"I'm ... sorry."
Reflective, he rested his forearms on his thighs. "I killed Sharron. That is what makes my circumstances bearable."
"Sharron, a renegade religious figure. I read about him in a section entitled " 'The Unauthorized Uprising.' "
"Is that what they're calling it now?" His mouth twisted in disgust and he shook his head. "I never understood why the families did not take action. Sharron had resurrected weaponry banned since the Dark Years. He championed everything the
Vash
despised. 'Sex is sinful,' he preached."
"But if no one under his control had sex, then how did they plan to ..." She waved her band, searching for words.
"Procreate?"
"Yes."
"Sharron and his chosen elders impregnated the women. Then, once the women completed their child-bearing duties, he rewarded them by sending them on a journey to the ever after."
"But isn't that your term for where you go when you die?" At his nod, the blood drained from her face. "He took their babies? And then killed them?"
He acknowledged her with a curt nod, then began undoing the top fastenings on his dark olive iridescent shirt. "After all the spying we did, after all the lives lost, I never did prove that allegation. If only I had, then perhaps I could have gathered the support I needed. Instead I was left with a few dozen holo-images of women being loaded onto ships and taken away."
"Why on Earth would anyone worship such a monster?"
"He was extremely magnetic and intelligent. And he offered what the
Vash Nadah
do not—the impossible promise of a classless society, and blanket acceptance for those who chose not to follow our stringent moral code."
"The Treatise of Trade," she murmured.
"No urging to have a family, no pressure to remain faithful to a husband or wife. No pressure to have a husband or wife, period."
She thought of their upcoming travels. "They're not still around, I hope."
"Perhaps some remnants of his cult remain. My soldiers never found the men who escaped with his body. I can only assume they fled to a remote world to bury him." Absently, his fingers brushed over his chest. "They wore medallions—an engraving of a man's and a woman's clasped hands below a rising sun." He stared off into someplace in the past. "I stopped tracking their activities after the war, when I returned home to recover from my injuries. But once the family surgeon interpreted the findings of the medical examination and announced them to my father, nothing much mattered anymore."
"Your inability to have children," she whispered.
He nodded. "My father wanted a functional heir. Because I couldn't be that heir, he sent me away."
"Where did you go?"
"To lose myself in what you called my adventures," he said wryly. "My brother—and best friend—was dead. The woman I was betrothed to wouldn't speak to me ... not that I wanted charity or sympathy from the other seven families. So I wandered the galaxy, almost became
addicted to painblockers for a time. After that," he said quietly, "I stopped living altogether."
Goose bumps tiptoed up her arms with his unexpected, heart-wrenching admission. After Saudi, she'd stopped living, too. "Maybe we both need to live a little."
"Agreed."
They exchanged weary smiles. Then he settled onto his back and tucked one flexed arm behind his head. Extending the other at a right angle to his body, he beckoned to her. "Keep me company."
She hesitated in the midst of plumping the floor pillows she'd slept on. She'd intended to stack them neatly and then leave for her own quarters. "Well, I—"
"I'm tired," he reminded her with gentle candor.
"Very
tired."
She admitted sheepishly, "To be honest, a little snuggling sounds nice." She'd used the English term, unable to come up with the Basic equivalent. It didn't matter;
she'd translate using body language. She slipped off her boots, crawled over the mattress, and molded the length of her body to his, nestling her head in the warm hollow between his chest and shoulder.
His arms came around her. "Is this
snuggling?"
he murmured in a damned good imitation of English.
"Mmm. . ." She sighed against his shirt. As he pressed his lips to the top of her head, rubbing one wide palm over the small of her back, she shivered. It had been so long since she'd been held this way, cradled in tenderness, wrapped in a man's protective warmth, and, oh, did it feel good. Their arms tightened around each other. He let out a long breath and stroked her hair as if they'd been lovers for years. As her eyes drifted closed, she listened to Rom's heart thudding beneath her ear, reminding her of his inner strength and passion with every beat. Her body responded with a slow, spiraling heat as sexual curiosity replaced her drowsiness. And she weighed the consequences of adding a night of erotic abandon to her list of hoped-for adventures. Yes, the unthinkable—Rom's lean, powerful body entwined with hers, skin to skin, his hot kisses ... his knowing hands. But she recoiled when she took the fantasy to the point of consummation. Rom was a man of galactic experience, and out of her league sexually. She wouldn't be able to fool him, pretending pleasure when there was only pain. The realization both terrified and intrigued her.
And aroused her.
Lovemaking would be as common and natural to Rom as eating and drinking. What if she were to approach sex in the same casual way? Might she stand a chance at putting the shame of her past behind her?
She felt Rom shudder, and she lifted her head. Good heavens, while she was contemplating lovemaking, her interstellar Romeo had fallen asleep! Disappointment, relief, and a dozen other emotions too jumbled to make sense somersaulted through her. So much for her grand plan for seduction. Besides, it made more sense to wait until tomorrow, the last day before they reached the Depot, to proposition him. That way, if the experience proved a disaster, she'd save them both from the morning-after awkwardness. When the ship docked, she'd simply say good-bye and disappear into the crowds.
* * *
Rom slid his hand over the rumpled, empty space beside him. She was gone. He jolted to full wakefulness. Lifting his head and shoulders off the mattress, he peered around the room and almost called her name, stopping himself at the last moment. Jas was crouched at the altar near the opposite wall, her hands clasped, her eyes squeezed closed in utter concentration. She was praying. It pleased him that she had faith—in her Earth God, naturally, but faith all the same.
It made him want her even more.
As she stood, she made a simple gesture with one hand, bringing it from forehead to breast, then shoulder to shoulder. Then she noticed that he was watching her, and her expression brightened like a T'aurean dawn. Odd, but she appeared somewhat nervous. And there was something else ... something new. He'd swear she was assessing him, but for what he could only imagine. "You were speaking to your God," he said.
"Yes. I was praying—for my children, my parents. And my younger sisters, three of them, all with families of their own. So"—she rolled her eyes—"it takes a while to work everyone in. You're a religious man," she pointed out. "I don't know why, but I didn't expect that."
"I've had my moments over the years," he admitted dryly. "But faith is one of the few things I kept from my life on Sienna."
She absorbed the information with a casual, nonjudgmental nod. It was a singular pleasure to be accepted for who he was and not what he represented. Or
had
represented.
"Let me demonstrate," Rom said, crouching in front of the altar. He fitted his knees into the well-worn hollows in a woven floor cushion and lit laser-candles under half a dozen shallow bowls holding fragrant oils. "We worship a female deity, the Great Mother. The scents please her." He gave Jas a sidelong glance. "Pleasing a woman makes her more receptive."
Jas laughed softly.
"When you're ready to send your prayers to the ever after," Rom explained, lifting his prayer wand, "simply tap this against this." In an action he'd repeated almost daily since he was old enough to grasp the thin silver stick, he clinked it against an ancient brass bell. The single chime was crisp and clear. "Now your prayers are on their way."
"How lovely," she murmured.
He rose, stretching with a noisy groan. "Let's go the galley and see about our dinner."
"Too late for that. Or too early, depending how you look at it. You slept all afternoon and all night. It's morning."
"Morning!" Only then did it sink in that Jas appeared fresh from a hygiene shower. She'd woven her hair into a single gleaming braid, and had replaced the silver hoop earrings she'd worn yesterday with tiny purple gems. He muttered, "The medical technician must have fed me enough painblockers last week to kill a Tromjhan steer."
"That and exhaustion, too. I was just about to wake you. The stew's getting cold." She waved her hand at the dining table. Two covered bowls and a basket of bread sat next to a steaming pitcher of
tock.
"Breakfast is served."
After he washed and changed, they ate leisurely. "I had a cup of
tock
with Zarra in the galley earlier," she said. "Other than some temporary hearing loss, it's like nothing happened to him."
Rom gave a long-suffering sigh.
"The
resilience of
youth."
"You had a severe concussion and a fractured skull," she reminded him. "Zarra was lucky to walk away with a couple of ruptured eardrums and a few bruises."
Rom hunched his shoulders and extended one quivering hand. "Don't contradict a feeble old man."
"Feeble!" She straightened her back and lifted her chin. "You have wandered onto sensitive ground, Captain B'kah. How old are you anyway? And it had better not be younger than me." They laughingly went through the conversions and concluded that they were roughly the same age. Lingering over their
lock,
she animatedly answered his questions about the provincial planet Earth, her children, and her friends—and her time spent as a warrior flying Earth fighter-craft.
"Tell me about your family now," she coaxed as she refilled his mug.
"We no longer speak to each other."
"I gathered that." She gave him one of her soul-searching stares. "You must miss them."
"I do," he conceded. The loss ached like a phantom limb. "I fought Sharron's faction against my father's wishes. The consequences of my actions cost me his respect. He called me irresponsible, disrespectful, and selfish. He said that I didn't care a whit about the traditions that bound our family and our society together. Rather than try to prove him wrong, I took the easy route. I became everything he said I was."
"But you aren't," she insisted softly.
"I will never be the man I was before Balkanor."
"Who's to say that's a bad thing?"
The question shocked him. She constantly found points of view he hadn't contemplated. "Woman, you have a talent for turning me inside out and examining the contents. Furthermore, it's impossible to keep secrets from you."
Her eyes glinted with mischief. "Does that bother you?"
He snorted. "My sister had the same knack. So I suppose I should be used to it." The unexpected memory warmed him. "Growing up, we were very close."
"Maybe . .. we'll grow closer, too." Her cheeks turning pink, she smiled.
Rom stretched across the table to sip the poignant sweetness from her lips. It was a quick, light kiss, as he'd intended. But her hands were slow to leave his shoulders, and she kept her lips slightly parted and her eyes closed for long seconds after he pulled away: the look of a woman hungering for more. By all the heavens, he wanted more, too. A lot more.
He recalled his original plan to seduce her, and how he had discarded it. Whether or not she'd visited him hi his vision, she did not remember doing so. Bedding her with an ulterior motive in mind was tasteless and pointless now. He craved more than a casual exchange of pleasure, however memorable it might be.
But how to proceed? She wasn't like any woman he'd ever known. She didn't respond to traditional advances, or anything that he'd been taught. Not that he could give her a
Vash Nadah—
sanctified marriage, or children, or even the comfort and joy of an extended family. Only physical gratification and the assuagement of loneliness . .. and his heart, if in fact he still had one to give.
He was startled out of his musings by the feel of her fingertip gliding down his arm. He focused on her face
to find her regarding him with a decidedly flirtatious, if somewhat apprehensive, smile. "Rom, tomorrow we arrive at the Depot, and you haven't taught me how to play Bajha yet."
He looked at his wrist time-teller. "Gann and Zarra are likely in the arena. We can join them."
"A private lesson was more what I had in mind. And"—she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear—"an even more private dinner afterward."
The suggestive glint in her eyes left him speechless. This was no mere flirtation. Great Mother, the woman was trying to seduce him.
A warrior must always be prepared for the unexpected, he reminded himself while a slow smile spread across his face. "I would be most honored," he replied.
Rising, he made a courtly bow and extended his hand. Jas settled hers in his warm palm.
"My lady, I look forward to our match," he said, touching his lips to her knuckles.
"Me, too," was all she said in reply.
* * *
That afternoon, Rom escorted Jas up the stairs to spectator seats a dozen rows above the padded playing floor, where Gann was in the midst of his weekly practice session with Zarra, leading the boy through a merciless series of stretches and lunges.
She settled onto her chair, resting her boots on the footrest. Rom sensed an intense energy simmering in her, just below the surface, more than he'd felt in the entire time they'd been together. Her eyes were bright, and her lush mouth looked as delicious as a plump, ripe berry.
Sweetness that begged to be tasted.
He would have kissed her without a second thought, had that second thought not arisen in the form of a vivid memory of the day he'd returned her shoes in front of the bridge crew. She didn't care for public displays of what she considered private matters, and the last thing he cared to do was rouse her ire when she was acting so very . .. receptive.
Jas was watching the two men vaulting across the Bajha floor. Buoyed by her particularly agreeable mood, Rom followed suit. Gann too easily swerved out of the way of the boy's thrusts. "Use your senses, lad. Let them guide you."
"It would help if he could see," Jas said out the side of her mouth. "Why isn't Gann wearing a blindfold, too?"
"The game is based on intuition and instinct. We hone these skills to reach a higher state of consciousness. It helps us become better warriors, or more skilled pilots. Or"—his gaze lingered pointedly on her mouth—"more giving lovers."
Her eyes flicked away, revealing to him how uncertain she was in her role of seductress. Overwhelmed by a surge of affection and protectiveness, he said, "You must use senses other than the obvious ones, other than those you were raised to trust. Watch closely; Gann is teaching Zarra not to depend on sight, which tends to overpower the other senses. When the boy gains confidence, he will be able to fight without visual clues."
Jas twisted a strand of hair around her finger, tighter and tighter. "So we're going to wear blindfolds. ..."
"Not today," he assured her. "A genuine match is played in complete darkness."
She released the lock of hair, and whispered what
sounded suspiciously like one of her Earth swear words.
By the time Rom returned his attention to the arena, Gann had cornered his young opponent. Rom shot to his feet, his hands cupped around his mouth. "Parry, Zarra, parry!"
Zarra's mouth twisted uncertainly. Gann shot an annoyed glance upward. "Is it my day to instruct the lad, Rom? Or am I mistaken?"
Rom held up both hands and sat back down. The combatants resumed their drill. This time Zarra missed Gann by a foot. Rom slapped his hands against his thighs. "Too early!"
Jas smothered a laugh.
"What is so amusing?"
"Men and sports. You're all alike."
"Is that so?" he asked dryly. "I'm delighted to know I'm no different to you from any other man."
She hesitated for a heartbeat. "No, you are different." Her cheeks colored. "Better."
Disarmed by her honesty, Rom searched for a suitable reply and found none. Such openness was surely an enormous step for her, given the heartbreak of her severed marriage.
Below, Zarra peeled off his blindfold. Gann spoke to him in private, then patted the boy on the back. After collecting the equipment and packing it away, Zarra left for the hygiene showers next door. Gann threw a towel over one shoulder and climbed the stairs to where Jas and Rom were sitting. "The lad did well. I was beginning to question whether he'd inherited any of his father's blood at all."
"Zarra's father is
Vash Nadah,"
Rom told Jas. "A distant B'kah relation. His mother was of the merchant class."
Gann sat behind Jas. He unzipped his Bajha suit and tugged off his gloves. Then he brought his mouth close to her ear. "Why don't you have Rom teach you how to play?"
"He's going to." She stretched her arms and arched her back with the sensual, restless grace of a ketta-cat. "A
private
lesson," she practically purred.
Without missing a beat, Rom matched the seductive-ness in her voice. "As private as they come."
Gann's head pivoted from Jas to Rom. He lifted a brow and eyed Rom with interest. "I shall leave you two to your match, then. But go easy on him, Jas," he cautioned, grinning as he headed downstairs. "I fear he's out of practice."
As the doors slammed behind him, leaving the white-walled, featureless arena silent but for the steady hiss of the air circulators, Jas smoothed her hair away from her forehead. "Whew. The last thing we needed was an audience."
Rom's grin became positively rakish. "Agreed."
"No, I meant—" She stopped, laughing. "Well, I don't disagree. But my point was that compared to me, Zarra is an expert. My ego might allow me to make a fool of myself in front of you, but not Gann. Or anyone else on the crew."