The Blonde Samurai

So that was the reason James invited my father for this get-together.

Angry with my husband’s subterfuge, I fiddled with my fan, bending it until it cracked. James had convinced my father there was a fortune to be made by working with the mikado’s government to finance a string of railways across Japan with Thomas O’Roarke investing in the rails, tank engines, wood for bridges and carriages needed. All financial arrangements, his lordship added, would be handled through the Oriental Bank of London.

He didn’t count on his frustrated young wife playing a game of her own. Bored, restless and sex starved, I remained defiant in my approach to this marriage. I refused to be treated like an aftereffect of his greed and often baited him with subtle, sexual innuendos regarding his secret life.

As in this instance, when Viscount Aubrey dropped a casual remark that the British government held fast to its goal in bringing Occidental values to Japan. Curious, I asked him how they proposed to change a pagan country cut off from civilization for nearly two hundred fifty years (Lord Penmore’s letters contained material of an informational nature as well as salacious). He answered in his wry manner that the British Legation had already engaged a governess and a seamstress to teach the female gentry of Japan about English household customs.

“I imagine visiting the mysterious Orient tempts the adventurer in all of us,” I said, envisioning myself floating in a world of silk, flowers and fans. And bare breasted with numerous combs and needles decorating my hair, as I had seen in the tinted photographs of the geisha included in Lord Penmore’s letters. “Including me.”

“I had no idea you were so interested in Japan, my dear wife,” James said, laying his hand on the back of my neck and rubbing it, making me stiffen. “I see I was mistaken.”

He kissed my hand, expecting me to quiver. I didn’t withdraw it, signaling to him that I alone controlled my emotions. Instead, I said, “There are many things you don’t know about me, my dear husband.”

“That’s my Katie,” my father said, smiling at me. “A girl with spirit. I see no reason why you couldn’t accompany your husband to Japan.”

“Splendid idea, Mr. O’Roarke,” the viscount added, as if the thought were his own. “Your daughter would be a most excellent addition to the British delegation at the mikado’s court.”

“That’s impossible, milord,” James blurted out, startling me.

And making me angry. How dare he speak for me?

He continued, “My wife has no intention of leaving London during the Season.”

Ignoring his outburst, I replied, “You flatter me, Viscount Aubrey, but tell me, how could I be of assistance to the legation? I know nothing about the Japanese, though I admit I’ve been reading about their fascinating country in Lord Penmore’s letters to my husband.”

The look of fury on James’s face was instant. Cold, fierce. I swear if he could have, he would have taken the whip to me at that moment so intense was his anger toward me.

I pretended not to notice and continued discussing the British alliance with the Japanese with the viscount, though I was more interested in contrasting the volatile state of my relationship with my husband with my seemingly innocent remark about the romance of travel.

“I’m certain the mikado’s court would be honored to receive you and be graced by your wit, Lady Carlton,” said the viscount, ignorant of the drama being played out between my husband and me, “as well as your charm and intelligence.”

I smiled. I was beginning to enjoy the game. I curled my fingers around my broken fan and tapped it against my cheek in a coy manner. “In that case, how can I resist such a delightful invitation?”

“What are you saying, my dear wife?” My husband’s voice held an edge only I recognized.

I lowered my lashes to veil my naughty thoughts from him. “Isn’t it a wife’s duty to accompany her husband to his new post?”

“Not if he wishes her to stay home,” he countered. “A wife must obey her husband’s wishes in all matters.”

“All matters, James?” I flipped open my cracked fan and fluttered it about me wildly. “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gotten my way, would it, my dear husband?”

I could see his eyes flashing with contempt, knowing I had baited him and he couldn’t bow out gracefully in front of Viscount Aubrey.

I laid my fan down on the divan, fingering the broken spine. I wouldn’t break as easily. I’d made my point, shown him he couldn’t make me surrender to his will. I’d let him simmer for a few days, feed his sexual temperament with provocative thoughts of me watching his every move in the Orient, then I’d invoke a woman’s prerogative.

I’d change my mind.

You see, dear lady reader, I had no intention of going to Japan. The idea disturbed me, images of intense strangeness and violence making an indelible mark upon my mind. Besides, I’d made my place here in London and occupied it with a surety and confidence I’d never experienced at home. The viscount would understand my position when I explained my trepidation and withdraw his offer gracefully. After all, what sane woman would wish to travel halfway around the world to such a barbaric country?

“Katie, me girl, you saved the old man a heap of anguish tonight.”

“What are you talking about, Da?” I asked, curious. I poured myself another glass of claret, still gloating over how I had perturbed my husband about accompanying him to Japan. I also knew the power of an eloquent silence and didn’t protest when James excused himself and left the gun room in haste with a feeble excuse about finding his manservant to bring more liquor. Most likely he ventured off in search of a plump bottom to vent his frustration upon with his favorite crop. The viscount finished his port then rang for his driver, citing his gout as the reason for his early departure.

Leaving my father and I alone.

“I don’t know how to say this, Katie, but I’m worried.”

“About what, Da? Is Mother overdrawn on her account at Fortnum & Mason again?” I was well aware of my mother’s appetite for fine pickle relishes and peach preserves.

He smiled. He never denied his adored Ida anything, but it wasn’t my mother’s spending habits that made him peel off the wrapper of another cigar and hold it tightly in his palm before crushing it. “I overheard something about that husband of yours that set the old man’s ears atwittering.”

“You did?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Did he know about James’s sexual indiscretions? This upset me more than I would admit. After all the times I spoke with my father in blunt terms about the world of politics and life’s frailties, I felt embarrassment at the thought of my da knowing about my husband’s sordid liaisons with prostitutes. Rare to blush, I put my hand to my cheek and the burn meeting my fingertips surprised me.

“Yes,” he continued. “Some braggart from Parliament mentioned a stock deal James got himself involved with that had shady overtones.” He paused, tossing down the cigar, then said, “Though he couldn’t prove it when I challenged him.”

“I never heard anything about it, Da.” I bit my lip the second I said the words. Why was I defending my husband?

“I hope you’re right, Katie. I was leery about sending that husband of yours off to Japan with a letter of credit worth thousands of pounds sterling honored by my bank here in London,” my father said, laying his hand on my shoulder, “but with you going with him—”

“Me? Go to Japan?” I turned around so quickly I spilled the wine, the deep burgundy staining my fingers red. I grabbed a cloth from the table and wiped up the mess, my victory over James dissolving as quickly as the cloth soaking up the liquid. “I—I can’t go, Da.”

“But you seemed so eager—”

“I was. I mean…it sounded so romantic…” I shuddered, my breath ragged. What had I done?

I couldn’t tell my father about the dangerous game I played with my husband, the sexual innuendos, unfulfilled lust, his blatant adultery. Thomas O’Roarke already harbored a prejudice against the Englishman because of James’s high financial demands for our marriage settlement. My father had paid the exorbitant amount to make my mother happy and to secure my future. Or so he believed.

“A sea voyage will do wonders for you both,” my father answered in that glib manner of his I knew so well when he wanted something. “Think of it as a holiday.”

I tried to smile, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter what I said or did. My father would see only what he wanted to see, the range of his vision clouded by his personal motives.

“A trip to Japan would be most illuminating,” I lied, “but Mother needs me here in London to help her, especially since Elva and the baby are coming to visit.”

Though we had our differences, I was looking forward to my younger sister’s visit. Elva was the pretty one, dark and dainty, the daughter my mother groomed to marry a duke or a prince. Instead she’d gotten pregnant at seventeen and had her baby in a Paris hospital. I was eager to see her.

I continued, making excuses. “I spoke without thinking, Da.”

“I’m mighty glad you did.” He lowered his voice. The glibness was gone. That surprised me, made me uneasy. So unlike the rogue Irishman who could talk a gang of rail busters into working extra hours for no pay. “I need this deal with the Japanese, Katie. Need it bad.”

No fragmentation of thought, just straightforward talk. I stared at him, something about the edge in his voice frightening me. “What are you saying?”

“We’re heading for bad times with the railroad boom in the States coming to an end. Banks are overextending themselves and President Grant invoked the gold standard for the money supply.” He paused, chewed on his cigar. “I’m dead certain we’re going into an economic crisis before the end of the year.” He thought about what was on his mind, then finished with, “I fear I could lose everything if I don’t diversify my holdings.”

“I had no idea it was that serious.”

“It’s worse, Katie.” Thomas O’Roarke shook his head, his jowls drooped, the toll of many years of track walking for the railroad in his younger days showing on his face. Success had its price, I knew, though my father would never admit it. He’d come up the hard way, working with his hands till they bled, but it was his quick, mathematical mind and keen business sense that had put him at the top of the railroad game.

“If what you’re saying is true, Da, wouldn’t it make more sense if you went to Japan with James?”

I rattled my brain for an excuse, any excuse not to go on a long, tiresome journey halfway around the world with a man I feared and hated. No warmth existed between us, any attraction I may have felt toward him disfigured by his deviant games of domination, and if I stripped away the pretense we had forged with each other, it revealed only emptiness.

“I wish I could, Katie, but I can’t.” He spoke harshly. “You must go to Japan and keep an eye on my business interests.”

“But Japan is a pagan country,” I reminded him, “run by barbarians and samurai.”

My father ignored my plea. “You’re a strong girl, Katie, not letting anyone get the best of you and speaking your mind.” He smiled, pleased. “You remind me of meself when I was starting out, all fired up with ambition, a wild temper and always breaking rules.”

I grinned, remembering the photo I’d seen of my father back in his youth, a tall, thin young man with pants too short for him, a lantern in his hand and a whistle between his lips. I saw that young man come alive again when he said, “There’s nothing more beautiful in the world than miles of railroad track, all straight and shiny, calling to you.” He laughed. “Except your mother, of course.”

I poked him in the ribs. “You always did know how to turn a phrase, Da.”

He didn’t give up his cajoling, now that he had my attention. “Railroading is in your blood, Katie. When you were a wee girl, I’d take you along with me down to the tracks and we’d watch the big trains roaring into the station. Side by side they came, the crew heaving coal into the engines, the iron horses puffing, straining every bit of steel and muscle, passengers hanging out the windows and waving handkerchiefs, the rolling black smoke turning the sky dark overhead, the great iron steeds rounding the sharp curve and arriving at their destination, brakes screeching, tracks sparking.” He let go with a heavy sigh. “’Tis a sight to behold, but railroading is a young man’s game and the old man is running out of steam.” He patted his belly protruding over his trousers.

“Not you, Da. You can do anything.” I remembered those days with my small hand clasped in his, hanging on to my soft blue bonnet whipped by the wind. I hugged him with warmth in my heart, but I couldn’t stop a cold fear growing in my bones.

“Not this time, Katie. Your husband may be what we call an upstart back home, but he’s shrewd and can get the job done.” He leaned forward and looked me square in the eye. “I’m counting on you to see that he does.”

I found the courage to return my father’s hard stare, though turmoil raged inside me, a smooth sheen of sweat moistening my upper lip. I remained silent for several minutes, my insides churning with something I didn’t understand, an anticipation of the unknown knocking my inner compass off course. I’d been so sure of myself, filled with self-direction, capable of making my way unaided, asserting my freedom as Lady Carlton, but all that ended if I followed my father’s wishes and journeyed to Japan.

I looked away, guilt flooding me. How could I explain to him my husband was a madman who reveled in floggings, whippings and spankings? My father believed I was a happily married woman, though sexually I moved in the shadows, darkness cloaking my secret, my cries of ecstasy mingling with silence, my solitary game bringing me release but little joy.

How I longed to crush my nude breasts against the muscular bare chest of an imaginary lover, rubbing my hard nipples against him, the heat of my need stirring his desire. Moving his body on mine, then thrusting his cock into me until the loneliness I lived with day after day ceased and my body hummed with a comforting rhythm I had yet to experience.

When we did meet, my samurai relit my soul with acts so profound and passionate, so brilliantly intense I existed in a floating world. Every gesture, nuance and caress teasing me with the finest blue silk pulled taut over my breasts so my nipples peaked through the sheer fabric, inviting my samurai to linger at the task before stripping it off me and exploring me further, capturing my spirit and giving me pleasure with consummate skill. My nude body glimmering with such translucence it was as if I were bathed in mica dust.

Yet at that moment I believed that would never happen with this new set of circumstances entering my life. Strange, I had gotten myself into this situation because I wished to strike back at my husband, make him see me as an equal, not as a sexually repressed woman. Agonizing, meandering thoughts consumed me. Questions haunted me, but the answer didn’t change. I had no choice but to embark on this journey.

Reluctantly, over the next few weeks I assisted James with making the necessary arrangements regarding our identity papers, letters of credit from the bank along with a signature book and visiting cards, as well as securing passage to America, then Japan. I owed my father that much, but I couldn’t shake the uneasiness overtaking me as his lordship and I undertook our long journey to the Orient, a land of myth, pagan rituals and strange customs. I prayed I would survive nameless dangers I had yet to contemplate.

What I didn’t know, dear lady reader, was that I would face a clear-cut danger the night we were to board the steamer to Yokohama from San Francisco.

I shiver still, remembering the frightening incident that nearly cost me my life. Read on, if you have the courage. You won’t be disappointed. I have worked hard to re-create that night with witty dialogue and pertinent details as I remember them; but I must warn you to keep your smelling powders close at hand since I have also included a most explicit scene with my samurai that will—

No, I will let you see for yourself, but I beg you to read the chapter in its entirety so as not to lose sight of the story line.

That is why you’re reading this book, isn’t it?

5

Cliff House, San Francisco, California

Six weeks later…

We made the journey from London to New York, then across the continent by railway, and I must say I was flattered by the endearing personal service afforded to me as Lady Carlton. It mattered not that I was Thomas O’Roarke’s daughter, more that I commandeered the title of aristocrat with a handsome husband at my side. James cajoled the wives of business associates we met along the way, impressing their husbands with my father’s money, paying for lavish parties and handing out Cuban cigars. He was on his best behavior.

Until tonight.

We were dining in a private room at Cliff House, marveling at its lofty view overlooking the coast and the bellowing seals romping about on the rocks below, when James made an off-putting remark about the fashionably low décolleté of my gown. In a not-too-subtle manner, he insinuated I was intent on seducing every man I came in contact with, including our sober-faced waiter.

Me? A seductress? The idea amused me since the art was unknown to me, though I had travailed in my reading about infamous mistresses, their style, repartee, even the popularity of their scent. (The next time you smell a musky odor upon his lordship’s handkerchief, be advised it could be the natural perfume of a certain courtesan residing on Lupus Street known for imparting her body aroma on a gentleman’s handkerchief.)

I knew the daring gown was stunning, too dazzling for an early dinner, but I ventured to wear it anyway. Shoulders straight, bosom high, hips buoying the twenty or more flounces on my overskirt, I walked with a sensual flair to make every man dream about what was underneath. (I learned to affect a certain disinterest in what I wore from watching ladies of the British aristocracy, as if the nature of wearing garments was a plebian aptitude one merely adopted on a divine whim.)

Aside, I must tell you I loved the feel of the satin swishing between my legs, the velvet caressing my breasts, the lace pricking my nipples and making them taut. I wore such frilly, pretty clothes to evoke a mood and create a world of my own, a world where I played the role of a woman beautiful and mythical, a woman desirous to men, a woman so legendary no man could resist her. I cared not if that world collapsed when I stood nude before a full-length oval mirror and examined my features, plain as they were. When I swathed myself in glittering finery, I embarked on a deep and satisfying adventure that allowed me to indulge in my romantic wanderings, to race forward into the mirage I had created and walk through the fire of criticism unscathed.

Which was why I chose the color red. A defiant color, bold and perfect. I relished how the velvet gown in crushed strawberry hugged my body, the small cap sleeves sliding down my bare shoulders while the tiered soft bustle swayed behind me, the long train sweeping over the muted Oriental carpets. A long row of pearl buttons gave off an opaline luster, racing down my back like a game of dominoes.

I also enjoyed the effect this gown had on the ladies who gossiped about me at the Viscount Aubrey’s soiree when I returned to London. (You remember what I wore that night, of course you do.) I also relished the attention of the gentlemen who couldn’t take their eyes off me. Especially my husband. He hated the idea of another man looking at me, even a servant, when he couldn’t bed me.

“What do you think about my husband’s remark?” I asked the black-tailed server as he poured me another glass of claret. My fourth. I needed no excuse to indulge in spirits. My nerves were frayed from fatigue, my mind listless. I admit the wine as well as his comment brought up my Irish dander, knowing as I do my susceptibility to lose my tongue when imbibing spirits, so I tossed aside any reserve I held in abeyance.

“I beg your pardon, your ladyship?” the server answered quickly.

“Am I trying to seduce you?” I drank the wine quickly lest I spill it on my gown and sour the rich red color with a dark stain. The wine teased my tongue with its tartness as I swallowed it, the choker of diamonds around my neck bouncing up and down when I tightened my throat muscles. I held my glass up and the waiter poured me another with hesitation.

“Whatever your ladyship wishes,” he answered automatically, without moving a muscle in his drawn face, then realized too late the consequences of maintaining his cool exterior.

I smiled at my husband, showing my teeth as I answered him. “You see, my dear husband, you’re not the only man I’ve charmed with my…wit.”

James threw his head back and laughed. “I may have agreed to your terms, my dear wife, but the game between us isn’t finished.” He glared at my cleavage, smacked his lips, then took another bite of his half-eaten salmon, pink and moist. He rolled his tongue over his lips, teasing me. “Seeing how I’ve yet to taste your American…wit.”

I ignored his sexual innuendo, preferring instead to stir up naughty mischief of my own, something, anything to assuage the emptiness in my soul. I refused to allow his remarks to hurt me, though I suffered from an illness of the mind brought on by the infusion of indulgence when a loving touch would have meant so much.

“Then I shall order dessert to tempt your palate.” I waved at the waiter who hadn’t moved a muscle, though I detected a persistent twitch under his right eye. “Bring us a tart.”

He cleared his throat. “What kind, milady?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Blond or brunette will do.”

“Your ladyship, what you ask for is…indecent,” the waiter sputtered. “We are a reputable establishment.”

I pushed my empty plate away from me. “The man refuses to serve me, James. What are you going to do about it?”

“Shall I shoot him?” he asked, the intent in his voice not serious, but the waiter didn’t know that. The poor man’s shoulders slumped and his eyebrows flew upward. He bowed and excused himself without delay, leaving us alone to play out our depraved game in private.

“I’m surprised you didn’t flog him,” I mocked, picking up my napkin and twisting it around my fingers. “Isn’t that more your style?”

James leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table in a laissez-faire attitude. “I prefer a plump, feminine bottom to satisfy my need.”

“Any female, James?” I probed, pricking his mind with my verbal needle. “Or must they be young and saucy?”

“I prefer virgins.” He pulled the cork from the wine bottle the server had left on the tray and stuck his forefinger inside. “They’re tight and so willing.”

I ignored his blatant exhibition of erotic double entendre and drove home my point. “Like the poor girl you ruined in London?”

“Which one?” he dared to ask, making a popping sound as he withdrew his finger from the bottle. He licked his finger clean, his eyes never leaving mine. I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of him probing inside me with his fingers, then licking my juices. I preferred my dildo.

“The girl’s name was Lucie,” I said. “I stopped her from jumping out of the library window on the top floor.”

I remember that afternoon before tea, scrambling as I was to procure a new story to titillate me, when I heard sobbing coming from the library. I opened the door to see the young maid teetering on the window ledge, her cap missing, her apron and shoes tossed onto the floor, her body poised and ready to jump. Only by the grace of God and a quick Hail Mary—and with my promise to find her another position in a Mayfair residence was I able to talk her out of jumping.