Soldier of Fortune

The coach lurched to a halt, literally knocking Gideon free of the memory, but he said nothing, only waited as the horses stamped and the door opened, letting in a blast of chill air.

Rough hands hauled him up, then maneuvered him out and down the carriage steps.

Only when he heard the rustle of fabric and caught a fresh waft of perfume did he speak. “Celia,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “It’s been a while.”

“And yet,” the reply came after a beat, “not long enough.”

Then the sack was whipped away, and for the first time in almost seven years, Gideon laid eyes on Celia Rand. Her hair was shorter, he noted, but she was still wearing red.

“Nahmin.” Celia glanced at the man climbing down from the coach’s driver’s seat. “Take care of the horses, then see that the general remains undisturbed.” She looked at the twins. “Bring him. And Gideon . . .” She paused, looked back over her shoulder. “Try not to bleed on the carpet.”

“Ha ha,” Gideon said, then grunted as the twins propelled him into the house, up the stairs and down the hall in Celia’s wake, at last shoving him into the last room on the second floor.

Within seconds of Gideon’s entrance, Celia had stepped out of her shoes. Then as he watched, bemused, she began to move about the room, lighting a series of table lamps.

Pockets of illumination grew to fill the space, revealing burgundy flocked wallpaper, red velvet curtains framing long windows, and furniture that ran to the fancy: a gilded wardrobe, delicately carved tables and chairs, a curved divan, and a fireplace mantle crowded with antiquities—including what looked to be a collection of Earth-made plastic bottles.

Even the bed was a showcase, with its sea of red silk nesting inside the frame of what looked like Adian ebony.

He turned to see Celia had lit the final lamp and was closing the thick curtains, possibly worried the neighbors might wake up and spy the strange man bleeding all over the brocade.

With the curtains closed, she walked to a small table holding a decanter and several liqueur glasses, unstoppered the decanter and poured out a glass of burgundy-tinted liquid.

Holding his gaze, Celia lifted the glass, sampled it, and smiled her approval.

“One hates to ask,” Gideon said, studying her, “but why am I not floating face-down in the Avon with your husband’s knife in my back?”

“That is a question,” she murmured.

Gideon frowned as the use of that particular phrase set an itch to the back of his brain.

Before he could scratch it, Rey nudged him into one of the chairs, a burgundy-cushioned number with an ornately carved slat back. Ronan joined them and shoved Gideon into the chair, where Rey bound his hands to the chair rails.

He waited for the twins to move away, then counted to ten before beginning to test the bindings, slowly flexing and stretching his wrists before his hands, already numb, lost all function, turned black, and fell off, rendering any escape attempt moot.

Aren’t you being a little overdramatic? he asked himself.

Have you seen where we are? His self replied, eyes remaining on Celia while she set down the glass and shed her coat, revealing a blood red gown that didn’t so much cling to her curves as promise to, pausing over various bits of anatomy until a turn, a step, a twist, caused it to ripple away and on to new territory.

As far as Gideon could tell, there was nothing holding the gown in place but a slender strap over one shoulder, and that strap little more than a prayer away from releasing its tenuous hold.

“Um,” Gideon said.

“A moment.” Celia draped the coat over the back of the divan, then looked to the twins. “You may wait in the hall for Nahmin’s signal.”

Signal? Gideon wondered. He remained silent until the door closed behind the twins, then looked at Celia. “Signal?” he asked.

“I imagine you’re thirsty,” she said, ignoring the question as she retrieved her glass.

Gideon spat a gob of bloody saliva onto the rug. “I could drink.”

Her mouth quirked, a shadow of a smile, as she joined him and held the glass to his lips.

He inhaled the scent of raspberries and alcohol, which mingled seductively with the spice of her perfume.

With his eyes locked on hers, he took a swallow, then another, and another until she withdrew the goblet and brushed her fingers over his lower lip, bringing a stray drop of the liquid to her tongue, much as Doc had done with a drop of sweat in the Morton yard only days before.

“You kept the coat,” she noted. “Interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because keeping it says you don’t blame the Corps for what happened to you.”

“Why would I blame the Corps for something your husband did?”

Celia’s shoulder lifted in a tiny shrug. “Not everyone would have such a clear view of the matter.”

“Not that clear,” Gideon muttered, still worrying at the rope. “For instance, why did your husband believe we had an affair?”

“Oh, Jessup never believed we had an affair.”

You should never have touched her . . . Rand’s last words in the Kodiak’s brig seemed to echo in the over-warm room. “Then . . .”

“He believes you assaulted me after Allianza.”

“And why,” Gideon asked, though his voice was tight, “would he think that?”

“Because that’s what I told him.”

“You told him?” Gideon forced the question through the rage clogging his throat. “And he believed you?”

Celia’s gaze remained cool as she studied him. “I had some very impressive bruises to show as proof. You were quite the brute.”

Gideon’s wrists wrenched so violently that the skin tore. “Why?”

“You know, you’re quite fit for someone who’s been living on prison rations,” she said, ignoring the question of the day. “That said,” she paused over a particularly vibrant bruise, “you also look like someone has been using you for target practice.”

The salve of her voice crashed into Gideon’s fury, leaving him still angry, but also dizzy. “Several someones have,” he managed.

“Poor Gideon.” She tilted his chin up and pressed her lips to the pulse point under his jaw, causing his blood to heat.

He closed his eyes, willing himself not to respond. Once had been more than enough.

“Interesting,” she murmured, and he opened his eyes again as she rose from his lap and crossed to the table where she’d left the decanter and, turning her back to him, unstoppered the flask.

“What’s interesting?” he asked.

“Your self-control,” she replied as she poured. “It’s stronger than it was in Allianza, and it was impressive then.” She turned, holding a full glass, and met his gaze. “You’re staring, Colonel.”

“What can I say.” He managed an indolent shrug. “Seven years hasn’t made you less of a walking heart attack.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she decided.

“Don’t,” he said and was surprised by what looked to be a flash of hurt in her eyes, though the shift of expression was so swift, he couldn’t be certain.

“Do you know,” she murmured, staring in her turn, “you are the only one who’s ever said no to me and meant it?”

Which was not something he expected to hear. “Ah—”

“Generals, diplomats, the ever-present servants, every single one of my assets fell for my charms. Willingly. Happily. Every one of them.” She paused and looked into the red depths of the glass, then up, again meeting his gaze. “Until you.”

Which, Gideon thought, was wrong.

Not that he didn’t believe her claims to conquest. He pretty much hated Celia’s silk-wrapped guts, but he still wanted her.

No, what was wrong was the other bit, the thing about the . . . “Assets,” he repeated.

Rather than respond, she set the glass on the long, low table in front of the chaise, exchanging it for one of the knickknacks littering its surface.

It was, he noted distantly, a music box. One she wound now so when she set it back in its place, it began to play.

“I’ve always loved this piece,” she told him, taking up the goblet.

And then as he watched, jaw dropping, Celia began to dance; rising lightly on her bare feet, she extended a leg here, an arm there, before spinning her way across the room with such ease that not a drop of the deep red liqueur spilled from the glass.

Gideon was near to breathless by the time she came to a stop in front of him, at which point every cogent thought rushed out of his brain.

“Do you like it?” she asked, and though Gideon didn’t know if she meant the music, the dance, or her, his head dropped in a single truncated nod, then his breath caught as she folded herself onto his lap.

“Do you know where this music came from?” she asked, leaning close, her berry-scented breath ticking his ear.

“No.”

“It’s very old,” she told him, easing back as she explained. “It was old even when our ancestors left Earth.” She slid one arm behind his neck. “It was part of a ballet.” As she spoke, she lifted the goblet to his lips and tipped the glass so Gideon automatically drank from it, though the berry-scented wine did nothing to ease the tightness in his throat.

“This particular music is a movement from a ballet called Swan Lake,” she continued, lowering the glass, now barely half-full. “The ‘Black Swan Pas de Deux,’ it’s called.”

Gideon licked the traces of liqueur from his lips, which felt suddenly hot. “It was stunning,” he said, then flushed at the naked admiration in that statement.

“I know,” she said, pressing her forehead to his, and he couldn’t tell but thought her voice hinted at sadness.

“Celia,” he began as a fresh welling of regret surfaced from—somewhere.

“That black swan has a name,” she cut in, her voice almost as choked as his as she straightened, her expression becoming distant even as the storm of need and sorrow swamping Gideon receded like the tide. “Do you want to know it?”

He wasn’t sure he did.

“Her name,” Celia continued, her gaze steady, “is Odile.”

“Odile,” he said, the name falling numbly from his lips.

“Yes,” she said, still watching him.

“But . . . you saved my life in Allianza,” he said. “You killed that soldier.”

“I killed that soldier,” she said, “because your sergeant entered the mess. I had to protect my cover.”

“That’s . . . cold,” was the best he could manage.

“That is war,” she corrected. “Though I suppose I should thank you properly for taking the fall on my behalf.”

“Untie these ropes,” he suggested. “We’ll work something out.”

“I don’t think so.” She traced a finger over his collarbone. “But maybe, before it’s all finished, I’ll have the chance to make it up to you.” And then she leaned close, brushing her lips over the same spot her finger had traced seconds before.

It wasn’t much, the faintest touch, but it was still enough to send Gideon’s entire system into overdrive.

“Stop,” he said, clenching his teeth against the unwanted desire.

“You don’t really want me to stop,” Celia murmured, dark eyes peering up.

“Yes, I do,” he hissed, hating that he was lying and hating even more that she knew he was lying.

It was in that moment, when fury and desire declared war on each other, that his arms jerked backwards and the chair’s finely carved slats snapped and he surged out of the chair, knocking Celia to the carpet and sending the glass flying from her hand.

He didn’t have his hands—the original binding still held—but he was bigger than her, stronger than her, and he was sure as toxic Earth madder than her, so when she fell, he followed, setting one knee over her throat and pressing so there was only a thin trickle of air between Celia and the death of a swan.

It was tempting, so very tempting, to remain where he was.

To end it.

To end her.

Except for the unfortunate truth, one Gideon, even half-mad with rage, could recognize—that the only thing Celia’s death would end was his freedom.

And her, Gideon reminded himself.

Again, tempting.

But not, in the end, tempting enough.

He removed the knee and sank back on his heels, and it was a good thing he did, because as the hot fuel of rage receded, so too went the energy that had propelled him from the chair in the first place.

“Thank you,” Celia whispered hoarsely, drawing his attention to the bruise blossoming over her pale, pale throat.

“I’m not the murderer in this room,” he said with some difficulty. He must be more exhausted than he thought. Either that or—

“Not yet,” she said, interrupting his train of thought.

“I . . . what?” Keepers, but he was tired all of a sudden. And now there were the shadows spilling over the edges of his vision, much as the liqueur had spilled over the carpet.

The liqueur, he thought, looking to the fallen goblet and remembering that, though Celia had drunk from the first serving, she hadn’t touched a drop of the second.

Hells, he thought, slumping to one side as the morph numbed his limbs.

“For what it’s worth,” he heard her say, as she had so many years ago, “I am sorry.”