by Jean Winter
“Mate, Lyra is different.” He was going to have to tell him. “She is—”
“Bah! Khari'na, free woman, lady. When it comes down to it, women are all the same. All you need are the right words with the right touch and the balls to carry through.”
“Sal, no. It is no' about that—”
“You are probably just no' being bold enough,” Sal continued, undeterred. “She is a strong, intelligent woman who needs an experienced, confident man to help her discover the pleasures o' being … submissive and malleable.”
“Sal, you are no' listening to me.”
“Come to think o' it,” Sal cocked his head, grinning, “would you like to leave her here a day or two? I am sure I could loosen her up.”
Kade rose. “Sal, you do no' understand, you moron. She is a Believer! A bloody, authentic BELIEVER!” Then he sat again, dismal and morose. “Captured and implanted by the army. She does no' belong here.”
Probably for the first time in his life, Sal was at a loss for words, and in the subsequent shocked silence, Kade began to moodily fiddle with his coin.
Sal could be trusted. Kade knew this. The thing was, Sal could now also be held responsible for any future repercussions. He was putting him in danger. But even worse …
… Kade knew he was never going to hear the end of this.
Finally regaining the power of speech, Sal said, “I thought the Believers were hunted to extinction by now.” He swore lightly and shook his head. “Are you sure, brother? My Lovely?”
“My Lovely, and aye. She was part o' a small group that got ambushed a few weeks ago. Her husband was killed right in front o' her. Evidently, that Keeper from the caravan bribed her off the presiding officer's hands and then, at the last minute, the caravan manager took advantage o' the convenient opportunity to throw her on stage to be sold. The poor thing has been to the dark side and back and all she wants is to be reunited with her children and the rest o' her people hiding somewhere in the mountains.”
Suddenly, Kade's frustration with Lyra had reached that peak, marched over it, and was—again—on the decline. When he remembered to think of her that way …
He rubbed irksomely at his temples. “Some o' that I learned the first night when she panicked after we got home, and the rest I have come to discover in the succeeding days.”
A long, low whistle blew from Sal's lips. “I do no' envy your predicament, brother. I take it you have decided no' to turn her in?”
“Mate, I know I should, but I do no' think I can. She is, well, you have met her. Every day I canno' believe how well she is fitting into my life. She knows exactly how to take care o' the house and the cooking. She is a wonder with Jos'lie.” He stared at his coin, resting in his palm. “When I am out working, I canno' wait for the next meal so I can be near her again—hear her voice, see her smile.” Then his face clouded. “But on the other hand, she refuses to acknowledge me as anything but her slave owner, and she is so brainwashed in her puritanical philosophies that she practically jumps out o' her skin whenever I try anything beyond a hand hold. She is stubbornly adamant about that point.”
“So she is refusing you?”
“No' exactly. She understands her delicate position. I could have her any time without resistance, per se, but she has let me know in no uncertain terms that she would liken it to rape.”
Sal winced. “She said this, even knowing the risk she is taking with her life in doing so?”
“Aye.”
The man erupted into sudden laughter. “Mate, she has more balls than you do!” Kade's scowl helped Sal compose himself once again. “But seriously,” he said, “why does it mean so much to you that she approves? She is a traitor to the Republic after all, and did you no' buy a khar for the express purpose o' no' having to deal with all the usual wifely annoyances like opinions and other emotional 'needs'?”
Kade grunted in reply. What was the problem? Really? How to put it into words—
“I like her too much,” he finally growled. “And if I forced myself on her, it would be like … like tainting something sacred. But if I can just desensitize her to the idea, I think I could eventually change her mind about what is acceptable.” He didn't let himself dwell on her recent proclamation about resisting him forever. That was said in the heat of passion.
“Sounds frightfully dull and tiresome,” said Sal with a frown. “You know, I prefer the jumping-in-with-both-feet method. She might think it a little shocking at first, but once she becomes accustomed to the temperature, I am sure she will learn to appreciate the water. Maryn was rather nervous, herself, at the beginning, I will admit, but under my expert handling, she came around right nicely.”
“I know, I know. Do you no' think I have considered doing that a thousand times a day in the last week? I have even come close at times, but then I read her fear, and I canno' go through with it.”
“Well, there is your problem,” Sal chuckled. “You are thinking too hard. Look, you plan to be generous, right?”
“O' course.”
“Then we can confidently suppose that she will enjoy the experience, even if she does no' want to admit it. Correct?”
“Aye. I guess.”
“So, eventually she gets used to it, she starts looking forward to your advances, and the two o' you go skipping off happily into the sunset together, frolicking with the lambs and making the most o' a large blanket spread under a tree on a warm summer day. The end.”
A small grin began to play about Kade's lips. “Oh, it is just as easy as that, is it?”
“Easier. You just need to take the plunge. Do it, brother. Come to think o' it, would you like to use the guest room with the view o' the south lake? I promise you would no' be bothered till morning.”
“Thank you, but no. No' right now. We had a rather poignant 'discussion' on the way here and her blood is still boiling. She could use a little time.”
Sal shrugged. “If you feel that is a necessary requirement.”
“Well,” Kade said, sitting up and slapping his hands on the arms of his chair, “I would say that this counseling session is about concluded.” Sal smiled at him.
“For today,” the man said, “Shall I schedule a follow-up for tomorrow?”
With a dry grin Kade only stood and led the way out back to the ballroom.
“So how have you been handling the nights?” Sal asked curiously.
“Well, most recently I have been working extra hard in the day, then staying up late in my office until I am so sleepy I canno' even think straight.”
This made Sal snigger. “And just how many cords o' wood have you cut in the last week?”
“A few.”
At the threshold to the ballroom, Sal exclaimed, “Gods, Kade, a Perc. And she was married?”
“Aye.”
“Hmmm. But Believer's only have sex when they want to make a baby, right?”
“Aye,” Kade replied. The room was empty. The girls must still be in the baking chamber. “They think it is a dirty transgression, otherwise.”
“And do you know for certain if she has known any other man?”
The two men continued through the ballroom to the servant's side door, their footsteps echoing on the hard tile floor. “Pretty certain she has no'. I have received an earful from her about 'saving' herself for marriage.”
At the end of the hall, they came to the swinging half door that led to the baking chamber. Maryn's pasties smelled delicious and there were the women at the far end, conversing quietly together at one corner of a long preparation table. Simultaneously, the two men paused: Kade to collect himself before facing Lyra and Sal, to gaze wonderingly at her, a crooked, goofy grin marking his features.
“What?” Kade whispered, and his best friend sighed longingly.
“Do you realize, brother, that you are one o' the luckiest men in Caldreen?”
“Oh really? And how do you figure that?”
“Well, the way I see it, that woman o' yours is practically a
virgin.”
CHAPTER 11
Maryn's pasties came out delectably browned and crisp and Lyra helped her brush a sweet, buttery glaze over them. Then as they cooled, the women began to talk—about baking in general, favorite recipes … Maryn presently picked up a large notebook, turned to a certain page, and began doodling in it while she spoke softly to Lyra.
Maryn blushed when Lyra complimented her on her dancing. It was funny how bold and confident Mejhisk's khar acted on the dance floor compared to the sweet and tentative personality that came out in private conversation. After a minute watching her doodle, Lyra said, “May I see your work?”
Another blush and Maryn quietly turned the notebook around for Lyra to see that it was sketch. Of her! Maryn had started at Lyra's eyes and was working her way out from there.
“I hope you do no' mind.”
“No, not at all!” Lyra answered. “Maryn, that is really good. May I see more?”
Her pleasure at the enthusiastic response was plain. “O' course. I-I call this my face book.”
The face book was filled with portraits and busts of people. Lyra's mouth dropped at the images Maryn had been able to create with nothing but shades of black and gray. Somehow, she had managed more than just physical features; she captured their essence, too. Many pages showed Mejhisk's likeness, each one telling a distinctly different story about his character—laughing, grinning, roguish, even his jovial drunken side. As she turned pages, there were many other people she didn't know, but just from Maryn's sketches, Lyra could tell how Maryn saw them.
She breathed in awe when she came to one dedicated to J'Kor. His was a collage, each portrait smaller for several different renditions to fit on one page. Dashing. Serious. Thoughtful. Eyes twinkling. She had caught it all.
“I liked your song, by the way,” Maryn tentatively offered, “at the party the other night. You have a great voice. I got tingles all over.”
“Thank you. It was actually rather terrifying being put on the spot like that in front of all those strangers. I don't think it came off quite normal with Frett's band, either,” she said, trying to laugh.
“Oh, no! It was wonderful. Did you no' hear everyone's appreciation at the end?”
Lyra's returning grin was dry. “I figured the enthusiasm stemmed more from the alcohol than any real artistic approval.”
“Well, maybe that helped,” Maryn giggled, “but honestly, we have been getting wires and thank you messages since then. People really liked you.”
Oh no.
“And it made me wonder,” Maryn's voice turned more timid, “is that how you really feel?”
“How I really feel about what? Tarts?”
“No,” Maryn laughed. “How you feel about how you should be treated. Demanding respect, even if you are just a woman.”
Ugh! They had just entered dangerous territory. Lyra wanted to stand on the bench and proclaim with outstretched arms, “Yes! You are so much more than what these people would have you believe. You deserve to be respected. Fight for your right to speak!” But she couldn't. She was in no position to start heading a rebellion. Far, far too dangerous.
“Maryn, it really was only about food.” It was the truth, but that didn't mean Lyra didn't feel like a coward for saying so.
“But it sounded like—”
“How have the pasties turned out, my pet?”
The men suddenly appeared, making Maryn choose to clam up. She was given an affectionate squeeze from her lord. Then Mejhisk's eyes wandered to Lyra—where they rested with an unusual interest sparking in them that really started to make her feel uncomfortable.
“Lovely,” he acknowledged quietly with a nod.
Holy Creator, he was totally undressing her with his eyes! Lyra looked to J'Kor hanging back near the half door. His nod was curt, but his expression had softened, his stance calmer. Lyra went to him.
Aside from creating some distance between her and the somehow aroused Mejhisk, she was ready to offer an apology. She had really stepped out of line earlier. She bent her knee in subjection. “My lord, please forgi—“
“I am sorry for getting so angry, Lyra,” J'Kor said right over top her own words.
It made them both grin, in spite of everything, and when he lifted her chin, she was given a smile—reserved—but a smile nonetheless. Wow, he surprised her yet again!
“Have you and Maryn been getting to know one another?” he said.
“Yes, my lord. In fact, did you know that 'Na Maryn is an artist?”
He looked mildly surprised as they strolled across the room to their hosts. “No, I did no'.”
Lyra picked up the sketch book off the table. “Look at these. They are quite amazing. She calls it her face book—all head and bust sketches.” Out of the corner of her eye, Lyra saw Maryn flush with pleasure.
“Sallee says they are cute,” Maryn murmured shyly.
“Aye,” Mejhisk drawled, “I let Maryn sit in the corner sometimes during some o' my dinner parties so she can watch guests and do her little drawings.”
“Sal, Lyra is right,” J'Kor told him as he flipped through the pages, growing more and more impressed. “These are really good. You should let her train under someone. She has real talent.”
But to Lyra's surprise, Mejhisk's brow only darkened. “What? That simple dabbling? Well, I doubt that Maryn would have the time.” And he flippantly brushed off the suggestion.
“And you have begun a new one, I see.” J'Kor had come to Lyra's page and he held the book up to her to compare. “Aye. Quite accurate.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Maryn said. “I would need an hour or so to finish it, but it does no' need to be done today. I was just playing around, anyway.” Her glance at Mejhisk was careful.
“Maryn, pet, please serve our guests now,” Mejhisk more or less ordered, taking the book from J'Kor and placing it—closed—farther down the table.
Maryn's pasties were divine. Mejhisk babbled on, saying how quaint it was sometimes to entertain close friends here in the humble atmosphere of the baking chamber, and other such nonsense. His conversation was largely directed at J'Kor, though, while the women remained quiet nearby.
The dance lesson went better after that. A little. Lyra kept catching Mejhisk's eyes on her—and not as a teacher any more. His lips seemed on the verge of some cryptic grin when their gazes would meet and after a while, Lyra just had to ignore him. Likewise, his parting kiss to her hand at the door was uncomfortably long. Then he had some whispered words with J'Kor that got them both grinning before J'Kor good-naturedly pushed him away.
“He knows, doesn't he?” Lyra said as soon as they were in the wagon out of earshot. “You told him.”
“Aye. It was obvious something was off between us and he would no' let it go until I said something.”
“So he knows what I am and the nature of our … relationship?”
“Aye.”
Lyra looked over at him. “That must have been hard for you to admit.”
“Aye.”
Then her gaze lowered. “And I can imagine how frustrated you must be with me.”
“Aye.”
Whinnee's footfalls had a nice plud, plud thing going on the soft dirt road. The late afternoon breeze was cool and fragrant. After a moment, J'Kor shifted a little in his seat. “It probably equals your frustration with me,” he softly conceded.
“Aye.”
Then Lyra giggled at her imitation of the Caldreen'n vernacular, and the soft laugh of J'Kor made a pleasant counterpoint to the steady thrum of a quiet, spring afternoon.
# # #
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
Her wet rag over baked-on meat pie bore peculiar similarity to Whinnee's foot pads on the ground as Lyra determinedly worried the crustiness away on the pan. Fingers beginning to cramp, she blew out in frustration and the moist heat from the sink's dishwater wafted upward to cling to her face. With a sudsy arm, she wiped at an annoying stray hair stuck to her cheek. Shower water from the lavat
ory ran in the background.
After some more work at home, they had eaten together, and now J'Kor was taking a shower: his large hands working the shampoo through honey-kissed hair, shoulders probably all sudsy. Lyra pictured the bubbles running in rivulets down the channel of his spine—
Stop!
Stop it! she chastised. Blessed stars, she couldn't believe she was thinking about him in that way!
The disturbing, naked shower image dissolved, replaced instead with the sound of his voice—the way he said her name, the musical quality of his tone when he laughed … his whisper in her ear when he lay at her back in bed.
“Do you need some help?”
Lyra started violently at J'Kor's real voice, just as warm and inviting as in her mind, right behind her. He chuckled at her reaction—that nice, masculine chuckle that tickled pleasurably behind her eyes, causing the room to grow fuzzy.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you heard me come out. Shall I have a try at that?”
“Uh, sure.” The inside of her mouth had gone dry and she almost choked on the simple word.
From behind, J'Kor slid hands, still warmed and damp from the shower, down to her wrists and into the dishwater, his breath heating an ear at the side of her head. He had his button front shirt draped loosely about him, the sleeves rolled up, but a quick glance to the side revealed that his bottom half was only covered by a towel. Urk!
Lyra's senses sprang into full activity, titillated with the scent of his recent shower, the heat from his skin against her back, the sound of his steady breathing, his touch as he gently took the pan from her to scrub at the spot for a minute.
“There,” he murmured with satisfaction. “All clean.”
The water was turned on, the pan rinsed, and he placed it upside down with the other dishes to the side.
“Thank you, my lord,” Lyra squeaked through a constricted throat.
“Lyra.” Her name was spoken softly. “My Lyra.” Entreating fingers brushed up the skin of her arms to her shoulders as he said, “Please forgive me, but I do no' think I can wait any longer.”