Roark (Women Of Earth Book 1) (28 page)

He remembered pain. He remembered the burning rage coursing through his body and mind. He shook his head. “I never remember, but somewhere inside me, Mirasha, I know.”

“Think about it, Roark. The monster didn’t hurt Vochem, and you know he would have killed Mason,” she said, trying to make him smile. “He never hurt Ahnyis. He never hurt me.” She placed her hands on his cheeks and rose up to kiss him lightly on the lips. “The monster won’t hurt me. He can’t hurt what he loves. I know. I saw. I was there.”

She was in his lap with her arms around his neck, showering his face with kisses. “The monster isn’t in the cage, Roark. You are. You were the one who wanted me to let you out and bring you home. I know. I saw. I was there.”

Her soft mouth against his lips was his undoing. He drove his fingers up into her hair, freeing it of the pins until it fell like a mantle over them both. The tiny gold buttons at the neck of the dress were next. With the feel of her soft breast that was made for the palm of his hand, Roark’s capitulation was complete. He lifted her in his arms and followed the path of rose petals, elated in his defeat.

“Oh, Roarkiem mika, how I’ve missed you. Welcome home, my love, welcome home.”

Losing a war had never felt so damn good.

Chapter 33

“Mirasha, it’s time to wake up.”

Mira opened one eye enough to see her alarm clock on the side of the bed. Roark thought the clock was funny and her need to watch it even funnier. The damn cyborg had one implanted in his brain. She closed the eye.

“No, it’s not time to get up,” she muttered, annoyed at being deprived of half an hour’s sleep. She’d been so tired lately. She needed every spare minute of sleep she could find. She even moved the old sofa into her office so she could nap through lunch. “I have another half hour before the screaming horde wakes up and invades the kitchen.” She pulled the covers up around her ears. “Besides, I fed them yesterday, all by myself, and Wynne wasn’t the least bit grateful.”

Not that she’d done it intentionally. Mira’s stomach had bothered her and she’d made the mistake of going to the kitchen to find something to settle it. Some sixth sense must have signaled the little demons because the kids swarmed the kitchen clamoring to be fed. It was either feed them or be eaten.

Roark laughed. He did that a lot lately. Normally, she liked to laugh with him, but not at six goddamn AM.

“Can you blame her? You fed them glop.”

“They like it,” she mumbled and wondered how hard it would be to depose the king and exile him from the kingdom.

“No one likes glop.”

“That’s not true. Some people do,” she assured him. “Mohawk eats it every morning.”

Mohawk loved the stuff. The kids liked it. Mira had recently tasted it and decided she’d rather starve. Just watching the kids shovel it in yesterday turned her sour stomach into a rebellious one, which in the end was probably a good thing. After she’d heaved up the contents, she felt better.

Roark nodded wisely. “Mohawk. That explains the children.”

It did. Mohawk had become a family favorite. In her eight year old mind, Bitsy had decided they were now a ‘real’ family so Mohawk was dubbed Grandpa Hawk because, she explained, he was too old to be an uncle and she already had one of those anyway. David was now Uncle David. The little girl had never had a Grandpa and always wanted one and thought the old warrior was the best Grandpa ever.

Mohawk grumbled about the name and being called old, but Mira could see he was secretly delighted. Between his work at the LCD and his new family, the old warrior had found a new and rewarding life. He no longer spoke about returning to the front. He spent all his time outside of work with the kids. He taught the boys to wrestle and the girls to cook.

When Rashonda complained of the sexist treatment, Mohawk arranged a lesson for her with one of the Amazonians. Bruised and sore, Rashonda returned, not broken but eager to learn more. Who knew?

All the children, with the exception of David and Dorrie, were eager for the new school to start. The eldest two thought they were too old and world wise to spend their time with children. Harm solved the problem of David and Dr. Mason cured Dorrie.

Just as Roark had promised, Harm was good with wayward boys and for his role in Anthony Tomaselli’s sins, the First Commander ordered David to serve out his sentence in Harm’s care. The first few weeks were brutal and David returned each day exhausted and sometimes too tired to eat. Slowly, he adjusted to Harm’s physical regimen and then the military schooling began. It was much more difficult than anything he would have found in regular school, but David blossomed under the discipline.

Dorrie was another matter. She missed the freedom of the life she had on the streets. She was bored. Mason insisted she come to the clinic where he was overwhelmed with people who hadn’t seen a doctor in years. Dorrie liked the work and wanted to learn more. Mason offered her a trade. He would train her as a nurse, if she would get good grades in school. Dorrie happily agreed.

Mira gave up on sleep. Breakfast duty would be hers soon enough and she might as well get used to it. Wynne was already working part-time at the Children’s Home and once the new school opened, she’d be there full time doing what she did best, mothering. Her workday would begin much earlier than Mira’s. Even with her limited cooking skills, Mira could handle breakfast.

As soon as she rolled to a sitting position, Roark handed her a mug of coffee. She sniffed it, took a tentative sip, wrinkled her nose, and handed it back.

“Something’s wrong with it,” she said. “It doesn’t taste right.”

“It’s you,” he told her, looking concerned. “Supper last night didn’t taste right either. I hope you’re not coming down with something.” His eyes squinted in speculation. “This isn’t a case of nerves, is it?”

“Nerves?” Mira was insulted. “I’ve never had a case of nerves in my life.”

“Good. I thought maybe this had something to do with our guests’ arrival tonight.”

“Holy crap!” Mira jumped to her feet. “How could I have forgotten? I have so many things to do! Why didn’t you get me up early?”

Roark shrugged, laughing. “I tried.”

She offered him a scathing glance as she gathered up the clothes she’d laid out the night before and headed for the bathroom.

“You don’t have to go to work today. Mohawk can handle it.” Roark offered what he thought was a reasonable suggestion.

“Ha!” Mira called through the door. “That’s what you think. We’ve hired eleven people and not one of them speaks Mohawk. They’ll all be choking on the exhaust fumes from his filthy mouth and I’ll end up with eleven sets of ruffled feathers and twice the work on Monday.”

The Lord Councilor Tadin, Master of the Honorable House of Kronak of the Godan Nation, People of Mishra, and Founding Planet of the Galactic Confederation was coming for an official visit along with his Lady Wife, Mitouri.

Mira stripped off her nightshirt, ready to step into the cleanser because it was faster and more efficient than her preferred shower.

There would be a formal dinner and reception tomorrow, but for tonight there would be an informal supper here in the First Commander’s quarters where the couple would reside for their entire visit.

She stepped into the cleanser, hit the button and raised her arms. The lights came on and the heated breeze washed over her.

Ahnyis had given her a crash course in Godan etiquette and the finer points of entertaining dignitaries. The little healer giggled the whole time and constantly assured Mira there was nothing to worry about.

Nothing to worry about! Mira was the First Commander’s official hostess and if things got screwed up, the blame would be laid squarely on her shoulders. She didn’t want to come across as some ignorant Earthling who wiped her nose on her sleeve and spit in her palm before she shook hands. First Commander Roark was about to be named Governor Roark and she was terrified of embarrassing him.

She stepped out of the cleanser and looked across the bathroom to view her reflection in the mirror.

She had to make a good impression. She had to! The Lord Councilor Tadin, Master of the Honorable House of Kronak and his Lady Wife, Mitouri were the most important people in the world to Roark. They were his parents!

And they’d argued about her. She’d listened at Roark’s office door. His father called her unsuitable. Roark could find better in the Bride Market. His mother had cried. Roar was furious when he emerged, but he said nothing to Mira.

Mira stepped to the toilet, bent at the waist, and promptly threw up.

Mouth foaming with toothpaste, she scowled at herself in the mirror.

“Nerves,” she said, holding her toothbrush aside. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Mira Donazetto, this being in love crap has turned you into a wuss.”

~*~

She hurried across the compound, mentally going over the list of things she needed to do before Roark’s parents arrived. Wynne was finishing up the guest room, the contents of which had been scavenged from one of the warehouses on the base. They’d even traded out the old furnishings in the living area for new. Paintings were hung up. Shelves were filled with books and other interesting items that they’d purchased from vendors in town.

The food had been ordered, the liquor cabinet restocked, and Mrs. Pulaski had been commandeered to provide the whole family with more finery than they’d seen in years. Everything was in order and going well. Too well. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

A Godan soldier was walking toward her. She shivered at the sight of his helmeted head. She wondered if she would ever get used to the faceless entities they presented when fully armored. Fortunately, she only saw them this way when they were gearing up to go to battle and that was only at the airfield right before they boarded a transport.

This wasn’t the airfield and there was something familiar about the way this one moved and where that should have started her mind working, it didn’t. She ignored the next shiver it sent up her spine.

His mind must have been occupied with other things, too. He was coming straight at her and so fast, he looked like he would bowl her over. She stepped aside, out of his path, but instead of walking past her, he stopped and grabbed her arm.

“I’ve been waiting for you, bitch. Who better to get me out of here than the First Commander’s whore?” To emphasize his point, Anthony Tomaselli stuck a zap in her ribs. He grabbed her arm and started moving. “He thought he was so smart, offering to set me free in exchange for telling them what I knew and then charging me with conspiracy in the death of that fucking helmethead.”

Actually, Roark had offered Tomaselli what he deserved, and kept his word. The man was jailed, awaiting trial.

“He should have let me shoot you.”

“Yeah, well you can cry about it later. Right now, you and I are going to take a little ride.” He aimed them toward a skitt parked near the new LCD offices. He had been waiting for her.

She tried to yank her arm from his grasp, but his grip was firm. The zap dug into her side.

“Don’t think I won’t use this,” he threatened.

“You won’t,” she contradicted, something Anthony hated. “Not if you want to get through the gates. Shoot me and I’ll fall down. It’s bound to be noticed.”

“Maybe I’ll wait until we’re on the other side.”

That was a possibility so she had to make sure they never reached the gate.

“How did you get out?” She needed to keep his attention on her and not the people around them who might be sounding the alarm.

“They leave me in that hole all fucking day and night. I don’t even have the hot guards to look at any more. They ignore me except at meal times.” His laugh sounded hollow behind the mask. “Dumb bastards forgot to count the silverware.”

“You used a fork to pick the lock.” He used to brag there wasn’t a door that could keep him out. Later, he’d used it as a threat.

“Yeah, and now the poor bastard has it decorating his throat. Keep that in mind. I got nothing to lose.”

Mira tugged against his hold again and was tugged right back as she knew she would be. She was hoping someone would see them and make note of the rough hold he had on her arm. Touching the First Commander’s woman was a no-no. Someone was bound to notice.

Someone did.

“Hey you yak fucking son of a goat dick, get your hands off of her!”

Mohawk’s shout had every nearby head turning. He was barreling toward them, a stream of curses flowing in his wake.

The logical thing to do would be to hold his weapon to Mira’s head and that’s what Mira expected. She tried to pull away to make that more difficult, but brute force was Tomaselli’s strong suit, not logic. He aimed the zap at Mohawk, while yanking her back to his side.

Like an awkward dance partner, she was swung into his chest. Her hand came up as if reaching for his hand, hit the arm holding the zap and forced it back. She felt the vibration of it firing run up his arm and then Mohawk rammed them, taking Anthony with him and leaving her spinning like a drunken ballerina.

“Nobody fucking shoots at me and lives to fucking tell about it,” she heard Mohawk growl in Godan and then Mira Donazetto did something she’d never done in her life.

She fainted.

“You’d better step up that search for a priest, that’s all I have to say. Nona Donazetto will come back to haunt us if you don’t and anyway, I think Mira would want one.” Wynne’s voice sounded soft and a little weepy.

Mira remembered being held by Anthony Tomaselli. She remembered Mohawk charging in and the gun going off. Had she been shot? Was she dying? Why else would she need a priest?

She was lying on an examining table in the clinic. She knew this because she’d been on this table before. She recognized the smell of the sheets and the warmth of the blanket. She almost opened her eyes, but thought better of it. She would listen, learn what she could and be better able to present a calm front when the news was officially broken. She was the strong one. It was the practical thing to do.

“It’s not my fault,” Ahnyis cried in her high, and rapid-fire voice. “I had the information. You wouldn’t let me present it. It’s your fault, Vochy.”

“I don’t see how you can say this is my fault.” That was Vochem’s stern voice, easily recognized by the harsh purr behind it.

“Because it is,” Ahnyis argued. “You were the one who wouldn’t stick to the agenda. See?” There was a crinkling of paper and a great deal of table slapping as she smoothed her evidence out. “Right here, number four, but no-o-o-o, you had to skip to number six.”