D. A. Houdek

Deb Houdek Rule

Web designer - Science Fiction author - Civil War historian - Genealogy researcher

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Of All the Western Stars

by Deb Houdek Rule

Chapter 8

For a little while, Ashur thought he was home again. Cuddled beside him, Aureala, his silky Burmese cat, would purr for him in a contented drone. The light breeze tickling his nose came from the open panels to the balcony, a hundred floors up in the air. Static precipitators scrubbed the air of impurities and sound damping fields efficiently deadened the noise of the sprawling city. If he got up while it was still night, as he liked to do, he could stand on the balcony and look out over the radiant city of Penrose, its fairy spires sparkling with light. He’d watch the ever-glorious spectacle of the Nebula’s splendor fading to the rosy hued dawn. In the distance, beyond the peaks of the Rindler Mountains, he’d see mighty ships rising to space. It was one sight that never failed to move him, this testament to the tenacity of the human race who overcame staggering difficulties to greet their rightful future among the stars.

Then it all burst into flames, hot, white, all-consuming fire blazing up to incinerate everything. There followed confusion, fear as he was chased, struggling to escape, then an enveloping blackness.

Ashur woke sometime later with a feeling of panicked entrapment. He could see nothing but a narrow sliver of starlight. Heart thumping loudly he jerked upright, imaged he was again trapped in his shattered spaceship after the crash. Searing pain tore through his side at the abrupt action. He clenched his ribs and tried to breath.

Gentle hands touched him, startling him again, and he heard Lisette’s soft voice coming from the darkness.

"Easy there. Lie back."

Under her soothing touch Ashur eased back down against the pillows. Her fingers fluttered lightly over his chest, seeming to draw away the pain with their very touch. He strained to see her though the murkiness, but the faint starlight that leaked through the narrow window gave no real illumination. Only with his other senses could he discern her standing by his bed. In his mind’s eye he saw her standing in that silky gown of white.

After a minute of regulating his breathes, Ashur was able to speak. "Lisette. Are you really here?"

He could almost hear the embarrassment in her hesitation. "Forgive me for intruding upon you, but I was concerned as to your well-being," she answered, the stiff formality she seemed to be striving for lost to the melodic sweetness of her voice.

"Ah," he said. "I’d hoped you’d come to talk with me, to keep me company for a bit." She knew where his ship was, possibly had even seen it, even if she didn’t recognize it, and could give him some information if he probed her carefully for it. He hesitated, waiting for some response from her. "The sound of your voice, and pleasure in your company, helps ease the pain," he added, knowing from long experience that he didn’t sound ingenuous. Ashur did feel an unexpected twinge of guilt at using his proven successful wooing techniques on the guileless Lisette. She was an innocent from a thousand years past, not one of the women of his world and his time who knew what to expect from the name ‘Ashur’.

Nevertheless he felt genuine pleasure when he heard her soft exhalation, then heard her say, "Very well, for a bit."

"Could you light a candle?" he asked hopefully.

"I dare not," she answered with a hint of anxiety. "I ought not be here. My husband would not approve."

"Geraint? I thought he wasn’t your husband yet."

"Aye. He’s not, in truth. But all that remains is the wedding itself."

"You don’t sound eager."

"You speak boldly, sir. I implore you to mind my position."

Ashur imagined the scarlet flush creeping up her silk cheeks. He grinned broadly in the darkness, yet made his words sound contrite and humble. "Forgive me, mistress. I’m grateful for your kindness and whatever shred of comfort and companionship you can afford to offer this poor, lost stranger. I’d not jeopardize it, or you."

Ashur felt Lisette relaxing as an almost tangible thing in the blackness.

"Thank you, sir," she murmured.

"Please, sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t recall seeing a chair in here."

Her hesitations at her growing list of improprieties steadily shortened. Ashur felt the mattress sink as she sat. He could tell that she didn’t relax completely but perched tensely upon the edge.

The nearness of her, unseen yet palatable, caressed him with an unexpected feeling of warmth and security. The scent of her drifted to him, clean and pure with a hint of flowers. He inhaled the fragrance as deeply as he dared, savoring, tasting, memorizing. It stirred odd memories in Ashur, memories of things that had never been. Shadows of memories of dreams, they were.

For a moment he tried to focus on the memories that danced at the edge of his consciousness, then gave up, surrendering himself to the feelings they, and Lisette’s very real presence, caused in the here and now. It was serenity melded with passion, contentment flavored with yearning, acquiescence highlighted by love…

Love?

Ashur shuddered, banishing the unwelcome thought, the unfamiliar feeling. He couldn’t love any woman, certainly not one from the year fifteen-eighteen. Even if he did chose to pursue her, they were separated by one thousand years of history. Lisette had her own future to look toward and he his to which he would, hopefully, soon return. It was as impossible a situation as any couple in history. He didn’t belong here and she didn’t belong in his time. Still, she was here, and he was very alone…

"Are you all right, milord?" Lisette queried with concern.

"A chill, nothing more," he lied and felt her hands draw the coverlet higher over him. "And, please, call me Ashur."

"Ashur." Her voice smiled and made him smile too. "You’re a bit of a curiosity," she added.

"So I’ve gathered," he said, and thought, you don’t know by a micron just how much. "But tell me of yourself," he asked, diverting her from asking about him.

"Oh, there’s naught to tell. I’m quite ordinary."

"Not to me," he said and surprised himself by meaning it.

"Very well," she relented. The bed moved slightly as she readjusted her position. She began, "I am the second daughter of Sir Thomas and Katherine Weston of Houghton in Hampshire…"

The flow of her words were like a lullaby drifting through the night, yet sleep did not result. With an intensity and interest he hadn’t known he possessed, Ashur drank in each word, each detail of the life and thoughts of this sixteenth century maid. In her he found intellectual interests spanning the arts, sciences, philosophy, and theology. She was, he dare admit, probably better educated than even he himself within the limitations of her era.

Delight filled him at her descriptions, urged on by questions from him, of her family life, of the milkmaid and the cook, the new spring lambs and the foals wobbling on their long legs. As she told her tale Ashur realized she was skillfully drawing bits of information, never with a direct question but subtly. He guarded what he said carefully not to say or reveal something he shouldn’t. In turn, he found that his cautious probing of how he was found, what she had seen, and the potential condition of his ship, were shrewdly but delicately sidestepped. Lisette did not know, or, as seemed increasingly likely to Ashur, did not want to speak of how she came to find him. He set aside the matter to pursue later. Ashur discovered he truly did want to learn more of Lisette, her life and world.

He laughed aloud — quickly hushed by Lisette, who hurried to check the corridor — at her tale of the French strumpet and the English commoner at Agincourt and how it had earned Lisette her name.

When the bed again settled beneath her, Ashur whispered, "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh so loudly, but your story delighted me."

Light laughter filled her answer. "That’s not a tale we oft tell outside the family."

Reaching with his right hand, he found one of her hands where it rested on the coverlet. She stiffened briefly as his hand closed over hers. Moving very slowly, so as not to alarm her, Ashur raised her hand up, luxuriating in the softness of her skin and heat of her body.

"You may most assuredly trust me with your shameful secret, lovely Lisette," he murmured and drew her hand to his lips. He’d meant to only brush her hand lightly, a barest hint of a kiss upon her hand, but her tantalizing nearness, and the curious pleasure he took in her ways — so different, yet in so many ways so like his own world and time — overcame him and he pressed Lisette’s hand to his lips for a long moment.

He heard a faint moan of happiness from Lisette. Without his consciously willing it, he moved her hand aside but continued his gentle but relentless pressure on her arm, drawing her downward toward him. Still he could not see her, only feel her warmth and presence, taste her scent, as she leaned ever closer. He reached his left hand up to the back of her head, finding her magnificent hair flowing free. Burying his fingers in its splendor, he pulled her yet nearer, drawing her downwards until her hot, soft lips met his.

A kiss of fire. The touch flared through her entire body, seizing her. Lisette felt his hand twined in her hair, pulling her in to even closer contact. Waves of heat surged over her. Her lips parted. Fiery, moist, Ashur’s tongue teased her. Experimentally, she reached with her own, boldly taunting. Her mouth opened, welcoming him into this wet crevice. She probed into his mouth, tasting, savoring. Lisette felt faint.

When first his hand met hers she’d had to fight the urge to pull away. She wanted to flee his touch, but she stilled her impulse. Brazen enough, she’d been, to come here in the first place, but it was the only chance, the only time she’d have to be near this mysterious man heralded by a falling star.

Though she’d not have thought it possible the kiss grew more intense. Leaning her body down upon his, Lisette felt his form through the covers. It felt good. It felt right. But — oh God be merciful! — it was so wrong.

Ashur’s right hand flexed against hers. Their fingers intertwined. With his left hand he stroked her hair, caressed her neck.

Through the open window a flock of birds began singing, serenading them. The long, plaintive bellow of a cow sounded. Then another.

Lisette jerked away, her hand flying to her mouth. A small squawk of dismay was wrenched from Ashur when she broke contact.

"What is it?" he whispered, reaching for her again.

Lisette peered hard through the gloom, suddenly aware she could see faint shadows and outlines. "The cows call to be milked. ‘Tis morning." She leaped to her feet, pulling her hand free from his in a reluctant, lingering way.

Ashur’s voice, whispering her name, followed Lisette as she hurried from the chamber.

In the blackness of the passageway beyond, Lisette found her way as she had earlier, by running her fingers lightly along the wall and counting her steps. She tried to call forth the images in the magic crystal, twisting and turning every way she could think of, but none came. Perhaps it had been in her imaginings after all, Lisette thought dreamily. She fell back into the softness of her bed, her mind awhirl, before the first cock crowed.

In his bedchamber, Ashur slowly drifted back into sleep, with much pleasanter dreams to keep him company this time.