The Dragon Earl Read online

  He stiffened, as she knew he would, but she did not give him time to object.

  "I will not have him coming to me claiming that you did not pay him." Then she softened her body, leaning toward him. "You will be there to keep me safe and to impress upon the man that he will not return. We will appear a united front against this pretender. Besides," she added as she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, "it will be good practice for me. My first act as a countess-to-be." She straightened and beamed at him. "It is very important that I learn such things, you know."

  He looked at her, his eyebrows arching to show that he was not in the least bit fooled. He knew she was attempting to manipulate him. "Evie, it is not safe."

  "Christopher, you will be at my side."

  "I was at your side this morning, and it did not help in the least."

  She bit her lip. What could she say to that? He was right. Jie Ke had easily bested him in a fight. "I thought you were very brave," she pressed. Flattery was the surest way to divert the man.

  Unfortunately, Christopher was not so easily distracted. He abruptly pushed away from the desk and began pacing in agitation. "Evie, I do not trust him. And I certainly don't want you in the same county with the madman!"

  She leaned against the desk and put one hand on the strong­box. "Then let us pay him off together and be done with it."

  He grimaced as he swung back to glare at her. She held his stare for a long time, remaining quiet, calm, and absolutely firm. In the end, he relented with a sigh.

  "Very well. I shall meet with you here at dawn. Any later, and I will be gone."

  Evelyn nodded. "Agreed." Then, again they stood looking at one another, this time from opposite sides of the library. He seemed to want something from her. She hovered on the tips of her toes, ready to do whatever it was that he desired. But she didn't know what, and he clearly had no idea how to tell her.

  In the end, he simply shrugged. "Everything will be better when we are wed. This I promise, Evie."

  "I know, Christopher. I swear I will be a proper wife to you. I have been well trained for it all my life."

  He nodded and left, and she knew she had said exactly what he wanted. Unfortunately, her words left an increasingly cold place in her heart. She felt like a volcano slowly going dead inside, all warmth fading away. The exterior would remain— even flourish—but inside all would be cold and dead.

  Evelyn pulled herself out of bed before dawn, knowing Christopher would hold to the letter of his decree. If she wasn't in the library by dawn, he would use that excuse to pay off Jie Ke himself. She wasn't quite sure why she wanted to be there. After all, Chris was right: this was more properly dealt with by men. But her future was at stake. She would see it through to the end.

  She dressed for warmth. The cold wind that had been blowing on her wedding day had continued through the night. Her yawning maid helped her into another brown vel­vet gown, this one with bluebells painted on it. She wasn't sure why she liked it. Christopher had once said blue flowers on brown made him think of a women's frivolous garden and therefore were not appropriate to a countess. But she partic­ularly liked that image, and so had developed a fondness for the dress.

  She sent her maid back to bed and slipped downstairs to the library. No one was about. Even the servants were strangely absent. Then she heard two maids whispering in the dining room. She meant to resist. After all, a countess would have lit-de interest in servants' gossip. But when they began to giggle, she couldn't stop herself from wandering over. Gliding with silent dignity—something she had practiced for years—she stepped into the formal dining area to find two maids and a groom peering out the window.

  She moved closer, but couldn't see over their shoulders. Then the groom, a London import, whispered, "Blimey!"

  "Mr. Foster, might I inquire as to what is so interesting in my back garden?"

  All three spun around, red staining their cheeks. The maids immediately dropped into hurried curtsies and left the poor groom to answer.

  "Er, it's the Chinamen, miss. I, uh, I was about to ask Mr. Thornley if he ... if something should be done about it."

  Evelyn stepped closer and stretched as tall as she could, but the three servants still blocked the view. "Perhaps I could make a determination if you would just step—"

  "Oh no, miss," one of the maids gasped.

  "Begging your pardon, miss," Mr. Foster said. "Perhaps if your mother were awake . . ."

  "Really?" she drawled, her curiosity firmly piqued. "Un­fortunately, she is not awake. Please, step aside."

  They had no choice but to obey, and Evelyn finally got to see outside.

  It was the Chinamen—or one of the Chinamen and Jie Ke—no doubt about that. Stripped naked and . . . dancing? She leaned forward, peering into the predawn gloom and try­ing to see past the bushes. They stood side by side, moving through motions that were clearly not a dance of any form she knew, and yet she recognized a beauty in everything they did. She could only see their upper bodies and their arms, which moved with lightning speed and absolute precision in quick jabs or sudden blocks. Then, to her complete frustration, the patterns of their dance took them behind the bushes; she could see nothing except the very tops of their shaved heads.

  She straightened away from the window. "Yes, I can see the problem," she said stiffly. "I believe I shall have a word with them."

  "But, miss—"

  She waved the groom to silence and then gave all of the servants instructions for their days. Her mother had long since stopped directing any of the staff, so it was up to Eve­lyn to make sure that idle hands did not cause bigger prob­lems. She sent the footman to remain at Aunt Betsy's beck and call. It was her aunt's most annoying foible that she needed to rearrange furniture wherever she was so that she could tell everyone where to stand and sit. One maid was dispatched to clean up the inevitable mess Aunt Betsy cre­ated, and the other was sent to learn every guest's favorite food. That had the added benefit of occupying some of the guests as well. Once all those tasks were assigned, Evelyn was free to proceed as quickly as possible out the door to the rear gardens.

  As she feared, the air was extremely chill and the grass wet. Her slippers soaked through in minutes, but that didn't slow her as she maneuvered the path and finally stepped around the shrubbery.

  Not naked. That was her first thought. They weren't naked. The two men wore a short kind of skirt about their loins. But that was all. Everything else was completely exposed, including their bare feet, which they lifted and lowered in a most im­modest display. Evelyn saw their sculpted torsos, their muscular thighs, and the way their hips and rippling stomachs stayed perfectly balanced, almost still, especially compared to the some­times lightning-fast movements of arms and legs. They were sparring, and yet she had never seen anything so beautiful.

  Her plan had been to step right into the center of the small grassy area and confront them. Any display that caused ser­vants to gape at windows was properly done in private. But once she'd moved past the shrubbery, she couldn't force her­self to interfere. Their motions were like ballet, only with raw power and a masculine energy that made her sweat.

  But then they stopped. She licked her lips to speak, but again she couldn't. The garden was so quiet in the predawn gray. Even their fighting had been done with reverence. While she watched, they bowed to one another then silently crossed to a stone bench where a large bowl rested. First the Chinaman, then Jie Ke lifted the plain wood bowl with both hands and drank with closed eyes. This close, she could see the physical differences between the two men. First off, de­spite the oddity of his behavior, Jie Ke was clearly an English­man. His skin was white, though it held a golden tone that came from hours in the sun. She could clearly see the tan marks from when he'd worn his robe on one shoulder. Most especially, she saw he had chest hair, a gentle darkening that aimed steadily downward past his navel.

  She swallowed as she studied that hair. She looked and she wondered and her palms itched to touch him. Th
en she remembered that she was a countess-to-be and jerked her gaze away.

  The other man was wholly Chinese, thinner of chest, though taller, with hairless skin—more slender, but power­fully muscled in his own right. In this light, she saw how sim­ilar he was to an Englishman in all the basic anatomical ways. It was Jie Ke who seemed different, not because he was white, but because he had an energy about him. It was contained and yet elemental, electrifying the air even when he did nothing more than drink.

  She had no idea how long she stood there, her gaze absorb­ing every tiny detail of Jie Ke's body, but eventually her eyes rose to his face to discover that he was watching her equally closely. Panic flared inside her hard enough to cut off her breath. He had seen her! He knew that she had been lusting after him like a low-class trollop. And yet, who was he to be parading about in such an unseemly display? How dare he look at her with such disdain when he had incited her reac­tion in the first place! How dare he . . .

  She blinked. He was not looking at her with disdain. Nei­ther was he preening. He simply stood unabashedly naked be­fore her.

  Everything about him was strangely silent, reverent even, and yet his eyes burned across the clearing toward her. His in­tensity seemed to cut right though her thoughts and defenses. She felt as if her soul was laid bare to him and—her mouth went slack and she took an unwilling step forward—he did not find her lacking!

  She came back to herself in a moment, soon enough to stop herself from God-only-knew what thoughtless and improper action. Instead, she folded her arms to hide her hardened nip­ples and stood stiff in front of the shrubbery. A moment later, the water bowl was empty. The two men turned to face one another, bowed slightly, and then . . . battle!

  She had seen men fight before. It was inevitable wherever there were males: fisticuffs or tussles on the ground. This was nothing like that. This was two men striking each other with open hands turned flat, with feet that shot out like snakes, or jumping whirling kicks. It was too fast for her eyes to fol­low. There were sounds too, grunts and slaps, the impact of flesh against bone, but none of the blustering curses or howls that came from boys when they fought. This was in earnest, or so it seemed. And yet, they did not have the look of two men who wanted to kill one another. There was a stillness between them, a quiet in the air even when they were both whirling, punching, kicking fiends. Seeing this was the first moment she truly believed they were monks— religious, holy monks.

  Their fight took them across the entire grassy area, first one advancing, then the other. Neither seemed to dominate. Truly, they had the look of men who had fought often. Nei­ther ever appeared surprised or off balance. And the longer they fought, the more she saw differences between them.

  Jie Ke had a frenzied power. He fought with lightning speed and seemingly no end to his attacks. One such advance rained down dozens of blows without pause. During those moments, the Chinaman could do nothing but attempt to block the furious onslaught. Eventually Jie Ke slowed. His breath became labored and his step would slow, and then the other would attack.

  The Chinaman's blows were slower, but more powerful. Three of his strikes took the time Jie Ke struck ten times, and yet the Chinaman's had more force. He did not land blows often, but when he did, Jie Ke shuddered from the impact.

  On and on it went, with Evelyn breathless from the sight. She felt like she was watching a lightning storm. Jie Ke was the lightning, terribly fast and bright. His companion was the thunder, slower, rolling, but so incredible when that power crashed about her.

  As always, Evelyn was drawn to fierce power. It was her one wild trait: thunderstorms always found her outside, soaked to the skin, daring the heavens to strike her down. When she was a child, this had terrified her nanny and her mother. As an adult, she endured Christopher's stern frowns and her sister's teasing amusement. Only one person had ever shared her fierce desire for storms, but he had disappeared as quickly as the thunder that had once brought him. And now . . . now she once again felt powerless against the lure.

  So, she walked into it. It was that simple and that unstop­pable. She walked forward into the dance of fists and kicks. The Chinaman drew back, pulling himself sharply away, but Jie Ke did not. She knew he wouldn't. Perhaps that was why she walked directly toward him.

  His blows continued beside her, then around her. He was still aiming at his companion, who had closed ranks to pro­tect her. Evelyn was never touched, but the Chinaman was. He blocked blows that would have landed on her. But that left him open on other sides, and Jie Ke was lightning fast. In the end, the Chinaman simply stepped away. He left her un­protected against the force that was Jie Ke, and she reveled in her proximity to danger.

  She thought then that Jie Ke would stop. She thought he would pull his arms together and bow as his companion did, but he did not. With his eyes firmly fixed on her, he began a series of furious punches and jumping kicks, assaulting the air around her. She was safe—so long as she stayed absolutely still, he would not touch her. But if even one hair were out of place, she knew she could be knocked unconscious. It was his silent dare to her. How steady were her nerves when fourteen stone of weight was aimed right between her eyes?

  Evelyn smiled. Part of her wanted to close her eyes and lift her face to the sky as she did in a thunderstorm, but she could not break the hold he had on her gaze.

  He made one last assault. He began with kicks thrown low by her knees, steadily rising until they landed in the space be­tween her hip and wrist. Next came his hands, slamming back and forth near her chest, then by her face, while the breeze from his blows caressed her skin. Then, finally, he slammed his head forward, a furious plunge straight at her face. With­out a conscious decision, she lifted her chin to meet him.

  He stopped. A hair's breadth from her lips, he froze. His breath touched her, blowing in and out as he recovered his wind. She felt and gloried in its force. She smelled his scent then, too—strong, with alien spices, but not in the least bit rank. He was simply different. . . and wholly compelling.

  Again, without conscious decision, she reached up a hand to touch his chest. She felt wet, springy hair and the steady lift and lowering of a man's lungs. His heartbeat thundered be­neath her fingers—excited, fast, and so identical to her own.

  Own me. Possess me. She'd cried those words to the thun­derstorms. She'd screamed them silently as she danced in the rain. She'd never before thought that about a man.

  He didn't hear her, he couldn't. But his eyes were so in­tense as they fixed on her, she could swear she saw the light­ning flash in them.

  She had to have him. She had to draw him inside herself, if only for this moment. So she did. She didn't move her head. She simply extended her tongue the tiniest bit, bridging the space between their mouths. She tasted him: salt, wetness, and the odd softness of flesh.

  He shuddered in reaction. Perhaps she did, too, it was hard to tell. So she tasted him again.

  This time his mouth opened a bit. Her tongue slipped in­side for just a moment before withdrawing. But it wasn't enough. She returned to him on her next breath, this time with her lips. Deep in her heart, she began to laugh. Finally, she was kissing the storm!

  Chapter Four

  "Evelyn!" Christopher's bellow burst through her conscious­ness. He might have been yelling for a while, but she wasn't sure. In any event, he was impossible to ignore now as he gripped her arm and jerked her backward.

  She blinked and stumbled just as she had the last time he'd dragged her out of a thunderstorm. The impression was so overpowering, she was surprised to find her clothing dry. It was ridiculous, of course. She was a rational woman who knew what she'd been doing. She'd been braving a mad Englishman who thought he was Jacob, her onetime fiancé. And she'd been kissing him!

  The very idea shook her to the core. What had happened? She looked up at Jie Ke, terribly afraid to see a knowing smirk on his face. Instead, his expression was completely blank. Not holy, as one might hope for from a monk, but empty. Blank
stone. Until she looked in his eyes. There she saw the flash of lightning, the turmoil of the storm that had so mesmerized her. It drew her even now. Then he looked down, shielding his eyes from her, and she felt completely bereft.

  "You, sirrah, will be gone within the hour!" sputtered Christopher. He pulled a heavy purse from his pocket and threw it on the ground at Jie Ke's feet. "Within the hour!"

  Jie Ke frowned for a moment at the purse, and Evelyn wondered at his confusion. He didn't seem to remember what the money was for. Then he abruptly straightened his body and slapped his left fist into his open right palm. It was such a violent gesture, she feared for Christopher's life. But then Jie Ke bowed in a gesture of respect completely at odds with his earlier movement.

  Evelyn glanced at Christopher, seeing that he was equally wary. But Jie Ke did nothing more threatening than turn to his companion, who handed him a small, lumpy wooden bowl. Jie Ke accepted it with another bow, then lifted the bowl up with both hands, holding it high, right in front of Christopher's nose. Then Jie Ke froze with his head bowed and his bowl upraised.

  Christopher stared. "What madness is this?"

  It was the Chinese servant boy who answered. Evelyn hadn't even noticed him at the side of the clearing, but now he darted forward, carrying a folded mass of saffron fabric in his hands. "The alms walk is a sacred tradition in our temple," he said. Then he stepped over to Jie Ke, whom he gently wrapped in his outer monk's robe. This close, Evelyn could see that it was not actually made of one cloth, but of dozens of pieces of crude fabric sewn carefully together. The servant reverently wrapped the garment around Jie Ke's chest, then draped it over his shoulders. Except for his bare feet, Jie Ke was fully covered.

  "Alms walk?" echoed Christopher. "What has that to do with anything?"

  Again the servant dashed forward, bowing as he spoke. "Any who wish to give, do so as an act of virtue and contri­tion."