The Samurai's Forbidden Touch. Ashley Radcliff

challenge. Well, her curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied until her uncle’s return, he thought.

      “My name is Takeshi,” he said instead. “Would you prefer that I watch you from here on the veranda, or may I come into the parlor?”

      Miku realized that his question, veiled in dignified politeness, actually left little room for true discussion. He would be guarding her tonight.

      “I prefer that you didn’t watch me at all,” she said stubbornly, a hand self-consciously trailing across the pale skin at the open neck of her robe, knowing as she spoke that the words weren’t completely true. After all, the heat of his gaze had certainly kindled something new within her, novel feelings she might be able to incorporate into her poetry. Why not permit the samurai to stay while she explored these new sensations, at least until she could escape his rigid oversight?

      Takeshi smiled again. The Master’s niece certainly had more spirit than her repressive uncle. Takeshi had never respected the old man, whose behavior was becoming increasingly despotic toward the peasants who supported his plush lifestyle. And when Takeshi had attempted on several occasions to suggest a gentler approach toward managing the serfs, the Master had dismissed his ideas without discussion.

      Although he had the physical and intellectual power to defy the Master at will, Takeshi had not yet done so. Instead, he waited with the patience and strategy of a tiger, knowing the right time would present itself—the time when he would no longer pretend to follow the old man’s orders.

      Miku glared at Takeshi, his condescending smile of authority again provoking her anger…and suspicion. Something about this samurai’s presence made Miku wonder if perhaps her uncle’s plans to subdue her included more than just the visit of an aged counselor. Yet while she was certainly no match for Takeshi’s brute strength, Miku was still confident that her own wit and cunning would defeat this battle-hardened soldier. And once she had him sufficiently distracted, she would make her escape over the manor wall.

      “Perhaps you will join me in a game of shells,” Miku said, intentionally keeping her voice light and pleasant. She lowered herself onto a floor cushion behind the kicho and indicated he do the same. “My poetry can wait.”

      If this man must oversee her activities for the moment, then it would be on her terms. He might be accustomed to wholly subjugating all who stood against him on the battlefield, but he had never attempted to bind a spirit as free as hers…and it was a battle Miku felt certain he would not win.

      Takeshi moved into the parlor and glanced at the young woman’s desk, noting a small scroll embellished with calligraphy. Though he could not decipher the script, the writing revealed an elegant, artful hand. The curving figures flowed down the page in an effortless dance that betrayed her appreciation for freedom and beauty in a way that did not require literacy to understand. This woman was becoming more and more intriguing, Takeshi realized.

      “Do not fear being caught playing a woman’s game,” Miku continued coyly. “No soldiers—save you—remain at my uncle’s home tonight.”

      The taunting smile in her voice made Takeshi look away from the scroll. She lounged gracefully at his feet, her hip-length hair pooling on the floor. Like the swooping calligraphy, the curving lines of her thinly veiled body made the blood within him surge. But admiring her beauty wasn’t why he had been assigned to guard her, he reminded himself. In fact, the real reason meant her loveliness would soon be unreachable forever—if he decided not to challenge the Master.

      Takeshi slowly knelt across from Miku, setting his sharp-edged katana flat on his lap. “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he said.

      Miku blinked, and a pink flush tinged her ivory face. She pushed back a strand of shiny, lacquer-black hair, confused. She had intended to disorient the samurai with her playful banter, yet somehow he seemed to one causing her the greater discomfiture.

      “The calligraphy,” he continued. “It’s lovely.”

      Her eyes opened wide with delight, her plans to thwart his unwanted oversight temporarily forgotten. “You appreciate poetry?”

      “I have been told it is the most sensuous art—that it reveals the poet’s own soul, laying it bare to be tasted and enjoyed by others.”

      “Do you write poetry, too?” asked Miku, amazed by how the samurai’s words seemed to echo her own deepest musings about the art form.

      Takeshi was surprised by how animated the woman had become. She leaned forward now, her face upturned and her lips parted, waiting for his response.

      “I am no poet. I have only heard poetry recited and seen calligraphy at the temples I have visited. I cannot read or write,” he admitted, wondering what it was about Miku’s eager face that made him want to share this secret with her.