The China Bride

by Mary Jo Putney

  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.”
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  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.