The man shifted uneasily. “They scalped the whores, yes. The scalps are hanging outside their rooms."
Slamming his hands on the desk, Tyson let out a hiss of rage. “Those stupid, motherless pricks! Call a meeting in the clearing right now!"
While the messenger scurried out the door, Tyson thrust his hands through his hair and sucked in a deep breath, trying to reign in his rage. Grabbing the glass of wine, he downed it in one swallow.
"Trouble with your men, Tyson?"
Turning around, Tyson watched Canute as he glided almost silently through the door behind him. “Nothing I can't take care of."
"The Demon is no fool. She'll be tracking those murders, and she'll come scouting around.” Canute looked calmly at the outlaw. “You need to throw her off the scent."
"And how do you suggest I do that?"
Stopping at the map that lit up a large section of the far wall, Canute trailed his fingertips around the four settlements in the circle he'd drawn upon it earlier. “You need to stage similar murders in these other settlements, make it appear as though the murderer has moved on."
"The Demon won't find us, anyway, so what's the point?"
Canute fixed him with a hard stare. “Because I say so."
Rebellion flared in Tyson's eyes, but he nodded. “Very well. I'll inform the men."
"Also inform them that if they want to go into the settlements for a bit of fun, to tone it down and keep their noses clean.” Slipping his hands into his pockets, Canute regarded the other man calmly. “Nothing too violent, nothing that will make the peacekeepers sniff around more than normal. Understand?"
"I'll tell them.” Tyson strode from the room.
No sooner had he left than Zared entered through the same door that Canute had earlier. “They're ticking time bombs, Canute."
Nodding, Canute continued to calmly gaze at the door through which Tyson had left.
"Don't you think it was a mistake to recruit them?"
"Not at all.” Canute smiled gently. “Because when push comes to shove, those boys'll shove into next week."
Zared was silent.
"And trust me, my friend, when we have to shove Desdemona, we'll need men who can shove hard."
"She's just one woman."
"Well.” Canute smiled gently. “She has friends."
"But that's not all, is it?"
"No, Desdemona is only a part of it. When we get what we're after, we're going to need the nasty bastards to hang onto it.” Crossing to the door unhurriedly, Canute watched as the hard-eyed outlaws moved towards the clearing in front of his home. “And these are some of the nastiest bastards around."
Moving up behind him, Zared watched silently.
* * * *
It was early morning, and the rain was still coming down. Standing in front of Des's home, Simon studied it from beneath the dripping hood of his cloak.
It was made of stone with a verandah running all around the outside of it, and an attached craft garage. Unassuming, except for its size. It was bigger than it first appeared.
Walking up to the verandah, he made to climb the steps, only to find his way blocked by an invisible shield. How the hell had she managed to get a space shield around a house? Admiration filled him. This peacekeeper was no fool.
Noticing the intercom on the verandah post, protected by an overhang, he pressed it.
"Yeah?” Her disgruntled voice sounded.
"It's Simon."
"I see you. What do you want?"
Simon glanced around, but he couldn't see a camera, so he presumed that she somehow had viewers built into the intercom. “I have your jacket. You left it on my ship."
"Throw it onto the verandah. I'll get it after."
Aye, after I leave. I don't think so, wench. Simon smothered his grin. “I also have information."
"Information?"
"Look, Des, I don't want to stand out here in the rain and discuss this. In case you hadn't noticed, ‘tis starting to get heavier."
"Tell my peacekeepers the info, and I'll come out later."
"Nay."
There was a second of telling silence before she snapped, “No?"
"Nay. I tell you or no one."
"Listen—"
"Nay, you listen. I told you I would search for information, and I did. Now I either tell you inside out of the rain, or I'll go back to the ship."
"You listen, trader. If you don't do as I say, I have other ways of getting the info from you."
'Twas just as he'd thought and planned for. The wench was about to learn that he wasn't the fool she obviously thought him to be. “Do tell."
"With one flick of the switch I can have your ship impounded, and the computer systems stripped of all communications between you and anyone else in the last twenty four hours. I'll get the information that way, if you choose.” She sounded bored.
The little witch. “You could, but you'll learn nothing. You see, ‘tis a safeguard on my ship. One unauthorized finger on the computer and it wipes out all conversations from as far back as I want it to. Anyone unauthorized even approaching the ship, and my men will have it wiped in seconds."
There was a short silence, and then her voice came again, a flicker of anger in it. “Whatever. I happen to have this message recorded, so I have proof that you have information pertinent to current investigations and will have you arrested for withholding it."
'Tis not nice, lass."
"I'm not nice."
Simon grinned, not bothering to hide it this time. “Nice try, but I'm ahead of you again. You see, if you play this message back, you'll find that my replies are not on here. ‘Tis no proof except that you spoke to yourself."
"Don't yank my chain, Daamen."
"Try it and see,” he invited.
Leaning comfortably against the verandah post, he whistled quietly to himself while the silence lengthened. The little gadget given to him by a friendly female pirate came in handy for blocking his voice from intercom recordings. He heard a swear word come over the intercom, then a snarl.
Finally Des's voice snapped, “Come in, and be sure to leave your filthy boots and wet cloak on the verandah!"
Passing through the invisible shield, Simon knew she'd entered his body pattern into the security system. No one else would be able to get through after him. What a titillating thought. He grinned.
Toeing off his boots, he left them on the verandah, and hung his wet cloak up on a hook that stood out not far from the door. Carrying Des's jacket, which he'd kept sheltered under the cloak, he crossed to the door and it slid open to allow him to enter.
Once inside, Simon couldn't help but appreciate it. The outside didn't do the interior any justice. The floor tiles were clean and cool beneath his bare feet, and the walls were softly colored with a tinge of lilac. Moving through the corridor, he noted that there were no image photos on the walls, just a few paintings here and there.
Music drifted through the house, and a cool breeze wafted around him accompanied by the faint smell of flowers. Turning a sharp corner in the corridor, he suddenly found himself standing in a large, open room. Sliding glass walls were open onto an enclosed, lush garden, the rain making it seem an even darker green. A little fountain tinkled in the corner of the room, and potted plants trailed exotic and colorful flowering plants in the corners. A large, comfortable sofa was placed to face the gardens, a small table beside it holding a book and a coaster. Two armchairs faced each other on the other side of the sofa.
"I'm over here,” Des growled.
Turning around slowly, Simon was taken with the kitchen as well. In an angle of the room, the only thing separating it from the living area was a small bench. It was spacious yet compact, with nothing out of place. The table was an eight-seater. Everything had a soft-tinted color of lilac, so faint it was almost white, but not quite. The tiles were white, the bench tops holding the same color tint as the walls. In the wall above the bench was a viscomm.
Even more fetching
was Des, who was leaning with her hips perched back on the table. Simon couldn't stop his gaze from sliding over her, his mouth from watering, and his libido from jumping into almost full throttle. Used to seeing her in a peacekeeper's uniform with her tightly braided hair, or bun, he had to take a second look at the wench before him now.
Des wore a short, sleeveless tunic, the hem coming down to mid-thigh, showing off extremely shapely, long legs. Her bare feet were narrow, her toes neat. His eyes inched up higher. The tunic was held at the waist with a loose, thin tie. Full breasts pressed against the front of the tunic, and her arms were smooth, shapely. The wealth of thick, red hair tumbling around her face and shoulders to partway down her back framed a face that was pert yet beautiful ... and wearing that customary scowl.
"Seen enough?” She growled. “Or would you like me to strip for you, so you can have a better look?"
Regaining control of himself, Simon smiled. “I wouldn't turn an offer like that down, lass."
"Humph. I just bet you wouldn't. Now what do you have for me?"
That was a loaded question, and Simon debated how to answer it. His teasing sense of humor made him want to reply with quick wit, but knowing he'd probably pushed her to what might be her limit—he had no idea with her—he decided to be more prudent. Which wasn't nearly as much fun.
"Your jacket.” He crossed towards the table as he spoke, and held it out.
"What else?” Straightening, she grabbed it from him and laid it over the back of one of the chairs.
"Your gracious thanks is accepted."
"Don't jerk me around, trader. I let you in here so you'd tell me what you know.” Moving across to the urn, she poured a mug of hot una, hesitated, and asked, “Want a drink?"
It was so unexpected that Simon couldn't hide his surprise. Des looked a little disconcerted as well, her scowl disappearing, so before she could take back the offer, Simon quickly accepted.
While she poured it, unconsciously biting her bottom lip, Simon decided to give her time to recover and turned back around to view the living area. “Nice place you have here, lass."
"My name is Des. Don't call me lass."
"Des. I can't say I've seen another place like this. Did you design it?"
"With help from my father.” Coming up to stand beside him, she handed him the mug.
Accepting it, he blew on the hot, aromatic beverage while looking out into the garden. “Beautiful."
"It's a peaceful place. Gets me away from everything."
Simon glanced down at her, catching a softening of her features just as he heard a low hiss. Looking towards the sound, he saw a big, hybrid lycat padding through a door on the other side of the room. He'd never seen one so big, it was the size of a large hound. Yellow eyes stared at him, and tabby ears flicked back and forth.
"That's Fuzz,” Des said.
"Does it bite?"
"Only if I let her."
Unsure whether Des was joking or not, Simon watched warily as the big lycat padded up to him just as warily and started sniffing. Suddenly Fuzz flicked her tail, blinked and strolled off.
"You passed the test,” Des said dryly.
"I did?"
"If she hadn't liked you, you'd be wearing a few scratches by now."
"Then thank the suns I passed.” Simon relaxed, smiling in amusement. “I actually like lycats. Will she let me pat her?"
"She'll come when she's ready. Now Chels,” she nodded towards a huge ginger and white lycat padding out the same door, “Will want a pat if he approves of you."
"Aye, but will he approve?” Simon held out the back of his hand, watching with interest as the big lycat sniffed his hand. He laughed when Chels butted his hand with his head, then rubbed the side of his face against his hand. “I guess I pass test number two."
"Yeah, I guess so."
Des's tone of voice made him look down at her inquiringly, to find her staring thoughtfully at Chels as he jumped up onto one of the armchairs and snuggled into Fuzz, who immediately started licking his ears. Chel's purring was loud.
"All right, lass—I mean, Des?” Simon lowered his mug.
"What? Oh, yes.” The customary frown wrinkled her forehead, and her manner returned to its customary brusqueness. “Sit down at the table and tell me what you've found out. I take it this is about the mystery spaceship?"
"Aye.” Simon sat in the chair she'd pulled out before seating herself on the opposite side of the table.
Placing her mug on the table, she leaned back in her chair and rested one hand on the table. “What is it?"
Settling himself comfortably in the sturdy chair, which was bigger than most chairs around except for those on Daamen and Saalm, Simon took a leisurely sip of his una before setting the cup down. Stretching his long legs out under the table, he crossed his ankles and linked his hands loosely on the table.
Gazing at her intently, he said, “My sources tell me that this mystery spaceship is not from around here."
"No shit? Tell me something I don't know."
"But ‘tis not been seen in the inner sanctum of the Outlaw Sector, either."
"So it's from the Lawful Sector?” The frown eased from her brow, leaving it smooth, but her fingers started drumming quietly on the table top.
"Nay, not that anyone can figure out. ‘Tis not been seen anywhere, and ‘twould seem to be something completely new to all.” Simon watched the slender fingers drum a little faster before shifting his attention back to her face.
Those soft lips were pursed again as she thoughtfully pondered the mystery, her eyes holding a faraway expression. Deep inside him Simon felt a little tug, even as his yearning rose to taste those provocative lips. He could remember the taste of the luscious flesh as clearly as if he'd just kissed her moments ago.
"Who did you get the information from?"
Managing to keep his thoughts from his face, Simon politely replied, “Can't reveal my sources, lass."
She didn't blink an eye. “What else can they find out?"
"I'll ask."
"You do that.” Catching sight of his raised brow, she added, “Please."
"Why, lass, you do know how to ask nicely.” He grinned widely.
"And I don't do it often, so don't get used to it.” Picking up her cup, she took a deep swallow.
Lifting his own cup to his lips, Simon studied her over the rim.
"What?"
"Just a little curious about you, lass."
"Des."
"Des.” He probed a little deeper. “Not Desdemona."
Her eyes narrowed. “I take it you're referring to my whore of a mother?"
"Well—"
"If you have something on your mind, trader, then ask me straight out. I have no time for hints and tiptoeing around. Nor gossiping."
"Since you put it like that, very well.” He took a sip of una. “How come your mother is a tavern wench, and you're a peacekeeper?"
"None of your damned business."
He shouldn't have been surprised and couldn't stop the small chuckle that slipped out.
"You know, trader—"
"Call me Simon."
"I'll call you anything I damned well please."
"I'll trade you Simon and Des for trader and lass.” He looked at her challengingly.
She didn't acknowledge it, but said instead, “You had your question, now it's my turn."
"Go ahead.” He was intrigued.
"Why do you come sniffing around here being all nice when I treat you like crap? People help me only out of fear, because I push them, but you don't fear me."
The wench was so blunt it was akin to being hit over the head with a sledgehammer. Keeping his gaze on her, Simon emptied the mug of una in several long swallows and set the mug firmly back on the table.
The only sounds in the house were the soft music playing in the background, the purrs of the two hybrid lycats, and the patter of rain out in the garden.
Making up his mind then and there, Simon took a de
ep breath. “Fine, Des. You're being brutally blunt, as usual, so I'm going to stick my neck out and be just as blunt."
"Oh, this should be good.” Swiveling so that she was partly sideways on the chair, Des rested her forearm on the table, leaned back, and crossed one shapely, long leg over the other.
"Sure you can take it?” An unknown emotion was taking slow but steady control of Simon, a recklessness, a needing, a wanting. Everything combined. Even a truthfulness to himself and to this wench who was sitting across from him, her gaze openly challenging, and a little scornful.
"I can take whatever you want to throw at me ... Simon."
"I wonder.” Pushing aside the cup, Simon leaned forward, his forearms on the table, his gaze steady on her face.
"This is your chance. Take it or lose it, it's of no consequence to me."
"But it could be.” Pushing the chair back, Simon stood up and slowly made his way around the table.
Des didn't move, her gaze trained on him, but he saw the tenseness in her, the readiness to leap up and fight. Continuing to move slowly, he perched one buttock on the corner of the table and gazed down at her.
Maintaining her poise, she looked up coolly, and somehow she managed to make it seem as though she had the upper hand regardless. It caused another tug of tenderness deep inside him.
For a second Simon wondered whether he should go through with it. He could hardly believe he was actually contemplating it—until she opened those soft lips a little.
"Last chance,” she said quietly.
And it would be his last chance. Something told Simon that if he didn't face her now, he'd lose all chance. There was nowhere else he could see her privately, and no time would be a good time that he could see. He was leaving in a week, and if he didn't pursue her now, it would be over before it could properly start.
Somehow, any control he'd thought he had over the situation was slipping through his fingers. Fast. How it had happened, he didn't know. Last chance.
His gaze slid over her face, seeing the strength of her features, the steadiness of her eyes, the outer beauty as well as hidden depths. Something clutched at him, deep inside, and he was half afraid he knew what it was, even as he found himself striving to identify the unknown ... and unsuspected.
Heart of a Peacekeeper Page 11