She shuddered, then gritted her teeth, forcing down the pain she felt. She would be strong. As she'd been when Han had died. She would deny her feelings and will herself to happiness. For the sake of her sons.
She went to the mirror, studying herself. Her face was blotchy, her eyes puffed from crying. She turned and looked about her, suddenly angered by the mess she had made, by her momentary lapse of control. But it was nothing she could not set right. Quickly she went into the next room, returning a moment later with a small linen basket. Then, on her hands and knees, she worked her way methodically across the floor, picking up every last piece of broken pottery or glass she could find. It took her longer than she had thought, but it served another purpose. By the time she had finished she had it clearly in her mind what she must do.
She took the basket back into the dressing room and threw a cloth over it; then she began to undress, bundling her discarded clothes into the bottom of one of the huge built-in cupboards that lined the walls. Then, naked, she went through to the bathroom and began to fill the huge, sunken bath.
She had decided against the new silks. Had decided to keep it as simple as she could. A single vermilion robe. The robe she had worn that first morning, after they had wed.
While the water streamed from the taps, she busted herself at the long table beneath the bathroom mirror, lifting lids from the various jars and sniffing at them until she found the one she was searching for. Yes . . . She would wear nothing but this. His favorite. Mei hua, plum blossom.
She looked at her reflection in the wall-length mirror, lifting her chin. Her eyes were less red than they'd been, her skin less blotchy. She smiled, hesitantly at first, then more confidently. It had been foolishness to be so jealous. She was the match of a thousand serving girls.
She nodded to her image, determined, her hands smoothing her flanks, moving slowly upward until they cupped and held her breasts, her nipples rising until they stood out rigidly. She would bewitch him, until he had eyes for nothing but her. She remembered how he had looked at her—awed, his eyes round in his face; she laughed, imagining it. He would be hers. Totally, utterly hers.
Even so, she would have her vengeance on the girls. And on that pimp, Nan Ho. For the hurt they had caused her.
Her smile softened. And after she had made love to him, she would cook for him. A recipe her grandmother had left to her. Yes, while he slept she would prepare it for him. As a wife would.
LI YUAN YAWNED and stretched as the craft descended, then looked at his personal secretary, Chang Shih-sen, who was gathering his papers together, softly humming to himself.
"We've got through a lot of work in the last four days, Chang," he said, smiling. "I don't think I've ever worked so hard."
Chang smiled back at him, inclining his head slightly. "It is good to work hard, my Lord."
"Yes . . ." Li Yuan laughed, feeling the craft touch down beneath him. "But today we rest, neh? I won't expect to see you until tomorrow morning."
Chang bowed low, pleased by his master's generosity. "As the Prince wishes." He turned back, looking out the portal at the activity in the hangar. A welcoming committee of four servants, led by Nan Ho, was waiting to one side, while the hangar crew busied themselves about the craft. Chang was right. He felt good despite his tiredness. He had spent more than eighty hours scanning files and interviewing, and now all but two of the places on the Project were filled. If his father agreed, they could go ahead with it within the week.
For one day, however, he would take a break from things, set all cares aside and devote himself to Fei Yen.
He looked down, grinning at the thought of her. Life was good. To have important business in one's life and such a woman to return to; that, surely, was all a man could ask for.
And sons . . . But that would come. As surely as the seasons. He heard the hatch hiss open and looked back at Chang Shih-sen. "Go now, Chang. Put the papers in my study. We'll deal with them tomorrow."
Chang bowed his head, then turned away. Li Yuan sat there a moment longer, thinking over the satisfactions of the last few days, recollecting the great feeling of ch'i, of pure energy, he had experienced in dealing with these matters. Unlike anything he had ever felt before. It made him understand things better, made him realize why men drove themselves instead of staying at home in the loving arms of their wives. And yet it was good to come home, too. Good to have that to look forward to.
"A balance . . ." he said softly, then laughed and climbed up out of his seat, making his way down the short gangway, the three servants standing off to one side of him as he passed, their heads bowed low.
Nan Ho came forward as he reached the bottom of the steps, then knelt and touched his head to the ground.
"Welcome home, my Lord."
"Thank you, Master Nan. But tell me, where is Fei Yen?"
Nan Ho lifted his head fractionally. "She is in her chambers, Prince Yuan. She has given orders for no one to disturb her. Not even her amah."
Li Yuan grinned. "Ah . . ."
"My Lord—"
But Li Yuan was already moving past him. "Not now, Master Nan. 1 must go and see her."
Nan Ho turned, his extreme agitation unnoticed by the Prince. "But my Lord—"
"Later, Nan Ho . . ." Li Yuan called back, not turning, breaking into a trot as he crossed the flagged pathway between the hangar and the northern palace.
He ran through the palace, past bowing servants, then threw open the doors to her apartments.
She was waiting for him, sitting on the huge bed, her legs folded under her, the vermilion robe she had worn on their wedding morning pulled about her. Her head was lowered in obedience, but there was a faint smile on her cherry lips. He stood there in the doorway, getting his breath, drinking in the sight of her.
"My Lord?" she said, looking up at him, her eyes dark like the night, her voice warm, welcoming.
"My love . . ," he said, the words barely a whisper, the scent of plum blossom in the room intoxicating. Then, closing the doors firmly behind him, turning the great key, he went across to her and sat beside her on the bed, drawing her close.
He drew back, looking at her again, seeing at once the reflection of his love, there in her eyes. "I've missed you . . ."
In answer she shrugged the thin silk robe from her shoulders, then drew his head down into the cushion of her breasts, curling her legs about him.
"Make love to me, my Lord, I beg you."
Afterward he lay there, next to her, staring at her in wonder.
"My love. My darling little swallow ..."
She laughed, then drew his face close, kissing him gently, tenderly. "Now you know how much I missed you."
"And I you . . ."
She pushed him back and sat up. "But you're tired, husband. Why don't you sleep a while. And when you wake I'll have a meal ready for you."
"But my love, you needn't..."
She put a finger to his lips. "I want to. Besides, I am your wife."
He started to protest again, but she shook her head. With a brief laugh he lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. Within a minute he was asleep.
She studied him a moment, laying her hand softly on his chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath, then gently covered the soft fold of his spent manhood. She shivered. He was still such a boy.
She went into the tiny pantry and busied herself, preparing the ingredients she had had brought from the kitchen only an hour before. It would be two hours before it was ready. Time enough to bathe and change again.
She lay there a long time in the bath, soaking, looking through the open door at his sleeping figure on the bed. He was no bother really. Such a sweet boy. And yet. . .