The China Bride

Mary Jo Putney The China Bride

Born to a Scottish father and a Chinese mother, Troth Montgomery dreamed of someday traveling to Scotland, until the death of her father condemned her to a shadowy life as an interpreter in Canton. Then Kyle Renbourne, viscount and adventurer, discovers Troth's true identity and persuades her to be his guide on a dangerous journey into the heart of the Celestial Kingdom.

A meeting of the minds flares into searing passion, an idyll that ends when Kyle is captured and condemned to death. A reckless prison cell marriage the night before his execution sends Troth to England, where she arrives at the estate of Kyle's brother. Though accepted as bride and widow, she is haunted by the memory of her dashing husband. Then the past reaches out to Troth, bringing passion, despair, and danger. Now she must draw on her unique heritage to save all she holds dear-and become the woman she is destined to be…

To Elisa Wares, editor extraordinaire

Acknowledgments

Even a little bit of China in a book requires mega-research, and never have I had to beg the help of so many consultants. Special thanks go to Ye Ling-Ling (Suntree Faprathanchai), Shirley Chan, Hannah Lee, Brenda Wang Clough, and Lisa Wong for their valiant efforts to help me capture some of the richness and complexity of Chinese culture in this story.

Hope Karan Gerecht gets thanks for vetting the feng shui, Julie Booth the martial arts, and Betsy Partridge for the Tui Na. Last but certainly not least, Susan King for help with all things Scottish, not to mention all-around support and encouragement.

My consultants did their best. For errors, blame me!

BOOK I. Chasing Dreams

Prologue

Shropshire, England

December 1832

She hadn't expected it to be so cold. Troth Montgomery shivered as she stepped from the shabby hired carriage, pulling her cloak more closely against the bitter December wind. She'd known that Britain lay far to the north, but a life spent in the tropics had left her ill-prepared for this bone-chilling climate.

Though she had yearned to reach the end of her long journey, now she was frightened at the prospect of meeting these strangers. Delaying, she asked the driver, 'This is really Warfield Park? It is not what I expected.'

He hacked a cough into his gloved hand. 'Aye, it's Warfield, right enough.' He hauled out her single carpetbag, dropped it onto the driveway beside her, then wheeled his horses to make a fast return to his home in Shrewsbury.

As the carriage rumbled past her, she caught a glimpse of herself in the window. Though she wore a sober navy blue gown, the most respectable and English-looking garment she owned, the reflection she saw was still hopelessly ugly, her dark hair and Oriental eyes blatantly foreign.

But she could not turn back. Lifting her carpetbag, she trudged up the steps of the sprawling, gabled structure. In summer the gray stones might appear mellow and warm, but in winter twilight, Warfield looked stark and unwelcoming. She didn't belong here-she didn't belong anywhere.

She shivered again, this time not from the wind. The owners of this house would not welcome her news, but surely, for Kyle's sake, she would be granted a bed for the night, if nothing else.

Reaching the door, she banged the massive knocker, which was shaped like a falcon's head. After a long wait, the door was opened by a uniformed footman. His brows arched at what had turned up on his doorstep. 'The servants' entrance is on the other side of the house.'

His scorn made her raise her head in a show of defiance. 'I am here to see Lord Grahame, on behalf of his brother,' she said icily, her accent at its most Scottish.

Grudgingly he admitted her to the hall. ' Your card?'

'I haven't got one. I have been… traveling.'

Plainly the footman wanted to throw her out, but didn't quite dare. 'Lord Grahame and his wife are dining. You shall have to wait here until they are done. When his lordship is free, whom shall I say is calling?'

Her numb lips could barely form the name that did not seem as if it really belonged to her. 'Lady Maxwell has arrived. His brother's wife.'

The footman's eyes widened. 'I shall inform him immediately.'

As the servant hastened away, Troth pulled her cloak about her and paced the unheated hall, almost ill with nerves. Would the brother have her whipped when he heard? Great lords had been known to punish the carriers of bad news.

She would have bolted from the house and taken her chances with the evil northern winter, but in her head she could still hear his rasping voice: Tell my family, Mei-Lian. They must know of my death. Though Kyle Renbourne, tenth Viscount Maxwell, had some fondness for her, she didn't doubt that his ghost would haunt her if she failed to perform his last request.

Bracing herself, she pulled off her gloves to expose the Celtic knotwork ring that Kyle had given her, since it was the only evidence of her claims.

Steps sounded behind her. Then an eerily familiar voice asked, 'Lady Maxwell?'

She turned and saw that a man and woman had entered the hall. The woman was as petite as a Cantonese, but with a glorious sweep of silvery blond hair that was striking even in this land of foreign devils. The woman returned Troth's stare, her expression curious as a cat's, but not hostile.

The man spoke again. 'Lady Maxwell?'

Troth tore her gaze from the woman to look at him. Her blood drained away, leaving her chilled to the marrow. It wasn't possible. The man was lean and well built, with chiseled features and striking blue eyes. Waving brown hair, a hint of cleft in his chin, an air of natural authority. The face of a dead man. It wasn't possible.