Firestorm (10 page)

***

"Curse it all!" Teague threw down the big view light and began to dig frantically in the damp sand beneath the part of the spy ship where the water storage tanks were located.

"What's wrong?" Rand called ensconced nearby in the shade of a tarp the monk had fashioned into an awning across the front of the ship.

"The water storage tanks," Teague shouted back, his voice now muffled from beneath the belly of the ship. "We landed atop some rocks that punctured both tanks. It looks like half the water has leaked out already, and I need to get the holes sealed or we'll lose it all."

He scooted out and climbing to his feet, ran for the repair kit. What else could go wrong? he thought angrily. First the navigation system, then Raina, and now their water.

Teague shot a quick glance over his shoulder just before reentering the ship. Even now, the sun was rising to its zenith, blindingly hot in a sky bleached of color and devoid of life. They wouldn't last many days in this heat without water.

Grabbing the repair kit, Teague hurried back down the corridor. As he passed the sleeping chamber's portal, he hesitated. He made a quick decision and keyed the door to open. Raina lay on the bunk, moving restlessly.

She'd waken soon, Teague thought. And be in pain, no doubt. But his first priority, for all their sakes, must be the water tanks. Grasping the kit firmly, he headed back outside.

Two hours later, Teague had the leaks plugged. Unfortunately, half the water supplies were gone. They had a week's worth of water left, if that much.

"Not good, eh?" Rand asked when the monk had climbed back out from beneath the ship.

Teague shoved a hand through his sweat-damp hair and brushed as much sand as he could from his bare chest and breeches. "Let's just say we need to head out of this desert as soon as possible."

"Where are we exactly, anyway?"

"According to my calculations, a good three hundred kilometers off course. Where we'd planned to land only a day's journey from the firestorm caves, we now face over a week's trek across the desert to reach them. If we make good time and if our water holds out long enough for us to reach the nearest oasis."

"How soon will the femina be ready to travel?"

Teague shrugged and walked over to squat beside Rand. "I haven't any idea. It'll all depend on how ill she really is, and I won't know that until she wakens."

"And if she's too ill to travel for several days, or if she's dying, what then?"

He shot the Volan a sharp look. "What are you getting at?"

"The mission is more important than any one of us."

"So I should just leave her here to fend for herself as she can," Teague rasped his anger rising, "and set off with you? Is that it?"

"It would seem the most logical thing to do. The fate of an entire Imperium might well rest on the success of this mission."

"Getting rather cold-blooded here, aren't you? Is that how Volans deal with their problems? Just turn and walk away?"

"The welfare of the hive is what counts," Rand calmly replied, "not that of any one individual."

"Well, I don't particularly care for that approach, or for you right now, for that matter."

"Yet you did the same thing in agreeing to this mission," the Volan persisted earnestly. "For the good of the Imperium, you sacrificed your own desires."

"My desires are one thing," Teague snapped climbing to his feet. "I am vowed to serve the Imperium. Raina's life is quite another."

A low chuckle emanated from the carrying pack.

"What's so amusing?" the monk demanded his anger once more on the rise.

"Nothing, really. I was right about you, though. You are a moral man and will do the right thing, no matter your prior training or commitment to the Imperium."

Teague's eyes narrowed. "So, this was just a little test, was it?"

"In a sense, yes. I needed to know where your heart was in this. Now, I do."

"Rand . . ." Teague hesitated struggling with his exasperation, even as he realized why this issue was so important to the Volan. He, too, had gone against his training and commitment to his own kind because it was the moral thing to do.

"Yes, Teague?"

"Nothing. From now on, just ask me outright if you have a question. I much prefer the direct approach." He wheeled and headed for the main hatch.

Behind him, Rand's reply carried clearly in the dry desert air. "As do I, my friend. As do I."

The relative coolness of the ship's shaded interior was a welcome relief from the blistering heat of the desert. Teague savored the cooling eddies of air his passage through the ship made on his overheated body. He desperately craved a swallow or two of water, but decided the water conservation must begin immediately. Perhaps in another hour he'd quench his thirst, but not just yet.

When he entered, Raina was tossing and turning on her bunk, mumbling incoherent phrases. Teague sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. Her skin was hot, damp, and rosy pink. He took her by the shoulder and gently shook her.

"Raina? Femina? Wake up."

Ever so slowly, her long, dark auburn lashes lifted. Rich green eyes, bleary and confused, gazed up at him.' "What . . . where . . . where am I?"

"You're in the spy ship." Teague wet a cloth and wiped the sweat from her forehead and face. "We landed safely on Incendra and are in the Ar Rimal desert."

Puzzlement furrowed her brow and she licked her lips. "What happened ... to me? I feel so . . . bad, so thirsty."

"You were exposed to radiation when we came through the atmosphere. Don't you remember?"

Her eyes clouded in thought, then she nodded. "Yes. How long . . . have I been sleeping?"

"Twenty-four hours." Teague tossed the cloth back into its basin of water and rose. "I gave you an anti-rad drug and some torpine to put you into a healing sleep. And now, I'm going to fetch you some water to drink. It'll help the rest of your meds go down easier."

"Tremayne. Wait." Raina lifted a trembling hand.

"What is it, femina?" He glanced down at her, concern for her welling anew.

Somehow, the sight of Raina's hand shaking with weakness, pierced Teague to his very soul. For all her exasperating qualities when she was well, he found he much preferred her that way. Whole and healthy, he could view her as an adversary to be overcome. Weak and helpless, she stirred in him surprising emotions of compassion and protectiveness—emotions he had no right to feel.

"How ... bad ... is it?"

For an instant, he was confused by her query. Then Teague realized she meant her condition. He sighed and shook his head. "I don't know, femina. You tell me."

She plucked at her tunic, attempting to open the neckline further. "Hot ... I feel so hot. Like my insides are burning up."

"Would you like me to help you undress? I could cover you with a light sheet for modesty."

"No!" Raina shoved to her elbows, lingered there a moment, then fell back in exhaustion. "I'll . . . I'll do it myself."

"Suit yourself," he said inexplicably relieved that she hadn't taken him up on his impulsive offer. He stared down at her for a long moment. "Anything else?" Teague asked. "If not, I'll go for the water."

"No," she mumbled, already fumbling with the fastenings of her sleeves. "Just give me a few minutes of privacy before . . . before you return."

Teague nodded. "As you wish." He turned and left the room.

He fetched a carafe and cup from the galley, then filled the carafe half-full with water from the spigot near the sink. From it, he poured himself a cupful and downed its contents, then set the cup over the mouth of the carafe to cover it. The rest would be Raina's, until she finished it. In her condition, she would need far more water than he.

The unexpected sound of a thud and soft cry jerked his head around. The carafe in his hand, Teague raced out of the galley and down the corridor to the sleeping chamber. Raina, bare from the waist up, sprawled facedown on the floor.

His heart in his throat, Teague paused in the doorway. If he came to her aid, he must touch her bare flesh, see her nakedness. Even the thought set his blood to pulsing wildly through his veins—and his sex to fill and harden. He bit back an anguished curse. There was no help for it. She could do little more than lie there, moaning softly.

He stepped in, placed the carafe on an inset wall shelf, then opened the cabinet and took out a sheet. Kneeling, he laid the thin cloth over her, then gathered her up into it and his arms. She must not have heard his entrance for, when the sheet touched her and she felt herself picked up, she gasped.

"Hush, femina," he crooned. "I mean no offense to you. I but wish to help you back to bed."

She turned, grimacing as her tender flesh rubbed against the cloth and the firm support of his arms. "I . . . tried to remove my breeches . . . and fell out of bed." She managed a weak smile. "I sound like a helpless old woman, don't I?"

"No, you don't," Teague rasped, unaccountably touched by her courage. "You've suffered a grave trauma to your body. It'll take time for you to heal."

"Ever been nursemaid to a woman before, Tremayne?"

He flushed. "No, but it cannot be much different than caring for a male."

"And you've nursed a fair number of males, then, have you?" She eyed him closely.

"No, not many," Teague admitted. By the five moons, he thought, why did she have to stare at him in such a way? It was bad enough she lay in his arms, so soft, so close, so desirable . . .

With a start, he realized he was standing in the middle of the sleeping chamber, still holding Raina when he could have put her back in bed minutes ago. He swallowed hard, took the two steps to the edge of the bunk, and sat, laying her down. The sheet had fallen back, exposing one silky shoulder and her upper chest. Teague quickly flipped the cloth up to cover her.

"Do you still want your breeches off?" he asked, forcing the question past a strangely dry throat. Raina glanced down, then nodded. "Yes, of course." He motioned to the sheet covering her. "With your permission, I could tug the breeches off if you can manage to get them down past your hips. The sheet would maintain your decency."

She considered that for a moment. "It seems the best course." Reaching beneath the sheet, she began to pull at her breeches. After a few minutes of near futile struggle, Raina fell back on the bed, exhausted. "I'm sorry. I can't seem to manage . . ."

Teague dragged in a deep breath, then gingerly grasped hold of the lower legs of her breeches and pulled. She was able to offer little assistance but, bit by bit, he managed to tug her breeches down. Despite his care, there was no way to avoid occasional contact with her skin.

Her skin ... as smooth and silken as he'd imagined it would be in those moments when his overstimulated imagination had pierced his iron self-discipline and he'd thought, however briefly, of her. The touch of that skin, warm with fever, vibrant with life, sent an astounding sense of recognition shuddering through him, a recognition of his maleness and her femininity, of the need to join with her, to make her his in the most primal way.

Fire seared through him. Teague found he couldn't speak. His body flushed hot, then cold, then hot again. And through it all, his sex grew harder, throbbed, ached. With a fierce tug, Teague wrenched the breeches free of Raina's legs and flung them aside. His breath came hard and fast. His head lowered as he fought to regain control. His long hair tumbled down into his face. For once, he was thankful for its shielding cover.

"What . . . what's wrong?" Raina whispered, puzzlement threading her voice. "What have I done—?"

At her strangled cry, Teague's head jerked up. Her horrified gaze was riveted on his lap, wherein the hard evidence of his desire strained against his breeches. He flushed even hotter. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Get out!" Raina cried levering to her elbows and scooting away. "I should've known you'd be like all the rest—just another sordid, lecherous male! Get out of here before I—"

With a frustrated groan, she fell back, panting from her sudden exertion. She turned her face to the wall, refusing to look at him. "Just get out, will you?" she whispered.

Teague shoved unsteadily to his feet and stood there, shamed beyond belief at his carnal desires. He glanced down at himself, at the erection, huge and straining and so totally foreign, that remained even now. Nausea filled him. Self-loathing.

"It's not what you think," he rasped hoarsely. "It's just the ... the natural attraction . . ." His voice faded in frustration. He shot one more beseeching glance at Raina, but she'd rolled onto her side, huddling against the wall, shutting him out. Teague turned and staggered from the room, utterly and totally devastated.

Seven

For a long while, Teague leaned against the wall outside the sleeping chamber, dragging in deep, unsteady breaths. He couldn't go back in and face her just now, though he knew she'd soon need pain meds. He doubted she wished to see him, either.

Straightening, Teague turned and headed outside. A few minutes more or less wouldn't matter, and he desperately needed a more logical perspective on the matter. Funny, he thought, as he strode down the corridor and through the cockpit to the main hatch door, how quickly he was coming to value the Volan's companionship, as strange a relationship as it might be. He smiled and shook his head. He must be starved for a sympathetic ear, or just be growing a bit odd after all these cycles.

A blast of oppressively hot air struck him as he exited the ship. Before him, rising from the desert floor, undulated shimmering waves of heat. Teague shoved a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his face. If it weren't for Raina's presence, he'd have been tempted to strip down to his loincloth.

With a weary sigh, he lowered himself upon a cargo box he'd brought out to use as a makeshift seat. He tugged off his boots and set them aside.

"Problems with the femina?" Rand casually—too casually—asked.

"Yes. Does that surprise you?"

"As a matter of fact, no, it doesn't." The Volan paused. "If I may be so bold to ask, what happened this time?"

Teague leaned back against the shaded side of the ship. "She fell out of bed trying to undress herself. When I helped her finish her . . . er . . . disrobing, I found myself unexpectedly . . . stimulated."

"This grows intriguing. What happened then?"

Teague shot the Volan a narrow look. "She didn't take too kindly to that, of course. Would you have expected any other reaction from Raina?"

"No. And how did you feel about that?" Rand's question was as carefully tempered as his voice.

Teague could feel the flush rise, once again, to his face. "She was quite justified in her response. My behavior was dishonorable and shameful." He lowered his head and burrowed his bare toes into the sand. It was warm and dry, no matter how deeply he dug.

"Dishonorable and shameful?" Rand repeated puzzled. "What? Your natural response to a woman, I've been told by Teran, is quite beautiful. I may not be well versed in humanoid mating practices, but when I was last in a male body, I, too, felt some stirrings toward a female. I can only imagine how much more powerful and consuming it must be for your species."

"You don't understand." Teague glanced up. "I'm a monk, vowed to shun such desires. And I thought I had, until I met Raina." He shot the Volan an anguished look. "But now I find not only do I have these . . . these feelings, but I can't even control my body's responses."

He slammed down his fist on his thigh. "Curse it all! I thought I was strong enough to control them."

"So don't control them. What can be wrong in following your natural impulses?"

"Don't control—" Teague paused then rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. "You seem to have missed one minor point here. I'm a monk vowed to chastity. I don't want a mate and neither, it seems, does Raina."

"Correct me if I err here, but don't life matings frequently begin in this way?"

"I don't want a life mating," Teague gritted. "I like my life as it is."

"Well, be that as it may, it certainly appears your body does."

There was no convincing Rand to the contrary, it seemed. Teague rose. He might as well go back and confront Raina. It couldn't be much worse than what he was now facing.

"My body isn't being consulted in this," he ground out. "I make my decisions based on logic, not emotions or physical cravings. I'm a monk of Exsul and intend always to remain one. My life is consecrated to the service of my Order and the Imperium, not to my own whims or desires. Now, if you don't mind I need to get back to the femina."

"And what if you respond to her again?" Rand called after him, as he turned and strode away. "Will you add that guilt to all the other burdens you already bear? I say instead don't learn to despise that part of yourself as well, my friend."

Teague climbed into the ship, stalked back through the cockpit, and down the corridor. He drew up, however, when he reached the sleeping chamber's portal. Don't despise that part of yourself. . . What had Rand meant by that? he wondered. He didn't despise . . .

Harking back to his reaction to his physical response to Raina, Teague knew that he had despised himself. Yet the Brotherhood had never taught that the natural mating urge was sordid or immoral. It had but suggested that it was better if a monk renounced it in order to achieve a higher state of discipline and inner peace. The self-loathing he'd experienced with Raina had been his own.

With a shuddering sigh, Teague placed the palms of his hands against the door and pressed his forehead to it. It was his fear rising to the surface again. It encompassed so much, he now realized. His fear of failing, of unworthiness, of his inherent weakness and inability to remain true to his vows.

His vows . . . Gods, would he fail even in that, after all these cycles, after all the sacrifice and discipline and striving? Would he ultimately fail in everything, then?

Little fool . . . disappointed in you . . .

Like wraiths conjured from the mists of time, memories flooded Teague. Of that day, when he was thirteen and discovered the ancient passage behind the huge tapestry hanging in the royal library. Of how he'd taken his sketch book and box of charcoal styluses and explored the long, torturous, web-strewn tunnel, coming out at last on a hidden opening at the back of the mountain upon which the fortified royal city perched.

Teague, long fascinated with architecture and intricate structures, had added the majestically rocky face of that mountain to his collection of drawings, entitling the sketch "The Tapestry Passage." He was very proud of that particular drawing, and had carried it in his dark green domare-hide folder with the rest of his finest artistic endeavors. Carried it until the day his father, the king, had found him on the forward ramparts, sketching the army of Malam Vorax as he'd laid siege to the fortress—and the throne.

In a fit of anger and frustration, no doubt exacerbated by the stresses of the long siege, his father had knocked Teague's portfolio to the parapet's stone floor. "You sit here like some pampered child," he'd raged, "while around you your people suffer and die to protect your birthright. Gods, what did I ever do to deserve a son like you? You puking little fool! I'm so disappointed in you!"

Shamed to the marrow of his bones, Teague had done little more than sit there mutely, as several of his drawings, caught on a freshened breeze, had floated up into the air and over the wall. The sheets of paper had soared across the land, gently dropping until they disappeared far below. His father had stormed away then, leaving Teague to gather what was left of his sketches and stuff them back into his folder. After that day, he'd never drawn again. Even now, standing in the corridor outside the sleeping chamber, Teague fought the old pain, struggling to deal with wounds that had been wrought at one of the most vulnerable, traumatic times of his life. If only his father had lived to see him now. Now, as tall and powerfully built as his father had been. Now, a warrior monk and fifth-degree Grandmaster. Perhaps now, his father would 've at last been proud, would've understood. If only his father had lived.

But there was nothing more that could be done for that, either. Teague pushed off from the wall and straightened, dropping his hands back to his side. Time for self-pity was a luxury he lacked today.

Raina lay inside, most likely in pain. He must enter, swallow his pride, and beg her forgiveness for what had happened earlier, then withdraw once again behind that monkish, impenetrable facade that had always served him so well. The mission was what mattered not their personal issues. And especially not ones of a more sexual nature.

The portal swung open at his command. Teague stepped inside.

At the sound of his bare footsteps, slapping against the metal floor, Raina turned. Earlier, shed adjusted the ceiling light to full intensity. Now, in the glare, she had to squint to see his face.

"What do you want?" she snarled. "Come back for more depraved titillation, have you?"

The monk's mouth went tight. He flushed. "I came back for two reasons. First, to apologize. Second to see to your needs." He took two steps closer. "Are you in pain, femina?"

She was, but Raina was damned if she'd admit it to him. lt had been bad enough that he'd become so aroused by her seminudity. But it was intolerable that the blatant evidence of that arousal had excited her as well.

Gods, she didn't know how she'd react to him anymore! And Raina didn't like that. Men were the enemy. They must always remain that way.

"You came in here to apologize," she said deciding it safest to divert the subject back to him. "Are you still of a mind to do so, or not?"

Teague heaved a deep sigh. "I'm sorry if my physical reaction to helping you undress seemed rather, er, prurient. I didn't mean it as such. It's just that I have no experience in such . . . things . . . and I just . . ." His voice faded and he averted his gaze.

"Just what, Tremayne?" A dark flush spread up his neck and face. Interested in spite of herself, Raina shoved upright in bed and propped herself against the wall.

He didn't answer immediately, finding sudden interest in a scattering of sand that had matted to the hairs of his forearm. Raina's eyes followed as his long, tapered lingers brushed lightly at the sand sending it showering to the floor in a flurry of glittering granules.

Her breath caught in her throat. His skin was so tan, the dense hairs on his forearms glinted gold in contrast. Her gaze followed as he pulled his hand away. She watched it slide across the rippling ridges of his abdomen to drop at his side. Then her glance returned to his torso.

His chest was solid bulging with muscle, his skin smooth, his nipples broad and flat. The exotic tattoos seemed to gain a life of their own as he moved the mythical birds leaping out when he flexed his arms in any way, the huge claws across his pectorals appearing to curve inward and grasp. Symbols of power and battle engraved on living flesh, they fascinated Raina in a way no mere painting could. She wanted to reach out, to touch them, to run her—

With a start, she realized that the monk was no longer looking down, but was now staring straight at her. Raina swallowed hard cursing the brightness of the room that hid nothing. She grasped at the first thought that entered her mind. "Your tattoos. Did they hurt . . . when they pricked you, I mean?"

Puzzlement darkened his eyes. "My tattoos?" he mumbled. "Well, yes, I suppose they did. But the honor of the marking was well worth the temporary pain."

Raina gazed up at him for a long moment. When he said nothing more, she forced the conversation back to more neutral grounds. "I accept your apology, Tremayne."

"That's it?" he asked, surprise in his voice. "I never finished telling you—"

"And what good would it serve, save perhaps to embroil us in yet another argument?"

Raina didn't think she could bear it if he claimed even a momentary sexual attraction or passing stimulation when he touched her. Combined with his awkward, embarrassed response earlier when he'd tried to explain his actions, one thing was perfectly clear. The monk, Teague Tremayne, was both unsullied and untutored when it came to matters of the flesh. And those kind of men could be the most dangerous when their lust was finally stirred.

It was her lust, though, startling and unnerving as it was, that truly unsettled her. She despised men. How could she change so suddenly, just because she'd seen him perform some perverse monkish blade ceremony? It made no sense. It wasn't as if they were fated to meet and fall in love, just because they were—

Incendarians! Raina choked back an anguished groan. She'd forgotten about her people's exclusive mating urges. Urges and potency they were said to experience exclusively with their own kind. She was drawn to the monk because he was Incendarian!

Relief made her feel almost giddy. That was all it was, a long-denied surge of primal response. All she had to do was ride it out and, sooner or later, it would fade back to a more controllable level. A level Raina felt confident she could manage until she and Tremayne finally parted company.

"You are right, of course," the monk said. "Further explanations would serve no purpose. Better that I concern myself with giving you something for the pain and an ointment for your burnt flesh."

Her pain. She'd forgotten about it in the intensity of the past few moments. And her skin did burn.

Gratitude for his consideration filled her. Then Raina reminded herself that the mission's success could well hinge on her rapid recovery. That was Tremayne's motive in the offer, and none other.

She nodded, the old cynicism snuffing out the strange new wave of budding comradeship. "Yes, something for the pain would be nice. I, however, will apply the ointment."

The faintest glimmer of a smile hovered on Teague's thin, well-curved lips. "A wise plan, femina. A wise plan indeed."

As he turned to fetch the med kit, Raina could've sworn she saw relief glimmering in his silver-blue eyes. Relief that he'd not be required to touch her again. The same relief that she felt, that he wouldn't touch her, recalling him helping her undress . . . and the sensuous stroke of his fingers against her flesh.