The Morcai Battalion: The Pursuit. Diana Palmer

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      But he loosened his grip, just a little. He tugged her to one side of the crowd filing out of the auditorium, and his eyes were a solemn blue. “If I do, you must tell me. Don’t be afraid of offending me—you won’t. I would not hurt you for all the galaxy.”

      Her heart soared. She smiled up at him with sparkling, soft blue eyes. “I know that. I’ll tell you,” she promised.

      His eyes narrowed on her face. “I had no idea that humans were so fragile,” he said softly.

      She smiled. “I’m afraid it’s probably just me. I’m sort of fragile. I bruise really easily.”

      He let out a breath. “Still, I apologize for any discomfort I may have already caused.”

      He didn’t know about the broken bones in her hand, and she wasn’t about to tell him. “You’re forgiven,” she replied. She searched his face. “Have you been around humans much?”

      He started to tell her about the Morcai, about the Holconcom, and realized that it would be breaking many protocols. Later, perhaps. “I have some small acquaintance with mostly male humans,” he said after a minute.

      “What do you do for a living? Or are you independently wealthy?” she asked.

      He chuckled. “Among my own people, I’m an aristocrat. My Clan has wealth that we all share. But I do work, just the same. I’m a...” He searched for a word that would suffice. He couldn’t reveal his true duties where he might be overheard. The captain of the emperor’s Imperial Guard did not dare reveal himself to outworlders. “I’m a consultant,” he added, recalling his cousin Rhemun telling Kipling that, when he met his almost-adolescent son for the first time. “For the military,” he added.

      “Oh. One of those brainy jobs,” she teased.

      He cocked his head, curious.

      “A job which requires intelligence,” she amended. “So sorry. I have to stop using idioms.”

      “Alternatively, you can teach me to understand them,” he replied, smiling. “I’m a quick study. I speak many languages.”

      “Really!” She grimaced. “I only speak English and French.”

      He scowled. “What is French?”

      “A dialect of old Earth, carried over to Terravega with the first colonists. My surname is French—Dupont.”

      He smiled slowly. “Truly fascinating. Do you know much about your ancestry?”

      “A little. I know that my distant ancestors were vintners.”

      He scowled, not understanding the reference.

      “They made wine,” she explained. “They had great plantations of grapevines, red and white grapes alike, which they made into expensive wines that were sold all over the planet. And when my Terravegan family colonized, they carried on the tradition. You’ll find Dupont wines still served in the finest dining facilities on Terravega. Even on Trimerius, where the military headquarters of the Tri-Galaxy Fleet are located. Daddy knows Admiral Jeffrye Lawson,” she added. “They play chess together on the Nexus.”

      Mekashe also knew the admiral, but he wasn’t going to mention it. Time enough in the future to tell her what he really did for a job. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to be with her, to learn about her.

      “They have a pool party scheduled for tomorrow aboard the ship,” she said slowly. She hesitated. “Bathing suits and all.”

      He shook his head, smiling. “What is a bathing suit?”

      “People wear skimpy clothing-suits that leave the arms and legs and midriff bare on women, just swimming trunks for men that leave the chest and legs bare.”

      He scowled. No way could he do that. Not only was being half-nude in public considered indelicate for the Cehn-Tahr, he couldn’t reveal the band of fur that ran the length of his spine to Jasmine. It might offend her, cause her to draw back from him before she got to know the person he was.

      She saw his unease and grimaced. “I don’t like wearing bathing suits, either,” she confessed. “Mama said it was indelicate. She wouldn’t let me go in swimming pools, ever, back home.”

      He laughed. “I would have liked your mother. I have to confess, my culture also considers public nudity—even seminudity—indiscreet.”

      She beamed. “I’m glad.” The smile faded. “There’s not much else to do on board.”

      “There are holorooms,” he corrected. He pursed his lips. “We might have a picnic, on any planet of your choosing.”

      She caught her breath. “Really? They can do that? I thought they were only used for, well, for indiscreet purposes.”

      He laughed. “Some of them are, certainly. But we can walk in a forest on Terramer, or sit by the ocean on Trimerius. We can even go to Enmehkmehk and catch farawings.”

      “What’s a farawing?”

      “A small creature with brilliant wings. Untouchable in the real world, but they can be caught and even tamed as pets in a holoroom. You can save the program and revisit the pet at your convenience, and anywhere you might be. A chip of the capture is provided as part of the entertainment.”

      “I should love to go on a picnic!” She hesitated again. “How do you know about picnics?”

      “My best friend is bonded to a human female,” he explained. “She taught us about certain human entertainments. Sadly, opera was not one of them.”

      She laughed with delight. If his friend was bonded to a human, it might mean that he had no qualms about an interracial marriage. Her heart felt lighter than air.

      He saw her delight and read, quite correctly, her train of thought. His was going along the same lines. He was certain already that he would not be able to give her up. She was capturing him, as surely as farawings were captured in holorooms.

      “Tomorrow, then?” she asked. “After breakfast?” She grimaced. “You’re playing chess with Daddy.”

      “Then after luncheon,” he suggested softly.

      Her sad expression lifted. “That would be wonderful. What should I wear?”

      He wanted to tell her to keep on the gown she was wearing. It complemented her delicate beauty. But it would be impractical. “Casual clothing,” he said.

      “Jeans and a shirt and boots?” she asked. “That’s Western American clothing. It’s the fad right now with designers. Nobody knows what they really wore, but handed-down documents mentioned boots and jeans, which we assume were pants made of some coarse fabric, and shirts that button up.”

      “Western American.” He sighed. “I shall have to go to the virtual library.”

      “Not to worry. Daddy has a book on it.” She laughed. “He has a book on everything!”

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