The Blonde Samurai

Praise for Jina Bacarr’s the BlondeGeisha

“The Blonde Geisha far surpasses Memoirs of a Geisha, bringing to life the scents, sights and sensual sensations that are uniquely ‘geisha.’ You will swear you saw cherry blossoms, tasted sake from a tiny, porcelain cup and felt the touch of a lover’s body on your own. Jina Bacarr does not merely tell a sensual tale, she invites you to partake in a pleasure that is exquisitely erotic and utterly unforgettable.”

—Aysel Arwen

“Ms. Bacarr is well on her way to being an extraordinary writer.”

—Erotic Romance Writers

“The wordplay is extraordinary…Ms. Bacarr’s voice is like a songbird; many will fall under its sensuous currents. [A] remarkable book.”

—A Romance Review

“Erotic romance fans should be prepared for lots of teasing!”

—Publishers Weekly

“An astounding, wonderful debut novel from Jina Bacarr, an author not to be missed!”

—The Mystic Castle

“Bacarr’s debut novel is a rich reading experience, especially for those interested in Japanese history and culture. Its language is lovely, even poetic, and the atmosphere has a rare and pervasive sensuality.”

—RT Book Reviews

www.spice-books.co.uk

To my husband, Len LaBrae, whose steadfast loyalty

and belief in me makes him my perfect samurai.

I have always believed Japan is a land of contrasts. Reserved, quiet and silky on the one hand. On the other, erotic, adventurous and mysterious in the sensual ways of the Far East.

It is also the land of samurai. Bold, dedicated fighters who followed the way of the warrior known as Bushidō: loyalty, duty, self-respect, honor. The samurai are well-known in the West and recently we have seen female samurai celebrated in pop culture. I applaud this retelling of historical fact in a modern context since samurai women were also schooled in the way of the warrior and often fought alongside their men in battle.

To my knowledge, no female gaijin, foreigner, has ever become samurai. The word itself is gender specific and refers to trained male warriors. The idea of a western woman entering this world may be off-putting to some, but the thought has always intrigued me. Would she have the strength and fortitude, both physical and mental, to undergo the rigorous training required to become samurai? Could she peel away the outer layer of samurai life so often portrayed in books and films as strife and rebellion and see the inner beauty and passion that it takes to become a warrior? I have tried to answer this question in The Blonde Samurai.

As is the way of the Japanese, this story came about as a group effort. I wish to thank my wonderful editor, Susan Swinwood, for believing in me and encouraging me to take a bold step forward and tell the story of the blonde samurai.

And thank you to my dearest friend and agent, Roberta Brown, who sparked the idea of this book with her keen sense of story and her undying faith in me.

San Francisco

15 September, 1876

’Tis not an easy task I have, dear lady reader, to respond to the vicious gossip spread about me through Mayfair drawing rooms since I returned to England. Whispers of euphoric nights with not one but two men pleasuring me; mysterious items to soothe a woman’s burning need for clitoral touch and fill her with orgasmic bliss; the erotic game of domination with girls strapped down and flogged upon their bare buttocks. Did I take part in these wild imaginings? Or are they merely tales fabricated by a besotted male scribbler to sell his stories and make his fortune?

You be the judge as you continue to read, and I hope you will, for pages and pages of erotic delights await you. What is undisputed is that I ran away from my husband and disappeared. Some say I went mad and was confined to an asylum. Others insist I entered a convent. Neither is true, but the scandal I provoked shook the standards of bland respectability and sobriety that govern the upper class and started nonstop discussions about what they deemed to be my outrageous behavior and what should be done about it.

Done about it? As if they alone exist on a lofty plane and rule all those below. I subscribed to no such rules and they shunned me for it. I will shock you further, for I shall begin my story with a confession, one that will titillate you and give you another reason to speculate whether what you’ve heard whispered about me is true. ’Tis a fact that I, a spirited daughter of Erin by way of America, came to London in the summer of 1872 seeking a titled match. Be it known my looks were plain and my opinions brash, sending my marital prospects into discord among my suitors, though for reasons I shall make clear in these pages, I married well. Yet the first man I took to my bed after my wedding night was not my husband—or yours—but one of the most mysterious, elusive and enigmatic men in all Japan. A samurai.

His name was Shintaro.

I shall never forget the moment the tall, muscular samurai swept into the room, his heavy walk making the wooden floor tremble, his presence commanding, electrifying, his melodic, deep voice speaking to me in his native tongue about waterfalls and flowers and the gods as if he was a poet and could produce an alchemy of words to create harmony between us. I burned with such desire I could not catch my breath. All I wanted was him. Bold, handsome he was, and as persuasive as the wind nudging a morning glory up the vine with his heated breath, exposing her to the sun, then seducing her to open up to him and live her vivid, unspoken dreams in his arms.