Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series)

by Cathryn Cade

  If he had been another man, less wild, less dangerous, and one who had not just acknowledged with no shame that he was a thief, she would have thought his feelings hurt. But of course that couldn’t be...could it?

  “I’m ready,” she whispered.

  “To stick close and mind what I say,” he repeated, his gaze already out the door.

  “I’ll stick close,” she promised. No problem there—she was afraid of his volatile moods, but she was even more afraid of losing his protection.

  Outside, it was darker, the fire crackling higher in the darkness, limning the beings around it in warm, red-gold light. The whole camp seemed to be there, the tonts emptied out. A party mood was evident. Most everyone had a drink in their hands. Children darted amongst the adults. Ringi sat with a stocky man, light hair bound back with a headband, his arm around her shoulders. A cradle floated beside them, their little one sleeping in it.

  The redheaded woman, Qala, laughed with a voluptuous, dark-haired woman in an embroidered gown that glittered in the firelight. Zaë recognized her with a jolt as the woman Stark had gone to in the morning.

  The Occulans sat to one side, sipping drinks and watching the party around them. The tall, handsome man with the wild hair—Haro, that was his name—was telling a story to a group of other men. He sketched something in the air before him, a woman’s form, and the others roared with laughter.

  The huge man Var sat with the small blonde woman on his lap. They were kissing, his big hand in the myriad of small braids trailing as she leaned into him, oblivious to the crowd around them. He held her small, lithe body carefully, as if she was precious.

  Watching them, Zaë bumped into Stark when he stopped. He reached back and pulled her to his side, his heavy arm looped around her shoulders. Zaë’s face and throat burned as everyone’s gazes zeroed in on her, frankly speculative and assessing. This was a thousand times worse than earlier in the day.

  Now, several women were watching her. Women who wore their hair loose and flowing, over tight, brief clothing, with heavy, glittering cosmetics enhancing their faces, and jewelry glinting from their ears, noses and dripping from hands and throats. Women who wore their sensuality openly.One blonde glared at Zaë as if she’d like to rip her away from Stark and take her place.

  Ah, these were the women from whom Stark chose for sex. Not Ringi and her ilk, who Zaë now recognized as a valued partner, probably monogamous.

  Zaë wanted to call to the group of women and tell them to examine the Storm’s body language, and realize that he held her with no affection, but instead the way one would hold onto a possession one had to keep track of in a crowded place.

  Instead, she forced herself to stand quietly, shoulders back, face serene. That part felt natural, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. Although not with a man’s arm heavy on her shoulders. Before, it had been different. She’d stood with other people, but...

  Pain throbbed, and she flinched, bringing herself back to the now. Thankfully, it worked. If she stopped trying to remember and just let memories come, she could avoid most of the pain. Although she didn’t want to think of how long that might take.

  Better to focus on the now. Some of the warriors were watching her, too, as if they were wondering about her. Their gazes said most were doing so in a purely sexual way. At least with Stark’s arm around her, she felt safe. These men might look, but they wouldn’t touch her, not as long as she was at his side.

  “Boss is here,” Haro called. “Let’s get this party started!”

  Raucous approval roared from many throats. “Half hour til match time,” another man yelled. “Let’s eat.”

  Music started up, a rollicking piece with the solid beat of drums, qitars and a raspy horn. It was loud and cheerful, music that made Zaë’s feet want to tap and her hips want to swivel.

  She followed Stark over to a long table groaning with food, accepting the plate a woman handed her, and the mountain of food that was dished onto it. Her stomach growled again, but at least now it was drowned out by the loud voices and the music. The food smelled heavenly, spicier and more flavorful than Nera’s plain cooking.

  Plate in hand, Stark walked to the center of the chairs grouped before the fire. He sat in a large chair, and yanked a low stool to him with one booted foot. “Sit,” he told her.

  Zaë hesitated, certain that a lady sat beside her escort, not at his feet. She had never sat at a man’s feet, at least she didn’t think so.

  She frowned down at him. Words formed on the tip of her tongue, a polite but firm reminder that she was a guest here, not a servant or his ‘pet’.

  Stark raised his brows at her. “You want to eat, sit. Otherwise, go back inside.”

  He may have rescued her, but he was an obnoxious tyrant to remind her of her lack of choice. Chin high, back straight, face burning from the amused or unfriendly stares of those watching, Zaë sat, her legs folded gracefully to one side. She held herself away from Stark, gaze on her food, not on him or any of his crew, who she was rapidly deciding might be tough and frightening, but they were also obnoxious, and busybodies.

  He promptly pulled her back so she leaned against his knee and the edge of his seat. “Now eat.”

  Even angry and embarrassed, she was hungry. She’d done little except eat and rest here, but her body craved calories after the days of being hungry. She focused her attention on her tray and ate, using her spork and her fingers. There was some kind of hot seasoned grains dripping with butter, a cold creamy salad with crunchy veg, more of the fresh camp bread, and some kind of meat, so tender it fell apart, and dripping with a tangy, sweet sauce, smoky from the fire. Delicious.

  The man Haro claimed the seat next to Stark, and Qala the seat past him. Haro winked at Zaë, while Qala glared at her. Zaë nodded, then avoided both of their gazes.

  She sighed with pleasure, and licked her fingertips. Since there were no napkins, she wiped them surreptitiously on the inner hem of her shirt.

  “Ale,” someone called. Two bottles flipped through the air. Zaë ducked, and Stark caught them, opened them with a twist and handed her one. Zaë took a cautious sip and licked her lips. Then she grimaced. The flavor was strong and sharp, and the bubbles prickled her nose.

  “Come up here and lick my lips like that,” Stark suggested with a grin.

  A rumble of laughter sounded from across the fire. “Now there’s a fine service your little immi can give you, boss,” a deep, rough voice called.

  Zaë looked to where the voice had come from and froze. A huge, dark man with a mop of black braids grinned ferociously at her. He looked like he wanted to devour her for part of his meal. She shrank back against Stark’s knee.

  “Mako’s a good man,” Stark said. “Tried to save a bunch of your fellow auction victims.”

  Stark’s choice of words penetrated. “He tried? Was he the pilot who was shot down?” She eyed the huge man with new eyes. When he turned his head, she saw a bandage protruding from under his hair. He sat stiffly, as if injured.

  “Right. They died, and he nearly did. If you don’t like ale, go get yourself a berry wine.”

  That sounded better. She rose and looked around. “Where is the wine? And what do we do with our dishes?”

  Stark handed her his. “In the recycler, by the end of the food tables. Give me your ale.”

  “But I drank from it,” she pointed out. “Sharing a bottle is unhygienic.”

  He leaned forward, took the bottle from her hands, and drank, his gaze holding hers. Then he licked his lips. “Mm-mm.”

  Zaë hurried away, his chuckle following her. He’d done that on purpose. Again, rude—a gentleman should do his utmost to make a lady comfortable, not the opposite.

  As promised, she found bottles of berry wine in the cold tub. She chose one and opened it. Looking around, she saw no one paying attention to her for the moment. She sidled back to stand in the shadows at the edge of the crowd as she sipped her wine. It was smooth and heady, with just e
nough sweetness.

  From her quiet nook, she watched Stark’s crew and their families with fascination and dawning amusement. They were loud, raucous and rude, yelling insults at each other and laughing with abandon.

  But she saw no one being mistreated, and the children were well-cared for. One little blond boy fell, burst into noisy tears and was immediately righted by a tough, ebony-skinned man who picked him up, said something that turned tears to a smile, and sent the boy on his way with a grin.

  Even thieves had a hierarchy, it seemed, like a tribe, a rough and wild one. Each partnership had an alpha, who sat back and let a mate wait on him or her. The alpha protected the other, and thus expected to be served in return.

  And Stark was the alpha of all of them. Lounging in his chair, he was the center around which the others revolved. They leaned toward him, listened as he spoke and nodded respectfully, laughed when he joked, sobered when he gave an order.

  One of the brash women approached him, then another. He smiled at them and spoke, but she could see the moment he lost interest and sent them on their way, disappointment clear on their faces even through their heavy cosmetics.

  He was talking to Mako now. The huge man’s plate was empty, she saw, and he held no drink in his huge hand. He had no mate beside him.

  Tossing her empty wine bottle in a bin, Zaë threaded her way back to the cold bin, and pulled another ale from it, along with another wine for herself. Then, with an inward sigh, she pulled an ale for Stark. She skirted the fire and offered an ale to Mako.

  He gave her a look from under his heavy brows, took the ale and nodded slightly.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For trying to save the others. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

  Then, because even though he was a hero, he was huge and fearsome, she hurried away. Stark lifted his hand and crooked a finger at her peremptorily.

  Zaë went to him and sat. He gave her a look warm with approval. “Thanks, bunny. You did good. But no more fetching drinks for these other randy bastards. You serve me.” So saying, he took the unopened ale from her hand.

  Haro, listening unashamedly, grinned. Zaë glared at Stark, sorry she’d gotten him the ale. If he expected her to wait on him, it was no longer a gift. “I was only being polite. He is a hero. You said so yourself.”

  Stark laughed, the deep rollicking sound that made her want to laugh with him, except when he was laughing at her, then it made her want to kick him. He smacked her on the ass. It stung, and she nearly dropped her wine. “Polite! Hells, you’re not on Indigo, here, bunny. Manners don’t mean skrog shit out here. Now sit. Match is about to start.”

  “Tyrant,” she muttered into her wine.

  He found her braid and looped it casually around his fingers, playing with it as he talked with Haro. Zaë sipped her wine and told herself sternly that she did not like his possessive touch, or the way he rubbed her braid over his knuckles and then stroked it between his thumb and fingers. It was just nice to be touched with kindness, no matter how careless, after her ordeal.

  She also enjoyed the lovely, floaty feeling that pervaded her. It was probably the wine, and for a moment she waited for someone to say firmly that she had had quite enough to drink. But no one did, so she lifted her bottle and drained it for the last delicious drops.

  She gazed into the fire, focused beyond it, and found herself being watched by the woman Stark had gone to that morning. She was watching Stark and Zaë with a little smile on her lovely face. As their gazes met, she winked at Zaë.

  Zaë felt this with a jolt of astonishment. This woman had Stark in her bed, but didn’t care that he sat with Zaë and played with her hair? If their situations were reversed, she would hate the other woman to the core of her being. That is, if she wanted Stark. Which she didn’t, of course.

  She drained her wine and leaned her head against Stark’s hard thigh as she watched sparks leap into the night. But if she did want him, she would fight for him. She would scratch and bite and wrestle. She was a jealous woman, it seemed. He had better watch out. This made her giggle, as did the way Stark pulled on her braid, tipping her head back to give her a wry look.

  “How many of those wines have you slugged down, my Zaë?”

  She waggled two fingers at him. “I like wine. I like campfires, too. Everyone looks better by firelight. You look very handsome.” This was true. The firelight gleamed on his skin, and glittered in his eyes. ”Do I look pretty in the firelight?”

  He laughed, his eyes crinkling, but whatever he said was lost in a roar of sound as a huge holovid sprang up against the night sky, a brilliantly lit arena full of thundering music. Zaë yelped with shock and hid her face against his leg.

  “Galactic citizens!” an announcer trumpeted. “Welcome to Alliance Stadium, and the match you’ve all been waiting for! The two teams that have trumped all others in this galaxy now meet in a do or die battle that will determine the winner of the Quadrant Two Quasiball Championship!”

  It was too loud, too bright, and the holocams moved too fast, the three dimensional holovid zoomed around a huge arena. Zaë crowded into the shelter of Stark’s body, hands over her ears. She peeped out, wincing as the holovid showed the announcer in close-up, standing on a floating stage over the arena, his brilliant costume glittering with laser light as he gestured theatrically.

  “Team One—the Quantum Blues!”

  A phalanx of aircycles shot out into the arena, their riders costumed in brilliant blue, with laser designs of moving silver. Their faces were hidden by their protective helmets, but a holovid hovered over each, showing their heads and faces. They were a handsome crew, mostly human, young and fit.

  Their leader shot up into the air and flipped his cycle, blue sparks streaming behind him to erupt in midair like fireworks, before diving back to his team.

  Many of Stark’s crew roared their approval. “The Blues!”

  “Team Two—the Crimson Flash!”

  Another team streaked into the arena at the opposite side from the blue team. In glittering crimson, acid green laser designs lit their protective suits. Their golden-skinned faces with sculpted cheekbones and tilted eyes proclaimed them Serpentian. Their leader suddenly shot across the arena toward the blue team, faux laser charges streaking out before him. At the last instant, he twisted up into the air and cruised back to his own team, upside down.

  “Yes!” Qala hollered, jumping to her feet, fists in the air. “Crimsons rule!”

  Stark hooted his disapproval, along with several others. Those who favored the Crimsons tried to shout them down. Zaë watched in astonishment, afraid some would come to blows.

  The teams zipped back into their bunkers. The announcer beamed. “And now, our Galactic Anthem ... with the one and only Chaz Jaguari!”

  Zaë sat bolt upright as a man appeared on another floating stage. He wore an extremely well-fitted gold suit with rubies winking at his throat and on one hand. His dark hair was streaked with auburn highlights and his ebony eyes brimmed with liquid sensuality in the arena lights. He was as harshly beautiful as a big, dangerous cat.

  Her heart beat faster. “I know him!”

  Stark snorted. “Every female alive knows Jaguari.”

  Several of the males in the crew hooted, but the women shushed them loudly.

  As if he knew his galactic audience well, Chaz Jaguari held up one arm in a dramatic command for silence. Drums sounded a hushed beat. He closed his eyes and began to sing, in a deep, purring voice that was an instrument of his own, a beautiful one.

  ‘Do you see them? By the light of a million stars, there they are.

  Do you hear them? Let their call remain deep in your heart.

  Will you rise up? And carry the standard now with me.

  They are the ones who fought and died, so you may be free.’

  Zaë rose, wonder and pride swelling inside her chest. She knew this song, had listened to it a hundred times. Around her in the night, Zaë heard a rustle as others rose to their feet.
>
  Chaz Jaguari’s voice rolled like velvet thunder into the chorus. Some of Stark’s crew sang along, and so did Zaë, the familiar words flowing from her.

  ‘We are the Alliance, and we are the free!

  My brothers and sisters, come join with me.

  All worlds united, enemies gone from our skies.

  For our freedom, we’ll fight—to live free or die!’

  The second verse went on, and Zaë swayed with the music, then sang the chorus again, holding the last note with the famous singer.

  When the song ended, the crew applauded.

  “Live free or die!” roared a man, holding his ale high.

  “Live free or die!” the crowd shouted back. They all raised their drinks to this.

  “Now let’s have some quasiball!” hollered another.

  Stark was grinning at Zaë. He sat, and pulled her onto his lap. “You know,” he said in her ear, his deep voice sending shivers through her, “you can’t sing worth skrog shit.”

  She couldn’t? “But that doesn’t matter. One must sing the anthem.”

  “It’s okay,” he added, his chest quivering with laughter. “You just keep doing that little thing with your hips, and no one will care how you sound.”

  “What little thing with my hips?” The holovid boomed with noise and light again, and if he answered, she’d ducked under his chin, so she she didn’t hear.

  Chapter 13

  Zaë liked sitting on Stark’s lap. She liked it very much. She took the fresh bottle of wine someone handed her and drank it as the match began.

  The Crimsons won the flash, which meant that they got to hit the glowing ball. It was gold, with red and blue rings flashing around it so fast it was impossible to keep up visually.

  “Caravel. Ball of electromagnetic energy,” Stark told her, his mouth against her ear, his gaze on the match. “One reason they wear protective gear. You touched it with your bare skin, could kill you.”

  Each player wore a glowing racquet with a concave net strapped to their right hand. The Crimson player struck the caravel so hard it flew across the arena. The other players converged on it, but Crimson got there first, sending it farther along the arena toward the goal.