Miles in Love - Lois McMaster Bujold [424]
Madame Vorsoisson removed the strands and laid them back in their velvet-lined box, where they glowed softly. "I believe we should let your guests freshen up before dinner, Miles."
"Oh, yes. Except I need to borrow Simon for a moment. Will you excuse us? There will be drinks in the library again when you are all ready. Someone let Arde know. Where is Arde?"
"Nikki captured him and carried him off," said Madame Vorsoisson. "I should probably go rescue the poor man."
M'lord and Illyan withdrew to the library. Lady Alys escorted Taura away, presumably for one last tutorial on Barrayaran etiquette before the impending formal dinner with Count and Countess Vorkosigan. Taura glanced back at the bride, still frowning. Roic watched the giant woman out with some regret, distracted by the sudden speculation of what it would be like to patrol a Hassadar alley with her.
"M'lady—Madame Vorsoisson, that is," Roic began as she started to turn away.
"Not for much longer." She smiled, turning back.
"What's with t'—that is, how old is Sergeant Taura? Do you know?"
"Around twenty-six standard, I believe."
A little younger than Roic, actually. It felt unfair that the galactic woman should seem so much more . . . complicated. "Then why is her hair turning gray? If she's bioengineered, I wouldn't have thought they'd muff up such details."
Madame Vorsoisson made a little gesture of apology. "I believe that is a private matter for her, not mine to discuss."
"Oh." Roic's brow wrinkled in bafflement. "Where'd she come from? Where did m'lord meet her?"
"On one of his old covert ops missions, he tells me. He rescued her from a particularly vile bioengineering facility on the planet of Jackson's Whole. They were trying to develop a super-soldier. Having escaped enslavement, she became an especially valued colleague in his ops team." She added after a contemplative moment, "And sometime-lover. Also especially valued, I understand."
Roic felt suddenly very . . . rural. Backcountry. Not up to speed on the sophisticated, galactic-tinged Vor life of the capital. "Er . . . he told you? And . . . and you're all right with that?" He wondered if meeting Sergeant Taura had rattled her more than she'd let on.
"It was before my time, Roic." Her smile crimped a little. "I actually wasn't sure if he was confessing or bragging, but now that I've seen her, I rather think he was bragging."
"But . . . but how would . . . I mean, she's so tall, and he's, um . . ."
Now her eyes narrowed with laughter at him, although her lips remained demure. "He didn't supply me with that much detail, Roic. It wouldn't have been gentlemanly."
"To you? No, I guess not."
"To her."
"Oh. Oh. Um, yeah."
"For what it's worth, I have heard him remark that a height differential matters much less when two people are lying down. I find I must agree." With a smile he really didn't dare try to interpret, she moved off in search of Nikki.
* * *
A scant hour later, Roic was surprised when Pym gave him a heads-up on his wrist com to bring m'lord's ground car around. He parked it under the porte-cochère and entered the black and white paved hall to find m'lord assisting Madame Vorsoisson on with her wraps.
"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?" m'lord asked her anxiously. "I'd like to go with you, see you get home and in all right."
Madame Vorsoisson pressed a hand to her forehead. Her face was pale and damp, almost greenish. "No. No. Roic will get me there. Go back to your guests. They've come so far, and you'll only be getting to see them for such a short time. I'm sorry to be such a drip. Give my abject apologies to the Count and Countess."
"If you don't feel well, you don't feel well. Don't apologize. Do you think you're coming down with something? I could send our personal physician round."
"I don't know. I hope not, not now! It mostly seems to be a headache." She bit her lip. "I don't think I have a fever."