Chapter 5

 

Joanna knew the time had come, long before the Mandarin said a word, but her mind had still not fully come to grips with the situation. She was locked in a room. Her throat had been hurt so that she could not make a sound or even breathe deeply without great pain. And some woman was making her and this man both do some kind of exercises that involved manipulation of one's most private places.

The concept was bizarre, the situation even more so. And yet here she sat while a man calmly informed her it was time to take off her robe. She had heard about these kinds of deviants. There were whispers and rumors of girls trapped and sold into sexual slavery. Though her situation did not exactly fit what she'd heard, she supposed that was what had happened to her.

Indeed, it would be what everyone would assume had happened to her, whether or not she escaped with her virtue intact.

Unfortunately, her reputation was not her most immediate problem. Captivity. Injury. Great pain. All these were more pressing.

She was tempted to embrace a fit of histrionics, to allow the pain to knock her unconscious so that she would not have to endure whatever was coming. Indeed, unconsciousness seemed like an excellent option right then. Too bad she wasn't in the least bit interested in being senseless.

It was stupid, really, and Joanna felt a grave disappointment in herself for her cowardice. The bald truth was that she was too afraid to force herself to black out. What would happen to her? What would be done? To what would she be subjected? She found she didn't want to be blind and deaf in addition to being mute. She might miss an opportunity to escape—or a clue to this bizarre situation.

To make herself unconscious would be to surrender to hopelessness. And she could not give up that easily. Which meant she had to stay awake. Which meant...

She had to take off her robe.

"No," she tried to whisper. But pain cut off the sound before she could do more than shake her head.

The Mandarin's eyes grew hard. "You have promised, Joanna Crane. Do you wish to be tied up again?"

She shook her head. She could accomplish nothing when bound. Instead she pointed to the scroll. Perhaps if she knew what was to happen, she would be better able to choose. After all, she could always knock herself out with a few deep breaths, right? So perhaps if she could see the scroll, understand what made those women so beautiful...

He handed it to her, spreading it open upon her lap.

"You see," he said in the same low, soothing tones he had used to calm her horse. "I shall read it to you so you understand there is nothing to fear."

In truth, she could read the text relatively well on her own. After a decade in this country, she had learned a great deal. But the more he spoke aloud, the longer the delay. So she nodded, smiling slightly by way of thanks.

" 'That which is old will become young again,' " he began. " 'That which sags will become firm. The lotus will bloom and dew will glisten like pearls among the petals.' " Then he pointed to a picture of a naked woman sitting with her right leg bent. "You must sit like this with your foot pressed against your cinnabar cave."

She frowned, not sure she understood.

"Cinnabar cave," he repeated slowly. "It is there. At the juncture of a woman's thighs. We call it such because of the unique scent."

Joanna felt her face flush with embarrassment. No one had ever shown her pictures such as these, much less discussed them with such frank honesty. But the Manchurian continued, moving on to a picture of a woman with her hands on her breasts.

"'For purification, circle the breasts seventy-two times, starting in the center, then moving outward. Rehabilitation begins by moving the hands in the opposite direction, starting at the outside and moving toward the center.'" He stopped reading then, but Joanna did not. She continued to scan the words, trying to understand.

Then she felt the man's hand gently lifting her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"Do barbarians put great store in a woman's purity?" he asked. Then he frowned, shaking his head. "Not purity. Virginity. Do you barbarians prize a woman's virginity?"

She managed to nod, even though her face was flaming.

"We Chinese do as well. That is why Tigresses do not allow a man's dragon ever to enter their caves. It distends the opening and steals her youthful fluids."

Joanna blinked, completely lost. She glanced back down at the scroll, touching the sketch of a tiger—no, a tigress—stretching its body down the page, appearing just as a small cat would when waking from a nap. The pose was evocative, and had drawn her eye from the beginning.

"Yes. The women here are called Tigresses. The men are Dragons. The best, I believe, are called Jade Dragons. We are to learn their practice."

Her gaze shot back to his eyes, her question obvious. Why?

He hesitated, and she could read his inner debate on his face. Would he tell her the truth or not? She was about to become mutinous in demanding honesty when he shrugged his shoulders, apparently deciding on the truth.

"I am here to discharge a debt, and the Tigress Shi Po named this as my punishment."

Joanna's eyes widened. This training was his punishment? But if he saw her question, he did not answer. Instead he reached forward, taking her hand casually.

"You are here because I cannot release you. I cannot allow... certain people to know that I am here. And so, as long as I am in Shanghai, you must remain here and silent."

She straightened, wishing desperately that she could speak, that she could find the words to convince him that she would say nothing. But of course, he knew that. She pressed her hands to her throat, then to her mouth. She couldn't say anything. Didn't he understand that?

He nodded. "Yes, that is why I shut off your voice box. So you could not speak." Then he sighed. "But you can read, can't you? And write?"

Her hands slipped away from her mouth, and she began to deny it. But before she could shake her head, he stopped her by again touching her chin. He held her steady, his eyes seeming darker than the black ink on the scroll between them.

"Do not lie to me, Miss Joanna Crane. It will poison the trust between us; then I fear we will never finish the training. We will be trapped in this tiny room for the rest of our lives."

She frowned, knowing that could not be true. By now her father surely knew she was missing. Likely he would bring guards into every home and brothel in the whole of southern China. And he would not stop until he found her. All she needed to do was survive until he arrived. Survive and look for her opportunity to escape.

Meanwhile, her companion's fingers gripped her chin even tighter. "You are hoping for an opportunity to escape. That is only natural. But I am your single ally in this place. You may be able to hurt me, but you cannot run from them."

She studied his expression closely as he spoke, and she read no lie in his face. But he spoke as if the women—the Tigress and her guards—were her enemy. Perhaps they were his enemy, but she had done nothing wrong. Nothing but speak rashly on a road outside of Shanghai. And yet, she didn't know what he'd told the Tigress about her. What exactly would they do to her if she escaped him? Who was more dangerous? More sincere?

"This I swear to you, Miss Joanna Crane: I will not hurt you. I will not take your virginity. I wish only to practice this religion with you until we both may leave. If you treat me honestly, I will remain true to this vow. But if you lie to me, I will not object when the Tigress sells you to a perfumed garden, where you will be addicted to opium and sold to the highest bidder. Do you understand?"

Joanna swallowed, knowing he was not lying to her. Even worse, she suspected he spoke the truth about her future as well. This was not a brothel such as she had heard of. And if she did not want to go to one of those, then she would have to make the best of it here. With him.

She nodded, though her eyes were blurred with tears. He did not let them fall. Instead he gently wiped them away with his thumbs.

"I like it that you wear no paint," he commented, surprise lacing his voice. "It allows me to see you are flesh and blood, not ghostly spirit. It will make this easier on us both."

She blinked, startled and annoyed by his comment. Did he truly think she cared whether he wanted her in cosmetics or not?

"Much better," he said, a smile softening his features. "You have much fire in you. You should not diminish it with tears."

It took a moment for her to understand. When she did, she could not believe she had heard correctly. Had he been teasing her? So that she would not cry? But why?

"I am not a monster, Joanna Crane," he said gently. "I am—"

Who? She cut him off by abruptly pressing her hand against his chest. Then she mouthed the word again. Who? Who are you?

He hesitated. Clearly he did not want to tell her the truth. Especially as he had gone to such pains to hide his identity. But he was no monk; that much she had already figured out. And so she began guessing, mouthing the words as best she could.

Imperial?

He didn't answer, but then he didn't need to. She trailed her finger down his long, straight nose. He was definitely Manchurian. Probably of the royal line.

Prince?

He grabbed her hand, pulling it away from his face. "No-Name. You may call me Monk No-Name."

She grimaced at him, but he did not pause. Instead, with a quick, businesslike air, he put her hands against the edges of her robe.

"Remove it so that we may begin."

Her time had run out. He would allow no more delays. Indeed, as she hesitated, he put the scroll aside and pushed at her legs so that she would adjust her position.

"You need not remove this covering, so long as you sit correctly." So saying, he held the fabric closed even as he pushed at her right knee.

She accommodated him as best she could, bending her leg so that her thighs fell open. He kept the robe closed so that nothing was exposed. Nothing he could see, of course. But she still felt it. She felt the air and the bedsheets. She felt her hips tilt and her unmentionable area—the area that no longer had hair—tingle with unaccustomed awareness.

Her face flamed even hotter, but no tears blurred her vision. Instead she focused on her anger. Anger at him—Monk No-Name—who had brought her to this place. Fury that an imperial prince tried to hide his own identity, and yet did it so badly that a wandering stranger could figure him out. And pure rage that any man, much less an incompetent imperial spy, could simply order her to open her legs and bare her breasts.

And yet, here she was doing it. She bent her knee and allowed him to push the heel of her right foot tight against her groin. The area was hot against her foot—hot and wet in a way she had never experienced before, but she knew when it happened. She had grown moist as she watched him with his own purification rite. And now she was still wet and pulsing as he pushed on her heel. The change in her body made her even angrier.

"You must expose your breasts," he stated firmly. Then he added in a softer tone, "Find your center. It will make everything easier."

She didn't understand his meaning, but then she didn't care. Instead she glared at him, wishing she truly had fire in her eyes. She would burn him to a crisp where he sat. She would...

Fanciful dreams would not serve her now, so she abruptly cut them off. He was reaching forward to strip her, but she slapped his hands away. He pulled back, his anger growing, but she didn't care. He needed to understand. She wasn't refusing the task, but she had to do it on her own. Of her own choice. And with her own hands.

She swallowed and, with shaking hands, slowly pushed her robe off her shoulders. It slid easily down to her elbows, especially as she was tucking her arms tight around herself, still trying to keep herself covered. But that was silly. She would have to have it off if she intended to perform the circles. She would have to take her arms completely out of the sleeves.

She took a breath—not too deep, especially as her tears had tightened her throat and cut off her breath. She didn't want that. Not yet. Not now. Not when she had just gained some measure of control.

She steeled herself to act. Her whole body trembled as she moved, but she slowly, inevitably, pulled her arms out of her sleeves, allowing the fabric to pool at her waist.

She was naked from there up, in front of a man who was not her husband. At that moment her courage failed her. Her head was bowed so that the long curls of her hair fell down before her face. Her bare arms clutched her exposed chest, and she was folded in on herself almost to her knees.

No matter what she said to herself, she could not do more than that.

She felt his hand, gentle and soothing upon her shoulder. "This is a small room, and I cannot leave it. But I do not need to be here, directly in front of you." She felt his weight lift off the bed and the whisper of the air as he moved behind her. "Perhaps if I sit here, with my eyes closed, this will be like bathing for you. In the privacy of your own chamber. Only instead of your body, you are cleansing your yin. Would that be better for you?"

His hand had not left her shoulder even as he walked around her. And though her back prickled at the shift of air and space behind her, his hand kept her grounded. His warmth kept her sane. In the end she was able to nod, straightening by slow inches as she tried to hold his thought in her mind.

I am in my own chamber. I am alone. I am simply washing.

She thought the words to herself over and over, but no matter how she tried, she could not convince herself of the illusion. The truth was that she was not alone. He was with her. And she was naked and... and touching herself.

"Your body is like ice," he murmured from behind her. "I am not even touching you, and yet I can feel it." He sighed. "Miss Crane... Joanna. Please, this is merely an exercise. Like sitting up or walking. An action of the body. There is no shame in it, and though your modesty does you credit, it will not serve you now."

She had no response to that, even if she could have spoken. Perversely, his voice—his very presence—made what she needed to do easier. She was able to straighten further as he continued to speak, his voice conversational.

"Many women in China believe their bodies are meant to be adorned, to be beautiful, to be appreciated by men but never touched. As if they were a flower that can only be viewed. Touch it, and it withers and dies. But I have never seen the sense in that. Our bodies are part of ourselves. Tools, if you will. And if the tool is pleasing, then all the better. But like all tools, the body must be maintained. It must be attended to, honed, and perfected."

He leaned forward, his breath a hot wind in her ear that sent shivers down her spine.

"In this, perhaps the Tigresses are correct. A body must be touched. Even the flowers are ministered to by the bees and butterflies, by a gardener's hand, by a child's delight. Perhaps a woman's body must be touched as well to find its full purpose."

She knew he would touch her then. Her back tingled with his presence long before she felt the brush of his fingertips.

"I wish to help, Joanna. I wish to make this process easier for you. To help you learn it is not evil, merely a new avenue of study. I have no lewd interest in your body. My desire is only to make you more comfortable. Miss Crane, may I assist you?"

Joanna almost smiled at his formal tone. He sounded as if he were offering her a hand out of a carriage or to be her escort to a party. But he wasn't offering anything so proper. And the thought of his hands on her body brought...

Brought what? Tears to her eyes? Nonsense. Fury into her soul? No. Not anymore. She had seen the Tigress Shi Po and believed that woman to be the real enemy here. In this she believed in Monk No-Name. He truly wished to help.

She felt him place both his hands on her back, right between her shoulder blades. Then slowly, ever so gently, he widened them, letting his fingertips trail across her shoulders and down her arms until he encircled her with his heat.

"Chilled hands will only frighten your yin. It will shrivel in the cold, trapping the pollutants inside."

So saying, he cupped his hands around hers, lifting them slightly as he tried to warm her. But her chill came from deep within and could not be heated so easily. He waited there a moment, letting her grow accustomed to him. She felt the calluses on the outside of his hands, the roughness of his skin, and the exquisite gentleness of his touch.

"Let me guide you," he whispered, and so he slowly pushed her hands to her chest, setting her fingers on her breastbone.

She was not ready for such things, and she shrank backward, away from her hands still cupped in his. But there was nowhere for her to go except back, deeper into his arms. She wanted to shy away from him, too, for his upper torso was still naked. His chiseled, strong chest was still bare for any to see. And she had seen. And she liked what she saw.

But a pleasing picture was one thing; having a man's naked chest pressed against her bare back was something else entirely. And so she tried to grow tiny, shrinking away from his chest behind her and his hands in front. Except they weren't his hands. They were her own. He only guided her. And so, in the end, that was where she allowed the touch.

She straightened, to pull her back away from him, but the motion pressed her breasts into her hands. Her tiny hands, surrounded by his much larger ones.

His large hands, which neared her flesh but did not quite touch. Unless she moved quickly, unexpectedly.

So she didn't. She sat excruciatingly still while his large hands guided hers.

"We must do seventy-two circles this way," he said. And he moved their hands upward from the center bone to separate over the tops of her breasts. Then he guided her hands to the sides, drawing them open as they traced the gentle swells to the fullness underneath.

Joanna felt only her own hands touching her breasts, but it was his heat, his breath, his power that moved her. Their hands flowed above, around, and then below her breasts, lifting and massaging what had up until now simply been fleshy attachments to her body, a pair of fatty mounds of less importance than her legs or arms.

But that was not how they felt now. After first one circle, then another and another and more still, she began to feel her skin, her breath, her center like two tiny flames just beneath the surface. And with each circle the flames steadied. They didn't grow, but they ceased to flicker. What had been two unstable glimpses of light settled into tiny coals of the dullest red—warm, but not burning. Giving heat but not fire. That was how her breasts felt. As if they were the outward symbol of those two tiny coals.

Seventy-two.

The Manchurian's hands stilled, stopping in the center of her chest between her breasts. Joanna blinked, startled to realize she had relaxed backward into his arms. That his head rested next to hers, their cheeks almost touching but not quite, especially as he was taller than she, his arms longer than hers, and his legs were bent awkwardly at her back.

"You must change your leg position now," he murmured.

She had forgotten how she sat, her right leg bent so that her foot pressed against her groin. Except as she had shrunk from his hands, she had slid backward, so her heel no longer pressed tightly against her.

"It must be hard to keep the pressure against the cinnabar cave," he said as he looked over her shoulder. She was still covered, but he must have understood what had happened. "If you press your back against my leg, it will help to hold you steady."

Twisting around, she realized now that he sat much as she did. One leg extended to the floor, but the other was bent, giving her a solid, straight support to brace against. She glanced up at his face, studying his expression, fearing what she might find there. But his features were relaxed, his face smooth and simple and completely impassive.

Could a man remain so calm when nearly touching a woman's breasts? Her old nanny would say no, but looking at this man, Joanna could believe it. Whereas her mind and heart were still churning with turmoil, his gaze remained calm and quiet.

Whatever his true identity, he certainly appeared as asexual as a monk. Or perhaps he was a man who had found that center he spoke of.

She let her gaze slip down to his nether region. She knew what a man's anatomy was. And if she didn't, he had displayed it for her an hour before. But his position pulled his loose pants away from his body. He could be ready to expel his white liquid again, and she would not know. So her gaze traveled back to his face as she once again tried to read his intention.

"If I wished to ravish you, Miss Joanna Crane, I would not have untied you from the bed." His voice was an ironic drawl, as if he mocked himself and her in the same sentence. But then his tone deepened, and all traces of humor—sarcastic or otherwise—disappeared. "I have promised to protect you to the best of my ability. I will not break my word."

She took another long breath, another long look to search for any lie in his body or face. There weren't any. And so she nodded, smiled her thanks as best she could, and readjusted her position. She pushed her body toward him so that her lower back pressed hard against his shin. Then she lifted her braid off her shoulders, coiled it, and repinned it in place.

She felt him reach forward, helping her to pull her left leg tight to her body. She did not want to tuck it close, but he was insistent.

"You must stop the flow of energy there. It is not time."

So she helped him tuck her foot against her... what had he called it? Her cinnabar cave. It was a startling thing, this hardness of her heel against a place that felt soft and moist and open. She thought she would not like it, but there was pleasure in the sensation, so she allowed him to pull her leg even tighter.

"Your hands are still like ice. It was not as serious before. The first circles can be cooler, as they disperse the pollutants. But now we are stirring the fire. Coldness will not aid you here."

She looked down at her hands, once again cupped within his larger ones. They appeared so pale, so tiny against his darker, tanned skin. Clearly this monk had spent a great deal of time outside. And just as clearly she could see how the superstitious Chinese would call her a ghost. Her hands did indeed appear insubstantial next to his.

And as she watched, he lifted her hands, brought them close to her mouth. "Blow on them," he instructed. "Warm your hands."

She did as he bade even though she knew it would not help. Her chill came from her soul; her hands would not warm until her internal heat returned. And in time he realized the truth as well.

"My hands are warm," he said, his voice careful. "I do not wish to frighten you, but I can perform this exercise for you. If you wish me to help."

She knew she ought to object. She knew she ought to do a lot of things, beginning with having stayed at home so long ago. So what was one more mistake in a legion of mistakes? If these exercises must be performed, then let them be done correctly. In a way that would not cause harm.

She nodded, slowly allowing her hands to slip from his.

"Close your eyes," he instructed. "Lean back against me and simply be without thought or emotion. If you feel pleasure, allow it. If you feel fear, accept it. They are all parts of you that can occur without changing you. Allow your emotions to exist and you will learn that without resistance they will flow through you, leaving you in peace. Do you understand?"

No, she did not. But she was willing to try. And so she lied, nodding her head even as she closed her eyes.

"Breathe," he instructed, his words becoming a slow monotone. "In. Out. In. Out. Steady. Calm. Unafraid."

Then he began.

His touch startled her, but not as she expected. She had thought having a man caress her would make her excruciatingly uncomfortable, sort of how one tolerated a fitting for new clothing. Awkward. Possibly embarrassing. But mostly just something she had to endure until it was over.

But this went far beyond that. This was a man's hands on her breasts. First two, then three, then four fingers pressed against the bone between each breast. Then he began circling, moving underneath and around, then above and between. It was a steady flow, but in an ever-narrowing spiral.

"Breathe," he ordered, and the hot puff of his breath against her ear made her gasp.

"Steadily."

She nodded, knowing what he wanted but unsure she could comply. His hands were moving higher, narrower, circling toward her nipple, and the feel of that made her squirm.

"Remain still!"

This time his voice snapped her back to attention, but it was excruciatingly hard to obey. Her breasts seemed to be throbbing, but not evenly. The beat followed in the wake of his hands, pulling tighter with his every narrowed circle.

She did not want him to touch her nipples, and so she breathed in as deeply as possible, trying to push his hands wider. But then she had to exhale, and as she did, his circle tightened again. This was so bizarre. And yet it was no different from when she'd performed the circles. No different except in direction. And the spirals. And that his hands were like hot wind, blown steadily over the coals behind her breasts.

With his ever-tightening circle, the coals grew redder, radiating more heat, more power, more... everything. Joanna didn't know how to comprehend it. Didn't know how she should feel about it.

"You are resisting," he said, his words matter-of-fact. "It will stop the flow and cause more problems. Embrace your confusion. Accept the fear. And then it will pass from you."

Embrace confusion? She was confused. There was no embracing it. Accept the fear? How did one accept being afraid? She was afraid. She didn't want to be. So she... she fought it.

That was what he meant. So she grabbed hold of his wrists, holding his hands still while she struggled with the panic caused by breasts suddenly alien to her body. She held his wrists still, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath her fingers, but mostly feeling his heat, his patience.

His calm.

Easy for him to be calm. He didn't have some person making his body swell and throb. Except he had swelled before. While she watched. And that memory did more to distract her than anything else.

"Do not run to other thoughts. Stay with your body. Stay with what is happening here. Hiding only clogs the qi flow."

She frowned in irritation. She'd never hidden from anything in her life. Unfortunately, he must have taken her expression to mean something else, because he began to explain.

"Qi is the Chinese word for energy. It is both male and female. Yang for male, yin for female—"

She shook her head, cutting off his annoying explanation. She twisted, looking back at him and seeing his clenched jaw, though his eyes remained impassive. She strongly suspected she wasn't the only one who was trying to distract unwanted thoughts. But that would not serve either of them.

She had read enough of the yin text to know that she was supposed to focus on purification with the first seventy-two circles, then the rising tide of yin. Well, water imagery didn't work for her. It never had. So she decided to stay with the thought of coals, burning hotter with each breath and with each circle.

That was what she would embrace. Not fear, not embarrassment or even confusion. Those were necessary evils to this situation. She would make the exercise as effective as possible, and thereby end it as soon as possible.

So she took a deep breath—or as deep as her sore throat allowed. And as she exhaled, she released the Mandarin's hands, allowing him to begin again. All the while, she held the image in her mind—hot coals. Hot yin coals. Yin fire, burning beneath her breasts.

God, she was on fire. Her breasts, her ribs, her entire body crackled with heat. She arched her back, giving her breasts as much room as possible, as much air, as much space as she could while his hands continued to stoke hot circles of energy into them.

Again his hands narrowed, the spiral winding tighter, closer, higher. Now she found she didn't inhale so deeply, countering his movements. Instead she exhaled all the way, wanting his touch to rise closer. To touch her nearer.

She wasn't even sure where she wanted him to go. Her mind was consumed by the fire, by the flow of his hands, stirring the energy around and around. Higher. Hotter.

What was she straining toward?

"Seventy-two."

She didn't say the word. Someone else had. Her Mandarin? His hands had stopped moving, his fingers pressed just to the inside of each tightened nipple.

But she didn't want him to stop. She wanted more. She wanted to know—

Why was the Tigress Shi Po standing over her?