Devoted Deceptions, A 4th Millennium Adventure, Book 3

by Cherie Singer

  "For one, he remembers the shrouder, but assumes Space Corps has dismantled the device."

  "True, or so he makes it seem."

  "The captain apparently has no idea your sister is using the equipment. Once again, he can't recall anything that might tie you to him."

  Nothing seemed to make sense any more. Pessimism would keep her from being disappointed. "I think he does remember, but has no intention of resuming every aspect of our life together. The facts are quite plain to me."

  "Space debris!" Albright sat on the corner of her desk, blew out a huff of air. "You're so accustomed to depending on your empathic talents to guide you...well, quite simply, you're lost without them. And that's driving you crazy."

  "You can say that again. I've made the mistake of taking the ability for granted. I never realized to what extent."

  "How do you think people like me get along? Instinct, intuition, that's how. You've always told me about outstanding Bellon instincts. This is an opportunity to allow your natural insights to develop without relying on the Erosian attributes."

  "An opportunity, huh? Sounds bloody easy when you put it into words." Cat put a palm to each temple and pushed, as though trying to squeeze the missing talent out of hiding. She detested this helpless feeling! "I can't seem to think clearly. Too tired, I guess."

  "Lack of sleep will do that to the sanest person. I can only imagine what the result can be on Bellons."

  "Your encouragement is so heartfelt."

  "Okay, so you're not exactly in a lighthearted mood. My advice is to spend some time with Garrett and Morgan. They'll be leaving soon enough. Once they're safe, you can finally sleep. Oops, that reminds me; make sure you see me after they've gone so we can do something about the abrupt stop in nursing. I still have the dosage ready from before."

  Already mourning the children's absences, Cat tried to crowd her impending loneliness into a neat little corner to be ignored. An impossibility. "Nora? I don't know how much longer I can cope with this mess. In some ways, this is worse than when Wulfe and I were separated. He's here, so close, but I can't touch him or say the things I want--need--to say. I feel completely ineffectual. Dammit, I miss my husband!"

  "Then imagine how the captain must feel, knowing he can't recall everything and not knowing how critical the lost information might be." Albright draped a comforting arm around Cat's shoulders and squeezed. "Believe it or not, things will come right. I hesitate to say this, but all you need is a little more patience."

  "Patience is not a Bellon personality trait."

  "Boy, don't I know it," Albright lamented on a sigh.

  DETERMINED TO discover why the chess game, or rather the aimless maneuvering of the chess pieces, had disturbed her so, Wulfe followed the sound of Catherine's gentle voice. He stood at the edge of a small clearing in the ship's arboretum, transfixed by the sight. Catherine swept the thick wealth of mahogany-colored curls to one side--hair that would feel like silk and velvet--leaving her face in profile. He'd never seen so much strength in such a delicate bone structure.

  She knelt next to a naked babe while she fastened the top half of her uniform closed. The boy child waved his arms and legs, cooing in response to Catherine's smile and soft tone.

  Catherine had a child on board? A young babe? Catherine had been aboard the Falchion for several months, so did that `unknown' father remain part of the crew? Which man?

  "I vow, Garrett, every day you outgrow at least one piece of clothing. At this rate, you could challenge even your father by your twentieth cycle." She touched the babe's cheek. "I would advise you not..." her voice broke and trailed off, "...father...strongest warrior I've ever known."

  Who was this warrior Catherine believed to be so strong? A flush of jealousy moved over Wulfe, quickly followed by the memory of the first time he'd challenged his father. He'd just attained his own twentieth cycle. Raptor wasted no time in knocking him back down to size and the proper level of respect demanded from a Bellon son. A fleeting moment of nostalgia, a yearning for their harshly beautiful homeworld, washed over Wulfe. He sighed in response.

  Catherine whirled in a defensive crouch. The movement placed her body between him and the helpless child. She grabbed at air near her right thigh and muttered a soft oath, then relaxed as her searching gaze found him. "Wul--Captain. I didn't hear you approach."

  Her body posture eased. She reached for some sort of miniature clothing and turned toward the babe. The smile reappeared on her face, obscuring the facade of the duty-minded officer he'd become accustomed to seeing.

  "He-e-e-lp!" The high-pitched, childish shriek destroyed the serenity of the arboretum. A loud splash punctuated the end of the yell, leaving only ominous silence.

  "Stars and space dust! That's Morgan!" Catherine jumped up, threw the tiny piece of loose cloth at Wulfe, bounded through the bushes in the direction of the sounds. "Watch the babe!"

  Wulfe gaped at the child while Catherine raced away. He stared at the cloth-like article in his hand. Obviously meant for the babe, but...the exact purpose eluded him. What the narg was he supposed to do now? Find a nurse here in the trees? He paused to listen, waiting to see if Catherine would call for help. Not likely that Commander Efficiency would do so.

  The child--Garrett, had she said?--stared back at him and then smiled a sweet, innocent expression of absolute acceptance. A sensation of warmth and enchanted awe filled Wulfe. He sank to the ground. "Your father has no idea what he's missing."

  He studied the child, not believing his eyes. Bellon! The child carried Bellon blood. A lot of it, from the looks of him. Wulfe shook his head. Couldn't be. Catherine's tiny body never should have been able to sustain the life of this robust child. He knew without a doubt, though, that the babe belonged to Catherine. Wulfe leaned over the child and grinned. "You have your mother's remarkable eyes, young warrior."

  The vicious little fiend repaid the honorable compliment by aiming a golden stream at Wulfe's beard. Wulfe dodged sideways. The arching liquid caught him at waist level, across his crotch and down the leg of his uniform.

  "Argh!" His initial roar of outrage quickly transformed into laughter. Caught off guard by a warrior only a fraction of his size! Purely in self-defense, Wulfe fastened the cloth-like rectangle around the boy. He picked up Garrett and settled him along his forearm. "You won't get the chance to do that to me again, you little commando. You are too much like your mother for your own good. Have you been taking lessons from her?"

  Catherine charged back into the clearing. She carried a young girl, both of them drenched through. "I heard you yell. What's wrong?" Setting the girl on her feet, Catherine pointed at Wulfe and laughed until she sounded breathless. "You're a bit wet around the edges, but I must admit the diapering job has been done quite competently."

  Wulfe glanced at the swathed babe in the crook of his arm, almost surprised to see him resting so easily there. Moments ago, he wouldn't have believed himself capable of putting up with such a fragile being, let alone hold him and have the child's nearness feel so right. "I managed, for my first time."

  Catherine moved closer, her left eyebrow arched upward. "Looks expertly done to me. Sure you haven't done this before?"

  Wulfe squared his shoulders and tried to change the abruptly uncomfortable subject. Fierce pain shot through his head. "The babe's been smiling. Your son seems to like me."

  "Uh-huh, sure he does." Catherine moved Wulfe's arm so the boy lay in a more upright position. The little monster he held burped. "Gas," Catherine said with a roll of her eyes.

  The girl, about six or seven cycles, watched him with wide-eyed consternation and then giggled. She looked absolutely nothing like Catherine. Instead, Morgan appeared enough like a Bellon she might be mistaken for a Fullblood. So much so, she reminded Wulfe of his own brother at that age. Obviously born of a far different union than the babe, who carried overt traits of both Earther and Bellon.

  Wulfe glanced at Catherine. Unions with two different Bellons? Unlikely. He imm
ediately thought of Mykal Lyon. Catherine and Mykal seemed so comfortable together, and with the security chief being only a Halfblood, a mating between them shouldn't cause serious harm to Catherine. Fullbloods, in the throes of mating lust, had been known to unwittingly injure mates of a more fragile race. Some offworlders had even died when the warriors' mating lust had been tainted with blood lust, and it hadn't always been the females who failed to survive.

  "Fa--"

  "Morgan," Catherine interrupted sharply as she moved between Wulfe and the girl, "take your already-in-trouble behind back to your room and change into something dry. Right now."

  The girl protested, but one look from Catherine got her moving. After a last pleading look at Wulfe, Morgan hightailed it down one of the paths.

  Wulfe glanced back to Catherine. A mating with Lyon didn't convincingly explain Morgan. "She fall in the pond?"

  "Face first, naturally." Catherine leaned over from the waist and wrung the water from her thick, curly hair.

  She straightened, flipped the damp hair over a shoulder. Wulfe suddenly realized how revealing cold, wet clothing could be. Catherine's nipples hardened to peaks beneath the soft fabric of her teal uniform top. The palms of his hands tingled in response. Unfortunately, his body recognized the same thing. His arousal strained uncomfortably against his wet trousers.

  Catherine reached for the babe's blanket. "I'd better go change my clothes, too."

  "Good idea." He took the blanket from her and draped a corner of the material over the babe. The arrangement allowed most of the cloth to hang down the front of his own clothing. "I'll carry the little comman--, uh, carry Garrett back to your quarters, so you don't soak him through."

  She glanced at the blanket, the babe, then at Wulfe's trousers. "You think on your feet, I'll give you that."

  Wulfe shifted his focus to Catherine's exquisite face as they walked. "All I have to do is watch you around Garrett and Morgan to see how much they mean to you. If war's declared, they won't be safe aboard the Falchion. They may not be even now."

  "I know. Arrangements have been made for their passage home."

  "Home?" Where did Catherine call home?

  "Aye, home."

  "Good. I'd hate to see anything happen to them."

  "I appreciate your concern."

  "Catherine, does either Garrett's or Morgan's father hold a special place in your heart?"

  Her amber eyes widened, her breath seemed to catch. Several seconds passed before she exhaled, and then it looked as though her chin quivered. "Aye, the children's father fills my heart as no other man ever could."

  Wulfe's midsection suddenly felt hollow. "Then why aren't you with this fortunate man?"

  Catherine glanced away, then uneasily met his probing look again. "Circumstances prevent that option."

  Oh, Garesh! The man was dead! His question must have caused renewed grief for her--he saw pain in her face, deep in her eyes. For that reason, he regretted his prying, but the desire to learn more about this female consumed him. "I meant no intrusion nor offense."

  "You have not offended, Captain."

  They'd almost reached their goal. Wulfe thought he was home free until they came across Albright and Lyon in the main corridor of officer quarters. He adjusted the babe's blanket, working to unobtrusively stretch the fabric enough to cover the wet crotch of his uniform. He managed to maintain his dignity until Albright burst out laughing.

  "What in the stars happened? We saw Morgan slosh through here a minute ago, now look at you two. Is there a leak somewhere we don't know about?" Albright laughed so hard her eyes watered.

  Lyon's jaw jumped with the effort to contain his mirth, but Wulfe saw the lieutenant's laughter threaten to erupt at any moment.

  "Is everyone finished amusing themselves?" Wulfe asked with as much dignity as possible under the circumstance.

  "No," Catherine answered, a grin finally breaking through. "They should know that Morgan and I have only pond water soaking us. The captain, however, has been anointed with--"

  "I don't think they need to know, Commander."

  She flicked him a mutinous look that he felt right down to his tailbone--and other places. "As the captain prefers. I'm happy to accommodate." Catherine plucked her son and her son's blanket from Wulfe's arms, walked away to her quarters.

  Albright and Lyon stared at Wulfe, and his trousers.

  "Either of you want to say anything?"

  "No, Sir," Lyon responded immediately.

  "Yes, Sir, but I won't, Sir," Albright choked out before she disappeared around the curve in the corridor with Lyon.

  Secluded in his suite, Wulfe washed and changed his uniform, but couldn't settle to anything. He stalked through his quarters from one room to another, the target of his restless search elusive and indefinable. The rooms pulled pranks on him. He'd walk into one of the stark sleeping chambers to find the room empty, turn to leave. If he whirled back, the chamber would be occupied, only for an instant. Sometimes he'd see a baby's cradle, or a child sitting on the floor playing a game of Shiylon, the board and pieces scattered haphazardly.

  Did his mind play tricks on him--a manifestation of the amnesia--or did an odd residual effect of the blindness plague him? Either way, the visions made him twitchy.

  Sometimes he'd see a small bed filled with a child and tumbled covers tossed around. So many times, as the ghostly images faded, he'd catch the faintest scent. Warm, earthy, spicy, and totally arousing, totally Catherine. Then the perfume would vanish as quickly as the visual illusions.

  "Enough!" Wulfe bellowed to the unsympathetic bulkheads. Nargging wonderful. Now he talked to empty rooms. He needed something to occupy him. If he went to the flight deck again, the techs would mutiny for certain, this time. He decided to go where simple instinct would lead him.

  Wulfe escaped from the illusions and sought solace for his wounded pride and endangered sanity in the deserted officers' exercise room. The somber grays of the gym's bulkheads and deck suited his mood. As he pumped his way through a second set of reps, Wulfe computed in his mind how much weight to add for the next set, how far to lunge with each lift. He worked out a timetable for completing repairs on the ship. He approximated the time of day they'd be able to leave Station Uhlein. He estimated how many days before he'd see his mother and father again.

  Anything to keep his mind off one inescapable fact. He needed a woman. Short of banging his head against the bulkhead--repeatedly--he couldn't figure out how to ignore the obvious fact, the obvious evidence. Then again, maybe he should go up against a bulkhead--a good rap to the skull might shake loose the last of the forgotten information.

  "Well, Captain, I'm in awe. Not many warriors concentrate so effectively on their...lunges. Fascinating."

  Wulfe replaced the barbell with a clang, turned to face the intruder. The pilot, Blackwood, inspected his body with Bellon brazenness. Her near-black eyes filled with female appreciation before she stepped closer. Beware what you dream, Wulfe thought absently, for Sister Fate may respond.

  Each of Blackwood's movements shouted seduction. Every slow, deliberate, long-legged stride toward him. Even the breaths she took, intentionally deep, thrusting her breasts to attention. She'd inherited her height from her Bellon ancestors, so she barely had to angle her head back to meet his gaze. She licked her upper lip with a studied sensuality calculated to drive any living male insane with mating lust.

  "I love the scent of a man's body when he's worked himself hard. Very erotic." Blackwood ran the palm of her hand up his bicep. "I enjoy the feel of his sweat-slicked body against mine. Very arousing. It's been too long since a warrior has taken me."

  Wulfe's gaze followed her hand's movement across his chest, down his abdomen. "Seeing your more than eager willingness to go after what you want, Blackwood, I can understand how you graduated flight training at the top of your class."

  "I thoroughly enjoy being on top, Captain."

  "Oh, I bet you do." Wulfe grabbed her hand, stoppe
d any further downward exploration. He brought the hand to his face, touched the tip of his tongue to her palm, inhaled. Her scent, her taste...ordinary, Wulfe realized. Nothing like....

  Blackwood snaked an arm around his neck, dragging his face to hers. Wulfe devoured her mouth, hoping to find easement with her. Her hand resumed its initial quest, groped downward.

  Shocked, Wulfe realized Blackwood's intended target had gone limply unmoved, flaccidly uninterested. Before he could jerk away, a Bellon battle cry of outrage split the air. Wulfe and Blackwood turned as one, instantly on guard, and met, of all things, the wrath-filled glare blazing from Commander Culver's eyes.

  "Blackwood," Catherine managed between gritted teeth, "did I or did I not give you a direct order regarding your fighter?"

  "Aye, you did."

  "Finished already?" Catherine demanded, almost snarling.

  "No, Ma'am."

  "I don't want to see your promiscuous tail off the flight deck until you've completed your task and had the results verified by the techs. Do you understand those orders?"

  "Yes, Ma'am." Blackwood strode toward the exit with a deliberate, exaggerated swing of said promiscuous tail.

  "That does it," Catherine almost growled the words. She grabbed the bigger, younger woman, braced herself and jerked the pilot around to face her. Catherine twisted the fistful of uniform until Blackwood's collar threatened to choke off her air. "If I ever find you in such a compromising position with the captain again, you won't have to worry about your bloody career."

  "Ma'am?" Blackwood coughed, fought for air.

  "Dead pilots have no future but that of space dust," Catherine prophesied in clipped, perfect Bellonese. With a near-soundless snarl, she twisted tighter. "Go ahead, keep reaching for your stiletto, Blackwood, and I guarantee you'll find it. Firmly lodged between your fifth and sixth ribs. Am I clear?"

  Blackwood's hand froze centimeters from the hilt of her dagger. Wulfe blew out a breath. He been so engrossed in the confrontation he hadn't noticed Blackwood's careful movement.

  "A threat, Commander?" Blackwood dared to ask.