Devoted Deceptions, A 4th Millennium Adventure, Book 3

by Cherie Singer

  He'd give his first officer five minutes--long enough for him to regain control. Then when she found herself in over her head and at the mercy of a mob of Bellon warriors, he'd step in and put things right, save Catherine from them and herself. As a result, she'd step down of her own accord, and he could put someone--probably Lyon--in as his first officer. The Bellon flight crews needed a Bellon leader. Riordan, besides being another Earther, didn't have the necessary experience with a flight crew.

  Lyon snapped Catherine a salute then faced the rows of new crew members. "This is Commander Culver, first officer of the Falchion. The commander will oversee the last stages of your training in the new Class IX two-man fighters."

  "Why her instead of you?" an unidentified female voice demanded, her reluctance to accept an Earther overtly clear.

  Lyon started to swing around, a look of outraged anger on his face. Catherine moved her left hand the slightest bit. The tight little motion stopped Lyon where he stood.

  Impressed, Wulfe straightened away from the strut, waited to see what would happen next. The little byplay between Catherine and Lyon chafed his leathers for no apparent reason. Clearly, the flight crews had noticed the silent communication, too.

  Catherine zeroed in on the pilot who had dared to ask the question and walked all the way around the Bellon. She looked the mouthy female up and down. For an insane second, Wulfe was heartily pleased not to be on the receiving end of his first officer's scrutiny.

  Catherine completed the inspection. Her left eyebrow slanted upward, she faced the pilot. "Because I'm the best Class IX pilot you're likely to find. Because I finalized the design on the Class IXs. Because I'm the first officer of this ship." Catherine leaned in close and her voice took on an ominous edge. "Because I said so."

  Wulfe observed, fascinated and surprised. She'd used impeccable Bellon reasoning to make her point without a hint of hesitancy. She was the superior officer, period, second only to the captain of the ship and unwilling to take any guff from a lowly pilot. As Bellons, they would understand or not make the cut.

  Catherine helped design the fighters? Why hadn't he known that? He probably had, once.

  Catherine hadn't broken eye contact with the pilot yet, and showed no signs of backing down. "Any more questions?"

  The pilot looked away first. "Ma'am, no Ma'am."

  "Good. You might live through the final training period after all, Pilot, which would greatly please the Corps." Catherine exchanged comments with many of the new crewmen. She listened with interest and responded with honesty to all of them, then finished up. "You all have one hour to find your quarters, unpack and report back here. Dismissed."

  So much for saving Catherine from herself. Wulfe stroked his beard as he reevaluated the situation. Catherine understood Bellons even more clearly than he'd thought. How she'd come by that knowledge he didn't know, but he would need to watch himself closely around her. Wulfe grinned. The stakes had just gone up. She'd passed the first test and would stay as his exec, if she managed to pass the next trial. He'd need to make the problem tougher.

  Aye, he loved a challenge, and he hadn't felt this...challenged... since--he rubbed a spot on his aching head--he couldn't remember ever being this intrigued. He left the bay and returned to his office.

  Aye, Catherine intrigued him. His fingers drummed the surface of his desk. Only because she seemed to be a very unusual Earther.

  Bah. Unusual or not, Wulfe convinced himself in no uncertain terms that any relationship with Catherine--beyond professional Space Corps business--was totally out of the realm of possibility. He almost managed to believe that a professional relationship didn't interest him either. After all, he preferred people he knew and could relate to, people who contained no surprises, and Catherine had more than a few of those.

  Even in his strangest imaginings, he couldn't see himself with an Earther. Although...Catherine possessed more fire and passion in her sensual little--fragile little--body than some Bellon warriors he could name. Damn. He didn't have the answers.

  Catherine seemed unaware of her own courage--she'd needed a full supply to face down the Bellon flight crews, whether she knew it or not--but managed to nurture confidence in others with well-chosen words of honest encouragement and approval. On top of that, he'd witnessed Lyon's devotion to her. How deep did that loyalty run? Interesting that a Bellon would demonstrate such. Did Catherine return that esteem? Appearances said a resounding yes.

  An empty feeling in the pit of his stomach took him by surprise. Idly, he wondered how an Earther male would go about claiming a female such as Catherine. "Computer, access Earther customs regarding claiming a mate."

  Suitor bestows object of desire with gifts such as flowers, favorite foods, jewelry or finery.

  Bribery! A shameful, dishonorable practice.

  Suitor bestows parental or guardian units with a mate-price.

  Might as well buy a slave.

  Parental or guardian units give the suitor's parental or guardian units agreed upon amount of credits or goods.

  The parents paid someone to take their own daughter? Barbaric. "Stop. Suggested activities before claiming a mate."

  A walk upon the beach. A stroll through a forest.

  "Stop." Did no man challenge his chosen? Test her courage, her ability to protect his children in his absence? Did they not demand a vow of allegiance from the female? Did they not simply take that which they desired? No wonder the weak Earthers seldom mated for life--they grew bored and disillusioned. "Continue."

  Meals are eaten together. Discussions about the arts, philosophies, current events, religion.

  "Stop." Talk, talk and more talk. Exchange of credits and goods. Bah! Imagine trying to buy loyalty! Bless the Creator, Bellons needn't endure such pitiable attempts. The thought that Lyon carried half Earther blood along with the Bellon half suddenly infuriated him.

  With a growl of disgust and frustration, Wulfe kicked his chair out of the way and stalked from his office, aiming to ease the tension building in him. Physical release, as all Bellons needed, the drive engineered into them. Powerful, sometimes violent release. In this case, the gym would have to suffice.

  A deserted gym, a blessing from the Creator.

  He needed a woman. The gods knew he didn't want a woman--too much of a distraction--but he needed one. The Falchion had been and always would be the only lady he needed. Except, the Falchion had somehow misplaced some of her legendary charm.

  Wulfe drove his fists into the punching bag. Bam-bam! He resented the physical demands surging over him.

  Thud--THUD--thud. Though not unfamiliar to a warrior, this desire boiled through his body, hotter than anything in his memory. Wulfe laughed mirthlessly. What memory?

  Thwack-thwack. The sound of each blow seemed to echo a name. Frustration rumbled deep inside.

  Whack--Cat--whack.

  "Nasty left hook you have there."

  Wulfe wiped the sweat away from his eyes with a forearm before he turned to face the owner of the sweet, throaty voice. Her body, clad in exercise gear leaving too little to his hot imagination, made him suck in a deep breath. Catherine watched him with observant amber eyes. She continued a series of arm curls with the free weight in her hand. Wulfe took a closer look, surprised by the actual weight of the bell she used.

  "That left hook will be a killer once you've recovered completely. The right cross isn't bad, either, considering."

  "Doctor Albright seems to think I have recovered."

  "She hasn't sparred with you."

  "I couldn't see when we began our exercise last night, Commander. Now I can." Wulfe gestured to the punching bag. "What am I doing that makes you think I'm not recovered?"

  "Your timing's off. The rhythm of your body isn't...as warrior-smooth as it should be."

  "Oh, and you know the rhythm of my body that well, Catherine?" The thought heated him like a rampaging fever. His mouth went dry when he wondered if she'd be the remedy.

  She met his e
yes unflinchingly, a silent provocation, still doing her reps. "Yes."

  Amused and curious now, Wulfe challenged her in return. "What else can you tell me about my body?"

  Catherine flipped the weight into her other hand. Wulfe waited to hear the quick snap of fragile wrist bones, but she began a new series of curls without so much as a wince.

  "You're frustrated because you need a woman."

  Momentarily stunned, he glanced downward and then grinned. Most Earthers would have ignored the blatant physical signs out of a false sense of propriety. "Not a difficult observation to make, considering the evidence my body's presenting at the moment. Can't you tell me anything less obvious?"

  Meeting his gaze again, her left eyebrow arched higher. "Sure you want to hear my opinion?"

  "I think I can handle whatever you have to say."

  "Not only are you frustrated because you need a woman, you're bloody well angry because you want me."

  Wulfe forced a laugh out a throat suddenly gone dry. What in the Creator's sweet universe would make her believe that? "You? I have at least a dozen or more females with Bellon blood aboard. Any one of them would willingly enter my bed, and soon may. Why would I want a frail little deli' like you?"

  The amber of her eyes changed, as if altered by pain or some other distress. Anger perhaps? Outrage? More likely shock. "You want me because I'm the one you know you can't have."

  He leaned in closer, using his height and bulk to intimidate. "Earther females break in the arms of a Bellon."

  Catherine replaced the weight in the rack, doing so by touch, her gaze still not leaving his. She stepped closer to him, tilted her head back far enough to see his face. "Then you've tried the wrong Earther women, Captain. But, like I said, you can't have me."

  A growl of anger rose from his chest. "I could have you anytime I decided." To prove his point, Wulfe grabbed Catherine, lifted her to him. The aching, heavy length of his arousal strained to reach her body. He took a deep breath, inhaled the erotic, spicy scent radiating from her. The exotic fragrance did the impossible, made him harder, made him burn hotter for her. He held the female in his grasp, but narg it, she controlled him!

  "You would die in the trying, barbarian." Catherine whispered the words in her husky voice. Her warm breath caressed his lips, and his mouth opened, seeking contact.

  The gods help him, something in her voice nearly convinced him he could die, or want to, once he'd tasted her sweetness. Wulfe allowed her to slip down his length. The movement created an agony in his body and an unfathomable, unexplained joy in his heart. "I would not want to die by your hand, my Lady."

  Catherine's eyes went wide before she briefly--all too briefly--favored him with a breath-stealing smile. The merest hint of green flashed in her eyes. She pushed away from him. Her hand lingered over his heart for a mere second, a lifetime. "Then mind your manners, Captain."

  Wulfe watched her leave the gym, fought the ridiculous urge to go after her.

  That's when the realization rocked through him. The mere fact that he'd wanted Catherine to need his protection back on the flight deck should have been the warning signal to drive the point home. She was the worst type of danger, simply because she'd been right. He desired her, and that hunger for her might cause him to overprotect her at the cost of someone else's life.

  Catherine also presented the worst kind of danger to him personally. Wulfe reached beneath the neck of his shirt, fingered the bonding chain that proclaimed him to be legally and morally wed. The best he could offer Catherine would be consort status. Hardly something an Earther female would understand, even if some Bellon females would see the position as an honor. Sweet Creator, what was he thinking?

  He lowered himself to the deck, held his aching head in one hand. He didn't understand, either. Wulfe swallowed dryly. His mate--whoever and wherever she might be----lived, for he grew no mourning braid. His hair fell to below his shoulder blades all in one length. No matter how he tried, he couldn't put a name or even a face to this phantom mate. Worse yet, the only scent that lingered with him belonged to Catherine.

  Wulfe groaned against the pain stabbing through his skull.

  Chapter 8

  CAT BARELY made her way back to her quarters before reaction set in. Her legs shook until she didn't think they'd support her. Guilt and anger raged a war within her, both emotions tarnished with disappointment.

  Guilt because she'd pushed Wulfe so hard to regain his memory, tried to force him to remember the same way she'd goaded him into seeing again. For an instant, when he'd called her `my Lady' Cat thought she'd succeeded. He obviously desired her, and that could be a start, if she played it right. Wulfe liked few things better than a challenge.

  And anger. Anger because she still couldn't connect with him, or even feel his surface emotions. Anger because each passing hour convinced her Wulfe really did remember but had decided to sever his bond with her. She admitted to being insecure enough to wonder if some part of him couldn't accept their union, wouldn't tolerate all the pain and suffering that had gone before. The lost babe. Her defiance of his wishes.

  She'd be damned if she'd allow him to see the pain that possibility created in her. Bellon honor simply wouldn't allow it. Maybe she should cut her losses, privately admit defeat.

  Not bloody likely. If she had to choose between quitting and pushing him to remember...Cat nodded to herself. Aye; no one but no one, could drive Wulfe Kincade over the edge as thoroughly and as efficiently as she could. Still, her heart ached relentlessly.

  Her journal lay face down on her desk. Cat reached for the book. She closed her hand into a fist before she could touch the antique diary. No. The pages contained too many memories, good and bad, for her to bear right now.

  The journal continued to draw her, tempted her with the promise of reassurance. Maybe if she read an entry from her grandmother, the Peacemaker of Bellona, she'd find inspiration for the strength she needed. Weakness or not, Cat reached for the book, turned it over and found the wulfenite gone from its gold mounting. That little scamp Morgan must have taken the crystal, intending to carry it with her when she left the Falchion. Ah, well, let the girl take the memory stone if it gave her a sense of connection, made her feel better about leaving. Cat put the journal down without opening the pages.

  Gods, if only she had the luxury of giving in to her urges. Scream and kick! Lash out at everyone around her! Make wild, hot love to her husband! Cat took a deep breath. She had to maintain control of herself and the situation. The best way to do that--keep busy!

  Mind made up, she changed into her uniform and headed to the fighter bay. Duty would help keep her sane while she edged her husband in the other direction. If the missing mental link didn't push the Erosian part of her mind to the terrible extreme. Some moments, she felt as if she already stood at the abyss and watched the grains of sand fall faster and faster from her hand.

  WULFE STRODE past the lines of fighters, each craft sleek, formidable. Lyon walked to his right, silent and observant. The Avenger. The Sabre. The BlackMagic. He stopped and took a second look at the one in front of him. The Peacemaker? What kind of name was that for a fighter? The same name given to that Bellon female who'd negotiated peace between Bellona and Earth a few generations ago. "Who pilots this fighter?"

  Lyon, fists clasped behind his back, cleared his throat. "Commander Culver, Sir."

  "Figures." Wulfe moved closer, drawn to the fighter whether he wanted to be or not. "I want to see the inside."

  "Sir?"

  "Problem?"

  Lyon hesitated only a split second before triggering the remote. A narrow gangway lowered from the fighter. Wulfe climbed the incline. Lyon followed, silent.

  Wulfe held no doubt Catherine flew the Peacemaker. The pilot's seat and the front half of the cockpit had been customized to her tiny body. He wouldn't be able to squeeze into her seat without his knees breaking his jaw and cutting off all circulation, or his legs threatening to crush his...Wulfe pushed that har
rowing thought away.

  The copilot's seat, though not nearly big enough to be comfortable for him, would hold his body with less threat to his pride and joy. He studied the arrangement of one seat behind the other and the instrument arrays. The Peacemaker appeared the same as the others from the outside, sleek enough to fly in the thickest of atmospheres, but Catherine had decreased the overall interior dimensions of her fighter.

  "Captain." Catherine's throaty voice floated into the cockpit.

  Wulfe's body tightened, instinctively braced for the reaction her scent always triggered. Despite his determined efforts, her effect on him seemed to be increasing with startling rapidity. He'd have to take her as his consort yet, simply to save his sanity!

  "I've been meaning to get inside one of these." Wulfe twisted around to see her standing behind Lyon's crouching form.

  "Well, you're inside now. How does she feel? Tight fit?" Her left eyebrow slanted upward at enough of an angle to irritate him, but not enough to smack of complete insubordination. "Would the captain care for a ride--uh, a demonstration?"

  Lyon coughed. "Captain, your fighter is still being checked out by the techs, but my Wildchild is ready to roll. I'd be honored to take you for a flight."

  Catherine's eyebrow lifted a fraction higher. "As the captain prefers, of course."

  Her nonchalant shrug nearly put Wulfe into orbit without benefit of a craft. Dismiss him, would she? "Since I'm already here, Lyon, the commander can show me what she has to offer."

  "Uh, Sir..."

  "This won't be a problem, Lieutenant." Catherine moved past both men and slid into her seat. "Buckle in, Sir. We shouldn't need flight suits for a short run." She slipped restraining straps over her shoulders. Another set automatically sealed across her slim thighs. "Coming, Captain?" She touched the comm control. "Culver to flight control. Peacemaker to launch, tee minus forty-five seconds."

  `Initiating preflight sequence.'