The Tiger's Bride. Merline Lovelace

the narrow, three-mile-long peninsula which contained the old Portuguese walled city of Macao.

      The Reverend Mr. Abernathy firmly believed that this outrageous edict was the work of the celibate Jesuits who’d held such sway over the Chinese emperors for a century or more. Sarah herself suspected that the prohibition sprang from more direct causes. The simple fact was that the European women’s mode of dress shocked the modest Chinese to their core. The high-waisted, low-necked chemise gowns brought into fashion by the French Empress Josephine some years ago displayed a shameful amount of feminine flesh. Even the Abernathy sisters’ more conservative gowns, with their long, tight sleeves and lace-trimmed bodices, raised Cook’s brows. Thus Sarah had disguised herself in Chinese clothing to seek out the man whose help she so desperately needed.

      Her diminutive guide stopped and pointed shyly. “House of Flowers, Big Sister.”

      Sarah glanced in surprise at the building the child indicated. Somehow she’d expected a brothel to look quite different from this elegant residence. As viewed from the street, with only the tips of its many-tiered roof visible behind its high walls, the building might have been mistaken for a wealthy mandarin’s home. An intricately carved ebony gate stood open—to admit nocturnal guests, Sarah supposed. Beyond the peaked gatehouse, she caught a glimpse of lush gardens cut by pebbled walks and illuminated by glowing lanterns.

      “You wanchee come come,” the little girl urged, tugging on her sleeve.

      Following the child, Sarah plunged into a dark alley that ran alongside one wall of the house. Garbage and other matter she preferred not to identify squished under her wooden clogs. Halfway down the alley, a dark figure detached itself from the shadows.

      “Number Five Nephew?”

      The figure bobbed its head in reply. “Yes, Big Sister. You come, quick quick.”

      Sarah felt her heart begin to pound as she slipped through a side gate. Despite her brave words to Abigail earlier, she wasn’t quite as comfortable about venturing inside one of Macao’s most infamous brothels as she’d pretended.

      With a terse order to wait, Number Five Nephew pushed Little One With A Limp behind a screen of trailing jasmine vines, then gestured for Sarah to follow. Head down, hands tucked inside her sleeves, she hurried along a neatly swept pebbled path.

      As they rounded a corner of the main building, Sarah couldn’t resist taking a quick peek. The scene in the central courtyard made her eyes widen. She might well have been staring at Lady Blair’s own gardens on the occasion of the Midsummer’s Eve Ball, the event that always marked the start of Macao’s social season.

      Well-dressed women strolled the walks on the arms of their chosen companions. An orchestra of many-stringed instruments filled the night air with silvery notes. Scattered tables held every imaginable delicacy. The only difference between this soiree and Lady Blair’s, Sarah noted with a tickle of irrepressible amusement, was that the women here wore embroidered gowns buttoned modestly up to the small collars that banded their necks. At Lady Blair’s, the revealing ball gowns would have bared acres of rounded breasts and dimpled arms.

      Quite suddenly, Sarah’s amusement vanished. By the light of a hanging lantern she recognized a portly man leaning over the tiny, dark-haired woman on his arm. If Sarah wasn’t mistaken, that was The Honorable Mr. Forsythe, Senior Accountant at the East India Company and a deacon of her father’s small congregation! Her lips folded into a tight line. How would she would ever face the man…or his wife…across a church pew again?

      Ducking her head to avoid any further compromising sights, Sarah followed her guide down a dim corridor. Almost immediately, the real purpose of the House of the Dancing Blossoms began to impress itself on her consciousness. Female giggles drifted through thin bamboo walls, punctuated by an occasional male grunt and, suddenly, a tortured groan.

      Sarah stopped abruptly at the sound. Her first startled thought was to rush to the poor victim’s aid. Before she did so, the groan ended in a long, shuddering sigh, followed almost immediately by a muttered phrase in English that made her blush to the tips of her ears.

      “Come!” her guide whispered, beckoning furiously.

      Sarah hurried after him, trying without much success to ignore the sounds that emanated from the chambers they passed. By the time the boy opened the door to a small, dimly lit room, she knew her face was as red as the silk banner hanging just inside the door. To her relief, the room was empty. Her nerves jumping, she turned to her escort.

      “Cap-i-tan come come, same place?”

      Number Five Nephew bobbed his head. “Yes, Big Sister. Every nightee, same same.” He shooed her inside. “You waitee, he come. Then we go, quick quick.”

      As the door closed behind her nervous escort, Sarah drew in a deep, steadying breath. She needed to cool her cheeks and compose her thoughts for her imminent meeting with the scandalous Lord Straithe.

      According to the gossipmongers, James Kerrick had started down the road to ruin some eight years ago. Then a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, he’d been caught in a most compromising situation with his admiral’s wife. The fact that he’d just been cited for extraordinary heroism in one of the last naval battles of the Napoleonic wars didn’t mitigate his disgrace. In short order, he’d been dismissed from the Navy, ostracized by society, and shunned by a rigidly disapproving older brother. Undaunted, he’d purchased his own ship and charted a course of dissolution and dissipation ever since.

      His brother had died some years ago, Sarah had learned, and the cashiered naval officer had become Third Viscount Straithe. His brother had avenged himself on the black sheep who’d disgraced him, however, by selling the family estate to a land-hungry squire just before he died. Straithe now held the title, and nothing else.

      It went against Sarah’s grain to turn to such a man for help, but he was her only hope. Unfortunately, he hadn’t shown the least sign of wanting to aid her. He’d ignored her repeated notes requesting his presence at the Mission House on a matter of some urgency. When she’d tried to contact him through his man of business, Straithe had instructed the clerk to palm her off with a donation to the Mission and the excuse that the captain was too busy to concern himself with the affairs of the colony.

      Evidently he wasn’t too busy for regular visits to the House of the Dancing Blossoms, Sarah thought in some pique. Well, at least Straithe’s disgusting habits had given her the means to track him down.

      Tipping her hat back, she glanced around the small room. The chamber wasn’t particularly well equipped for the serious discussion she needed to have with Straithe. Aside from a low, lacquered table in one corner that held a porcelain teapot, several handle-less cups and a plate of fruit, the only other piece of furniture in the room was the bed. Canopied and enclosed on three sides by curtains painted with scenes that brought the blood rushing to Sarah’s cheeks once more, the massive platform dominated the chamber.

      She turned away from its erotic splendor, reminding herself that she was no schoolgirl to be shocked at such vulgar displays. She’d nursed her mama during the childbed fever that eventually claimed her. She’d tended to her brothers and sisters and many of her papa’s flock. She’d seen more sickness and death than many women of her age and class. Nevertheless, she had to fan herself with her sleeve for some moments before she felt composed enough to face the man she’d come to see.

      When the door slid open long moments later and he stepped inside, Sarah’s first, uncensored thought was that the phrase “as black as sin” might have been coined to describe his hair. The disordered locks gleamed with a dark luster that caught the lantern light and made her fingers itch to smooth it back from his brow, much as she did Charlie’s when he came to her flushed and panting after a hard game of cricket.

      Her second thought was that the bed, as huge as it was, would hardly hold him. Having glimpsed Straithe at a distance once or twice, she knew he towered over most other individuals. Until now, though, she’d never appreciated just how big the man was.

      For a wild moment, she wondered how in the world he managed to fold those long legs