“But don’t you want to tell your family where you are going?”
“No. And I don’t have any real family in Kulja, in any case, just someone I had hoped would be happy for me.”
He opened his mouth to speak; she placed her finger over his lips. “Say no more. We head for India in the morning. Directly.”
Sweet or bitter, she had sealed her fate.
Relief washed over Leighton.
Until he had come back to the cave, he had thought his biggest problem would be how to explain her presence to his colleagues. But the moment he saw her, a cold fear had overcome him: She was about to leave him.
All her things had been packed away, and she had sat there staring at her dagger, looking one moment as if she were at a funeral, the next as if she had killed someone by mistake.
Until she suddenly threw herself at him, all molten and urgent.
He was not convinced that all was well, but it only mattered now that she had not changed her mind about spending her life with him.
“You won’t regret it,” he said. “You’ll like India.”
She touched her palm to his cheek. “My amah killed the man who betrayed her. So you be very good to me. Make sure I do not regret my choice.”
There were eight Ch’ing soldiers outside the yurts, in dark tunics and broad-rimmed hats, their long queues reaching halfway down their backs. Leighton reined in his horse a respectable distance away, wondering what could have brought them to the Kazakh camp. He hoped it had nothing to do with Madison and Singh’s rescue from the Tajik warlord’s compound.
Two more Chinese soldiers came out of the largest yurt, one looking to be of higher rank than the rest. All the soldiers mounted. The officer spied Leighton and wheeled about.
When he came close enough, the officer said, in quite decent Turkic, “We are looking for someone who rides a fine red horse. Have you seen anyone like that?”
Leighton’s hand tightened on the rein. Only two days before he had ridden this way on her blood-bay stallion, to give the steed some exercise. “No, I haven’t.”
“If you do, tell her to return to Kulja as fast as she can,” the officer said curtly.
“She? It’s a woman?”
The officer’s lips curled in annoyance. “No, my mistake. Stupid language. It’s a man, a young man.”
The soldiers left. Leighton approached the yurts and dismounted. An old Kazakh woman from whom he had purchased food before lifted the tent flap and greeted him.
He returned the greeting. “Have they been giving you trouble?”
The old woman smiled, deepening the lines on the leathery skin of her face. “No, they only asked me if I’d seen anyone riding a red horse. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell them a thing. We don’t help the Ch’ing.”
He shook his head. “I doubt they were looking for me.”
“They said a very pretty boy, no hair on the face.” The old woman’s smile widened. “Not that I wouldn’t call you pretty, but you are not exactly beardless.”
“Do you know why they were looking for the boy? Is he a criminal?”
He didn’t believe that. The Ch’ing officer was seeking one of his own. How else was Leighton to interpret Tell her to return to Kulja as fast as she can?
The old woman shook her head. “You know what I think? I think it’s one of their girl spies. The Ch’ing governor in Kulja sends them out by the dozens, into the households of all the important men in the region.”
He could only hope he didn’t look too flabbergasted. “You think she is someone’s escaped concubine?”
“Who’s to say not?” The old woman nodded at her own sagacity. “Well, don’t stand there. Come in, and see what you want today.”
He did not remember purchasing the food, yet a sack of it swayed gently on his back. He could not recall getting on his horse, yet here he was, riding away.
Could she be someone’s escaped concubine? It was possible, he supposed. And it was the best scenario under the circumstances. He did not mind that. If she had been forced into some warlord’s household and then fled, so much the better for her.
But what if it wasn’t so simple?
If he were the Ch’ing governor in Kulja, he would not be so stupid as to criminally under-use her by assigning her to be someone’s bedchamber plaything. She spoke the language. She was deft with a sword. He would . . . he would . . .
God help him.
She had been spying on the Tajik warlord. She was not a Ch’ing girl spy. She was a Ch’ing spy, period.
How had he not seen it before?
He had never considered himself physically weak, but he had to slide off his horse and sink to his knees in the tall grass. He couldn’t breathe.
She knew who he was. He was absolutely certain she did. The map. Dear God. Was that why she had shifted her stance so suddenly after her recovery? Had she been using her delectable body and her beautiful face to whip him into an insensate whirl of love and lust? He would be a perfect source for her, the enthralled, unsuspecting Englishman who’d willingly escort her back to his lair, where she could patiently and cunningly ferret out all she needed to know.
God help him.
He had already designed, in his mind, the house he’d build for her. And fretted over whether she’d like his Punjabi cook’s dals and curries. And worried about her staying by herself when he went on his next mission. All while she’d plotted intricately and mercilessly to exploit him until he was of no more use to her.
He was fortune’s fool.
She was already waiting for him in the meadow beneath the cave, having loaded all their bags on her horse. He kept telling her not to exert herself too much, that her wounds and illness were too recent. But obviously she didn’t need such hennish clucking from him.
She lay in the grass, her torso propped up on her elbows, beautiful as a summer sprite. He closed his eyes. To rip her out of his heart was to rip himself to shreds, never to be assembled quite whole again.
“You’ll need to fashion a turban for me,” she said as he drew near, patting her head. She had braided her hair and wound it about her head. “I lost my hat.”
Without a word he dismounted, took the turban off his head—he was skillful enough in the matter that the turban came off holding perfect shape—and handed it to her.
She didn’t accept the turban immediately. “What’s the matter?” she asked, with that trace of anxiety that he had come to know all too well.
Except she wasn’t worried for herself, but for her clever plans to spy upon the British Raj.
He leaned over and placed the turban on her head. She looked adorable in it. He wrenched his eyes away from her face and went to her horse to unload his saddlebags, his blanket, and his waterskins.
She came to stand near him as he began fastening everything to his saddle. As he tightened a strap, her hand combed through his hair. “Sometimes I think you hair is darker than mine,” she murmured.
He caught her wrist and firmly, perhaps too firmly, removed her hand from his person. A small wince of pain crossed her features. She looked at him uncertainly, the beginning of doubt—or was it fear—in her eyes.
“What’s the matter?” she said, her voice rising slightly.
“Nothing,” he said. “Don’t unwind the turban. Take if off before you lie down and you won’t lose the shape.”
She attempted a feeble laugh. “You can always remake it for me again if I accidentally squash it.”
He kept his expression stony, dead. “I’m afraid that won’t be the case.”
Her face turned a waxen pallor. “You are . . . you are leaving me behind?”
“I think it would not be wise for us to travel together anymore.”
“But I thought . . . but you said . . .”
If he didn’t know better, he’d have believed her heartbroken.
He wavered. What if he was wrong? What if her connection with the Ch’ing was a more innocent one?
Did it matter, in th
e end, what kind of connection it was, when she was important enough for the local authority to send out soldiers because she had been delayed a few days by an injury? And how many such teams of soldiers were out there, searching for her?
He was a spy in a hostile country. He had friends who were also spies. Could he possibly risk everyone’s life and freedom in the hope that the soldiers were looking for a different cross-dressing girl who rode a fine bay horse?
“You can’t come with me,” he said.
“Why not?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Why are you changing your mind all of a sudden? And at the last moment? Have you been telling me a pack of lies, just so that you could sleep with me for as long as you wanted?”
Each one of her accusations was a kick to his abdomen.
“You can’t come with me because of what I am,” he said in low growl. “And what you are. It simply cannot be. Nothing can come of this.”
She staggered back as if he had slapped her. Every muscle in him strained to reach out to her, to hold her tight, to tell her to discard everything he had said. Because nothing else really mattered. Nothing mattered but her.
He kept himself rigidly in place, his lips clamped tight.
“Right,” she mumbled. “Right. Of course nothing can come of this. Of course.”
He turned away and fumbled with the straps and knots, cursing her, cursing himself, cursing the men who decided that Russia was an imminent threat to the British Raj and therefore Britain must contest every square inch of territory that lay between their frontiers.
But he was who he was and she was who she was. And nothing could ever come of an ill-fated love affair in the shadows of the Great Game.
Ying-ying couldn’t see. Everything was a blur.
Everything had been a lie—all the tender touches, all the sweet promises. She had trusted him. She had depended on him.
For him, she had turned her back on her country. She had turned her back on Da-ren, on everything she ever knew, ever held dear. And it had all been a lie.
Anger surged, an explosion inside her, burning away the dejection, the self-pity, and the numbness that came before. Her heart pumped audibly. Blood rushed through her veins like a river in springtime, swollen mad with the release of an entire winter’s pent-up detritus.
He had used her. He had taken advantage of her weakness, satisfied himself on her, and was now about to cast her aside as if she were no more than a pair of old boots. If Amah had been alive, she’d have seen to it that he never again saw another dawn. Amah would not have approved of her meekly standing aside, twisting her hands as if she had no more resources than those girls who hung themselves without first exacting any retribution from their heartless lovers.
He would not get away with it.
She walked, like an automaton, to her horse. Her fingers dug out the jar of salve, but left behind the pilules that must be taken while one used the salve. He was already mounted when she approached him.
A quartet of birds trilled raucously as she presented the jar to him. Perhaps they were trying to warn him. Or her.
“Here, a parting gift,” she said softly. “Your wound is not yet healed. You must not neglect it. You should apply this for seven consecutive days without fail.”
He looked at her, his eyes clouded. “I can’t. You might need it also.”
The slope rose behind him, a vivid backdrop that matched the verdure of his eyes. He looked so sincere, so decent. Bitterness swamped her. All false. False chivalry. False courtesy. False love.
Her eyelids drooped in a flutter of disappointment. “It’s all right. If you do not wish to have it . . .”
Tears spilled out, hot and unruly. She turned her head aside. Crocodile tears, she reminded herself. They were crocodile tears. If only she could halt them the moment the act was over.
“I will accept it, with much gratitude,” he said.
His hand closed over hers for a moment, comfortable, familiar warmth. The porcelain jar was gone, but something else was in her hand. She looked down. It was the pouch of jewels.
She immediately thrust it back at him, as if he had offered her a handful of scorpions. Did he think that a few baubles would soothe her? Did he think it was payment enough for her?
“No,” she said. “Memories will have to suffice.”
He stared at the pouch for a long minute before putting it inside his robe. “Yes, you are right. Memories will have to suffice.”
Then he was riding away, as swiftly as his mount could carry him. Something quaked violently inside her. Come back, she wanted to scream. Come back to me. You cannot go.
But no words emerged.
Her fears fell unchecked. Mountain and meadow became one indistinct, watery blur. She turned and stumbled away, so she would not see him disappear forever from her life. But she knew the exact moment it happened, when she could no longer hear the hoof-falls of his horse.
Only the silence of his desertion.
CHAPTER 11
The Dagger
London
1891
Leighton had never seen Miss Blade afraid. But as she stared at the Centipede’s kite, every breath he drew was icy with her fear.
“I can see the end of the line,” he said, trying to nudge her out of her shock. “Looks like it got away from its owner.”
“Ah, so we are agreed it is a kite.” Marland sounded quite pleased. “Now let’s buy one of our own and fly it.”
“Let’s do,” seconded Annabel, looking at Leighton.
He ought not to pay so much attention to Miss Blade before Annabel, but he could no more turn away from Miss Blade’s distress than he could stop a speeding train.
Gradually, Miss Blade’s gaze lowered. She glanced at the members of their little group and then at all the revelers in Hyde Park on this first true spring day of the year. For them nothing had changed. Few noticed the distant kite. And those who did were already turning their attention to other things.
But her peace had been shattered.
“Did anyone see the design on the kite?” Madison’s question was for everyone, but he looked at Leighton.
“I thought it looked rather like a map of Britain,” Leighton answered. Madison didn’t need to know yet—not this moment.
“Bit odd but why not, I say?” said Marland. “Are you also interested in flying kites, Miss Blade? Perhaps I will buy more than one if we have sufficient interest.”
She was slow to answer, as if her brain still stuttered. “I would dearly love to fly kites, sir, but alas, I am afraid I must take leave of everyone. I need to be home to receive a delivery of new furnishings.”
“Which reminds me of an appointment I have with my man of business,” said Leighton. He turned to her. “Miss Blade, are you familiar enough with the park to find your way out?”
She frowned, then shook her head.
“In that case, will you allow me to walk you to the gate that is most convenient for your purpose?”
She looked at him a moment, as if he were a stranger. “Thank you, Captain. Terribly kind of you.”
Annabel’s hand tightened just perceptibly on Leighton’s arm. “One can always rely on the Captain to be most considerate.”
Leighton had the feeling that Annabel’s words were meant less as praise than as a reminder of his obligation to her. She was entitled to the utmost consideration from him, of course. But she did not have a dreaded nemesis who had just returned from the bottom of the Atlantic, not only alive, but well enough to send up a signal meant to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies.
“I will call on you on the morrow,” he told Annabel. Then, to Miss Blade. “Shall we?”
In her mind, Catherine heard Lin’s laughter: He always laughed after he killed. A slightly maniacal laughter, almost awkward, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had done.
As if he had done something as silly as accidentally stepping on his victim’s toes.
He was still alive.
Faint
ly she recalled the door that she had ripped off the hinges and thrown at him aboard the Maria Augusta. It had fallen into the waves after him and she had thought no more of it. But what she had believed to be his doom must have been his salvation, something for him to cling onto as the storm raged.
“Are you in immediate danger?” asked Leighton Atwood.
She turned her head, half surprised to find him walking beside her, a handsome man in a long, black overcoat, his walking stick gleaming darkly.
When she didn’t respond, he pressed, “Do you have cause to fear for your safety?”
She raised her head. The kite still floated somewhere in the sky, though it had become even more distant, scarcely visible.
“No,” she said.
Her fear had been instinctive and mindless. Lin was neither omnipotent nor omnipresent. He would not be waiting for her in her parlor—the kite all but proved as much: If he knew where to find her, he wouldn’t be trying to intimidate her through such secondary means.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Leighton Atwood said quietly.
Carriage wheels clacked, a hawker cried the virtues of his ginger beer, and somewhere to her right a boy begged his governess to buy a piece of boiled sweet. The park was crowded—so very crowded. London was so very crowded. Was that enough to offer Catherine a measure of safety?
“What help can you offer me?”
“That would depend on your aim. Do you wish to run, hide, or fight?”
She had wanted to disappear, to shrink to the size of a flea, barely visible even in plain sight. But as his question hung in the air, a grim determination began to displace her fear. “I am going to kill him.”
“And what about what you came to England to do?”
“What about it?”
“You are only halfway done.”
She stopped. “How do you know?”
“Keep walking—it is not good form for a lady and a gentleman to stop in the middle of an avenue to speak,” he said. “And I have my means.”
She resumed walking. “My task is my own concern.”
He glanced at her and said nothing. Outside Hyde Park Corner he stopped. “I take my leave of you, Miss Blade. Do please let me know if you need anything.”
My Beautiful Enemy Page 17
