“The calligraphy,” he continued. “It’s lovely.”
Her eyes opened wide with delight, her plans to thwart his unwanted oversight temporarily forgotten. “You appreciate poetry?”
“I have been told it is the most sensuous art—that it reveals the poet’s own soul, laying it bare to be tasted and enjoyed by others.”
“Do you write poetry, too?” asked Miku, amazed by how the samurai’s words seemed to echo her own deepest musings about the art form.
Takeshi was surprised by how animated the woman had become. She leaned forward now, her face upturned and her lips parted, waiting for his response.
“I am no poet. I have only heard poetry recited and seen calligraphy at the temples I have visited. I cannot read or write,” he admitted, wondering what it was about Miku’s eager face that made him want to share this secret with her.
Of course, now she would be sure to understand that, like most samurai, he was little more than an armed commoner. While a few soldiers who lived in wealthier urban centers might boast a distinguished pedigree and its accompanying education, he—like most rural samurai—was merely a hired warrior bred for raw strength.
Like the other men in the Master’s private army, most of whom were Takeshi’s childhood friends, he was simply the son of a local farmer. Takeshi had accepted a martial role instead of following in his father’s agrarian footsteps in order to protect his family from marauding bandits who often threatened their fields and homes; his true sense of duty had always been—and remained—to his family and community, not the Master.
But without the approval of the Master, Takeshi would have none of the power and privilege he currently enjoyed. And that approval hinged solely on his ability to swiftly and unquestioningly perform every command the Master gave, regardless of Takeshi’s personal opinions.
It was a reality that made him bristle, and yet he had found a way to rein in his own ambitious spirit and warrior’s pride—thus far, at least. In due time, perhaps quite soon, Takeshi knew he would move to assert the authority he unofficially held over his samurai brothers, most of whom looked to him—even as they had as young playmates—as their true leader.
And yet unlike the Master, his niece seemed to be genuinely interested in what Takeshi had to say. He was surprised by the twinge he felt in knowing that his illiteracy must disappoint her.
Not that Miku’s opinion of him mattered anyway. Not with the plans her uncle had. But not even the cold logic of that truth could douse the growing heat her elegantly curving body and breathlessly parted lips were kindling within him…and the strange desire he had to keep talking with her, to know her better, to learn more about the poetry that moved her so, even though he knew he should be keeping a distance.
“It is of no concern,” said Miku, shrugging as if his confession had neither surprised nor dismayed her after all. “There are no words to read in the shell game—only pictures.”
She reached toward the clamshells, which were arranged facedown to conceal miniature paintings inside each natural dome. The game required players to match a shell to its second half based only on careful observation of exterior ridges and lines. A correct match was confirmed by the identical paintings of the shells’ interiors.
Miku chose a shell and studied it closely, being careful not to turn it over. Her fingers moved above the remaining shells, floating like a small white bird, until she settled on a second shell and placed the two together. There was a small click as the pieces rejoined their original mate. With a smile, she opened the intact shell to reveal matching paintings on both halves.
“Maple leaves!” she said, holding the shell toward Takeshi.
He reached to inspect the artwork. As his rough hand brushed her soft ones, she pulled back, suddenly conscious of his eyes locked on to hers. Though still vexed by his role as her de facto warden, she realized she no longer found his presence undesirable. What was it about this samurai that made her feel an indefinable longing she had never known before, not even in the wild imaginings of her poetry? As a poet, her command of language usually gave her the perfect word for expressing any emotion. And yet now she was left unable to define her feelings, even to herself.
“The play goes to you,” she said finally, pulling her eyes back to the shells and trying to still the thundering emotions swirling through her thoughts.
She had written often of love and desire. Although surely this was not what she was now feeling toward a mere soldier—and one sent by her oppressive uncle to guard her every move, no less. No, it must be nothing more than the surprise of his unexpected arrival that made her normally tranquil spirit heave and jostle like the waves on the northern ocean.
Takeshi chose a shell half and rubbed his finger along its outer ridges, carefully feeling each subtle nuance. Then he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the remaining shells, moving across them slowly.
Miku watched as if in a trance as the man’s powerful hands glided across the delicate shells, the calloused fingertips seeking out a match. The hands were those of a warrior, hardened and rough, but their movement now was like an artist caressing a favorite sculpture. She was mesmerized by his slow progression across each shell as he gently touched its form before moving to the next.
With his eyes closed and his thoughts focused on the game, Miku realized she had the perfect chance to escape—yet something held her frozen as she continued to watch the soldier. Finally he paused, and his fingers wrapped around a single shell.
He opened his eyes. The young woman was perfectly still, the flick of her gaze from the two shell halves in his hand to his face her only movement. Her breathing had deepened, and a flush had returned to her face. There was a barely audible click as the shell once again became whole, and he slowly held it out to her.
“What do the pictures show this time?” he asked.
She reached for the shell, and, opening it, said, “Plum blossoms.”
“Ah, a blushing pink flower against a strong, dark limb,” said Takeshi. “Soft and hard, balancing one another.”
“You have been dishonest with me,” she said, her voice a whisper. “You are a poet.”
She was leaning toward him, upturned palms cupping his shell. Takeshi reached out to take it, and his hands paused as they covered hers. This time, Miku did not draw away from his touch. So he let his fingers remain.
Her eyes seemed to pierce the depths of his being with their searching gaze, taking in the overlapping tiles of his breastplate, the ridged lines of his helmet and something more—something deeper than his armor. Perhaps this beautiful poet could see what others never had, Takeshi wondered. Perhaps she could look through the battle-forged exterior to the true man beneath—the man he himself had almost forgotten existed, until now.
And without stopping to consider anything further, he bent to kiss her. Her lips received his with a small cry of surprise as she stilled before yielding to his embrace. For a moment, Takeshi’s whole world, a hardened landscape of warfare and duty, melted away, leaving only an awareness of the softness of Miku’s parted lips and her sweet taste in his mouth.
The skin of her cheek felt like warm silk beneath his rough hand, and he drew her closer to him, pressing her soft body against his armored frame. He tightened a strong arm around her waist, the thin fabric of her silk kosode slippery against his touch. Slowly, his other hand ran through her dark hair, gathering it up as his kiss deepened.
Miku trembled as the samurai pressed his mouth against hers, gently at first and then with greater insistence. In all the poetic flights of imagination she had taken at her writing desk and in all her clandestine escapes into the countryside beyond the manor walls, she had never known such a delightful, frightening, all-consuming sensation as the one now tingling through her veins.
He was hard against her, the leather plates of his armor pressing her breasts as his grip around her body tightened. His beard scratched the delicate skin of her face, yet its roughness was softened by the tende
rness of his mouth. She felt tiny in the arms of such a powerful man, helpless to fight his passionate advances—yet not wanting to resist, not wanting his kiss to end.
In the embrace of this barely tamed warrior, she suddenly felt safer than she had since becoming an orphan. And yet what more could they ever share than this kiss?
This forbidden kiss.
The thought splintered her trance, and she pulled away from him. What had she allowed this samurai to do? Of course her uncle would never sanction such an embrace, Miku realized—but that was of no importance to her. She was not afraid to defiantly take the pleasures he might hope to deny her.
Of much deeper concern was her own choice in the matter. Had she really permitted this relatively unknown man to touch her so freely? After years of being hidden from the world, would she now fall prey so easily to the first man impudent enough to reach for her? Was she not of wealthy birth…and, more importantly, blessed with the richness of a poet’s soul? Surely she was not to be so easily had. Her initial anger, which had been melted by the surge of desire his touch brought, was now rekindled.
He watched her in silence now, his eyes pools of impenetrable darkness, but his mouth still moist from her lips. Her hand trembling with both fury and desire, Miku ran a pale finger down the overlapping plates of armor covering his chest.
“My uncle thought he sent a samurai to protect me,” she said with an icy stare,
“but I see a scaled serpent seeking to devour a caged bird. I wonder that you dare to so boldly approach a noblewoman, the niece of your Master?”
Takeshi had no words for the poet. So he simply stood and, with hands that had just touched her with gentle passion, roughly collected the scroll from her writing desk.
“I thought you could not read,” Miku goaded him as she rose to her knees, angry with his impudent kiss—and her own hungry response.
The darkly handsome samurai nodded with a self-assurance she found infuriating and, to her own frustration, intriguing. “You are correct,” he said, “but your uncle can. And he has commanded that I not only guard you tonight, but that I also ensure no more poetry is written in his absence. He finds the verses you compose—” his eyes lingered on her lips before returning to her blazing stare “—inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate is my uncle’s desire to control me,” she said. “And inappropriate is your desire to…”
Her voice trailed off as a sharp heat burned her cheeks, a blush of anger mingling with the equally consuming flame of her growing attraction toward the stoic soldier. There was something undeniably intoxicating about the samurai’s dark, piercing eyes, and she could not ignore the way his powerful body—and equally powerful demeanor—was beginning to make her feel.
The soldier looked down at Miku, his apparent nonchalance in the face of her passionate response belied only by the smoldering depths of his gaze. “Do you truly believe what I want is inappropriate,” he asked, his voice a husky whisper, “or merely unexpected?”
Standing above her, his arms crossed with an air of absolute authority, Takeshi held her gaze with the confident look of a man used to complete submission—and one who knew how to enforce compliance when necessary. And yet Miku’s independent spirit was equally unaccustomed to capitulation.
“The life’s breath of a poet is her brush,” she whispered with quiet fierceness,
“and her soul is its ink. You may take my parchment, but you will not control my poetry. And you will never control me.”
“That choice is not yours to make,” he replied.
Twisting at her waist toward the writing table, she swept up her long-handled brush in one hand. Eyes locked defiantly on her captor, she swirled it languidly in the ink bowl, letting dark paint drip slowly down the bristles of her brush.
Rising to her knees, she turned back to face Takeshi fully. His countenance remained a rigid mask of authority, but she could see his breathing had deepened. Smiling with delighted defiance, she slowly brushed the silky black ink up his bare leg. With a flick of her wrist, she left an elaborately curled symbol on the hardened muscle of his thigh, just below the bottom edge of his armored tunic.
“You see?” she asked, laughter tingeing her voice. “I will continue to create poetry as it pleases me, even if I must replace my scrolls with your bare skin.”
His gaze dark and molten, Takeshi flung aside the weighty breastplate covering his torso. His armor gone, the samurai pulled away the light robe that skimmed his muscled body. Unlike the painted shells, the new game Miku had naively instigated was one Takeshi wanted to play—and win.
Miku’s brush wavered as she took in his lean form—all of it…battle-sculpted, sun-bronzed and as tense as his war bow. The powerful samurai was obviously not a man to be toyed with. Even without his weapons and armor, Miku knew he was strong—perhaps dangerously so. Yet earlier, his tender kiss and deep-searching eyes had hinted at something much more than just another sword-for-hire. And now he stood before her, waiting.
As Takeshi gazed down at Miku, her brush poised above his naked body, he reminded himself that the embrace of this rare woman could only come at a great price. If he were not careful, he realized, he could risk losing his heart to this willful, poetic beauty—and his life to her uncle, the Master.
But the thought of being touched by that delicate hand, now gracefully wrapped around her calligraphy brush, made his blood surge. The hand that had earlier caressed his face, tentatively at first, then with greater passion as she had returned his kiss. The same hand that, trembling, had traced the pattern of the armor plating his chest…and shielding his heart.
And the look of defiance now smoldering in her eyes stirred his heart even more deeply. A woman of her strength and spirit, one willing to defy the world’s standards to suit her own inclinations, excited him, body and soul.
Seeing her breathlessly watch him, Takeshi no longer wished to hinder her poetry. To kneel close to her, yes. To take her fully in his arms, yes. And to allow the stroke of her paintbrush to mingle with the soft caress of her fingertips on his skin, assuredly yes. To touch and be touched by this perfect woman; to embrace and love her; to subdue her willful spirit just enough to fulfill her deepest desires…this is what he now desired.
Yet doing so would violate his warrior’s oath to the Master, who had quite different plans for his niece than involvement with a samurai. Yet did such a petty and tyrannical man really deserve his loyalty? He had never truly felt a sense of duty toward the despicable old man, and perhaps now was the time to cast aside any pretense of obligation.
Takeshi suddenly realized that this maiden’s own rebelliousness had already pierced the stoic wall around his heart, the fortress he had thought to be impenetrable. If Miku, a gentle poet, could demand that her will be honored and her desires fully met, then surely so could a worldly warrior like himself.
At once, the thought of even just one night with this alluring poet made the risk of death seem trivial. And one night might be all he could hope to enjoy—for her uncle would surely attempt to demand his life in payment for Miku’s chastity.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and thick with desire. “I will not return your scrolls.”
As the sun finished its slow descent beyond the distant mountains and dusk cast a purple glow through the thin walls of her parlor, Miku gazed steadily into the samurai’s face. What had started as a game, a way to prove she was in control, had quickly become something far more serious. And far more intriguing. Was this soldier really offering his body—all of it—for her pleasure alone?
With trembling hand, Miku dipped her brush once more into the ink bowl before again tracing it gently up his muscular leg. No longer attempting to write actual characters on his bare flesh, Miku’s poetry was now the primal, wordless yearning she felt blossoming within her heart toward this brazen soldier. Though they had just met, she no longer questioned her true desires.
She looked at him fully, her eyes taking in the length of his body
above her, savoring the tremulous thrill that tingled through her when she saw him stiffen under her gaze.
Although she had tasted none that evening, Miku felt as if pure saki coursed through her veins. Her skin seemed heated from within, flushed with a growing flame of desire, and her mind swam with a dizzying intoxication more potent than sweet rice wine.
Takeshi looked at her steadily, waiting for her command. Yet who really controlled this moment, Miku wondered? Their eyes remained locked for a long minute before she lowered her brush from where it hovered above his bare leg.
“Lie next to me,” she said, her heart tingling with excitement though her voice remained calm.
She held her breath, wondering if the tough samurai would accept a maiden’s directive. But wordlessly, Takeshi knelt, pausing with his handsome face inches from her own. Her breath caught, and she wondered if he were about to kiss her again. She desired his insolence—hoped for a bold and inappropriate act. Yet as she leaned her face toward his, lips soft to receive his embrace, he moved away to recline beneath her.
Disappointment instantly pricked Miku. After boldly stripping away all his clothes, Takeshi would now pretend to be merely an obedient soldier…rather than a man beholden to no one, with untamed desires and dangerous passions? Her disappointment quickly flashed to frustration. How dare this samurai play such games with her?
“I have obeyed,” said Takeshi, a knowing smile softening one corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained dark and impenetrable.
“And yet you have not given me what I want,” said Miku as she tossed her brush away and glared at Takeshi.
Instantly, his smile hardened into a look of unmitigated hunger. “That is because I am not done obeying,” he said, his voice a low with desire. “And neither are you. Remove your kosode.”
Shocked into capitulation by the abruptness of his command, Miku loosened the silk belt of her gown, allowing the front panels to fall open and reveal her bare flesh beneath. The cool night air from the open veranda skimmed her skin like a dancing koi brushing against a water lily.
The Samurai's Forbidden Touch Page 2
