Honor Bound by Joey Hill (good novels to read in english TXT) 📗

Godsdammit, he detested royal receptions, even a small, private soiree like this one for the Trinitarian ambassador. He’d tried every trick he knew to stay alert—and in twenty years as a career soldier, he’d learned a few of them—wiggling his toes in his boots, flexing the long muscles in his thighs and calves, calculating his finances. Another couple of weeks and he’d have enough creds for his annual visit to the Garden of Nocturnal Delights. Despite himself, his thoughts drifted.

A slim form moved into the pool of light beyond the door, hesitated, and faded back into the darkness. He caught the impression of a voluminous hooded cloak, skimming the tops of bare feet, fine boned and high arched, a gold chain winking around one slender ankle.

The evening’s entertainment, right on schedule.

Rhio’s breath came a little faster.

Who should he ask for at the Garden? Plump Bertha or delicate Chuoko? Bertha’s breasts were full and broad, spilling into his hands like heavy fruit, her nipples dark as fine wine.

Chuoko had slender, clever fingers and a way of wrapping a man in her hair. . . .

His pulse marched in time with the drum.

A mysterious shadowed figure, the drummer sat cross-legged near the arched doorway that opened from the elegant reception chamber onto a dimly lit colonnade. Beyond lay the Palace gardens. His face expressionless, his back ramrod straight, Rhio stood the prescribed two paces behind Her Majesty’s thronelike chair, sweating lightly beneath his dress uniform.

He’d stationed half a dozen of his Guards out there, and all around the building. By the seven hells, he hated diplomatic duty at the Palace. The place was a security nightmare.

The gardens were bad enough, providing enough cover for an entire phalanx of

Trinitarian pike men. But the velvet lawns were worse, meandering down to the canals of Caracole, which in turn led to the open sea. Rhio had fought too many battles against the old enemy to trust the bastards now, peace or no peace. The Queen’s Navy had increased patrols up and down the coast, but nonetheless, he’d taken no chances, selecting only his best people for tonight’s duty.

They’d better be scrutinizing every dark shape that shifted in the night breeze, he thought grimly. Or he’d take it out of their hides on the practice floor.

With a grin, the drummer turned his head toward the cloaked figure and spoke a soft phrase. The light of the double moons, the Brother and the Sister, gleamed on the man’s shaven scalp, the graceful calligraphy of a slave tattoo showing dark along one

cheekbone. Rhio didn’t approve of slavery, the whole concept being beyond him. You might be able to command a man’s actions, but you couldn’t get into his head and make his thoughts your personal property. So how could you truly own him? It was plain common sense.

The cloak swirled, parting to reveal an astonishing length of bare, slender leg, the skin tinted to a smooth honey copper by the moonslight. A fleeting glimpse and he was left staring at the spot where the woman had stood, willing her to return.

He couldn’t afford a distraction, not now. Careful to keep his face impassive, Rhio shifted his gaze to the spare, elegant person of the guest of honor, Ambassador-Pasha Ghuis Gremani Giral of the Trinitarian Republic. Smooth little shit, with his pointed goatee and his retinue of bustling attendants and scantily clad slaves. The courtesans at the Garden might sell their time, their delightful company and their beautiful bodies, but they were no one’s property save their own. Woe betide the man who assumed otherwise.

Soon, soon he’d be with them. He stifled a sigh. For one night in his life, there’d be beautiful music and exquisite food, cultured conversation a world away from duty and discipline. And, oh, gods, silk sheets and silken limbs, sweet, hot mouths and sweet, hot flesh, urging him inside where it was wet and strong and clasping, and he could rut and slide and thrust until he spilled. After it was over, he’d sleep with his head pillowed between soft breasts while gentle fingers petted whatever part of him they could reach.

And he could pretend someone cared.

Beneath the polished leather of his formal battle kilt, Rhio thickened. No matter, he was a man of discipline, known for his iron will. He regulated his breathing until the pressure eased.

He was well aware of his reputation in the Guards—phlegmatic to the point of being unfeeling, brutally efficient, tough but fair. New recruits were terrified of him, but those under his command knew the score. A gruff bastard he might be, and godsdammit, he drove them unmercifully, but Captain Rhiomard’s Company had the best success rate in the Queen’s Guards. Rhio not only completed his missions with distinction, he kept most of his people alive in the process. Which was why he’d been given this security detail.

Smiling, the Ambassador leaned toward Queen Sikara. “More wine, Your Majesty?”

Rhio heard him murmur. “It’s a rare vintage from our vineyards in the South.” Hooking a finger through the handle of the elaborately chased silver wine jug, he raised a perfectly arched brow.

Rhio tensed, his first instinct being to rip the vessel out of the man’s hand and shove it down his throat.

Which was ridiculous. He knew—who better?—that every morsel of food, every drop of wine, had been tasted before it reached the table. He’d made the arrangements himself.

“No, thank you, Ambassador Giral.” The Queen gave the little man back his empty smile, her faded blue eyes shrewd and tranquil. “At my age, I find alcohol disagrees with me.”

A delicate pause. “I congratulate you on your excellent constitution.”

Farther down the table, a high-ranking minister of state chuckled, then masked the sound with a polite cough. Rhio bit the inside of his cheek. The old girl could probably drink the Ambassador under the table. She was no fool, Sikara. He liked her, which was more than he could say for any general he’d served under.

Giral leaned back in his