Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series) (9 page)

He shook his head, his clean, damp hair falling forward over his bare shoulders. “God, no.” The last thing he needed was a hysterical female in his tont. “You go, tend to your own home. Drop the door cloth on your way out. I don’t wanna be disturbed.”

She nodded, but he heard her tsk of disapproval as she stepped out of the tont into the warm prairie night. Sounds of the camp were audible through the tont’s thin walls—crackling fires, the calls of tethered catamount ponies and the voices of the tribe as they settled down for an evening of leisure. He could drop the soundproofing, but tonight he didn’t care. Footsteps padded past, but a covered doorway meant none would bother their leader unless it was urgent—very urgent.

He lay back on his comfortable divan, long legs clad in soft pants stretched out before him, and returned to staring blearily at the holovid flickering in the middle of the room. An old-fashioned actionvid, it featured a warrior battling his way through obstacles on a jungle planet to reach an imprisoned princess. No doubt he’d be punished along the way for his heroics, but since it was fiction, he’d win in the end. Probably get some good sex and be lauded as a hero, too.

The sound was turned down to a murmur. Through it, he heard someone begin to strum a qitar by a nearby fire. If he cared to glance up under the high curve of the tont ceiling, he could view the musician and his campfire, along with a 360-degree holovid of the area surrounding his tont and the camp.
 

Manipulating the holovid with his comlink would take the hovering surveillance cams up and out farther too, but not only did Joran not quarking care right now, he had no reason to do so. There were always three or more of the crew on guard duty, patrolling on hovercycles and catamount ponies. They had links to the satcom and could scan the skies and land for any threats.

Ashe Targhee had seen none of this capability, nor had he noticed that every cruiser parked around the outer rim of the camp was highly armed and placed so that when powered up, they would form a deadly barrier around the camp even before they took off.

Tonight, all was quiet, in camp and out on the prairie. Mako was in the regen unit watched over by Riley. The others were resting—and no doubt drinking, like Joran. Tomorrow morning would be time enough for their new set of problems.

The rug in the corner rustled, followed by a tiny grunt of discomfort.
 

Joran sighed. Right—he still had his little cling-on to deal with. She’d started whimpering again when he tried to send her to the medtont with Riley and Wega, so finally he’d brought her here.

“You can come out if you like,” he said, his words morphing into a yawn. “No one will bother you.”

When there was no answer except quiet breathing, he shrugged. She wanted to spend the night under that rug, that was fine with him, but she must have needs.
 

“You must be thirsty by now. And I don’t suppose those slimers fed you much, did they? Let’s see, we’ve got fruit, and meat and veg rolls. Call ‘em
yamas
.”

The rug moved, and his keen hearing picked up the growl of an empty stomach. He waited, unexpected humor ghosting across his lips again. Shouldn’t be long now.

Very slowly, the corner of the rug lifted, to reveal dirty, tousled, dark blonde hair through which those blue eyes peered, full of wariness and distrust rivaling that of any wild creature on this new planet. Smart girl—he wasn’t the safest man to be around, especially not tonight. Slaves tended to get dead around him.

“Drink?” he offered. “You prob’ly don’t need alcohol, but I have water.”

Her full lips, dry and cracked now that the cosmetics were worn off, compressed with longing. Her long hair moved as she nodded.

Moving slowly, he leaned over to take a bottle of water from the low table at his side. He bit the top off, spit it to one side, and leaned over to hold out the bottle. When she didn’t move, he set it on the carpet before her. Then he lay back on his divan.
 

She pulled the bottle under the rug with her. He grinned to himself again as he heard water gurgling down her throat and the bottle, crafted of organic wax and plant fibers, crackling as it collapsed. Then she sighed with evident relief.
 

“Plenty of food here.” He reached over and took a gremel fruit from the tray and bit into it, slurping the insides from the skin, savoring the sweet, tart pulp. Strange, he’d had no appetite till now. “Mm-mm, gremel. Sweet and juicy, just the way I like ’em.”

The rug moved again as she craned her neck to watch him eat. She swallowed audibly and her stomach growled again.
 

He wiped his fingers, then twisted in his seat to guide the hovertray down to the carpet between them.
 

“Here,” he said. “Eat.”
 

She was still for a time, but when her stomach growled again, this time so loudly it nearly drowned out the qitar tune, she sat up very slowly, the rug and the borrowed robe slipping off her bare shoulders and back. She grabbed the robe around her again. She peered at the holovid a few times but always returned to studying him. Joran didn’t move a muscle.
 

“Eat,” he repeated and then turned back to his holovid.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if waiting for him to slap her away, she reached for one of the flaky rolls. He waited until she had her mouth full and her attention focused raptly on the food in her slender, dirty hands, before he looked at her again.
 

He’d been right, she was going to be a beauty once the filth was scrubbed off. His hawk nose twitched at the stench of her unwashed body and that of her Mau captors.
 

He wondered if she had any idea how lucky she was that they’d kept her virginal.And that he’d been able to pay so much to save her. Of course it helped that the other bidders were afraid of what he’d do if they outbid him. All except the Serpentian whore-master and the anonymous human, and Joran had had a bottomless well of credit—the slavers’ own—to outbid them.
 

He’d saved her from a brothel or worse. Now he just had to figure out what the seven hells to do with her. Il Zhazid had purchased a slave girl from an illicit auction, but Joran Stark had all the women he knew what to do with. He sure as hells didn’t need or want a frightened little immi in his tont.

And if his brothers ever found out he’d actually purchased a slave girl, they’d never let him hear the end of it.

Joran rubbed his eyes wearily and pushed his hair back with his free hand. No, with the confrontation looming in the morning, he had more than enough trouble in his lap already. Although she was at least a distraction. Without realizing it, he’d consumed another gremel fruit and half a yama. He felt a little better with the food to soak up some of the brandy.

Swift footsteps approached. He looked up at the holovid to see Qala stalking toward his tont, her stance militant against the glowlamp floating outside.
 

The door flap flew open. Qala ducked in. She’d showered and changed into a knit top of soft grass green over brown leggings. With her auburn hair curling damply around her angular face she looked almost pretty.
 

She scowled from the girl to him and back again. “What’s she still doing here? I thought you were going to have Nera take her.”

Joran gave her a level stare. “Really? Because I don’t recall saying that.”

Her stance tightened, her hands fisting at her sides. The girl, who had scuttled back under her rug when the door opened, huddled down, her fearful gaze flicking from Joran to Qala and back.

“You can’t be serious,” Qala said, gesturing. “I mean, look at her. She’s filthy. And she’s just a soft little immi. You need someone with backbone, not her.”

“Qala,” he said, his voice cold. “This is not your business. She stays. Now since you weren’t invited in, I suggest you find your way out.”

He watched her absorb this blow, her face paling under her golden tan, her green eyes filling with hurt and shock. He didn’t soften his own look. She’d overstepped her bounds and she knew it.
 

She nodded—jerkily, but she did it. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The searing look she gave him, however, promised that it would also be a while before she forgave him. He merely took another drink of moonbrandy, smooth and strong. “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

She stalked out of the tont, and he gave the command to close the door and lower the second flap. It snicked into place.
 

The girl whimpered, a soft panicked sound, and disappeared completely.

Joran chuckled, this time without any humor whatsoever. Hells of a deal. He’d chosen to fend off his lieutenant’s advances with the one single woman in camp who not only didn’t want him, but was flat out terrified of him. Not that he wanted her either. She was the epitome of everything he steered away from in a woman—weak, clinging and helpless.

And having thrown her up as a barrier between him and Qala, now he had to keep her with him.
 

But being the pirate he was, he could always find a way to turn a situation around to his benefit. Why should this be any different? Joran eyed the lump of carpet and the tangled ends of her hair trailing from underneath, his eyes narrowed in speculation.
 

He’d wanted a distraction—and he had one, in spades. Alone, terrified and far from home—wherever that was—this little bunny needed a protector.
 

He couldn’t set her loose in the camp, as she’d either try to run and thus get herself killed by a wild predator, or she’d cause trouble among those in his camp—the single males. Nera had two teenage sons, so her tont was out. Riley would look after her, but Wega ... no. Qala or Ilya, hells no.
 

One of his other warriors’ partners might take her, but he couldn’t ask them to take a lovely stranger into their tonts. His crew was rough, virile and—maybe with the exception of Var and Pede—not above straying if they thought they could get some without their partners knowing. Dangle her and most would take the bait, then their partners would go for the nearest blade, ready to maim all involved.

He also couldn’t put her with any of the single women like Fee or her friends. They’d rip her a new one for sport or ignore her while she got herself into trouble. Marzolle would simply seduce her, which might be fun as hells to watch, but…no.

So he’d keep her with him for a couple of days. At least he could amuse himself by getting her to talk to him. Yeah, she was a virgin, but nothing said he had to fuck her. Just...gentle her a bit. Then he’d put her on a transport and send her back to her people.

And thumb his nose at the IGSF in the process, with a slave auction purchase right under their noses.

***

Her rescuer spoke again, his voice, deep and lazy, with an edge of humor as if he found her amusing.
 

“You can come out, little bunny. No one will harm you here.”

She wanted to believe him, but no one except the dark-eyed slave had been kind to her in the nightmare of the last days. Instead she’d been kicked and slapped, dragged instead of led, and she’d been hungry and thirsty, the hours she hadn’t been in a drugged sleep. As a finale, she’d been trussed up and paraded before beings that terrified her more than the darkness in her mind.

However, she had to obey. Not only was this man her new master, but now that she had eaten and drunk the cool water, another need was making itself known. Urgently.

Throwing off the rug, she staggered to her feet, one hand pressed to her groin. The robe fell away, tangled with the rug she’d hidden under, but she hadn’t time or the energy to worry about her near nudity.

“Please, I—I need to...to go.” She pressed her thighs together, peering around the tont.

“Ah. Yes.” He rose in one fluid motion and strode to one side of the room, holding open a door she hadn’t seen. “Here.”

She scampered past him, slammed the door behind her, yanked down the jeweled panties, and sank onto the lav with a moan of relief.

Her most urgent needs taken care of, she washed her hands, enjoying the warm water and clean herbal-scented soap. Then she dried her hands in the stream of hot air and stood, irresolute, in the center of the tiny lav.

It was well-appointed, with gleaming cerametal in quiet earth tones augmented with silver. Her gaze skittered away from her dirty, bedraggled reflection in the mirror. She wrapped her arms around her middle, shrugging her shoulder to shake her hair over her nearly bare breasts. She wondered if she dared ask to use the showerdry. She would give anything to be clean all over.

“Come on out.” His deep voice came from just outside the door. “Or do I need to come in and help you? Have you fallen?”

She hurried to open the door but hid behind it, conscious once more of all her bare skin and of his half-naked body. He looked even larger and more dangerous without a shirt. His chest was so broad, the smooth skin covered only with sparse, dark curls and his shoulders and arms were heavily muscled, his forearms corded as if he worked with his hands.
 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just…washing my hands.”

He was silent for a moment, and she felt the air become thick and heavy. She shrank farther back into the curve of the small room, watching his large, well-shaped hands, waiting for the blow that was sure to come.