at their clasped hands so he wouldn’t see how much the answer meant to her.
"Dear, we already are."
Ryelle jumped a little and felt Declan do the same, as they both turned toward the entrance. Mem Sheridan was peeking around the doorway with a lovely
smile and a shine to her eyes.
"I’m so sorry to interrupt," she added with a little grimace. "Take all the time you need, but I wanted to let you know that
breakfast is ready when you are."
At her words, Declan’s stomach rumbled so loudly that Ryelle jumped again. Mem Sheridan let out a trill of laughter as Declan turned a dull shade of
red and grinned sheepishly.
The Chief appeared behind his wife and gave Declan a wry look. "Young men are bottomless pits, my love. Of course he’s ready to eat. Shall
we?"
"I think we’d better," Ryelle said as seriously as she could, sending a pointed, wary look at Declan’s middle.
The Chief chuckled along with his wife and Declan groaned, laughing a little as he tugged her to her feet. "Stop picking on me."
Their hosts led them down a short hall to a round little eating area, brightly lit and full of delicious aromas. As they seated themselves around a small
table, the Chief sobered and leaned toward Ryelle.
"I’ve had word of the skirmish. Our fighters are returning victorious, no injuries or damage."
"Thank you," Ryelle said automatically, but her stomach clenched and did a slow, sickening roll. The food smells no longer seemed appetizing,
and she had to swallow hard to keep from gagging. She was now responsible for the deaths of eighty sentient beings. The room seemed to grow dim at the
edges.
"Ryelle? Are you all right?"
"Perhaps you should put your head down," the Chief said in worried tones, touching her lightly on the shoulder.
But it was Declan’s warm, tight grip that helped to right her world. She took a deep breath, willing light back into the edges of her vision.
Swallowing hard again with determination, she told herself sternly,
that’s enough. You did not start this war. You did your job and protected this ship and these people. Your friends. And you’ll do it again
if you have to.
Looking around at their concerned faces, she realized she’d do anything to keep them safe. Anything.
"I’m all right," she told them, relieved to hear the even timber of her voice. She breathed deeply and let out a sigh. "I’m
fine, really. I just…don’t like what I did. I don’t believe I like war."
The Chief gave her an understanding smile and patted her on the arm, startling her, though he didn’t seem to notice. "I would be worried if you
did like it, dear. You did just fine."
His touch wasn’t on her skin, but she still thought she could feel the warmth of it through her sleeve. If not physical warmth, than the warmth of
his kindness. She returned his smile and held out her hand to him impulsively. "Declan tells me I shouldn’t hold hands with people I
don’t like."
"He is a wise young man," the Chief said solemnly, though his hazel eyes twinkled at her and a dimple appeared at the edge of his smile. He
clasped her hand in his and Ryelle was surprised to find that his touch was different. His hand was warm like Declan’s and she could feel a similar
strength in his gentle hold, but his touch did not make her tingle or remind her of her basic femininity. His hold offered comfort and that same warm
kindness she’d felt when he’d patted her arm. Fascinating.
With a glance of amazed discovery up at the Chief, she pulled away and reached across the table to Mem Sheridan, eager to learn more. With sparkling eyes
and muffled laughter, the older woman took her hand.
"Child, you act as though you’ve never touched anyone before."
"I haven’t," she responded absently, absorbed in the contact. The other woman’s fingers were just as delicate as Ryelle’s and
cool, but no less kind than her husband’s. It reminded her of her mother’s touch and her eyes stung a little.
The silence
"Dear, we already are."
Ryelle jumped a little and felt Declan do the same, as they both turned toward the entrance. Mem Sheridan was peeking around the doorway with a lovely
smile and a shine to her eyes.
"I’m so sorry to interrupt," she added with a little grimace. "Take all the time you need, but I wanted to let you know that
breakfast is ready when you are."
At her words, Declan’s stomach rumbled so loudly that Ryelle jumped again. Mem Sheridan let out a trill of laughter as Declan turned a dull shade of
red and grinned sheepishly.
The Chief appeared behind his wife and gave Declan a wry look. "Young men are bottomless pits, my love. Of course he’s ready to eat. Shall
we?"
"I think we’d better," Ryelle said as seriously as she could, sending a pointed, wary look at Declan’s middle.
The Chief chuckled along with his wife and Declan groaned, laughing a little as he tugged her to her feet. "Stop picking on me."
Their hosts led them down a short hall to a round little eating area, brightly lit and full of delicious aromas. As they seated themselves around a small
table, the Chief sobered and leaned toward Ryelle.
"I’ve had word of the skirmish. Our fighters are returning victorious, no injuries or damage."
"Thank you," Ryelle said automatically, but her stomach clenched and did a slow, sickening roll. The food smells no longer seemed appetizing,
and she had to swallow hard to keep from gagging. She was now responsible for the deaths of eighty sentient beings. The room seemed to grow dim at the
edges.
"Ryelle? Are you all right?"
"Perhaps you should put your head down," the Chief said in worried tones, touching her lightly on the shoulder.
But it was Declan’s warm, tight grip that helped to right her world. She took a deep breath, willing light back into the edges of her vision.
Swallowing hard again with determination, she told herself sternly,
that’s enough. You did not start this war. You did your job and protected this ship and these people. Your friends. And you’ll do it again
if you have to.
Looking around at their concerned faces, she realized she’d do anything to keep them safe. Anything.
"I’m all right," she told them, relieved to hear the even timber of her voice. She breathed deeply and let out a sigh. "I’m
fine, really. I just…don’t like what I did. I don’t believe I like war."
The Chief gave her an understanding smile and patted her on the arm, startling her, though he didn’t seem to notice. "I would be worried if you
did like it, dear. You did just fine."
His touch wasn’t on her skin, but she still thought she could feel the warmth of it through her sleeve. If not physical warmth, than the warmth of
his kindness. She returned his smile and held out her hand to him impulsively. "Declan tells me I shouldn’t hold hands with people I
don’t like."
"He is a wise young man," the Chief said solemnly, though his hazel eyes twinkled at her and a dimple appeared at the edge of his smile. He
clasped her hand in his and Ryelle was surprised to find that his touch was different. His hand was warm like Declan’s and she could feel a similar
strength in his gentle hold, but his touch did not make her tingle or remind her of her basic femininity. His hold offered comfort and that same warm
kindness she’d felt when he’d patted her arm. Fascinating.
With a glance of amazed discovery up at the Chief, she pulled away and reached across the table to Mem Sheridan, eager to learn more. With sparkling eyes
and muffled laughter, the older woman took her hand.
"Child, you act as though you’ve never touched anyone before."
"I haven’t," she responded absently, absorbed in the contact. The other woman’s fingers were just as delicate as Ryelle’s and
cool, but no less kind than her husband’s. It reminded her of her mother’s touch and her eyes stung a little.
The silence
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