“Then how do you know they were strange? Maybe he was whispering a recipe for stew.”
Was she truly that naïve? Yihui cast the lady a long look, and Emmaline relented. Her wide-eyed look changed to chagrin.
“I suppose it wasn’t a recipe for stew.”
“You do not have…uh…”
“Lechers? Yes, we do.” Emmaline set aside her sketching. It was an awkward drawing of Yihui asleep, and there was no softness given to her wretched looks. Apparently, the lady was one who preferred accurate images to the sweeter, vaguer pictures of flowers. “You’re probably uncomfortable. I’ll ring for my maid.”
She stood up just as a knock sounded. When the door opened, Yihui saw a maid who curtsied with nervous glances at Yihui, but behind her was Max, his expression cheerful as he stepped into the room.
“You’re looking much better now.”
Oh no. The clock on her recovery was now ticking. She dropped her gaze immediately, but not before she noticed that he looked exquisite in the English way. His face was clean shaven, and his hair curled in wet disarray. His clothing was dark and gave particular attention to his broad shoulders and trim waist. The Chinese style was different, with elegant sweeps of robes, but she found this trim style more appealing. Or at least more appealing on him.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said awkwardly, using a hand to smooth down her hair. It didn’t help. It was a tangled mess. Fortunately, he was kind enough not to remark upon it.
“Your fever broke. That’s excellent.”
“It’s the beginning,” Yihui said, trying to balance not being a burden on the household with the truth of her recovery. “I will not be fully strong for a week,” she lied. “Maybe more.”
“Maybe?” he said with a laugh. “I should think you will need months, not weeks.”
“I won’t be a burden—” she rushed to say, but he waved it away with a flick of his hand.
“You’re mending now, that’s all that matters. You said you would, and here you are.”
“I can help your house, my lord. I can help if anyone else grows ill.”
The maid squeaked in alarm at that. She’d been busy arranging water and cloth, but her fear was palpable. Neither Emmaline nor Max seemed to understand why, but Yihui had seen it before. Many feared illnesses they did not understand.
“I don’t bring illness!” she rushed to say. “I heal it. I swear!”
Max held up his hands. “Of course, you don’t bring it. Were you some kind of doctor in China?”
“I made the medicine. I helped with the women.” She added this last bit to see if the maid felt better with that news.
She did not.
“Max,” began Emmaline, “Yihui said she’d like to bathe, but I cannot carry her to a tub.”
His eyes widened. Apparently, what his sister suggested was startling. “I’ve just now finished mine. I’ll carry her into my room. No sense in bringing up water twice.”
“Are you sure—”
“She is our guest, and she needs our help.” He flashed an awkward smile. “I’ll put on a blindfold or something.”
Something was going on, and that usually meant trouble. “No, no!” Yihui exclaimed. “I can manage—”
He turned and caught her with his blue eyes. His gaze was feather soft, but his words were clear and hard. “It is no trouble, Yihui. And it is the least I can do.”
There were layers to his words she did not understand. Did she sense guilt? Was she about to be thrown away? Alarm shot through her at his words, but even as her breath tightened and her hands clutched the coverlet, he knelt down before her such that they were eye to eye, she on the bed and he squatting before her.
“Yihui, you are safe here.”
Her heartbeat eased, her breath slowed. She didn’t believe him. She was a wounded foreigner. There were many dangers for her, and yet, looking into his eyes, she felt safe. Indeed, the warmth in his eyes echoed how people looked on their riches, be it gold, a child who performs well, or… their most cherished concubines.
When Max looked at her, she felt cherished and that was such an exquisite feeling that it robbed her of all thought. Her breath stopped, her sight narrowed to him, and her body began to tingle. Suddenly, everything, everywhere was Max.
