The Price of Desire (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  When Grace began spending nights in the captain’s cabin, Aria had remonstrated with her to no avail. Later, making the best of an increasingly awkward situation, she’d remarked—to herself—that Grace had yielded easily, in order to avoid being labeled as a flirt.

  Underneath the calm, watchful exterior lurked a scathing wit; and underneath that hid a warm and generous heart.

  And now she might be….

  No. He refused to consider the possibility.

  He was spared from further thought by a knock on the door. And then, seconds later, the arrival of two rather hangdog specimens. The master chief, who came in behind them, looked positively murderous.

  Kisten regarded them from behind his desk, expression equally fixed. “Yes?”

  Upon hearing the knock, he’d assumed the poised, upright position one expected of a naval commander. He used it to best effect now, staring down the two miscreants in front of him. God, they had to be teenagers. Both looked like they wanted their mothers very badly. Kisten hadn’t felt like that since his first night at school when he was eleven years old. A fifth form had tried to get a little too, ah, well acquainted, and Kisten had broken his nose.

  He steepled his fingers. “Yes, gentlemen?” he prompted.

  “Tell him,” growled the master chief, “or I will.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said one, whose nameplate identified him as Seaman Tanji.

  “It…we didn’t think there was anything wrong with it, you know, not—”

  The master chief cuffed him. “I’m sorry, sir!” he exclaimed again.

  Kisten arched his eyebrow. “Sorry for what, precisely?”

  Standing in front of his desk like errant schoolboys, they took turns staring first at the floor and then at each other.

  “Gentlemen,” he said warningly, “I don’t have all afternoon.”

  The story came out. Apparently, several of the galley staff thought it great fun to play a game called extermination. After placing their bets, these enterprising young men then sent the objects out into space to see whether or not they would indeed explode. The winner took the spoils, which last night apparently included fifty darics and a picture of someone’s grandmother. Kisten confiscated this apparent bounty, was appalled to see how the grandmother was dressed, and relegated it all to a desk drawer. Now edified by the knowledge that marshmallows did explode, he cancelled their shore leave.

  “I’d count yourselves fortunate,” he counseled them. “I’m tempted to see whether or not you explode.”

  Misappropriation of stores was a serious offense, and if this were the Nemesis his punishment would have been much harsher. Historically, punishments for theft ranged from flogging to death. In school, he’d read about an ancient custom called keelhauling. The unfortunate sailor was tied to a line that looped beneath the vessel, thrown overboard into the ocean, and dragged under the ship’s keel from one side of the ship to the other. A terrifying and gruesome punishment that was almost always fatal.

  Keels, being immersed in the ocean, were covered in barnacles; a fast pull meant flaying to the bone or even decapitation. A slow pull meant death by drowning. Kisten had often pondered if such a punishment could be adapted to space, concluding only with the greatest reluctance that it could not.

  The men were still staring at him. Unable to help himself, he threw back his head and laughed. His mirth was genuine but at the same time he knew that such outbursts did nothing to diminish his reputation as one of the most feared commanders in the fleet. He enjoyed his reputation; he deserved it, and he’d worked hard to earn it. Still laughing, he waved the men off.

  Alone once again, he rang for another cup of coffee.

  So she was alive.

  Atropos was passing through a debris field; he watched as chunks of ore exploded in the strange pulsating flowers that were combustion in space. The gunners were using them as target practice.

  Knowing that Aria had put him through hell for nothing, he’d expected his anger at her to return. Instead, he found himself reviewing what he knew of her and thinking about where she might be. Obviously somewhere no one else had thought to look. Then again, they didn’t know her as well as he did. He squinted against the sudden flash of brilliance. He hated bright lights and could see perfectly clearly in almost total darkness. Tarsonis, he supposed with a wry smile, would be a good place to live as conditions were apparently dismal. Aria would hate that, and she wouldn’t understand—

  Of course. He realized that he knew exactly where she was.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Aria fought the slow blossoming of her senses as the world forced its unwelcome intrusion. She didn’t want to be awake; she wanted to lose herself in sleep, to sleep and sleep until this nightmare of terror and confusion was over. Unconscious, she wouldn’t have to face the fact that it might never be over, that Naomi might be right and this—all of it—was all there was. She’d wanted to escape Cabot Lake Township, to escape Aiden, not become trapped in a culture where men used women as playthings and one man in particular made her think things she didn’t want to think and feel things she didn’t want to feel.

  The image of Aiden came unbidden: his square jaw, chestnut hair and storm-gray eyes, but most of all the expression in them as they regarded the world. It had been that faint, sardonic amusement that she’d fallen in love with first, and the sensation that by sharing it with her Aiden was sharing some wonderful private secret that only the two of them knew. Although not above average height, his reserved manner made him seem much taller. Then again, that Aria was only a few inches above five feet made most men seemed enormous.

  She wondered if he was thinking of her, somewhere, right now.

  Her choice to leave had been impetuous, spurred by a desire to hurt Aiden more than to alter the course of her life. To hurt him and, in so doing, force him to acknowledge his love for her. Even as she’d stood on the rain-soaked tarmac with the smell of it in her nostrils, she hadn’t thought of the departure as permanent. In the back of her mind, she acknowledged now, she’d always imagined herself coming home and marrying him. Just like they’d planned. She half-sighed, half-whimpered, and muttered his name.

  “Tell me about him.”

  Her eyes snapped open. There, in front of her, was a leg. She recognized, if not its owner, then his uniform. God only knew how long he’d been watching her sleep, or what he’d heard her mumble in the meantime. Her face flamed red as she silently begged the box on which she’d been sleeping to crack open and swallow her whole.

  She’d known Kisten, a man she’d met under very unfavorable circumstances, for less than a week and already she’d talked to him about love, all but thrown herself at him and then run off. Now he’d found her curled up under an old, smelly horse blanket in a converted barnyard. Her “bed” was a shipping container that had been converted into a pig sty.

  The night before, she’d been horrified at Kisten for kissing her and ten times more horrified at herself for kissing him back. She might have let things continue, who knew to what ghastly conclusion, if he hadn’t spoken. But his words had jarred her into reality and, realizing the enormity of her betrayal, she’d run. She’d betrayed Aiden, the man she loved, but most of all she’d betrayed herself. Kisten was the enemy.

  When at last she’d stopped, lungs burning and chest heaving as she leaned against the wall and fought for breath, she’d realized that she was lost.

  Eventually she’d found a map and, consulting it, discovered that she’d run clear across the ship and was now on the far side. With nothing better to do and loath to return to her cabin, she decided to reconnoiter. She hadn’t been stopped, as there was no one to stop her; the cargo holds of any ship weren’t exactly a happening place at the best of times.

  She’d expected to be frightened, all alone in a strange place, but the more she explored, the more fun she’d had. Ultimately, she enjoyed her newfound freedom too much to relinquish it—at least not until the morning. So she’d spent the night enve
loped in the comforting sounds and smells of animals, feeling safe.

  Kisten would never come here; he was too fastidious and besides, the True Faith abhorred pigs. Here, there were pigs galore—along with cows, chickens, and several animals she didn’t recognize. She’d moved through their snuffling, curious ranks until she reached their enclosure and then, with some difficulty, hoisted herself up onto the top of the cargo container. It was high enough off the ground to prevent her from being molested while she slept but not high enough to be frightening. The horse blanket she’d found hadn’t smelled too bad and so, curling up into a protective ball, she’d pulled it up over herself and fallen asleep almost immediately.

  “Aiden,” she said slowly, easing herself into an upright position and wincing at the stiffness in her muscles, “was a mistake.”

  She wrapped the horse blanket around her thin shoulders. Kisten waited for her to continue. She barked a short, mirthless laugh; what did it matter now, whose secrets she told? She’d never see Aiden again. “He was my fiancé. We were going to be married six months after I left.” A date, she realized with a start, that had come and gone. If she’d stayed, she’d be a newlywed by now. The thought left her strangely ambivalent. “My parents thought I was too young….” She shook her head. “But we were in love.”

  “Too young?” Kisten seemed surprised. Seeing her surprise, he explained. “On Brontes, twenty is considered a more than reasonable age to marry—for a woman, at least. For men, things are different. More difficult. Before thirty is rare.”

  “Why?” she asked, interested in spite of herself.

  He considered how to frame his response. “A man has certain responsibilities, to himself and the empire. I, for example, could hardly have gotten married while I was in the middle of fighting a war; even if there was someone I’d wished to marry, which there wasn’t. And then….” He gave a fatalistic shrug. “There are practical issues, such as the ability to support a family.”

  “Well if women worked—”

  “If women were allowed to make up for men’s deficiencies,” he agreed, “surely that would help. But what woman would desire such a man, or even settle for him? He’d be no fit husband.”

  “There is more to a man,” she said acidly, “than his wallet.”

  Kisten arched an eyebrow. “Many women, in my experience, would disagree.”

  God, she’d had enough of him! “Then you’ve been spending time with the wrong kind of woman. People like you for shallow reasons, because that’s all you give them.” She’d spoken without thinking and now, horrified, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Something about him brought out the worst in her. She fully expected him to be furious; he had a terrible temper. But, astonishingly, he just smiled. Really smiled, for the first time. And for one moment, at least, he looked less like an ice sculpture and more like a human being.

  “My mother,” he told her, “was seventeen when she agreed to marry my father, even though she could not legally do so for several more months. He was twenty-seven. They married the day she turned eighteen and he has worshipped the ground she walks on ever since. I know you think…but we cherish the same ideal of love that you do.”

  Kisten had a distressing habit of being interesting. She couldn’t help but talk to him, which drove Aria half mad with frustration. He was high-handed and dictatorial and she hated him, but every time she managed to remind herself of that fact he said something like this and the next thing she knew he’d drawn her back in. “But if your father…doesn’t your mother mind?” she asked. Her natural curiosity was, she thought gloomily, the bane of her existence.

  “I think,” he said, “that she rather thinks she has the better end of the bargain.”

  His response stymied her. “Even if he—”

  “Aria, although I’m a grown man and should be less squeamish, I have studiously avoided learning anything about my parents’…intimate lives. Although I presume that they have one as I, after all, am here. However, I can assure you that, whatever else my father may have done, or not done, no other woman has or will ever exist for him except my mother.” He smiled again, very slightly, and she revised her earlier opinion. He was almost handsome after all.

  “But what do women do on Brontes?” This question had been troubling her.

  “I have no idea,” he said honestly. “Most of the women I know don’t, admittedly, do much. But my mother has a doctorate in economics and”—he laughed—”a full-time job managing our investments. She’s worked with my father, on a number of different projects, for years. One of my sisters is raising her two daughters and composing ghastly lute music, and the other is still in school.”

  “And here you are,” she said.

  “And here I am.”

  “Alright, I have to know. What is it about pigs?”

  “Pigs are unclean,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  Beneath them, the pigs in question snorted happily. Some were rooting around in the straw provided for their temporary home, but most were taking their lordly ease. Aria loved pigs; she thought they were adorable. “Did you know,” she said, “that pigs dream as much as humans do? When they sleep, they prefer to sleep nose to nose. They also enjoy listening to music, watching films and playing sports. They’re highly intelligent animals.”

  Kisten arched his eyebrow.

  “It’s true. And they’re actually very clean. The reason they roll around in mud is because it functions as a natural sunscreen. Their vascular systems are almost identical to ours”—hers, at least, and she assumed his, too—”and their skin, being so fair, burns very easily.”

  And then, speak of the devil, a pink snout nudged over the edge of the roof. Pigs being exactly the clever creatures she’d described, one of them had figured out how to overturn two of its troughs and push them together to form a sort of makeshift staircase. Hooves clicking, it grinned happily. As it came fully into view, Aria saw that it wasn’t a pig but a piglet! She squealed in delight. Sensing a potential admirer, it beelined in her direction.

  Kisten’s face was a study. “It’s on me.”

  The piglet was, indeed, climbing right over Kisten to get to Aria.

  “You’ve fought in two wars and you’re telling me that you’re afraid of a wee little piggy.” She scratched under its chin, and it chuffed.

  “I,” he replied stiffly, “fear nothing.” But he looked nervous.

  “So if you dislike pigs so much,” she asked, still holding the piglet, “why are you bringing them to Tarsonis?”

  “Because,” he explained, “the lowlands near the capital are plagued with a kind of fast-growing invasive vine. This particular breed of creature has a voracious appetite and as fate would have it regards said vine as a great delicacy. It’s much safer than relying on pesticides.”

  Soon Kisten was telling her more about Tarsonis, and his proposed solutions to its various problems. She asked a question here and there, but mainly listened, and soon he began to relax—and she discovered that underneath the spoiled and demanding exterior hid a facile mind. Her piglet friend rolled onto its back and began to snore. Laughing at the unexpected interruption, she looked up and met Kisten’s eyes. Her words died on her lips.

  He reached over and picked a piece of straw out of her hair. “I should apologize,” he said.

  “No, I should. I didn’t mean to upset anyone….” She hung her head.

  “I was worried,” he said quietly.

  “You were?”

  “Of course! I’ve spent hours searching for you. I thought….”

  “Thought what?”

  “Aria, when are you going to realize that—”

  But he cut himself short, his sudden blaze of emotion smoothing into the calm, expressionless mask that Aria was coming to recognize. Kisten hid his emotions almost as well as she did.

  “I’m sorry I worried you,” she said, feeling unaccountably chastened. “I didn’t mean to.” In truth, that he might notice one way or the other had ne
ver occurred to her.

  “Then make it up to me.”

  “How?” she asked, nervous about both Kisten’s request and his abrupt return to good humor.

  “I have to attend a political function tonight—a dinner. Come with me.”

  Of all the requests she’d imagined, this had not been one of them. At first, she was too shocked to answer. Kisten Mara Sant was, she decided, without a doubt the most confusing man she’d ever met. She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to tell him what she thought of him. Which was…what, exactly? “I’m not…much good at these things,” she said lamely.

  “You’ll have fun.” He smiled crookedly. “And besides, this is one group of men who could use some lecturing.”

  “As if they cared what I thought,” she demurred, embarrassed.

  “I do.”

  Her eyes met his. She didn’t know what to think, anymore. But she was sick of feeling invisible and sick of being invisible and sick of being scared and sick of being so heartsick over a home—and a man—that she’d never see again. She didn’t know what Kisten wanted with her and didn’t want to guess, but dinner sounded innocuous enough. This, too, would be dinner with other people so there would be no danger of him doing anything…upsetting.

  She felt like she was trapped in a dream. Not so long ago, she’d been fighting for her life in the middle of a strange jungle and before that she’d been on one dilapidated freighter after another, most of them held together with nothing more than duct tape and string. And now here she was, sitting in a cargo hold with a snoring piglet and a violet-eyed man who wanted to take her to dinner.

  She wanted to ask him what his intentions toward her were, but she was afraid of what the answer might be and equally afraid of appearing too interested. Because she wasn’t; she hated him and the last thing she wanted was to encourage him—not that he seemed to need encouragement, the beast. But she’d considered the problem and concluded that his intentions couldn’t be anything other than bad. He acted almost like—like a suitor—but underneath this thin veneer of fantasy lurked the fact that he was holding her against her will. He wasn’t a suitor, he was a jailor. A distinction that, increasingly, she had to fight to remember. That was what he wanted—for her to give in.