The Dragon Earl Read online

  "Well," Evelyn said as the door shut behind the last straggler, "I suppose it's time to hear from the . . . er, from Mr. Grayson." She'd almost said "chickens," which was a clear indication of how upsetting this whole situation was.

  "You may sit beside me, wife," the madman intoned. He nodded regally to indicate where.

  "I think not," Evelyn responded, startled by her sudden urge to laugh. Fortunately, the exchange prompted Christo­pher to stop fussing at his mother and to turn to her. He was beside Evelyn in a moment, taking her hand and escorting her gently to a place beside the countess. Unfortunately, the woman's sobs made it rather hard to hear.

  "I am terribly sorry about this, Miss Stanton," said the younger Mr. Grayson. He bowed deeply in front of her. "Terribly sorry, but we got here as fast as we could."

  "My grandson is an idiot!" snapped the elder Mr. Grayson. "Interrupting a wedding like this! If you had just waited an hour, then this poor gel wouldn't be in the middle of it. Con­tract or no contract, she would have been wed!" He folded his arms and looked most put out.

  "But. . . but she thought she'd be wedding an earl—or at least a future one!"

  "She is!" bellowed the current earl.

  Evelyn stood up, crossing to Christopher's side because she wanted to hear and because she did not want to become trapped into comforting the countess. "Please, please, forget my situation right now. You can't possibly suggest that this . . . this . . ." How did one refer to an Englishman in yellow robes? "That his claims are true." And why was he staring at her like that, steady eyed, without apparent emotion, completely fo­cused upon her? It was disconcerting. She resolved to ignore him completely in favor of her husband-to-be.

  "He is a charlatan!" bellowed the earl.

  "I'm terribly, terribly sorry," babbled the younger Mr. Grayson, "but I believe this to be Jacob. I am so sorry."

  Evelyn frowned at the man, wondering why he was apolo­gizing to her. After all, Christopher's father was the one who would lose the tide. But that was ridiculous, since this mad­man wasn't the rightful earl. Either way, her place was beside her fiancé, so she smiled reassuringly at Christopher. His face was pale and set, his lips compressed into a thin line. And his gray-blue eyes glinted with steel as he stared at the madman.

  "What is the proof?" he demanded.

  "There is no proof!" bellowed his father, stomping for­ward. "We have the signet ring." He lifted his hand to wave the item. "Reggie went off to China and was slaughtered. The only survivor . . ." He turned and glared at the madman. "The only survivor was his valet, who saw it all. Higgins told us everything. Everyone was slaughtered except him. He stayed hidden, sneaked back to get the ring, then made it here to me." He turned to the young Mr. Grayson. "That is what happened. I am the earl, and there will be a wedding!"

  From his place in the front pew the Chinaman turned, his expression fierce. "Higgins did survive! We searched the bodies and couldn't find him. I thought he'd gone home. I thought he'd tell someone I was alive. Why didn't you send someone back for me?" His voice was rising in clear fury even though his body remained absolutely still. It was as if he restrained all muscles but couldn't control the emotion in his voice. Or the burning intensity in his eyes.

  "Because Jacob died!" bellowed the earl. "And you are a miscreant thief!"

  "I wish that were true, sir," the younger solicitor inserted. "But he remembers things. We played together as boys, you recall. He remembers me."

  The earl spun around to glare at the older Mr. Grayson. "Control your man, sir, then fetch the reverend."

  But it was Christopher who stepped forward to glare at the madman. "What was your horse's name?"

  The madman's gaze turned abstract as he looked not at Christopher but over his shoulder. "Zeus," he answered.

  "Where did you hide your toy soldiers?"

  "Under my bed."

  "Did you have a pet?"

  "A dog named Apollo. And the barn cat Ginger."

  The elder Mr. Grayson snorted. "That's hardly proof. Every boy has a dog and a barn cat. And toy soldiers are always under the bed!"

  "Look at me, God damn it!"

  Everyone abruptly stared at Christopher, Evelyn included. She had never heard him raise his voice before, much less bel­low a curse in the middle of a church. His face was flushed, his eyes sparked like flint and tinder, and for the first time in her life Evelyn actually believed that Christopher was related to his choleric father.

  One glance at the madman showed that he, too, was now looking at Christopher. No expression, no emotion, his was just a simple, steady stare.

  Silence.

  No one dared interrupt as Christopher continued to glare. For a madman, the Chinaman possessed remark-able compo­sure. In truth, he was completely and totally calm, whereas Christopher's breath began to huff and his hands were tighten­ing into fists.

  Then Christopher abruptly relaxed. His fists opened, his shoulders dropped, and in a low, calm tone, he said five very distinct words: "I do not believe you."

  "Well, of course not!" his father began, but Christopher raised his hand and silenced his father.

  "I remember Jacob as wild and loud and"—he glanced apologetically at the earl—"very much like my father." His gaze returned to the madman. "You are not Jacob. You may leave before we call the constable."

  "You are my cousin Christopher. You had freckles on your nose and talked about sheep manure. You wanted to go to sea and be a pirate, and when we played soldiers you always wanted to be the French. You said it would prove you were smarter than any frog when you beat me." He frowned and' shifted his gaze to a spot in the air over Evelyn's shoulder. "That is all I remember of you."

  It didn't matter. No one cared what a madman claimed to remember. But at the very moment Evelyn decided every­thing was settled, Christopher's grandmother let out a wail. It was loud, it echoed, and it sounded of equal parts joy and ter­ror. She struggled to her feet, using her cane to hobble around the pew.

  "It is you!" she sobbed. "It's James! I knew it! I knew it!" And she went to throw her arms around the startled madman.

  "Nana! Stop that!" Christopher cried as he tried to restrain the elderly woman. Evelyn also leaped forward, but the dowa­ger countess pushed them both away.

  "James used to speak just like that!" she cried. "That was James—stiff and arrogant!"

  "Mother," the earl ground out behind them, "James was your husband. James is dead."

  She glared at him with watery eyes. "I know that, you idiot, but I raised this boy. I would remember. Besides, there's proof!" With surprisingly quick movements, she abruptly shoved down the edge of the madman's robe, baring his shoulder and chest all the way to his left nipple. Evelyn gasped and tried to force herself to look away. She ... didn't. She couldn't. She'd never guessed that a man could have such a well-developed chest.

  Meanwhile, Lady Warhaven pointed at a moon-shaped scar, half-faded but still obvious. "You did that to him! Don't you remember? You were riding too recklessly with him, and he fell right in those horrible bushes." She lifted her chin. "This is Jacob."

  "Don't be ridiculous—" began the earl, but he was cut off as his mother turned directly to Evelyn.

  "And you, young lady," she continued, "will marry the correct grandson!"

  Chapter Two

  His future wife was a liar. Jacob closed his eyes and reminded himself that his true name—his monastic name—was Jie Ke, and that Jie Ke did not care that Jacob's wife-to-be was beau­tiful, young, and sophisticated. It did not matter, because he was not Jacob. He was a monk of the Xi Lin Temple—or rather he would be if he ever got through this ridiculous sham. And Jie Ke had no interest whatsoever in Miss Evelyn Stanton.

  Against his will, he opened his eyes and found himself looking at her face. The monks had taught him how to read a person's future from their face. It was a Chinese belief, but one he had studied because it was fun. It taught him how to spot falsehoods of the flesh, and if nothing else, it had told him what
the Chinese looked at when they saw a person. For example, a Chinese person would see that her light blue eyes were like his own, suggesting that the two of them were the same. Obviously a he. Perhaps they were once similar in race, social status, and family friendships. But he was nothing like the boy he'd been. Ergo, she was nothing like him.

  He looked at her nose, which was sweet, just long enough to signify honesty but not too long. This indicated a benefi­cial middle life. This fortune was echoed in her ears, which were centrally placed on her head, and the lobes were elegantly long, smartly accented by pearl-drop earrings. Then, best of all, her mouth was large enough to show fortune—and she kept it closed, showing that she knew her place among the men who dictated her fate.

  He tried not to grimace. A Chinese man would see a per­fect wife. An Englishman would likely see the same. But Jie Ke did not want her. Her aspect promised riches and a life spent free from want, but his spirit was above want, and his only joy came from solitude and his meditations on merging with the divine. This woman was a gift for a blessed earthly life. Something he did not want. She would make a good wife for anyone but him.

  Anyone but him. He trapped that thought in his mind and held it fast. Fortunately, he had performed a more thorough perusal of the woman, which made such a conclusion easier. He noted her peaked breasts and willow waist—both attri­butes of beauty—but then his gaze had landed on her most terrible flaw: large feet. She had big feet like a peasant's, and yet he knew she did not have the peasant's primary virtue, being able to cook good rice. Here then was something he could revile in her, even if her feet were encased in pretty slippers that peeked out from beneath her gown and sug­gested—

  Jacob abruptly pushed up from the pew, unwilling to spend another moment considering his future wife's beauty. "Enough squabbling for one day," he said in his holiest tone. It was a deep sound, filled with his chi energy, and it never failed to command attention. Even his flushed and angry uncle quieted.

  "Oh yes," whispered Nana. "Just like James . . ."

  Jacob looked away rather than into the fond eyes of his grandmother. She was his oldest living ancestor and the only human reason he had returned to this ignorant land. But looking at her set his mind to churning. He remembered cakes and toy soldiers, pipes and rose water, and jumping down the stairs from halfway up. He had felt so free then. . . .

  He turned away from his memories to address his onetime playmate, Tom. The boy was now a lawyer, and he did not show well next to his stately grandfather, but Jacob liked him the better for it. "What is the next task?" he asked. "When do I wed the girl?"

  "When you have proof!" snapped the elder Grayson, be­fore Tom could frame a response. "I told you before, you need proof. Or you might as well just go back to China." He turned to glare at his grandson. "And the gel would have been out of it if you had just let things be."

  Jacob felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten. Even as a boy, he'd disliked the elder Grayson. The man smelled of old leather and dirty smoke. Maybe he knew who had killed his family. Weeks ago, Jacob had forced himself to see the man. Though his memories of England were often sketchy, he re­membered many hours spent with Tom while their elders were closeted together. He'd remembered the name Grayson, and that the Graysons were his family's solicitors. Therefore, that was whom he'd sought out to assert his claim to the tide and to set his legal affairs in order. In retrospect, he might have done better with somebody entirely new.

  The elder Grayson had met with him, listened with barely restrained impatience, and promised to look into matters most thoroughly. But within a week, Jacob had guessed the sneer­ing elder was delaying matters. All Jacob's inquiries were turned aside for one reason after another. With the date of the wedding approaching rapidly, Jacob had finally found Tom. The two had many shared memories, so it had been rel­atively easy to convince his childhood friend of his identity. And then Tom had brought him here.

  "But he is the earl!" Tom asserted, his voice shaking only the tiniest bit. Jacob nodded encouragingly. Torn was a good fellow, passionate in the best possible way. That would serve him well if he could harness the strength.

  "Ridiculous!" bellowed Jacob's Uncle Frank, the one who currently held Jacob's tide. If Tom didn't contain his passion, he would end up similarly choleric. Maybe Uncle Frank had let his passions get away from him and killed his family. Jacob remembered one time when—

  Jacob ground his teeth as his thoughts slipped again into memory and useless speculation. With an act of will, he sup­pressed them, only to have pain burn through his forehead and a sneeze tickle his nose. This was how it worked in England for him. Every step, every place reminded him of something. And with those memories came loss of focus and wandering thoughts. Every minute he lingered in England had him losing sight of his goals. He needed to leave this country soon. He needed to return to the temple and find peace—in mind and body. But first he had to deal with a wandering wife-to-be.

  He straightened his shoulders and put power into his voice. "The wind howls," he intoned. "The waters crash against the rocks. . . ." He looked at his bride. "And women weep. But the mountain remains unchanged."

  Everyone stared at him, completely dumbfounded. If he were them, he'd stare too. When the abbot of the Xi Lin Temple said things like that, everyone was impressed; when he tried, no one understood. That was because he was a fail­ure at attaining the peak, at reaching Heaven, at everything.

  "My scar is proof," he said to Tom. "If there are questions, I will answer them. But I am the earl!" Did he sound like a petulant child? "I will have my tide and my bride."

  I am the mountain, he reminded himself in his thoughts. A mountain at peace. A mountain in silence. A mountain outside of this stifling, old church. He glanced at his dearest friend Zhi Min. Why did the man look amused? Why did he always look amused? "We will go now," Jacob intoned. "We can stay at the dower house."

  "The hell you say!" Christopher started forward, his anger a palpable force.

  Jacob whirled around to face his cousin. The man's chal­lenge echoed in the massive stone building, and Jacob's pain increased in direct proportion. He had to tense his back and lock his shoulders to keep from wincing. Then he had to ex­tend his arms to keep his balance while facing the cousin who had once been his best friend. Was there any of the light-hearted boy left inside Chris? Was there any left inside Jacob? What if Christopher was the one who'd had his par­ents exterminated?

  "You are not moving into my house!" bellowed Christo­pher.

  Pain burst behind Jacob's eyes, but he had already frozen his expression. What a surprise, to see that kind of passion from cold Christopher! Obviously, underneath Chris's calm exterior roared an inferno of emotion like his father's.

  "Where should I stay, then?" Jacob asked. Anger began to build along with his pain. Anger that could only be con­trolled by an act of will.

  "Go back to your rathole in China," groused his uncle. "You'll never see one groat."

  "This must be handled in London," inserted the elder Mr. Grayson.

  "He hasn't the money," returned the younger. "Then let him find a rat's nest—"

  Pain fractured Jacob's vision. The men were squabbling like chickens again. Worse, in this place each pronouncement echoed, the sounds returning again and again to beat at his ears. He couldn't take much more. Soon, his anger and his thirst for revenge would win, and they would all be dead. Vengeance didn't really care who it hurt. He looked about him, stretching for calm, wishing for peace. All he saw was a cold, stone edifice. Wasn't there a warm wooden temple any­where in England?

  "He will stay at the manor house," interrupted Evelyn, her voice thankfully low enough that it didn't echo.

  Christopher rounded on her, his eyes wide with betrayal. "No! I couldn't ask that of you. It's too much."

  The young woman frowned, her eyes softening. Jacob might not have noticed, but his gaze was fixed on her, his body com­pletely still as he fought the pain in his head and the bloodlust in his he
art. He saw every twitch of her mobile lips, her rose-tinted skin, and the lift and lowering of her breasts as she spoke. Except, mountains didn't notice that sort of thing and he was at one with a mountain. He was at peace like a mountain....

  "Don't be ridiculous," she continued. "We have room for him."

  "He can return to my home with—" Nana offered.

  "I accept your offer, my wife," Jacob interrupted. In part, he was fleeing his grandmother's suggestion. The idea of staying in her house—so filled with memories—made his teeth ache.

  "She's my wife!" snapped Chris.

  "I'm no one's wife yet," said the woman in question.

  Jacob focused on her creamy, white skin as a way to block out everything else. Maybe she knew who'd killed his par­ents. "It would be good for us to learn about one another," he said to her. She would feel better about the wedding if she knew him better.

  The younger solicitor spoke up. "That is most generous of you," he inserted, his glance hopping uneasily between Eve­lyn and his grandfather. "But I'm sure it would be somewhat awkward. Perhaps there is a local inn?"

  Evelyn's lips compressed. She'd done that a lot as a child; it was what Jacob most remembered. The way her lips pressed together or quivered or opened for sweets. But she hadn't eaten the sweets on the day they'd first met. He'd had—

  "Look at him," she said to the group at large. "He is English. Of that we can all be sure."

  "An English thief with a wild imagination," boomed Un­cle Frank. "He will steal the silver the first time your back is turned."

  Again, Evelyn's lips tightened, and the shoulder nearest

  Uncle Frank lifted. She didn't like her fiancé's father, Jacob realized. Well, apparently no one did. But they thought him an earl, so they paid him a great deal of deference. Would they do that to him when he gained the tide? But—