“Connal?” she asked. “What are you going to do with me?"
“Co-operate, and you can go home. Fergus.” He gestured to the beast. It trotted up to Liandra, using its massive head as a lever to prize her from her corner. She stumbled after Connal as he unlocked the door leading into the adjoining chamber.
Liandra paused, regarding this new turn of events with alarm. Her heart clamored in her breast. For in the room she saw a wide bed, much larger and heavier than the one she had awoken upon. She didn't have to be telepathic to know that it was a man's bed.
Connal's bed.
She turned to him, silently accusing, wary as he strode towards her, his grin predatory.
“First things, first, witch! Talking is on my mind—at the moment. Be seated."
He absently waved her to a high-backed chair beside another illusionary fire. At her reluctance to follow his direction, he whistled to the hound and it herded her forward, baring its teeth if she faltered.
Tentatively, much like the time Connal tried her seating arrangements in her apartment, Liandra lowered herself onto the proffered chair. It wasn't so bad—even comfortable, in a curiously primitive way, of course.
He poured some golden liquid into a long metal flute and held it out to her. Liandra shook her head.
“Still insisting on this childish fast? I grow bored with the display. However, I think that, as with all things, I will be the victor in this game you have chosen to play."
“I wasn't aware it was a game you and I played, barbarian."
In response, his cold fury spiraled out to touch her. She watched him sip his drink slowly, appearing to savor each drop. His facade of calm hid the tumult within.
“I warned you once that if you harmed any of my clans-folk you would be sorry. The mind-control, such as you used on Fianna, will not be tolerated..."
“I didn't touch her mind. It's unethical..."
“Spare me your counselor's morality.” Connal glowered at her.
“If I do read minds, then I would have seen your deceit back h—home."
Connal frown was quickly replaced by a triumphant glint in his eyes. Liandra realized her mistake. He had heard the tremor in her voice and doubtless saw his advantage over her now. He would be dishonorable enough to use her homesickness as a lever against her.
“Understand this, Mistress. If you be-spell any of my people again, in any way, you shall be sorry. I want your assurance you will not use any of your alien witchery upon my people."
“You insist I'm a liar, then surely any assurances I give will be false, too?"
Connal's brows drew together. “For your sake, do not trifle with me! You are at my mercy. I should punish you for your treatment of Fianna.” He paused. “However, I might be in a forgiving mood, should you decide to co-operate fully with me."
“And what form of co-operation do you require?” She glanced uncertainly at the bed.
“I am not so desperate for a woman that I would spend myself upon you. Perhaps the dream you gave me was a glimpse of your skill. However, ’tis something I have no wish to re-live in the flesh, so to speak.” He, again, casually sipped his drink, his relentless gaze never leaving her face.
Liandra squirmed in embarrassment, her heart thudding against her ribs as she remembered the dream-sharing. Curiously, though, gone before she could examine it closely, she felt a sensation of loss, something almost akin to disappointment.
Disappointment, that this barbarian would not force himself onto her, again? That was ridiculous. Seven Stars! Maybe she was losing her sanity. She savagely quashed her thoughts, save one. How to gain her freedom.
“Mistress, your behavior defies logic. You have only to tell me the truth and gain your freedom."
Liandra drew in her breath, and studied him professionally. “Maer Connal, are you telepathic? Again, you've just given voice to my own thoughts. Use your psychic talent to see I've had nothing to do with Garris’ disappearance."
“Arran's Mercy! I have no such ability. I do not wish to touch your body, let alone your mind! Just the thought of it is abhorrent, I...” He drew in a long, steadying breath. “Now, an end to this charade. Tell me what I want to hear and you can go home."
Liandra stared down at her hands linked tensely on her lap. She felt light-headed, floating, as if she was no longer a creature of substance but of shadow. She swallowed convulsively, recognizing the telltale warning signals.
Her Asarian heritage made it impossible to maintain an argument for long. Asarians were lovers, not fighters. If she wasn't careful her body would shut down temporarily to avoid further confrontation. She sighed, realizing she had only one option. To gain a respite from Connal, she must concoct a plausible story. It would give her the time she needed to recover her wits and discover what had happened to his friend. If she helped him locate Garris, Connal would return her home.
“As you say,” she whispered, her eyes downcast. “Garris came to me—for help."
“What kind of help?"
“That is privileged information. I can't reveal why a being comes to me. My loyalty is to my clients."
“Very well. Continue."
Keeping her eyes averted, Liandra spoke quickly. “Garris undertook some therapy. He seemed to be happy with what I did for him. I gave him some further instructions, and exercises to do when he returned home. He left immediately after he paid me and..."
“How did he pay you, Weaver?"
Liandra's face flamed in indignation. She caught his innuendo as clearly as if he'd spoken it. “I am not a sensualator, Maer Connal."
“How did Garris pay you?"
“As—as do all my clients, in credit tokens."
“Liar!” Connal hissed.
Liandra glanced up at him, seeing the thin line of his lips. At the sound of his master's angry voice, the hound, who had been lying before the fire jumped, growling, to its feet. Liandra pressed back in her seat, as the creature's glowing yellow eyes focused on her.
Connal set his goblet down on the table beside him and leaned forward in his chair.
“Indeed, I would feed you to Fergus, only you would make a scrawny meal. My hound is a fussy eater. Now, an end to your lies, woman!” He captured her gaze in silent challenge, daring her to continue her deceit. “Garris did not come to you for counseling. He certainly did not pay you for his visit in coin, or credit. We have neither the liking nor the need for such, nor for that matter, anything of the League. Try again, witch. This time the truth.” Connal regarded her icily.
“Why do you have an aversion to everything the League has to offer? Our technology..."
“The League can give us nothing we on Caledonia cannot better provide for ourselves, without the need to resort to dehumanizing machinery."
“Is that so? How was I brought here, if not by star-ship?"
“Perhaps Caledonian magic?” Connal smiled grimly.
“Now it is you who are lying."
Connal's knuckles showed white, starkly protruding where he gripped the arms of his chair. He drew in a ragged breath and it was with difficulty, Liandra saw, that he exerted an iron will to calm the anger within. Yet, his fury was tinged with scorn and revulsion.
Revulsion? Seven Stars—why? Revulsion for her? That was a surprising hurt.
“Have a care, witch. No one calls MacArran a liar and lives to brag about it."
“You keep telling me you have nothing to do with technology. If that's so, what about the fire? That is a clever piece of science. Anyway, I have further proof that you are the liar and when I prove it, you can apologize to me. Well? Have you nothing to say? Are you afraid?"
“I am not afraid of an under-fed witch! If you can prove me a liar, then I shall apologize. But what will you give me in return, should you fail to find me guilty of your charge?” He raised a taunting brow. “Show me your evidence, witch."
“I'm not a witch."
“I will be the judge of that.”
Tentatively, keeping her eyes fi
rmly on the hound, she rose from her seat.
“Where do you go?” Connal snapped.
“The proof is in the other room. Or are you going to acknowledge..."
“I concede nothing.” He pushed himself up from his chair and strode after her, the hound shadowing his heels.
Liandra stalked to the robot. “See. Here is my proof that you have been tormenting me.” She didn't say lied. That might enrage him again, and she wanted him placid. As placid as a barbarian like Connal could be. Her smile of triumph gradually faded as she saw the bemused look on his face.
“And what evidence is this?” he asked. “If I did not know the right of it, I would say you were on the receiving end of one of your spells."
“As beautiful as it is, this robot..."
Connal threw back his head and roared with laughter. Liandra regarded his reaction with uncertainty, and growing alarm.
“This thing you call a robot, is none such! ’Tis a suit of armor."
Liandra mouthed the curious word. The heat of embarrassment, and rage flooded through her as Connal continued to laugh.
Still chuckling, he pulled off the robot's helmet and showed it to her. “See no bolts and circuitry. Do you understand what it is?"
“No."
“In battle, long ago, our enemies wore armor as protection. This suit belonged to one foe. When my ancestors raided his castle, this they seized, among other items. Eventually, it came into the possession of Arran. Ever it has been in my family as a trophy, a symbol of victory, for no Caledonian worth his salt would wear such a cowardly thing. We arm ourselves with only those weapons as you see on my walls. Just as lethal as any League blaster, but more elegant. With them a man may measure his strength and courage through his prowess, rather than by killing anonymously with an indiscriminate coward's weapon such as your kind carry."
“Beautiful though this armor is, it's still barbarous—as are you!"
“You call me barbarous because my preferred weapon limits me to hand combat—a test of skill and courage? Whereas your more civilized way is to blast a man out of existence from so far away he cannot tell from which direction danger is threatening. I think I have the right of it, Mistress. And you have failed to prove me a liar."
“To me this armor looks like a robot. It might have...” She was making it worse, drowning in her own words because she didn't have the good sense to admit her mistake. “You could still be—lying. This might have been a robot, you could have stripped out the insides...” Her voice trailed away, her protestations sounding ridiculous even to her own ears.
“Aye, I could have, but ’tis nothing more than a suit of armor. And you owe me for falsely accusing me of lying."
“Very well, I apologize."
“Not good enough, witch."
Liandra squared her shoulders. “And what manner of apology do you want?"
Connal grinned wolfishly. As his sultry gaze roved over her, Liandra endured it, although inside she seethed, hot and cold. Red rage. Cold fury. Only her sense of justice kept her silent. She had wrongly accused him, so she must accept the consequences. Or, at least try.
“Well?” she asked. “Do what you must. Get your beating over with. Or do you intend torture?"
Connal's eyebrows arched skyward as he took in her stance. She was poised for flight, despite her brave words. How galling he found it, to instill fear in a woman, yet he must, to keep Liandra off-guard. She must not suspect the truth that he never punished any transgression with violence. She was canny enough to use that knowledge against him. In his experience, there were other ways, often more enjoyable, to curb a woman's waywardness. And while she might be an alien, she was all woman. And his body knew it too, in that moment, in the tightening of his muscles, the rush of blood through his veins. If he satisfied that curiosity now, then maybe he would be able to put the memories of their dream-sharing behind him. He strode up to her and gripping her by the shoulders, raised her to her toes.
“My punishment is a suitable one which, doubtless, you have experienced many times in the past.” His lips slanted down upon hers, crushing, savoring, drawing her protest into his mouth.
Liandra struggled against his kiss. She felt his fingers snag into her hair, holding her still. As she squirmed even harder to be free, he wrapped his arms around her, imprisoning her. His body leaned intimately into hers, while his mouth continued its savage plundering.
How long his torture lasted Liandra did not know, only that the furious assault did not lessen. Finally she admitted defeat. She leaned into his strength as he had his way with her. Only then did his kiss become less fierce, almost, but not quite, tender.
She clung to him for support as her legs, her whole body, began to tremble, as if he were draining the life from her. Light suffused her body, flowing in her veins like a heady drug. Almost pleasant, his arms so strong about her, his pulsing warmth merged with hers. His thighs pressed to her legs, his arousal hot and hard against her. Seven Stars, this was more erotic than any dream.
“My Lord!” a woman's voice intruded.
With a whispered curse, Connal put Liandra back on her feet. For a moment she swayed as her legs refused to take her weight. She stared up at him, saw his bewilderment and contempt, and before it was swiftly suppressed, she caught his desire. With his face set in rigid planes, he turned away from her.
Liandra took the time to regain her composure. She put a trembling finger to her tingling mouth, which still bore the imprint of the pleasure and pain of his caress.
“So, the alien does cast a spell, even on you, My Lord."
“Not so, Jenna. I chasten her."
“May all your chastisements with me be so enjoyable."
“Darling,” Connal said, “what is it you want?"
Liandra looked from one to the other. He had called this beautiful, dark-haired woman, darling. Was Jenna his life-mate?
Inexplicably, burning fury washed through her. His kiss had been a violation, nothing more. When had she been mistaken into believing that his kiss was intended as a lover's caress? There was no love, no tenderness in his action. Nothing but a callous violation. Her chest tightened. With shaking hands, she smoothed her matted hair.
She watched as Jenna stepped up to Connal, her body molding against his. He stared down at her with a mixture of disapproval and—something else, which Liandra did not understand.
“Is My Lord so sorry that I saved him from that one's wiles? Fianna told me how she be-spelled her. Even a man such as you, my Connal, needs rescuing from time to time."
“Aye, but I think it was the witch who needed the rescuing, not I. See for yourself, she looks sickly."
Jenna's smile was forced, her blue eyes cold and harsh as Liandra met her gaze across the room.
“I have almost finished my business with the witch. I thank you for your concern. Now away with you."
“But ... My Lord."
“GO!"
Casting a venomous eye on Liandra, Jenna turned to leave, but it seemed not as quickly as he expected. Connal's hand swept in an arc, slapping her on her bottom.
Jenna squealed, though it had the desired effect. She ran to the door. Pausing a moment, she glanced over her shoulder. “I enjoy your chastisements in the privacy of our bed-chamber, My Lord, but I draw the line at displaying such before the likes of her!"
The door almost broke from its hinges as Jenna slammed it behind her.
Connal's cheeks burned. Damn Jenna! And damn him for what he had done to her. He had never smacked her before. Why now? Especially now! Flustered, he ran a hand over his eyes.
Turning to Liandra, he saw the horror on her face and steeled himself against it. If the witch feared him, then so much the better. Maybe, then, she would co-operate with him, so that the muddle his clans-man had caused could be resolved with little fuss and with little injury to his world, and to MacArran honor—if that was possible. His gut felt like a coiled spring as he regarded her. “Now, witch, where were we?"
“I believe I was apologizing to you."
Connal grinned. “Aye, I wish all apologies to me were so pleasant."
“Save that for your life-mate,” Liandra said dryly.
“My...?” Connal chuckled. “I have none such. Even so, make no mistake about Jenna. More possessive than any wife, she will be after your blood for what you just did to me."
“I was a victim in what just occurred, not the perpetrator."
Connal laughed. “The distinction would be lost on Jenna."
“Then, if I must defend myself, I'm not without protection."
Connal's frown was ominous. “Practice your witchery upon any in this castle, and you answer to me! Now, we were discussing Garris, and you cleverly distracted me."
“I told you what you wanted to know."
“I want the truth."
“When I told you the truth, you didn't believe me."
“My kinsman is not a liar. He went off-world to find you..."
“Are you so certain?"
“Aye."
“Very well. I accept that he intended to seek me. Have you considered the possibility that something may have happened to him, without my involvement?"
Connal's raised brow was her only answer.
“There is a way I could convince you,” Liandra said.
“Go on."
“We could use my bed for another sharing. We would both learn the truth. That I promise."
“And as before, have you ensnare me in some dream? I think not,” he said coldly.
“I had nothing to do with that dream. I liked it even less than you. But what other way is there?"
“Perhaps I could beat the truth out of you."
“Oh,” Liandra whispered.
“Despite your opinion of me, I am not a cruel man,” he said, frowning, as he watched her hands twisting together.
“I beg to differ on that score, Connal.”
He leaned against the wall and studied her. “And if I agree to this sharing? How long will it take? How soon can you be ready, Liandra?"
She stared at him, momentarily taken aback at his sudden change of mind and more besides. His accent made her name sound so very different. She liked the way he rolled the ‘r'—almost like a purr. Mentally, she shook herself. She had to deal with this man in a professional way!
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