From there they could make the trip that they had wanted to, all those years ago, over the eighteen-thousand-foot Karakoram Pass into India. Now more than ever, she wanted to see the great wall of Himalayan peaks that, as the day faded, turned the color of the setting sun.
Her own rooms were in the same courtyard as her mother’s, along a different wall. As she crossed the courtyard, her ears pricked at the sound of footsteps. Her heart skipped. But then she remembered that the majordomo had told her that as soon as they were ready, he would send some “rolling donkeys”—a complicated pastry made from glutinous rice flour and red bean paste.
Still she went to open the front gate herself—and made sure that her smile betrayed nothing of her disappointment as she bade the two footmen to come into the kitchen. She offered them tea and some of the pastries while she moved the rest onto her own plates. Despite her encouragement, the footmen only dared each accept a tiny bite, declaring that the majordomo would flay them alive if he knew that they had practiced their gluttony on delicacies meant for Bai Gu-niang.
Did she hear the front gate open again? She had shut it earlier, but not put the wooden locking bar into place.
She saw off the footmen with good tips and, this time, made sure to bar the door. Then she slowly turned around, a dagger in her hand. Mother had arranged her home in the style of the scholarly household in which she had grown up, and at first glance, there would appear to be nothing of value in these courtyards. But Da-ren had acquired for Mother some noteworthy pieces of calligraphy over the years, and an art thief could find items well worth his time.
Night had fallen. Now that the footmen and their red lanterns were gone, the only illumination came from a flickering light in the caretakers’ room. But as she scanned the courtyard, she managed to distinguish the silhouette of a man in the shadows.
She flipped the knife in her hand, holding it blade out.
“Well,” said the man softly, in Turkic, “this is how you’ll always greet me, isn’t it?”
It was difficult to suppress her own laughter while at the same time telling him to hush. She took hold of him—such a warm, secure sensation to have his hand in hers. They stole past the moon gate, across the dark, silent middle courtyard, and into her rooms in the innermost courtyard.
She closed and barred her door. Then she lit two candles that were on a pair of elephant-shaped jade candlesticks and turned around to have a good look at him. Good thing that she had put so much distance between herself and the caretakers, for she emitted a short scream: He wore a full beard, as luxuriant as the one he’d sported in Chinese Turkestan, and his hair was almost as long as it had been then.
He laughed as she reached for his face with both hands. “I thought I’d save myself the trouble of shaving while I traveled. And if you don’t like it, you can always put your blade to good use and try your hand at barbering, as you said you were willing to.”
She remembered that long-ago conversation in their cave and gave his beard a slight tug. “So you are calling yourself one of the bravest men in the world?”
“Absolutely,” he said, grinning. “It’s time I gave myself a little credit.”
She touched the tender skin on the inside of her wrist to that dark and much beloved beard, at once soft and bristly. “Well, we won’t find out immediately, because I want you to keep this for a while.
“And this, too.” Her hands threaded into his hair, caressing the curls she had miss desperately, during those long years when she had thought them forever sundered.
“I’m glad you like how I look.” He kissed her, a slow, languid kiss, a greeting of gladness. Then he stepped back a few feet and took her in. “You look altogether different again. Without your dagger I might not have recognized you.”
She was in a Chinese woman’s long blouse that reached to mid-thigh, and a pair of trousers. The dull blue fabric was plain and hardy, intended for the rigors of the road. And the cut of the garment was meant for modesty, not for showing off the figure. She groaned, half in frustration, half in mirth. “Why is it that every time we are reunited, I am always in the ugliest clothes I own?”
“They are not ugly,” he protested. “Besides, why would you ever want anything to distract from the beauty of your features?”
Certainly his gaze was fastened to her face, a gaze of admiration, hunger, and delight. Her heart thumped happily. “Well, if you put it like that.”
She pulled him to the edge of the kang, a raised brick platform that could serve as both a sitting area and a bed—Amah, in fact, used to sleep on this very one. She kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the kang. “Now tell me how long have you been in Peking and how did you know to find me here? I was just at my stepfather’s residence and no one mentioned any foreigners asking after me.”
He mirrored her action and situated himself so that they were knee-to-knee. “I arrived a week ago. And as for how I knew you were here . . . I used a matchmaker.”
She blinked at the word she had never heard associated with herself. “You used a what?”
He lifted the hem of her blouse and felt the fabric between his fingers. “I didn’t think a man—a foreigner at that—sniffing after you at Prince Fei’s would be welcome. So I asked at the British Legation if there was a way I may inquire into your whereabouts without raising too many suspicions or besmirching your reputation. And one diplomat, who has been in China for twenty years, suggested using a matchmaker: Matchmakers are almost always women and it is their business to ask about the young women of a house.
“It wasn’t until three days ago that we found a suitable matchmaker, a very clever one. Not only did she discover your address, but when she learned that you were not expected back for a few days, she greased the palm of someone to let her know as soon as you returned. And I came here the moment I received her message.”
Ying-ying laughed, monumentally amused. “That would make her the first matchmaker to have ever come for me.”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He shook his head, still incredulous. “Well, if I were her, I would be overwhelmed by the honor.”
She leaned in and kissed him on his cheek. How wonderful to see herself as he did, as this rare, magnificent creature coveted by one and all. “Since you have sent a matchmaker after me, may I assume you are no longer engaged to Miss Chase?”
He laid a hand on her knee. “That engagement was doomed from the moment I saw you at Waterloo station, even if Miss Chase never had any designs on your safety.”
Ying-ying was accustomed to direct violence. But the idea of “killing with a borrowed knife”—as the Chinese called plots such as Miss Chase’s—quite chilled her. She was glad of the warmth of his hand permeating through the cotton of her trousers.
“So you found evidence that it was indeed Miss Chase who alerted the Centipede to my whereabouts?”
A look of distaste crossed Leighton’s face. “She dispatched a footman to give a cable to be sent from the village post office. And the clerk at the post office remembered the message, because it was unusual. His recollection of the message matched almost word for word the notice in the paper.”
Ying-ying sighed. “She seemed so wonderful at first.”
“For a while I was similarly deceived. I never loved her, but I thought her a lovely person. In fact, when Mrs. Reynolds would look at me with some anxiety, I interpreted it as concern that I was not good enough for her niece. Only later did I begin to understand she was afraid that I wouldn’t be happy, married to Miss Chase, because at some point I might see through her.”
“I hope Mrs. Reynolds’s life hasn’t been made too unpleasant—the Chase women might blame her for bringing me to your attention,” said Ying-ying. She remained quite fond of Mrs. Reynolds.
“She can fend for herself. In fact, she called on me before I left and asked me to convey both her regards and her apologies. She hopes that she can still call on you wh
en you are next in England.”
Ying-ying was far happier than she had expected to be at the thought that Mrs. Reynolds still wished to remain friends. “Of course—except I probably can’t ever go back to England.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Given that the Centipede is actually dead, those in charge of security matters have begun to come around to the view that perhaps you two were enemies after all. I’d guess that in a year or two you’d be able to take a stroll on the Embankment without anyone batting an eye.”
She didn’t have any burning desires to return to England, but the news quite gladdened her—he had properties and connections there and she didn’t want them to be separated every time he visited his home country. “I must say you are that most welcome of visitors, one who comes bearing nothing but excellent news.”
He lean forward. “Actually, I do have a piece of bad news.”
“Oh?” she tensed.
He nodded rather ominously. “After much consideration, I have decided that you are right, and these are the most extraordinarily ugly clothes I have ever seen. We need to get rid of them as quickly as possible.”
She stared at him a moment before bursting into laughter. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”
Much, much later, after they had made love several times, they tiptoed to the kitchen in the first courtyard and smuggled back some pastries, a pot of tea, and two buckets of warm water. They washed each other, flicking water playfully all the while. When she had dried herself, she put on some new clothes, so they could sit down at the table to drink tea and dine on pastries.
But all Leighton managed was to gawk at her, in her blouse and trousers of pale lavender silk, her person lovely beyond compare.
She tossed a pastry at him. “Don’t just eat me with your eyes. Have some food, too.”
The pastry was sticky and barely sweet—and delicious for all that.
Her childhood bed in the inner room was where they decided to sleep. It was also a kang, but had been padded with more blankets. As they undressed and lay down, she asked about his leg, which had hurt for two days while he was crossing the Indian Ocean but not since. He asked about the treasure; she recounted the trip to Ning-hsia Province.
At the end of her story, she told him, “You would have been at home there, in that particular Buddha cave. It was the work of men who believed, when they had every reason to despair.”
He stroked her hair. “You were always a good reason to believe.”
She smiled, her eyes shining in the lambent candlelight. “So what do we do now?”
“I believe we have a preexisting agreement in place that requires us to marry as soon as possible. What must I do to make that happen and how many matchmakers must I hire?”
His determination pleased her—she nuzzled her lips against his beard. “If Master Gordon were alive, he could have spoken to my stepfather on your behalf. But since he is not, perhaps the head of the British Legation might do, if he can vouch that you are a man of character.”
He chortled with glee. “I never thought I’d have to ask the envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary to secure me a wife, but I will speak with him first thing in the morning.”
“Will it be an embarrassing conversation?”
“No, it will be a delightful one, one of the most delightful conversations I will ever hold in my life—or he in his,” he declared.
They chatted for some time about their future married life, what they would do and where they would live—and concluded that they needed not come to a decision any time soon. There were many places they wanted to visit again and for the first time—they would settle down when they came to the right place at the right time.
They had already said good night to each other when he remembered something. “By the way—and I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while—but is there really such a thing as the snow chrysanthemum of Kunlun Shan, or did you make it up, like the frost sheep of the Heavenly Mountains?”
She laughed softly. “Yes, there really is such a thing as the snow chrysanthemum of Kunlun Shan. And this reminds me, there is something I’ve also been meaning to ask you. Do you remember that house you hired for me in London, so I’d have a safe place to stay?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You left a note for me in that house. The very last line of that note was written in Turkic—and you know I can’t read in that language. What does it say?”
He thought for a moment. “Why don’t you offer me a bribe for the answer?”
Her lips touched his. He tsked at the inadequacy of her gesture. She kissed him more fully, the tip of her tongue gliding along his teeth. Still he disapproved. She snorted, fitted her body to his, slipped her hand between his legs, and kissed him again.
Which led to a good, long while of intense pleasure and nothing else.
It was only afterward that she asked, her voice drowsy, “So what does it say, anyway?”
He drew the bedcover over her and held her secure in his arms. “It says, The one who loves you, always.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Da-ren is not a name, but an expression of respect, meaning “great personage,” which is why Ying-ying uses the term both to refer to her stepfather and to address him directly as such.
The author has absolutely no experience with real-life martial arts. The martial arts elements in this book are depicted as they would be in wuxia novels, a genre of Chinese literature that centers on practitioners of martial arts who reach near mythical levels of power and agility.
If you would like to know more about Ying-ying and Leighton, The Hidden Blade, the prequel to My Beautiful Enemy, is available at your favorite vendor of e-books and by print-on-demand. The Hidden Blade narrates the events of Ying-ying’s and Leighton’s formative years that have made them who they are, events the repercussions of which are still very much felt in My Beautiful Enemy.
Read on for a special preview of another irresistible romance from Sherry Thomas
Available now from Headline Eternal
It was love at first sight.
Not that there was anything wrong with love at first sight, but Millicent Graves had not been raised to fall in love at all, let alone hard and fast.
She was the only surviving child of a very prosperous man who manufactured tinned goods and other preserved edibles. It had been decided, long before she could comprehend such things, that she was going to Marry Well—that via her person, the family’s fortune would be united with an ancient and illustrious title.
Millie’s childhood had therefore consisted of endless lessons: music, drawing, penmanship, elocution, deportment, and, when there was time left, modern languages. At ten, she successfully floated down a long flight of stairs with three books on her head. By twelve, she could exchange hours of pleasantries in French, Italian, and German. And on the day of her fourteenth birthday, Millie, not at all a natural musician, at last conquered Listz’s Douze Grandes Études, by dint of sheer effort and determination.
That same year, with her father coming to the conclusion that she would never be a great beauty, nor indeed a beauty of any kind, the search began for a highborn groom desperate enough to marry a girl whose family wealth derived from—heaven forbid—sardines.
The search came to an end twenty months later. Mr. Graves was not particularly thrilled with the choice, as the earl who agreed to take his daughter in exchange for his money had a title that was neither particularly ancient nor particularly illustrious. But the stigma attached to tinned sardines was such that even this earl demanded Mr. Graves’s last penny.
And then, after months of haggling, after all the agreements had finally been drawn up and signed, the earl had the inconsideration to drop dead at the age of thirty-three. Or rather, Mr. Graves viewed his death a thoughtless affront. Millie, in the privacy of her room, wept.
She’d seen the earl only twice and had not been overjoyed with either his anemic looks or his dour temperament. But he, in his wa
y, had had as little choice as she. The estate had come to him in terrible disrepair. His schemes of improvement had made little to no difference. And when he’d tried to land an heiress of a more exalted background, he’d failed resoundingly, likely because he’d been so unimpressive in both appearance and demeanor.
A more spirited girl might have rebelled against such an unprepossessing groom, seventeen years her elder. A more enterprising girl might have persuaded her parents to let her take her chances on the matrimonial mart. Millie was not either of those girls.
She was a quiet, serious child who understood instinctively that much was expected of her. And while it was desirable that she could play all twelve of the Grandes Études rather than just eleven, in the end her training was not about music—or languages, or deportment—but about discipline, control, and self-denial.
Love was never a consideration. Her opinions were never a consideration. Best that she remained detached from the process, for she was but a cog in the great machinery of Marrying Well.
That night, however, she sobbed for this man, who, like her, had no say in the direction of his own life.
But the great machinery of Marrying Well ground on. Two weeks after the late Earl Fitzhugh’s funeral, the Graves hosted his distant cousin the new Earl Fitzhugh for dinner.
Millie knew very little of the late earl. She knew even less of the new one, except that he was only nineteen, still in his last year at Eton. His youth disturbed her somewhat—she’d been prepared to marry an older man, not someone close to her own age. But other than that, she dwelled on him not at all: Her marriage was a business transaction; the less personal involvement from her, the more smoothly things would run.
Unfortunately, her indifference—and her peace of mind—came to an abrupt end the moment the new earl walked in the door.
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