Delectably Undone! Part 14

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 n.o.blewoman, 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 n.o.blewoman. 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 p.r.i.c.kled 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 a.s.surance of a victor in battle a.s.sessing 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 n.o.blewoman'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-a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.sumed 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 n.o.bleman 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 n.o.blewomen, 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 a.s.sumed. 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 pa.s.s 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 sh.e.l.ls," 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 a.s.signed 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 be the 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.

Of course, now she would be sure to understand that, like most samurai, he was little more than an armed commoner. While a few soldiers who lived in wealthier urban centers might boast a distinguished pedigree and its accompanying education, he-like most rural samurai-was merely a hired warrior bred for raw strength.

Like the other men in the Master's private army, most of whom were Takeshi's childhood friends, he was simply the son of a local farmer. Takeshi had accepted a martial role instead of following in his father's agrarian footsteps in order to protect his family from marauding bandits who often threatened their fields and homes; his true sense of duty had always been-and remained-to his family and community, not the Master.

But without the approval of the Master, Takeshi would have none of the power and privilege he currently enjoyed. And that approval hinged solely on his ability to swiftly and unquestioningly perform every command the Master gave, regardless of Takeshi's personal opinions.

It was a reality that made him bristle, and yet he had found a way to rein in his own ambitious spirit and warrior's pride-thus far, at least. In due time, perhaps quite soon, Takeshi knew he would move to a.s.sert the authority he unofficially held over his samurai brothers, most of whom looked to him-even as they had as young playmates-as their true leader.

And yet unlike the Master, his niece seemed to be genuinely interested in what Takeshi had to say. He was surprised by the twinge he felt in knowing that his illiteracy must disappoint her.

Not that Miku's opinion of him mattered anyway. Not with the plans her uncle had. But not even the cold logic of that truth could douse the growing heat her elegantly curving body and breathlessly parted lips were kindling within him...and the strange desire he had to keep talking with her, to know her better, to learn more about the poetry that moved her so, even though he knew he should be keeping a distance.

"It is of no concern," said Miku, shrugging as if his confession had neither surprised nor dismayed her after all. "There are no words to read in the sh.e.l.l game-only pictures."

She reached toward the clamsh.e.l.ls, which were arranged facedown to conceal miniature paintings inside each natural dome. The game required players to match a sh.e.l.l to its second half based only on careful observation of exterior ridges and lines. A correct match was confirmed by the identical paintings of the sh.e.l.ls' interiors.

Miku chose a sh.e.l.l and studied it closely, being careful not to turn it over. Her fingers moved above the remaining sh.e.l.ls, floating like a small white bird, until she settled on a second sh.e.l.l and placed the two together. There was a small click as the pieces rejoined their original mate. With a smile, she opened the intact sh.e.l.l to reveal matching paintings on both halves.

"Maple leaves!" she said, holding the sh.e.l.l toward Takeshi.

He reached to inspect the artwork. As his rough hand brushed her soft ones, she pulled back, suddenly conscious of his eyes locked on to hers. Though still vexed by his role as her de facto warden, she realized she no longer found his presence undesirable. What was it about this samurai that made her feel an indefinable longing she had never known before, not even in the wild imaginings of her poetry? As a poet, her command of language usually gave her the perfect word for expressing any emotion. And yet now she was left unable to define her feelings, even to herself.

"The play goes to you," she said finally, pulling her eyes back to the sh.e.l.ls and trying to still the thundering emotions swirling through her thoughts.

She had written often of love and desire. Although surely this was not what she was now feeling toward a mere soldier-and one sent by her oppressive uncle to guard her every move, no less. No, it must be nothing more than the surprise of his unexpected arrival that made her normally tranquil spirit heave and jostle like the waves on the northern ocean.

Takeshi chose a sh.e.l.l half and rubbed his finger along its outer ridges, carefully feeling each subtle nuance. Then he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the remaining sh.e.l.ls, moving across them slowly.

Miku watched as if in a trance as the man's powerful hands glided across the delicate sh.e.l.ls, the calloused fingertips seeking out a match. The hands were those of a warrior, hardened and rough, but their movement now was like an artist caressing a favorite sculpture. She was mesmerized by his slow progression across each sh.e.l.l as he gently touched its form before moving to the next.

With his eyes closed and his thoughts focused on the game, Miku realized she had the perfect chance to escape-yet something held her frozen as she continued to watch the soldier. Finally he paused, and his fingers wrapped around a single sh.e.l.l.

He opened his eyes. The young woman was perfectly still, the flick of her gaze from the two sh.e.l.l halves in his hand to his face her only movement. Her breathing had deepened, and a flush had returned to her face. There was a barely audible click as the sh.e.l.l once again became whole, and he slowly held it out to her.

"What do the pictures show this time?" he asked.

She reached for the sh.e.l.l, and, opening it, said, "Plum blossoms."

"Ah, a blushing pink flower against a strong, dark limb," said Takeshi. "Soft and hard, balancing one another."

"You have been dishonest with me," she said, her voice a whisper. "You are a poet."

She was leaning toward him, upturned palms cupping his sh.e.l.l. Takeshi reached out to take it, and his hands paused as they covered hers. This time, Miku did not draw away from his touch. So he let his fingers remain.

Her eyes seemed to pierce the depths of his being with their searching gaze, taking in the overlapping tiles of his breastplate, the ridged lines of his helmet and something more-something deeper than his armor. Perhaps this beautiful poet could see what others never had, Takeshi wondered. Perhaps she could look through the battle-forged exterior to the true man beneath-the man he himself had almost forgotten existed, until now.

And without stopping to consider anything further, he bent to kiss her. Her lips received his with a small cry of surprise as she stilled before yielding to his embrace. For a moment, Takeshi's whole world, a hardened landscape of warfare and duty, melted away, leaving only an awareness of the softness of Miku's parted lips and her sweet taste in his mouth.

The skin of her cheek felt like warm silk beneath his rough hand, and he drew her closer to him, pressing her soft body against his armored frame. He tightened a strong arm around her waist, the thin fabric of her silk kosode slippery against his touch. Slowly, his other hand ran through her dark hair, gathering it up as his kiss deepened.

Miku trembled as the samurai pressed his mouth against hers, gently at first and then with greater insistence. In all the poetic flights of imagination she had taken at her writing desk and in all her clandestine escapes into the countryside beyond the manor walls, she had never known such a delightful, frightening, all-consuming sensation as the one now tingling through her veins.

He was hard against her, the leather plates of his armor pressing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as his grip around her body tightened. His beard scratched the delicate skin of her face, yet its roughness was softened by the tenderness of his mouth. She felt tiny in the arms of such a powerful man, helpless to fight his pa.s.sionate advances-yet not wanting to resist, not wanting his kiss to end.

In the embrace of this barely tamed warrior, she suddenly felt safer than she had since becoming an orphan. And yet what more could they ever share than this kiss?

This forbidden kiss.

The thought splintered her trance, and she pulled away from him. What had she allowed this samurai to do? Of course her uncle would never sanction such an embrace, Miku realized-but that was of no importance to her. She was not afraid to defiantly take the pleasures he might hope to deny her.

Of much deeper concern was her own choice in the matter. Had she really permitted this relatively unknown man to touch her so freely? After years of being hidden from the world, would she now fall prey so easily to the first man impudent enough to reach for her? Was she not of wealthy birth...and, more importantly, blessed with the richness of a poet's soul? Surely she was not to be so easily had. Her initial anger, which had been melted by the surge of desire his touch brought, was now rekindled.

He watched her in silence now, his eyes pools of impenetrable darkness, but his mouth still moist from her lips. Her hand trembling with both fury and desire, Miku ran a pale finger down the overlapping plates of armor covering his chest.

"My uncle thought he sent a samurai to protect me," she said with an icy stare, "but I see a scaled serpent seeking to devour a caged bird. I wonder that you dare to so boldly approach a n.o.blewoman, the niece of your Master?"

Takeshi had no words for the poet. So he simply stood and, with hands that had just touched her with gentle pa.s.sion, roughly collected the scroll from her writing desk.

"I thought you could not read," Miku goaded him as she rose to her knees, angry with his impudent kiss-and her own hungry response.

The darkly handsome samurai nodded with a self-a.s.surance she found infuriating and, to her own frustration, intriguing. "You are correct," he said, "but your uncle can. And he has commanded that I not only guard you tonight, but that I also ensure no more poetry is written in his absence. He finds the verses you compose-" his eyes lingered on her lips before returning to her blazing stare "-inappropriate."

"Inappropriate is my uncle's desire to control me," she said. "And inappropriate is your desire to..."

Her voice trailed off as a sharp heat burned her cheeks, a blush of anger mingling with the equally consuming flame of her growing attraction toward the stoic soldier. There was something undeniably intoxicating about the samurai's dark, piercing eyes, and she could not ignore the way his powerful body-and equally powerful demeanor-was beginning to make her feel.

The soldier looked down at Miku, his apparent nonchalance in the face of her pa.s.sionate response belied only by the smoldering depths of his gaze. "Do you truly believe what I want is inappropriate," he asked, his voice a husky whisper, "or merely unexpected?"

Standing above her, his arms crossed with an air of absolute authority, Takeshi held her gaze with the confident look of a man used to complete submission-and one who knew how to enforce compliance when necessary. And yet Miku's independent spirit was equally unaccustomed to capitulation.

"The life's breath of a poet is her brush," she whispered with quiet fierceness, "and her soul is its ink. You may take my parchment, but you will not control my poetry. And you will never control me."

"That choice is not yours to make," he replied.

Twisting at her waist toward the writing table, she swept up her long-handled brush in one hand. Eyes locked defiantly on her captor, she swirled it languidly in the ink bowl, letting dark paint drip slowly down the bristles of her brush.

Rising to her knees, she turned back to face Takeshi fully. His countenance remained a rigid mask of authority, but she could see his breathing had deepened. Smiling with delighted defiance, she slowly brushed the silky black ink up his bare leg. With a flick of her wrist, she left an elaborately curled symbol on the hardened muscle of his thigh, just below the bottom edge of his armored tunic.

"You see?" she asked, laughter tingeing her voice. "I will continue to create poetry as it pleases me, even if I must replace my scrolls with your bare skin."

His gaze dark and molten, Takeshi flung aside the weighty breastplate covering his torso. His armor gone, the samurai pulled away the light robe that skimmed his muscled body. Unlike the painted sh.e.l.ls, the new game Miku had naively instigated was one Takeshi wanted to play-and win.

Miku's brush wavered as she took in his lean form-all of it...battle-sculpted, sun-bronzed and as tense as his war bow. The powerful samurai was obviously not a man to be toyed with. Even without his weapons and armor, Miku knew he was strong-perhaps dangerously so. Yet earlier, his tender kiss and deep-searching eyes had hinted at something much more than just another sword-for-hire. And now he stood before her, waiting.

As Takeshi gazed down at Miku, her brush poised above his naked body, he reminded himself that the embrace of this rare woman could only come at a great price. If he were not careful, he realized, he could risk losing his heart to this willful, poetic beauty-and his life to her uncle, the Master.

But the thought of being touched by that delicate hand, now gracefully wrapped around her calligraphy brush, made his blood surge. The hand that had earlier caressed his face, tentatively at first, then with greater pa.s.sion as she had returned his kiss. The same hand that, trembling, had traced the pattern of the armor plating his chest...and shielding his heart.

And the look of defiance now smoldering in her eyes stirred his heart even more deeply. A woman of her strength and spirit, one willing to defy the world's standards to suit her own inclinations, excited him, body and soul.

Seeing her breathlessly watch him, Takeshi no longer wished to hinder her poetry. To kneel close to her, yes. To take her fully in his arms, yes. And to allow the stroke of her paintbrush to mingle with the soft caress of her fingertips on his skin, a.s.suredly yes. To touch and be touched by this perfect woman; to embrace and love her; to subdue her willful spirit just enough to fulfill her deepest desires...this is what he now desired.

Yet doing so would violate his warrior's oath to the Master, who had quite different plans for his niece than involvement with a samurai. Yet did such a petty and tyrannical man really deserve his loyalty? He had never truly felt a sense of duty toward the despicable old man, and perhaps now was the time to cast aside any pretense of obligation.