by E G Manetti
Milord nods approval. Reaching out, he hooks one hand in the warbelt and uses it to pull her to him. Twining her arms around milord’s neck, she raises her lips to milord, eager for his attention and the contentment she finds nowhere but in his arms.
Having lowered Lilian to the bed, milord appears to be in no hurry. His lips feather across hers in a delicate caress and then trace the column of her throat. More light kisses dance over the mark on her ribs, generating a sweet ache that has naught to do with the tenderness from the blow. Thighs loosening, she cannot withhold a soft moan.
Milord’s head rises. “Did I hurt you?”
“It is naught of pain.”
His lips curve with pleasure at her reply. His long fingers trace her from hip to shoulder and back again, the languid caress at odds with the increasing heat in his eyes. “What do you wish?”
Things low inside her clench. Pushing to her side, she presses one hand against milord’s shoulder. “If milord pleases.”
Milord’s eyebrows rise, but he nods, turning to lie on his stomach, revealing the alluring length of olive skin that covers him from heels to shoulders. It is not the first occasion milord has permitted her license to explore, but it does not occur often. Determined to savor the experience, she nibbles and licks her way along calves and thighs, imitating the taunting contact milord so often uses to arouse her to a fever pitch. Reaching the taut buttocks, she lingers. With fascination and delight she explores taste, texture, and response.
Milord’s muscles tense, he arches under her lips, his response calling an echoing ache to her sex. The smell, taste, and feel of milord excite her, as does her ability to work her will. His hands fist in the sheets; he will not permit much more. The line of milord’s back and the breadth of milord’s shoulders beckon.
She cannot reach all she desires from her position on milord’s left. Straddling his thighs, she leans forward to nibble, lick, and caress the broad expanse of enticing, well-muscled flesh. Peaked breasts tease against milord’s back as Lilian sets lips, tongue, and teeth to the strong column of milord’s throat. With a hoarse sound of pleasure, his thighs push against her sex, the forceful contact turning her arousal molten.
Milord twists between her legs, breaking the grip of her thighs and grasping her waist. Milord’s stiffened sex brushes against her and she follows it, rubbing her swelling sex along its length, eager for penetration. Milord’s dark chuckle is a promise and a threat. Rising to meet her, he wraps her legs around his waist, easing into her with a slow, deliberate slide, setting sensitive interior tissue alight. Fully seated, milord rocks his hips, setting up a blissful friction that arouses but does not free her release. Twisting on milord’s shaft, she presses into milord, her throbbing jewel desperate for contact. Milord’s hands tighten on her waist, holding her from the ultimate contact as he continues the sweet torture of shallow thrusts.
The sensations are incredible. Exquisite. Not near enough. Burying her face in milord’s throat, Lilian moans and then nips the strong column. Milord shudders. Sliding his hands to her hips, he leans forward. “Hold on.”
Hands gripping milord’s shoulders, Lilian drops backward onto the bed. Milord slides an arm under one knee, lifting and pushing it toward her shoulder. Opening her. The shallow invasion becomes a driving thrust, his pelvis grinding against her sex, squeezing her swollen and aching nub and breaking free her release in an explosion of ecstasy.
»◊«
The beaded gold halter top is not as snug as it was the year gone. The V-neck that once hinted while not revealing now gapes to offer a hint of curve. Milord will not be pleased. For all he wishes her skirts a minimum of three inches above her knees, he expects apprentice decorum. Her exposed back is daring enough. Using the gold ribbon intended for her hair, Lilian knots it in the fasteners behind her neck, tightening the top until it is snug to her torso.
Doubling the Mercium and Vistrite brilliants and then doubling it again, Lilian uses it to restrain her hair at the nape of her neck. The loose tail partly covers her exposed back, the glittering chain hiding the knotted ribbon. It is not ideal, but it must suffice. Milord will be waiting.
Milord is an arresting sight in a loose silk tunic in royal blue that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and dark gray trousers that highlight the length of his legs. The platinum and ruby of his dagger hilt and preeminence signet sparkle at his waist. His heavy-lidded eyes and the soft set of his mouth signal a man who has been well pleasured.
Sliding a finger along the edge of her top, milord tests the fit, confirming it is snug to her frame. She can feel his lips smile as he presses a kiss along the small, shooting-star-shaped scar on one shoulder. The mark of Serengeti valor. “What did Hannah say to you?”
“Hannah, milord?” They have spoken about many things. She cannot imagine what might interest milord.
Milord lifts his head. “In the match square. After the purser was so unpleasant.”
Adelaide’s thorn. While unpleasant, the purser’s nastiness is common enough. But Hannah’s remark? “It was vulgar.”
Milord’s lips tighten. “What did she say?”
She fixes her eyes on the hollow of milord’s throat. “ ‘Ignore the limp-noodle lackwit. He’s jealous because your chalk thorn is twice the size of his rod.’ ”
Milord’s shoulders shake, and he releases a bark of laughter. “She may well be right. Come, we must go.”
They are last to arrive and there is no question in Lilian’s mind that everyone in the chamber knows why. Honor endures. It is an informal reception where the guests mingle and take refreshment as they will, so they have not inconvenienced anyone with their tardiness. Once they greet Captain Gehrig, Lucius dismisses Lilian to enjoy the evening.
The reception lounge is more heavily populated than the prior year. Not only is Serengeti present in greater numbers, the transport is at capacity. There are few warrior families in the Third System who do not have strong ties to either Serengeti or Matahorn. The most significant of those have been invited to the hull launch. Milord and his seigneurs will be occupied conversing with this group, many of whom are part of the potential investor pool.
The popularity of Lilian’s match has made the reception even more appealing. Those among the passengers who were witness are eager to discuss their impressions. Those who were not present are eager for details. When Chrys arrives, a wine glass in each hand, she greets him with relief. With a small bow he hands her one. “To your victory.”
“My thanks, Chrys.” She takes in his appearance. The informal gold tunic has a subtle shimmer of green, and the soft collar open at the throat is in the style of milord’s. Tucked into the tailored black trousers, the apparel reveals his grace and strength while retaining the understatement of an apprentice.
Chrys’ eyes glow as he returns her approving gaze. “The brilliants in your hair are magnificent. Monsignor’s approval cannot be missed.”
Lilian smiles, acknowledging the unspoken compliment in his words. Her stomach gurgles and the spell is broken. “I would a meal. It has been a century since midday.”
Laughing, Chrys guides her to the small table Blythe is guarding. As he did after the match, Chrys clears the way without causing offense or encountering resistance. Having dined already, he goes to fill a plate for Lilian, leaving her with Blythe.
Lilian would not have considered gold a color that would suit Blythe. She was mistaken. The simple, deep gold shift holds rose and bronze tones that set the woman’s marble white skin aglow while highlighting the red tones in her hair. The shift also dramatizes her cornflower-blue eyes and the light haze of freckles over her skin. It occurs to Lilian that there are any number of men and women who would enjoy exploring the texture of those freckles. The single sapphire settled between the swell of her breasts attests to Seigneur Marco’s approval of his apprentice. How would Seigneur Rachelle bestow such marks of approval on Chrys? Other than signets and daggers, men are not prone to donning jewels.
Ch
rys appears from the crowd and places a plate before her. Somehow, along with the expected canapés and vegetables, he has secured a small mound of caviar. To Lilian’s delight, Blythe’s nose wrinkles when offered a share of the delicacy.
As the delicate, salty flavor bursts on her tongue, Lilian takes a closer look at Chrys, seated next to her. The simple black belt with its copper and silver chasings and buckle is dragon skin. Not the dragon of fable, although she does not discount Seigneur Rachelle’s ability to resurrect one should she so desire. It is the carnivorous reptile of Redemption in the Eleventh System. A beast so ferocious that the hunter often becomes a meal. The copper and silver are, in fact, rose and white gold. Chrys’ belt will stir admiration, and even envy, in the protégés. Pleased to be able to return his courtesy, she says, “The dragon-skin belt is fabulous. Seigneur Rachelle’s approval is visible to all.”
Chrys’ eyes crinkle with pleasure. “The seigneur is ever generous.”
Caviar gone, she is aware of the hollowness of hunger. Digging into her plate, she has devoured half the vegetables in silence before realizing her lack of courtesy. “Forgive my ill manners. It has been a busy nine bells since midday.”
Chrys pushes a small plate into the center of the table. “I shall entertain with gossip while Blythe and I explore the more exotic fare offered by the Shimmering Horizon.”
Picking up his fork, he continues, “Mate Hannah is glorious. There is no wonder that Master Nickolas is beguiled. We shall not encounter him until tomorrow’s sessions. The glorious Hannah has been granted liberty until midday.”
Blythe examines a purple olive on the end of her fork. “Master Fletcher has been fined but one hundred for breaking the purser’s nose.” With a courageous air, she swallows the olive and then snatches up her wine glass. “Skip those, they taste like dirt.”
“Fletcher?” Lilian leans forward.
“The purser?” Chrys says.
Swallowing more wine, Blythe replies, “It was the smallest fee possible. Serengeti would have covered the fine, but Fletcher would not have it. I was not present, but Mistress Deidre assures me that the payment token all but grazed the Purser’s broken nose.”
“What say you?” Chrys and Lilian chorus.
Realizing they have not the tale, Blythe relates it, finishing with a grin. “I heard that the purser will not transit again on a ship of Captain Gehrig’s.”
At her fellow Ravens’ raised glasses, Lilian raises her own. She is less interested in the purser’s fate than she is in Fletcher’s action. Is the man finally done with his pique? Do not. Do not.
At the thought, the charismatic moon racer joins the table.
“Ravens, well met.” Fletcher claims an empty chair and waves them back to their seats. “Lilian, I regret, the crew have grown wise. We had only the passengers to milk. Fear not, do you require a shrine offering, Nickolas and I will cover it.”
“My thanks, Master Fletcher. I have no need this voyage.” Her alcove trial is at the Lord Prelate’s command, and as such is considered a shrine offering. “If you would engage the Shades’ favor, I beseech you do so on behalf of Bright Star.”
“As it pleases you.” Clapping his hands together, Fletcher asks, “Will you accept converse with some of your admirers?”
Now that he has released his anger, Fletcher will be an able guide, steering her away from those who disdain her and toward those who might benefit Bright Star. Her role in the match provides ready conversation. Other than the match, more than one person attempts to tease the name of the SEV1 from her or Fletcher. The well-kept secret is the source of much speculation and wagering. Even the Leonardo and Matahorn members of Bright Star do not know what Serengeti has chosen. After a period of Fletcher’s carefully orchestrated interactions, Lilian is handed into the escort of Captain Gehrig. The charming man is a favorite of hers and she is glad of his company.
As the bells advance, the company thins. Across the chamber milord is engaged with Seigneur Aristides and several of Serengeti’s suppliers. One of whom, a winsome woman of perhaps thirty years, leans into him, her lips parted in invitation, her clingy knit dress showcasing an enviable figure.
“Nice thorn work, Conservator,” says a voice near Lilian’s torso. Focused on milord she had not noticed Seigneur Amaranth’s approach. If Apollo is a whirlwind, Amaranth is one of the dangerous and random tidal forces that bedevil milord’s deep-sea fishing fleet. Well into her eighties, the seigneur’s crown barely reaches the height of Lilian’s breasts. If the seigneur favored women, Lilian would have found it awkward. As it is, the woman is a welcome arrival.
With a gesture the captain guides them to a seated grouping near the windows that frame the expanse. As they take their seats, Lilian performs introductions. Seigneur Amaranth’s cadet branch of Iron Hammer is located in the Third and Sixth Systems, where they monopolize the supply and maintenance of the Crevasse conduits. Those of Amaranth’s cartouche on Metricelli Prime have been distant but in no manner offensive to Lilian. The seigneur, while abrasive, appears indifferent to the disgrace of Remus Gariten’s legacy.
Accepting a glass of wine, Amaranth says, “Always considered the thorn a toy. I will need to rework my thoughts.”
“My thanks, Seigneur,” Lilian replies with appropriate deference. Any suggestion that she finds the seigneur entertaining will not be well received.
Smacking her lips, Amaranth hands the empty glass to a servitor. “What speaks the seer about the Bright Dawn interdiction?”
What says she? For all her abrupt manners, Seigneur Amaranth is a capable engineer and formidable commerce strategist. She would have a purpose. “I know naught of the Bright Dawn interdiction. For certain my mother has not mentioned it.”
“Rimon’s interdiction of the Thirteenth System? After the Bright Dawn Horror?” Amaranth says in a querulous tone. “Thought you knew something of the canons. Rimon’s Keeper Newton is an expert.”
I am the sum of my ancestors. Lilian struggles for control. I am the foundation of my family. That is the source of Newton’s rants? Honor is my sword and . . . Lilian’s discipline avails her naught. A smile breaks her countenance, followed by a brief, bright laugh of pure amusement.
»◊«
Aristides wonders if the woman offering her charms to Lucius does so as an incentive for favorable terms on her cohort’s next contract for core haulers. Deciding lust, not avarice, motivates her overtures, he lets his gaze wander around the chamber, noting that the crowd has diminished. In a far corner, Amaranth has cornered Lilian and Gehrig. Whatever she is saying, Lilian looks confused and then stunned. The apprentice’s composure slips and dissolves in a bright peal of laughter. Aristides is dumfounded. He had no notion that Monsignor’s reserved apprentice was capable of such a glad noise.
A hand lands on his shoulder. Lucius’ eyes are on his apprentice, his expression far more focused on Lilian’s laughter than it was on the seigneur’s bountiful breasts. With a motion of his head, Lucius indicates that Aristides is to discover the source of Lilian’s amusement. Reaching the grouping as Lilian’s laughter fades, Aristides nods at Amaranth and takes a vacant chair.
Pulling decorum about her as if armor, Lilian says, “I beg pardon for my unseemly humor. I had no notion the outlaw prelate’s source for his wild discourse is a third-century fable.”
“A fable, Conservator?” Amaranth says. “Are you certain?”
Rapid intelligence flashes in Lilian’s eyes before she gives a small shrug. “I studied the legends and fables surrounding Adelaide Warleader a few years gone. This one intersected one of the Warleader’s. Modern scholarship is certain that it was a fable crafted by one of Sinead’s descendants and is not of Rimon’s canon.”
“But Keeper Newton?” Amaranth replies. “Would not a prelate know fact from fable?”
“Not all prelates are scholars,” Lilian says with a bland air that is all Aristides could wish. She is doing quite well discrediting the annoying cleric.
Contin
uing, Lilian says, “In the three centuries after the Anarchy, many fabulous tales of the Five Warriors were circulated. Those who study the matter suggest there are scores if not hundreds of invented fables of the Shades.” With almost perfect deference, she adds, “If the First Warrior were to have visited all the cities claimed and performed all the acts of fable, he would have needed a life span of two hundred years. If the Second were to have discovered and condemned all with whom he is credited, Rimon’s dungeons would rival the Great Crevasse.”
Amaranth pouts in disappointment. “The Bright Dawn Horror is naught but a tall tale?”
“A bit more than that, Seigneur. While many fables of the Five Warriors were attempts to enhance the local shrines, some were based in more practical motives. Such is the nature of the fable of the Bright Dawn Horror.”
Eager to discredit Newton, Aristides says, “Lilian, tell us of this.”
“Although history dates the defeat of Anarchy at the sealing of the Code of Engagement, it was almost three centuries before Order was fully established throughout the beaconed expanse.” Lilian’s eyes sparkle, but her voice maintains a pedantic cadence as she feeds Aristides what he needs. With a little Luck of the First, Amaranth will be quick to spread the tale. “In the intervening decades there were myriad small and large wars while the Five Warriors, their descendants, and their retainers’ descendants battled to spread Order.
“While the Fifth Warrior had little territorial ambition, two centuries later, one of her descendants opened the Eighth System and was determined to move in the direction of what is soon to be the Thirteenth System. Events worked against her will, so she devised the fable of the Bright Dawn Horror to discourage competitors.”
Nodding at him, Lilian says, “It was an early use of media management. There is no evidence beyond unsubstantiated media streams.”
He is fascinated. “On the morrow, direct me to these streams.”