We’re not stopping?” She frowned. “Where will we sleep?”
When Gunnar shot another tolerant smile at her, she had the urge to slap it off his face. The man’s arrogance apparently knew no bounds. He reached over his shoulder and pushed a button. A thin panel slid open to reveal a cabin behind them. She turned to get a better look. Behind Gunnar’s seat was a plastic, half-height, open-topped cabinet with a showerhead over it. Inside, sat a self contained toilet. One step away, behind her seat, was a small fridge under a single radiant burner next to an equally small counter, barely big enough to assemble a sandwich on. Along the back wall was another low cabinet, presumably holding other necessities. Where were the beds? Was there enough room for stacked bunks?
“See the panel on the back wall?”
“Yes.” It looked like a painting. White landscape with the night sky striped by the polar lights. How typically Nordian.
“It swings down to make a platform bed.”
“A bed,” she repeated, not wanting to comprehend. It would come down to rest on the half-height cabinets and span the entire depth and width of the cabin.
“The bed,” he emphasized, with a note of laughter in his voice. “Big enough for two, I assure you. Cozy, but still comfortable.”
“I’m not sleeping with you!” The words burst from her before she had a chance to think.
“Why not? Shared body heat is the best way to stay warm while sleeping.”
She stared at him in horror as he calmly steered the transport around an ice boulder.
“I’ll sleep here, or after you’ve had your rest, I’ll take the bed. We can sleep in stages.” She was not sleeping with a Nordian. She’d purposely stayed far away from genetically compatible humanoids in her travels, preferring partners who couldn’t accidentally impregnate her. Men who catered to her, begged for her favor. Partners who would leave the most fragile part of her intact. Each one carefully investigated and researched over several months, seduction allowed only when she was ready to leave a planet.
No ties. No commitments. Usually only two nights were allowed, a week at the absolute maximum and only if the man in question was seriously hot. The last man had been hot enough, but Cory’s communication hadn’t allowed the week she’d been working up to.
“No, it doesn’t work that way.” She watched him shake his head to underline his statement while steering around a deep drift sweeping across their path.
“I am not sleeping with you,” she repeated with more heat, tossing him a good glare for emphasis.
“If you’re worried about your virtue, don’t be.” He openly laughed at her now.
“Excuse me?” She dropped her voice to its lowest register and regarded him with a finely-waxed arched brow. Freshly waxed, and not just the eyebrows. Knowing she’d be far from civilization, she’d indulged in a full day in the ship-board spa. She was set for at least four weeks, six if she couldn’t get things wrapped up quickly. Hopefully her hair color would last that long. Anything to hide her true appearance. Almost anything.
“I’m promised already. I’ve sworn to remain pure until the right one comes into my life.”
Noreen felt the blood drain from her face. “The Promised One?” she blurted out.
Staring at Gunnar’s face, she caught his sharp questioning look before a bleep from the control panel drew his attention back to his driving.
“You’ve heard of The Profetia? The Prophecy?” he asked harshly.
She forced herself to snort and turn to look out the window again. “Who hasn’t?”
“I thought you weren’t of this land?”
“Even off-worlders hear things.”
“Not about The Profetia,” he said with a frown.
That was a mistake. She shrugged carelessly as if it were no big deal. He was right. The Profetia was never spoken of beyond the planet they traveled across, and never with off-worlders.
“Where did you hear of it?” he pressed, his voice far from amused. Enough that she almost laughed at his commanding tone even though she felt a tremor run down her spine.
“I don’t remember.” She lifted her nose in the air, as if his question were boring her to tears.
“I don’t believe you. Only those born to the land know of The Profetia.”
“I have an aunt from here,” she muttered. “So who are you, again?”
“Gunnar Zaren. Why? Have you heard of me?”
“Didn’t the male half of The Profetia have a title or some other royal designation?” she asked casually, with a dismissive wave of her hand. Did she come across as only mildly curious? Good thing her thick mittens covered the sudden shaking of her hand. Must be time to eat.
“Yes. I’m a Duke.” His reply sounded reluctant.
“Am I supposed to kiss your ring, or something, now?” She gave her voice a teasing quality.
“Or something,” he muttered, with a lifted brow that silenced her.
Oh dritt! she silently cursed. No, the local swear words were out. They would tip him off for sure. Shit. There, the old Earth word would work.
A duke, he’d said. But which one? If he was The One, he could only be… oh shit, what was the name Cory’d used? Damn Cory!
An uneasy silence fell as he steered around another mound of white in the darkening landscape. No, not darkening. Never dark. The minute frozen crystals around them caught and reflected every little spark of light from every possible source no matter how remote. Transport headlights lit up the landscape, as would the moonlight and starlight in a short while.
Trying to find her calm center, Noreen listened to the crunching of the vehicle treads rolling over the snow. Not soft like the flakes the sky produced, the snow on the ground was packed and dry. Dry because the extreme cold sucked all moisture from the air. They followed a track, which shifted and changed as the snow blew and drifted across the relatively flat land. The convoy would be a relief to Gunnar, allowing him to rest from his constant vigilance. Unfortunately, it would free him up to concentrate on her.
Ten, long galactic years seemed as if they’d passed in only a few days the farther she traveled north. Ten years of seeking out every warm and colorful world she could find. Ten years of warmth, of never wearing anything heavier than jeans and a cotton sweater. Usually she wore no more than a length of cloth wrapped around her. Knotted over a breast, it often slipped off when least expected, and more often when desired. A small smile lifted the corner of her lips as she thought of the last time her colorful wrap had slipped. The hands which had pulled it away had belonged to a man as dark as Gunnar was fair. Black hair, black skin, black eyes. Never a man with skin whiter than hers.
For a moment she forgot her predicament and fell into a daydream, remembering the feel of large, warm hands on her body, the lovely contrast of dark skin against hers, a tanned, golden brown. Chocolate and caramel. A very
