Not that she ignored Samuel. Their relationship was as warm as it had always been. The same as it had always been. He could talk to her, dance with her, give her advice that she would take. He described the house he’d called Rising Sea and she listened with animation, offering suggestions for decorating it, approving his choice of names. But he could not break through the familiar, well-worn comfort of their friendship; could not bring himself to say he loved her, could not force himself to touch her in any way that might frighten or upset her.
And yet he saw that Haye had intentions. The threat that she might accept another man before he had ever spoken made him uneasy and angry. He fought the feeling, because anger had no place in his intentions, it could only blind and hinder him. But if he could empty himself of hostility, he could not banish the disquiet, the sense of certainties fragmenting, pushing him farther and farther from the people he loved more than his life.
Even Lady Tess seemed to be more distant. He was aware sometimes of her silent attention on him, but when he turned to her, she always found some excuse to withdraw, or speak to someone else. And that, of anything, crystallized his uneasiness into the thin edge of alarm.
He had to act. Things were changing. In politics and business he could keep his balance, but in this—he felt his own clumsiness, his capacity for error.
You care too much, Dojun said. You want too much. What I gonna do with you, huh?
For a week he had avoided Miss Etoile—though “Miss Etoile” was not how he thought of her anymore, even when she appeared in the demure lace collars that she wore. Her, was what he thought: heat and softness and desire.
She and Kai went about the house full of secrets, heads bent together, giggling and hushing one another when he came upon them unexpectedly—one more sensation of exclusion, though he knew it was only Christmas, and gifts, and Kai’s delight in holiday intrigue. The house smelled sharp and fresh of evergreen garlands: English things, English cold, when at home it would have been the scent of roast pig and flowers, and sand in the coconut pie at the Christmas luau.
He wished they were there instead of here.
Want too much, you.
Mistletoe hung in convenient spots, tacked to chandeliers and a few doorways, under the direction of whom, no one would ever admit, but Robert labored beneath heavy suspicion, particularly since he and the oldest Miss Goldborough were the first to be caught in the drawing-room door.
Miss Goldborough blushed and held her hands behind her back, presenting her cheek—but her mother was at her afternoon nap, and Robert took her arms and kissed her full on the lips. Her sisters shrieked and danced in horrified laughter. Curzon lifted his eyebrows. Samuel saw Kai glance beneath her lashes at Lord Haye.
Haye, standing with a book half-open in his hands and looking on at Robert’s gambit, did not appear to notice. As Samuel watched her, she lifted her eyes and met his own. She smiled a little. Her cheeks turned faintly pink.
He froze inside. It was a look he did not know how to answer. He became a sudden coward, finding a Chinese dog in porcelain blue-and-white on the table next to him to be of striking interest. As he picked it up and turned it over in his hands to examine the mark, Kai gathered her skirts about her and chasséd to the door, turning and presenting herself there with a little curtsy and a mischievous smile.
In his inaction, staring blinding at the porcelain mark, Samuel felt rather than saw the subtle shift of Haye’s stance. Tension surged in him. And yet he sat still, unable to rise: sat there losing his chance, knowing Haye would move.
But it was Robert who grabbed his sister and whirled her in a circle in the doorway, ending with a deep bow over her hand and a kiss on the fingers.
“Oh, fiddle!” Kai snatched her hand away. “Spoilsport!”
He pushed her out of the doorway. “Only trying to keep us from being trampled by the rush. Don’t you see the elephants massing to charge?”
Curzon looked down his English nose. Haye grinned and settled on a chair arm, leafing through his novel. “Every dog has his day, Orford,” he said to Robert.
“‘Orford’!” Kai gave a delicate snort. “As if he were a real lord. No one calls him that at home.”
Robert smirked. “As real a lord as you’re a lady, m’dear.”
“It is merely a courtesy title, in your case. That’s what Miss Leda says. Real lords can sit in Parliament. Daddy could, if he liked.”
Haye held up his novel. “I say, you two. Has anyone read this yet? It looks a corking good story.” His interruption smoothly forestalled what threatened to degenerate into a sibling bicker. “A Study in Scarlet. Listen to this.” He cleared his throat and dropped his voice to a dramatic tone. “‘On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and, as it seemed to me, of hatred…which was increased by his writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark, grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban London.’”
That caught the attention of Kai and of everyone else. “Oh, start it from the beginning, do!” She sank back into her chair with her eyes wide and expectant.
As Haye took up the story of Dr. Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Samuel turned the Chinese figure over and over in his hands. He looked up under his lashes, listening, watching the others respond to the idea of deduction by detail and analysis. He’d read the book, and the character Holmes seemed to him a shadow of Dojun—clumsy and obvious with his magnifying glass and brute logic, too certain of his universe, arrogant in his conclusions. “There is nothing more to be learned here,” the fictional Holmes said often. “My mind is entirely made up on the case.”
A man could get himself killed believing that. Dojun could kill him with a thought. Samuel knew it, because he carried the potential within himself.
Concentration is intuition. Intuition is action: the way he had nearly destroyed her with kiai, a spirit shout, in that critical moment in her attic room. The intensity of his attack had been too much because he could not detach his mind from her. Even then, opposing her, he had wanted her. He had meant only to disable, to daze her for a few moments, but there was more than a casual connection between them. He was not the master that Dojun was: he did not know himself; he made mistakes. He could not remain calm. He was not at peace. He could not even stand up and offer a mere kiss beneath a mistletoe.
Sitting motionless, holding the blue-and-white dog in his hands, he knew that he was in panic flight from himself. And he knew that until he turned and faced what he feared, all his intentions were no more than smoke and daydreams.
The fire in her room had gone to coals, tiny cracks and halos of orange against black, casting no light beyond the grate. He moved past it, though he knew she was asleep and would not see his silhouette before the glow.
The room seemed full of scent and female presence. She slept softly, her breath quiet, undisturbed by dreams. The ease of her sleep gratified something deep inside him. She felt safe here; he had brought her; she was in a subtle way connected to him by peace as well as necessity.
He stood in the darkest corner of the room. He watched, although there was nothing to see. He listened, though there was nothing to hear. He waited, anticipating nothing—no action, no thought, no feeling.
And yet feeling was there. He was aware of every curve of her body. Memory rippled the calm surface of concentration; her skin beneath his fingers, the shape of her face between his hands.
Let it go. He was here to confront it and let it go. But there were contradictions, paradoxes; to try to let go was to hold more tightly. Dojun had taught him. The hunger that he wished to uproot went so deeply to the center of him that it seemed to be him. To separate it, to excise it-nothing would be left.
He imagined lying beside her, over her; things that he knew and yet did not know, never sure what had been real and what his contorted fantasy. He had dreamed and remembered, uncertain which was which, loath to ask q
uestions that might reveal what he kept hidden.
He could not kiss Kai. Not even a light, teasing kiss like Robert’s with Miss Goldborough. He was not Robert. There was too much pain and misery in those dreams and memories, tangled and confused with pleasure. One touch—and he did not know what would happen.
But Kai would want children. Her own. His. When he could not even bring himself to touch her.
It was not Kai he burned for.
He stared into the darkness. He gripped his hands in kuji, forming the complex interweaving of his fingers that should guide and focus his will, mobilize intent to action, forge his strength and mind into his goal. But there was no focus, no unity, no vanishing of restraint. His body craved what his mind despised. Beyond that, he had power for nothing.
He left her sleeping peacefully and retreated to the vast, cold night. Walking the grounds while the household slept, he felt himself remote from all their contented warmth, a stranger still after all these years, a black ghost in the silent moonlight.
“I have a card case for Manó.” Lady Kai bounced Tommy on her lap while he cooed “Ah-ah-ah” with each bump, an occupation which he appeared to find exceedingly agreeable. She consulted her list with her free hand. “I bought it in London, so it’s very smart—not that he will care anything for that. Last year I gave him a shaving mug and mirror, and he liked it very well.”
Leda thought of the necklace he’d bought for Lady Kai a whole brilliant cascade of diamonds.
“Will you give him something?” Lady Kai looked up at her. “Perhaps you should consider it—he’s bound to have a gift for you.”
“Oh, no. I shouldn’t think so.” Leda bent her head over the openwork mesh mittens that she was knitting for Lady Tess. “I am his secretary.”
“Well, he will. I would be surprised if he hasn’t brought everyone something back with him from home; perhaps even something he made himself. He does the loveliest woodwork, if you like the Japanese style. Our old butler taught him. I really prefer more intricate carving, myself. It seems more artistic. But Manó’s things are very pretty, even if they’re plain. He never puts birds or flowers or anything like that on them.”
Leda knitted a row in silence. She had several gifts in the making, one for each of the Ashlands, for she wished very much to show her gratitude for the manner in which she had been befriended. Beyond that, Lady Tess had asked her to hide in her room the surprise packages that her ladyship was accumulating for her family. The pile of tinsel paper and boxes growing beneath her bed made Leda feel quite festive and part of the fun.
She had thought of giving something to Mr. Gerard, but had not dared. She laid down the knitting in her lap and caught a loop of the silver yarn around her forefinger, tugging at it, twisting it round and round. “What do you suppose he might like?”
“For a gift? Here, Tittletumps, down you go. No, you must not eat Auntie Kai’s skirt. Take this spoon, darling. Let me think. There really isn’t time to get anything beyond the village, is there? You might have ordered a fountain pen, if we had thought of it earlier. Perhaps you could put his initials on some hankies.”
Somehow, Lady Kai’s suggestions made Leda feel rather melancholy. A shaving mug, a card case, a fountain pen, handkerchiefs.
Her heart ached for him.
She remembered his face in the half-light of a street lamp outside her window, the brief pressure of his hand as he pushed a small roll of cloth into her palm. She still kept the five-yen coin, the symbol of friendship, on a thin ribbon beneath her blouse.
He had not apologized for his ungoverned conduct, nor even spoken to her since. He avoided her, she was quite sure.
Perhaps, because she was half-French, he did not feel he must apologize. Perhaps she had given him a disgust of her upbringing on that day with the cherry brandy. Perhaps they were friends no longer.
The thought made her feel more dismal still.
“Yes. Of course.” She allowed the silk yarn to unwind from her finger, caught up a stitch that she had dropped, and sighed. “Perhaps I’ll embroider some handkerchiefs.”
Twenty-four
It was the jaguar that made Samuel a hero for the second time in his life. How the animal got free of her cage and fenced run, a frantic Mr. Sydney never determined, but she and her cubs were loose when Kai bundled Tommy up, put him in a perambulator scrubbed out of the attics, and took him for a stroll alongside the reflecting pool.
All the younger set of houseguests had gone, too, dressed in fur-trimmed capes and pelisses, taking advantage of the unseasonably sunny weather. Kai was hardly alone and unprotected when the confrontation occurred, although Samuel thought it might have been better if she had been. Kai had common sense, but the Goldborough girls apparently didn’t: at first sight of the animal crouched, tail switching, under the neat shadow of a boxwood at the edge of the lawn, they took screaming fright and dashed behind the men, their flaring skirts making exciting targets as they went. Samuel himself had the youngest one hanging onto his shoulders from behind while the jaguar lay yellow-eyed and tense, uneasy in her freedom, staring balefully at the startled group.
At first the cat made no move. But as the girls continued their half-laughing shrieks and peeked around their shields, the jaguar cuffed one of her tumbling cubs, pushing it behind her, never leaving the crouch, never taking her eyes from the human intruders. She laid back her ears and curled her lips, showing fangs. One claw lifted, open in razor warning. The hands on Samuel’s shoulders tightened sharply. The girls grew suddenly silent. Just as Robert said, “Don’t move,” the oldest Goldborough let go of him and broke away, bolting back toward the house.
The dash of motion broke the cat’s tense spell. The jaguar rushed forward a few yards and paused, glancing back toward its cubs. But the incomplete charge sent the other girls into panic. The group splintered in all directions-one girl ran toward the steps in the garden wall, Robert shouted and sprinted after her; the other let go of Samuel, turned, and tripped, flinging herself full-length on the grass. The nervous cat reacted instantly to the confusion, racing after the running girl; then turning and propelling itself after Robert, then surging toward Kai and Tommy in a wild zigzag.
Kai lost her nerve and snatched Tommy from his perambulator. The awkwardness of the motion, the flash of skirt and trailing blanket: Samuel saw the creature rivet on that target, bounding across the lawn, a dark, powerful beauty gathering speed. He moved, cutting across the cat’s line of attack. The jaguar homed in on his action, angling on its haunches to make the turn—he backed and accelerated sideways to draw it to him. In three bounds the animal was there, launching into a flying strike, pure force to be directed. Samuel went into a roll. One claw caught his coat and ripped it open as the cat somersaulted over his shoulder. He came upright to the sound of a great splash and the splatter of water across the pavement and his trousers.
The jaguar’s dark head emerged from the sparkling, shattered surface of the pool. She blinked and paddled, transformed abruptly from a snarling menace to a wet and bewildered animal with ears and fur pasted down to her skull. She began frantic attempts to rejoin her cubs, thrusting her front paws up onto the edge of slick marble, unable to get a foothold in the depth of the pool to heave herself free.
“Good God.” Haye was the first to find words. “I say, are you all right, Gerard?”
“He’s bleeding!” Kai suddenly came to life. “Go and get Mr. Sydney, Robert, and some footmen to capture that animal! Lord Haye—” She pushed Tommy into his arms. “Do take him back to the house quickly, in case she should manage to get out of the pool. Miss Sophie—Cecilia—do you need salts? Don’t swoon, if you please—go with Lord Haye back inside—and call Mother; she will know what is to be done.”
Samuel pressed his hand over his arm, feeling the stinging throb now, and wet blood from the slash. “We’ll need a net, or blankets.”
“Certainly they will.” Kai turned on him. “You will not. You will come in with me and have that dresse
d, before it can become infected. A cat scratch always will. Mr. Curzon, you shall stay here and make sure that she doesn’t climb out before they can trap her. I’m sure that you will—anyone ready to travel out to Samarkand must be wildly intrepid.”
“Certainly, ma’am.” Curzon slapped his walking stick in his open palm. “She won’t like this across her nose, if she tries to escape.”
“Well, she is only frightened, so don’t be too rough. There now—here is Robert back already to the rescue. Manó, come with me, and leave them to it. Don’t let them forget to gather the cubs, Mr. Curzon.”
Samuel allowed her to bear him away into the house. She took him up to the empty nursery, where there were clean cloths and cotton wool and rubbing alcohol, and stripped off her gloves. Without the slightest hesitation, she demanded that he remove his bloodstained coat and shirt.
As he sat bare-chested in the low window seat, she knelt before him and dabbed at the set of deep gashes. The burn of the alcohol went through him like a rush of flame; he took air deep into his lungs, not making a sound. When she had the bleeding slowed and the wounds cleaned to her satisfaction, she bound his arm and tied it off. She didn’t speak the whole time. When she finished, she sat back, closed her eyes, and let out a long, shuddery breath.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Manó. Thank you.”
They were alone in the nursery. From far below the closed window, the shouts and splashes of the capture broke the peace of the silent room.
He thought: Now.
Speak now.
“You’re not hurt?” he asked absurdly.
“Of course not.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Silly. Only you would ask that.” She had not stopped to take off her cheerful red pelisse before. The white fur trim brushed his hand as she unbuttoned it now and tossed it aside.
He tried to think of some compliment, some way to begin what he had to say.