They stood, facing each other.
Her hand went to the ruby-studded clasp at her right shoulder and released it. Slowly, with a faint silken rustle, the cloth unraveled, slipping from her body.
She stood there, naked but for the jewels in her hair, the bands of gold at her ankles and at her throat. Her skin was the white of swan's feathers, her breasts small, perfectly formed, their dark nipples protruding. Mesmerized, he looked at the curves of her flesh, the small, dark tangle of her sex, and felt desire wash over him so fiercely, so overpoweringly, he wanted to cry out.
Timidly he put out his hand, caressing her flank and then her breast, touching the dark brown nipple tenderly, as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever touched. She was watching him, her smile tender, almost painful now. Then, softly, she placed her hands upon his hips and pushed her face forward.
He moved closer, his eyes closed, his body melting. His hands caressed her shoulders, finding them so smooth, so warm, they seemed unreal; while her lips against his were soft and wet and hot, like desire itself, their sweetness blinding him.
She reached down, releasing him, then drew him down on top of her. At once he was spilling his seed, even as he entered her. He cried out, feeling her shudder beneath him. And when he looked at her again he saw how changed her eyes were, how different her mouth—a simple gash of wanting now that he was inside her.
That look inflamed him, made him spasm again, then lie still on top of her.
They lay there a long while; then, as one, they stirred, noticing how awkwardly they lay, their bodies sprawled across the steps.
He stood and tucked himself in, aware of how incongruous the action seemed, then reached down to help her up, unable to take his eyes from her nakedness.
Saying nothing, she led him through into the bridal room. There she undressed him and led him to the bath and washed him, ignoring his arousal, putting him off until she was ready for him. Then, finally, they lay there on the low wide bed, naked, facing each other, their lips meeting for tiny sips of kisses, their hands tenderly caressing each other's bodies.
"When did you know?" she asked, her eyes never leaving his. "When I was eight," he said and laughed softly, as if he knew it was madness. For more than half his young life he had loved her. And here she was, his wife, his lover. Eight, almost nine years his senior. Half a lifetime older than he.
For a time she was silent, her eyes narrowed, watching him. Then, at last she spoke. "How strange. Perhaps I should have known." She smiled and moved closer,
kissing him.
Yes, he thought, releasing her, then watching her again, seeing the small movements of her lashes, of the skin about her eyes, the line of her mouth. Cloud motion in the eyes, it seemed, the bones of her face molded and remolded constantly. He was fascinated by her. Mesmerized. He felt he could lie there forever and never leave this room, this intimacy.
They made love again, slowly this time, Fei Yen leading him, guiding him, it seemed, bringing him to a climax more exquisite than the last, more painful in its intensity.
He lay there afterward, watching the darkness in her face, the sudden color in her cheeks and at her neck and knew he would always want her. "I love you," he said finally, shaking his head slowly, as if he could not believe it. He had said the words so often in his head. Had imagined himself saying them to her. And now . . .
"I know," she said, kissing him again. Then, relaxing, she settled down beside him, her head nestling into the fold of his arm, her cheek pressed soft and warm against his chest.
CHAPTER TWO
Conflicting Voices
lI yuan WOKE early and, loath to disturb her, went to his desk on the far side of the room and sat there in the tight circle of the lamp's light, looking across at her. For a time he did nothing, entranced by the vision of her sleeping form; then, stirring himself, he took paper from the drawer and, after mixing water and ink from the ink block, began, writing the words in a neat, unhesitant hand down the page, right to left.
Hot wings, perfumed like cinnamon, Beat about me, black as the moonless night. I heard your splendid cry in the silence, And knew the phoenix fed upon my heart.
He dipped the brush again, then looked across, realizing she was watching him.
"What are you doing, my love?"
He felt a tiny thrill, a shiver of pure delight, pass through him at her words. M} love . . . How often he'd dreamed of her saying them. He smiled, then set the brush down.
"Nothing, my darling one. Sleep now. I'll wake you when it's time."
He picked up a tiny dragon-headed pot and shook sand over the paper to dry the ink, then lifted the sheet to blow it clean.
"Is it business?"
He looked up again, smiling. She had raised herself on one elbow and was looking across at him, her dark hair fallen loose across the silk of her shoulder.
Li Yuan folded the sheet in half and in half again, then put it in the pocket of his gown. He looked away a moment, toward the garden. It was dark outside; black, like a sea of ink pressed against the glass.
He looked back, smiling. "No."
"Then come to bed, my love. It's warm here."
He laughed softly. "Yes, but I must get ready."
There was a meeting of the Council that afternoon and there was much to do beforehand. He ought to begin. Even so, he hesitated, seeing her thus. It was his first morning with her, after all. Surely his father would understand this once?
She was watching him silently, letting the darkness of her eyes, the silken perfection of her naked shoulder, bring him to her. He stood, then went across, sitting beside her on the bed.
She leaned forward to greet him, her left hand moving between the folds of his gown to touch and caress his chest. As she did so, the covers slipped back, revealing her neck, the smooth perfection of her upper chest, the magnificence of her breasts. He looked down at them, then up into her face again.
"Fei Yen . . ."
Her lips parted slightly, her eyes widened, smiling. "Husband?"
He laughed again, a brief sound of delight. "Husband ... It sounds so different from your lips." .
"Different?"
He shivered, then leaned forward to kiss her lips, gently, softly, holding her to him momentarily. Then he released her and sat back, looking at her again. "Yes . . . like something undeserved."
There was a small movement in her mouth, then she laughed. "I have a present for you."
'A present?"
"Yes. Wait there ..."
Li Yuan reached out and took her arm gently, stopping her. "Hold, my love. Look at you!" His eyes traced the form of her. "What need have I for presents?"
"But this is different, Yuan. It's something I chose for you myself."
"Ah . . ." he said, releasing her, then watched, his heart pounding in his chest, as she turned from him, throwing the sheets aside to reveal the slender curve of her back. She scrambled across the huge bed, then came back, a slim package in her hand.
"Here . . ."
He took it, but his eyes were elsewhere, drinking in the beauty of her.
"Well?" she said, laughing gently at him, enjoying the way he looked at her.
"Open it."
He hesitated, then looked down, tugging at the bow to free the ribbon then pulled the wrapping aside. It was a book. He opened the pages, then blushed and looked up.
"What is it?" he said quietly.
"It is a chun hua," she said, coming alongside him, draping her warmth across his side and shoulder. "A pillow book. Something to excite us when we're here, alone."
He turned the pages slowly, reluctantly, pretending he had never seen its like, strangely appalled by the graphic nature of its sexual images. "Fei Yen ... we have no need for this. Why, I have only to look at you . . ."
"I know," she said, turning his head gently with her fingers and kissing him softly on the cheek. "But this will keep our love fresh and powerful; will raise us to new heights."