How dare he pity her!
He was as exotic as she was. With his silver hair and his slender rangy form he exuded male strength. He made the more civilized men of the Emperor’s table seem like fat, lazy tabby cats. He reminded her of a snow leopard she had seen once in the deep woods. Beautiful, deadly, unattainable but fascinating.
He must have sensed her scrutiny because he looked across the room and met her eyes. Of course she stared back, secure in the knowledge that he would not cause a scene here before all their relatives.
Despite their rivalry she felt a kinship with him. Of all the inhabitants in that room only she and he were pure T’En. Had he experienced the veiled taunts she had known? Did he curse the differences which made him remarkable?
Then he had lifted his wine and offered her a silent toast, which she had chosen to acknowledge. For a moment when she lowered that goblet and met his intense wine-dark eyes all else faded. It had seemed to her that they were alone amid a swarm of bees and heat moved within her.
Had he been trying to influence her, even then?
If he had, it had not been successful because she had smiled and deliberately turned her back to him so she could converse with the person beside her.
It had been her sister. They hadn’t been close. Yet at this moment Imoshen willingly recalled her sister’s face, the sound of her voice. Suddenly everything shifted. She felt as if she was seated at the formal tables. She could see her mother and her father. As always her brother was showing off.
Pain lanced her.
“Dead, they’re all dead—”
“Who’s dead? My people?” a deep voice demanded, shaking her.
Superimposed over her laughing relations she saw the Ghebite barbarians watching her, and General Tulkhan’s keen dark eyes.
“Your people?” A bitter laugh shook her. “No, my people, my family!”
She could even see her mother’s small scar which she tried to hide by wearing her hair forward on her forehead. The curl had fallen aside. Imoshen fought the urge to let mother know. It would be so easy to slip away from the cold, dangerous present, into a fragile moment from the past . . .
“Imoshen!” Abruptly, Tulkhan swung her into his embrace. Her wine cup flew from her slack fingers to clatter on the delicate mosaic floor tiles. She resented his warm strength and was disoriented by the abrupt change as the world of the T’En was lost to her, lost to rapacious, unforgiving Time.
The General was flesh and blood, immediate and impatient. He made her intensely aware of sensation as she felt the rasp of his bristly chin on her cheek, the coarse pads of his fingers on her face and the strength in his arms.
Then his lips found hers and she was utterly confused, lost in the heat of his passion. This was General Tulkhan, self-styled ruler of Fair Isle. She knew he had claimed her for political reasons but she knew with a woman’s instinct that when he took her to his bed it would be because he wanted her.
Dimly, she heard the catcalls and whistles, the thumping on the tables. It was so different from the refined finger clicking of the royal courtiers.
Revulsion filled her—these Ghebites were barbarians. The absurdity of her current situation, contrasted with the restrained elegance of the setting and her intense memory of that last formal yet intimate evening with the doomed royal family of the T’En.
Her mind went blank.
It was too much. For the first time since the Stronghold fell she allowed herself to feel the loss of those people she loved and she couldn’t bear it. While they lived she had taken them for granted, dead they became precious. She couldn’t live with that pain.
Desperate to escape it, she concentrated on sensation, willing herself to blot out all thought, all memory. The immediate pressure of Tulkhan’s lips on hers elicited a physical response which she didn’t bother to disguise. She was hungry for him, hungry for the oblivion his passion promised.
The General released her, his obsidian eyes glittering with a savage male hunger which she knew would not be easily sated. He lifted his crystal wineglass, threw back his head and gave the Ghebite battle cry. The bloodcurdling challenge shattered the restrained elegance of the formal room, reverberating down the corridors and through the heart of the royal palace.
With sudden clarity Imoshen knew the past was dead. General Tulkhan was the future.
Despite everything she was drawn to him. Her heart swelled with the intensity of his passion. He had it all now, Fair Isle, the royal palace and herself, the last princess of the T’En.
The Ghebite barbarians had triumphed.
A fey mood was on Tulkhan and it didn’t leave him as they took their seats and the food was served. She observed him as he steered the conversations with the leaders of his army. Each man vied to prove his loyalty. The Ghebite commanders saw General Tulkhan as the source of all power. Imoshen understood that to them, she was about as significant as the palace—beautiful, useful, but without will or choice.
The knowledge galled her.
As for General Tulkhan, she watched him eat his food with the same vigor he applied to everything. He would take her as fiercely and freely later tonight. Then what, throw her aside as he threw aside the bone he had just finished with?
What was a Ghebite wife but a possession, a convenience!
Imoshen tensed, hating the General at that moment because he held her life in his hands and hating herself because when their eyes met, she felt the insistent tug of her body to his. She ached for his lovemaking.
But she would not be a convenience. If he was taking her to bond for life, to consolidate his hold on Fair Isle, then he must abide by the laws and customs of Fair Isle. He must abstain from touching her until they took their vows! She smiled because she knew he would not like that.
The servants cleared away the main course and there was a lull as they carried the sweets from the distant kitchen.
Imoshen leaned closer to Tulkhan, lowering her voice. “You have Fair Isle, General. But can you hold it?”
His dark eyes met hers, weighing, wondering.
Good. She had his attention.
“The townsfolk are nervous. They fear your army which has inundated the town. To consolidate your victory, you need to win over the people of T’Diemn.”
“I was going to call on the Guildmasters and the town leaders to swear fealty tomorrow—”
She nodded, pleased. “You think they will come willingly, considering what happened when King Gharavan did that? I suggest we stage a feast, declare a holiday, invite the Guildmasters and their families. When you have them present, praise T’Diemn’s prosperity. Promise that you won’t interfere with the administration of the town. The townsfolk will only revolt if threatened. Let them feel secure under your leadership.”
“Why are you doing this?”
She felt his suspicious eyes on her. Why was she smoothing the transition of power?
Tulkhan caught her hand as she reached for her wine.
“Answer me, Dhamfeer?”
The use of that word told her all she needed to know. He felt alienated from her. Why? Because they were in the palace which was so obviously constructed by the T’En race. Because it represented a richer culture than his own?
With a deft twist she slipped her hand from his grasp and raised her wine goblet, watching him over the rim as she sipped. Should she try to minimize the differences between True-man and T’En? Anger seethed in her. She would not pretend to be less than she was!
“You have claimed me as you bond-partner, wife in your language. As bond-partner my role is to aid you, and yours is to aid me. According to T’En custom you are my equal, my other half. So if I help you, I help myself.”
General Tulkhan looked down at his own hand where it lay resting on the tablecloth.
Imoshen noted the coppery skin crisscrossed by tiny scars. His broad, strong hand looked so out of place on the exquisite lace cloth. She knew how those callused hands felt on her delicate skin. A shudder of longing swept
her body and she despised herself for it.
Here tonight, and over the ensuing weeks she would need all her wits about her, yet she was finding it difficult to separate her physical needs from the logical paths her mind told her she should take. Abstinence would give her a chance to overcome this weakness.
“The ways of the T’En are new to me,” Tulkhan confessed, his voice like deep honey, so rich she could almost taste it. “We are to be partners? Then the sooner we are wedded the better. Tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow would be too soon.” Despite her best intentions, she laid her hand over his because she wanted to feel the strength in him. A slow burn of desire ignited in her core. “True, the ceremony should be soon. But this must be done properly. The T’En Church is very powerful, its leaders can influence how well your rule is accepted. They hold great wealth and the minds of the people. If we woo them to our side we will have their support.
“For the people to recognize our joining the T’En Church needs to be involved in the ceremony. And what of your own religious leaders?”
Tulkhan shrugged. “I’m a soldier. I’ve little time for gods.”
“Your men?”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
She nodded to herself. “Your men might feel more at ease if you observe the rituals of the Ghebite religion.” She paused as his eyes flew to hers.
A smile lurked in their obsidian depths as he ruefully acknowledged she was right. That smile did more to threaten her resolution than anything else. With a shock, Imoshen realized she liked the General. She liked his ready understanding, his rueful humor.
“Why do you smile, General Tulkhan?”
He shook his head slowly. “Is it all a game of tactics to you?”
She wanted to deny it but she couldn’t disclose her weakness. The General did not trust her so he wouldn’t believe her. It would be an agony to admit her feelings only to have them spurned, so she merely smiled.
“I play to win, General. There’s no point otherwise.” Imoshen let him believe that if he chose. It was safer for her. “Now it will take time to negotiate the cooperation of the religious leaders. The people of Fair Isle have a feast on the shortest day of the year. Declare the Midwinter Feast the day that we make our vows and you are officially crowned ruler of Fair Isle. It will allow time for the minor southern nobles to come in from their estates.
“They need to see that you are a fair man, they need reassurance. They need to know that you will not confiscate their estates—”
“I want to reward my loyal men.”
“There are empty strongholds and estates to the north. Reward them with those and with bond-partners. Marry them to the eligible daughters of minor southern nobles. Blood ties are much stronger than the bonds of fear.”
The General’s eyes flickered over her face then away and Imoshen knew she had lost him. What had she said?
Tulkhan shifted in his seat, leaning away from Imoshen. The Dhamfeer’s vivid, intense face was like a magnet drawing him in. He wanted to look on her forever, to drink in her features. Her intelligence glinted behind her eyes, brilliant as sunlight on water. Then, just when he thought he understood her, she revealed another facet. And he feared he would cut himself on her sharp surfaces.
Now this. Blood ties are stronger than the bonds of fear.
How true. He had loved his half-brother almost to his own death. And look at Imoshen. She had tricked him, seduced him. No . . . that was not fair. He had chosen her and now she carried his child—the child he thought he could never have. Imoshen was the key to Fair Isle and to the future.
But could he trust her? Dare he trust her?
Dare he not? Her words of advice were true, even if they were motivated by self-interest. He almost laughed. Of course they were motivated by self-interest, what better motivation?
Selfless interest? He pushed that thought aside as irrelevant.
Imoshen was his captive, willing to work for his good because it benefited her. By what right did he, the slave master, wish for love as well as devotion?
She came to her feet. “You will excuse me, General. There is much I must organize for tomorrow—”
“Leave it.” He caught her around the waist, drawing her between his thighs. He could feel the gentle swell of her hips, the rise and fall of her ribs as she drew in a sharp breath. He had to tilt his chin to look up into her face. She was so much taller than the women of his own people. And proud. He liked the way she met his eyes, liked the way she would not defer to him.
She was Dhamfeer, Other and dangerous. She was possibly the instrument of his death, but he wanted her and he would have her. He’d laid claim to her.
“I want my bed.” His voice was a low growl. He tightened his hands on her waist, felt the tension in her. She heard the spoken words and he knew she understood his meaning. He wanted her in his bed, under him, preferably with her thighs wrapped around his hips. A shaft of desire flamed deep within him.
A wicked smile lifted the corners of her mouth and played in the depths of her garnet eyes. It should have warned him.
“I will show you to your bedchamber, General,” she told him. “Then I will go to mine. It is customary for betrothed partners to practice abstinence until they take their vows.”
“To hell with abstinence!” The thought was abhorrent.
She laughed. The throaty peal was like velvet rubbing across his skin. He sensed more than saw every head in the room turn to them, and knew instinctively that every man there desired her, whether he would admit to it or not.
She ran her fingers over his head, down the line of his jaw, lingering on the hollows of his throat. He could see the candlelight reflecting in her eyes, twin flames of desire. He wanted to immolate himself in those flames.
“As leader of your men, you set the tone for your army,” she purred. “Your half-brother set no example.”
The truth of it hit him. If he wanted to take Imoshen to be his wife by his own laws he must observe the rituals, which it would appear were similar to the customs of her people. Abstinence.
“Damn.”
He caught a gleam of triumph in her eyes and told himself to be wary. After all, this was a political wedding even if by good fortune it promised to soothe the physical ache which was driving him to distraction.
He studied Imoshen and she tilted her head, returning his gaze. How much of what he was feeling was his own body’s response to hers? Was she planting thoughts in his head, manipulating him? She had sworn she wouldn’t do it, said that it would be wrong, yet he could count the instances when she had invaded his mind.
“General?” She leaned forward, peering into his eyes, unconsciously giving him a view of her high, firm breasts barely contained by the neckline of her gown. Desire flared through him again. Useless, potent flames of lust seared him from within.
He pulled her onto his lap, burying his face in her soft flesh, inhaling her womanly scent.
How long until midwinter? He tried to think, but could not recall the dates. It had to be at least five weeks.
“Six,” Imoshen whispered.
Anger lanced his mind, cutting through the cloud of desire. She had been in his head again, Damn her!
Their gaze met.
Even as anger flared in him, he saw her eyes widen as she realized what she’d done.
“Please!” she hissed, pressing his face to her breast. He felt her strength, her soft curves on his cheek. The rapid pounding of her heart thundered in his ear.
He turned his head away, almost overcome by her physical presence.
Abruptly, Imoshen slipped from his lap and dropped to her knees, kneeling between his thighs.
“I didn’t mean to,” she confessed, whispering to escape their curious company.
He saw the truth in her eyes and the knowledge both repelled and fascinated him because at that moment he realized Imoshen’s ability to touch his mind was an instinctive reflex.
Could he live with that knowledge?
Tulkhan didn’t know, but for now he would maintain a distance between them. So far she had invaded his thoughts only when their bodies were touching. It seemed safe to assume Imoshen’s ability weakened with distance or only worked on contact.
A grim smile warmed him. His body might crave hers but he didn’t want to pay the ultimate price for his lust and become her instrument.
It was just as well their customs required abstinence.
Tulkhan pushed his chair back, coming to his feet. Imoshen also rose, withdrawing from him and gathering her dignity about her like a cloak.
With a formal bow, he bid her good night. Tulkhan knew by her rigidly controlled features that he had hurt Imoshen, and it galled him to admit that it hurt him to see her pain.
From dawn until midafternoon the following day Imoshen was frantically busy. Messengers ran from one end of the palace to the other delivering her orders, tallying information and coordinating the efforts of the army of servants.
Imoshen vowed that this time when the Guildmasters, the town dignitaries and their families met the Ghebites they would not be greeted by treachery but with familiar entertainment. They would see General Tulkhan was not like his uncouth, uncivilized and treacherous half-brother.
The people of T’Diemn were not surrendering their city, but greeting their deliverer from oppression. It was a fine distinction which Imoshen hoped to impress on them.
The day was bitterly cold, too cold to hold the ceremony in the square. She elected to open the public rooms of the palace, which necessitated cleaning, heating and lighting them. Food had to be prepared and seating arrangements organized for several hundred guests. At her insistence the leaders of Tulkhan’s army were to be scattered through the civilian guests. All weapons were to be left at the door. It would not be a welcome request, but if both parties cooperated it would go a long way toward reassuring the townsfolk.
At short notice she had sent messengers to scour the town for the skilled performers who had fled the palace.
Broken Vows Page 32
