by Jade Lee
She watched him pick up his things, his movements beautifully graceful, his gait a kind of rolling, balanced movement she had seen only on seasoned sailors. And yet his stride was different somehow; he moved in a way wholly his own.
She had questions, but still no voice to ask them. So she remained silent, though her muscles began to ache at the way she was curled into herself. Then, as she watched, the man unrolled a blanket from beneath his heavy pack. It was thin and coarse—a poor man's blanket—and yet she'd never felt better than when he wrapped it around her shoulders.
It smelled of him, she realized, and she inhaled deeply to further hold his power within her lungs. Her conscious mind identified Chinese herbs and the scent of fresh weather, though what exactly that meant, she wasn't sure. But mostly she closed her eyes and felt calm slip into her soul, a quietness she rarely experienced.
"Thank you," she said in Shanghainese. She hadn't even realized she'd spoken until she heard his question, this time in the dialect she understood.
"Are you hurt?"
She didn't want to answer his question. Truthfully, she didn't want to think about the bruises or pains from what had just happened. But the memories came anyway, and she began to shudder.
"They are gone now," he said flatly. "I will keep you safe."
She looked up at him, her gaze drawn to his. She saw the dark pupils of his eyes expand and felt pulled forward, straight into him. He was looking at her with total attention—not even blinking as he seemed to press his strength into her. So she wrapped that thought, that feeling, around her tighter than his blanket.
"Promise?" she whispered. "You'll keep me safe?" Her voice was small in a way that embarrassed her. And yet she could not change it because she felt like a child, desperately in need of security. Or a woman who needed her rescuer—her very strong, male rescuer—close beside her.
Then she saw his face relax. For the first time since he'd appeared, he finally seemed human. He crouched down beside her. She watched him, her gaze never leaving his until they were nearly eye-to-eye.
"I will keep you safe," he promised. Then he put his hand on her shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but it seemed to surround her in a hot, strange wind so welcome to her chilled American soul.
She breathed deeply again, at last easing her grip on his blanket. "Thank you," she whispered. And a few moments later, she found she was able to speak normally. "I'm not hurt," she said firmly, as much to reassure herself as to communicate with him. "They didn't have time... You came before..." She swallowed, searching for the right words, but he stopped her.
"I understand." Then she felt his body shift as he looked around. "Is that your horse?"
Joanna looked in the direction he indicated, and she saw Octavia calmly sniffing the dead grass. The mare stood with her injured leg tilted up, and once again Joanna felt the bite of guilt. This one day's impetuousness had hurt her mare, endangered herself, and involved this man in a terrible fight.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered as she looked at her rescuer. "I've hurt her and..." She swallowed, seeing a swelling bruise on the man's jaw. "And you, too." She struggled to stand, determined not to cause any more problems.
He helped her up, but when she tried to give him back his blanket, the man simply shook his head. "You are not warm enough yet," he said. And only then, as he stood beside her, did she hear the undercurrent of fury in his voice. It was a low, steady anger that had been there from the very beginning.
"Your jaw..." she began, but her words trailed away when she didn't know what to say.
He frowned, touching his cheek as if only now realizing he'd been struck. "I will see to your horse." He walked quickly, speaking gently to Octavia in Chinese. Indeed, his words seemed to hold more warmth for the animal than they had for her.
Joanna abruptly stopped herself. What was she thinking? She couldn't possibly be jealous of her horse. Just because her rescuer had shifted his attention from her to Octavia? It was ridiculous, and yet honesty forced her to admit it was true. She wanted this man's attention firmly and completely on her. And what a spoiled creature that made her! After all, she was fine. Octavia was hurt.
And so Joanna went on her best behavior as she walked to her mare's side.
Octavia was often skittish, so Joanna was surprised when the horse didn't even blink as her rescuer began stroking her neck. He spoke more Chinese, his words low and too fast for Joanna to understand. But apparently Octavia did. The mare snorted once, then remained still as the man ran his hands across her injured shoulder, down her leg, then all the way to her hoof. His murmuring grew silent as he moved, and Joanna stepped back to give him more room.
She didn't think he had much experience with horses. His touch seemed hesitant and slow, not at all like the sure movements of the grooms her father employed. But Octavia seemed to like this man, even closing her eyes to half drowse as her twitching skin steadied and stilled.
There was nothing he could do to help Octavia; Joanna already knew that rest and poultices were the mare's best hope. She began to say so, but the man had such an air of attention about him that she did not want to break his concentration. So she waited in silence, watching and trying not to feel jealous as he lavished the mare with long, soothing strokes of his hand.
Joanna stared at the man's dusty bald head, her brain finally working enough to understand that he must be a monk. Monks were the only ones in China who were allowed to shave off their long queues symbolic of obedience to the Qin Empire.
She frowned. She didn't know of a monastery nearby. But then she saw that his head wasn't wholly bald. What she had initially believed to be dirt was actually the beginnings of hair growth, darkening his head with a soft fuzz. He must be traveling. That was the only reason new hair would be allowed.
She extended her hand, having the most powerful urge to touch the man's head, to feel the new hair. Or did she simply want to touch him? To reconnect with this most amazing man. Whatever the case, she stopped herself, curling her hands into fists to prevent so rude a gesture.
Then, suddenly, he was done.
He had been holding up Octavia's hoof, but now he set it carefully back on the ground. The horse shifted immediately, settling her weight upon the leg and snorting something that sounded like approval. Joanna stared, unable to do more than state the obvious.
"She's better!"
"Her qi is strong. She is a good horse." Then the man stood, resting his hand on Octavia's shoulder in much the same way he had touched Joanna a few moments before.
Joanna protested, "But she was hurt. Badly. I thought... I feared that my father—"
"She will heal." The man glared at her. "But you should be whipped."
Joanna reared back, shocked. It didn't matter that she'd thought the same thing just a moment before; he had no right to speak that way to her. "How dare you!" she hissed.
His eyes widened. Apparently no woman had ever spoken in such a way to him, either. But his surprise faded almost before she understood his reaction. Abruptly he was looming over her, his entire body taut with fury. "I dare," he snarled, "because she is a living creature of value. She is not a toy or a pet. And women need to be taught how to treat such beings before they destroy them with their stupidity."
"I know how to handle my horse!" Joanna snapped, more irritated with herself than with him. He stood barely an inch taller than her; his clothing marked him as one of the wretched poor, and yet she felt intimidated down to the very pit of her stomach. Intimidated enough that she was fighting back with every fiber of her being, despite the fact that she already knew she had acted irresponsibly.
So she turned her back on him. She lifted his blanket off her shoulders, folding it carefully as she spoke.
"Thank you for your assistance. If you provide me with your name and direction, I shall see that you are well compensated for your assistance."
"Give me your horse."
Her head shot up, his blanket tumbling awkwardly from her grip. "I b
eg your pardon?"
He stood with his legs spread, his arms folded across his large chest. "You wish to repay me. I wish for your mistreated horse."
Her gaze shot to her mare, who stood quietly at attention, not even eating the grass but waiting patiently, as if ready to be handed over. Joanna turned back to the man. "Octavia is not mistreated!" she snapped.
"If that were so, then she would not be lame."
"She is not lame!" Indeed, right now Octavia looked as if she could even bear a rider. Joanna wouldn't risk it, but the horse truly looked as hale as ever.
The man was apparently unswayed. "You owe me a debt. You said so yourself. I wish your horse. Nothing could be simpler."
"Nothing could be more ridiculous," she snapped. "You can't even feed and clothe yourself. You cannot manage a horse as well." And with those words, she picked up the man's blanket, awkwardly tossing it at him. He caught it midflight, quickly refolding it into a tight, smooth roll.
Then he shrugged. "I will see that she gains a good home."
"She has a good home now," Joanna retorted, finally gaining enough fury to gather the reins. She meant to pass beyond him, to move as fast as the mare could tolerate. But the man stopped her with a single outstretched hand. He didn't touch her, but she found herself unable to physically challenge him.
"There are Boxers nearby. Do you wish to be unprotected again?"
Her entire body clenched at his words, and her spine seemed to slick over with ice.
"Do you?" he pressed.
"Then you are not..." She swallowed. "You are not one of the Fists of Righteous Harmony?"
He straightened as if slapped. "I am a loyal Qin!"
"Of course, of course," she soothed. "But those men. They couldn't be..." Her voice trailed away. They couldn't possibly be the revolutionaries. Not when they'd acted no more honorably than a bunch of dirty highwaymen.
"They were," he said flatly. "And you are a fool to have thought differently."
She nodded, too sick at heart to argue. So much for her great vision of bringing American freedom to struggling Chinese. She certainly couldn't risk contacting those men again. The very thought left her as shaken and vulnerable as when he'd first found her. The only thing she could do to steady herself was to continue talking—arguing—with this man. If she kept talking, perhaps she wouldn't melt into a puddle of terror.
"Please, sir," she said as evenly as possible. "Come to my home. See that our horses are well cared for."
He didn't answer at first, and she found herself twisting uncomfortably as she waited. She did not want to be alone on this road. She did not wish to be left unprotected again. And despite his arrogant behavior, she had the strangest urge to stay near him, to learn more about him, to... She started, appalled at her thoughts. She most certainly didn't want to do that with him. But she did. Most powerfully so, it seemed.
Thankfully, he chose that moment to speak, cutting off her startling realization. "I will come," he said flatly. "But only to see that you are properly whipped."
Hungry Tigress
The Way of The Tigress
Book Two
by
Jade Lee
~
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Hungry Tigress
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Page forward and continue your journey
with an excerpt from Jade Lee's
Desperate Tigress
The Way of The Tigress
Book Three
Excerpt from
Desperate Tigress
The Way of The Tigress
Book Three
by
Jade Lee
USA Today Bestselling Author
A businessman was trying to teach his young son to talk flexibly—neither saying yes or no, but remaining ambiguous. "For example," he said, "if someone wanted to borrow food, you could answer, 'I don't know whether we have that or not. Let me have a look, and I will tell you later.'"
The boy kept his father's words in mind, so when a visitor asked if his father was in, the son replied:
"I'm sorry. Some are in, some are not. Let me have a look, and I will tell you later."
Chapter 1
Shanghai, 1898
She knew!
The white woman knew the way to Heaven! Shi Po pounded down the stairs to the front hallway, her bound feet protesting every stunned, angry, awed and gleeful step. She had no idea how she could feel all those things at once, especially since she had felt nothing for so many years. But she did. And her feet protested, pain forcing her to soften her steps.
In any case, it would be suicide to enter a general's presence appearing anything other than vapidly stupid, so Shi Po moderated her pace and pasted on her face an expression of ox-like placidity. She would appear as any wealthy woman in China: a useless thing of beauty. The servants handed her a tea tray, and she was soon pushing into the receiving room while struggling to quiet her spirit.
The General was an ugly man. That was her first thought. Not ugly in a physical sense, but in his fortune. His body was handsome enough, she supposed. His shoulders were broad and imposing, especially with his leather armor; his Manchu queue was dark and thick, the tight braid clubbed close to his head. But his face revealed the ugliness of bad fortune. His head was short and compact, depicting little luck, except for his chin which was long and pointed, suggesting a happier old age. His earlobes were also long and full, but Shi Po did not trust that. She guessed that his mother had tugged incessantly at his ears to counteract the fortune in his face.
The most damning evidence of all, though, was not in his body, but in the stench that pervaded the room. Horse and man and Shanghai mud produced a commonplace odor, a thick and sour stench that burned the back of one's nostrils. But all men in Shanghai carried that particular curse to some degree. It was the other smell that made Shi Po duck her head and wish for her perfumed oils. He carried the decay-like scent of fear covered by anger. And the smell of old blood.
This man was a killer. Not just a general of the Imperial Qin army, but a murderer of innocents. Of that she was certain.
"Tea, your honor," she said as she minced through the room. "To pass the time until my husband returns." She wished she'd had time to change out of her red skirt with the fashionable slits up to mid-thigh; she had no desire to display herself before this man. But perhaps the garb would help her appear completely useless.
One look at the General's thickly compressed eyebrows damped Shi Po's hopes. He saw through her feigned stupidity. And even if he didn't, this man disposed of useless, silly things. Of course, that did not stop the man from studying her face and body closely. Lust twisted his features as his gaze traveled from her high knot of black hair across features that she knew appeared extraordinarily young. Though she was nearing her fortieth year, her skin was milky white and her eyes and lips were expertly painted to appear lush. Her bones had always been fine, but her Tigress practice made her entire body lithe and willowy. Youth and beauty were a natural by-product of that practice. All her students drew the eye as they moved, Shi Po most of all. So she remained as still as she could, even though it hurt her tiny bound feet.
"You are Tan Shi Po?" he demanded in his northern Mandarin dialect.
She dipped in a respectful bow, answering in kind, though the language was difficult for her, Shanghai-born as she was. "Yes, your honor."
"When will your husband return?"
"He was sent for the moment you arrived." She folded her body onto a pillow near a low table.
All the cushions in Shi Po's home were scented with soothing, pleasant herbs, and the one she settled on was no different. So as she leaned forward to mix leaves and hot water in the General's cup, she should have inhaled the sweet scent of radish seed and cinnamon, ci shi
and sandalwood. She didn't. Instead, she smelled the same vile mixture of fear and anger, rising like steam from her own skin.
She hated that women must serve as mirrors to men, reflecting their emotions. Women in the Empire had no voice of their own. They did as they were told, hiding their true selves or risking abuse and death. Even Shi Po as head Tigress—especially Shi Po—had to appear subservient. But there was power in submission, especially when one became a mirror. When one showed a man what he wanted to see most of all: himself. His emotions and desires. Shi Po had perfected that skill to the point of unconscious reaction. She reflected all around her whether she willed it or not. So when the General showed fear, she shared it with him. His anger sparked her rage. And no amount of tea or sweet herbs could cover the disgusting fumes that now rose from both of their bodies.
Shi Po poured the General's tea, her hands steady through an act of will. But all the while her thoughts writhed in her mind, searching for escape. Where was her husband? Surely he would be found soon. Kui Yu would not disregard an Imperial summons, especially when it came in the form of the most powerful general in China. He would be here soon, she reassured herself, and with his return, she could regain her calm. She would absorb her husband's quietness; her fear would fade, the rage dissipate, and she would be in balance again. As soon as Kui Yu returned.
"Might I know how to best serve your honor?" she simpered to the General, forcing herself into the aspect of total feminine subservience.
The man sipped his tea and grimaced before setting it aside. She had chosen tea leaves to purify and soothe, but he pushed his cup away. Clearly his spirit had no desire to moderate its temper. She bowed her head, softening her body in an attempt to distort the mirror she was; she did not want to increase her reflection of his foul aspect.
