“I think he’d be insulted if I didn’t contact him. This is a very serious matter.”
She pushed herself away from the empty bed, motioned to Farra. “Can you get him a link here to record a message?”
“Vad. Is not a problem.”
“I’m going to be in the lounge, having dinner. Call me when it’s finished.”
“Vad, Captain.” Farra flicked off the medistat and reached for her portable datapad.
“Jhevd’,” she replied automatically. Then saw Jagan’s raised eyebrows. “I’m learning. Hard not to when it’s all I hear these days.” She lay her hand on his arm, squeezed it briefly. “I’m glad you’re all right, Jagan.”
“So you can take another shot at me with that mean right hook of yours?” He was grinning, his tone light. Then his smile faded. “I’m glad I’m alive too, Tril. And … I’m sorry. For a lot of things I did wrong by you. I mean that. I know I owe you an explanation. I—”
“You need to compose that message and get some rest right now.” She put on her best “stern captain” tone. “We can talk, if you want, later. But you really don’t owe me any explanations.”
“Well, yeah, I really do, and you’ll probably pop me one in the jaw again. But I deserve it. And … I had no right to say what I did about you and Vanur. So I deserved that one too.”
“We’ll call it even, okay? Farra’s got the pad ready for you.” She gave him a smile as she stepped toward the door, caught his answering grin and the small dimple in his cheek.
This was the Jagan she remembered. The charming one she’d fallen in love with. She watched him turn his smile toward Farra. Better watch out, Farra-chenka.
But, no, Farra had someone back at Degvar. A very special someone.
And I have a dinner date. With Khyrhis Tivahr. “The” Khyrhis Tivahr. But that’s okay. I can handle that. Now.
The sick-bay door closed behind her with a muted whoosh as Trilby hurried down the corridor.
Rhis heard the footsteps approaching in the corridor. Short. Definitely female. He grinned, then hit the reheat button on the keypad. Dinner for two, coming up.
He would never understand women. At least, he probably would never understand one particular woman, but that was okay. As long as she was there, tantalizing him, intriguing him, making him crazy …
Gods, did she make him crazy!
Maybe he’d ask Rafi about it sometime. Maybe not. At the moment, he was more interested to see if the Trilby who came through the wide lounge hatchway was the Trilby who’d grabbed him and kissed him so delightfully outside sick bay.
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she spoke.
“Smells good, Rhis. Maybe I should hire you as ship’s cook.”
He let out a slow sigh. Trilby-chenka. Ahh, Trilby-chenka. Yav chera. Tousled hair the color of moonlight. Impish smile. All soft curves under that zippered gray flight suit that he could tear off her in less than twenty seconds. Maybe fifteen.
But not yet. Take it slow. Don’t spook her. “Anything smells good when you’re hungry. Even Yaniran rice bolaf.” He reached behind the counter, brought out the bottle of white wine he’d chilled, poured her a glass, then one for himself. “This should help.”
The surprised look on her face pleased him. Well, he had other surprises for her. This would do for now.
She took the glass. “Getting fancy, are we?”
“We are off duty.” He stepped closer, touched glasses with her for luck. “And I think we both deserve it.”
He studied her face, her eyes half closed briefly as she tasted the wine. Maybe, he posited, something in jumpspace had miraculously removed her animosity toward him. Hell, the Dakrahl worshiped the Faytari Drifts for something close to that reason. Treasures notwithstanding, there were places in the Drifts, their legends said, that could cleanse a person, heal them, alter them.
She certainly had been all prickly and standoffish until they’d cleared the exit gate, and then she’d mellowed. Or was mellowing, he corrected himself. He could still see a slightly wary look in her eyes.
Just as she no doubt saw in his earlier, and bloody hell if she didn’t know that he was worried about her and Grantforth. After all, she’d pulled him off the jungle floor, nursed him back to health. What if that same compassion now resurrected itself—toward Jagan?
What if—and he didn’t totally discount it—Jagan’s whole overdose was a stunt to get Trilby’s sympathy? That was why he’d given Farra Rimanava strict orders in Zafharish before he’d commed Trilby: don’t leave them alone in sick bay together.
He would take no chances.
But it looked like it hadn’t been necessary. Her kiss told him that much.
Would it again? He tilted his face down, captured her mouth with his own. She leaned into him, answered his slow, lazy kiss with lips warm, willing, and tasting of wine. Then the processor pinged. Food was the last thing on his mind, but they needed the sustenance. They had a long ways to go before Syar. And the-Gods-only-knew what kind of trouble would greet them when they got there.
But more important, they had a whole six hours to themselves before they were back on duty. A lot could happen in that time.
They might very well need the sustenance.
He grinned down at her. “Join me for dinner, Dasja?”
“That’s why I’m here.” She took another sip of her wine, turned toward the table.
He brought out the steaming casserole, some vegetables, and two round Saldikan sausage cutlets. They filled their plates, then Trilby leaned toward him.
“Jagan thinks his prescription might not be the only one poisoned. He’s putting together a warning message to send to GGA.”
His fork stopped in midair. “He did not say anything to me—”
“Because it was Farra who got him talking,” she said. “I don’t know if that’s the answer. But it’s something we’ve got to consider.”
“A move against GGA in total?” A warning, perhaps, from an associate who didn’t like Garold Grantforth’s trade proposal? Possible, but to use a ’Sko poison didn’t make sense. He was shaking his head and realized Trilby was looking at him questioningly.
He explained. “The only reason would be to stop Grantforth’s dealings with the Beffa. But then, why not go after the secretary himself? And why with a ’Sko poison, if the ’Sko are the very group he’s trying to help?”
“Not all the ’Sko. The Dakrahl? The Niyil?”
“The Niyil are more likely to shoot at GGA ships than use poison. The Dakrahl …” He thought on that while he chewed. The religious faction was often very creative in their methods. “Possible.”
“Or? I hear an or in there.”
He’d thought of this, when he wasn’t trying to figure out what suddenly changed his air sprite’s mind about him. “Someone wanted us to show up in Syar with a dead GGA accountant on board.”
She stared at him. “For what purpose?”
“We know the purpose. Someone wants your nav banks. Your knowledge. What better way to get control of this ship, control of you, than to charge us with murder?”
“That’s crazy!”
“Dark Sword hasn’t been effective all these years because he’s sane and kindly.”
She took a quick sip of wine.
He lowered his voice. “Dark Sword is the one behind the kill orders. Which, until recently, were few enough to look like happenstance. But with trade negotiations now on the table, and with people like your friend Neadi questioning the unlikeliness of so many attacks on freighters, Dark Sword has no choice but to change methods.
“More attacks will push Conclave opinion against the trade agreement, no matter how influential Garold Grantforth is. So there has to be another way to ensure ’Sko presence in the Conclave and acquire those freighters with Herkoid data. An impound and a murder charge is a rather good way to accomplish the second.”
“A ship under impound is sealed.”
“And her logs, all he
r databanks, are copied into the court system as evidence, no?”
She nodded.
“And if Dark Sword is as well placed as we think, he might be part of that system in the Conclave. Someone whose access to such records wouldn’t be questioned.”
“So you think Jagan was set up?”
He nodded. “It is one possibility I’ve considered. I have been trying to figure out by what means they were going to take this ship, and her nav banks, without arousing suspicion. And if it turns out no other prescriptions were poisoned, it’s a strong possibility.”
“But if something happened to Jagan, his uncle would call off the trade talks. He’d take it as a direct threat.”
“That’s only if it looked as if the ’Sko killed his nephew. But all Uncle Garold would know is that Jagan was poisoned while on a ship operated by his ex-girlfriend. Who probably had told more than a few people he left her heartbroken. And that she’d like to see him dead.”
“But I’m not in love with Jagan anymore!”
He was very glad to hear her make that statement, even if the circumstances eliciting it were less than savory.
“I haven’t been since I—” And she stopped, bit her lip self-consciously. “Since I pulled your ungrateful ass out of the swamp.” She leaned back, crossed her arms over her chest. But a smile played across her lips, and a challenging light danced in her eyes. “You just maneuvered me into admitting that, didn’t you?”
He reached across the table, pulled one hand out of the crook of her arm. He threaded his fingers through hers. “Unexpected bonus. But I’m glad to hear that, yes.”
He saw the color rise to her cheeks.
“So you think someone will be waiting to arrest me when we hit the Colonies?” she asked. But she didn’t pull her hand away.
“I think someone is waiting for a message from Shadow’s Quest about an unfortunate accident.”
“That’s not the message they’re going to get.”
“I know. All the more reason things will be very interesting when we get to Syar.”
“Dark Sword’s certainly going to be surprised.”
“I learned a long time ago, Trilby-chenka, that it is much, much better to be the one giving surprises than the one receiving them.” He thought of Kospahr on the Razalka’s bridge. No, he definitely didn’t like surprises.
She pulled her hand out of his grasp, but it was only to stab at her dinner. “Are you going to tell Jagan any of this? Or do you want me to?”
“Not until after he sends his message and we know for sure if there are more poisoned prescriptions. If there aren’t, I’ll talk to him. Or we both can.” He wanted Jagan to know without a doubt where Trilby’s allegiance was. “I don’t want any of our suspicions to be leaked through his message.”
Her ship badge pinged. She tapped it at. “Elliot.”
“Dasjon Grantforth’s message is ready.”
Rhis tapped his badge on, switched to Zafharish. He didn’t know if Farra was still in sick bay and if Grantforth could overhear. “We’re almost finished dinner. Bring it to the bridge in five minutes. Get Patruzius to stay with him.”
“Understood, Dasjon. Five minutes. I’ll comm Dallon.” The connection clicked off.
“Not even time for another glass of wine?” Trilby stood, clearing the plates from the table.
“Bedtime snack,” he said, and thought her soft laugh sounded very encouraging, indeed.
He watched Jagan’s message twice before permitting its transmission. It was short, earnest, and about what he expected from a corporate accountant.
Nor was he surprised by its destination: Garold Grantforth. Go right for the top when you want to make things happen.
It would be several hours, if not more, until they had a response.
He nodded to Farra and Mitkanos, then laid his hand on Trilby’s shoulder. “We’re off duty,” he said in Zafharish. Then, in Standard, he asked her, “Nightcap?”
She blushed. Mitkanos turned away, grunted, and busied himself with the bridge scanners. Farra swiveled around in her seat at communications and faced her console.
Rhis grinned, wrapped his arm around Trilby’s waist, and pulled her through the bridge hatch lock. He nibbled on her ear as they walked toward the lift.
“Rhis!” she pleaded, laughing softly.
His name had never sounded so wonderful.
25
Trilby stood in the middle of the small sitting area in her cabin and watched Rhis as if she were seeing him for the first time. She watched the lines of his body as he uncorked the wine, then reached overhead for two glasses from the galley cabinet. His gray shirt pulled across the width of his shoulders, the curve of muscles in his back and arm.
He glanced at her, briefly, with a lopsided smile and a flash of something promising in his dark eyes. Then he concentrated on pouring the pale liquid. His face was relaxed but the line of his jaw was strong, his cheeks slightly shadowed where they’d not seen a razor since yesterday.
She remembered his face the first time she’d seen him, lying in the damp grass, the remains of a ’Sko Tark behind him. His dark lashes had rested against pale skin; darker bruises blossomed along his jaw.
On her regen bed in sick bay, his naked form showed the muscles of a man who pushed his body hard, to the limits. And in those terrifying minutes when he first grabbed her, she’d felt his power.
The Khyrhis Tivahr. The Senior Captain.
The man who had taught her to say yav cheron.
She took the stemmed glass he held out to her. He’d said barely two words since following her to her cabin. But then, she’d said nothing either. The air around them seemed to speak instead, charged with that primal energy she remembered feeling so intensely on the Careless Venture. Every time he came close to her. Every time his eyes met hers. Every time he touched her.
If the decking under her boots caught fire right now, she wouldn’t be surprised.
She dipped her finger in the chilled wine, touched it to his lips.
A low groan rumbled in his throat. He brushed her palm with a damp kiss.
“Khyrhis.” She said his name softly, tentatively. It was his real name, one she’d said over and over in her head, and her heart, but never before out loud.
He clasped her hand, his fingers strong and sure as they threaded through hers.
“Yav cheron,” she whispered.
He pulled her hard against him, his mouth claiming hers, their intertwined hands for a moment caught awkwardly between their bodies. Then their hands slid apart. Hers went down the taut planes of his chest, moved around his waist. His went up, his thumb against her jaw, and his kiss deepened.
Her wineglass fell to the floor with a hollow clink. She wanted to touch his face too, caress it as he was caressing hers. Then it was the thickness of his hair she needed to feel.
His fingers kneaded the small of her back, the swell of her buttocks. He pressed her into his hardness. He nibbled at her mouth, taking her lower lip between his teeth. Squadrons of fluttermoths soared up her spine.
Slowly, deliberately she moved her hand from his waist down his thigh, then up, feeling him throb against her fingers. He inhaled sharply, pressed against her hand.
She teased his mouth with her tongue. Her fingers sought the zipper on his flight suit, found it, tugged.
He stepped back and suddenly his arm was under her knees. He lifted her smoothly. Her hands grasped his shoulders as he turned. Four steps and they were through her bedroom’s open door. Two more and she was on her back, in the middle of her bed, with a flushed and passionate Khyrhis Tivahr—the Khyrhis Tivahr—kneeling beside her, unzipping her flight suit, kissing her neck, pulling at the thin strap of her T-shirt.
She nudged off her boots. They hit the floor with a thud, and she had the presence of mind to reach blindly over her head for the console. “Cabin lock, on. Privacy Code—oh, Gods!—One!”
Strong but incredibly gentle fingers had found the heat between her leg
s. She arched into his hand. Her breath shuddered into his mouth as he kissed her.
“Trilby-chenka.” His voice was as raspy as his mustache against her cheek. “Yav chera. I want you. I cherish you.”
He moved his hands up her body, stroking, caressing. She grabbed a handful of his flight suit, now half on and half off. She wanted it off. It was an impediment. She needed the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his hair against her.
A louder clunk of his boots, then a slight chill for a moment as he lifted off her and stripped away the last of his uniform.
When his body covered hers, she wrapped her legs around his hips. He nuzzled his face in her neck, then trailed kisses over her breasts.
She moaned, pulled his mouth back up to hers, wanting every inch of her body to touch his. Sensation sizzled through her. His hands became more insistent, his kisses more frenzied.
She needed him inside her now. “Please, oh, Gods, please!”
She clung to his shoulders as he thrust into her. One hand cupped her bottom, lifting her hips as he stroked deeper. She could feel his muscles tremble as his control slipped. But hers went first, an explosion of fluttermoths and fireworks that left her gasping for breath.
And sent him over the edge. “Dasjankira. My lady, my love!”
She understood his words in Zafharish now. He was hoarse, his breathing ragged when he finally sagged against her. Their bodies were sweat-slicked. Her powdery perfume mingled with the heat of his male scent. She rubbed her face against the dampness of his neck, listened to his words.
“I love you, my dasjankira. My Trilby-chenka. You are from my dreams. You are what I cherish.”
She raised her face. “Khyrhis.” Passion still smoldered in his dark eyes. She couldn’t remember how to say, in his language, that she cherished him, loved him too.
She kissed him, hard, instead.
He didn’t seem to mind.
She woke with the feel of his lips on her shoulder, his fingers stroking her breasts. She was spooned against him under the tangle of covers. She peered at the bedside console. They had forty-five minutes before they needed to find coffee, perhaps breakfast. An hour before they had to be on the bridge.
Finders Keepers Page 30