Of course, she had just learned them from Wen Qingya today and was now putting them to use. Qian Jiaoniang’s face was all innocence. “Why, it was Miss Zhao praising you today—otherwise how would I know such things?”
Xing Muzheng said, “From the sound of it, she knows nothing of me at all. Marrying me will only leave her disappointed. I’m just a rough fellow, pretending to be cultured by finding a literate young lady to put up a front—and in the end I got my comeuppance.”
Put up a front… door guardian… Feng Yuyan…
The words struck Qian Jiaoniang’s funny bone. She thought of Feng Yuyan’s portrait pasted on the door as a door god, and she lowered her head, covering her mouth with a giggle.
Xing Muzheng watched her eyes curve into crescents, and only after a moment did he raise an eyebrow and ask, “What are you laughing at?”
Qian Jiaoniang stifled her laughter, waving a hand. “I only think the Marquis is being far too modest.”
“It’s not modesty—it’s regret after reflection.” Xing Muzheng looked at her and said slowly, “I’ve been thinking… perhaps the two of us should just make do together.”
Qian Jiaoniang’s smile did not fade. “Marquis, that’s where you’re wrong. You can make do with anything—but not marriage. Otherwise the days will become unbearable, don’t you agree?”
Qian Jiaoniang was trying to persuade him to be more open-minded, but in Xing Muzheng’s ears it sounded as if she didn’t want to “make do” with him at all. Annoyance mixed with bitterness welled up in him.
He stood, walked slowly toward her, bent down, lowered his head, and planted his long arms on either side of the chair—gazing at the woman before him with an unfathomable look.
A shadow fell over her. Meeting those black eyes at such close range, Qian Jiaoniang shrank back a little—only to hit the hard chair back immediately.
To him, she was so small he could encircle her slender waist with one arm; with the slightest force he could lift her, light as if she had no bones. What was there to fear? He could press her onto the bed, kiss her delicate face, grip her wrists and have his way. No one would dare interrupt him. He wanted her so badly his very bones ached—truly, his bones ached!
Xing Muzheng’s Adam’s apple rolled; his eyes grew darker still. He slowly leaned toward her face. Qian Jiaoniang’s head tilted back bit by bit. “Marquis?” What strange fit was this again? Why lean so close while speaking?
Xing Muzheng did not answer. His black eyes fixed on her for a long while. “You…” he began slowly, a dangerous note in his voice.
“I…?” she prompted, swallowing.
“You…” His cool lips parted—then his words suddenly turned. “What do you plan to do tomorrow?”
“Ah?” Qian Jiaoniang was dumbfounded. He went to all this trouble just to ask that?
Straightening abruptly, Xing Muzheng turned his head and took a deep breath before asking again, “You’ve seen the invitations—where do you want to go tomorrow?”
Qian Jiaoniang also stood, moving a couple of steps to the side and tucking back the loose hair by her cheek. “I heard Wuling Temple is opening the altar for a sermon tomorrow, so I arranged with Miss Zhao to join the crowd for some fun.”
Xing Muzheng looked at her oddly. “Wuling Temple?”
Was it so strange for her to go to Wuling Temple? Did she not look like a believer? “Yes, Wuling Temple.”
He nodded slightly, then asked slowly, “When will you go?”
“At the hour of the Rabbit,” Qian Jiaoniang replied. “I heard the high monk will begin preaching at the hour of the Dragon.”
“Mm…” Xing Muzheng stared at her with a thoughtful look. “Shall I accompany you?”
Qian Jiaoniang was startled, then smiled. “If the Marquis could accompany me, that would be the best.”
Wait—that didn’t sound quite right. Xing Muzheng thought carefully—hadn’t she just said she would go with Miss Zhao? If he went along, wouldn’t that mean…?
He glanced at the faint smile tugging at her lips… Careless!
Xing Muzheng had fallen neatly into her trap. That night, lying in bed, he was seething. If it weren’t for that letter disturbing his mind, he would never have stepped into her snare. Unless… could it be that she had arranged for someone to send that letter, as part of some layered scheme? Or was it really from an old acquaintance of hers, with some other motive?
Closing his eyes, Xing Muzheng reflected grimly: whenever it came to Jiaoniang, his mind became muddled—like a fool. Was he ill? He gave a bitter laugh. If things went on like this, she would slip right out of his grasp.
Suddenly, the faintest sound made him snap his eyes open. It came from the roof.
He grabbed the sword by his bedside and swung himself out of bed. Then came the rapid clash of footsteps on tiles and blades striking. Outside, Li Qingquan was knocking on the door, calling to him in a low voice.
Xing Muzheng strode out with his sword. Tonight the moon was dark and the wind high; the courtyard lay in deep shadow, taut with danger. Someone lit the lanterns in the courtyard—Wang Yong and Ah Da stood in front of Qian Jiaoniang’s quarters, while four black-clad guards were positioned around the roof.
Xing Muzheng’s eyes swept over them, then moved to his own roof—two masked men were fighting the guards atop the tiles. Their lightness skills were clearly superb.
“Lord, shall we wake the madam and young master?”
“No need. Just a couple of petty thieves,” he said coldly.
One masked man glanced down into the courtyard and saw the mansion’s guards—every one of them disciplined and ready, silent as a pack of beasts eyeing prey. His hair stood on end; instinct told him to flee. But with no choice, he and his companion leapt down, striking straight toward Xing Muzheng.
“Lord, watch out!” Li Qingquan shouted.
“Do not interfere,” Xing Muzheng ordered, stepping forward to meet them with his sword.
