she now felt an icy cold.
“This too,” he ordered, gesturing at her shift.
She obeyed his command numbly, her teeth beginning to chatter. Naked before him, she avoided his gaze. She felt sick with revulsion as she heard him shedding his own clothing.
She wanted to cry out in anguish when he came to her, his naked body bloated and leathery looking. He pushed her back upon the bed, pausing over her to stare down at her bare flesh. She dreaded what was to follow, and at the same time wished that he would get on with it, so that it could be the sooner finished.
A wave of nausea swept over her as he began to run his hands over her, probing, fondling. But would it ever be finished? She was his wife now, his slave, really. How could she ever hope to escape from him, from China?
I must escape from China, she thought at once. How else was she to have revenge on Peter MacNair?
The thought of him brought uninvited memories, in contrast to what was happening to her with this repulsive creature. She remembered the pounding of her pulse, the quickening of her breath when Peter had touched her, there in the same spot where rude hands now sported. Peter’s hands had been so skilled, so demanding, and yet at the same time so gentle, urging her on to the heights of passion.
Sick with disgust she stared upward, seeing the starlit sky through the open roof. Fat, soft fingers crawled over her flesh like so many rapacious insects. She would never again know the pleasure that those long, slim fingers had given her, never feel his lips moving, burning a course over her breasts, touching each tingling nipple—how she hated him!
She nearly jumped when these other hands pawed greedily at her breasts, causing a pain she was almost grateful for; it distracted her attention from the horrible wet lips covering hers, the thick, hungry tongue forcing its way into her mouth. She was crushed beneath his weight and felt him forcing himself into her. She moaned in agony, and he laughed softly into her ear, mistaking the sound for one of pleasure.
“Little lotus flower,” he called her. The name sickened her. How could he think she was enjoying this nightmare, when he knew that she had fled from him, that she feared and hated him, and had been forced into this position? It was the ultimate cruelty, to credit her with welcoming this merciless pounding as his fat beastly body rose and fell over her.
His hands went beneath her, clawing at the tender flesh of her buttocks, digging into her. She writhed in pain, thrashing to escape his scratching nails, but her movements only fueled his ardor.
“Yes, yes, that is right,” he gasped, slobbering on her throat, his breath fetid in her nostrils.
I can’t stand a moment more, she thought. I shall be sick, I shall die. She rolled from side to side, tossing her head to and fro. She was moaning repeatedly now, in agony and shame, but even her cries seemed to heighten his pleasure.
At last she could stand no more, and opened her mouth to scream, but once again he kissed her, stifling her cries. Finally she felt him stiffen, felt the pain of a powerful, final thrust, and he began to shudder and grunt in the throes of his ecstasy.
He seemed to lie upon her for an eternity before finally getting to his feet. She lay with her eyes closed, as pale as death, while he donned his clothes once more. She expected him to say something, or to come to bid her goodnight, but when the silence had grown peculiarly long she opened her eyes to find that he had dressed and gone.
She began to sob again, almost hysterically this time, muffling her sobs in one of the silken pillows. It was over—but tomorrow would be the same, and before her stretched a long, unbroken line of such tomorrows, for years, perhaps forever!
She cried herself into a stupor, and slept until the stirring in the inn roused her to the dawn, and marked the end of her wedding night.
CHAPTER FIVE
They traveled for more than six weeks, covering what she guessed to be twenty miles or so a day. The scenery grew monotonous, each day the same little rounded hills, the same bamboo groves, the same little farmhouses nestled in the hollows.
Each night was the same, too. Always there was the Chinese inn, one hardly distinguishable from the next, each night the silk-lined bed prepared for her, and then the visit from her husband, to sate his lust.
Repetition had dulled her senses, so that she no longer writhed in agony nor sobbed herself to sleep afterward, but lay passive and numb until he had finished. Once or twice her lack of response had angered him and he had gone so far as to swear at her in Chinese—she hadn’t been sure of the words, but their intent was unmistakable. He had even threatened her with the rope whip, but the threat held no terror for her. He could cause her no more pain that way than what he inflicted upon her in his ardor. He could beat her to death, but that would only provide release from her misery.
It seemed as if their journey would never end. Then, soon after they had set out one morning, she became aware of a commotion in the train of bearers and the coolies began to shout to one another in a dialect that she couldn’t understand.
Unexpectedly they came to a stop, though they had been traveling less than an hour, and the chair was set down. The sun had not yet penetrated the thick morning mists, and the countryside had an ethereal, otherworldly look. She stepped out from the chair, slowly realizing that they were speaking to her, watching her with excited expressions as if there were some great surprise in store for her. They were calling her attention to something, and she turned, following the direction of their pointing fingers—and gave a gasp of astonishment.
It seemed to rise from the very mist, awesome, frightening, incredibly majestic—the Great Wall of China.
Everything that she’d ever read or heard came rushing back to her—the greatest, the largest structure ever made; a million lives had been forfeit in its building; each stone was stained with bloody tears. It stretched in splendid solitude from the farthest reaches of Asia, up mountains and down dark valleys, as mysterious and terrible as the empire it protected.
She stood for a long time, staring in an awe that penetrated even through her misery. The coolies grew restless, and at length an order came from Ke Loo’s chair, and they prepared to set out again.
It was only later in the day that she came to realize, from things she observed and overheard, that Ke Loo had himself arranged for her glimpse of the wall. He had taken them several days’ journey out of their way in order that she might view the country’s most spectacular sight. It was impossible to guess why. He might have wanted to impress upon her that China was not without her marvels, perhaps to ease her fears at being forced to make her home here.
Whatever his reasons, it gave her cause for reflection. However odious and repulsive Ke Loo might be to her, he was a man, and he was her husband, in deed if not in name. However real her dream of escape might be, it was still only a dream. She would be at Ke Loo’s mercy for many years, dependent upon him for her every need—possibly forever. If she meant to escape at all, she must first survive, and in order to do that, she must somehow make the best of the situation.
When Ke Loo came to her room that night, he did not find her clothed, as was usually the case. Instead, she had undressed, and swathed herself in one of the silk cloths used to cover the bed, wrapping it round and round herself, like a sarong. Unlike her full-skirted, high-necked gown, this makeshift garment revealed as much as it concealed, her budding breasts standing out in elegant relief.
The mandarin paused in the middle of the room, staring first in surprise, then in pleasure. She was reclining on the bed,
