She drew back, breathless. "Gods, I've missed you!"
He stared back at her, her beautiful face only inches from his, as it was every night in his dreams. "And I've missed you."
"How much?" She reached down, then giggled. "Oh, that much, huh?"
He grinned. "Here?"
She shook her head, then pulled May's door across. "No. In the shower. I've dreamed of it. Dreamed of you and me in there together."
He laughed. "You think I smell?"
"Like a pig, but I don't care. Come on, I need you right now."
He followed her into the shower unit, his hand never leaving hers. Then they were undressing frantically, his hands caressing her, his eyes drinking in her lovely nakedness.
"Marie ... oh, Marie."
As the water fell, shockingly cold at first and then hot, he entered her, her gasp, the look of pained delight in her eyes making him shudder and come instantly.
"Aiya!" he said, grimacing, pinning her against the wall as he thrust into her again and again and again. And then she was crying out, unable to help herself, pressing against him so tight, it seemed she wanted to breach him. He shuddered, then let his face fall against her shoulder. And still the water fell.
They were still for a moment, silent, and then she reached up and turned his face, making him look at her.
"What's happened?"
He laughed, almost making some wisecrack, then grew serious. "I've a new appointment. A promotion."
Her eyes widened. "A promotion? But I thought—"
"No." He laughed "Not Rheinhardt's job. Not yet, anyway. I'm to be Ssu'li HsiaO'ivei."
She frowned. "Colonel of Security? But . . ." Then she understood. "Li Yuan! You're to be Li Yuan's own Colonel!"
He nodded, his smile mirroring that on her face now. "I've to report to him tomorrow. We're moving, my love. Moving to Tongjiang!"
Tsu MA reined in his horse and leaned forward in the saddle, looking out over the edge of the cliff. Far below him the sea boiled about the dark and jagged rocks as the water sucked back. A moment later the next huge wave crashed against the granite, throwing a fine spray high up the cliff face. The grass beneath his horse's hooves was slick with salt, the air misted, sharply cold.
He turned and watched as his young nephews caught up with him. Breathless, they drew alongside, their horses' heads pulling against the bit, afraid of the drop only a pace or two away. Their finely braided coats steamed in the cold air, their hooves dragging impatiently at the hard earth after their headlong gallop.
Tsu Ma laughed, seeing how his heirs were watching him uncertainly, their eyes going briefly to the steep drop, then returning to his face. They said nothing, yet their expressions were eloquent.
His brother's sons. Resting one arm on the pommel, he leaned forward, studying them. The eldest, Tsu Kung-chih, was like his father, taller than Tsu Ma and—though only nineteen—broader at the shoulders. His physical presence was misleading, however, for in his features he had inherited all the weaknesses of his maternal grandfather—a certain limpness in the mouth, an absence of muscle in the jaw, a softness to his nose and narrow brow. His eyes—which seldom met those of his uncle—were the eyes of a salesman; calculating, yet somehow unambitious. Small, petty eyes. All in all it was a face that few would trust—the face of a vassal, not a T'ang. Seeing that face steeled Tsu Ma in his purpose and made him put all feeling from his heart.
Beside Kung-chih sat a smaller, lither boy, Tao Chu. Tsu Ma smiled as he looked at him and saw how the fifteen-year-old smiled back, all the while smoothing his horse's neck to calm it. Tao Chu was very much his mother's son, half-brother to Kung-chih, yet Tsu Ma saw something of himself in the boy. Tao Chu had nothing of his half-brother's awkwardness but was direct and open—was in every way a natural ruler, a T'ang, with a T'ang's generosity of spirit. There was strength in his laughter and power in his smallest, subtlest action—a restrained power that only Tsu Ma seemed to recognize in him. Wind gusted through his fine hair, spilling its neat-cut strands across his brow. The boy shook his head and looked away a moment. For him this would be far easier. He, after all, had never thought to rule. Even so, Tao Chu was fiercely loyal to his undeserving half-brother and would feel this disappointment keenly on his behalf.
Tsu Ma straightened and, raising his voice against the sound of wind and wave, spoke.
"I am going to be married."
He saw how Kung-chih's face struggled with the words, how he
turned to look at Tao Chu, as if the younger boy might explain it to him; but Tao Chu was watching his uncle carefully.
"When?" he asked, and Tsu Ma could see that he had weighed it all at once—as if he had prepared himself for this moment.
Tsu Ma smiled sadly. "The betrothal ceremony is to take place this very week."
Kung-chih was still watching his half-brother, his face stiff with shock. Then, slowly, he turned to face Tsu Ma, the severity of his disappointment there, open, in his face. For a moment he stared back at his uncle, his mouth half open, then, abruptly, he turned his horse and galloped away. Tao Chu stayed a moment longer, then, with a bow to his uncle, he turned his horse and raced after his brother.
Tsu Ma watched until they were tiny figures in the distance, then turned his horse and followed the cliffs edge, staring down at the raging sea. It was done. Tsu Kung-chih's dream of inheritance was shattered. Tsu Ma lifted his face and stopped his mount, looking out across the sea's gray, uneven surface. He had left this too long and now it seemed a kind of cruelty. This marriage would win him few friends in his immediate family.
"Well ... so be it," he said softly, the words torn from his lips by the wind. So be it. But he was determined now. He would do what he had refused to do before this day and settle down; have sons and watch them grow. Sons like Tao Chu or like his friend, Li Yuan. And in his old age they would rule in his place; strong, wise, decisive—sons he could be proud of.
Unbidden, a tear came to his eye. Turning away, he forced the horse into a gallop, heading back across the open fields toward the estate, thinking of the one woman he had loved.
Of Fei Yen . . . and of the boy, Han.
F EI yen stood at the window of her room, watching the imperial cruiser land behind the hangar on the far side of the lake, nervous anticipation making her stomach cramp.
She had sent the letter two days back when she had been at a low ebb. There had been arguments with her eldest brother over her son, Han Ch'in, and then, out of the blue, her latest lover had packed his bags. She had written it only an hour after he'd gone, filled with remorse and self-loathing, and had had a messenger deliver it at once. But in the clear light of morning she had panicked, bitterly regretting her action and praying to the ten thousand gods that he would never see it, never even—perhaps—get to hear of it. But now it was clearly too late. The presence of his cruiser said as much. Now she would know what he thought of her.
She went to her wardrobe and searched for something to wear to greet his messenger. Something simple and yet sophisticated. Something that might suggest she was a woman in control of her life, contented with her lot. She took down a simple red chi pao, then put it back. No, red was the wedding color—the color of happiness and celebration. Black, then? She hesitated a moment, then, realizing she hadn't any time, took it down and, peeling off what she was wearing, hurriedly pulled it on.
There was no time for maids and lengthy preparations. Besides, it was only a messenger. If he was anything like most men, he would scarcely notice what she was wearing. Even so ...
She stood before the mirror, combing her hair quickly, then putting it up in a bun. Yes, that was it. That was the look she was trying for. She smiled, practicing courteous phrases to greet him, then, satisfied, she turned and hurried from the room.