Three
“Goddamn it!”
Tara was fumbling in her pocket for her cell when dim emergency lights bathed the room in cool blue light. Wary of another shock, she reached between the frozen metal arms. Ki’san was warm again. His chest rose and fell, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her palm.
It took the cell’s light to confirm what her stunned first glance told her. The gash in his side was gone, the surrounding skin pink and healed. He groaned, turning his face toward her, flinching when the cell’s light hit his eyes. Quickly she shut it off and pocketed the phone.
“Ki’san?” Tara elbowed away the mechanical limbs, her fingertips light on his cheek. “Come on, wake up.”
His eyes opened, his confused gaze darting about the shadowy room.
“We’re in the infirmary. This”—Tara indicated the arms still hovering over him—“thing was treating you but the power cut out. I don’t think it was finished. I need to get it started again. You have to tell me how to do that, okay?”
He wet his lips, wincing as he swallowed.
“I’ll see if I can find you some water.” She was looking toward the sink but Ki’san touched her arm, stopping her. He indicated a row of cabinets on the wall.
“Up there?” Tara twisted out from the frozen mechanical limbs, impatiently untangling a strand of her hair from the one of the appendages. She picked her way over to the cabinet. “This one? No?” She moved her hand to the next door. “This one?”
He gave a listless chin jerk. Tara jammed her thumb against the panel and pulled hard. Lined up neatly inside were clear bags of liquid. She grabbed one.
“Is this water?” She held it up so he could see the symbols. It could have been liquid pesticide for all she knew from that alien scrawl but apparently she’d chosen correctly. He gestured for her to bring it closer. There was a tube attached, a straw of some kind and she loosened it, helping him guide it to his mouth.
Ki’san drew on the tube, drinking deeply. He took one last swallow, then lay back. His luminescent gaze passed over her and he gave a soft, querying rumble.
“I don’t know how to get the power back on, if that’s what you’re asking.” She indicated the room around them. “Show me where to go to do that.”
He gave a huff, rolling onto his side.
“What are you doing?”
His brow knitted, he got to sitting, gripping the table’s edge.
“Lay down!” Tara pointed sternly. “Lay down this instant!”
Clearly her imitation of the duty nurse’s tone wasn’t working on him any better than it had on her during her last stint in ICU. Ki’san brushed the mechanical arms aside and, using the bed for support, got to his feet, his gaze fixed on one of the higher cabinets.
“Whatever it is, I can get it for you.” Tara quickly stepped forward to support him. Her body was pressed to his side, her arm around his waist, and she was acutely conscious of his smooth warm, bare skin. “And maybe a blanket.”
Ki’san’s attention stayed fixed on his objective, and he took a step in that direction.
“Or,” she muttered, hobbling along with him, “we can go together.”
The moment they were within reach he let go, using the counter to support himself instead. With a press of his fingers he opened one of the drawers, revealing a row of neatly arranged metallic tools. He lifted one of the long, cylindrical objects and held it up to her, his rumbling low, soothing.
Suddenly he lunged, jabbing the thing at her throat.
“What the hell?” Tara darted back, out of his reach. “Get the fuck away from me!”
But he didn’t pursue her, frowning at the tool in his hand. He drew the cylinder closer to peer at it. With a violent twist he cracked open the casing, staring at the interior.
In a fury of speed Ki’san grabbed the remaining tools from the drawer, lining the cylinders up side by side on the counter. He took each in turn, breaking the casing to peer to look inside before slamming it down and seizing the next. There were eight cylinders, and in moments he’d examined and discarded them all.
“Ki’san?”
His eyes met hers, horror in those bright depths, then his glance fell on the cylinders again. His fangs flashed in a vicious snarl as he seized the tools, shoving them into a container marked with bold, alien script. He slammed the panel shut and sealed it.
She edged closer. “What were those things?”
He was breathing hard, his shoulders trembling, his fingers gripping the counter.
The lights cut out.
In the next instant they were on again, their cool light even dimmer now. Tara pulled out her phone and her stomach sank at how little power it had left. It would be dark soon, and the phone’s flashlight wouldn’t get her through the woods and in sight of the château if she didn’t hurry.
But finding her way back to Heatherbell was the least of her problems right now—the towering, naked, glowing-eyed alien looking back at her topped that list.
Her heart was thumping.
But she hadn’t saved his life so he could be hauled off by the army or the FBI or whatever agency was responsible for Adonis-like extraterrestrials.
“Ki’san, I don’t know if anyone saw you crash, if anyone else knows you’re here. If they do find out about you, people will come, officials I mean, and they’ll—” The lights flickered. “Look, your ship is falling apart and my—” Tara stumbled over the words. “My home isn’t far away. You’ll be safe there until we can figure out what to do next. You know, until we can figure out how to get you back to where you came from.”
“Hhhoommme,” he growled.
“Does that mean you want to go home?” Her brows drew together. “Or that you want to come home with me?”
“Tarrrah.” He inclined his head. “Hoomme.”
“Okay that’s a vote for my house.” Along with his assent a whole host of problems unrolled at her feet like an intricate oriental carpet. Tara squared her shoulders. “Okay. Yeah, I got this. But if we’re tramping through the forest, maybe you should, um”—her gaze was drawn downward but she caught herself this time—“put something on?”
Ki’san gave a clipped growl, then rushed past her into the hall. Uncertain, she followed him out.
“Do you want me to go get—”
He was already at a nearby door, pressing the release, easily pushing the door open wide with one hand.
Tara peeked inside. The same emergency lights illuminated the room but this was not storage room or utility space. This was living space.
His.
That was evident in how he moved around, how quickly he found clothes and boots without having to search. His luscious scent, that warm cinnamon essence of him, was stronger here. There was a bed, a desk, shelves and cubbies, but it lacked a sense of permanence; this was a temporary accommodation, not a home.
But not entirely without the personal either. On the desk, next to an impossibly thin tablet sat a crystal. It was so out of place, so organic, that it struck a discordant note in the manufactured, streamlined quarters.
She lingered in the doorway, but her presence while he dressed didn’t seem to faze him in the least. He used a cloth to clean away blood from his face, body and hands. He swiftly donned clothes like those she’d seen the other men on the bridge wearing—his dark rust-colored jacket and trousers had a strange, almost wrapped, appearance. Ki’san pulled the last tab to fasten his boots and straightened, catching her interest in the stone.
He joined her beside the desk and carefully lifted the crystal. He held it almost reverently for a moment, then offered it to her.
Tara didn’t want to break any alien customs, and having no idea what taking it might signify, she was reluctant to touch the thing. “What is it?”
He brushed his thumb against the rough base. The stone brightened as shimmering colors appeared above its surface, forming into the three-dimensional image of a young woman.
She was one of his own kind, her features alien but far more delicate. The hologram was no taller than the length of Tara’s hand, and dynamic. The long strands of the woman’s glossy blonde hair moved as if stirred by a warm breeze, the sleeves of her angelic blue dress fluttered. If she were human Tara would have guessed her no more than twenty, her smile dazzling, joyous.
She was absolutely beautiful.
The woman called out his name and waved. Ki’san cradled the gem, its light reflected in his rapt face.
“We should—” Tara cleared her throat. “We should go. It’ll be dark soon.”
Her words yanked his attention from the happy image. He deactivated it, the woman’s form vanishing mid-wave in a tiny burst of light. Ki’san took great care in wrapping the crystal. He pulled down a pack and secured the keepsake inside, moving swiftly about the cabin to gather other things.
He swung the pack over his shoulder and stepped into the hall, already heading back to the medical bay.
Tara crossed swiftly to the far side of the infirmary. “Okay, we just go through—”
But he had already shrugged off his bag and pulled down another, this one a backpack with alien lettering. His movements were quick, efficient as he surveyed the items within it, closely examining each, switching out some. Tara checked the time again and tapped her thumb against the side of her cell but he paid her no mind, assembling his supplies with methodical care.
By the time he pulled one bag onto his shoulders backpack-style and slipped the other across his body, Tara was shifting her feet with impatience.
“Okay, now—” She turned, too close to the second, cracked biobed, gasping as a sharp edge sliced across the back of her hand.
Instantly he seized her wrist, and she pressed her lips together as the deep cut welled up with blood.
“Hey!” She pulled against his hold but he tugged her along, heading for the back row of cabinets. “Let go damn it!”
He ignored her, already riffling through another of the drawers with one hand, adjusting the tool he grabbed with deft fingers.
She ducked back, fearful he’d stab at her neck like he’d tried to before, but he kept firm hold of her. He activated the instrument over her hand, bathing her skin in warm, pink light, his expression intent as he worked, the alien tool instantly taking the sting out of the cut.
He shut the thing off and tore into a small, sealed pack. He wiped the back of her hand with the damp cloth, examined her hand, and then let go.
“Hey, that . . .” Tara blinked down at the pink, healed skin, flinching as she moved her wrist. “That’s pretty amazing.”
“Hurrrts?” He frowned, his fingers gentle as he probed her wrist. “Hurrrts this?”
“I sprained it when the elevator fell.”
Ki’san took up the tool again, adjusting it, the light now a deeper, almost magenta color as he directed it toward her injured tendons. After a few moments he let her go, giving her an expectant look.
“It doesn’t hurt at all anymore.” She flexed her wrist easily now. “Thanks.”
He returned the instrument to its place then moved past her, easily pushing aside the door to the storage room. He paused for an instant when he saw the damage to the side of the ship. Gingerly he stepped through the jagged opening and Tara did the same, careful not to catch her trousers this time on the sharp, metallic edges.
Ki’san’s gaze took in the ruined craft, the gutted earth, the devastated trees. Guilt, sorrow, gratitude flickered across his face as he walked along the hull. Then he stopped, bent his head and brought his palm to his ridged brow.
His eyes were shut, his growls solemn, reverent, and Tara sent an uneasy glance toward the sky. She didn’t want to interrupt his rumblings to whatever glowing-eyed deity aliens prayed to, but they didn’t have much light left either. She sure didn’t want to attempt that incline in the dark.
Just before she could attempt a polite throat clearing, Ki’san completed his litany.
He faced her, his expression expectant. Tara shifted her feet, really hoping he wasn’t expecting her to pray too.
“Hooommme?” He raised his dark brows. “Tarrraah home?”
“Oh! I didn’t know you were ready to—There’s a road back there but I think the fastest way to the house”—she pointed—“is to go that way.”
He glanced the direction she indicated. The breeze lifted his long dark hair, showing him in profile, his face both wild and alien in the fading light of day.
Suddenly he started off, navigating broken tree limbs, rocks and uneven ground with smooth, silent movements.
“Hey!” His long strides left her so far behind she had to break into a run to catch up.
He stopped as suddenly as he’d started, frowning down at her. Tara skidded to a halt, nearly colliding with him.
“We’re supposed to go together, remember? In case you haven’t noticed it’s getting dark and—” A glance at the cell in her hand confirmed the worst. With a sigh, she dropped the phone into her purse. “And that’s it for my battery, so we don’t even have a light now.”
Ki’san offered his hand to her.
“I don’t need help.” Tara straightened. “I can take care of myself.”
He blocked her way, moving so quickly she gasped.
He offered his hand again.
“Look, I appreciate the whole Sir Galahad act but—”
Tara tried to step around him but it was like playing whack-a-mole with a lightning-fast nearly seven-foot-tall alien. Finally, she gave up and blew her breath out between her teeth, her hands on her hips, to glare at him.
He remained so inhumanly still he could have been an exquisitely carved stature, his expression patient as time itself, his hand held out to her.
“Oh, for God’s—fine!”
His long fingers enfolded her hand in his own, his warm palm pressed to hers. He stepped closer, his body heat radiating against her, his scent sending shivering awareness along her skin.
He was so close she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes, his splendid gaze holding hers, his alien features softened by the twilight—
Tara scrambled to get her feet moving as Ki’san took off, threading his way through the forest. There was neither weakness nor hesitation in his pace, his smooth movements revealing him far more a creature of darkness and forest, of wilderness and instinct than technology.
Even carrying two packs he ascended the hill like it was flatland, navigating eventide as easily as if it were full day. Ki’san wasn’t simply guiding her; he carried her along with his strength. Her footfalls were a bumbling crumple of leaves, his as silent as snowfall. He paused when she stumbled, missing her footing in a divot, his grip tightening to keep her upright. He faced her, his big body a shadowy form in the woods, his eyes molten gold in the gathering darkness.
“Sorry,” Tara mumbled, her face made hot by her clumsiness. “I can’t see.”
He yanked her to him and the next moment swung her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly. The shock of being cradled against him took her breath—and any ability to protest—away. Instinctively Tara’s arms wrapped around his neck and his pace picked up. Ki’san continued the climb in near silence with her held in his arms, his stride as smooth as if he weren’t carrying her at all.
His muscles bunched, shifting as he moved, the rise and fall of his chest against her as he sped through the forest. The embrace brought her nose to his shoulder; if he turned his head his mouth would touch hers.
He stopped short, setting Tara back on her feet so abruptly she nearly lost her balance.
Blinking, a little dizzy from the ride, it took a moment for Tara to see he’d covered in a few minutes what would have taken her an hour of fumbling to climb. They now stood atop the hill, and a glance back showed his vessel safely concealed by darkness and thick forest.
On the bottom of this side of the hill lay flat mowed fields, then the formal gardens of Heatherbell and the sprawling back of the château. Lights shone in some of the tall windows. As promised, Hannah had come up to check on her.
Problem nine hundred and fifty-seven—hiding the gorgeous glowing-eyed alien from the caretakers.
Later. We haven’t even gotten to the damn house yet.
As long as William wasn’t about—and there was scant reason for him to be pruning in the dark—she should be able to sneak Ki’san into the gardens until she could get Hannah out of the house.
“Tara,” He indicated the château, his growl almost soft enough to vanish into the breeze. “Home?”
“That’s it all right.” She didn’t get two steps before he claimed her hand again and started leading the way. “You don’t have to do that. I can make it down by myself.”
He huffed in return. He didn’t let go of her hand either, even as they crossed the sweet-smelling field and reached the wall of the garden. He stopped beside the arched iron gate, his body tense now, half hidden by the wall as he peered round, sniffing cautiously.
“You can let go now.” This time Tara did get her hand free. “It’s my house.”
“Otherrrs,” Ki’san growled, his bright gaze on the château.
“Yeah.” There were steps up from the garden to the conservatory. If that door was unlocked she could get inside that way. “Wait here and I’ll—”
His hand shot out stopping her before she could push the gate open. “Otherrs!”
“I know!” Tara impatiently pulled against his hold. “Stay here. I’ll send them away and come back for you.”
“Stay herrre—” His fangs bared. “No.”
“Hey, if you want to guarantee that the housekeeper won’t leave—” Tara yanked her arm away. “Just stroll up there with me and let her see you. I’ll come back, I promise. Just stay out of sight, okay?”
She brushed past to lift the antique latch before he could growl at her again. The gate gave a metallic squeak and Tara threw a worried glance at the house, half expecting to see Hannah’s round face peering out the window.
She started up the path but another squeak brought her head around.
“Damn it!” she hissed. “What are you—”
Ki’san already had the latch back in place, his back to the now shut gate, and he didn’t look sorry either. With unnerving silence, he vanished into the garden.
The pebbled path crunched under Tara’s feet as she headed for the house, but he never made a sound as he followed. Only the flash of his eyes in the darkness revealed his presence.
Thankfully the door to the conservatory was unlocked and it, at least, had been recently oiled, swinging open easily on its hinges. The metal and glass ceiling gave a clear view of the night sky. The hothouse flowers of Heatherbell’s glory days had long since been cleared away, leaving only the scent of earth and rust.
Tara gasped as a huge dark form sped past.
“You can’t be in—You know what?” She pointed to a shadowy corner, her heart still hammering from his sudden appearance at her side. “Go there. And stay there.” He looked about to protest and she narrowed her gaze. “The longer you stand here the more likely she’ll come to the door and spot you. The whole idea here is to keep you out of sight, remember?”
He rumbled under his breath but he went, his form melding perfectly into the gloom like one born to it.
“Holy cow, that’s eerie,” Tara muttered, her hand on the conservatory’s iron door handle.
“Hannah?” The click of her flats echoed as Tara crossed the great room to the rear foyer. “Hello?” She craned her neck to look up the curved stairs to the landing there, but the housekeeper didn’t appear. “Hello? Anybody here?”
Tara hurried through soaring dining room and pushed open the swinging door. The kitchen had been modernized a few years back, done in a mix of vintage looking cabinets and stainless steel, but it too was unoccupied.
On the gleaming white countertop sat a single sheet of white paper. The door creaked behind her and Tara blew her breath out in annoyance.
“Oh, you are so freaking lucky.” Tara held up the paper and read from it. “‘Miss Douglas, Sorry I missed you. Kitchen is stocked. Call if you need anything, Hannah.’” Tara tossed the paper back onto the counter. “She’s not here.”
He indicated the door, the mansion beyond it. “Otherrrs?”
“No others.”
He didn’t look convinced, but followed her back into the dining room. It was full dark now and with Hannah and William back at their cottage no one would see—
“The windows!”
Tara rounded the formal table at a run, yanking each pair of indigo velvet drapes. The heavy fabric was hard to move, and it took several tugs to get them shut.
“I need to get every curtain in this house closed now.”
One good thing about great-grandfather’s Victorian monstrosity: the twenty foot ceilings allowed even a nearly seven-foot-tall alien to walk around in perfect comfort. He trailed after her as she pulled drapes or shut doors to block the view from outside.
“Okay.” Standing at the foot of the staircase Tara turned slowly, mentally ticking off rooms in her head as she pivoted. The extravagant use of stained glass around the front door and in the upstairs landings meant that she didn’t have to worry about covering those. “I think that’s good for now.” She frowned. He was holding his side again. “Ki’san? Are you all right?”
He gave a chin jerk.
“You’re in pain.” The parlor and the music room had plenty of places to sit but— “Can you make it upstairs?”
He gave another tired chin jerk, gripping the sturdy, handcrafted railing as he climbed after her.
“This way,” she urged, hurrying ahead to pull the flower woven curtains of Rose’s sitting room shut.
He’d stopped in the doorway, his luminescent gaze taking in the carved wood furniture painted gold, the blooms that covered the room from floor to ceiling, the matching upholstery, the marble fireplace and its frolicking, cherubs, the near life-sized painting above the mantle of a bare-breasted maiden gazing at Cupid—portrayed as a smirking young man with wings, poised in the moment before he loosed the golden arrow at her heart.
“The, uh—the bedroom’s through here.”
Flowery silk fabric suspended by the canopy dangled above the bed, the ends finished with tassels. The bed itself was carved wood, also painted gold. Cherubs made up the foot posts while a decidedly male Satyr and a nude maiden danced merrily on the headboard.
Oh, this is so, so much worse than I remembered . . .
His wide gaze met hers and Tara ducked her head, her cheeks burning. Belatedly remembering to yank the curtains of this room shut too, she hurried to the windows.
Ki’san pressed the silk down-filled cover with his large hand, looking as if he were concerned the bed might suddenly send up a puff of pink glitter.
Which—for all she knew—it might.
“Why don’t you lie down?”
Golden eyes blinked at her.
Her face was probably as pink as the room’s roses. “There’s another room down the hall, meant for the gentleman of the house. As long as you like paintings of hounds. And hunting scenes. And very, very unfortunate ducks.”
From the look on his face, representations of recently departed waterfowl didn’t seem any more appealing than this explosion-at-Victoria’s-Secret suite. Ki’san pulled the one pack from across his chest, shrugging the other from his shoulders, and placed both on a nearby chair.
At the edge of the bed he stopped to unfasten and step out of his boots. Tara hurried forward to pull back the covers and gingerly he sat on the mattress, eyeing the canopy even as he eased himself into the bed. He lay uneasily, as if concerned that any movement would bring the whole confection crashing down. The bed was hand-carved rosewood, built to last generations by Victorian craftsmen; the roof would probably fall in long before this bed even creaked.
The sight of this terrifyingly huge, fanged creature with his brow knitted with anxiety about breaking her gold and pink bed made Tara bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
She settled the blankets over him. “Your side, it still hurts?”
He gave a huff, wincing a bit as he shifted position, purple shadows marring the skin under his eyes.
“Try to rest, okay? I need to get cleaned up.” All the things she brought from New York should be in the dressing room off the bath. She shut off one of the bedroom’s lights and dimmed the other. She paused at his side, fighting back the urge to lean over and smooth a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “I’ll be right in there if you need me. I won’t be long.”
He stirred a bit when she left the room, his bright eyes following her.
She eased the door shut. It was only when she turned that she got a look at herself in the mirror.
Oh my God . . .
Her cheeks showed pink spots of color, her mouth reddened—the only upside to a constant low-grade fever. But a tiny leaf, caught among the dark strands of her hair stuck straight up; she plucked it out immediately. Any make-up had long since rubbed off, and courtesy of her trip down the hillside to Ki’san’s ship, her face bore a host of reddened scratches. A streak of dirt marred her chin, her nose sunburnt.
And that didn’t even take into account the state of her clothes.
The side of her boat-necked silk sweater was stiff with dried blood, as were her trousers. Her flats were a total loss too. When she stepped out of the shoes dirt scattered out as well, blighting the white marble floor under her feet.
It was a good thing Hannah hadn’t been here! Even with the hulking alien out of sight, the housekeeper would have been shocked—she looked like she’d been living wild in the woods for the past month. A quick tidy-up wouldn’t cut it. Tara quickly cut on the shower, letting the water warm up as she got her filthy clothes off.
The sheer size of the house meant it took a minute for hot water to arrive, but with plumbing intended for the comfort of two dozen guests plus staff, she had plenty of it when it did. Tara turned her back so the spray could run over the sore muscles of her shoulders. A little fearful of finding more twigs caught in the strands, she shampooed her hair. The water stung the scratches on her face, arms and legs but she took her time soaping and rising,
Toweling off, Tara was grateful to discover Hannah had unpacked for her too. Her arms felt leaden as she dried her hair and pulled a gray organic cotton nightgown over her head, wrapping the matching robe around herself.
She turned the bathroom light off before she opened the door, taking pains to be quiet as she closed it behind her.
Ki’san’s eyes were shut, his face drawn with exhaustion. He’d shifted over on the bed, lying on his back, his arm still across his ribs. One foot hung off the edge of the bed, his breathing heavy and deep with slumber.
She’d been running on nervous energy for hours now, and showering had burned out the last of it. She’d missed dinner but she couldn’t even face dragging herself downstairs to rummage through the kitchen.
The green suite was down the hall and the housekeeper had already prepared it for Brice to use.
Probably should sleep there . . .
But what if Ki’san woke up in the middle of the night?
He would have no idea where to find her in this elephantine house. And if he awoke up here, all alone, in pain, if he needed her—
She shrugged out of her robe, laying it onto the same chair where he’d left his packs. Quietly, so as not to wake him, she lifted the covers and slipped into bed beside him.