The Reluctant Lord (Dragon Lords) Page 4

  “Do you require that I stay?” Eula asked.

  Clara shook her head in denial. “No. This is where I belong. Your husband will be waiting to fly you back. I will interrupt your life no more.”

  Eula nodded. “Would you like me to deliver a message to your lady mother?”

  “Tell her I have done my duty. Tell her the next generation can begin.” Clara wanted to say more. She wanted to be home. She wanted to beg her mother to send for her, to not abandon her here. She wanted to see the thin veins in her mother’s wrist, the brief show of affection allowed her. None of those things would happen. Eula would leave and Clara would be left alone on this planet.

  “Your message will be delivered,” Eula said. “Honor to your union, Lady Clara.”

  “Honor to your family,” Clara answered as the woman left.

  Alone in the tent, Clara simply stood in the middle of the room. She focused on her breathing, counting the seconds as they passed. When she lost count, she simply started again. It was an old trick, one she’d started as a young girl to keep calm. She imagined she heard her ship take off. She counted faster.

  Twelve, thirteen, four, five, six…

  “My lady?”

  Clara froze.

  “My lady?”

  She hesitated before moving out of her dressing area toward the man who spoke. Before seeing him, she knew it was her husband. Clara paused in the entryway.

  The man still wore the mask over the upper half of his face. The tent seemed smaller than before, as if the walls had been pushed in when she had not been paying attention.

  He smiled at her. “Come.”

  Clara did as he commanded, moving toward him. She didn’t speak as she lifted her hands. She touched as little of him as possible as she hooked the tips of her longer thumbnails along the side straps of the mask. She knew what was expected of her and she did her duty like a good bride. She pulled the mask up and off his head. Hazel eyes met hers. His smile widened.

  “I am very pleased, bride,” he said.

  Clara let the mask dangle on her thumbnail and offered it to him. He took it without question. He studied her face expectantly. Only she wasn’t sure what he expected.

  “I believe that is all of the ceremony until tomorrow,” Clara stated.

  “We can speak if you like,” the man said. “Or…”

  She continued to look at him, doing her best to ignore the pounding of her heart and her trembling hands. Calm. She must be calm. There was comfort in that cultural demand. “Speak.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. The man had a proud face, a fine face, even if his expressions were open, flooding her empathic senses with their emotions. She found herself both fascinated and disturbed at the same time.

  “Speak of what?”

  “Anything. You must be curious about your new home.” He glanced around and then tossed the mask aside to the floor. It landed in the dirt, off the material path she now stood on. There was nothing inside this section of the tent. She had been told that was because it was a temporary stopping place where she could get ready for the ceremony.

  “Of course.” She nodded once.

  Moments passed in silence. He looked as if he would reach for her. “I live in the mountains to the north. Perhaps you saw them when you arrived?”

  “I was not allowed to look out onto the planet,” Clara explained, wondering if the question was a test to see if she really was a noblewoman. “Only the pilot is allowed in the cockpit. It is no place for ladies.”

  “Do you enjoy the outdoors?” The man kept staring at her. She wished he’d look away, or at least not appear so interested.

  Clara moved her gaze down. “I enjoy looking at the out of doors very much. There is a large viewing screen in my… Forgive me. I amend with a correction. There was a large viewing screen in my chambers in my former home.”

  “Viewing screen?” he repeated. His smile fell some.

  “Yes.” She tried not to stare at him, but it was difficult. She found her eyes moving to study him as he did her.

  “Do you go out of doors?” he asked.

  What a strange question. “I left my home to go onto the ship. I have been through many doors. It is the custom of my people to use entryways when coming and going.”

  His lips twitched up a little at the side. “What do you enjoy?”

  “I,” Clara hesitated. No one had ever in her entire life asked her such a thing. She was unsure how to answer. “I read. Things.”

  “Books?”

  She nodded once.

  “Anything else?”

  “I…” She wasn’t sure what would be proper. She liked to daydream, but that was not honorable. She sometimes made up stories in her head. She liked to dance when no one was watching. She hummed to herself when no one was listening.

  Apparently, she took too long to give him an answer, because he continued, “I enjoy running, hiking in the mountains, sleeping outdoors, riding ceffyls, weapons training…” He grinned, the look coming to his face as if spontaneously. “I try to carve stones, though I cannot say I am the most talented at it. The village children seem to like them well enough to play with them though.”

  “I…” She again hesitated. “I do none of those things.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say more but had run out of words. “Perhaps I should have the servants bring up food and supplies to make your night in this tent more comfortable.” He began to turn, only to stop. “Unless you will be too uncomfortable with our custom of spending this night in a tent? I assure you that you will be safe. We are by the royal palace, surrounded by palace guards.”

  “It is your custom. I have been prepared to honor it,” she said, though it was thoughtful of him to think of her comfort. Perhaps there was some hope for him.

  “Very well. I will return.”

  “A moment, my lord,” she said as he reached for the tent flap. He glanced back at her and she added, “I do have one question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your name? I would like to know my husband’s name.” She tried not to let her eyes trail down his strong back.

  At that, he laughed. “I am Lord Vladan, Ealdorman Honorary of Draig.”

  “That is your full title?”

  “Yes. I am also the High Mining Official.” He again reached for the tent flap. “But you may address me as Vlad. There is no reason for formality between husband and wife.”

  “I am Lady Clara of the Redding,” she offered. “My name is Lady Clara.”

  “I know, Lady Clara,” he said softly. He dropped the flap as if deciding not to leave and moved toward her. She stiffened as he neared but did not back away. He lifted his hand to her face. That first touch was so gentle, so soft. She could barely feel it but for the heat jumping off his flesh onto hers. “You are very beautiful, Clara. I am very pleased to call you my wife. All that I have is yours. It is my hope you will come to love your new home.”

  “I am bound by duty to love it,” she answered logically.

  “I will respect that answer,” he whispered. Was it her imagination or did he lean closer? “For now.”

  Clara didn’t move. Vlad brushed his mouth against her. An electric shock of awareness zapped through her. She stopped breathing even as her heart exploded wildly in her chest. It only lasted a brief second, but she could still feel him as he withdrew.

  “I will order food brought to you and a bath, should you desire one. I am told you have a bed.” He gestured to her dressing room. She nodded. “Very good. I will be back, beautiful Clara.”

  Clara watched him go, only moving to touch her mouth when she was alone. A low hum left her, half song, half exclamation of what she was feeling deep inside. “Very good.” she whispered.

  Chapter Three

  Clara stared at the steaming hot bathwater in the metal tub. Several large servants, all men, had brought the bath to the tent. She felt their eyes on her, studying her as the people on her home world studied a painting in the Palace Noblae Po
rtraite Gallery. They hauled the tub with long, thin wood handles that easily detached after they lowered it to the ground. Others brought a table, others food, others furs to cover the dirt floor and still others pitchers of wine. There was really too much food for two people to eat on their own.

  “Will others be joining us?” Clara asked, still looking at the tub. She’d read about water baths, but on her home world they used laser cleaning systems. Learning to swim was a prerequisite in her household, so she had felt water before but had not used it to clean herself.

  “You wish for me to call the servants back to bathe you?” Vlad asked. “That won’t be necessary. Should you need help, I will bathe you.”

  Shocked, she turned her rounded eyes to him. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. It took her a full three seconds to gain her composure. She forced her expression to settle. “I was speaking of the food. There is much of it.”

  “Ah.” He gave a small laugh. “It is a night of feasting. They wished to make sure you were well satisfied.”

  She eyed the towering plates of cooked meat, three loaves of blue bread, crusted pastries and the assortment of fruits and creamed substances. “There is too much. I could not eat so much in a lifetime. Since it has been prepared, we should order that it be given to the poor so that all may eat tonight.”

  He went to the table and lifted a small, round fruit and tossed it into his mouth. “All may eat every night.”

  “I speak of the poor who cannot afford to feed themselves,” she explained.

  His smile widened. “We have no such poor. All here are prosperous. No one is left wanting for food or clothing or shelter.”

  “How is such a thing possible? I have never been to a place that did not have their poor.” She took a small step closer to him. “You are rich, so you must have poor. If you do not associate directly with them, I am sure the servants will know where they reside.”

  “It is not so remarkable that we don’t have poverty. Everyone is expected to pull their own weight the best they can. Those who cannot are provided for. If children are left without family, they are taken in to another’s home to be raised.” He ate another piece of fruit before lifting a third in offering to her.

  “People will take in the children of others?” she questioned. “They are not made to serve in the new family’s home?”

  His hand dropped. “Your people make orphaned children serve?”

  She nodded. “We try to put them in the same household so that they may be together.”

  He set the fruit down on the plate and did not lift another. “It is not the fault of the child that their circumstances have changed. If parents die, they should not be forced into servitude.”

  “If the parents have not provided for them, it cannot be expected that another take on their expense,” she answered. Clara wondered what kind of person would be willing to take in twelve to thirty displaced children upon their parents’ deaths into a household already filled with just as many. It would be a huge burden for most families to raise over fifty children.

  “Our people clearly have different views on the matter,” he said.

  “I would assume we will have different views on many things.”

  At her words, his eyes traveled up to her wig. He nodded. “And styles.”

  She lifted her hand but did not touch her hair. “I must appear strange to you. When I met your queen, she did not look as I do.”

  The Draig queen had a wild appeal to her, with natural flowing hair and a very simplistic tunic gown that formed to the woman’s body without seeming to constrict it as Clara’s gown did. At first, Clara had thought Queen Mede was a servant.

  The man nodded. “Strange, yes. Beautiful, yes.”

  “And my skin.” She looked at her hand, seeing the pale blue-white paint.

  “Strange, yes.” He approached and took her by the fingers to lift her hand. His warm thumb rubbed against the back of her wrist, as if to remove the coloring.

  Clara’s entire body jolted to life at the touch. As a lady, her hands hardly made contact with anything, let alone another person’s flesh. The strange texture of his skin to hers caused every thought inside her stunned brain to stop. She stretched her fingers wide, trying not to return the contact. Each nerve fired at once, as if the appendage would jump off her arm and run into hiding. Yet she couldn’t pull away from him as she should. The sensations were too much for her to process. Flashes of talons warred with visions of running wild in the forest. This man carried an animal inside him. She wasn’t frightened so much as fascinated.

  “But very beautiful,” Vlad continued before his voice slipped into the Qurilixian language. He kept talking and she could no longer understand his words. It was a smoothly spoken, soft tonal language with harder guttural edges seamlessly woven in.

  “The universal translator I had implanted does not speak your language and I only know my ancestors’ language and the universal star language.” She watched his fingers on her flesh, mesmerized by their soft movements and the intimacy of their touch.

  “It was something my father used to say to my mother,” he answered. She waited, but he didn’t translate it for her.

  “You lost your father?” she asked, empathically feeling it was so.

  “And my mother,” he answered. “My father was trapped in a mine collapse, and my mother went in to save him. They did not come back out. And your parents?”

  “They are very pleased to have me, their last daughter, married.” Clara tried not to think of the celebrations she would miss—of her sisters waking and giving birth, of the next generation beginning.

  “You have siblings?”

  They were whispering. He stood close and still touched her hand. She was unused to the intimacy of shared body heat, yet she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. There was something to the sound of his voice and the feel of his touch. “Yes. There are thirty-three in the house of Redding. Nineteen sisters, eleven brothers, myself and my parents. I am the last to marry.”

  “And I thought we had large families.” Vlad chuckled. “Most families here have four to eight sons.”

  “And how many daughters?” she asked.

  “No daughters.” His grip tightened on her hand. Clara only noticed because she was so focused on the feel of his fingers.

  “You…?” She stiffened, almost afraid to receive an answer to her fear. “Do you dispose of the girls as a burden?”

  “No. We simply do not produce many female offspring. One of the very last Qurilixian females born was the queen. Scientist have looked into it and decided the blue radiation from our suns, while making us thrive, also prevents the birth of females except for the rare occurrence. Thousands of males may be born before a female is conceived.”

  “Were those other men your brothers?” She tugged lightly at her hand, trying to block the empathic connection so she could better focus on what she was saying.

  “The princes are my cousins. Alek, Mirek and Bron are my brothers.”

  “I see. They appear very—” she tried to think of a way to describe them, “—open.”

  He laughed. She realized he did that a lot, though she did not understand what could be so amusing as to warrant the sound.

  “My sisters are Elisa, Louisa, Evita, Clavia, Mandia, Maria, Jacia, Lydia, Saria, Noria, Doria, Coria, Horia, Valora, Honara, Honora, Dara, Daria and Laney.” Clara paused. She knew that there were way too many names for him to remember, but she did not want the conversation to end. If it did, he might let go of her hand, and she wasn’t done experiencing his touch. “My brothers are Alban, Emeric, Edgard, Firmin, Florenten, Gael, Bael, Gaubert, Gaspard, Herve and Ignace.”

  “And Clara,” he said. Vlad’s fingers trailed up her hand to her wrist. “Beautiful Clara.”

  Vlad let go of her hand. The connection snapped into nothingness. She didn’t lower her arm right away. Coolness replaced his warmth. He reached up and touched her wig. Her eyes shot up, but it was too late to protest as
he lifted it from her head. The pins snagged her hair and she gasped. “Ow.”

  He set it back down. “I did not mean to injure you. How do you remove it?”

  Her hands shaking, Clara pulled a pin and then another with the tips of her fingers, unfastening the wig. When it loosened its hold, he lifted it again. With the heavy weight gone, her head felt dizzy. She closed her eyes until the lightheaded sensation passed. Vlad set the wig on the table next to the food. Clara touched her head with her wrist. The netting holding her natural locks to her head remained. She rubbed it gingerly. Only her maids had looked at her without her wig since she’d come into womanhood. Not meeting his eyes, she worked the netting off her scalp with her thumbnail. Instantly, four braids of her hair fell around her shoulders, two in front, two in back. The braids acted as a support for the wig. The blonde locks reached her waist when untwined, but now fell to mid back.

  “I thought your hair might be darker,” he said thoughtfully, looking at her eyebrows. She’d darkened them with purple kohl.

  “I do not always wear the body paint. It is our custom for special occasions. If I had not dressed in such a way, it would have been considered an insult by my people. My father would not have been pleased with the reports.” What was it about this man that made her so self-conscious? They were alien to each other. She didn’t expect they would understand each other’s ways nor have the same styles and customs. Though when she’d thought to marry a nobleman, she hadn’t expected such differences. She was all too aware of his half-naked state. There was little to separate them from touching.

  When he moved, she found she enjoyed watching his muscles beneath his flesh. Even his neck was strong. Men where she came from were…softer.