The Only One

hope converged, and fear faded from Taj's consciousness.
    Toward dawn, she woke Romjha from a drowse. "I want to show you a secret place," she whispered. "We can bathe there."
    Her breasts bounced as she took his hand and pulled him out of bed. She'd never been shy in her nakedness, but with Romjha's eyes on her, she felt breathless.
    Behind a thick tapestry was a narrow tunnel. It was so dank and dark within that she knew Romjha couldn't see her crawling in front of him until they reached the fissure that contained the spring.
    The sound of splattering water echoed from the small chamber. The air inside was thick, laden with mist and the residual scents she'd used there.
    Silent, she lit the wick she'd brought and touched it one by one to the candles she kept arranged, high and low, on glistening rocks all around them.
    Candlelight danced in Romjha's golden eyes. The reflection of water danced across his high cheekbones and long, straight nose. He appeared almost boyish in his delight. "You have kept your secrets, haven't you?"
    "No one else knows, save perhaps Elder Patra. Not even Aleq," she added, quieter. "This secret has been passed down, bombmaker to bombmaker."
    Romjha walked to where the water pooled before it rushed away to the depths of Sienna. He knelt by the shallow basin, sluicing the water through his hand. Magnificent he was—a beautiful, vital male in the prime of life.
    He was so passionate, generous. Alive. As a man. As a lover. She couldn't bear the thought of him ending up like her father, yet another sacrifice in a war with no end. Something needed to be done to end the warlords' reign of terror, yes—but, blast it, why did Romjha feel so compelled to sacrifice himself to the cause?
    Yet wasn't it his innate sense of honor and duty that she most admired? The unselfishness that pushed him to want to see a return to a stable government and peace for all the galaxy? Most men wouldn't contemplate goals on such a grand scale. They would settle, most ordinary men. Romjha B'kah was anything but.
    The admiration and respect she'd always had for him filled her again. He reminded her of a knight-protector, a benevolent Nash, a hero of the realm from the days of old. Or was he to be a hero of the years yet to come?
    The oddest of sensations rushed up her spine, making the tiny blond hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. He is meant for something more, a purpose greater than this life he now leads. The voice came from inside her, and yet it wasn't hers.
    She regarded Romjha with a new and horrified awe.
    Suddenly water hit her in the face. "No frowning," Romjha ordered.
    Grinning, he scooped more water into his dripping hand and splashed her. It trickled down her body, over her breasts and stomach.
    His playfulness was contagious. He was right. No sense ruining what time they had left together.
    On impulse, she took a pot of lotion off a nearby rock. "Don't start what you don't want to finish."
    "Since when haven't I finished what I started?"
    She joined him in a curtain of sparkling mist. "Let me reword that: Start anything you like, but wait until I am finished with you first."
    He watched as if fascinated while she rubbed the cream between her hands to warm it. Then she knelt behind him and worked the scented lotion into his back. The muscles there bunched and then smoothed under the pressure of her fingers. He leaned into her ministrations and let out a deep, rumbling sigh.
    She touched him everywhere before their time in the spring came to an end: the scars and healed-over wounds marring his wonderful body, as well as the parts of him that remained unharmed.
    Private satisfaction curved her mouth. If he could give her the gift of pleasure, make a religion of worshiping her body, then she could surely do the same for him.
    Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Taj watched Romjha gather his clothing and get dressed. The familiar sick feeling had returned to her belly. She tried to forget it was there, concentrated instead on the delicious twinges she still felt between her thighs.
    Her gaze shifted to her altar, where the bowls of scented oil had long since cooled. She walked over and lit the candles under each, kneeling there because it brought her comfort, even now, on the day of Romjha's departure.
    She heard him come up behind her. "Praying?" he asked.
    A bad subject. She changed it. "Speaking of worship, you told the outsiders that women deserved to be treated along such lines. Well, you