The Star Princess

by Susan Grant

  She clinked her bottle against his. “Damn right, they don’t.”

  He smiled. “Damn.”

  “That’s another bad word,” she warned sheepishly.

  “I know. Ian taught it to me.”

  “My goody-two-shoes brother?” she asked approvingly.

  Closing his eyes, Ché appeared to savor the taste of the icy ale before swallowing. His throat moved; the muscles in his jaw flexed. His eyes were heavylidded, as if he found the flavor of the ale pleasurable on a sensual level.

  Talk about decadence, the Vash royal lifestyle defined the word. Ché had probably sampled every extravagance available to the very privileged, and then some. And yet, she’d been able to introduce him to something new. She liked that, considering how much effort the Vash put into their cuisine, which also reminded her that she was about to serve him reheated leftovers. Well, he’d deal with it. Her staff was on vacation. Snort.

  “I like this ‘soccer’,” he said, his attention back on the game.

  “You and the rest of the population. It’s the mostwatched sport in the world. We have some great local teams. I played a few seasons on one. I can take you to a game, if you want to go.” She conjured a picture of wealthy, sophisticated Ché rooting for the home team on the rutted field behind Long’s Drugs.

  His eyes shifted from the TV to her. “You played with men?”

  She’d played with plenty of men, actually, but she had the feeling that was not what he was asking. “It was a women’s league.”

  He grew even more doubtful. “A team of females?”

  Her chin came up. “Yeah. So?”

  Ché’s initial disapproval melted into genuine interest. “Vash Nadah royal women…they do not play sports.”

  The remark sounded more like a statement of fact than a criticism, a way of coaxing her into telling him more. But it didn’t mean he didn’t deserve a sassy reply. “Getting down and dirty in the grass and mud—it’s the best way to reduce stress. Well, one of the best ways.” She smiled slowly, rubbing the cold lip of the bottle against her lips. “Your women ought to try it. I bet it’d do more for your sex lives than those old books of yours.”

  The sudden heat in his intense, searching gaze made her toes curl. From inside her bedroom, the computer that handled incoming messages from her family chimed. “I bet that’s Ian.” She jumped off the couch. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  She lunged for her bedroom and closed the door. She slid around, pressing her back to the wall, and took several deep breaths. Every cell in her body blazed. Especially where it counted the most. Ché was damned lucky she hadn’t ripped off his clothes so he could put out that fire.

  Desire clutched at her, stealing her breath. The sex would be sweaty and wild, and when it was over, they’d argue, passionately and naked, about his grossly old-fashioned points of view, and why the hell his people overprotected their women over ten centuries after the danger of evil warlords sweeping down from the stars to rape, pillage, and enslave had faded into the archives of history. She wouldn’t win that argument, not yet, and neither would he—not that he ever would—and they’d wind up making love all over again.

  Aching from temptation, she almost groaned. Her hands curled into fists to counter the sensation as she tried to shake off his effect on her. It was bad enough he’d been on her mind for months now; he was a waste-of-time obsession any way she looked at it.

  Again, the comm box beeped shrilly. “Okay, okay,” she muttered. Scowling, she crossed the room on stiff legs. She slapped her hand on the answer panel, opening a channel for interstellar communication. If Ian had been able to persuade an empire to come together, he’d sure as hell better be able to convince her why this was her lucky day.

  Chapter Seven

  A stream of data made its way toward Sienna, a harsh desert world harboring a palace as ancient as it was beautiful: the ancestral home of the B’kahs. Made possible by the ancient technology of a civilization whose origins were lost to history, the data coalesced into a hand-span-high, three-dimensional holographic image of the crown prince’s sister.

  The miniature appeared on the table in front of the comm, blue-white radiance slithering around its outmost edges. “Yo, Ian!”

  A towering man hefted his hulk of a body off a chair in the anteroom of the crown prince’s bedchamber. He lumbered across the room to fetch his charge and let him know that the image-call he’d put through several standard hours ago had finally connected.

  Officially, he was King Romlijhian B’kah’s bodyguard—a position he’d held since he was little more than a lad, over two standard decades now. But just as often of late, he found himself assigned to missions involving Ian Hamilton, Rom’s heir. It was difficult to decide which man he enjoyed working for more, the king or the prince.

  His adventures with each had nearly gotten him killed several times over, but always there were side benefits: new worlds to see and people to meet. He didn’t talk much, but he liked people, though not the ones he had to kill, the ones who tried to hurt the men he loyally served, the men he’d die defending. Still, he tried to concentrate on what he enjoyed about his job. On the last adventure, he’d been there when the crown prince found his bride-to-be, Tee’ah. And he’d got to see more of the galaxy’s frontier, the worlds on the outer rim of settled space, than he’d ever wanted. The grimy border towns, the sorry bars, the colorful inhabitants…what a time that had been. Dangerous, too, yes, but what was life without a bit of spark? He liked spark in his life—and in his women, too, when he could get them.

  He cracked a smile. Earthwomen—now, they had spark. His only regret was that he couldn’t have stayed longer on the planet to see how deep that spark went. They might have liked him, those female Earth-dwellers, he thought hopefully. Ilana, Ian’s sister, told him that his shoulders were as wide as one of their football player’s with full padding, and that was a good thing; and that being six-foot-eight and over three hundred pounds—in Earth measurements—won him a lot of second glances. If his attention hadn’t been so focused on protecting Ian Hamilton from the Vedlas, he might have noticed, too.

  He scratched his big hand over the stomach he worked at keeping hard. Ilana and her mother, Queen Jasmine, said that on Earth he’d have been called “Conan” or “Thor” or some such thing that meant nothing to him.

  Muffin sighed, shaking his head. He always had to explain it, all the time, to English speakers like Ian’s family. But they never seemed to understand that on his homeworld his given name personified rugged masculinity, a warrior’s unflagging endurance.

  Not a “sweet little breakfast cake.”

  Muffin stopped in front of the comm box. It sensed his proximity. A soft, melodic computer voice said, “Incoming message waiting.”

  “Acknowledged,” he replied. “Stand by.”

  An afterimage of Ilana Hamilton waited in suspended motion. It would come to life again once the call was answered.

  He paused to study the image of the prince’s twin sister, and the back of his neck tingled. Great Mother. He froze, his hand extended toward the comm. The sensation passed, and he drew his hand back slowly.

  He’d felt his neck prickle like that only rarely. But every time, the peculiar sensation preceded his life taking a different direction.

  A slow grin spread over his face. Ah, it looked like another adventure awaited him. He hadn’t asked the prince why he’d been summoned here this morning—it wasn’t his place to do so—but he now knew that he’d come here for a reason.

  He gained speed as he lumbered into the prince’s private chamber. Not too long ago, Rom had asked if he was ready to consider retirement. That had surprised Muffin. He was still relatively young, thirty-six standard years, and physically he was in top form. But Rom had said that anytime he desired, he would consider Muffin’s service to him and to the realm complete.

  Yet the idea of returning to his homeworld didn’t appeal. He’d only be coddled by his mother, and expec
ted to drink mugs of hot galag with his father and grandfathers during the long, frigid nights—and that, after having been begged by the village children to tell story after story of his exploits.

  Muffin told the king he’d think about it. Maybe in another few decades he’d make a decision.

  Ian met him at the door, a steaming cup of the Earth-brew coffee in his hands. The crown prince didn’t wear typical Vash Nadah capes and boots unless he was meeting with Federation visitors, preferring casual Earth attire when at the palace, including the blue jeans that Earth-dwellers favored.

  This morning, Ian also wore the look of contentment he’d had about him lately: a powerful new self-confidence. He’d also put on more muscle, Muffin noted approvingly. It must be the Bajha he played daily. The sport was a vigorous and ancient swordplay game that sharpened the senses and built stamina, both of which were valued highly by the Vash Nadah. As pacifistic as their society was, they strived never to forget their roots: the Eight original founding warriors who had long ago restored peace and life to a warring, dying galaxy.

  “Your call has arrived, sir,” Muffin announced in Siennan. After many head-wracking lessons, he’d finally achieved fluency in English, but he followed Ian’s rule, using Basic or Siennan when at the palace, and English when dealing with Earth or Ian’s sister.

  Ian walked over and sat at the console in front of the comm box. “Please stay here,” he told Muffin, then: “Security screens off.” The anteroom’s monitoring equipment went black.

  The prince turned his gaze to Muffin. “Only three other individuals besides me know of what I’m going to tell my sister.” There was a flicker of warning in those greenish Earth-dweller eyes. “Rom B’kah isn’t one of them.”

  Muffin held his tongue. He had no interest in politics, nor the experience to understand all its workings; only fierce devotion to the men he served and their families drove him. He went where he was told, and he protected those to whom he’d sworn loyalty. That was all.

  “Understood,” he replied, taking up a position behind and to the right of Ian, strategically placing himself between the prince and the door, from instinct more than necessity. There had never been danger to the B’kahs within the palace. But complacency killed.

  The prince answered the call. “Hey, Ilana,” he said in English.

  Ilana’s image flickered, disappeared for a moment, and then came alive. She leaned forward at the waist. “Well, look who finally showed up.”

  “I’ve been calling you,” Ian corrected.

  “So I heard. I’d have gotten back to you sooner if you’d left a message.”

  “The device doesn’t allow for that.”

  “I know.” She sighed, appearing tired to Muffin’s trained eye. He had a talent for observation of body language and other subtle characteristics often missed by others. Perhaps that was why Ian had called him here today.

  “I meant on the cell phone,” Ilana continued. “I had to work late. A reception.”

  “I couldn’t call your cell. I couldn’t risk anyone listening in. And I can’t now.”

  Her voice dropped. “What’s wrong?”

  Ian folded his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “Are you alone?”

  “You’re scaring me, Ian.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared about.”

  She walked closer. “The truth?”

  “The truth,” he reassured her, and repeated his question. “Are you alone?”

  “No,” she said, smiling as she drew out the word. “But he’s out of earshot—in the living room, a beer in one hand and a remote in the other.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “Now, would you mind telling me what the hell Ché Vedla’s doing on my couch?”

  Muffin almost keeled over. Ché Vedla was on Earth?

  The tension left Ian’s shoulders. “So he made it.”

  “Yep,” she said.

  Muffin couldn’t believe it. He’d encountered the unexpected many times in his years working for the royal family. Nothing much surprised or shocked him. But as hard as he tried, he couldn’t wrap his mind around the image of a Vedla making himself at home in an Earth-dweller’s household.

  Ian looked enormously pleased. He laced his fingers together and placed his hands on his stomach. “He wanted to take a vacation.”

  “That’s what he said, too. But, come on. A Vedla taking a holiday on Earth? What’s going on, Ian? What’s his family up to this time?”

  Muffin concentrated, glancing from Ian to his twin and back again.

  “Arranging a wedding,” Ian replied. “For him. Ché’s getting married in six months.”

  Muffin pondered the odd expression that flickered across Ilana’s features. “But isn’t that a little close to yours?” she asked.

  “Because of the situation with Tee’ah, we want Ché to marry before I do. It will preserve Vash pride and help the Vedlas save face.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I would never joke about matters concerning the Treatise of Trade.”

  Ilana appeared disgusted. “So who’s the lucky woman?”

  “His advisors are taking care of it.”

  “He’s letting his future wife be chosen by committee?” She shook her head. “How sad.”

  “That’s the way it’s done, Ilana.”

  “You agree with this? This is okay with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Ian’s firm, patient tone broadcast how comfortable he’d become in his leadership role. Only he didn’t sound like the Ian that Muffin knew.

  Ilana appeared perplexed by the change in Ian, as well. “I still don’t understand why he came to Earth.”

  “Because it was distant, remote, and not expected of him.”

  “I see.”

  She did? Muffin didn’t.

  “Ché wanted out of town, for lack of a better term. He didn’t want to be bothered with the details of wedding planning.”

  Ilana raised her hands like a shield. “Wedding fever.”

  The ends of Ian’s mouth twitched. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “Yeah. Totally.” She tucked loose tendrils of hair behind her ear. “How long is Ché going to be able to escape—er, I mean stay here?”

  “As soon as a wife candidate is found, he’ll fly home and seal the promise. It might be as early as a few weeks, or as long as a few months.”

  First, Ilana glowered. Then her face lit up. She shook her finger at Ian. “Ooh, tradition breach,” she scolded mockingly. “Royal engagements have to last a year. That means Ché’s off the hook until next summer.”

  “Actually, no. The Vedlas are going to backdate the documents to when Ché should have sealed his promise with Tee’ah. It’ll make it all legal.”

  Her arm dropped slowly. “They’re serious about this, aren’t they?”

  “It’s the Vedlas.”

  “True.” She sighed and shook her head. “Poor Ché. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Ilana, he doesn’t look at it that way.”

  “No. He probably doesn’t. He’s so…Vash. Vash follow the rules, especially when family pride’s involved.”

  “As it should be,” Ian said.

  Ilana gave him another strange look. So did Muffin. The crown prince and his sister shared a great love of Rom B’kah, but they differed in their views of the Federation and its eleven-thousand-year-old traditions. Though liberal for a prince, Ian was the more conservative of the two, while his sister seemed to rebel oftentimes for the sheer joy of doing it. While Ian knew to appear as a traditionalist when around the Great Council, to come across this hard-line when talking to his sister seemed…well, out of character.

  “This is scary, Ian,” she said. “You’re starting to sound like one of them.”

  “I am one of them.”

  Although Ian’s face was friendly, and he looked younger than his twenty-seven standard years, his eyes revealed the dogged strength of the man inside. “It’s my duty to keep stability and harmony i
n the realm.”

  Ilana’s eyes were no less intense. But in them, the spark of rebellion glittered. “It my duty to save Ché.”

  “Save him from what? Marriage?”

  “From the great sucking hole of Vash Nadah tradition.” She pushed her hair away from her face, revealing flushed cheeks and a frown. “You should see him, Ian. He pretends that nothing affects him. But it does. I’m not wearing the blinders that you all are. I can see. He’s wound up like a coiled spring. He can’t loosen up. I can see why, can’t you?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me, Ilana.”

  Ilana went on as if she hadn’t heard him. She probably hadn’t, Muffin thought. “Look at the year he’s had,” she said. “First, he’s demoted. Then his fiancée dumps him. Then he has to deal with his idiot brother’s shenanigans! He deserves a break. Hell, he needs one. He needs to loosen up.” An impish smile began in her bright blue eyes and spread to her mouth. “He needs to have some fun.”

  “Ilana,” Ian warned.

  “You’ll only encourage her,” Muffin cautioned under his breath.

  Ian’s eyes willed him into silence.

  Muffin hunched his bulky shoulders and frowned. Why didn’t the prince listen to sense? Admonitions would only goad his twin into defying him.

  Ilana screwed up her face. “I despise overbearing, arrogant, controlling men, but Ché’s very polite. Almost to a fault.” She brightened. “Despite my determination to provoke him.”

  Muffin made a sound in the back of his throat, imagining the two of them together, unsupervised.

  “It’s a facade that begs to be cracked, Ian. And I know just the women to do the cracking.”

  Ian pushed his tongue against the inside of his mouth.

  “I’ll introduce him to my friends,” she offered cheerily. “My single, attractive, eligible girlfriends.”