He saw her darting for the razor-sharp stiletto that she used for embroidery. He reached her just as she was starting to turn it into herself, and grabbed the haft of the knife. The point glanced off the whalebone of May-may’s corset. He hurled the knife aside and tried to hold her, but, raving in Chinese, she pushed him away and clawed at the dress, mutilating it. Struan quickly turned her around and undid the hooks and eyes. May-may ripped the front apart and fought out of the gown and out of the corset and slashed at the pantaloons. When she was free, she stamped on the dress, screaming.
“Stop it!” he shouted, and caught her, but she shoved him away, berserk.
“Stop it!”
He smashed her flat-handed across the face. She reeled away drunkenly and fell across the bed. Her eyes fluttered, and she lost consciousness.
It took Struan a moment to overcome the hammering in his ears. He pulled the bedclothes off and covered May-may.
“Ah Sam! Lim Din!”
The two petrified faces were at the broken doorway. “Tea—quick-quick! No. Get brandy.” Lim Din returned with the bottle. Struan lifted May-may gently and helped her to drink. She choked a little. Then her eyes trembled and opened. They stared at him without recognition.
“You all right, lass? You all right, May-may?” She made no sign that she had heard him. Her frightening gaze fell on the mutilated dress and she cringed piteously. A moan escaped her and she mumbled something in Chinese. Ah Sam came forward reluctantly, consumed with terror. She knelt and began to scoop up the clothes.
“What did she say? Wat Missee say-ah?” Struan kept his eyes unwaveringly on May-may.
“Devil clotheses fire, Mass’er.”
“No fire, Ah Sam. Put my room. Hide. Hide. Savvy?”
“Savvy, Mass’er.”
“Then come back.”
“Savvy, Mass’er.”
Struan waved his hand in dismissal at Lim Din, who scurried away.
“Come on, lassie,” he said gently, terrified by the fixity—and the madness—of her stare. “Let’s get you dressed in your usual clothes. You have to come to the ball. I want you to meet my friends.”
He took a step toward her and she backed away abruptly like a snake at bay. He stopped. Her face twitched and her fingers were like talons. A wisp of saliva gathered in a corner of her mouth. Her eyes were terrifying.
Fear for her swept him. He had seen the same look in other eyes. In the eyes of the marine, just before his brain had blown apart, on the first day of Hong Kong.
He sped a silent prayer to the Infinite and gathered all his will. “I love you, May-may,” he said softly, again and again, as he walked slowly across the room. Closer. Slowly, so slowly. He towered over her now, and saw the talons ready to strike. He raised his hands and gently touched her face. “I love you,” he repeated. His eyes, dangerously unprotected, willed her with the vastness of their power. “I need you, lassie, I need you.”
The madness in her eyes changed to agony, and she fell sobbing into his arms. He held her and thanked God weakly.
“I’m—I—sorry,” she whimpered.
“Dinna be sorry, lassie. There, there.” He carried her to the bed and sat with her in his arms, rocking her like a child. “There, there.”
“Leave . . . me, now. All . . . all right now.”
“I’ll do nae such thing,” he said. “First gather your strength, then we’ll dress and we’ll go to the ball.”
She shook her head through her tears. “No . . . can’t. I—please . . .” She stopped weeping and, easing herself out of his arms, stood up, swaying. Struan caught her and guided her into bed, helping to pull off the tattered clothes. He settled the bedclothes over her. She lay limp in the bed and closed her eyes, exhausted.
“Please. All right now. Must . . . sleep. You go.”
He stroked her head gently, pushing the obscene ringlets out of her face.
Later he was conscious that Ah Sam was standing in the doorway. The girl came into the room, tears streaking her cheeks.
“You goa, Mass’er,” she whispered. “Ah Sam watchee, nev’ mind. No fraid. Can.”
He nodded wearily. May-may was deep asleep. Ah Sam knelt beside the bed and softly, tenderly, stroked May-may’s head. “No fraid, Mass’er. Ah Sam watchee werry wen Mass’er come by.”
Struan tiptoed out of the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Culum was the first to greet Struan when he returned to the ball.
“Can we start the judging?” he asked brusquely. Nothing could destroy his euphoria over his new-found love, and her brother, his new-found friend. But he still played the game.
“You should na have waited,” Struan harshly replied. “Where’s Robb? God’s blood, do I have to do everything?”
“He had to leave. Word came that Aunt Sarah’s labor pains have started. There seems to be some trouble.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But Mrs. Brock went with him to see if she could help.”
Culum walked off. Struan hardly noticed his going. His worry for May-may returned, and now it was overlaid with concern for Sarah and Robb. But Liza Brock was the best midwife in Asia, and if any help were needed, Sarah would get it.
Shevaun approached, bringing him a brandy. She handed him the glass without a word, and put her arm lightly in his. She knew there was no need for conversation. At such a time it was best to say nothing: Think as much as you like, but no questions. For even the most powerful person, she knew, needed a silent, understanding, patient warmth at times. So she waited and let her presence surround him.
Struan drank the brandy slowly. His eyes flickered over the throng and saw that all was welclass="underline" merriment here and there, fans fluttering, swords glinting. He watched Brock in private conversation with the archduke. Brock was listening and nodding occasionally, and totally concentrated. Was Zergeyev offering him the license? Mary was fanning herself beside Glessing. Something amiss there, he told himself. Tess and Culum and Gorth were laughing with one another. Good.
And when Struan had finished the brandy and was whole, he looked down at Shevaun. “Thank you,” he said, contrasting the grotesqueness of May-may in European dress and hair style with the perfection of Shevaun. “You’re very beautiful and very understanding.”
His voice was morose, and she knew that it must have something to do with his mistress. No matter, she thought, and held his arm compassionately.
“I’m fine now,” he said.
“Mr. Quance is coming over,” she cautioned him softly. “It’s time for the judging.”
The light green of his eyes darkened. “You’re very wise, Shevaun, apart from being beautiful.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to thank him but she said nothing, only moved her fan a trifle. She sensed that the brandy and silence and understanding—and above all no questions—had done much to bring him to the brink of a decision.
“Ah, Tai-Pan, my dear fellow,” Quance said as he came up, his eyes merry, an alcoholic flush enveloping him. “It’s time for the judging!”
“Very good, Aristotle.”
“Then make the announcement and let’s have at it!”