He smiled back. “I would rather have pebbles from you than the Koh-I-Noor from anyone else.”

  She watched him ride away, her heart as bright and sun-drenched as the day.

  Leighton bartered for food from the Kazakh and Xibe nomads who had their yurts nearby. And as he wasn’t far from the stream that marked the way to Ili Valley, the administrative center of the region, he caught several fish, cleaned and filleted them, and wrapped them in wax paper to take back to the cave.

  He arrived to see her sitting cross-legged on the makeshift bed, her eyes closed, one hand over each knee. He watched her for a minute, taking in the straightness of her posture and the evenness of her breaths—he loved seeing her strong and hale and she was well on her way to full health.

  Leaving her to her meditation, he scoured the surrounding area for edible plants. When he came back to the cave again, she was just about to step out, the bucket he had bought from the nomads in hand.

  “Don’t tire yourself,” he admonished her. “I’ll do it.”

  He fetched water from the nearby waterfall, heated it up for her, and left for a wash of his own. At dusk, upon his return, a mouthwatering scent greeted him. But instead of bending over the fire, cooking, she was studying the walls of the cave.

  “Have you seen this?” she asked, cleaning the wall with a piece of wetted bandaging, uncovering the painted surface underneath.

  With proper restoration, the images of Buddhas and bodhisattvas would have been almost unbearably brilliant, saffron and lapis lazuli against a background of ivory and black. But even after a millennia of neglect, the mural was still vivid and colorful, a fluid playfulness animating the eyes and faces of its enlightened subjects.

  “It’s the reason I know about this cave,” he answered.

  She wiped at the hem of a painted orange robe. “Oh? How?”

  “When I was a child, I was told the story of a tremendous treasure, hidden by Buddhist monks during a time when their monasteries were destroyed all throughout China.”

  She stilled. “I didn’t know people outside China knew this story.”

  “You have heard of this story yourself?”

  “Yes, many years ago. It’s a legend.”

  “And legends travel. The story left a deep impression on me.”

  Not that he believed in a hoard of gold somewhere, but anytime Buddhist and cave were used in the same sentence, he was always deeply curious. In India he had visited the Karla Caves and the Ajanta Caves. When he passed through Afghanistan, he’d made a trip to the Buddhas of Bamiyan and the nearby caves. And when he had met her, it had been just after his visit to the Kizil Caves farther east on the caravan route.

  “I came through this area earlier on my trip,” he continued. “A nomad told me that there was a Buddha cave nearby, so I investigated. And this was what I found.”

  “But it’s so far from anywhere.”

  “Probably it was the home of a single hermit monk.”

  She wiped some more at the walls. “And now we are cooking fish in his temple.”

  “That tends to be the fate of temples after a thousand years.”

  She turned around. “Do you know—” She gasped. “Your hair is still so wet! You will catch a chill!”

  He had a knife wound and she a miscellany of injuries. But she was worried about wet hair? “It’s almost summer.”

  “All the more reason not to be careless.” With her foot, she pushed one of the saddles to just in front of the bed. “Sit down.”

  He obeyed, wincing slightly at the discomfort to his leg. She sat down behind him and, with a thin towel, rubbed his hair vigorously. Mercilessly.

  “Ow.”

  “This is how my amah always dried my hair. Now take it like a man.”

  He smiled.

  They were quite close; the ends of her hair brushed the back of his hand. He had to grip onto the edge of the saddle to keep from taking a strand of her hair between his fingers.

  “What were you going to say when you noticed my wet hair?” he asked, to distract himself from her nearness.

  “Oh, right. About that legendary treasure, it is said the Buddhist monks made three jade tablets that together would point to its whereabouts. After the First Opium War, the British took two of the three tablets out of China. But I’ve seen the third—or at least a copy of it.”

  “How?”

  “You remember that my amah was a thief? She stole it.”


  He was astonished. “So you have it, this jade tablet?”

  “No. But I know where to find it.”

  “Have you ever thought of stealing it back?” He almost hoped she would. It would be quite something to see if there was any truth to the legend.

  Her voice turned stern. “Absolutely not. If my amah had never brought home that jade tablet, she might still be alive today—as might be my friend who loved tea from Darjeeling. So no, I don’t ever wish for anything to do with the jade tablet. Not even if it were given to me, free and clear.”

  She tossed the towel onto the bed. He thought she was done, but she slid her fingers into his hair. Heat penetrated beneath his scalp, warm, strong currents that dispelled any lingering damp from his trip under the waterfall.

  “How do you do that?” he marveled.

  “Magic,” she answered. “I guess I can always become a barber if all else fails. I don’t mind putting a blade to a man’s throat and I can give quite a head massage. Do you think I will have customers?”

  “Not many, probably, but they will be the bravest men in the world.”

  She laughed softly. It was the first time he had ever heard her laugh without derision or harshness—his heart constricted with the beauty of it.

  After a few minutes, she removed her hands and said, “There. Now you won’t suffer any ill effect.”

  He did not get up. He didn’t know when he would have another chance to sit so close to her, almost in an embrace.

  The fire threw their shadows on the wall. The shadow of her hand reached out and touched the shadow of his hair. Her master thief’s fingers were so light and delicate that had he not seen it, he would not have felt it.

  And then came the sensation of her hand on his nape, a barely-there touch, yet one that immediately set him on fire.

  Before he could react, she rose. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  Before the Persian, Ying-ying had never touched a man, except in combat: With Da-ren, she only ever came close enough to kowtow; even with Master Gordon, in all their years of friendship, there had never been any kind of physical contact.

  Nor had she ever wanted to touch a man.

  But the Persian was like a magnet, pulling her toward him. Even after she’d mortified herself with her fingers on his nape—he had tensed as if she had put a knife to him instead—she still wanted more.

  They ate silently, she tasting nothing of the simple stew she had made with the fish and the leaves he’d brought back.

  “This is delicious,” he said when he was done. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “Why would you think I couldn’t?”

  He glanced at her. “You always made me do the cooking.”

  “Why should I lift a finger for a man, before he has taken the trouble to save my life?”

  She had meant to tease, but with the state of her nerves, the question had come out all wrong: sharp and accusing.

  He made no answer, only collected their utensils to wash outside. She grimaced. While she’d lived in Da-ren’s household, she had been so sweet tongued, never without a compliment for anyone she came across. Her years of solitude had turned her into a boor.

  Or perhaps more accurately, in the wilderness of Chinese Turkestan, she had tossed aside all the layers of courtesy under which she had hidden her true nature.

  When he came back inside the cave, she said, “Forgive me. I can be prickly.”

  He had put some water to heat while they were still eating. Now he poured the hot water over a handful of herbs. The fresh, cool scent of mint rose with the steam. “It’s all right. I already know that you have thorns.”

  Some of her agitation melted away at the quiet, reassuring tone of his voice—he was not angry at her, or otherwise displeased. But at the same time, an even greater ferment came to be. She wanted to know . . . she wanted an answer, even though she couldn’t yet arrive at the exact question.

  She gathered up her courage and went at it obliquely. “Why do you put up with me?”

  He gave her a cup of the mint infusion and shrugged.

  Perhaps that question wasn’t so oblique after all. Perhaps it was as direct and aggressive as an unsheathed sword. She bit the inside of her lip. “Please give me an answer.”

  He stared down into his own cup. Just when she thought he would not reply at all, he said, “You left your destination with some ladies of the night. Was it for me?”

  She had to think for a moment to remember that she had gone to the pleasure house nearest the warlord’s compound, so that if he were clever enough, he would be able to catch up to her. “Yes.”

  “Why did you want me to find you?”

  A question as problematic as hers to him had been. She drew a deep breath. “No one else looks after me.”

  That was true enough.

  In the firelight, his eyes were a deep, piercing green. “You want someone to look after you?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, her heart thudding.

  What if he asked next whether it was him she wanted to look after her? What would she say?

  But he asked no such question. He only said, “I don’t put up with your thorns. I like them.”

  Silence fell. She drank from the mint infusion—she had never tasted anything with such a strong flavor and yet at the same time, such a clean sensation. And she was . . . happy, almost.

  He, on the other hand, did not appear happy. He gulped down his infusion and spread open his bedroll in a corner of the cave, far from the grass mattress on which she sat.

  “So . . .” she heard herself ask, “those women who practice the teachings from that book of love, you have been to them?”

  He stilled, down on one knee, his back to her. “I have only heard.”

  “Why have you not visited yourself?”

  “I don’t like that kind of transaction. And how can anyone be sure that a woman has not been swindled or even forced into that profession?”

  “Then what do you do when you want to lie with a woman?”

  She was being completely inappropriate. But then again, sharing a cave with a man to whom she was not wed was already in itself the height of unseemliness.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  A unicorn of a man, her Persian. She leaned forward. “Nothing? Why not?”

  Leighton’s face heated. He could only be glad that his back was to her. Before him, on the wall, a bodhisattva regarded him with a gentle, steady compassion.

  “What’s your reason?” she pressed.

  He couldn’t explain, not in Turkic at least. And even in English he might have trouble articulating the true reason behind his celibacy, which was that he simply could not regard the sexual act with any kind of casualness.

  His father had committed suicide after being caught with the man he loved. His mother had not been caught in the act, per se, but she had been caught by the result of her love: It was to protect Marland, her son with another man, that she’d given up Leighton, afraid that if she didn’t, Sir Curtis, Leighton’s uncle, would extract a pound of flesh from Marland. And even Sir Curtis, the seemingly invincible Sir Curtis, had been, in the end, destroyed by his own lust.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last.

  “But do you want to?”

  Her tone was curious rather than seductive. But still, he had to swallow before he could answer. “Yes, I do.”

  And she was the singular focus of all his unfulfilled desires.

  He waited with bated breath for more probing questions on her part, but she seemed to have run out of them. Silence descended. He smoothed his bedroll.

  “Are you going to sleep without first changing my bandages?” she murmured.

  His head came up. She had already changed her bandages at the time of her bath—he knew because she had washed the strips of cloth and placed them to dry on the makeshift rack he had constructed out of branches. “Are you sure they need to be changed again?”

  Several seconds passed before she said,
“Yes, I’m sure.”

  And that was an invitation even a fool could understand.

  The Persian rose, turned around, and gazed down at Ying-ying. There was no greed or impatience in his eyes, only somberness.

  Her fingers tightened on the blanket that covered the grass mattress. The Rubicon, she thought. She could no longer recall Master Gordon’s explanation of the events of ancient Rome that underlay that idiomatic usage, but she knew very well what it meant: a point of no return.

  He regarded her not as a mere girl, but as if she were his Rubicon, a boundary that, once crossed, would alter history.

  And then he was seated next to her, on the edge of the bed, the fabric of his robe brushing against her knee. The hem of the robe was trimmed in a blue embroidered band—that she already knew. But what she had thought of as an arabesque pattern of curves and shapes was actually a hunt scene, with men in chariots and on horseback.

  He lifted a strand of her hair. Her already irregular heartbeat turned downright erratic—he didn’t even pretend to check her bandages.

  She looked at him, this beautiful foreigner who liked her thorns, and grazed the back of her hand across his beard.

  He leaned in. She drew back a little, instinctively.

  He did not follow further, but only rubbed his thumb across her cheek. She felt hypnotized, almost, by the contrast between the intensity of his gaze and the gentleness of his touch.

  One of his hands curled around her nape. She understood what he meant to do: to hold her in place when he leaned in again. But he did not move closer. Instead, he smoothed her brow, a touch that both reassured her and made her restless.

  She raised her hand again and felt the coolness of the gold hoop in his earlobe before taking that lobe itself between two of her fingers.

  Now he applied a light but steady pressure behind her neck, lifting her slowly toward him. She heard herself exhale. His lips came close to hers. Closer. She held her breath.

  His kiss, at the corner of her lips, was featherlight. But the heat that hurtled through her was beastly, as lawless and ferocious as a hill full of bandits. A startled whimper escaped her, she who could take a kick to the solar plexus without batting an eyelash.