The Star Princess (30 page)

Ilana saw his strong hands give a tiny quiver. It was so brief that she wondered if she'd imagined it. Was the relentlessly composed Ché Vedla actually nervous? She didn't dare meet his eyes. It was bad enough that she was spilling her guts. She gulped down some more wine. A wave of dizziness passed quickly. "I adore children, Ché. When the time comes to have them, I'll be home with them. I'll be a mother to them in every way." She heard the sudden tenderness that had crept into her voice, and she smiled. "But to be able to devote myself that completely, in that phase of my life, I have to be ready. It's going to be a while before I'm ready… ready to nest. Maybe a long while, Ché. If you're serious about marrying me, you have to take a hard look at that fact."

"How long?" he asked.

"Several years, at least."

He nodded, absorbing what she told him.

"Are you willing to wait that long, Ché? Be honest. Your situation is different from most men. That's why your family is going through all this trouble to find you the right woman. I… I don't know if I am that woman."

She winced. It hurt to say that, more than she ever thought it would. It hurt even more to see Ché lower his brooding gaze to his hands.

Outside the billowing curtains, the waves crashed. The seagulls had long since stopped crying and had settled down for the night. A chorus line of strident crickets in the hydrangea bushes below the window had taken their place. Ilana listened to the sounds, inhaling the fragrances drifting into the suite, trying to pretend that Ché wasn't having a tough time trying to decide whether her value as a breeder could take second place to her importance as a companion and lover.

It was even tougher trying to pretend that she wouldn't suffer a broken heart if he were to agree with her and admit that she wasn't right for him.

He startled her by getting up. In all his golden, bare-chested magnificence, he walked around the table to where she sat shivering in her plump white robe, wet hair, and bare feet.

The lean and noble prince knelt in front of her, took the hands she'd balled in her lap, and covered them with his. They felt warm, dry. Strong. "You are chilled," he murmured, rubbing her hands.

"I get cold when I'm nervous."

His expression softened. She thought he'd pull her into his arms, but something held him back. Maybe he sensed what she did, that if they started touching, embracing, kissing, the attraction smoldering between them would flare up all over again and this conversation would be over.

This conversation was one they needed to finish.

Ché rubbed his palm over her knuckles. "I believe the events of the past year have unfolded as they have for a reason. Your brother, and mine, and Princess Tee'ah— all their actions brought about events that led me to you. It never would have happened otherwise."

She laughed softly in agreement. "If any two people weren't supposed to meet, it was us."

"The heavens had a hand in it, Ilana."

Awash in sudden tingles, she kept her eyes on their clasped hands, his bronzed and strong, hers paler and more delicate. Two people from very different worlds, brought together, only to find out they were more alike than either would have dreamed. "I think so, too," she whispered.

"That is why I will not walk away from this— from us, Ilana. I will not turn my back on our future. I am willing to wait before having a family."

Her heart did a cartwheel, and her gaze jumped to his.

"Marriage, however, cannot be put off. If I wait to marry, I will have betrayed my people. I gave them my word I would do as they asked." His mouth thinned. "It seemed a small gesture at the time, because it was all so… "

"Inevitable?"

"Yes." He chuckled to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"At the time, I was not certain what qualities I wanted in a wife," he said, shaking his head. "All I knew was that she should not be anything like you. Wild… undisciplined… willful… "

"Nothing like me, huh?" Grinning, she pushed at him. Thanks a lot."

He laughed, pulling her toward him. Their lips met playfully, tasting, nibbling. "Great Mother," he said against her parted lips. "I was such a fool. You are exactly what I want. What I need." His lips were soft, tugging on hers, his fingers tangling in her hair. "You make me laugh. You make me feel alive," he murmured, kissing her lightheartedly. "You bring out the rogue in me."

"The garden-cart rogue," she agreed against his mouth.

"The rogue, except for a few forays, was buried for many years."

"Not anymore."

"No," he said.

She lifted one hand to his jaw. His skin was hot; the stubble of his beard pricked the tender pads of her fingers. A breath passed, and then another, during which she was sure the kiss would continue to deepen. But it didn't. She ached for more, but she knew he intended to finish this, and she couldn't blame him.

"Ilana." He moved her back so he could look at her. "When I am with you, I feel as if I can do anything. I can, and I will, if I know that you are mine." He reached up and framed her face with his hands, his eyes shining. "I feel it, Ilana. Our future. I can see it spread out before me, all the days to come."

His eyes took on a faraway look, as if he were truly channeling the future. His voice grew deeper, hushed. "I see greatness, for your people and mine. Another golden age will come upon us, and it will be our doing— our generation's. Me, you. Tee'ah and your brother. The other princes, the princesses, too. The galaxy is ours. Our actions now will ensure peace for generations to come."

When he stopped talking suddenly, the silence in the room swelled. Ilana didn't know what to say. Che's impromptu, emotional speech had left her stunned. She worried about making a commitment. He worried about making history.

But maybe, just maybe, the two were intertwined

In her mind's eye, she imagined Ché years from now striding down the grand halls of his palace, his capes swirling behind him. He'd be a powerful and respected political leader, not the disgruntled, aging king ground down by bitterness and years of sacrifice that he might have become had he not risked listening to the "rogue." His charisma would impress, intimidate, and inspire, a passion generated by an inner fire that would never burn out, because those who loved him fueled that fire.

Those who meant more to him than anything else.

In that one strange and wonderful and totally out-of-character moment, Ilana knew, beyond a doubt, that if she took the risk, took this once-in-a-lifetime chance, she'd come to love this prince, that theirs would be a lifelong devotion far different and vastly better than the instant, giddy gratification of infatuation and lust.

It took some doing to compose herself. The only way she could keep her eyes from tearing was to bite her lip. "I had the strangest daydream," she whispered shakily.

Ché met her statement with eerie aplomb. "It was a vision. I saw it in your eyes."

"You're Vash. You're used to these kinds of things. I'm not." Between Che's speech, her daydream— vision, whatever— and the strange, zealot's glow lingering in his eyes, she felt faint.

"Do not fear it, Ilana. It means we are on the right path. I know it is sudden for you to make such a decision. You are not used to the idea of arranged marriages, and to a degree, that is what our joining would be. To the outside, it would appear to be the ideal solution to an embarrassing problem. Me, the spumed prince, marrying before the upstart Earth-dweller crown prince does. And not only that, taking his very sister as my bride, thus uniting the B'kahs and the Vedlas."

Ilana gaped at him. "Do you have any idea how scary you sound? You make us sound like pawns in some giant game of chess."

"We are!" He laughed so hard at her bemusement that she began to wonder how pervasive madness was in the Vedla family (Klark was a Vedla, after all) and what symptoms Ché might have shown all along that she'd missed.

"We will have fooled the entire Federation, Ilana!" He grabbed her hands. Her fingers throbbed in his grip. "They sought to manage the marriages, and the joke ended up being on them! You see, they will view our union as the ultimate solution to a terrible predicament, and we will have our love match." He lowered his voice. "Or, at least the beginning of what I am confident will grow into one."

If she let him go, she might never find another man with whom she was as compatible, whom she could trust like him, or respect as much. The pragmatic part of her told her to grab hold of the one guy she'd met that she felt she could actually make a life with. That she should go after him the way she'd gone after the other, more concrete goals and dreams in her life.

That same realistic part of her also said that she'd better damned well have an escape route ready, should the love story not have a fairy-tale ending.

She leaned forward. "And if the love isn't enough? What then? What if we get into this and find out it was a huge mistake? You can't get divorced in your culture."

The dent in Che's cheek appeared, just as she thought it would. "We do have asser'ak. It is equivalent to an annulment, I believe, in your Catholic church."

Ilana was raised Catholic. She was familiar with annulment because her mother had sought one from her father sometime after marrying Rom. "I don't remember reading anything about this in the Treatise of Trade."

"It is there. In the passages relating to forms of exile."

"Oh." It gave her a good indication as to how the Che's people viewed marriage breakups. Her chin came up a few notches. "Would you grant me asser'ak, an annulment, if I asked?"

His throat moved. "I would."

At his obvious pain, her stomach began to hurt. "What would be the consequences, for you if you ended your marriage?"

"My culture would see it as a failing on my part. As a husband, a mate— a protector, which is our ancient term— I would not have fulfilled my duty to you."

"You'd be disgraced, then."

"Well, yes," he replied, almost too matter-of-factly.

"Oh, Ché." Her voice grew husky. "You'd be willing to do that for me?"

His expression was mournfully frank. "I would pray it never came to that."

"Me, too," she whispered.

Ché stroked one knuckle over her cheek, making her shiver. "But if you asked to be set free, Ilana, I would let you go."

Unwilling to trust her emotions, she pressed her lips together and focused on the floor. All the men in her life had allowed her total control over the relationship, had watched her walk out of their lives when she'd decided it was time. But deep down she knew Ché would fight hard to keep her, as he was doing now. No man had been this way with her. Secretly, she'd always wished she'd find one that would be. "Okay," she whispered. "I accept your proposal." Oh, my God, oh, my God! But at his expression of abject confusion, she blushed. "You did propose, didn't you? I mean, I got to thinking that we belonged together, and that we had better do this before one of us changes our mind— "

Laughing, he swept her off the chair and into his arms, carrying her to the bed, where he sat at the edge with her balanced crosswise in his lap. "Yes, Ilana. That I did. I asked you to be my mate, my wife. Excuse my Vash manners. We draw up papers and sign them, you see. The arrangements are made when the future mates are but small children. This proposing, as you put it, is new to me."

Smiling, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "We have the guy get down on one knee. But you can wait until you buy an engagement ring." At his puzzlement, she informed him. "You know I'm not leaving my Earth traditions behind. This is going to be a mixed-culture marriage."

He bent his head to her neck and nuzzled the side of her throat. "As long as I can have my tock in the morning."

"And I can have my coffee."

She let her head fall back as Ché nibbled her ear. "Klark's going to love having me as a sister-in-law. Does your family employ a food taster? We'd better. I'll brush up on antidotes to common poisons— "

Ché nipped at her earlobe.

"Ouch!"

"Klark will commend me on my clever maneuvering in winning your hand."

She had her doubts about that. But Klark so passionately supported his brother, maybe he'd approve of her if he thought she'd be good for Ché. Then again, maybe not.

Her elation faded into looming reality. "You have to call them. Your family."

"Not tonight," he assured her with a sexy glint in his eye. "Tomorrow. I will have them send the closest starspeeder. Then I will fly to the Wheel. My father is there. I will speak to him first."

The Wheel was a majestic, five-thousand-year-old space station, home to the Great Council, the governing body of the Trade Federation. Kings, like Che's father, traveled there periodically when the council was in session to keep abreast of politics. Or when they needed to arrange marriages for jilted sons, which the man was likely doing now.

"Once my father knows, we will discuss the details with my advisor and close council members."

"What about your mother and sisters?"

"Oh, yes." He grinned. "I can feel their wedding fever from here." Then his smiled faded. "In the meantime, we tell no one."

"Not even my mother? Or Rom? What about Ian?"

"Not until I am sure it is safe."

"Safe! I thought you said this marriage was the perfect solution. If it's so perfect, then why are we sneaking around?"

The little hollow in his jaw was back. "I am confident all will be in favor of our joining. But there are always those who cannot see beyond their own views."

"Like Klark?"

Ché turned somber as he played with a curling lock of her hair.

"Sheesh," she muttered when he didn't reply. "Does everything you Vash do have to be so complicated?"

He pressed his lips to the pulse on the side of her throat. "No, Ilana. Not everything."

"Mmm." She hunched her shoulders as his lips tasted their way to her temple and hairline. At the same time, his hot, dry hand found its way inside her robe, parting the fabric. Cool air hit her bare breasts. Her nipples tightened with the change in temperature and with anticipation instantly quenched when his wet mouth found one and his magical fingers the other. Toes curling in delight, Ilana arched her neck and bit back a sigh, twisting restless fingers into his thick, mink-soft hair.