White Tigress (47 page)

Unfortunately, it was having no effect on these rather smelly Chinese. Normally such smells wouldn't bother her in the least. English or Chinese, men who labored tended to have an odor. But these men stank even more than usual.

One of them stepped forward, his heavy northern accent making him difficult to understand. "We don't want foreign gold."

That was unusual, she thought with a frown. She thought
everyone
wanted English gold. "I can pay in Chinese coin as well," she said smoothly. "If one of you would please ride to Shanghai, I am sure my maid will be somewhere on the road." When they didn't respond, she gestured to a break in the trees, where she saw at least one thick-limbed Chinese horse. Perhaps there were more. "That is your horse, isn't it?"

"I'd rather you be my horse!" one of them said with a leer.

Joanna paused, positive she could not have understood correctly. But when the largest man spit at her feet in disgust, while the others laughed not so politely, she began to rethink her conclusion. Had she just fallen afoul of brigands?

She grimaced at her own stupidity. Well, of course she had! Obviously these were not honest gentlemen intent on helping her. Unless, of course, she was right with her first guess. These might truly be the revolutionaries.

She smiled again, trying to appear more relaxed than she felt.

"Are you gentlemen Boxers? I have come most specifically to find you. I wish to aid your cause."

One man made a fist, then moved it in a very lewd way. "You seek Boxers?" he asked, and all his companions laughed.

She sighed. "I seek the Fists of Righteous Harmony. But if you men are not part of that
honorable
group, then perhaps I have erred. If you will excuse me." She tried to push past them, but they did not budge. Indeed, a small, wiry man with big fists pushed her roughly backward.

"What do you know of the Fists?" he demanded.

"I know they are wonderful, great men seeking to overthrow an oppressive government to gain freedom for all." She knew it was a risk saying such things aloud, but she had seen something through a gap in one of the men's shirts: a simple amulet with the crude outline of a man's fist. He was definitely a Boxer. Which meant all she needed to do was appeal to his political ideals. "I know, too, that the Righteous Fists have amulets that protect them from bullets. Like that one." She smiled, lifting up her hands in appeal. "I want to become a Red Lantern." She named the women who supported the Boxers.

The men stared at each other, obviously stunned that she knew so much. In truth, she was only repeating what she had overheard in servants' gossip and whispered confidences, but from the looks on their faces, she had guessed correctly.

And then, almost as one, all of them broke out laughing. Loud, mocking guffaws hit her like hard, cold rocks. "No ghost devil can shine red. It would kill them."

She swallowed, annoyed but not surprised by their prejudice. "Let me try. I will show you."

They laughed even harder. Their faces became crueler and more lewd with the sound. "We will try you. I think—"

"I have money," she interrupted, her voice rising in her nervousness. Clearly these were not the people she sought. "Do you wish money? I have only English money on me, but you are welcome to that. If only you will assist me to return to my maid, we will gladly give you much more in Chinese money." She held out her purse.

The biggest man slapped her hand, knocking the little pouch to the ground. "No devil money." He said the words, and apparently he meant them, but one of his friends wasted no time in snatching up the spilled coins.

"Then just what do you want?"

"Dead devils."

She pulled back in confusion. She understood his words, of course. The Chinese had many different names for the white people, and none of them were very complimentary. But why would they want to kill her? "I'm nothing here. A stupid girl, not even married. Killing me won't get you anything but more foreign devils with guns." She shifted, trying to look earnest. "I swear to you: Let me go, and I will convince my father to leave this country." It was a silly bargain, one she knew they wouldn't take. But she was rapidly running out of things to offer. She needed to buy time until she thought of something else.

Except they weren't really interested in the delay. The nearest one—a tall, thin man who smelled of garlic—grabbed her arm, yanking her sideways. She fought immediately, but her other arm wouldn't move; she had been grabbed and someone was yanking on her clothing.

She screamed. Indeed, she put all her breath and power into a sound that might carry all the way to Shanghai. But even that was cut off as she was hit—
hit!
—in the stomach. She gagged, her knees buckling.

Then another blow found her head, reverberating in her skull and fogging her mind over as...

As terrible things began to happen.

Then they stopped. They just stopped.

Joanna opened her eyes to see a dark whirlwind hurling her attackers everywhere. It was like a tornado—a dark, swirling force that picked up people and tossed them aside like so much paper.

Except that wasn't possible. God didn't work that way. And yet...

Joanna blinked, sliding backward and away in the dirt as she tugged her torn clothing together. What was she seeing?

A man. A Chinese man in dark pants and a white shirt. With a crude cap that flew off as he moved, revealing his bald head. He was fighting her attackers, but in such a way that she could barely comprehend his movements.

She had seen boxing. It was one of the sports her father enjoyed. But this was different. Her rescuer fought with a flat, open hand. And he used his feet. His hands chopped like axes; his kicks were like hammer blows. Next to him, Joanna's attackers looked like children's toys, blown over by the wind.

All was over in a moment. Her attackers scrambled away, running or limping as best they could. Within moments Joanna heard their horses thundering off in the distance. But her eyes remained fixed upon her rescuer. She still had difficulty seeing him as a man rather than a force. Especially as he spun toward her, his face tightened into an anger as dark as his black eyes.

Then he spoke—a low rumble in Mandarin Chinese. But she didn't know that dialect, and so she tried to ask him if he spoke Shanghainese. If he could tell her who he was. An angel? A Chinese magician? A revolutionary? They were ridiculous questions, but it didn't matter anyway as her mouth would not function.

And why was she shaking?

He looked her up and down, his gaze missing nothing. So powerful was his stare that she would have shrunk backward had she the strength. Instead all he did was bring her attention to the ugly scrape on her leg, another on her arm, and a raw gash on her chin. Her favorite russet habit was torn in a dozen places, and her honey-brown hair kept falling across her vision, bringing dirt and dead leaves with it.

She was a mess, and yet she couldn't focus on anything other than the man before her. He was stepping away from her, and she let out a sound—a terribly frightened, almost animalistic sound that she couldn't believe came from her own throat. But it did, though it made little difference to him. He simply kept moving. It was a moment before she realized he was walking to a rolled bundle of cloth on the ground nearby. He apparently just wanted to retrieve his sack, and his hat that lay near it.

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.