Miami Days and Truscan (9 page)

“Your poor father. Did he speak English well?”

“No, he never spoke it well, but he made sure he understood it. We all knew that after Brenden called him an old fool when he was twelve and I had to pick him up off the floor. And then my mother slapped him so hard he almost hit it again.” He grinned and stood up. “I haven’t thought about that in years. It looks to be a glorious day. I want to show you my country. Your country. Let’s dress.”

And just when I was beginning to feel comfortable.

He caught my expression and laughed. “Oh, Green Eyes! I’m not at all certain you will be as able an informer as I would like. Your thoughts flash across your face. Now confess. You would not have been insulted had I not tried?”

I stared at him. Insult added to injury. I’d assisted in corporate takeovers that fell without warning like a lightning bolt from the sky. And it seemed that I could not maintain one secret thought from this man, who was, moreover, altogether too conversant with the inner workings of a woman’s mind. Yes, I would. I would have been insulted if he hadn’t tried.

“No, I certainly wouldn’t have been,” I lied.

“Then I’m in error and you’re, as Johnny would say, one up on me. So with that score, let’s stop the word games for the day. Please?”

“I wasn’t aware we were playing word games or keeping score,” I said loftily, in another blatant lie.

“Then I’m again in error and you are two up on me. Enough?”

Knowing full well that he was not in error, which made him two up on me, and knowing that he knew that but was willing to humor me, which made him at least three and possibly four up on me, I capitulated and threw in the towel. For now.

“You are the most maddening man I have ever met!” I exclaimed. “All right already. Enough.”

“I’m glad. Come, I have something to show you,” he said and walked across the room to an adjoining door, which he opened, motioning me in.

“Jerk!” I exclaimed before I could stop myself. There was a dressing room, or at least an antechamber of sorts that had been converted into what was obviously my closet, and moreover had been customized for the preparation of Milady’s toilette. There was a dressing table arranged against the far wall, replete with bottles I recognized as containing the equivalent of Trusca’s rarest cosmetics, capped by metal much like silver. Windows flanked it, allowing the Truscan sun to stream its light into the room. A cushioned stool sat in front of it, and a comfortable chair stood beside it. The other three walls held racks of clothes. And what clothes! He did not intend to be embarrassed by his queen’s appearance—that was obvious. Shelves topped the racks, with soft boots and more formal slippers arranged next to belts and scarves, and other items I didn’t even recognize.

He sighed in mock despair. “You’re a hard woman, Green Eyes. I gift you with clothes any woman in Trusca would give ten years off her life to possess, and you call me names.”

“Didn’t gift me with it last night, though, did you? When I asked if there was a dressing room and you said no!”

“I have many talents, of which the ability to feign sleep most convincingly is merely one. But I can’t peer through stone, which I would have had to do last night, had I opened this door then.”

“You
watched
me!!”

“Oh yeah.”

I had to laugh at how very American and typically male he sounded. “Okay, but now get out!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Get out! Get out of my dressing room, and let me dress!”

“Ah, but you don’t have your clothes yet.”

“I’m quite certain I can find something suitable in your generous array of gifts!”

“No, you can’t. Not for this morning. Saraya left it on the chair in the main chamber, it wasn’t ready until now.”

“What?”

“Come,” he said, placing his arm around my waist, and pulling me toward him.

He led me back out into the main chamber and lifted the garments which Saraya had lain over the back of one of the huge chairs. I stared at my new clothes, copies in feminine form of his own patrol clothes. The outfit was complete, from the fur tunic, to the tight, leather-like leggings, to the soft leather boots that hit at knee level. I saw that underneath the outer clothes, she had lain out undergarments of Trusca’s softest, whitest materials, which resembled the thermal underwear of my world, though, being from Florida, I had little familiarity with such garments.

“You do ride, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, I ride.”

“I thought so. I could feel you balance yourself on Pegasus. How did you come to learn such? My mother told me that the mounts of your world had been replaced by mechanical conveyances and that not everyone could ride.”

“Not everyone can,” I said, stroking the soft fur. “It’s mostly a recreational thing with us, now. But Car—a friend of mine—”

“Ah. Your Carlos. He kept horses? And so you do know how to ride. Well?”

“Fairly well, yes.”

“You’ll get better. It would please me if you rode with me on occasion.”

“You mean out? On patrol? Like your mother?”

I loved the idea, and it was too late to take the comment back when I remembered that his mother had died on one such patrol. From the darkening of his face, I knew I had finally struck a nerve.

“I assure you that if I wanted to rid myself of your presence, I wouldn’t have married you first to do it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—really, I didn’t—”

He shook his head slightly. “No, I’m sorry. I know you didn’t. In any event, Green Eyes, my Trusca’s considerably safer than my father’s. It’s been some time now since the Prians crossed far over the border, and I’ll never take you into anything I think might turn dangerous. And I’m much better at judging that than my father was, I promise. He was somewhat impulsive. My mother curbed that instinct in me. And Madison. I wish she’d had some luck with Brenden.”

“But you will take me on patrol?”

“You want to go?”

I nodded.

“If you’d like. It’s not to most women’s tastes, certainly, but my mother enjoyed them immensely.”

“Night patrol, maybe?” I don’t know why I asked that; perhaps it was merely the dark and secret sound of the words. I’d always nursed a secret yearning to join the CIA.

“No,” he said shortly. “Never. Night patrols cross the border.”

“Oh.”

“We’re wasting the morning. I’d like to see you in your riding clothes. No other woman in Trusca wears such.”

“Never?”

“No. Truscan women aren’t fond of such pursuits. My mother was the first and only woman to order such clothes, and so it came to be considered a prerogative of the queen.”

I couldn’t resist.

“What about your first queen? Your son’s mother?”

He looked at me strangely, and I almost began to think I had managed to incur serious displeasure when he smiled.

“You’re kidding me.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. His English was so fluent, sometimes almost stuffy, and in the next sentence so absolutely American.

“Not her thing, huh?”

“Most definitely not. Go. Seek your sanctuary.” He handed me the riding clothes. “I want to show you my stables.”

Chapter Nine

I checked the door for a latch, but it didn’t have one. I wasn’t terribly surprised. I pulled on the clothes quickly and felt more at home than I’d felt since I first crashed. The kirsons were very comfortable, but this outfit was better than blue jeans. I looked in the mirror and smiled. I looked more modern than I’d looked since I arrived. I wondered if he’d object terribly if I ordered more of these and used them for everyday. After all, he’d said such was considered the prerogative of the queen. I grabbed a brush and pulled my hair back into a high ponytail and searched through the dresser, hoping the item I sought was there. Ah! I grabbed the leather cuff and inspected it. It was just what I thought it was, a small length of sturdy but flexible leather with two holes in either end. I bent it over the base of my ponytail and thrust the small smooth stick which had originally been inserted through those holes back through. A Truscan ponytail holder.

I raided the cosmetics quickly. There was the jar of finely ground face powder which, come to think of it, suited my coloring a lot better than the face powder Kiera had originally produced for my use. I was knocked for six. He had not only custom ordered my clothes, which I knew he had done simply because I was, for the first time in my life, the shortest grown woman in the country, he had custom ordered my cosmetics, too. I located a small jar of cream that glowed with the deepness of burgundy, and carefully applied it to my lips and cheeks. The effect was marvelous; I always had a hard time finding exactly the right color of lipstick and blush. Too much brown, and I might as well have not been wearing anything; too much red, and I looked like a clown. This was perfect.

He called through the door.

“Green Eyes! We’re wasting—”

“The morning,” I called back. “I know. Another minute.”

I opened the small case that stood on the dresser. They probably weren’t the crown jewels, if Trusca even had crown jewels, but they were fine, all the same. Most Truscan women had pierced ears, the custom must be universal and inter-dimensional, and the selection was wonderful. I didn’t know what Trusca called the glowing yellow metal, but I called it gold. It was close enough, certainly. I picked up mid-sized hoops and quickly inserted them, and pulled out a heavy-link gold chain which I slipped over my head. It glowed against the dark brown fur of the tunic. I walked to the door and took a deep breath. The queen was ready to make her first public appearance. I opened it and walked out.

His back was to me, but he turned as he heard the door and then stopped in mid-motion. He didn’t say a word, but I’d seen that look before. It acknowledged the presence of a major babe.

“Well?” I demanded. “I thought you wanted to show me the stables.”

“I don’t think you want to know what I want right now,” he answered and took my arm. “So I’ll show you the stables.”

His people stopped and stared as we moved down the stone steps.

“It’s been a long time since they’ve seen a woman dressed such,” he whispered.

I knew that was true, but I didn’t think it was entirely the reason for their stares. My outfit and his had been designed to match, but in no shape, form, or fashion did we resemble the Bobbsey twins. I moved in these clothes with assurance, such as no other woman in Trusca could. In fact, I moved with an assurance that no other woman in Trusca had. I remembered his words of the prior night, that he wanted me to be for him “…what no other woman in Trusca could, for no other woman in Trusca was raised as I know you to have been raised—in a culture that does not exist here.” Thank you, Gloria Steinem and all your sisters.

I knew we made an extremely striking couple, and my comparatively short stature did nothing but emphasize both my own assurance and his towering height and great shoulders. He greeted his people with pleasure, stopping to make a quick comment here and there, and then, as we approached the door, he put his arm around my waist and drew me closer. I wasn’t about to object in full view of the world. Appearances were important here, and I’m sure we projected an image of a very contented newlywed couple as we walked across the open Courtyard, one who just incidentally happened to be the king and queen of this fantasy land of Trusca.

I hadn’t been to the stables; I’d expressed some interest, but Kiera had gently sidetracked me back to the inner-workings of the Rata. As there was certainly enough there to catch my attention, I hadn’t pressed the issue. As we approached the wooden and stone structure, I caught the good smell of fine horseflesh, the funky smell of horse manure, and the sweet smell of new hay. Dalph raised his hand in greeting to the stablemen, and headed straight to the back, to the separate stall where Pegasus was stabled, apart and elite, as befitted his station. There was an identical stall next to his, and in it I could see…

“Oh!” I exclaimed softly under my breath.

“Beauty, isn’t she?” he asked softly. I stared at her, the falton mare, as black as Pegasus, with the graceful curving horns of her elite breed springing forth behind her ears.

“Oh, yes!” Pegasus was impressive but overwhelming. This animal, proportionately smaller, was more graceful, daintier, so that her distinctive head was not the first thing that caught one’s attention. “She’s beautiful!”

“She’s yours. If she consents.”

“She’s what?”

“She’s yours. Faltons are becoming increasingly rare and they’re very treasured. Took us some time to catch her. I saw her last year and knew she had to be Pegasus’ mate. It took us almost as long to tame her as to catch her. You don’t break a falton, nor do you own one. It’s a partnership and doesn’t work unless they want it to.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Can I touch her?”

“Of course.”

I moved closer and, projecting my best attitude of competence, ran my hand down her nose. She moved closer to me and nuzzled, lowered her head, and shoved her nose under my arm. I was delighted.