by E G Manetti
Milord’s hands grasp her hips, tilting and positioning her. The tip of his shaft drags along her cleft, testing, taunting. Her sex clenches, empty and wanting. Milord drives deep, filling her, stretching her. His hips flex and her vision fogs. There is naught but milord, and need, and the blissful friction of his shaft moving inside her. Harder and faster he drives until she there is naught but the cresting need. “Now, Lilian.”
Bracing on one arm, she slides her hand between her thighs to her jewel. The pressure of her touch sends ecstasy crashing through her. Milord cries out, his shaft jerking and pulsing. There is naught but milord and the heavy, enveloping delight.
»◊«
Wrapped in warmth, Lilian floats in contented relaxation, milord’s gentle nibbling along her breasts lulling her into a sensuous haze. “Mistress Pippa has many admirers.”
Drugged from milord’s passion, beguiled by his caress, she trails her fingers across his back and shoulders. “She favors milord’s agent over all others.”
Entranced by the play of flesh and muscle under her hands, she risks seeking lower, the hard swell of milord’s buttocks.
A soft nip freezes her fingers. Has she erred?
“My agent, Lilian?”
Lackwit. She spoke without thinking. Although she intended to reveal Pippa’s knowledge of the spies, she has been careless. Knowledge of Pippa’s shrewdness could pose a danger to a woman who dons silliness as armor. There is naught to be done. This day. Her gaze drifts to the ceiling . “Lt. Riordan, milord. He was not Pippa’s escort as Lady Pallas dictated a cousin, but the lieutenant escorts Pippa to the inscription trial.”
Milord ceases nibbling, his head rising to obscure the ceiling. “Others?”
He did not know? “Agents of Euphrates and Matahorn. I met both and they are charming and very much to Pippa’s taste.”
A smile flickers across his lips. “You have learned more than the art of stealth from Malcon. Well done.”
Milord’s mouth finds hers for a lingering kiss. It is lovely but mayhap not earned. His eyes and smile are warm and approving. There is only this day. “I did not tease the information from Pippa, milord. She offered it freely.”
The smile dissipates. Curiosity and pique surface. “To what purpose?”
I am the sum of my ancestors. She should have thought before she spoke. “Pippa does not wish milord to believe her easily beguiled.”
Milord’s eyes warm and he barks a laugh. “Does she? What of Euphrates and Matahorn?”
“She will give them naught that will betray the Leonardo Society or imperil my bond and trial. I doubt Lt. Riordan or the others will get aught of note. Her family is dependent upon Euphrates and no good would come of offending Matahorn. She will tease them with harmless tidbits and enjoy their company.”
Milord’s eyes narrow. Pippa has surprised him as she did Lilian. “Are Euphrates and Matahorn aware she has identified their agents?”
“I do not believe so. Her loyalty is to Leonardo, but she wished us to know that others had the notion to use her for a conduit to milord.”
Milord’s eyes hood, his arms enfold her, and he rolls to his back, tucking her against his chest. Pleased he is not angered, she is content to rest in his embrace while his clever, devious mind sifts her revelations for advantage.
His fingers strum her spine. “She presents as naught but silly. How does she own such ability for intrigue?’
Resisting the urge to feather her lips across his chest, she replies, “Pippa reminded me this evening that she was not raised in a cave. None raised by Lady Pallas is incapable of intrigue, though Pippa prefers to embrace other avenues of ambition.”
Milord hums, considering her response. His fingers glide lower, cupping her buttock. “If she has fed the others what she has Riordan, it is either useless or to your credit. As she favors him, he will continue the association and keep watch on the others.”
As Pippa predicted. The thought flutters away as milord’s hands become more demanding, igniting flares of desire.
Milord shifts, pushing her over. Wicked designs flicker in his eyes. “Enough of the tipsy hummingbird.” His thigh parts hers as his mouth descends, demanding and plundering.
11. The Nightingale
In the mid-ninth century, the Second System began construction of a system observatory. Orbiting Rimon Deuce, the militia outpost was designed to monitor stellar transit traffic, which had increased tenfold during the eighth century with the flowering of commerce. With the increase in legitimate traffic there was a corresponding increase in smuggling and transport piracy. The observatory was so effective in curtailing black and gray commerce in stellar transit that it was soon copied by the Second and Third Systems. By the end of the tenth century, every system had an observatory capable of monitoring stellar transit flow within the system.
The First System is the only system with a second observatory. Constructed by Mulan’s University and dedicated to scientific observations, it orbits Artesia, exploring the construction of the universe. In the last century, the Second, Third, and Sixth Systems expanded their observatories to serve dual purposes with sections dedicated to examining the galaxy through sophisticated monitoring and viewing equipment. ~ excerpt from Twelve Systems Militia Installations, an academy text.
Sevenday 131, Day 3
“Rouse, woman. You have duty to attend.” The harsh words are offered in a voice laced with humor and accompanied by lips tickling against her ear. Opening her eyes to bright sunlight, Lilian struggles for recall. Milord.
Memory returns in a flood of sensory delight. The night gone milord kept her in his bed, shifting from passion to converse to light sleep to passion again until the night sky began to fade to green. Only then did he dismiss her to gather a few bells of sleep. Strong fingers pluck at an exposed nipple. The light pinch and frissons of pleasure bring her fully awake.
Milord. In full commerce garb, milord is perched on the bed. Commerce garb? Bright morning light? What is the bell? Struggling free of the covers, she tries to rise. “Milord, I beg pardon—”
“Peace.” Milord places a finger against her lips. “It is not ill done. Rise and ready yourself. I will await you without.”
There is no time for her discipline. With a quick prayer, she races to the freshening closet and then to garb. The finest of her suits is lackluster at best and while the top and the thigh highs are new and better quality than her others, it is a meager showing for such an historic day. Twisting the belt to display the conservator’s seal, she takes comfort in the display of milord’s wealth and approval. Stepping into her shoes, she retrieves her satchel and thorn from beneath her pillow and slides in her slate. Tenth bell chimes. She was but half a period, not so bad.
Milord looks up from his slate and motions her to the table. At his elbow is a half-consumed meal. The tea is hot, the meal arrived recently, suggesting milord had not risen much before rousing her. Filling a plate, she takes her place, turning to her slate as milord returns to his. An alert from Katleen holds the data she requested before falling into her bed. It was the Shades’ grace that she made Katleen her agent and gave her access to Lilian’s personal slate and archives. She is reviewing an alert from Rebecca when milord’s voice calls her attention. “Have you the evidence?”
Evidence? Benmyn. “Yes, milord.”
A few quick taps and a record slip rises from the slate, data Katleen pulled based on Lilian’s instructions. She offers milord the narrow polymer rectangle.
Milord waves it away, relaxing into his chair, his eyes glowing with satisfaction. “I require it not. Nickolas will arrive in a few moments. He will escort you to Monsignor Horatio. Present the evidence with my compliments.”
Devious, clever man. Whatever Monsignor Horatio’s purpose in setting Benmyn Empire on her, milord’s response is a blatant challenge. He will have his lowliest retainer present evidence that once more puts the Matahorn governor in milord’s debt. Clever, clever, devious man.
»
◊«
Horatio expected Marco. Lucius’ trusted kinsman and senior retainer, Marco is given the important and delicate tasks. Marco should have arrived to convey Blooded Dagger’s affront that one of Matahorn’s seigneurs would make a scene at the hull launch celebration. How Sarah could have elevated a warrior so lacking in self-control and an understanding of intrigue defies imagination. When he understood the full extent of the man’s effrontery in attacking Blooded Dagger without Horatio’s consent, he half throttled Benmyn before William intervened. Now this.
That Lucius sent his protégé and Raven is almost an insult. Or perhaps it is one. Does Lucius believe Benmyn’s crude conduct was at Horatio’s behest? If so, the cost of that lackwit’s ill-considered behavior may be higher than Horatio anticipated. He could send Lucius’ emissaries to William. No, that might compound the problem. “Show them in.”
Both protégé and apprentice are attired for commerce, the cheap stark black of the Raven a sharp contrast to the expensive slate gray of the protégé. His gold-hilted dagger is marked in the topaz of his family cartouche, his scarlet conservator’s seal a twin to the one on Lilian’s belt. A reminder that they are both Lucius’ vessels?
Horatio is not about to yield advantage. Knowing the weight of his impassive regard has made seasoned warriors quail, he holds to silence, seeking any sign of weakness. The minutes creep by and the vulnerable apprentice remains composed and unflinching. It is both impressive and disquieting. There may be some truth to the rumors that she destroyed the discipline master. Not for the first time, he wonders what exactly Lucius Mercio has taken into his shadow.
That the protégé stands impassive and undisturbed is impressive but not disquieting. The young warrior’s bloodlines are worthy of Horatio’s offspring and he has had five years of Lucius’ tutelage. At that thought, Horatio’s mind moves to another possible advantage. His youngest daughter completes her advanced studies. If Bright Star produces the wealth expected, the green-eyed warrior will soon own a seigneur’s signet and he is not much past thirty. It will be well to remain in cordial relations with Blooded Dagger. A kinship alliance will not be possible are the houses at odds.
It is time to discover Lucius’ challenge. “What do you here?”
The apprentice steps forward and places a small box on the table in front of him. Stepping back, she meets his gaze without expression. “Monsignor, with the compliments of Monsignor Lucius.”
Collecting the small object, Horatio turns it in his fingers as he regards the woman. He recalls the alluring vision in gold silk of the night gone. For a moment, a pleasant fantasy of trying her in his bed flickers and is dismissed. There are matters of more import at hand. “Will I discover aught within that is to Seigneur Benmyn’s credit?”
“No, Monsignor.” The woman does not even blink.
Horatio is not deceived. She must be beyond pleased. She has been threatened and humiliated. Her assailant is about to fall. Horatio has known for some time that Lucius exploits his apprentice’s brilliance to destroy his enemies. That the woman can destroy hers from such a tenuous position is a new development. The preeminence of Blooded Dagger has a gift for attaching dangerous women.
“Return Monsignor Lucius’ compliments. You may go.”
»◊«
Neither Lilian nor Nickolas is quite sure what to make of the brief meeting with Monsignor Horatio. Restricted to the outer chamber during the interlude, Mr. Stefan has naught to offer during the short transit between guesthouses. When they reach the Serenity’s risers, Nickolas shrugs and says, “Monsignor Horatio will send an emissary to Monsignor when he is ready. We have done our part.”
Milord’s suite is empty. Checking the time, she confirms there lacks half a period to midday. Two periods before they depart for the inscription trial, and more than sufficient bells to make up the training she omitted at rising.
The patio is shadowed and chill. It will not feel the sun until after midday. Shivering, she glides into the first movements. I am the sum of my ancestors. Her fingers are stiff. The blade in her hand might be a flower for all the threat it presents. As muscles loosen, purpose gathers. The motions strengthen and hold the promise of violence. I am the foundation of my family. Honor is my blade and shield. Without a sun to reflect, the blade is pale fire in the dim light. The protocol review is but a dark memory. Honor knows not fear. Milord will have the goad’s signet. She will prove her bond. Honor endures. The movements are cathartic. Desperation, rage, and horror are released back into the darkness from which they rose. Honor acts as duty commands. Grief, frustration, and confusion are released into the sunlight that has come to caress the terrace, turning the blade into a bright flame that throws abstract, liquid patterns on the tiles.
From Lilian’s shadowed chamber, Lucius sends a grateful prayer to his deity, riveted by her movements and fascinated by the suggestion of contained violence. Socraide embraced Order and held to it fiercely. He is a man who lives by the dictates of his own will and no others, but he is not fool enough to believe it is his aid alone that has kept Lilian alive. He does not wonder at the Shades’ favor; he has bought it with his blood, honor, and will. He is wise enough to appreciate it and be grateful.
On the patio, Lilian pivots and halts. Turning her face to the sun that has emerged over the rooftop, she closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths. Shoulders relaxing, she sheathes the thorn and turns to the chamber. Her step falters and her eyes widen. She has seen him. Pulling the sheathed blade from her belt, she sets it aside before crossing the threshold, her eyes lingering on his sweat-damp torso before rising to his face. At that flash of carnal interest, desire flares. Purpose forgotten, he reaches for her.
Milord’s fierce kiss sends Lilian’s senses swimming as she reaches to embrace the bared torso still damp from exertion. His training trousers do naught to mask the swelling bulge at his groin. The embrace ends as abruptly as it began, milord’s expression holding pleasure and something she fears to identify as he sets her from him. “You know, do you not, that Seigneurs Thorvald, Tristan, and Aristides have all stated that without your courage and inventiveness, more Serengeti would have fallen and many fewer Despoilers would have died in the battle?”
What says he? She knows the seigneurs have acknowledged her valor in the battle, and that Seigneur Tristan released his initial distrust and Seigneur Thorvald abandoned his disdain. Both remain distant but no longer hostile. Seigneur Aristides has always treated her with the courtesy due milord’s conservator but no more. That all three should voice such sentiments is astounding. Gathering her wits, she manages to reply, “The seigneurs afford me great honor. I did naught but my duty to Serengeti and milord.”
Milord smiles, stroking her temple. “Properly spoken, but I concur with the seigneurs. Your valor well exceeded your duty. You bear the mark of Serengeti valor on your body. I would you wear these marks of Serengeti honor, do they please you.”
Milord holds a box more sizable than the one that bore the SEV1 Mercium. Another gift so soon?
Taking the box, Lilian opens it and peers inside. It is well for her that milord holds her in a half embrace. She would have found it difficult to keep her feet otherwise. Honor is my blade and shield. The line of litany frees Lilian’s locked thoughts to make sense of what she holds. Four gold combs to secure and ornament her hair. Each is covered in pavé rubies surmounted by Vistrite gems. Six Vistrite gems adorn each comb, the total equal to the number of the Serengeti fallen in the battle with the Despoilers. Lilian does not attempt to count the red brilliants. She knows. The rubies number the Despoiler fallen. Worth a fortune, the true value is in milord’s honoring her service. “Milord, there are no words.”
“Truly, there are none.” His hands close over hers and the box. His dark eyes are serious and intent. “No words are sufficient to recognize the service you performed for my house. These small tokens will need to suffice.”
Dropping a kiss on her lips, he releases her. Eyes shining, he says, “We
have little time. Ready yourself for the inscription trial.”
»◊«
Socraide’s sword. He knew better than to take the time for that kiss, but he could not resist. The shuttle to the observatory will wait for their arrival, but he will not give Horatio the leverage of being late. Shrugging into his coat, Lucius finds Lilian waiting in the salon, slate in hand, frowning at the wall reviewer.
At the sounds of his footsteps, she shutters both devices and turns, shoulders squared. “Milord, I regret, the day will go to Matahorn.”
Demon shit. He had hoped that if Fletcher did not inscribe the Nightingale, the honor would go to the Leonardo contender. “Are you certain?”
Lilian’s fingers tighten on her slate. “I am certain the probabilities favor Matahorn. The trial may be other than I project. There are too many random elements for certainty.”
Always so careful and precise. Amused even with the disappointing analysis, Lucius closes with her and tilts her chin. “The probability of your conclusion?”
“The probability is point six two nine four three that Matahorn will reach the SEV1 first, trailed by Serengeti and then Leonardo.”
Five decimals. She will not round no matter his encouragement. Suppressing a smile, he releases her chin. “Gather your wrap. We may not tarry.”
»◊«
Following milord from the shuttle, Lilian notes the utilitarian tile and metal construction of the landing bay and corridor, evidence that the observatory’s primary purpose is military. When they reach the main viewing chamber, her surroundings fade to insignificance compared to the incredible vista of Fortuna’s three moons so close she has the illusion she could reach out and touch them. In the distance, Ruin seems no larger than the smallest of the moons. It is no longer part of the race route; Seigneur Aristides persuaded the Bright Star governors that with the moons so close, the visual would be more powerful if the flyers’ route stayed within them.