Connal swore. For once Liandra's knowledge of Caledonian was inadequate to meet the translation of the words he hissed.
“Now I know why the League has no stomach for fighting—soul-less cowards."
“How is it you think you know so much of the League? You've told me often enough that you have no dealing with any alien."
Connal smiled grimly. “I study the ways of my enemy very closely."
“The League is not your enemy. We are a peaceful confederation of more than one hundred star systems joined..."
“Enemies come in many guises. The League ’tis the opposite of everything we Caledonians hold sacred. Your science has even perverted the begetting of a child. And so, ’tis my belief that a man from the League has forgotten how to please a woman, unless he takes some damn pill, or he be hooked up to some electronic contraption, such as you have on your bed."
Though Liandra had no physical experience of men, she knew that for many, what he had said was true. She chewed her lip and glancing up, saw Connal's triumphant smile.
“Do I have the right of it Counselor Tavor?"
“And I suppose you consider yourself an expert where pleasing women is concerned?"
He grinned. “They have not complained."
“From what little I know of you, Connal MacArran, a woman would not dare make a complaint to you."
Connal laughed. “My women dare very much. By our mutual pleasuring they are granted more liberties than some of them truly deserve. Why this sudden interest? Are you curious to sample what it is you have been missing—a real man?"
Liandra gasped. “I would rather die."
“Oh, you would not die of the experience, Liandra,” Connal's voice had taken on a seductive, throaty quality. “That I promise you. You would even enjoy it. For once, a man worthy of the name!"
Liandra jumped up, and stepped backwards. “Of all the pompous, insufferable things to say. Just keep away from me!"
Connal came to his feet, laughing. “I fully intend to, witch. Save your counseling for your clients!"
“You make my profession sound disgusting. I'm not ashamed of what I am, nor what I do."
“You should be."
“I bring relief..."
“Truly? Well, I found none such in your bed and your dreams, Mistress Tavor! Your profession ’tis repulsive to me, and especially so, because I am forced, once again, to seek the services of a mind-touching alien witch...”
“Why—you—arrogant barbarian!” She reached out and grabbed the first thing her fingers touched. Before she knew what she was doing, she hurled the teapot at Connal.
As quick as she was, he was quicker. He ducked as the pot sailed within inches of his head, to shatter against the wall a foot or so from where he had been standing. Hot liquid sprayed in every direction. Caught in the shower, Connal's linen shirt was spattered with tea.
He strode forward. “By Arran! You shall pay for that you, you...”
“Witch?” Liandra suggested, retreating quickly to place her bed between herself and Connal.
“I am quite capable of thinking of suitable names to call you, woman!” He lunged at her. “Come here, at once!"
“No!” Liandra dodged around her bed, keeping Connal always at a safe distance.
“Give in and accept your punishment, or I will make you even sorrier when I eventually catch you!"
“I refuse to lie down and just let you do what you wish."
“Who said anything about lying down? No bed is a suitable place to inflict a punishment.” He dodged around the bed, and Liandra eluded him. “Come here, damn you!"
“I want none of you Connal MacArran. Keep your distance!"
“You will not be having me, witch! Of that you may rest assured. I prefer my partners to be willing, to purr with delight as..."
“You're despicable!"
“I?” Connal laughed and lunged forward. She twisted away, her sleeve tearing in his grasp. All he had to show for his maneuver was a strip of fabric in his fist, when what he really wanted was a pale, slender neck, which he could wring.
Again, Liandra twisted away from Connal's charge. “Only a primitive resorts to violence!"
“As you say, Liandra, ‘twas you who threw the tea pot."
She paused. By the Seven Stars, he was right! She had started the fight!
And that moment of lost concentration was her downfall, she realized as Connal flung himself at her, caught her, and brought her down onto the bed. For a moment she stared up at him, not understanding. Even though his action had been quick, he had been careful, and used only enough of his formidable strength to capture her without causing any harm.
“Get off me, you oaf!” She squirmed against him.
Her robe hitched up to her waist, while his kilt bunched around his thighs, she felt his naked, tensile flesh against her. For a moment she stared up at him, as he stared down at her, his eyes dark and tempestuous. Only the sound of their quick, shallow breaths broke the sudden, deep silence in the room.
One of his hands slipped beneath her, cupping a hip, drawing her body to his.
“Liandrrra...” His mouth a fraction from hers. “My Lady Witch..."
The last word was spoken not as a taunt, but intended as a caress.
“I am not a witch!"
He drew back from her, his eyes no longer a sultry, mysterious black, but as harsh and as cold as space.
Indignation flooded her body with a chill tide at the look she saw in his eyes. “Release me!"
“Not until you apologize."
“Never!” she snapped, writhing beneath him, trying to buck him off.
As they wrestled on the bed, they rolled close to its edge, teetered on the brink and then fell in a tangle of bodies and quilt. Somehow in the moment of time it took for them to reach the floor, Connal turned her, so that she landed on him rather than on the hard stone floor.
The pain of contact made him grunt, and for an instant his hold lessened. Liandra seized the opportunity to beat her fists against his chest. In one fluid movement he drew her wrists together and pinned them with a hand above her head, while rolling her onto her back, his body straddling hers.
“Stop this. You're nothing but a savage!"
“Aye, if that is so, what then might be the next move by this savage?”
Liandra closed her eyes. “Please—don't."
“Do not what, witch?” Connal panted above her.
“Whatever it is you have planned, I'm sure it'll be unpleasant, like the first punishment you inflicted."
“You did not enjoy my kiss?"
“It was disgusting."
“Savages are disgusting, Liandra."
“So they are. How careless of me to forget. Get off me!"
“'Tis a pity, for you make a very appealing mattress."
Connal chuckled and still holding her firmly by the wrists, he dragged her off the floor. He stood behind her, and keeping her arms pinned at her sides, his thighs pressed into the back of her legs. He forced her to walk to the wall.
“See evidence of your civilized handiwork,” he drawled.
Liandra flinched away from his lips, so close to her ear. She stared at what she had done. Tea and tealeaves stained the wall and fragments of the teapot littered the floor.
“Dougall,” Connal called. Almost immediately the door opened.
“Aye, My Lord?”
Liandra saw Dougall's eyes widen in shocked surprise as he viewed the chamber's disarray.
“I want you to have a servant bring a bucket and cloths,” Connal ordered.
“Aye, My Lord."
Minutes later a young girl deposited the items by the doorway.
“Thank you, Karra. Now close the door and be off."
“Aye, My Lord."
“How well they all say, Aye My Lord,” Liandra accused.
“As you shall, in time."
“Never! You are no Lord of mine, Connal MacArran."
“How well you say my name. I woul
d, however, prefer it done a little less sharply, and somewhat more melodiously if you expect me to answer you."
“You will never hear me purr your name."
“Will I not?” Connal chuckled. “We shall see. Now, for your punishment."
Suddenly, Liandra was free and she rubbed her injured flesh. Though he had not hurt her, she made it a ritual cleansing to dispel the taint of his hands upon her.
Connal carried the bucket and cloths and deposited them at her feet. “You have made an unsightly mess in this chamber, and now you will make amends. Begin."
“Begin what?” Liandra looked at him, confused.
“Clean the walls, the floor, everything which is sullied with tea. Later I will bring you my shirt and you shall clean that, too!"
“I won't. I'm not a servitor."
“You shall.” Connal glanced down at the bucket. “I am waiting."
“You'll wait forever, for I'll not do any such thing as clean. It's intolerable!"
“No stomach for honest work, eh Weaver? My people have no such qualms; much better to wash and clean than earn a living as a—counselor. I will not leave this room until you have cleaned it to my satisfaction. The sooner you begin, the sooner will I be gone. Or are you refusing to obey me because you enjoy my company so much?” He raised a sardonic brow.
Liandra glared at him, turned her back and stalked to her crystal bed. With arms folded, she sat down. Connal flung himself into a chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
Minutes passed slowly, and Liandra began to fidget under his direct, glowering scrutiny. Inwardly, she cursed him, using the worst expletives she could. The tongue of Caledonia was very rich in such words.
“Must you stare at me so?” Liandra asked, finally. Connal merely shrugged, his gaze firmly on her. She sighed. For a time she was able to use her skills to remain detached from him, but little by little the silence in the chamber eroded her control. Even her bed was not its usual haven. Like herself, it was out of its depth, robbed of power by the brooding savagery of Caledonia.
A light knock sounded on the door and Fianna popped her head through the crack.
“We are not to be disturbed, under pain of death. Not for any reason!” Connal snapped.
Fianna's eyes were as round as saucers as she looked from him to Liandra, then to the wall and its stain. “As you say, My Lord.” The door was very carefully closed.
“You have your people cowed into submission by your brutality. I hope you're proud of that fact,” Liandra said.
The only response from him was a tightening of those lips. He was camouflaging his fury amazingly well. She could only catch a faint emanation of his true emotional state.
The silence between them stretched into minutes, an hour, another. Never once did his stare waver from her, though Liandra had long since tired of the contest. She counted every stone making up the walls, the floor, everything she could see to keep her mind from focusing on the man in the chamber.
How long was he going to sit there? For as long as it takes, came her inner response. He would not be the one to back down. His authority was on the line, not to mention male ego, something she had never experienced before.
If she capitulated, she would never be allowed to forget it. More was at stake here than just punishment. She would have preferred something that was quickly over. Hours in silent confinement with Connal MacArran was the worst punishment Liandra could imagine. And as the afternoon dragged on, the room began to grow darker and darker.
She swallowed against her rising panic. She'd told him she could not stand the dark, now he was, doubtless, deliberately using her fragility to torment her. It was one thing to reject his authority over her, quite another to allow herself to become disorientated, and ill because of the mess from one teapot. Her inner senses screamed a warning.
“Very well,” she said, weakly. “What is it I must do?"
“Clean the floor, the wall, everything which has the mark of tea upon it."
Liandra rose with as much dignity as she could and stood beside the bucket. “How?” she asked. “My servitors..."
“Are not here, now, so get water from the bathing room, and bring it back."
“How shall I carry it?"
“In the bucket.” He threw his hands heavenward, shaking his head in exasperation.
Liandra did as she was told and when she returned, the chamber was illuminated. Thank the Seven Stars for that small mercy!
Connal reclined in his chair, arms behind his head, watching her. He had the good sense not to smile at her, Liandra thought, as she glared at him.
“Dip a cloth in the water, and wash."
Liandra pursed her lips, and tentatively began her task. It was appalling, but to take her mind from the work, she pretended that the surface she was cleaning was Connal MacArran's face. She'd wipe it to oblivion!
When she stole a glance at him, he was as she had seen him before, only now there was a triumphant smile on his arrogant, handsome face! For a moment she felt like hurling the contents of the bucket over him. What punishment might that action incur? It did not bear thinking about.
“You are going to rub a hole in that cloth if you are not careful, Liandra.”
She gritted her teeth as she heard his laughter. “'Tis your ugly face I be washing off the walls,” she said, and then paused, horrified. Her accent was now Caledonian. She heard Connal draw in a long breath, but she continued scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees. Straightening her aching back, Liandra paused.
“Do you consider the task finished?” Connal roamed the room, inspecting her handiwork. “Passable, but only just.” He raised her to her feet. “And perhaps next time you will remember this punishment, before you dare raise your temper and your hand against MacArran."
“If you incite me again, you'll receive more than a tea-pot aimed at your head."
“I warned you once before not to challenge me. Or do you enjoy the punishments I hand out? If that is so, I can be very accommodating."
“I'm sure you can be vairry accommodating.” Liandra's tongue rolled the ‘r’ like a native Caledonian.
The memory of the time in her apartment when he had said much the same to her brought a tight dryness to his throat.
“I have missed lunch and supper through your childish actions, so I will take my leave. Later, I shall return to supervise the washing of my shirt.”
“Don't expect me to be here waiting for you."
“By Arran!” Connal strode towards her and pinned her against the wall, his hands on her shoulders.
Liandra held her breath as he stared down at her. She knew she had goaded him too far this time.
CHAPTER SIX
Connal took her by the arms and lifted her off the ground. He shook her once, before releasing her.
“By Arran! You are a thistle beneath my kilt, and no mistake! I wish I did not need you to find Garris, else I would send you off-world so fast, your head would spin."
Connal stepped back from her. To Liandra's horror, he shrugged himself out of his shirt, and hurled it at her. Only reflex made her catch it.
She stared down at the garment, in half a mind to fling it back at him. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw his gray eyes narrow in that now familiar, silent challenge of his.
“Well, get it over with! You've taunted me long enough, and now you intend to rape me. Go ahead, but I warn you..."
Connal laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “You dishonor me! And I like it not! No Caledonian forces himself upon any woman. I prefer my partners compliant..."
“You'll get none such from me,” Liandra snapped.
“I want none such from you! Come.”
Once again, Liandra found herself propelled against her will, this time to the adjoining bathroom. His terse instructions were specific. While he sat back and watched, Liandra scrubbed his shirt, her thoughts dark as she worked. One day she would make him pay for every insult. How, she did not know, only that she woul
d!
“See My Lady Witch! The little experience you have of domestic chores and already your cleaning skills have dramatically improved. Practice makes perfect, Liandra."
She drew in a ragged breath. “Rest assured, Connal MacArran, this is the first and last time I clean anything, especially your clothes."
“That sounds very close to a challenge, Counselor Tavor. And you know how I respond to such. Do not provoke me, else you will suffer more punishment. Perhaps you enjoy my discipline?” He raised an enquiring brow.
“Why, you—you!"
“Lost for words, Mistress? ’Tis a good sign.” He laughed. “I will be away then, for my long-delayed supper. All your work has no doubt given you an appetite. I will have another meal brought to you and this time I expect you to eat more than just enough to keep a bird alive."
“What I eat and how much is none of your concern.”
“That is where you be wrong! I want you strong for our dream-sharing.” He reached out and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “And you will not be starving yourself just to spite me."
Collecting his soggy shirt, Connal stalked from the chamber. Liandra slammed the door after him, and sent a cushion flying across the room before silently venting her fury on the closest pillow to hand. She threw herself on her bed and pummeled its unyielding surface. Tears of rage welled up in her eyes. Angrily, she blinked them away.
What was happening to her? Always in control, she rarely cried or showed anger. Why should these emotions suddenly surface in such a disgusting, strong, uncontrollable flood? She chewed her lower lip. Connal was to blame.
Her counselor's empathy had taken control of her emotions and actions, reducing her to his level, so that she could deal with him. So that he understood her. She was reacting to Connal in the only way he could comprehend. For the first time in her life she cursed her abilities, which now rendered her so receptive to Connal's barbarity. How was she going to control her outbursts?
Yet, it was more than that. To be fair to him—though the thought appalled her—it wasn't just Connal's fault. She was part Terran and her mother's blood flowed in her veins. Connal was just the catalyst who had brought her Terran genes out of hiding. She had spent a lifetime in denying them, now they were free and tormenting her—their revenge for her suppression. Hadn't her father hinted as much, many times in the past? That it was dangerous to deny oneself? He enjoyed his wife's unique temper. The only time they met as ardent equals was when they came together as lovers. Asarians were passionate about their mates—to the exclusion of all things. Had she inherited that aspect of her father's heritage? So far she hadn't experienced the Asarian love-call—she had always thought she had escaped it—but there had been moments just recently around Connal when she had felt her blood stir in spite of herself.
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