Irresistible Forces

Roic gave her a smile, a nod, a semi-salute. He wished he'd thought to provide himself with roses or something. What could a fellow give to a woman like this? The finest chocolate, maybe, yeah, although that was redundant at the moment. Tomorrow for sure. 'Um… have you had a good time?'

'Oh, yes. Wonderful.'

She sat back and smiled almost up at him — an unusual angle of view. She looked good from this direction, too. M'lord's comment about horizontal height differentials drifted through his memory. She patted the sofa beside her; Roic glanced around, overcame his guard-stance habits, and sat down. His feet hurt, he realized.

The silence that fell was companionable, not strained, but after a time he broke it. 'You like Barrayar, then?'

'It's been a great visit. Better than my best dreams.'

Ten more days.

Ten days was an eyeblink. Ten days was just not enough for all he had to say, to give, to do. Ten years might be a start. 'You, uh, have you ever thought of staying? Here? It could be done, y'know. Find a place you could fit. Or make one.' M'lord would figure out how, if anyone could. With great daring, he let his hand curl over hers on the seat between them.

Her brows rose. 'I already have a place I fit.'

'Yeah, but… forever? Your meres seem like a chancy sort of thing to me. No solid ground under them. And nothing lasts forever, not even organizations;'

'Nobody lives long enough to have all their choices.' She was silent for a moment, then added, 'The people who bioengineered me to be a super-soldier didn't consider a long life span to be a necessity. Miles has a few biting remarks about that, but oh well. The fleet medics give me about a year yet.'

'Oh.' It took him a minute to work through this; his stomach felt suddenly tight and cold. A dozen obscure remarks from the past few days fell into place. He wished they hadn't. No, oh, no…!

'Hey, don't look so bludgeoned.' Her hand curled around to clasp his in return. 'The bastards have been giving me a year yet for the past four years running. I've seen other soldiers have their whole careers and die in the time the medics have been screwing around with me. I've stopped worrying about it.'

He had no idea what to say to this. Screaming was right out. He shifted a bit closer to her instead.

She eyed him thoughtfully. 'Some fellows, when I tell them this, get spooked and veer off. It's not contagious.'

Roic swallowed hard. 'I'm not running away.'

'I see that.' She rubbed her neck with her free hand; an orchid petal parted from her hair and caught upon her velvet-clad shoulder. 'Part of me wishes the medics would get it settled. Part of me says, the hell with it. Every day is a gift. Me, I rip open the package and wolf it down on the spot.'

He looked up at her in wonder. His grip tightened, as though she might be pulled from him as they sat, right now, if he didn't hold hard enough. He leaned over, reached across and picked off the fragile petal, touched it to his lips. He took a deep, scared breath. 'Can you teach me how to do that?'

Her fantastic gold eyes widened. 'Why, Roic! I think that's the most delicately worded proposition I've ever received. S' beautiful.' An uncertain pause. 'Um, that was a proposition, wasn't it? I'm not always sure I parlay Barrayaran.'

Desperately terrified now, he blurted in what he imagined to be merc-speak, 'Ma'am, yes, ma'am!'

This won an immense fanged smile—not in a version he'd ever seen before. It made him, too, want to fall over backward, though preferably not into a snowbank. He glanced around. The softly lit room was littered with abandoned plates and wineglasses, detritus of pleasure and good company. Low voices chatted idly in the next chamber. Somewhere in another room, softened by the distance, a clock was chiming the hour. Roic declined to count the beats.

They floated in a bubble of fleeting time, live heat in the heart of a bitter winter. He leaned forward, raised his face, slid his hand around her warm neck, drew her face down to his. It wasn't hard. Their lips brushed, locked.

Several minutes later, in a shaken, hushed voice, he breathed, 'Wow.'

Several minutes after that, they went upstairs, hand in hand.

The Alchemical Marriage by Mary Jo Putney

1

The Tower of London, July 1588

Though the chambers were spacious and furnished as befitted a prisoner of rank, the cold stone walls were saturated with pain and death. Sir Adam Macrae paced his prison, shackles rattling, wondering if he would be granted the formality of a trial before he was executed. Or would he be kept here forever, quietly rotting as his spirit and body withered away?

The heavy door squealed open. He turned warily, knowing it was not time for food to be delivered. His expression hardened at the entrance of two men in dark cowled cloaks. So the Virgin Queen and her counselors had chosen to silence him by assassination rather than risk beheading a prominent Scot.

Well, by God, he'd not be taken down without a fight. He gripped the length of chain that connected his manacles. Though the damnable iron curbed his power, the heavy links would make a fair weapon.

The taller of the men pushed back his hood, revealing a long white beard and piercing eyes. It was John Dee, the queen's own sorcerer.

Macrae caught his breath. Dee had true power as well as influence with the queen, but he would not be sent here to perform a simple assassination. 'I thought you were living on the Continent, Master Dee. Tis said that you might end your days in Bohemia, where your work is so much valued.'

Dee gave a dry little smile. 'Officially, I am in Bohemia still, but my queen has need of me, for a great crisis looms.'

'England is threatened? Splendid.' Macrae applauded, the manacles jangling. 'I pray strength to her enemies.'

'Don't be so swift to invoke destruction. There are worse fates than Elizabeth, no matter how little you like her.'

'She murdered the Queen of Scots,' Macrae said flatly. 'She deserves everything I said, and more.'

'No one regretted Mary Stuart's death more than Elizabeth. She stayed her hand for years — decades— despite all the evidence that your queen was involved in treasonous plots. The necessity of executing her own cousin and fellow sovereign drove Elizabeth half-mad with grief.'

'Nonetheless, murder her cousin she did.'

'Couldn't you have waited until you returned to Scotland before cursing Elizabeth's name and predicting that the wrath of God would strike her? She had no choice but to imprison you.' The old sorcerer shook his head dourly. 'You supported Mary at the risk of your own life, even though she was Catholic and you a Protestant. Though your loyalty is commendable, one must wonder about your sense.'

As a stubborn Scot, sense had never been Macrae's strong point. 'What is a man without loyalty? She was my queen, and Elizabeth had no right to execute her. Did you come here to taunt me for my foolish tongue?'

'No, Sir Adam.' Dee's gaze was steady. 'I've come to ask if you would like to earn your freedom.'

Freedom? A vision of Glen Rath washed over Macrae. The most beautiful place on God's green earth, with wild clear air where a man could breathe…