by P. J. Fox
“Oh,” she said.
“What?” he asked.
“I just…I didn’t think that, given….” Neglecting the thought, she stared down at her plate.
“You thought that, because some men choose to become involved with more than one woman, that no one values love?”
His words so closely mirrored her own thoughts that she looked up, shocked.
“I can see why that would upset you.” He seemed pleased, which made no sense.
“If two people are in love,” she told him, “then there isn’t room for anyone else.”
“Not all relationships are about love,” he pointed out gently.
“Then what’s the point?” she asked, acutely aware that he regarded her as young and naïve. “If there’s no fidelity, no trust….”
“There are both.” His eyes glittered in the low light. “Sex is recreation, but love is a conscious act of devotion. And we Bronte are great ones for love.” His smile was dark and unfathomable and her breath caught. “Blow O wind,” he quoted softly, “to where my loved one is. Touch him and come to me soon, and I shall feel his gentle touch through you and meet his beauty in the cold light of the moon. These things are much for the one who loves. I can live by them alone: that he and I breathe the same air and that the earth we tread is one.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “That’s lovely.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And sad. It’s from an ancient poem about two lovers, soul mates, who are forced to separate forever because the woman’s father has promised her to someone else. They marry in secret and then she marries her husband, whom she lives with for many years. And then, when her lover finds out that she’s died in childbirth, he commits suicide.”
A uniformed waiter appeared with chocolate soufflé.
That was, Aria decided, the most depressing story she’d ever heard.
“The point,” he told her, “is that their love was so great, nothing could change it. One night together was enough—had to be enough—to sustain them through decades of separation.”
“And you think such love exists?”
“Yes.”
She broke eye contact and, with it, the strange spell that had begun to form around them. Reality rushed over her like a cold wind. What was she doing, talking to this man about love? There was so much they needed to talk about: Hannah, the other girls, her moral opposition to Garja’s status as a slave and confusion about why she’d been given a maid in the first place. But they’d talked about none of these things and, now, she didn’t know how to bring them up or what his reaction would be.
“I apologize if that was…forward,” he said stiffly.
“I think,” she replied, “that I’d like to go for a walk.” She’d spent most of the last week cooped up in one room or another and it would feel good to stretch her legs, even if her destinations were limited. She smiled slightly. “I don’t know how you stand being in space for month after month! I’ve been on this ship for a week and I’d give anything to see a tree.”
“Then,” he said, brightening, “I have something to show you.”
The ship was much quieter at night, or what had been deemed night by the ship’s clocks. Apart from the occasional junior officer or small group of enlisted men, the halls were deserted. Without the noise and confusion to distract her, Aria was shocked by how large the ship seemed. Three thousand people on forty-two decks was a small town unto itself—and Kisten was responsible for administering it all. No wonder he looked so tired all the time.
They walked slowly, conversing in low tones, and some of their earlier familiarity began to return. He hadn’t touched her since she’d stumbled out of his embrace, not even to offer her his arm. He seemed relaxed, though, using his hands to illustrate his points as he answered her questions about the ship and, eventually, his own family. “So you see,” he finished, “out of the four siblings I’m fond of two, ambivalent about one and I loathe the other. Although fortunately, my father’s repeated questioning of Arjun’s paternity has been in jest.”
Aria laughed. “Your family sounds interesting.”
“Oh, they are.”
“It must be nice,” she mused, almost to herself, “to be close with one’s family.”
“Not if I never see them again,” he said abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, caught off balance.
“No,” he said with some conviction, “I’m sorry. That was unfair.”
“I suppose that—we’re both alone in the world.”
Kisten stopped. Turning, he looked down at her. She was uncomfortably aware that they were alone.
Abruptly, he stepped back and opened the door. “We’re here.”
Entering the vaulted chamber beyond, her fears and worries were blown away by a rush of amazement. Soft, rose-colored light gave her the feeling of walking out into the dawn. She sucked in her breath, astonished. Above her towered trees of every possible shape, size and description. Row after row of low benches were covered with specimen trays—fruits, vegetables and herbs, some she recognized and some she didn’t. And there were flowers, too, roses and tulips and other, equally beautiful riots of color that she’d never seen before. The air was rich with loam and rain and growing things. She breathed it in, so overwhelmed that she could have cried.
“This is magical,” she breathed.
“The light levels change,” he explained, “depending on the time of day.”
Aria reached out and gently ran her fingertips over the bark of a dwarf maple tree. Its gnarled trunk was beautiful, its crimson leaves even more so. And then, she reached out and touched a leaf. Her movements were hesitant, as if she feared that the tree was an illusion and might disappear. It had been so long since she’d seen a tree, a real tree, that it felt like an illusion.
“It rains in here, too,” he told her.
She looked up and, high above, she could see the crisscrossing pipes of what must be some sort of permanent irrigation system.
“A certain admiral got caught in a minor downpour earlier today.” She heard the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.
They moved deeper into the ersatz woods, skirting the enormous tubs that held the trees. This collection, Kisten explained, was part of an agricultural project sponsored by one of the universities; additional specimens had been requested and Kisten was bringing them with him. Travel to and from the rim colonies was arduous and time-consuming, even with their superior technology, which meant that every trip had to of necessity serve multiple purposes.
“Tarsonis is barely inhabited, with most of its population concentrated in two or three different locations—and the soil conditions are terrible in all of them. I’m hoping to improve them, with the ultimate aim of the population being able to grow enough to feed itself. Right now, the entire planet is dependent on outside aid, which is dangerous. Before we brought Tarsonis into the Alliance, famine was a fact of life.”
“You want to help these people,” she said.
“I don’t know the first thing about governing a planet, but I do know how to run a ship.”
“This is all very strange,” she murmured softly.
“What?” he asked, the same note of amusement creeping back into his voice, “the fact that I’m confusing planets and ships?”
She turned. “No…having this conversation. So much has happened over the past few days, I don’t know how to adjust.” She turned, and her eyes met his. “It’s like living in a dream.”
“I know,” he said, that same odd note back in his voice.
He took a step toward her. He seemed very close. Her heart was beating too fast again, and her throat had gone dry. She was aware of him in a way she’d never been aware of Aiden, whom she’d loved. She swallowed. It seemed strange that there was no birdsong, no grass. Silence reigned. She felt like he should be able to hear her heart, like it was the loudest sound in the world. She didn’t move, and neither did he. He seemed to be fighting some sort of inner battle with hi
mself. She moistened her lips with her tongue, and his breath caught. She felt very small all of a sudden, and very vulnerable.
She tried to sound confident, sure of herself, but she couldn’t manage much more than a whisper. “You’re high-handed,” she said, “and spoiled—and the fact that you’ve announced my future plans to me, without my input has done nothing to diminish these conclusions, I can assure you.” She licked her lips again. “Since our first conversation, you’ve been utterly insufferable and….”
He caressed her cheek with his fingertips, and she trailed off. His face was inches from hers; she could smell his cologne and see the tiny gold flecks hidden in the violet of his eyes. With that touch, the air became tense as something shot between them.
“Of course I’m spoiled,” he said, the amusement now gone from his voice, “I’m a prince. But I’m also a good man.”
She opened her mouth and all that came out was a despairing noise. “Please,” she whispered, “I’m so scared.”
He pulled her to him, crushing her against him with a force he hadn’t used before. She stiffened in shock, wrenching back violently, instinctively, but this time he refused to let her go. She tried to protest and then his mouth came down on hers and all thoughts of protest fled as she felt herself fall into his arms. His lips were cool and firm and assured, like his fingers. She’d kissed Aiden, of course, but it hadn’t been like this; Aiden had been hot and rushed and anxious, his touch demanding. But Kisten’s kiss was unhurried and wonderful. He opened her lips gently to his own as he slid his hand up the nape of her neck and into her hair.
He kept his other hand on the small of her back, holding her to him possessively. She tried to think and discovered she couldn’t, and the whole world was nothing more than the circle of his arms.
“Darling,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, and so much was in that one word. “Stay with me.”
Those few words were like a bucket of ice water to her face. She twisted free of him, unable to believe what had just happened. What she’d just let happen. Thin chest heaving, she shook with rage and shock and, most of all, humiliation at having let herself enjoy it. That same, bewildering pain was back. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
Kisten’s face was a mask, and he made no move toward her.
“You’re taking advantage of me,” she cried, “that’s what! You’re—”
Her voice broke on a sob. He still hadn’t moved.
“Aria I—”
“I hate you!”
The moment held and then, unable to bear the tension, she turned and fled. She didn’t want to hear his voice or see his face; all she wanted at that moment was to crawl into a hole and pretend that she’d never met him. Oh, if she could only escape this ship!
SIXTEEN
Kisten made no move to follow her.
He wished, more than anything, that he hadn’t given up smoking.
He’d been pleased by Aria’s comment at dinner, something to the effect that she’d been upset because she thought his people didn’t value love. Which suggested, to him at least, that she might at least consider the possibility of a life here. If she disliked the idea of seeing him with another woman, then surely that meant she had to have some interest; otherwise, why should she care? Now, of course, he had to consider the second and far less palatable option: that she disliked him as much as she claimed and that she’d been nothing more than truthful in expressing contempt for a culture that she found morally reprehensible.
Kisten knew almost nothing about Solarian culture except what he’d been taught in school and, now, what he’d learned from Aria and the other girls. He’d had a number of chats with Autumn, a precocious and unpleasant child who reminded him of nothing so much as an ill-tempered tiger cub—and of a particular human being he knew, as well, but that revelation would have to wait. It would all have to wait, as he had a great deal of work to do between now and their arrival on Tarsonis and not nearly enough time to do it all in.
God, he needed sleep.
He cursed, furious with himself and the world around him.
While he walked, he thought. He found it difficult to focus on work, his thoughts turning of their own accord to Brontes, and his family, and what could have gone wrong with Aria. She’d wanted him, too; if she hadn’t, she would have pulled back immediately instead of returning his kiss.
He would have liked to show her Brontes. Brontes was a large, heavily populated planet and beautiful. From the frozen tundra in the north to the jungles that ranged along the equator, its eight continents were climatically diverse and home to many different cultures and peoples. His own province of Shadowmarch was famous for its natural beauty and had been referred to for centuries as the “Land of the Gods.” Famous for its peaks and glaciers, it was also heavily forested. Before Brontes won independence, Union loggers had deforested almost the entire province. Millennia later, the evidence was long gone but to Kisten that history was a powerful reminder of what could happen when power grew out of check.
Myriad glacial melts and streams came together to birth the two largest rivers on that continent. Kisten, whose family had split their time between their ancestral home in the mountains and their palace in the capital, had grown up swimming in them. The most beautiful place in the world was, to him, the so-called Valley of Flowers, a vast expanse of rolling meadows that played host to thousands of different alpine species. Blue sheep and brown bear wandered among the cobra lilies, poppies, and other exotics that existed nowhere else.
He wondered if he’d ever see it again.
Of late, his dreams of snow-capped peaks had begun to include her. Seeing them again with her.
He felt himself seized by sudden, irrational rage. He didn’t need this right now. He had a horrible task ahead of him, not to mention the even more arduous challenge of winning back his position at court. Both would take years, if not decades and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. He had a life, he had goals and God, she was just some woman. She was no one; he barely knew her, and she’d made it clear that she detested him. Why couldn’t he just let her go?
He’d never lacked for female companionship. Not inclined to false modesty, he knew that women found him attractive. He found himself attractive. He’d never had any interest in marriage, contenting himself instead with the kind of woman who wanted what he chose to give.
And now? Aria was no man’s mistress; after how she’d treated him, could he say for certain that he even wanted to bed her? He liked pliant, agreeable women, not sniping shrews.
Stepping out of the aft cargo lift, he strode down the hall. Seeing his face, the few crewmen he passed stepped quickly aside. He had work to do, work she’d kept him from with her ridiculous whining. She was a brat, was her problem. A goddamned rudderless brat.
What made him even angrier was the fact that her culture, which she claimed was so wonderful, made no sense. As he understood the situation, the only ones liberated by this so-called women’s liberation were the men. Women were supposed to succeed in their chosen careers as well as be feminine and alluring—and men, by their interest or lack thereof, dictated what those terms meant. Solarian women sounded like virtual slaves to their men.
On Brontes, a woman was not expected to fend for herself, to act as breadwinner and childcare provider and confidante and harlot all at the same time. The men in her life had a responsibility to her, to provide for her so she could seek learning and wisdom and be a supportive and pleasing partner, all as the Scriptures provided. But Solarian women were demeaned to such an extent that their very bodies were seen as public objects for a man’s gratification. Men watched them in public, in advertisements, and even—although he had trouble crediting this—bought pictures and even films of them to use for sexual gratification. The whole notion disgusted him. If a man sought pleasure from a woman, whether they were married or no, he should accept responsibility for her wellbeing—and, of course, for her children’s wellbeing as well.
Aria’s pe
ople disposed of women like garbage, and she called him barbarian?
Fidelity was giving oneself, completely and totally, to one’s spouse. If he found another woman attractive, so what? He was certain that Aria didn’t see a man pleasuring himself as dishonoring the marital bond. What he had been raised to believe was that he had a duty to both understand and take responsibility for his own needs so that he could, in turn, meet the needs of others. Infidelity had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with emotion.
He wanted her to want him, not some fantastical notion of what a relationship was supposed to be about.
And, God, he wanted to strangle the teasing little minx.
He fought back the exhaustion and depression that threatened to overwhelm him. He was going to go back to his office, finish the report he’d been writing earlier, and then have a stiff drink and pass out. He might even sleep in his own bed, and damn her if she didn’t like it.
He turned the corner, pacing down another broad hall.
Perhaps, it occurred to him, she’d mistaken his intentions and thought—
Hearing footsteps, he stopped. Someone was running behind him. He turned.
It was Lieutenant Lusha. He stopped, chest heaving. “Commander!”
Kisten saw the look on the man’s face, and ran.
SEVENTEEN
Soon, Kisten forgot about Aria entirely.
“How long?” he asked, striding down the hall next to his lieutenant. “And get me a suit,” he barked at the frightened-looking ensign who’d just joined them. It seemed that people had been looking for him—thank God, not for long. He was supposed to be off duty, although that particular term hadn’t held much meaning for Kisten since he was about twenty years old.
