“How very like a Jules Verne story,” she said at length. “I would ask if we are below the sea, but,” she cast her eyes upwards to the tears in the roof, “obviously not.”
“We are near your home.” In her barn, in fact.
She looked him evenly in the eye. “Did I die?”
Her blunt question got an honest reply out of him. “No. That part about an emergency surgery? That was you not dying, because I saved your life. Please don’t feel pressured to express gratitude. You’d embarrass me.” He winced at his words. There was a reason he worked in engineering and not with other people.
She smiled. “Are those real?” She pointed to his horns.
“Yes.” He rapped his knuckles against them.
“Do they come off, like a hat?”
He drew back, alarmed. “No. They are very much a part of my skull and not detachable.”
Her eyes swept over him. Reven found himself drawing up to his full height, not to intimidate her, but increase his visual appeal. He knew he stood taller and broader than most Terran males. All Mahdfel warriors did. He also knew that he had not slept properly in days, nor cleaned himself reasonably. His armor had tears he had yet to mend. He presented a disheveled mess. The least he could do was not slouch.
Her eyes narrowed and her fingers drummed against her thigh. “What are you? Do not tell me a demon, because I flatly refuse to believe that. I’m more inclined to say a satyr or faun, due to the,” she gestured to her forehead, indicating his horns, “but the legs don’t match. Mutation due to disease? A fungal growth?”
“My horns are not a fungal growth,” he replied instantly.
Her eyes gleamed in delight, as if she enjoyed watching him bumble through their first contact.
Not just their first contact, he realized, but the first contact between the Mahdfel and Terrans. Truly the first.
“My people are called the Mahdfel. I am a long way from home. My ship is damaged. I commandeered an abandoned building to use as cover while I make repairs,” he said. He left out the time travel part because he still couldn’t believe that himself.
“So, this is a seafaring vessel? You’re a ways from the sea. Leagues, even.” A bright smile crossed her face. “A league? Jules Verne? Instead of miles away? No? No.” She frowned, disappointed at his lack of reaction.
This Terran, recovering from surgery, hastily dressed in thin bedclothes and a coat, standing in a space shuttle filled with technology centuries ahead of her own, speaking to an alien, just made a terrible joke.
He loved her.
The thought struck him with a bolt of clarity. If this were his time, he’d claim her. He’d pursue her in the Terran courting manner with dinners and time spent to grow accustomed. He’d introduce her to his best friend and brother of his heart, Michael, and Michael’s growing family. He’d take her to Sangrin and let his mother fuss over her. He’d take his time to bind their hearts together, because this was his mate and they had a lifetime. They would build a family and a future together, and he wanted it all.
Because this was not his time, and the wormhole to bring him back to his time closed with every heartbeat, so he could have none of that.
“Not an ocean vessel, but space,” he said.
Chapter Seven
Elizabeth
“Space? You sail the heavens?” It was too ludicrous to believe, but short of pulling on those horns or checking his skin for greasepaint, she had to believe. Actually…
She gave the nearest horn a firm tug.
His head jerked down. “Ow! Female, what are you doing?”
Before he could pull away, she pinched his purple ear. Holding up her fingers, she found no trace of greasepaint. It was real. He was real.
“I apologize, but I could think of no other way to verify,” she said.
“Horns are sensitive. No touching.” He rubbed them as if to soothe an ache.
“Are you a Martian? A moon man?” Why could he just not tell her and then she could stop pestering him with questions? Then again, the hint of a grin on his face told her he enjoyed her questioning.
“I work on the moon, but I’m from a planet called Sangrin,” he said.
“You work on the moon? As what, a cheesemonger?” If he didn’t want to disclose his personal details, she understood, but she did not appreciate the feeble attempt at humor.
“Because the moon is made of cheese? Superstitious Terran.” That grin again. Her heart gave a strange flutter. “I am an engineer, actually. That,” he pointed to a machine at the back of the vessel, “is my design. It malfunctioned. I’ve been making repairs, but I will need supplies before the shuttle is—”
“Seaworthy?”
“Spaceworthy,” he said.
She looked up the vessel’s roof. Large tears and punctures let in the daylight. She swept over him again, noticing for the first time he appeared tired and his clothes grubby. This would not do. She made several decisions all at once.
“Well, you’re not going to finish your work today,” she said. “How about we have tea? You can tell me about the type of supplies you need and perhaps between the two of us, we can scrounge the correct materials.”
***
Reven ducked as he entered the house, his horns scraping the top of the doorway. Once inside, he could stand at his full height but just barely. The exposed beams would prove a hazard if he were careless.
Dressed still in her nightdress and overcoat, she elected to wear the coat until the chill left the house or until she went upstairs to change into proper clothes.
“You can wash up at the sink in the scullery. After a meal, I can draw you a bath if you like.” She pointed to a small room just off the kitchen, which housed a large sink for scouring the dishes and other necessities.
Modern plumbing and even a boiler for hot water had been installed when Sweecombe had been updated. She particularly enjoyed the new radiators and the gentle way the hot water pipes warmed the floorboards. They left many things behind in London—bad air, congestion, too many people in too little space—but she refused to leave behind sanitation and the convenience of plumbing. The local village could take a page from London’s book.
“Thank you.” He stared at the sink’s faucet before waving a hand in front of the spout. He tapped it once. When nothing happened, he tapped it more forcefully. “Is this in working order? Perhaps it is broken.”
“Turn the tap.”
Carefully he turned the tap and grinned with delight when water gushed forth. He turned it off and then back on. “How clever.”
On the table, she found a delivery of foodstuffs in the kitchen along with a note and a receipt. The grocer’s boy had called and assumed she was out on a walk. The fire had burned down to embers in the cast iron stove. Giving the ashes a stir, she added in more coal and stoked the flames to life again. She put the kettle on the hob. While hungry, she didn’t think she could manage anything stronger than a broth. Yesterday’s roast chicken would make a fine consommé, but she didn’t have the patience or energy to watch the pot all day. A simple soup would serve.
She brought the stock pot to the tap to fill with water, but Reven took it from her. “You are recovering. Sit,” he ordered. “Tell me what needs to be done.”
She wrapped the chicken bones and vegetable scraps in cheesecloth and added it to the pot. “Let it come to a boil,” she said.
While they waited, she brought out bread, butter, and strawberry preserves from the larder, just in time for the kettle to whistle.
Reven hunched at the table, too large for the chair and the tiny teacup in his hand. In his vessel, he didn’t seem that large, but in her kitchen, his true size became apparent.
He took out an item from his pocket. With the flick of his wrist, a blade emerged from the handle, and it hummed with a strange force. Fear stabbed at her heart. Her cup rattled, and she set it in the dish, unsure what he would do with the knife.
Calmly, he sliced the bread, the pieces nicely toa
sted. “This is a utility knife. The energized edge keeps it clean,” he explained.
She laughed at herself. She met an alien in her barn and invited him in for tea. Moreover, she only felt nervous when he produced a knife to slice bread. Clearly, some medication still lingered in her system and impaired her judgment. She felt remarkably well, considering how poorly she felt the day before. Did she really have appendicitis?
She pressed a hand to her stomach, where an incision would normally be.
Or did Reven merely offer a plausible explanation for her state of undress and the pink mark on her skin? Did he experiment on her while she lay unconscious?
“Does your abdomen pain you?” he asked, voice rich with concern.
“I don’t feel a thing,” she confessed. If she had surgery, she should be in considerable pain or dosed with morphine. Her father had suffered, even with medication to ease his pain, and the risk of infection always hovered over a sick bed. Her stomach was whole and nearly untouched.
Reven was dangerous. Clearly. His lean and muscular form stood taller than any man she had ever known. He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, like a puma with elegant, purposeful action. That extraordinary musculature was meant for more than show.
The man from space was dangerous, and he had done something to her body. The dual aspects of the dark plum complexion and the curling horns should have warned her of a sinister purpose, yet he sat at her kitchen table, holding a tiny teacup with forget-me-nots painted on the rim.
Elizabeth couldn’t see him as dangerous, despite all the warnings in the back of her mind. He was far too interesting.
“The pain suppressant will wear off in twelve hours, given your body weight. I can administer another dose if needed,” he said. “Are you feeling any ill effects?”
“I’m not sure.” She hungered, but the mouthful of buttered bread sat heavy in her stomach. The tea soothed her throat, but she regretted adding milk and sugar. “My appetite is lacking.”
Reven had more than enough of an appetite for the two of them. He slathered butter and the strawberry preserves on the bread, devouring slice after slice. He might be dangerous but he was also tired, hungry, and a long way from home.
“When did you arrive?” she asked, curiosity again winning out over fear.
“Three nights ago,” he answered.
“The night of the shooting star.” Her breath caught, realizing that she witnessed the moment of his arrival.
He cocked his head to one side. “That would have been my ship entering the atmosphere. My landing was uncontrolled.”
“And how long have you been hiding in my barn?”
“I had only been there a day before you discovered me. My ship was exposed while I made repairs, and you can understand why I wouldn’t welcome attention.” He rapped a knuckle on a horn for emphasis.
“You were spotted on the moors.”
“Almost immediately.”
“I am pleased you are not a beast from hell, as the village gossips would paint you,” she said.
“No, just a cheesemonger from the moon.”
She raised her cup to hide her smile. She distinctly sensed that he was flirting with her and she didn’t mind. “Do you really live on the moon?”
“Yes, at the Shackleton Crater Lunar Base.”
“Well, that sounds properly British.” Not alien at all. She expected something more… exotic.
He frowned. “Shackleton was a Terran explorer.”
“Never heard of him. Did he explore the moon?” Surely not. Trips to the moon remained within the imagination of people like Jules Verne. And Reven Perra.
“I don’t recall. I walked past that statue a dozen times a day and I never really looked at it. Terrans put statues everywhere, and they all look the same.”
Considering the number of statues and monuments in London, she had to agree. One couldn’t throw a stone without hitting some venerable bit of marble. “How long will your repairs take?”
Reven moved the digits of one hand as he mentally calculated. “Three days if I can salvage material from the shuttle, longer if I have to use Terran metal.”
“What material do you need?”
“Metal. Iron or steel. Sheets would be best, the bigger, the better, but I can make do with scrap.”
“You’re welcome to anything you find on my property, but I don’t think I have what you need.”
His eyes lit up at her words, and he licked his bottom lip. “Are you sure about that?”
Oh.
She hid her blush behind the teacup.
“The smith in the village would be the best place to find what you require. Seeing as how you can’t pay the blacksmith a visit yourself, I shall make an inquiry.” She’d need to think of some reason she needed large sheets of metal. Perhaps a leaking roof.
“You are kind,” he said.
She wasn’t, not really, just more curious than fearful. Reven was the most interesting thing she had seen in her life, and she needn’t travel to Australia to find him. She’d be foolish to pass by an opportunity to capture his likeness.
She gave the pot of soup a stir, judging it would be ready in an hour. “The housekeeper and groundskeeper will be away until the New Year. That’s at least six days.”
“I’ll be gone by then. Don’t worry about me,” he said.
“You may use my guest room until then.”
“My shuttle is sufficient to meet my needs.”
“Nonsense. I would be remiss if I didn’t take this opportunity to capture your likeness. Do you have any objections?” Her fingers practically itched to hold a pencil or charcoal. No, pastels! His coloration was too interesting for shades of gray and black.
He paused before he answered. “No. Do as you will.”
“Then I consider that a fair trade for room and board. Now, the soup requires more time. How about I draw you a bath?”
Reven
The cleansing room was primitive, but Elizabeth’s pride shone clearly as she demonstrated how to operate the taps above the porcelain tub. Hot water gushed out of the faucet, and he made the appropriate noises of appreciation. While his armor was self-cleaning, he was not. A warrior didn’t mind the grime that came with battle, but he also didn’t mind not smelling.
He stripped out of the armor and his soft undershirt, leaving them in a pile on the tiled floor.
“Oh. What are you—oh!”
Elizabeth stared at him, eyes wide with surprise and mouth falling open. Her gaze swept up from his feet to his chest and back again, lingering on his midsection. Bravado encouraged him to stand with his feet apart and put his hands on his hips. He flashed his most winning smile and tossed back his horns.
She gasped, “Your teeth.”
“My fangs disturb you.” As they did most Terrans.
“No, no. I wasn’t expecting… Why can’t you wear clothes?” Her cheeks reddened. She shielded her eyes with one hand and blindly shoved a stack of towels in his direction. “I’ll just be down the hall if you need anything.”
“Because I will wash. Terrans are needlessly shy,” he said, taking the towel. He intended to bathe, nothing else.
“Don’t try to tell me that people forego clothing on the moon. I refuse to believe that somewhere so British would be so improper.” She turned her head, eyes fixed on the wall and never glancing in his direction.
“Half the residents are Mahdfel, so impropriety abounds.”
Her blush deepened. Reven couldn’t say why he enjoyed tormenting her so, but her discomfort was delicious. Terrans were needlessly shy. It was only a body.
“Your shirt has a hole. If you hand it to me, I will mend it,” she said.
Reven scooped up the undershirt. While his armor might be self-cleaning, the shirt was not. Days’ worth of sweat and some blood had soaked into it. “I’m afraid it might be beyond saving.”
Elizabeth turned the garment over in her hands. “I’ll soak it in soda and see what can be done.” She stu
ck her fingers through the tear at the shoulder, the edge singed and bloodied. She reached down for the armor at his feet and compared the two. “Why is the undershirt damaged but the outer layer is not?”
“The armor fibers can repair small amounts of damage.”
“This is not small.” She wiggled her fingers through the fabric for demonstration. “And you bled. Why do you have no wound?” Shyness forgotten, she stepped towards him and brushed her fingertips over his shoulder.
“As I told you when waved a pistol at me, I heal quickly.” The armor absorbed most of the blow, distributing the force over his entire body. The material failed at the point of impact, but the blow had been significantly reduced, otherwise he might have a hole clean through his shoulder.
“Well, I’ll patch it up and then give it a soak too.” She gave him one more sweeping glance as she left.
“My eyes are up here,” he said. He might have flexed his arms just to see her blush again. Who’s to say?
Reven edged himself into the tub. Built for Terrans, the basin was too narrow, not deep enough or long enough to accommodate his height. He longed for the sunken pool in his quarters back at the lunar base but made do, scrubbing away the dirt and sweat with the scented soap and a cloth.
Terrans were funny. On the whole, he liked them, but he liked Elizabeth in particular. She wasn’t afraid of him. He always found Terrans to be more flexible than his people, but there was always a moment of initial mistrust when they met a Mahdfel. Their heart rates spiked and the sour scent of fear emanated from their skin.
The phenomenon happened every time he met a Terran, even with his friend Michael when they were youths. It occurred when Michael introduced Reven to Shauna, the female who would be Michael’s mate. He had prepared her for weeks for a casual dinner, but her heart still sped up when Reven smiled at her.
Perhaps it was his smile? Mahdfel teeth differed greatly from the blunt, flat Terran teeth. No. Plenty of pop culture figures, such as vampires, had fangs. That couldn’t be it.
Alien Warlord's Miracle Page 6
