by P. J. Fox
Kisten nodded formally. The woman simpered. Aria hid her annoyance beneath a mask of calm. Women threw themselves at Kisten, partially because he was so good-looking and partially because there was nothing as sexy as a man who didn’t care. That he had a reputation didn’t help, but he hadn’t embarrassed her yet and she devoutly hoped he never would—especially since there was nothing she could do about it.
The crowd of guests had thinned considerably, most either going home to rest or rejoining the cleanup efforts. Kisten, she knew, must be exhausted; although he gave no sign of being anything other than alert and refreshed, he’d been up since before dawn and his wound was a severe one. He should be resting.
“My apologies,” he said smoothly, “but I must steal my lovely consort.”
“Oh, of course,” the woman gushed. She started to say something else but Kisten left before she could. Slipping his arm around Aria in a gesture that was more possessive than friendly, he guided her toward the house. Turning, Aria glanced back at Alice. She looked nervous.
“I should talk to her,” she said.
“I have greater need of you than she,” Kisten replied.
“Yes, but—”
He stopped. “You’d rather speak with her than your own husband?”
He could be so childish. “No,” she said, “of course not.”
“Young Gore is hardly going to ravish her in such a public place.” Kisten studied the scene with interest. “Who would have thought it?” he murmured. “The poor thing is so insipid.” Alice was a bit insipid, although Aria didn’t care to hear it pointed out. The captain seemed animated enough, however. If Alice truly didn’t care for the man, Aria supposed, she could move. But she was listening attentively, and appeared to have been holding the same lemon squash for hours. Then the captain made some joking comment, and Alice laughed.
Unable to explain her unease, Aria tried to dismiss it. She told herself that Alice was undoubtedly fine. Why wouldn’t she be? And Aria, meanwhile, was undoubtedly suffering from an attack of nerves brought on by the acute stress of the week.
She turned toward the house. Funerals were fairly lax affairs within her new culture; no one expected the family of the bereaved, however royal, to act as hosts or do anything much at all except feel sorry for themselves. She and Kisten were well within their rights to retire. He gave no sign that he was in pain, other than a slight whitening at the corners of his mouth. Someone less familiar with his habits wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss, but Aria remembered how he’d been aboard Atropos. Even then, when he was almost a total stranger, she’d known that he cheerfully would have killed Admiral Zamindari with his bare hands—and he’d been utterly charming from drinks through dessert.
Ascending the steps to the broad, shaded verandah, Aria curled up on one of the upholstered couches. After stepping inside to fetch himself a drink, Kisten returned and joined her. They shared a silence broken only by the burbling of the fountain and, once in awhile, a high-pitched, tinkling laugh. Of the guests who’d lingered, some were parasites and some had nowhere else to go. Some just wanted free food. In the wake of so much destruction, no one really knew what to do—or how to resume life, or even when to resume it.
Kisten sipped his drink. She didn’t know how he could stand the stuff; it smelled like lighter fluid and tasted worse. Somewhere, a frog croaked. The shade felt nice and cool. Aria loved this verandah, with its flagstone floor and expansive seating areas, and spent a great deal of time on this very couch, writing.
“What are you thinking?” Kisten asked.
“That this”—she gestured—”is surreal. Everything’s so…”
“Normal,” he finished. They laughed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“I’ve felt better.” Kisten studied the green liquid in his glass. “Still, this is better than Charon II.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?” she asked.
“No,” he said, but without rancor.
A slave appeared with two glasses and a pitcher of ice water on a simple wooden tray. Aria accepted a glass gratefully, and sank back into the cushions. She was turned to her side, facing Kisten, who stared off into space without seeing her. She waited; she knew better than to interrupt him when he was in a mood like this, and he had a lot on his mind.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
“I’m happy that you’re alive,” she replied, uncertain at what he was after. Happy didn’t even begin to cover it. Apart from the fact that she loved him, there was the very real issue that without him she had no life. She had no friends, no family, and no means of earning a living. As unromantic as the admission was, she needed him. Which was, in and of itself, a powerful inducement to put up with a lot. Which, she thought, she would have anyway.
And happily.
Because she did love him, and that made it all worthwhile.
I’m not much of an enlightened woman, she grumbled silently. How quickly even the most serious conflicts were subsumed into the mundane. Three days ago, she’d been convinced that she’d never be concerned with such petty problems ever again, and here she was right back where she’d started: feeling grouchy and insecure and wondering what her husband was up to. Still, the bitterness she’d felt before was gone, replaced with a sort of rueful half amusement—with him, but mostly with herself.
She sipped her water; it had slivers of orange peel in it. The truth was, she liked her adopted culture and felt more comfortable in her new role than she ever would have imagined when she’d agreed to marry her husband. A decision she’d made, at the time, mostly on the strength of not knowing what else to do.
“As to the rest,” she added, smiling slightly, “ask me again later.”
But Kisten, oddly, didn’t seem to appreciate her attempt at humor. He turned and fixed her with his inscrutable gaze. She’d never quite gotten used to how reptilian it was, not simply because of his eyes but because of the lack of emotion in them. “I need to know something,” he said abruptly. She nodded, uncertain about where this conversation was headed. They were both exhausted and overtaxed, and Kisten was injured; whatever this was, that he needed to know, the fact that he considered it too important to wait made her nervous.
“Do you love me?” he asked. “Truly?”
“Yes,” she replied honestly.
Instead of responding, Kisten stared out at the garden. Someone laughed again, a shrill sound that held little of humor, and a bird landed on the railing. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Finally, he finished his drink and put the empty glass down on the table.
“The other morning,” he began, and then, seeing her expression, stopped. “What is it?” he asked.
She chewed her lip, and didn’t respond.
“Tell me.”
“I thought that, after everything that happened….” She reddened, embarrassed and upset. “That we could let it go,” she finished lamely. They’d lived through a minor mutiny, and all he wanted to talk about was the fact that they’d had a fight? She realized that she was on the verge of tears, and busied herself with her water glass so she wouldn’t have to look at him.
“You misunderstand me,” he said curtly. “As regards the other morning, the fault for what happened is entirely my own. But since then, I’ve thought about certain aspects of our life a great deal and I decided that, if I lived—which, granted, at the time seemed unlikely—I’d address them with you. The timing is unfortunate, I grant you, but as the conversation is now unavoidable I see no sense in putting it off. Moreover, my schedule over the next fortnight or so is quite full and I doubt that I’ll have the time.”
“Oh,” she replied in a small voice.
“I can’t bear the thought of losing you,” he said, surprising her.
She looked up.
“I’m well aware that in…certain respects our cultures and expectations are very different, and what I ask of you is a great deal to ask of any woman.” He paused. This—whatever i
t was—was obviously difficult for him, a man used to dictating his own terms. And then, “if you want me to stop seeing Renta, I will. I’ll do whatever I have to, to keep you.”
“Oh,” she repeated, surprised. “That wasn’t….”
“What did you think I was going to say?” he asked.
She shrugged, a miniscule movement that conveyed her uncertainty—about her husband, herself, and the whole situation. “I suppose,” she ventured, “that you regretted marrying me.”
“Is that really what you think of me?” He seemed stunned.
“I am difficult,” she said, thinking of his previous criticisms.
“No,” he assured her, “you’re not.”
They lapsed into silence. She thought about what he’d said. Any woman’s knee-jerk reaction, in a situation like this, would undoubtedly be to say yes, go right ahead. As hers was.
But she held her peace. Back home in Cabot, women who let their husbands “get away with” extramarital affairs were seen as objects of pity: the feminist revolution had clearly missed these sad, unenlightened souls and they, in turn, clearly tolerated what must have been an untenable situation out of ignorance. The appropriate thing to do was prove that you deserved better treatment by divorcing your husband. Any sad sack who actually stayed either wasn’t aware that she had the option or was motivated by something other than love—like, say, a fondness for her large, expensive home.
And Aria, too, had been raised on the myth of Prince Charming: that one day, a man would come along and fall in love with her, and prove his love for her by loving only her, desiring only her, touching only her, and they’d live happily ever after.
Aria had always objected to the phrase get away with, as though men weren’t men but children being naughty. Were the women in their lives partners, or mothers? The idea that a woman had some kind of claim of ownership came, Aria knew, from the idea that love was measured in monogamy. But if that was so, why fight so hard to keep him? If you truly believed that lack of fidelity meant lack of love, no man who loved his wife, consort, whatever—the term didn’t matter—would ever stray.
And yet if Kisten didn’t love her, why would he have married her? There was no advantage to him in the union, other than the dubious pleasure of her company. He said he loved her, and he treated her with far more kindness than anyone else ever had. So the question became: should she trust her own judgment, or what she’d been raised to believe by the parents, and the culture, that she’d done her best to escape?
Both her initial response and the insecurity she’d felt earlier were, Aria decided, the product of social pressure rather than any true belief on her part. She was supposed to feel jealous, and Kisten was supposed to be a good husband by doing—and not doing—certain things. Except…she’d seen a lot of people, including her sister, make decisions contrary to their own best interests because it was “what they were supposed to do.” And been miserable as a result. Destroying an otherwise good relationship over sex seemed arbitrary at best and self-destructive at worst. She loved this man; leaving him wouldn’t serve her best interests, and if she was going to love him conditionally then she might as well leave him. She had to accept him for who he truly was, or not at all. Anything else would, with time, corrode whatever fragile bond they’d managed to form.
There had been whores, she knew that. But Renta wasn’t casual sex. She was important to him.
Still, if Renta disappeared, even if, God forbid, she died, would Kisten love her more? Aria knew he wouldn’t. Love wasn’t about a lack of competition. His love for her had nothing to do with his feelings for Renta, or his brother, or anyone else. And if she was really honest with herself, putting aside the fact that he’d involved himself to whatever degree with other women, she couldn’t deny that Kisten treated her as well as he was able.
Nothing would make him more, as her mother would put it, warm and fuzzy.
“Do you love her?” Aria asked.
“Not like I love you,” said Kisten.
Aria nodded thoughtfully. “But she’s important to you.”
Kisten didn’t respond.
“You deserve to be happy,” Aria told him.
“I was never happy, until I met you.”
“But you don’t need to make yourself unhappy to prove that,” she replied. “You need more people who love you, not less. And this idea that you should deny yourself to suit some arbitrary definition of love is akin to asking a homosexual man to live in”—in the closet—”to be with a woman.” People were who they were; growing up, Aria had never been allowed to simply be herself, and the emotional consequences had been truly devastating.
Moreover, she couldn’t help but admit—if only to herself—that Kisten was a full-time job already. He had needs that she couldn’t even begin to understand. She doubted she ever would, no matter how much she loved him. And while she sometimes felt like she was sharing him—with his brother, with Renta, with the world—she knew in her heart that she wasn’t.
“Why?” he asked.
She understood his question. Even within the bounds of his own culture, which was nothing if not permissive, this situation was—if not unheard of, then unusual. She thought back to the two women she’d met aboard Atropos, both of whom had essentially been married to the same man despite one being a concubine. This was not that; Kisten maintained a strict hierarchy when it came to his affections; which was part of what, she supposed, made her situation bearable. “Because,” she said slowly, “when I thought you were dead, and I thought back to the few months I’d known you, I wished I’d spent those months loving you instead of resenting the fact that I was so woefully unprepared to face my own life.”
He laughed. She smiled. His laugh, which sounded more like a jaguar’s rustling cough, was a singularly unpleasant sound. But she liked it.
“You’re not,” she pointed out good-naturedly, “who I expected.”
“And is that a good thing?” he asked.
“I think so.”
FORTY-FOUR
Aria pulled back slightly. “You’re going to pull out your stitches,” she said.
“Don’t mother me,” he replied, his hands exploring her.
Someone has to, she thought. “Blood isn’t an aphrodisiac.”
“Perhaps not to you,” he murmured.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he drew her to him and continued kissing her. She stiffened, resisting slightly. She was worried about him; he should be in bed, and not for anything exciting. He’d already broken open his stitches once, although he didn’t seem terribly concerned about having done so. She, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to shake the formless dread that had gripped her since the mutiny. She felt like she’d forgotten something important, and so was unprotected from its consequences. Every new thing seemed equally frightening, because what if this was the danger she’d failed to recognize?
She said as much. He trailed his fingers down the side of her face, studying her in that way he had. “It will be alright,” he told her gently. Sliding his hand up the back of her neck, he ran his fingers through her hair and brought her lips to his. She wanted him. Yes, he was the handsomest man she’d ever met but appearance alone couldn’t account for his charisma. There was just…something about him. There always had been, since she’d first come out of the bathroom and seen him sitting on the couch. Laughing at her. He’d looked so imposing, and intimidating, and yet at the same time so much like a little boy.
She yielded to him, her lips softening under his as he undressed her. Her fingers found his buttons. He was gentle with her, his movements slow and deliberate. He laid down on the bed, pulling her after him and wincing as his muscles tensed and the stitches pulled.
He held her to him, not forcing her but not letting her escape, either. Her weight didn’t seem to bother him; she weighed half of what he did. His skin felt warm against hers. She trailed her fingers up and down his chest while she kissed his lips, his neck, his shoulder. His chest was criss
crossed with scars, some of them ugly indeed. She kissed the length of one and he let out a long, shuddering sigh.
She let her hand trail down further, caressing him. She doubted that his doctor would approve, but he couldn’t help himself and neither could she. Although she was at a loss to explain why this should be so, their conversation on the verandah had made her feel even closer to him—when, her rational mind insisted, she should have felt the opposite. But they’d talked for hours, about everything, and when he’d pulled her to him and kissed her that simple contact had been indescribably intimate. By then, the stars had come out.
“Get on top of me,” he said hoarsely.
She straddled him, their eyes meeting in the dim light. His had grown very dark. Her lips curved into a teasing smile. She moved slowly, agonizingly slowly, reveling in her newfound power and the effect it had on him. Usually Kisten was the aggressor; that wasn’t possible right now, given the circumstances. For this once, at least—or until he healed—she had him at her mercy.
His hands slid over her, making her gasp, and finally found her hips. His grip was masterful as he guided her. She was still very inexperienced, but he’d never made her feel awkward about not knowing what to do. He made her feel like the most beautiful, desirable woman in the world. A slow, tingling warmth spread through her and she abandoned herself to it. His fingers tightened, digging into her flesh as he tensed, and she collapsed on top of him.
Afterward, she lay in the crook of his arm, her head on her chest and the length of her body molded to his. She’d been careful to favor what she thought of as his good side, although she doubted that he cared. Night was well advanced, and neither of them had eaten more than the hors d’oeuvres that some thoughtful person had sent out to the verandah hours ago. Neither of them spoke. She smiled to herself, a small, secret smile about things her husband would never understand. He, for his part, seemed content to stare at the ceiling and recover himself. For all his studied calm, the experience had been overwhelming for both of them.
