Garden of Desire: 1

by Delilah Devlin

  In defense against her attraction, he gave her his meanest look. “Have you ever lived by yourself, little girl?”

  Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t appear a bit impressed with his intimidation. “No. But I will have you know I have reached my seventeenth year and have had my woman’s menses since I was ten! I am a woman!”

  He nearly groaned. He didn’t need reminding she was a ripening peach.

  Her small, round chin lifted in defiance. “I have come to this planet to secure my freedom from men’s desires. I will learn to stand alone.”

  Cantor suddenly became aware that the noise from the crowd had died away and many of the people around them, hung on their words. Worse, many of the men were ogling the scantily clad figure of the termagant before him.

  “We’ll discuss this later.”

  “Beg you pardon, Governor. We need to get her settled—before dark.” Mary’s words drew his attention. Her full lips were pursed in a knowing smirk.

  Cantor could feel the familiar bonds of responsibility tightening around his neck. There was nothing for it. He heaved a dramatic sigh. “She’ll stay in my cabin.”

  * * * * *

  Martha hovered on the edge of the crowd, watching the exchange between Cantor and the dark-haired girl. Her heart had lodged in her throat when she’d witnessed his initial interest in the other woman. She’d seen it in the quickening of his body, so attuned had she become over the past months to his every movement and expression.

  Her hands fisted at her sides. Months of tempting him with special dishes she’d cooked herself, teasing laughter, fleeting touches, and bolder, carnal caresses hadn’t produced the heat one glance from the sloe-eyed woman had accomplished.

  When she heard the word “virgin” murmured by the men in the crowd around her, she knew she couldn’t compete with the allure of innocence. If that was what it took to draw Cantor’s interest, she was without hope. But as she continued to watch, Cantor grew rigid, his body rejecting the other woman’s appeal even as his gaze clung hungrily to her winsome face.

  Instantly, she realized he wouldn’t take the woman’s innocence. Martha should have felt relieved, but she was puzzled. Why wouldn’t he lay claim to her? Any man would consider a virgin a prize—a chance to form a lover into his own ideal partner without the competition of comparison with any other man’s performance.

  She fought the bitter knowledge of his attraction and refused to allow the picture of the two of them standing toe-to-toe, only a breath between them, to feed her jealousy. A cool mind was what was needed now to fight this new impediment to her happiness. For Martha knew Cantor’s strong hands, battle-hardened body, and mule-stubborn disposition held the key to her contentment. Any man who could resist commitment so passionately had a strong sense of honor, and would embrace love, when he found it, until the day he died.

  The tall, blond Adonis would be hers—if only she could find a way to steal his heart.

  Thief that she was, she slipped closer to the small group encircling the woman, hoping to overhear their conversation and find some nugget of information she could use.

  Near enough now to hear Cantor’s sigh of resignation, her heart thudded when she heard him say, “She’ll stay in my cabin.”

  Anger shook her, tightening her belly. Her throat closed on bile that threatened to choke her. The witch had been here only minutes and already she would share his home. Think! The rigid set of Cantor’s jaw betrayed how tightly he held his attraction in check. Martha could have wept, but her tears wouldn’t solve a thing.

  She came to a quick decision. Like it or not, the new girl held the key.

  She slipped between Darak and Mary. “Hi, Cantor, Mary.” She turned expectantly to the dark-haired girl who gave her a shyly inquisitive glance. “You’re not from the New Attica.”

  “No, I am from Arturia.” Her voice was soft and girlish, with a lilt that made her words sound like a song.

  Martha gritted her teeth against a little pain that pressed inside her chest. “Can I help you get unpacked?”

  “I have only these clothes,” she said indicating her skimpy outfit. “Nothing to unpack.”

  “Oh, well we need to find you some extra clothing. It gets cool here at night.” Martha forced a friendly smile. “I’m Martha.”

  The girl nodded. “I am called…Little Flower.”

  Martha heard the hesitation and wondered about it. She’d soon learn all the girl’s secrets, but first she needed to get her away from Cantor. Turning to him, she said, “Would you like me to take her to the storeroom and get her a few things?”

  Cantor’s smile was a little grim as he dragged his stare to her. “I’d appreciate that, Martha.” He immediately turned to Darak and his face grew surly. “Now, where are the bloody, goddamned mattresses?”

  Darak’s eyebrows shot up. “Aft.”

  “Yeah, I’d say he’s daft,” Mary muttered.

  Cantor leveled a blazing stare on the black woman. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”

  “Nope. I can see my work here’s done.” With a quick flash of her large white teeth she leaned toward Darak and gave him a loud, smacking kiss. “Don’t make me hunt you down.”

  “Never, my love.” Darak blushed under Cantor’s searing gaze. “I’ll go see about those mattresses.” He turned and quickly disappeared into the crowd.

  Martha summoned another smile. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  “Wait a minute, Martha.”

  Cantor’s deep voice slid silkily down her spine, and she couldn’t repress a shiver. “Yes?”

  “You’re to stay with…Little Flower. Get her clothing, introduce her around, and take her to the galley for dinner. She’s staying with me, so make sure you show her the path.”

  “Oh, I know the way,” she replied, proud she’d kept her expression guileless.

  Cantor rocked back on his heels, appearing to want to say something.

  “Is there anything else?” Martha asked.

  He frowned and shook his head. “No, I’ve work to do.” His glance swept the girl from head to foot, then he walked off, his shoulders stiff.

  Martha turned to her new charge. “Little Flower. Is that really your name?”

  The girl blushed and looked at the ground, sifting the blades of grass with her bare toes. “No. Darak calls me that. He thinks my real name is not very pretty.”

  “The cad! What is it, then?”

  “Fahgwat,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She glanced up from beneath her long, silky eyelashes.

  Martha wished she could manage to make a glance look that sweet and beguiling all at once. Blast the girl! “Fahgwat?” Martha grimaced. She’d thought her parents didn’t love her! “It must mean something very pretty in your language.”

  Fahgwat smiled shyly. “I am named for little purple flowers that grow in desert rocks.”

  Martha wished she could be mean, but the girl’s expectant stare took the anger and the jealousy right out her like a quickly deflating balloon. She was so young, and Martha didn’t have the heart to be cruel. Telling herself she needed to be kind to keep her close, she said, “I think it’s a fine name, but maybe we could soften it. Do you have a nickname?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Well, Little Flower’s a mouthful, but since you’re named for a purple flower, how do you like the name Violet? Violets are pretty purple flowers on Earth.”

  “Violet is also my favorite color,” the girl said, touching the fabric of her skirt.

  Reminded of the lascivious glance Cantor had swept over the girl’s hips, Martha said, “We really do need to find you something else to wear.” Taking Violet’s hand, Martha led her down the rock-lined path toward the communal longhouse.

  “Do you think he was very annoyed with me?”

  Martha took a deep breath. “Who?” she asked, pretending she didn’t know.

  “Can-torr.”

  Dear God! Martha groaned inwardly. The man would come in his
pants the first time he heard her say his name like that. The last syllable purred, for chrissakes! Hell, her own toes curled in her sandals. The pain grew inside Martha’s chest. How could she compete with Little Miss Exotic?

  “He does not like me.”

  “He likes you just fine,” Martha said, tamping down her jealousy.

  “Then why did he look so angry?”

  Martha sighed and stopped in the middle of the path. “Men are strange creatures. When they like someone, they try not to show it.”

  “Why?” Fahgwat’s doe-like eyes stared up at her.

  Martha wanted to shake her. “Because, they think it gives a woman power over them.”

  A little frown creased the smooth skin between the girl’s dark brows. “I have a lot to learn if I am to make him mine.”

  Martha felt her mouth grow lax. Shit! “You want Cantor?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt like an idiot. What woman wouldn’t?

  “Yes,” the girl nodded, eager as a puppy. “I love him.”

  “But…you just met him. How can you know?”

  Fahgwat’s gaze slid away, and her cheeks grew rosy. “I just know. He makes my woman’s place wet.”

  Martha forced a stiff smile onto her lips. “You’re describing lust.”

  “Oh, I know it is love. I never feel this way when I look upon other men.” Fahgwat sighed. “But such a virr-ile man must have many wives.”

  Martha looked at her curiously. “Would that bother you?”

  “That he has many wives?” At Martha’s nod, she said, “No. Such a man would need many to satisfy him. Besides, I do not want to be a wife.”

  “To Cantor?” How anyone wouldn’t want Cantor as a husband was beyond Martha, she wanted him so badly herself.

  “Not to any man.”

  That surprised her. Someone as lovely and untried as this girl needed a keeper in a rough place like this. “Why not?”

  Fahgwat’s expression turned solemn. “I was raised to serve a man, but I escaped that prison. Why would I seek another? You should understand that.”

  Martha felt the last of her resentment melt away. “I do understand, but I don’t equate marriage to prison—or a ha’arem. Not if I were married to the right man.”

  Fahgwat gave her a glance that was unnerving in its directness. “Do you love him?”

  Martha didn’t try to pretend this time she didn’t know whom she meant. “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “If you don’t want to be his wife, then what do you want?”

  Fahgwat shrugged. “I am not sure. But I would like to learn about love.”

  Martha smiled then. Just looking at Cantor had her wanting sex all the time, too. “And lovemaking?”

  Her cheeks dimpled with delight. “Oh, yes!”

  Martha felt her mouth stretch into a smile. “Cantor doesn’t have any wives. I’m not sure he wants even one.”

  Fahgwat blew out a breath. “I was afraid he had many.”

  “Why would it matter if you don’t want to be his wife?”

  “Only because I thought he would not notice me. His other wives might have been more knowledgeable of his desires.”

  “Do you want to learn about…his desires?”

  “Oh yes! I would learn what pleases him.”

  “And what about you? Would you want to be pleased as well?”

  Fahgwat gave her a sly smile. “How can a man like that fail to please a woman? He is very well made.”

  “He is indeed,” Martha murmured. A very wicked idea blossomed. “Remember what I said about men trying not to show women how much they like them?”

  Fahgwat nodded.

  Martha put her hands on Fahgwat’s shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “Sometimes, men have to be made to tell. Sometimes, they have to be seduced.”

  Fahgwat’s nod was slower this time. “But I have never seduced a man. I mean, my mother and aunts have told me how to work upon a man’s staff, but I have never actually…”

  Martha’s eyebrows rose. “Well, every man’s a little different. Would you like to learn what pleases Cantor?”

  “Do you know? Have you…”

  Watching the younger woman’s face light with curiosity, the idea became fully rooted. “Yes, but he won’t be bound by sex. Actually, I think he’s spoiled.”

  Fahgwat’s head canted. “Spoiled?”

  “Women fall all over him. Me, included.” She wrinkled her nose. “He gets what he wants too easily.”

  “Ah!” Fahgwat grinned. “Like a child with too many toys. He expects them.”

  “Exactly.” She gave the other woman an approving smile. “You know, I don’t think you’re as fluffy as you look.”

  “Fluffy?”

  “Never mind. Fahgwat, I think we can help each other out.” Wrapping an arm around the shoulder of her newest friend, Martha guided her down the path.

  Chapter Four

  Cantor paused outside his cabin door at the sound of feminine laughter coming from inside. More than one woman awaited him. For once, he was relieved.

  He’d avoided Little Flower—Daisy—whatever her real name was—all afternoon and evening, using every problem brought to him as a pretext for delaying the inevitable contact.

  He’d taken his dinner with the men selected to guard the sheep that night, huddled around a blazing fire while listening to their endless bragging. Hearing of their sexual exploits had done nothing to cool the heat his body had carried all day from the first sight of the lovely virgin.

  Lovely…untouchable…virgin.

  He’d helped to pull a large piece of farm machinery from where it had become mired in a low-lying trough. He’d climbed a tree to retrieve a lacy bit of underwear that had blown away from a clothesline, and narrowly escaped the owner’s grateful, full-on-the-lips kiss.

  He’d settled no less than three arguments among the ex-cons, listening endlessly to their convoluted, impossibly illogical opinions until his head ached. The last had firmed his decision to flee the planet at the first opportunity. It had been a fight over a bloody window.

  He’d taken his noontime meal in the communal longhouse, when three women approached with their petition. Their request involved a bed beneath a window in the women’s dorm that was vacated when one of Doc’s nurses moved into his cabin.

  “Why do you all want the bed with the window?” he’d asked.

  “Because the sunshine’s so cheerful,” was the answer he’d gotten.

  “How does that matter if you’re busy with your chores during the day?”

  “I’d love a breeze caressing my skin at night,” one said, casting him a saucy glance. “It gets very hot,” she’d said, as she walked her fingers up his chest.

  “But you’d freeze your arse off in the winter,” he replied. He had thought to end this ridiculous line of conversation, when he asked, “What makes any one of you more worthy of the window?”

  This question launched a lengthy debate over the comparative gravity of their crimes, the severity of their sentences, the length of their menses, and finally, their body weight.

  In the end, Cantor showed them the Wisdom of Solomon and ordered the window boarded up.

  He had exhausted himself a-purpose this day. He had to protect the girl from his low-down, horny-dog cock. The thing threatened to overcome his best intentions. No amount of deep-breathing meditation would bring it down. He’d walked around with his shirt outside his pants to hide his sorry condition the whole bloody, goddamned day.

  He’d taken himself in hand—twice—to relieve his blue-ball hard-on. As helpless as any teenaged male against the onslaught of testosterone, bathing his brain with images of dark, dusky nipples, smooth-as-silk nether lips, and beguiling brown eyes. Even now his cock was heavy and full, pressing painfully behind the placket of his breeches.

  Thank God, he’d had an extra mattress sent to his cabin. He’d give the girl the bed and make due with the mattress on the cold floor. So long as he didn’t have to bear the
torture of sleeping inches from her, he might calm his “inches” long enough to get some sleep.

  He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Two heads, one light, one dark turned toward him. Two pairs of puppy-dog brown eyes stared at him. Now along with the pressure in his cock, he felt tension cinch around his neck.

  Martha! His stomach knotted. He didn’t want to hurt Martha any more than he already had…but then again, she did know the score. Her expression appeared a little strained and furtive, and then she licked her lips and dipped her eyelids. Halleluiah! Now, how would he convince her to step outside the door for a quick poke without embarrassing the girl? Immediately, he felt shame wash over him. Martha definitely deserved better than to be used to simply ease an ache.

  Then he noticed the two sat cross-legged on his bed, wearing short shifts that couldn’t possibly hide their mons should he walk deeper inside. Light from no less than six phospher-pots were placed around the room, chasing away the shadows.

  Sweat broke on his forehead despite the cool air at his back. “Good even, ladies.”

  “Hi, Cantor,” Martha chimed brightly, and then she nudged Little Flower.

  “Hello, Can-torr.”

  He sucked in a deep breath and nearly turned to flee the cabin. The girl’s sweet voice rolled the R’s like a kitten’s purr. His treacherous body tightened hard as a rock. Walking stiff-legged into the room, he closed the door behind him, shutting himself inside with their sweet scents. He tried not to breathe too deeply, but Martha’s petal-soft smell mingled with a fresh, minty-spice that he knew must be the girl’s.

  A desperate glance around the room and he realized something was wrong. “Where’s the damn mattress?” he asked, dismay making his voice harsh.

  “We had it taken back. There are so many far more crowded than you are, Cantor,” Martha replied, her eyes alight with merriment.

  Cantor’s narrowed, suspicion creeping into his testosterone-soaked brain that Martha was up to something.

  “Turn around, Violet,” Martha said. “Let me braid your hair for bed.”