Gai-Jin (86 page)

Ori had eased the door of the cupboard open in the other room and moved noiselessly and now stood in the deep shadows near the half-open doorway watching her, heart pounding in his ears. It had been easy for him to hide among the cases and hanging dresses and crinolines, easy to slide further into hiding to become invisible when the maid opened the cupboard door and closed it again. Easy to hear the final bolts ring home and to judge when Angelique was truly alone.

In the bedroom half light she lay on the sheets, eyes closed, a little shudder from time to time, face in shadow, body part in shadow, shadows dancing as the small flame moved with the air currents. It seemed to him he waited an eternity. Soundlessly, he stepped out of the darkness to the threshold. The door clicked closed. The distant music cut. Her eyes opened and focused and she saw him.

Some sense told her that this was
him—
the murderer from the Tokaidō, father of the child that was never to be, who had violated her but had left no memory of pain or ravishment, only erotic half dreams, sleeping, waking—
and that she was defenseless and tonight he would murder her
.

Both were hardly breathing. Motionless. Waiting for the other to move.
Still in shock, she saw his youth, not much older than she, a little taller, sheathed sword-knife in his belt, right hand on the hilt, neat short beard and hair, broad shoulders and narrow hips, rough shirt, flapped breeches, strong calves and legs and peasant sandals. Face in shadow.

This’s another dream, surely it’s a dream, no need to be afraid …

Bewildered, she propped her head on one hand, motioning him to move into the light.

Momentarily fused into the same unreal, dreamlike state as she, his feet obeyed and when she saw the chiselled features, so different and alien, the dark eyes so filled with craving, she opened her mouth to say, Who are you, what’s your name, but he thought she was going to scream so he leapt forward in panic, the naked blade violently at her throat.

“No, please,” she gasped, backed into the pillow, and when he did not understand she shook her head, petrified, eyes pleading, every part of her shrieking, You’re going to die, there’s no escape this time! “No—please.”

The fright slid off his face and, standing over her, heart thundering as hers was thundering, he put a finger to his lips, warning her to be silent and not to scream, not to move.
“Iyé”
he whispered hoarsely, adding, “No!”

A drop of perspiration slid down his cheek.

“I … I won’t—won’t make a sound,” she muttered, terror confusing her. She pulled the sheet over her loins. At once he ripped it away. Her heart stopped. But in that second she
knew
, a primeval instinct in mind had propelled her to a different plane and she felt herself possessed by a latent, newfound knowledge. Her horror began to slide away. Inner voices seemed to whisper: Be careful, we can guide you. Watch his eyes, don’t make a sudden move, first the knife …

Heart pounding, she watched his eyes and put a finger to her lips as he had done, gently pointed at the blade and motioned it away.

He was like a coiled spring, expecting her to dart for the door any second and scream—he knew he could silence her easily, but that did not fit into his plan: she was to flee for the door in his time, not hers, and scream and scream to wake the enemy, then he would slash once and make sure and then he would wait and when they arrived he would shout,
“Sonno-joi,”
turning the knife on himself and, spitting in their faces, die. That was his plan—one of many he had considered: taking her wildly then killing her and then himself, or just killing her silently at once as he should have done before, however much he wanted her now, leaving the Tokaidō characters on the sheets as before, then to escape through the window. But she was not reacting as he had expected. Unwavering eyes, her hand motioning the blade away, sky-blue eyes asking, not begging, tension there, but no terror now. Uncanny half smile. Why?

The blade did not move.

Be patient, the voices whispered to her….

Again she gestured the point away, unhurried, willing him. His eyes narrowed even more. With an effort he tore them away from hers to surge over her to be inexorably drawn back. What is she planning? Warily he lowered the dirk and waited, ready to lunge.

He was standing close to the bed. Leisurely her hands began to unbutton his shirt, then froze. The cross at his neck flickered in the light,
her cross
. The suddenness that the lost forever was miraculously found again, elated her strangely and, dreamlike, she watched her fingers touch it, trembling slightly, weirdly pleased that he had taken it to wear it, part of her around him forever as part of him was around her forever but even the cross, her cross, did not deflect her.

Gently she eased the shirt off, down his right arm, over the knife, tightly held and a constant threat. Her intent look drifted over him, the shoulder wound, freshly healed, muscled body. Again the wound.

“Tokaidō,” she said softly, not as a question though he took it as such.

“Hai,”
he muttered, watching and waiting and choked with lust.
“Hai.”

Again the cross glittered. “Kanagawa?”

He nodded, hardly breathing, spellbound, and she was glad that she had been right in the first instant, and now that he was almost naked she was more secure with the plan that had swamped her mind. She reached out and touched his belt, always watching his eyes, and felt a tiny tremor. A current went through her at this victory.

Don’t be afraid, the voices said. Continue …

His fingers found the buckle. It loosened. The belt dropped away, the scabbard with it. His breeches slid off him. Below he wore a loincloth. With a grinding effort he remained motionless, his weight balanced on both legs, slightly apart, and body throbbing with his heartbeat, eyes locked.

Continue, the voices whispered, don’t be afraid….

Abruptly, the image of him in the web that myriad generations of women before her—defenseless in the same mantrap—were aiding her to weave, caused her resolve to soar unexpectedly, heightening her awareness, making her part of the night and yet apart, to watch herself and him, and fingers untying the string and seeing him unadorned.

She had never seen a man thus. But for the wound he was without blemish. As she was.

For a moment he continued to dominate his lust, then his will vanished and he threw the knife on the bed and covered her but she closed like an oyster and twisted away and he did likewise, grabbing for the knife before she did but she had not made a move toward it, just lay there, watching him kneeling on the bed, blade poised, another phallus pointing at her.

In the waking dream, she shook her head, telling him to lay the knife aside, to forget it, to lie down beside her. “There’s no hurry,” she said softly, knowing he would not understand words, only gestures. “Lie here.” She
showed him where. “No, be gentle.” She showed him how. “Kiss me … no, not so cruel … gently.”

She showed him everything she wanted, he wanted, advancing, retreating, soon to be aroused and then, when at last they joined she imploded to carry him over the crest and them into the abyss.

When her panting had lessened and her ears could hear, the music was still playing but far away. No sounds of danger, only his panting matching hers, body light, fitting perfectly. Belonging. That was what she could not understand—how or why he seemed to belong. Or how and why she could be so thrilled, or consumed with such ecstasy. He began to ease away.

No, the voices told her quickly, hold him, don’t let him move, beware, the danger’s not over, stay with the plan …

So her arms tightened around him.

They slept for an hour or so and when she awoke he was lying beside her, breathing softly, his sleeping face young and untroubled, one hand tight on the knife, the other touching her cross that he wore so easily.

It was my first gift, Maman told me, the first day of my life and worn ever since, only the chain changing. Is it his now, or mine, or ours?

His eyes opened and a shiver went through her.

For a moment he was not sure where he was, or if it was a dream and then he saw her, still beautiful, still desirable, still beside him, the strange, half smile washing over him. Enchanted, his hand went to her and she responded, to coalesce again but now without anger or haste. Only to prolong.

Afterwards, barely awake, he wanted to tell her how vast the Clouds and the Rain had been, how much he admired her and thanked her—beset with a great sadness that he had to end her life, this life. But not sad that his own death was near. Now, because of her, he would die fulfilled, her death sanctifying the just cause of
sonno-joi
.

Ah, he thought with sudden warmth, in return for such a gift perhaps an equal gift, a samurai gift, a samurai death: no screams or terror, one moment alive the next dead. Why not?

Completely at peace, hand on unsheathed knife, he allowed himself to stray into dreamlessness.

Her fingers touched him. Instantly he was awake, on guard, fingers tight on his knife. He saw her gesture at the curtained and shuttered window, a finger to her lips. Outside whistling was approaching. The sound passed, then went away.

She sighed, then leaned over and snuggled close, kissed his chest, then, so happily, pointed at the clock on her dresser that read 4:16
A.M.
, again at the window. She slid out of bed and with signs, made him understand that
he was to dress and to leave now and to return with the night, that the shutters would be unbarred. He shook his head, pretending to tease her, and she ran back, shadows and the sight of her delighting him, to kneel beside the bed and whisper, pleading with him, “Please … please …”

His spirit twisted. Never in his life had he seen that expression on a woman’s face before, such an open depth of passion beyond his ken—no word for love, not in Japanese. It swamped him but did not deflect his decision.

Easy to pretend to assent, to agree to go, to return with nightfall. As he dressed she stayed very close, helping him, reluctant to let him go, wanting him to stay, completely protective. Finger to her lips, almost childlike, she moved the curtains aside, opened the windows soundlessly, unbarred the shutters and peered out.

The air was clean. A hint of dawn. Sky speckled with clouds. Sea calm and no sound or sight of danger, only the sigh of the waves on the sandy beach. Along High Street only threads of smoke remained of the fires. No one about, the Settlement was at peace, asleep.

He stood close behind her and realized this was the perfect moment. His hand angled the blade, knuckles white. But he did not strike for as she turned her tenderness and concern obliterated his resolve, that and the lust that still obsessed him. Quickly she kissed him, then she leaned out again and peered both ways to make sure it was safe. “No, not yet,” she murmured anxiously, making him wait, her arm around his waist.

And when she was sure, she turned again and kissed him again, then she motioned him to hurry. He stepped silently over the lintel and the moment he was safe in the garden, she slammed the shutters closed and the bolt home and her screams tore through the night, “Helppppp meeee …”

Ori was paralyzed. But only for a moment. Blinded by rage he clawed at the shutters, her continuing screams and the knowledge he had been duped sending him berserk. Fingers now talons ripped a shutter open, almost tore it off its hinges. At that second the first of the French sentries hurtled around the corner, rifle armed and ready. Ori saw him and was faster and jerked out the derringer and pulled the trigger but missed with both barrels, never having fired a gun before, the bullets whining off the brickwork into the night.

The sentry did not miss the first time or the second time or the third and in the room Angelique cowered with her hands over her ears, exulted, forlorn, not knowing what to think, what to do, whether she was laughing or crying, only that she had won and now she was safe and revenged, all the time the inner voices rejoicing, You’ve won, well done, you were marvelous, wonderful, you followed the plan perfectly, you’re safe, you’re safe now from him forever!

“Am I?” she whimpered.

Oh yes, you’re safe, he’s dead. Of course, there’s always a price, but don’t worry, don’t be afraid …

What price? What … Oh God, I forgot the cross, he still has my cross!

Amid the growing uproar outside and the hammering on her door, she began to tremble. Violently.

FRIDAY, 7TH NOVEMBER:

In the afternoon H.M.S.
Pearl
returned from Yedo with all sails set and hurtled for her usual mooring in Yokohama’s busy harbor. Sir William’s flag was at the masthead, other flags demanded his cutter immediately but these were unnecessary as his longboat was already waiting in the roads, the Struan steam cutter beside her—Jamie impatient in the stern. All those ashore who saw
Pearl
watched to see if her Captain was up to his arrogant dash, the wind frisky and his speed under sail making the maneuver dicey. Her bow wave was high, the sea good. At the last second she spun into wind and stayed there quivering, her bowsprit perfectly over her buoy just alee. At once smartly dressed sailors dropped rope hawsers over the bollard and made her secure while others went aloft to furl all sails.

Not bad at all, Jamie thought proudly, then called out, “Full ahead, get alongside,” needing to be first at the gangplank to intercept Sir William as Malcolm had ordered. “Hurry it up, Tinker, for Christ’s sake!”

“Aye, aye, sorr!” Tinker, the Struan coxswain, beamed toothlessly, anticipating him with throttles full forward. He was an old hand, a pigtailed, tattooed, greying bosun’s mate off one of their clippers and he zipped passed Sir William’s eight-oared cutter to their chagrin, spat tobacco juice good-naturedly, gave them the finger and took possession of the slot. Jamie jumped onto the gangway. At the main deck he raised his top hat to the officer of the deck, a fresh-faced midshipman. “Permission to come aboard, message for Sir William.”