FLETCHER

Fort Rimon, Fortuna’s prime city, climbs the hills surrounding a deep bay that empties into the great ocean. The purple waters of the bay and ocean are harvested for their unique minerals used in healing. At the bay’s southern edge, perched on a promontory, are the remnants of the original fort and settlement, now the governor’s estate. Beginning at Land’s End, near the governor’s palace, the First and Second Hill residential areas are known as the Golden Cliffs, the city’s most prestigious area. The Third Hill district is a transitional area from the residential to the commerce district and is favored by the militia and civil authorities that serve in the governor’s palace. ~ excerpt from The Fourth System, a visitor’s guide

Fletcher pressed against Clarice, aching with desire. She moaned into his mouth. The sound was as heady as her taste. Dragging his lips from hers, he sampled the tender spot where her throat met her shoulder. She shivered at the caress, silken thighs falling open . . .

With more care than grace, Clyde set the tray with tea and pastry on the bedside table. When Fletcher suggested they dispense with the ritual, the faux servitor snorted. “Dump it down the toilet, if you will. I want the transport servitors to find it when they tend to the chamber.”

With the same pragmatism, Clyde informed Fletcher that grown men did not need assistance bathing or dressing, but when it came to sharp edges, Clyde was a master. He would be happy to assist Fletcher with shaving.

Deciding a shower would serve to ease his aching shaft, Fletcher swung his legs over the side of the bed. “If you truly wish to deceive Shimmering Horizon’s staff, prepare my tea with a teaspoon of honey and leave the cream and lemon in the respite console.”

Warm water sluiced down Fletcher’s back as he worked his shaft, reliving every moment of that kiss, release coming quick and hard. He wanted more. Would have tried for more had the riser not opened behind them, and Clarice pulled away. The blend of passion and confusion in her expression made him hesitate and then it was too late.

Fletcher grabbed a towel on his way back to the bedchamber. Two of the four pastries were left on the plate and his tea had cooled. The merest trickle dripped from the pot. “For truth?”

“Naught of concern to the cartel or Bright Star. Unless you care that the scholar on the third level is trafficking stolen jewels or that the Third System militia colonel’s spouse has a liaison with the executive officer.”

The executive officer had oversight of the restaurants, boutiques, and entertainment venues. Fletcher recalled the lovely brunette from the first Fortuna voyage for Bright Star, when she was the purser. “She is quite adventurous. If the colonel is interested, the executive officer would welcome her as well as her husband.”

Clarice reread the proposed contract provision and made a note. On the surface, the provision was consistent with accepted commerce practice, but the wording was not standard. It might be naught more than a local variation customary to Fortuna, but she would make certain. Courts were quick to overturn provisions that did not adhere to standards. That thought sent her down another path and two more anomalies surfaced. These were more significant, offering terms far more favorable than justified by the customers’ vistrite purchases.

None of the anomalies occurred in the Bright Star contracts, but those contracts were all multisystem and adhered to governing council protocols. The Shimmering Horizon archives contained a complete set of Fortuna legalistics protocols and strictures, but Clarice would never clear her task queue if she took the time to indulge her curiosity about the questionable provisions. Once she reached Fortuna, she would assign an associate to investigate the matter.

Rolling her shoulders, she glanced through the glass wall of the private conference chamber. The commerce center was at capacity. Her secluded chamber was one of six designed to hold four occupants and, from her vantage point, at least one held five. There was not a single vacancy at the two dozen stations in the central archives.

Not that it mattered. This chamber was reserved for Seigneur Marco and Serengeti. Only with the seigneur’s agreement could she be forced from it. She doubted anyone on board would be so bold.

She was fortunate the seigneur preferred to conduct commerce in the comfort of his suite. Verity, Chrys, and Fletcher would have equal claim on this chamber, but they were closeted in the fourth suite on the preeminence level for their work on the pairing devices.

She would not object to sharing the chamber. She worked well with her Thornscore companions, and Fletcher was . . . Once she would have thought, always charming. Now he was less so, but also more. He had been all that was gallant at Katleen’s cotillion. At Warriors Horizon with Seigneur Marco and the others, Fletcher had been more withdrawn, leaving Chrys to spin entertaining tales of his recent voyage to Genji.

Not that Fletcher was rude. The harsh stoicism he displayed during his recovery had eased, but he was not the facile charmer from before the battle. These days, when he spoke, he had something to say. His smile came less frequently, but when it did appear, it stirred her in ways that were both pleasant and disconcerting. Strangely, she found the new, less outgoing version of Fletcher more approachable. Which no doubt accounted for her reaction to last night’s kiss. If she had not been so flustered by the sudden interruption, she would have encouraged more.

Clarice fumbled with her slate, latching onto the contract she had been reviewing to hide her confusion. “A minor matter. A customer attempting to sneak in more favorable terms. I doubt they will care for Serengeti’s counter.”

“I would love to. Last night’s recommendation was marvelous.” She disengaged from the chamber’s archives console and, unable to resist, asked, “What of Fletcher? I thought the three of you all but sealed together.”

“I doubt it. Fletcher would not mention it, and neither would Rigel.” Verity turned for the exit. “More likely the seigneur wishes to foster a relationship between his protégé and a signet heir.”

It was a reasonable conjecture. A warrior’s duty to his protégé encompassed more than skills development. Assisting the protégé to build relationships with powerful men and women, and those who would one day be in power, was essential. Seigneur Herman had made certain that all the Iron Hammer seigneurs knew Clarice and recognized her talent and the quality of her legalistics.

The observatory promenade was only two levels above the commerce center. The moving stairs that rose through the vendor levels offered an enthralling view of the concourses packed with shops, restaurants, and entertainments. Clarice’s eye was caught by a man gazing at a display. “Is that Fletcher’s servitor by the spa? Mr. Claude?”

Verity was right. There was something about the servitor that said he would be more comfortable in the training chambers. “He reminds me of someone. I cannot think who.”

Fletcher was torn. He was eager to see Clarice, but after the debacle at Shimmering Delight, he was in no hurry to attend the captain’s reception. If it had been any other than Captain Gehrig, he might have dodged his duty and sought out Clarice later in the evening.

To his surprise, Clyde had laid out Fletcher’s boots and belt. The man was starting to embrace his cover. The ankle boots felt strange. He shook one foot. “Clyde, why is my left ankle heavy?”

“That explains the mask.” Fletcher slid a finger into his boot and located a small ball. He straightened. ““When can I expect the siege?””

Clyde settled on the sofa. “Incarceration—there are no more than ten locations on this transport that would suffice, and I can penetrate them all.”

If another made such a claim, Fletcher might scoff. But for all the appalling miscasting of his cover persona, Clyde’s stealth skills were excellent.

Fletcher halted mid-motion, stunned by Clyde’s words. Not by the fact Clyde knew about the kiss. It was obvious the militia kept him informed. “Rescued twice?”

Fastening the charm, Fletcher realized it was true. And the count was three times, including the Thornscore labor contract. And it was Clarice who explained Thornscore’s private joke about Rigel. If their kiss had not been interrupted, would she have agreed to more? He thought about their conversation before the kiss. “We have known each other for years. Fought battles together.”

She had flirted outrageously at Katleen’s cotillion. The notion of attaching her interest had decided appeal. But he should not delude himself. “She is charming, but a damaged warrior is not going to pull her attention from Monsignor Hercules.”

Clyde’s expression turned cynical. “I imagine she values his wealth and position. She was Seigneur Herman’s doxy before becoming his protégé. A cartouche preeminence is a huge step up.”

Clyde laughed, holding up his hands. “I meant it not. I admire the woman. Anyone for that matter, who advances through courage and wit rather than family influence.”

Fletcher started to protest and stopped. Releasing the dagger, he glanced in the mirror. Was he self-deceiving? For certain, he reacted as strongly to the slur on Clarice as he would one directed at Brianne. “Fine. I desire her.”

Clarice adored the way the elegant flame-silk frock highlighted her slender figure without clinging. The scooped neck displayed the woven gold chain at her throat, while the draped back showcased the strand of rubies and yellow diamonds teasing her spine. The splendid gems were a gift from Hercules. The dress, purchased in anticipation of Hercules’ escort at cotillion season receptions.

Even if he had not tired of her, Clarice would not have been attending those receptions. The Fortuna opportunity was far more important. As was Fletcher. She dressed hoping he would find her enticing, not expecting to also entice more than one passenger thronging the captain’s reception. She found she did not regret Hercules’ absence so much as the reliability of his presence. There was never any need to make her own way in social situations.

With as much grace as she could manage, Clarice eased away from a florid man in his forties, whose gaze tended to drift from her face to her bust. She had not realized the reception would be so extensive. A section of the observatory promenade was reconfigured to provide a dozen buffet stations, and seating for the several hundred passengers.

She turned to the sound of her name to find Chrys waving from near the windows. It was well he was so tall, or she might not have seen him. Raising her hand, she eased between two groups in animated conversation. Chrys and Verity had claimed a small table that held a wine bottle, several glasses, and a platter heaped with small bites.

“Not as such.” She settled into the chair. “I found it challenging to navigate the crowd. Something about stellar transit seems to loosen behavior. I was accosted thrice while seeking you.”

Verity pushed a small plate toward Clarice. “It is not stellar transit so much as you are not as well recognized here as in Crevasse City where none would presume to attempt Monsignor Hercules’ shadow consort.”

She knew that Hercules’ favor provided entrée to the elite beyond her protégé status. She had not realized its other benefits. “How does one discourage unwanted attention without offense? It will not serve to be at odds with an important Serengeti retainer or other elite while on Fortuna.”

“Not in a graceful manner. As an apprentice, my status was enough.” By protocol and stricture, no one had carnal access to an apprentice except the bondholder. “While I was studying, no one on Metricelli Deuce would challenge a prelate as senior as Mulan’s Canon Master. In the cartel, few would risk Seigneur Herman’s ire by approaching his apprentice.”

Verity smiled. “Worry not. Gossip being what it is, Monsignor Hercules’ favor will be known on Fortuna within a sevenday. No one will risk his ire by approaching his shadow consort.”

Feeling her cheeks warm, Clarice shook her head. “What will be known within a sevenday is that Grey Spear has tired of me. He takes an apprentice with the new year.”

She was surprised Rebecca had not shared the termination of Clarice’s liaison with Hercules. The spy could be as discreet as any, but there were few secrets among the Thornscore cadre. “It has been over for almost a month. I suspected the monsignor’s interest was waning before he ended our liaison. He was gracious and considerate in the manner of ending it.

Gratified by their concern, Clarice did not wish them to be misled. “I admire the monsignor and enjoyed his favor, but my pride is more bruised than my heart.”

For truth, after experiencing Fletcher’s embrace, she was not certain she could welcome Hercules, again. Or any other who failed to stir her in a similar manner. Not wishing to pursue that thought, she asked, “How did you manage to claim such an array? The buffet stations are swarmed.”

Fletcher finished greeting Captain Gehrig and went to seek Clarice. The conversation with Clyde had solidified Fletcher’s intent. Clarice had welcomed and responded to his embrace. While none in the Thirteen Systems confused passion with love, or physical intimacy with commitment, Clarice’s honor was unquestionable. She would not entertain his advances unless her interest in Monsignor Hercules had waned. Nor need he worry that she was dazzled by his hero status or fascinated by his machine parts.

Rigel appeared out of the crowd and clapped Fletcher’s shoulder. “There you are. Seigneur Marco is engaged with a Fortuna art dealer. A lovely art dealer. He will not wish our company.”

Mulan’s flame. Of course, Rigel noted that and not Fletcher’s desperation to escape. Keeping his tone cool, Fletcher said, “We have been commerce allies and battle companions for half a decade.”

He expected his tone and words to discourage Rigel. Instead, the other man’s smile deepened. “If you have no interest there, I may make an attempt.”

Fletcher clenched his fist, resisting the desire to knock Rigel to the floor. “As I mentioned a moment ago, Mistress Clarice has long been my friend. I will thank you to speak of her with respect.”

Rigel’s eyes widened and then he laughed. “You do have an interest there.” He offered Fletcher a half bow. “I defer your sacrifice on behalf of Serengeti, Bright Star, and the Thirteenth System. She is all yours.”

Pompous? Clarice had understated the matter. How someone so competent at commerce could be such a lackwit otherwise, defied comprehension. Unable to form a response that would not cause a rift, Fletcher turned away. He did have one cause to be grateful to Rigel. Knowing that Clarice’s liaison with Hercules was over smoothed Fletcher’s path. He very much doubted Hercules Mehta had wearied of Clarice. Her interest in Grey Spear had not merely waned, it had ended.

Fletcher feared he would have trouble locating Clarice, but fortunately her tall militia guard was visible as he made his way through the throng. He found Clarice at a table by the windows, along with Chrys, Verity, and a couple he did not recognize. She was beyond lovely, her lips parted with laughter and her dark eyes glowing. The flame silk skimming her delectable form brought back his lust-filled morning dream.

She half turned and he caught his breath. Her silken hair was gathered at the nape in a loose chignon that left her back exposed, the golden expanse teased by a trail of gems that drew his eyes to the elegant line of her spine. He had the sudden desire to run his lips the entire length.

The unknown couple turned out to be friends of Pippa Kaliani, a Thornscore principal residing on Fortuna. The rangy woman was of an ancient warrior line and executive director of Rimon’s Museum. Her petite consort was senior curator at the public archives from a family of mechanics. They had a wealth of entertaining anecdotes about various patrons and visitors to their enterprises. Fletcher was rather surprised he had not met either woman at one of Pippa’s entertainments while he was preparing for the Nightingale’s flight.

When the couple took their leave with promises to meet in Fort Rimon, Fletcher was surprised by how much time had passed. Verity and Chrys followed, with the explanation that they had to prepare for the next day’s arrival on Fortuna.

Clarice smiled and shook her head. “That was a bit thin. It is not yet tenth bell. They could have admitted they wish to be alone. We would understand.”

In addition to the hydroponic gardens that supplied produce to the crew and passengers, the Shimmering Horizon boasted an ornamental garden. Located in the center of the transport, the walls and ceiling had flowing visuals mimicking the passing of a standard day on Fortuna, with rolling hills and an endless sky. As it would at night in Fort Rimon, a single rose moon glowed in the sparkling night sky—its larger amethyst sister yet to rise. The unique spicy scent of Fortuna minerals filled the air from the water features tucked among the winding plant beds.

Fletcher shook his head. “This is not a crowded chamber.” He motioned to the gardens. “There is almost no one here and clear line of sight for ten paces in every direction.”

Pea gravel crunched under Clarice’s shoes, the murmur of voices indicating other visitors hidden by the plants. As custom decreed, she rested her fingers on Fletcher’s left-wrist, leaving his dominant hand free to wield his dagger. She laughed at the thought.

She tapped her fingers on his wrist. “I use your left to leave your right free for defense. And to cover your weaker flank if needed. At least that is why as an apprentice, I was always at Seigneur Herman’s left and a pace behind.”

“I always thought it a matter of respect.” He shook his head in bemusement. “It seems an odd custom since apprentices are not permitted weapons in their bondholder’s presence.”

“The custom dates to the time of the Five Warriors. Lilian explained it, once. All I remember is that protégé and apprentice were a single role known as a squire. Over the centuries, the separate roles developed. I do not recall why some customs clung to one role rather than the other.”

He lifted his wrist, careful not to dislodge her fingers. “I understand that the source of this tradition is symbolic of the higher ranking supporting the lower. I remember finding it ludicrous when I was taking dance lessons for my first cotillion season. The dance master paired me with the petite heir to a monsignor’s signet. Had I needed her support, we were both falling.”

“Rather like when Sinead’s Seer leads Seigneur Trevelyan. Although the seer is far from fragile.” She smiled at the memory of Lady Helena leading Seigneur Trevelyan into Katleen’s cotilion. “According to the seer, it is about power, not strength. The higher-ranking has more power, and so offers protection. In return, the consort defends the protector where he or she is most vulnerable.”

Fletcher stopped at a path ending in a small grotto, the small water feature whispering against tile. He turned to the militia. “You may remain here. It is but five paces to the fountain.”

Fletcher led them to the climbing vine covered in delicate night-blooming flowers that glowed with golden luminescence. “There is a grotto in the Fort Rimon botanical gardens that overflows with these.”

He turned his hand, clasping her wrist and then sliding his fingers up her arm. The warmth of his fingers, and the glancing caress, left tingling excitement in its wake. She had never been so aware of her own skin. The sensuous caress of the night air, cool against her limbs, was as heady as Fletcher’s company.

His fingers circled her shoulders and traced a lazy path across her back to her spine. His palm flattened, holding her firmly. The strength and steadiness sent shocks of excitement along her senses.

She rose on her toes, unable to resist the lure of and promise of this man. His other arm slid around her shoulders, supporting her as his mouth descended. There was no sudden rush to contact. To consume. Instead, his lips feathered across hers. Gently inquisitive.

Her eyes closed and she savored the contact, tilting her head to provide greater access. His lips firmed, pressing to the corner of her mouth and then back. She breathed a sigh of pleasure, parting her lips, inviting him in.

His tongue traced her lower lip and then dipped within. His taste was as heady as she remembered, the play of his mouth on hers, within hers, more intoxicating than the strongest spirits. His shoulders were solid beneath her hands, the dark hair curling at his collar soft and thick. She pressed closer, her breasts aching for contact. Evidence of his arousal was a hard ridge against her belly.

Fletcher’s arms tightened even as his lips withdrew. She opened her eyes to meet his, as dark as hers and reflecting the desire that was racing through her.

He loosened his embrace, lowering her back to her heels. With his thumb, he stroked her bottom lip. “You are shattering my control. While this grotto is secluded, the gardens are far from private. If you wish to continue, we should adjourn to my suite.”

Except with Thornscore, Clarice kept her emotions shuttered, her thoughts filtered. But she had known and admired Fletcher for a half decade. He had fought with her and for her, treating her with unwavering courtesy. It would be dishonest and dishonorable to dissemble. “My admiration for Monsignor Hercules is undiminished, but if aught is injured, it is my vanity. I do not grieve or nurse a wounded heart.”

Her heart beat a rapid staccato. “I have never felt aught like the fire that rages through me at your kiss. It is exhilarating. And frightening. I am not certain what more would do to me.”

Surprise, pleasure, and something she could not name danced through his expression, ending with what could only be tenderness. “Knowing that my touch exhilarates you fills with me pleasure beyond describing. I do not understand why you fear such pleasure, but I promise, if aught is too much, you have only to voice it. Can you trust me in this?”

Fletcher’s entire being thrummed with anticipation. He had not felt so alive since the battle. Clarice was a beguiling contradiction. Brilliant, charming, and sophisticated, while at the same time, skittish about one of the most natural acts in the galaxy. Although, what was developing between them was far more than a casual, recreational lust. Clyde was correct; self-deceit was dangerous. Clarice had not left his thoughts since the night gone. He wanted more than a pleasant distraction, and if he was not careful in his next actions, something precious could slip through his fingers.

Her eyes were wide when they stepped into the riser. When he reached for the controls, she squeezed his wrist. “I would . . . that is, I prefer my suite.”

He had no objection. Her suite was closer and the tension in the fingers resting on his wrist warned him that he could forfeit her trust in a breath. Bending to her ear, he murmured, “Where are you ticklish?”

They reached her suite. Dropping his wrist, he placed his hand on her back, just above the edge of her frock. She shivered as he guided her within. The door hissed closed as he moved behind her, setting his hands on her waist with enough strength that she would feel constrained. He lowered his lips to the fragrant spot behind her ear. Another shiver as he scraped with his teeth. “Here?”

She liked a commanding touch and a delicate caress. With each moment, Clarice became more intriguing. Eager to elicit more of those delightful shivers, Fletcher repeated his caress, wrapping his arms around her waist until she was tight against him. He followed the curve of her neck, reveling in the silkiness under his lips, her increasing pliancy.

With one hand, he traced a path along her sternum, thrilling when she arched toward the caress, inviting more. Her breast was a sweet handful, the tip a hard pebble in his palm. The primitive part of his nature yearned to lay her across the nearest surface, but it would not serve. They would only have one first time together, and if there were to be a second, he needed to ensure she found joy in their intimacy.

Shifting his embrace, he captured her mouth, delving into the sweet warmth. Relishing the feel of her slender form melting into him, giving him her weight. He lifted his lips, and her eyes fluttered open, dazed with passion. It was as naught to lift her against him. Even before his alloy limbs, he could have carried her with ease. Now, with his left arm bearing her weight, he was able to toss the bedcovers to the foot of the bed before laying her down.

Dazed by the explosive sensations elicited by Fletcher’s touch, Fletcher’s kiss, Clarice watched him peel away his tunic. She had often viewed his naked torso in the training chambers, admiring the dark expanse, the play of muscle as he moved. It was naught to the primal need that surged now. The overwhelming desire to touch and taste.

She met his knowing gaze, heat suffusing her at his awareness of her desire. With a predator’s grace, he crawled onto the bed. Rising over her, he caged her with his form without resting his weight.

His chest was mere inches away. Without thought, compelled by emotions without name, she reached for him. His satin skin was warm over solid muscle as she ran her hands along his ribs and to his back. He tasted of salt and soap and something uniquely male. The flat disk of a nipple was rough and smooth at once. The merest scrape of her teeth hardened the nub and elicited a guttural sound of pleasure.

His fingers tunneled into the arrangement of hair at her neck, gentle pressure encouraging further exploration. The taste of him was intoxicating. The scent. The feel. The crisp fabric of his trousers scraped against her inner thighs, the slight roughness a counterpoint to the sensual lassitude.

Pulling away from her lips, he ran his fingers through her hair, spreading the loosened strands. His expression was awash with pleasure tinged with surprise. He shifted his weight, settling on one forearm, his free hand skimming the side of her bared breast. The bodice of her gown was by her waist, the skirt above her thighs. She had been so lost in delight she had not noticed.

Dark mischief sparked in Fletcher’s eyes as his hand drew lazy circles around her breast. The tantalizing caress became the center of her being, tightening her core, and setting off answering tingles in the tight nub at the apex of her thighs. “Fletcher.”

Maddened by the contact that was too much, and not enough, she arched her back. His fingers closed on the tender peak, rolling and tugging until it was stiff and hard, her breasts and sex throbbing in unified bliss.

With fingers, then lips, teeth and tongue, he forged a path between her breasts and along her sternum. One hand slid beneath her, lifting her as his tongue speared her navel. Red starbursts shot through the gold haze. When they faded, the rumpled silk of dress was gone, Fletcher’s lips teasing the edge of the lace shielding her sex. He lifted his head, the heat in his eyes mesmerizing. His fingers tightened in the lace. His face held a question. At her desperate nod, the lace shredded, leaving her bared to his gaze. To his clever, teasing fingers, and even more clever tongue.

Pleasure washed over her in increasing waves, His mouth replaced his fingers, and her vision clouded with gold. Her hands were in his hair, her thighs parting. flooding her senses. Before she could drown in ecstasy, Fletcher ceased his assault. Rising over her, he was magnificent, an ancient hero, a being of stark power. His shaft was long and dark, promising unimaginable delight.

Lifting her hips, he teased her entrance, setting her channel pulsing in need. The eager whimpering sounds coming from her were as alien as the wild sensations and thundering passion that flooded every muscle, every nerve and set her blood on fire. “Fletcher!”

He surged forward, filling her, setting her alight. With deliberate slowness he withdrew, dragging the pleasure-giving hardness through her in a sense-shattering caress. He returned with more force, and then withdrew. Each plunge, each retreat, increasing in force and speed until there was nothing but increasing ecstasy that sent her higher and higher until she was shattered by bliss.