“I told you there were furnishings in the warehouse. I told you to leave the desk alone. The equipment is delicate and government...
“They’re our things, Roark,” Mira said impatiently. “We were lucky they hadn’t been taken already. Wynne’s going to need them when she and the kids move back into town. Except for the table and chairs. I bought those from the lady next door to Mrs. Pulaski.” She shrugged and gave him a little smile. “No rent to pay. I had a little extra and she needed the money. Petrark moved the desk and everything on it. He set it back up. He said...”
“Wynne and the children will remain here. They are your family and I have taken the responsibility for their care.”
He closed his eyes and blew out his breath in an attempt to hold back the anger that had been seething inside him all day. It didn’t work. He threw up his hands.
Bitsy started to sniffle.
“Do as you will. I am the First Commander in name only. You, like the warriors I command, have no need to follow my orders.”
He waved his hand over his head, dismissing them all as he walked away.
He heard Wynne call Mira’s name as he closed the bedroom door behind him. He tore his uniform tunic up over his head. The door opened and slammed shut.
“No!” Mira’s hands slapped against his back. “No,” she shouted again, “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to blow off the people who are willing to love you.”
“Miramiku.” He turned and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“No. No Miramiku” she screamed at him.
He’d seen her angry, but never like this. He wasn’t sure what to do.
She raised a threatening finger. “You don’t get to call me Mira mine and then treat me and my family that way. We’re not your warriors. We don’t take orders.” Her finger moved to the door. “Those kids worked hard today. You may not think much of our furnishings, but those things make up our home. The room is yours, Roark, but the home is ours and we were inviting you into it.
“Wynne and I cooked that meal. Yeah, me who doesn’t cook. Dorrie traded for the candles and she’s concerned they don’t match, because soldiers, you know, they like everything orderly.” She picked up his tunic and threw it at him. “Rashonda insisted Petrark’s sergeant stop by the roadside when she saw those flowers. They’re weeds, but she doesn’t know that. How would she when she doesn’t remember flower gardens? To her, they were beautiful and she wanted to share that beauty with you.”
“Mira, stop.”
“Shut up, Roark. It’s my turn, now.” She stormed past him and into the bathroom. “When it got late and I said we should eat,” she called through the open door, “Rashonda insisted we wait for you. It’s the first time we’ve had a table big enough to eat together and she said it wouldn’t be right without you and for probably the first time ever, Royal agreed with her. The others did, too, all except Matias who’s too terrified to speak your name. My big, brave boy, who dreams at night of terrifying things. Don’t ask him what they are, because he won’t tell. Funny, he’s not Godan, but he’s just like you. He thinks he’s protecting us, when all it does is make us worry more.”
Roark stood in the doorway of the bathroom, watching her slam the dials in the shower. The room began to fill with steam.
When she looked up, her face was contorted with her fury and stained with her tears.
“Mira, you don’t understand,” he began. It was the wrong thing to say.
“No, I don’t understand because you won’t tell me. Fine. I get it. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll live with your silence and your sullen moods and hope they’ll pass. I’ll listen to you curse in languages I don’t understand and I’ll silently bear the bruises when you strike out in your nightmares. I’ll give you my body to use as you will if it brings you the least bit of comfort. I’ll do it because I love you and in that bed, you are my king. But out there,” she pointed to the door, “You’re nobody’s king. You were right about that. You aren’t even First Commander Roark. You’re a member of our family who sits at the head of our table and you will follow our rules. We try to treat each other with kindness and love and respect.”
She tested the water and withdrew her hand. “Get your clothes off and get your shower.”
“I can use the cleanser,” he said. “It will be faster and more efficient.”
“Damn it, Roark, this time I’m giving the orders and you’ll do as you’re told. You will get in that shower and let that hot water beat down on your body until your muscles relax and you can act like the gentleman your mother hoped you would be. You will stand there until your face loses that mean and ugly look and you can smile again, at least for the time it takes to eat the damned meal.”
She walked out the door, slammed it behind her, and then opened it again. “And don’t forget to wash your hair. Twice,” she scolded. “You’ve got some icky grey stuff in it that you are not bringing to the table.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, already shedding his leather chausses.
“And don’t call me ma’am,” she said as she closed the door. “I’m Miramiku and don’t you forget it.”
For the first time in days, Roark smiled, and it was the sound of Mira’s gurgle of laughter that did it.
They were all sitting still as statues when he emerged, clean, shaven, and dressed in the loose white trousers and embroidered tunic he’d found laid out for him on the bed. They were a gift from his mother, an outfit of relaxation, and though he’d carried them with him from post to post, he’d never worn them before.
If Mira’s merciless lecture hadn’t been chastisement enough, Bitsy’s quivering chin would have done the job. She was a happy little girl who bubbled with innocence and laughter and he’d driven it out of her. He went to her first and bowed his head.
“I’ve acted like a putashank and I ask your forgiveness.”
Bitsy looked at Mira.
“A bast... bad boy,” Mira edited in time.
Bitsy smiled in relief. “Did your dragon make you behave?”
“No,” Roark said solemnly. “Mira did.”
“Ah.” Bitsy nodded wisely. “She’s pretty good at that.”
“That she is. We are lucky to have her,” he confided. He bowed to the others as he had to Bitsy. “You have offered me kindness, I have returned it with rudeness. My mother would be ashamed. Let us begin again. If my delay hasn’t ruined the meal, let us sit down to our dinner. There are lovely flowers on the table and pretty candles to be lit. Matias, as the next eldest male of this household, I’ll ask you to escort Mira to the table. Royal, you may offer your arm to Wynne. You ladies,” he smiled at the three girls in turn, “will have to suffer with me.” He held out his arm to Dorrie who blushed, and his other to Rashonda who beamed at being treated like a grown up lady.
“What about me?” Bitsy asked.
“Excuse me,” Roark said to the young ladies as he disengaged their hands.
He took Bitsy’s hands in his. She squealed with delight when he lifted and spun her onto his back.
“Hang on tight,” he warned and offer his arms to the girls again.
The dinner was an unfamiliar stew served with a bread of the human’s corn. It was tasty, but plain. There was no wine, only water. It was nothing like his mother’s elegant table. But once the children relaxed and began to chatter and argue, Roark was reminded of suppers with his parents and brothers before his mother prevailed and turned them into civilized gentlemen.
It had been a long time since he felt like he was home. He didn’t need Mira to remind him to smile.
~*~
Roark ran the tip of his tongue up the center line of Mira’s body. He tasted the salty sheen left by the sweat of their lovemaking along with the sweetness of her skin. Her eyes were closed and a contented smile played along her lips. Her tousled hair was spread across the pillows, honey against snow.
She had come to his bed as if nothing unpleasant had passed between them and silently
offered herself to him with a beauty and grace of forgiveness that humbled him.
He rolled to his side, drawing his hard and war torn body close to her rounded softness. Splaying his hand over her breast, he admired the contrast; he, gold and brown; she, cream and pink.
Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him.
With his finger, he drew a lazy circle around one soft nipple fascinated by its reaction to the stimulus. A small and darkening bruise marred the perfection of her breast.
“My mother would weave that whip and learn how to use it if she knew I’d done this to you.” He kissed the mark. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it on purpose,” she said, rolling to face him. She ran her hand over his cheek and cupping it, she kissed him. “Your dreams frighten me, Roark, not for myself, but for you. You have to talk to someone about them. Vochem, maybe? I’m assuming because he’s a healer, he’s bound to keep secrets like our doctors are.”
“Patient confidentiality. The sentiment is the same though the words come from your Dr. Mason.”
“Mason Mason is an odd one, isn’t he? He acts like he doesn’t care about much of anything, yet I think he cares about a great many things and I think he’s smarter than he lets on. They don’t let just anyone into med school, you know.”
“Your Dr. Mason is a highly intelligent creature,” Roark begrudgingly admitted, “But if he hurts Ahnyis...”
Mira giggled. “I know. I warned him, but you have to know that Ahnyis is well aware of what he is and wants him anyway. For all we know, she might be using him. Her little Kataran rebellion against what’s expected of her. I know you see her as a little sister, but she’s not a little girl, Roark. She’s older than Wynne.”
“Would you want your sister fucking Mason?”
Mira giggled again. “Crudely put, but I see your point. Nevertheless, it’s Ahnyis’s mistake to make.”
“As I am yours?”
“No, my golden Viking, what I feel for you is not a mistake.” She smiled at him and ran her finger along the scaled figure at his ear.
“Golden Viking?” His curiosity was piqued. “What do you know of dragon ships? When have you found time to study mythology, or has Team Mira found a member who fills your head with romantic tales?”
She pushed against his chest so she could raise herself to look at him.
“Maybe it’s romanticized a little, okay, a lot,” she conceded, “But it’s not mythology, Roark. It’s Earth’s history. The Vikings were fierce warriors who sailed the seas in their dragon ships while other men thought the world was flat. The first time I saw you, that’s what I thought; Viking. You’re the vision of those men I always carried in my head.” She kissed him playfully. “Now go ahead and laugh at me.”
Roark didn’t laugh. Earth’s history? Those dragon ships were part of the old stories he’d loved as a boy; stories of the ancient Godan warriors who braved the dangers of unknown space in poorly equipped and primitive ships. They were called Viking, a corruption of the word ‘to raid’. They searched for new worlds, riches, and wives. They were myths, legends, and not real men.
“I am not the man you think me to be, Miramiku.” He was no man at all.
“Which man is that? The warrior, the leader, the lover, or the grumpy bastard that’s been sleeping in my bed this past week,” she laughed.
She wanted him to speak, but she refused to hear.
Each and every day of his life was a test of his strength and a testament to his ability. What would she think if she knew that most of the blood markings on his body were not proof of his bravery, but a proof of his control?
“I am failing,” he confessed. The words burned his throat as he said them. “And someone is reporting each and every flaw to the Confederation Council. I thought once my troops arrived, I could turn things around, but it hasn’t helped. Orders are being given in my name and in my voice, but they aren’t mine. Security has been checked and rechecked and there is nothing there to say it has been compromised. How much longer will the troops follow me if they believe I’m sending them to defeat and death?
“The Hahnshin anticipate my every move. Tactics that have worked against the finest fighting forces in the galaxy have failed against the Hahnshin, yet only in Sector Three. We have a traitor in our midst, but I have failed to find him.
He couldn’t tell her that some believed she was the traitor.
“I still don’t know the destination of the missing rations and we’ve moved no further in finding your children. If I concentrate on one problem, six others arrive. Winter is coming and the town is in no way ready. People will die there, too. Twenty-four of your hours a day are not enough. My control is crumbling bit by bit and if I should lose it completely, the repercussions would echo far beyond Sector Three.”
Mira had fallen to her back. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was steady. She looked like she was sleeping, and why not? What woman would want to hear a man’s weaknesses when it was his job to support hers?
Mira’s eyes popped open startling him with their sudden motion and alertness.
“Call Petrark,” she said.
Roark frowned. Was the woman dreaming of another man while he spoke what was in his heart? The man was handsome, he’d give him that, but he was young and inexperienced both in battle and with women, or so Roark had thought.
“What ills have you that Petrark can cure?”
She laughed at him again. “Ouch. I forgot to put stupid jealous guy on my list of your multiple personalities. I don’t need him to cure my ills, you big goof. You need him to cure yours. He was a whatchamacallit, a CST guy. That’s it. I tried to tell you earlier, but I got sidetracked. He said it was imperative he speak with you. His word, imperative. You know how precise he is. He found a problem with your system when he was reinstalling all that stuff in your new office. He said he hesitated to correct it without your permission. It was something about access, Roark.”
He was out of bed and searching under it. “What have you done with my uniform?”
“It’s covered with gunk. You’re not wearing it until it’s cleaned. Fine,” she said when he glared at her, “stink like a shithouse. What do I care?”
She slipped from the bed and took a plastic garbage bag from the basket in the corner of the room. Untying the knot, she produced the uniform.
He pulled it on, ignoring the gunk she refused to have him name.
“You’re messy,” she’d told him as if her reasoning made perfect sense, “but you’re not gunky. You could never throw your gunk around. If you tell me what it really is, then I’m more likely to envision your gunk staining someone else’s uniform. So we’ll leave it as gunk.”
He’d laughed at it, but didn’t understand it.
The tunic settled on his shoulders. “I need to find Petrark.”
“That’s easy. He’s in bed. Honey, it’s two in the morning,” she said as if he needed the reminder.
“This can’t wait. Imperative. His word, remember? Our conversation should be private and what better place than here where others will assume I have better things to occupy my time.” He gave her a devilish grin.
“If you’re caught, you can always hint that you’ve asked him to join us.” She returned his grin and laughed when he growled his opinion on that.
“Go on,” she said, shooing him off. “Petrark’s virtue is safe from me. I like the big, ugly ones.” She started pulling on the clothes she’d left neatly folded and ready for the following day. “I’ll put the cavik on.”
Chapter 24
Someone had found a way into Roark’s command link. They had access to all his discussions with his officers and Prime before orders were conveyed. Petrark had explained it all to them, using drawings when the need arose. Mira suspected that neither Roark nor Harm understood half of what the man said. She didn’t either, but they had the skill not to look like it.
“Who? Who would have the knowledge and access to make this happen?”
&
nbsp; “Almost anyone in CST could do it. I could,” Petrark admitted and then raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t, though. I wouldn’t. I mean...”
“We figured that out when you pointed out the problem.”
In spite of the hour, Harm looked as he always did, leather trousers, leather vest with his insignia on the breast and snow white shirt that looked like heavy cotton but never wrinkled. Mira figured the shirt wouldn’t dare. She also wondered if the man slept standing up, fully dressed and ready to roll at a moment’s notice. Roark had stopped by Harm’s quarters first and the Prime was at her door in less than five minutes.
“Get on with it,” he said impatiently.
“Yes, Prime. Most could do it, but most couldn’t do it without leaving a larger footprint. This person was expert. I only spotted it because...”
The young Godan Legion Officer didn’t sleep standing up. His hair was mussed from sleep and clumps of it pointed in various directions. He was dressed in a crumpled tunic and drawstring pants that hung to mid-calf. She changed her opinion of him back to her original. Look out ladies! He was a beautiful creature, and unlike Roark or Harm, his face was still soft and unlined. He was shy, not humorless, and with the right guidance, his attention to detail and precision could be an advantage in bed.
She caught Roark watching her watch Petrark. She sent him an air kiss and received a scowl in return.
“Can we find him?” Roark asked. “I want his ass and I want it yesterday.
“Yes, sir.” Petrark finally let a little of his light shine through. “He’s good, but I’m better. Give me a couple of days and I’ll find him, but if it was me...” His mouth snapped shut. The light went out. The legion Officer colored slightly and lowered his eyes. “Sorry, sir.”
Roark laughed and clapped the officer on the back. “Mira has informed me that in this house I am not king. I am not even the First Commander. I’m wise enough not to contradict her. You should be, too. Say what’s on your mind, son. You’re the lead on this mission.”
Petrark glanced at Mira and gulped. “I can find him, but do you want to catch him? I don’t know what’s going on here, but unless this guy is working on some personal vendetta, why would he be sitting on your transmissions? If it’s not personal, I’d suspect he’s part of a team. I’d want to know who he’s working with and why.”
Roark (Women Of Earth Book 1) Page 22
