Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
BOOK I: Chasing Dreams
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
BOOK II: Long Road Home
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Author’s Note
Also by Mary Jo Putney
“Compelling…Rich in Imagery…
Romance to remember...
Copyright Page
To Elisa Wares, editor extraordinaire
Acknowledgments
Even a little bit of China in a book requires mega-research, and never have I had to beg the help of so many consultants. Special thanks go to Ye Ling-Ling (Suntree Faprathanchai), Shirley Chan, Hannah Lee, Brenda Wang Clough, and Lisa Wong for their valiant efforts to help me capture some of the richness and complexity of Chinese culture in this story.
Hope Karan Gerecht gets thanks for vetting the feng shui, Julie Booth the martial arts, and Betsy Partridge for the Tui Na. Last but certainly not least, Susan King for help with all things Scottish, not to mention all-around support and encouragement.
My consultants did their best. For errors, blame me!
BOOK I
Chasing Dreams
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. Chenqua 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 ar
e 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.”
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