My Beautiful Enemy Read online

  How marvelous would it be—

  He stopped his wishful thinking. No, the world was full of people who had traveled through India; she was talking of someone else altogether.

  “I have been to Darjeeling,” he told her. “From the hills of Darjeeling, if you look north, you’ll see a wall of glacier-covered peaks—so massive that the tallest of them was once thought to be the highest summit in all the world. There is nothing like standing outside at the end of the day, a cup of tea in hand, and watching the mountains. The snowcaps are golden, and sometimes the slopes turn the color of the setting sun itself.”

  She looked down into her cup—did he see a sheen of tears in her eyes?

  “What a sight to have seen,” she said, her voice soft.

  “Come and see it for yourself,” he said impulsively.

  She laughed a little. “Darjeeling must be as far as the sky itself.”

  “About a thousand miles as the crow flies. But once we cross into India and reach lower elevation, it will be forty miles an hour by rail most of the rest of the way. I should be very surprised if it takes us more than two weeks before you are walking between rows of tea bushes.”

  A light of wonder came into her eyes, as if he had told her that the very end of the universe was within a day’s journey. But that light extinguished as quickly as it had come to be.

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “I’m too poor.”

  “You can sell your horse.”

  She shook her head again. “Far better to have a horse here than to be a beggar in Darjeeling.”

  He doubted that was truly her reason, but her tone was quite closed: The matter was not one for debate. “Where are you going after Kashgar then?”

  And how long could he reasonably—or even unreasonably—follow her around?

  “Somewhere that won’t bankrupt me so thoroughly.”

  “A shame,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “There are still places in India where the teachings of the Kama Sutra are practiced. And two girls well versed in the Kama Sutra, my friend, will give you every taste of Paradise in a single night.”

  “Add insult to injury, why don’t y—” Her expression changed. “Don’t move an inch. And don’t speak.” He held perfectly still and silent. Something hissed softly in the grass.

  She felt on the ground about her person and made a seemingly careless flick of her fingers. He did not see anything leaving her hand, yet he heard their impact, two tiny thuds. The hissing stopped.

  Signaling him to remain motionless, she rose to her feet and came to inspect the grass just beside him.

  “You are safe now,” she said.

  He turned and saw an adder, lying dead six inches from his hand. The snake’s bite was usually not fatal, but it was definitely poisonous.

  He looked up at her. “Allah willing, my friend, you will always be by my side to save me from certain death.”

  She snorted and sauntered away. “No use wasting your prayers. We already know I won’t be.”

  The Persian took care of Ying-ying as no one had in a very long time.

  Every time they stopped, he saw to the horses. In the evening he hunted, cooked, and did the washing up afterward. The next morning he packed everything to get them back on the road.

  All without asking for anything in return.

  She did not understand it, this giving. It made her suspicious and it made her . . . Well, not outright unhappy. But it made her think dangerous thoughts, thoughts that more often than not involved herself standing on the balcony of a house in Darjeeling, a cup of steaming tea in hand, looking northward at sunset, with him draping a warm cloak over her shoulders.

  And after the sunset, they would . . .

  Ceaseless as the waves of the sea, those thoughts were. But they always broke upon the rocky shores of reality.

  Some of her earliest memories were those of herself as a toddler, perched on a chair, peering out into the courtyard as Da-ren strode across toward her mother, who waited beneath the gallery outside her door, her eyes decorously lowered. Such authority he had exuded, such gravitas, this man who guaranteed their safety and happiness—Ying-ying had wanted nothing more than that he should be her father.

  But he was a stern man, not given to displays of affection. So instead of his love, she began to long for his esteem.

  But would that still be possible, if she were to bring back a foreigner with no one to vouch for his parentage? An insignificant merchant who plied his wares along the caravan road?

  And as terrifying and potentially humiliating as that scenario was, it was the very best she could conjure, one in which the Persian, full of honorable intentions, bravely faced Da-ren’s wrath while she quaked in her boots.

  When the Persian was probably just waiting for her to give in and sleep with him.

  With time she could find out. But she had no time: This detour toward Kashgar had put her behind schedule. Her route was her own to manage, but she must always report back on the appointed day. Da-ren did not like her to be late, and any thought of Da-ren’s displeasure made her lungs feel completely airless.

  Was it any wonder that every mile west set her further on edge?

  “Would you like some chocolate?” asked the Persian.

  His offer vexed her. Everything about him vexed her. If he tried something untoward, then she could leave him a few choice bruises and gallop off, back to the life she knew. But he only ever pampered her, and lured her farther and farther away from where she needed to go.

  “Chocolate is bitter,” she said, half angrily. “And sticks to the roof of the mouth.”

  “You must not have had the newer chocolates—the Swiss have wrought marvels. Try it,” he coaxed her. “If you don’t like it, you can spit it out.”

  She snatched the small rectangle of confection from his hand, only remembering, as she was already putting the chocolate into her mouth, that she had not witnessed its making.

  But she did not spit out the chocolate for that reason. Nor did she spit it out for any other reason. For this chocolate was smooth, decadent, with the perfect depth and darkness to complement a milky sweetness.

  She ate it too fast—and almost could not look at him as she licked the back of her teeth, desperate to extract every last bit of flavor that still remained inside her mouth.

  He promptly offered her a bigger piece. “Some more?”

  She wanted to eat this piece slowly, to savor the utter deliciousness of it, but she didn’t—she wolfed it down as she had the other morsel. What was the point? It would be over soon anyway. And even if his entire saddlebag turned out to be filled with the same chocolate, it would still not be enough.

  Kashgar was no more than a few hours away. And then he would be but a memory, like the all-too-brief pleasure of milk chocolate, a sweetness after which everything else would only ever taste bitter and vinegary.

  “Do you have an address?” he asked quietly. “I can send you chocolate, if I have your address.”

  The only address she had was the governor’s residence in Kulja, which of course she could not give him.

  “And we can write each other,” he added.

  She stared at him. She spoke Turkic just fine, but she was almost completely illiterate in that language. “I can’t write.”

  “Neither can I—not in Turkic, in any case,” he said. “But I’m sure I can find someone to read your letters for me—and write my replies.”

  Implying she could do the same. But she simply could not have his letters arrive at the governor’s residence. How would she explain them to Da-ren? “Letters are stupid. It would take me less time to walk to India.”

  He smiled. “You could do that also.”

  Could she? The idea struck hard. Of course she could not go with the Persian anywhere now, but someday, perhaps someday not too far into the future, after she had proved herself and rendered Da-ren a great service, she could leave to
marry. And then, if she knew where to find the Persian . . .

  “What is your address?”

  Did he hesitate? “It won’t be very useful for me to give you my address now, as soon I might move.”

  He didn’t want her to have his address. A horrible understanding dawned. “You have a wife.”

  “What? No!”

  His surprise seemed genuine. But a girl never knew with men, did she, to what lengths they would go? “More than one wife?”

  “No.” He rose to his feet, as if to further emphasize that syllable of denial. “I am not married.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  Much closer to her age than she had thought. With his competence and maturity—not to mention his luxuriant beard—she had believed him to be at least twenty-five. But twenty-one was still more than old enough to be married—or at least betrothed. In China, in good families, the matter of a child’s matrimony was often settled before the latter reached adolescence. That no such agreement had ever been spoken of for her was as much a black mark against her as it was a relief.

  “Why has your father not arranged a marriage for you?” she demanded.

  “My father is no more. He died years ago.”

  “Have you no mother?”

  “I do, but she will let me choose for myself.”

  She drew back. “What kind of mother is that?”

  “A slightly negligent one—I’ll grant you that. But the point is, there is no wife, fiancée, or sweetheart waiting for me in India. Or Persia. Or anywhere in the world.”

  And they were back where they started. “Then why keep your address a secret?”

  Leighton could not tell her his address because when he was not on the road, he lived at the British garrison in Rawalpindi.

  Not that he suspected her of any ties to the Ch’ing authority, but he had not only his own safety to consider, but those of others on the expedition. And though the main concern of the local officials was to keep the Russians out, they would not hesitate to treat the presence of spies as evidence of the British Raj’s desire to expand its territory at the Ch’ing Dynasty’s expense.

  “It is as I said, only because I will be moving to a new place.”

  She rose to her feet.

  “I still have a bit more chocolate left. Do you—”

  “No.” She untied her horse and leaped upon the saddle with jaw-dropping athleticism, not even bothering with the stirrup.

  He stood still for a moment, staring after her as she galloped away. Was this it? Was this the last he would see of her?

  The very thought jolted him into action; the next minute he was in pursuit. But then he realized she was not trying to be rid of him—she wasn’t riding at a full sprint and she was headed back to the caravan route, rather than a more obscure path that would make it easier for her to shake him loose.

  He followed her from a furlong behind and let a half hour pass before he caught up to her. She cast him an unreadable look and said nothing.

  And Kashgar drew nearer with every second.

  Finally he could stand the silence no more. “From Kashgar I go to Yarkand. You?”

  She glanced toward the mountains. “It’s spring. I shall go sightseeing.”

  “I will miss you.”

  “I will forget you by next week.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek at her merciless reply. But why should she have mercy on him? He was a man following her about, proposing that she should leave everything behind for the unknown, and then refusing to even divulge where he lived.

  “I will not forget you—ever.”

  “No, of course you won’t,” she said, her tone biting. “Next time you are in Darjeeling, I will be all that you can think of.”

  No need for Darjeeling—she had been all that he could think of from the moment they met. But he did not know what to say to convince her of it. Whatever words he chose would still be only words, of no more value than grains of sand in the Takla Makan.

  Silence again.

  He groped around for something to say. “Your friend, the one who drank Darjeeling tea, was he the one who taught you how to use a sword?”

  She snorted. “My amah taught me.”

  “Your what?”

  “You are obviously a foreigner. Here everyone’s nannies teach such things.”

  He could not tell whether she was mocking him. “Tell me more about her then.”

  “She is dead.”

  “What was she like when she was alive?”

  “She was a fool.” She laughed harshly at his expression. “Do you think a woman who can kill with her little finger can’t be a fool? Well, she was. She was addicted to gambling. To keep gambling she turned to thievery. When I was eleven a bounty hunter chased her all the way home. She killed him in the courtyard and we had to drag his body for miles to dispose of it.”

  He blinked, trying to digest this revelation.

  She bit her lower lip and then snarled at him. “Still want to send me chocolate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why shouldn’t I, just because your amah was foolish?”

  “Because I am just like her.”

  Her tone was all defiance, and yet he heard quite something else, the fear of a girl who was all alone in the world. “That’s fine,” he said quietly. “There is no law that says fools cannot have chocolate.”

  She looked away. “Good thing, for you are a fool, too.”

  He gazed at her still-dirty face, her exaggeratedly threadbare hat, and the much patched sleeve of her coat. “Yes, I know.”

  A much bigger fool than she could ever suspect.

  From a distance, Kashgar was almost indistinguishable from the desert. The city wall was a dun color identical to that of the sand. The houses inside, built of brick, mud, and straw, appeared just as dull and weathered.

  And yet here and there Leighton would catch a glimpse of bright blue minarets, or the underside of an arcaded passageway that had been painted the colors of a kaleidoscope. Children stood on balconies decorated with pointed arches and looked down curiously. At least twice they rode by residences from which issued the soft, clear music of a bubbling fountain.

  She led on, past the livestock market, past the stalls selling dried and sundry goods, past the streets populated with old men drinking tea and playing chess.

  When they reached a quieter section of the town, he asked, “How did your amah die?”

  He was beginning to believe the woman had not perished of natural causes.

  “She was killed,” the girl answered brusquely, confirming his suspicions.

  “Are you ever worried for your own safety?”

  She pulled her lips. “No, I carry a sword and three daggers for my amusement.”

  “If you need help—”

  “Should my nemesis arrive, you will be no use to me whatsoever.”

  “Nemesis?”

  “What would you call someone who killed both your master and your only friend? Anyway, we are here.”

  She turned under an arched gate into a courtyard. Long balconies, decorated by white lacelike fretwork, enclosed the courtyard from three sides. She dismounted and walked into the dim interior beyond a doorway. When he followed her in, she was already reclined on gold and purple cushions, her booted feet spread apart in a casual and entirely convincing male pose.

  Loudly she called for wine and sweets. And when two giggling girls came with the trays, she pulled one down onto the cushions next to her, set an arm around the girl’s shoulder, and kissed her on the neck.

  So she did know the brothel quite well—at least well enough to find it without asking anyone. He waved away the girl who approached him, his eyes only on his girl.

  She watched him as she caressed the serving wench’s throat and shoulder, a strange glitter in her eyes. He could scarcely breathe. From arousal, yes, but at the same time, a suffocating pain in his chest: They had so little time lef
t, and she preferred to spend it playing games.

  She rose, pulling the serving girl up with her, and sending her off with a whispered word in the ear and a slap on the bottom. The serving girl left, all giggles. She came toward him. “You said you still have more chocolate?”

  He had one last bar left. He had meant to save it for the ascent of the mountain pass into India, but now he handed it to her.

  “And your tea,” she demanded. “Must set the proper mood for lovemaking, don’t you know.”

  He handed over what little remained of his supply of tea as well, wrapped in pages from a Parsi-language newspaper published in India.

  She filliped the package. “I haven’t forgotten our deal—you can come and watch, just give me a few minutes to get the girls ready.”

  “Of course, make sure you get my money’s worth,” he said.

  “I’d better get inside. Don’t want the ladies to become impatient.”

  “Should we meet here again, this day next year?”

  “This day next year by whose calendar?”

  He grimaced inwardly. He had forgotten that for the Islamic calendar, which relied on lunar observation to determine the beginning of the months, a different locality might have a different set of dates.

  “Let’s just say three hundred fifty-four days from today.”

  By then he should have accrued enough home leave to make the trip to Kashgar.

  “And what? Will you bring more gold for me to steal?”

  With that, she slapped him on the chest and left, disappearing through a curtained doorway.

  Almost immediately he went out to the courtyard, but her horse was already gone. He ran out of the courtyard, but there was no sign of the horse on the street outside. He stood in place, his hand on the support column of an arch. It was completely unsurprising, her departure. She had always given every indication that she would go her own way, but for some reason, he had not wanted to see the inevitable.

  Now the inevitable was a void in his chest.

  His head lifted. He felt inside his robe. The velvet pouch of gems that he always carried on his person, in order to pass for a diamond dealer—it was gone. He remembered her slap across his chest. He remembered her warning that she would rob him blind.