Читать книгу The Samurai's Forbidden Touch - Ashley Radcliff - Страница 8

1183 AD. The windswept mountains of northern Japan. The cultural renaissance of the Heian period is fading as regional nobles, fattened on the abundance produced by impoverished peasants, ignore the growing power of their samurai, hired warriors bound by tradition.

Miku’s breath caught when she realized it wasn’t a breeze moving the translucent silk panels that hung across the wide veranda doorway, hiding her chaste beauty from her uncle’s garden and the world beyond his opulent estate.

Seated at her low, black-lacquered writing table, she’d first assumed that the shadow moving across the silk kicho was merely a wayward cloud dancing in front of the late-afternoon sun. But then the tip of a man’s long sword curved against the edge of the elaborately painted golden drapes, and her calligraphy brush hesitated above the scroll. After being banished to her quarters earlier in the day by her enraged uncle, Miku had expected another quiet day writing. But the blade’s startling appearance implied something much less predictable—and potentially more dangerous.

Yet danger—as well as love—was something she had only experienced in her poetry. Far from the wanton lifestyle available in the Emperor’s glittering court, the cloistered life of an unmarried country noblewoman offered little diversion beyond parlor games. Little diversion for most women, that was.

Miku, however, unlocked her silken cage each day with her calligraphy brush, writing poetry that freed her mind and soul, if not her body. Poetry that stirred her imagination and gave flight to her fantasies. Poetry that her decidedly practical uncle never appreciated—an uncle who now dared to imprison her in her own home for what he called unforgivable breaches of etiquette. Just the thought of his self-righteous pettiness made her free spirit seethe in revolt.

Perhaps soon, maybe even tonight, her dream of a life untethered to the hollow pomp of petty nobility—a life where she was free to be herself, and even appreciated for it—would be fulfilled. Until then, though, at least she had her brush and ink.

But the armed man now standing silently just inches from her was no dream—not even a nightmare.

Miku’s mind raced as she contemplated the gauzy screen, her only shield. Her uncle had taken all his servants when he’d left earlier to meet a distinguished—and politically connected—man journeying from the capital city of Heian-kyo. Though he would return the next morning, she was nonetheless alone now as the afternoon shadows lengthened. Alone, except for the single samurai her uncle had left to protect her in his absence. Or to guard her, she thought with bitter indignation.

Her uncle controlled hundreds of vassals who worked the wide rice fields surrounding the thick walls of her home. Though lacking the more sweeping national power given occasionally by the Emperor to Shogun warlords, her uncle nonetheless wielded significant local power. And like so many other regional lords, he even commanded a private army of samurai, powerful warriors sworn to do his bidding alone.

The thought of one of these common soldiers lurking so near her private chambers sent a surge of anger through Miku. She had expected the samurai to remain a respectful distance from her the rest of the evening, as he had all day—far enough away, in fact, for him not to notice her escape from the manor once darkness fell. But was he now so bold as to step on to her veranda, mere inches from her hidden form?

Miku’s eyes fell to the scroll spread open across the lacquered table in front of her. The verse she was composing spoke of cherry blossoms, long considered the most beautiful yet most fragile flower. In her poem, however, one blossom remained open as the first winter snowfall began to drift down, the flower’s unexpected resilience against the frost magnifying its pale beauty.

Though her heart thudded wildly, Miku’s resolve solidified. How dare this coarse warrior intrude upon her private sanctuary uninvited, regardless of any edict given by her manipulative uncle? All trepidation was now replaced by a sense of smoldering outrage at the armed man’s presumptuous arrival.

“Speak now, or leave,” she said firmly.

There was a beat of silence, and then a low voice growled from the other side of the kicho. “I will answer to no one but the Master of this estate.”

“The Master is gone, so you must answer to me,” Miku said.

“I am aware of his absence and am here because of it.”

A chill sharper than the winter’s northern wind drove through Miku. So her uncle had instructed the samurai to encroach upon her private rooms as dusk fell. She took a deep breath to steady her voice, then spoke again to the shadowy figure concealed by her veranda curtain. “You have invaded the solitude of a noblewoman, and your continued presence is not needed.”

A humorless laugh stirred the delicate fabric of the kicho. “I will decide what you need.”

Any renewed fear the man’s words stirred in Miku was quickly burned away by her growing anger toward this insolent stranger who seemed so intent on speaking in riddles. “All my uncle’s samurai have sworn an oath to serve him to the death,” she said, “and that vow includes protecting me, his only niece. You must therefore guard my virtue as well as my life. And—samurai or not—being this close to me without an appropriate chaperone threatens that honor.”

“Your life—and virtue—will both remain in my hands tonight,” the samurai said. “Your uncle has commanded that I am not to leave your side until dawn.”

The man’s uninvited appearance, the unspoken threat of his sword, his unemotional insistence that she had been left at his mercy—all these factors pushed Miku’s indignation to the boiling point. Too furious to care that social protocol demanded the thin curtain remain between her, a maiden, and this common soldier, she stood and ripped aside the golden silk. “And I am to have no say in who sleeps in my chambers?”

“I do not plan to sleep tonight,” said the man, his dark eyes locking with hers.

The tall, lean form of one of her uncle’s finest warriors stood with his back to the setting sun. Though dressed in full military regalia, not even the intricate red lacing and stenciled leather of his plated armor could distract from the man’s striking physique. Resting low on the horizon, the sun’s fiery orange glow outlined the soldier’s broad shoulders and powerful arms. Tightly muscled legs, chiseled as from stone by elite cavalry service, were planted with immovable authority on Miku’s veranda. Though he appeared relaxed, the man’s muscular power was obviously held at bay only by his recognition of the quiet respect due a noblewoman. This was a warrior, not a gentleman…and his hardened body spoke to years spent conquering and crushing.

As she wondered why a man of his obviously high martial rank would be sent to guard her, the samurai’s eyes dropped to take in the white silk kosode Miku wore. She wrapped her arms around her body, keenly aware that the flowing, calf-length robe should have been covered with proper outer-garments. Would have been, she thought, had she expected anything more than yet another long afternoon sitting alone at her writing bench.

Her skin prickled as the man took in her softly curving frame barely concealed beneath the pale silk. The molten heat of his eyes intensified as they lingered on the exposed skin of her bare ankles, and Miku gasped as a surprising excitement shivered through her body. This man looked upon her as if he owned her, with the bold assurance of a victor in battle assessing the spoils of war.

Never before had a man dared to stare with such unveiled appreciation—and desire—of her physical charms. The realization stunned Miku, leaving her both excited and terrified.

And yet neither had Miku truly felt any of the intense longing her poetry so often described—verses her uncle disparaged as improperly sensual for a noblewoman’s pen. Until now…until this handsome samurai’s gaze had fallen upon her barely clothed body.

Though intrigued by the surge of conflicting emotions stirred by the man’s piercing gaze, Miku reminded herself that he was no elegant suitor, properly versed in the protocol of courtship, for in addition to his long, curved katana, he wore a shorter knife at his waist and a bow across his broad back. No, she thought resentfully, this was a hardened soldier trained in warfare. And he had come not to woo her, but to stand guard.

“Why do my activities this evening need special oversight?” she asked hotly, her suspicions mounting. “You have watched from a distance all day. Why must you stay in my rooms after sunset?”

The man remained silent for a moment as she scanned his jet hair, pulled back from the hard angles of his bronzed face in the formal knot favored by the military caste. He was familiar, she realized. She had caught his brooding, ink-black eyes watching her on previous occasions as she moved about the manor and knew him to be one of her uncle’s most trusted warriors, although she had never spoken to him before. He seemed older than her own twenty years, but not by more than another ten.

Her eyes returned to his stoic face, and she noticed the dark shadow of his neatly trimmed beard was softened by a gentle mouth. But his words remained as sharp as the sword that hung across his plated armor. “Your uncle does not want you to forget your place.”

“My place?” Miku challenged, taking a fearless step toward the armed man. “That is my choice alone.”

This self-assured conviction had caused increasing friction between herself and her uncle over the past few months. He had begun to show heightened exasperation at her poetry, with its imaginatively erotic tones. And Miku, in her own right, had started to care less and less about whether her uncle approved of her verses—or that he had recently discovered she’d been sneaking out into the fields and mountains beyond the manor walls. For how else could she be free, even for a few hours, from his suffocating restrictions?

Miku’s uncle had accepted the role as her guardian seven years ago with an appropriate sense of familial duty, if not love. But as the months following her parents’ death had passed, he had become increasingly strict. Now she hardly dared peek from behind the curtains of his ox-drawn carriage when she traveled to the temple—her only approved trips outside of the manor—for fear of his displeased frown. Not that the view of starving, threadbare serfs along the roadside brought anything but grief to her tender heart, knowing she had no power to alleviate their suffering.

Their heretofore quiet battle of wills had come to a head this morning when she’d been caught by her uncle’s servants bathing naked in the hot springs of a nearby mountain glade. The old man had exploded with indignant rage and forbidden her from leaving her chambers while he hastily arranged for the visit of an old friend in Heian-kyo, someone Miku assumed would try to convince her of the error of her impulsive, sensual ways.

Yet why would she need such attentive supervision to simply await the arrival of a self-important nobleman to lecture her on the appropriate behavior of a young lady of her standing? An indistinct suspicion crept into her thoughts as she continued to stare defiantly at her captor.

The samurai studied his protectorate carefully, taking in her glossy black hair, loose and long, and her penetrating eyes, sparkling with equal parts curiosity and wariness. On her face she wore none of the heavy white powder favored by so many noblewomen, and her eyebrows had been left in natural arches above her eyes, rather than plucked and repainted high upon her forehead. As he watched her, she impatiently bit a full, unpainted lip with teeth unstained by the black dye strangely favored by other aristocrats for darkening their teeth.

This girl was obviously not just a pampered flower, as he had first assumed. Her independent streak was obvious—and intriguing—and now he understood why the Master had asked him to guard her so closely. He was going to have to be very careful not to reveal anything to her. But it was going to be difficult to hide much from her piercing eyes…and to ignore the thin robe clinging to her body.

“Why did my uncle command such close guard for me this evening?” she quizzed.

“Is more reason needed than the protective love of an uncle for his niece?” he responded evasively.

“More reason may not be needed, unless more reason is being hidden,” she replied. If the field of battle were words, Miku knew she could parry anyone, including this mysterious soldier.

The samurai smiled in spite of himself. So this girl was unwilling to let his half answer pass without challenge. Well, her curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied until her uncle’s return, he thought.

“My name is Takeshi,” he said instead. “Would you prefer that I watch you from here on the veranda, or may I come into the parlor?”

Miku realized that his question, veiled in dignified politeness, actually left little room for true discussion. He would be guarding her tonight.

“I prefer that you didn’t watch me at all,” she said stubbornly, a hand self-consciously trailing across the pale skin at the open neck of her robe, knowing as she spoke that the words weren’t completely true. After all, the heat of his gaze had certainly kindled something new within her, novel feelings she might be able to incorporate into her poetry. Why not permit the samurai to stay while she explored these new sensations, at least until she could escape his rigid oversight?

Takeshi smiled again. The Master’s niece certainly had more spirit than her repressive uncle. Takeshi had never respected the old man, whose behavior was becoming increasingly despotic toward the peasants who supported his plush lifestyle. And when Takeshi had attempted on several occasions to suggest a gentler approach toward managing the serfs, the Master had dismissed his ideas without discussion.

Although he had the physical and intellectual power to defy the Master at will, Takeshi had not yet done so. Instead, he waited with the patience and strategy of a tiger, knowing the right time would present itself—the time when he would no longer pretend to follow the old man’s orders.

Miku glared at Takeshi, his condescending smile of authority again provoking her anger…and suspicion. Something about this samurai’s presence made Miku wonder if perhaps her uncle’s plans to subdue her included more than just the visit of an aged counselor. Yet while she was certainly no match for Takeshi’s brute strength, Miku was still confident that her own wit and cunning would defeat this battle-hardened soldier. And once she had him sufficiently distracted, she would make her escape over the manor wall.

“Perhaps you will join me in a game of shells,” Miku said, intentionally keeping her voice light and pleasant. She lowered herself onto a floor cushion behind the kicho and indicated he do the same. “My poetry can wait.”

If this man must oversee her activities for the moment, then it would be on her terms. He might be accustomed to wholly subjugating all who stood against him on the battlefield, but he had never attempted to bind a spirit as free as hers…and it was a battle Miku felt certain he would not win.

Takeshi moved into the parlor and glanced at the young woman’s desk, noting a small scroll embellished with calligraphy. Though he could not decipher the script, the writing revealed an elegant, artful hand. The curving figures flowed down the page in an effortless dance that betrayed her appreciation for freedom and beauty in a way that did not require literacy to understand. This woman was becoming more and more intriguing, Takeshi realized.

“Do not fear being caught playing a woman’s game,” Miku continued coyly. “No soldiers—save you—remain at my uncle’s home tonight.”

The taunting smile in her voice made Takeshi look away from the scroll. She lounged gracefully at his feet, her hip-length hair pooling on the floor. Like the swooping calligraphy, the curving lines of her thinly veiled body made the blood within him surge. But admiring her beauty wasn’t why he had been assigned to guard her, he reminded himself. In fact, the real reason meant her loveliness would soon be unreachable forever—if he decided not to challenge the Master.

Takeshi slowly knelt across from Miku, setting his sharp-edged katana flat on his lap. “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he said.

Miku blinked, and a pink flush tinged her ivory face. She pushed back a strand of shiny, lacquer-black hair, confused. She had intended to disorient the samurai with her playful banter, yet somehow he seemed to one causing her the greater discomfiture.

“The calligraphy,” he continued. “It’s lovely.”

Her eyes opened wide with delight, her plans to thwart his unwanted oversight temporarily forgotten. “You appreciate poetry?”

“I have been told it is the most sensuous art—that it reveals the poet’s own soul, laying it bare to be tasted and enjoyed by others.”

“Do you write poetry, too?” asked Miku, amazed by how the samurai’s words seemed to echo her own deepest musings about the art form.

Takeshi was surprised by how animated the woman had become. She leaned forward now, her face upturned and her lips parted, waiting for his response.

“I am no poet. I have only heard poetry recited and seen calligraphy at the temples I have visited. I cannot read or write,” he admitted, wondering what it was about Miku’s eager face that made him want to share this secret with her.