But he was right that making assumptions wasn’t wise. She’d learned that through unfortunate experience. She’dassumedhis solicitous demeanor and gallantry meant he liked her.
Another gust of wind rattled through the conveyance, and Amity hugged herself. “I wonder how much longer till we get to Artisan’s Loft.”
“Assuming we maintain our present rate of speed, about another hour,” Marshall said.
“You can’t possibly tell how fast we’re going,” she countered.
“I don’t have to. I know how long we’ve been traveling, and I spotted a distance marker.”
“Well, aren’t you the observant one?”
Her butt couldn’t wait to get out of the vehicle, but she did not look forward to reaching Artisan’s Loft and being alone with Marshall.It’s going to be a long year.
Chapter Two
It’s going to be a long year.
While his new wife said goodbye to her friend, Marshall retreated into their assigned cabin.
Oh, you’re kidding me.He dropped their duffels, and with dismay took in their new digs. Having been promised a “private domicile” byLucento, the silver alien who oversaw Artisan’s Loft, Marshall had expected more—like more than one room.
He’d get no privacy or relief here. Only slightly larger than his quarters in the Dark Ops HQ bunker, the single-room cabin afforded them no place to get away from each other unless one of them hid out in the closet-sized lavatory he spied through an open sliding door.
Worse, they had only one bed. No sofa. The only other furniture was a wooden table with two chairs and an ugly stove monstrosity that burned dried horniger shit. “Herb cakes,” Lucento had euphemistically referred to them. There was a bin of them on the porch. The planet was overcast most of the time, so, to conserve the solar batteries, people burned herb cakes for heat, the alien overseer had explained. Marshall also had learned Refuge enjoyed two seasons—cold and frigid.
Kind of like his bride’s personality. The sweet, pleasant woman with the ready smile had morphed into a sharp-tongued termagant. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear a clone of the woman he’d met in Willow Wood had been substituted for his wife. She acted like he’d done her a disservice rather than a favor by marrying her.
Circumstances weren’t ideal, but when were they ever?Hehadn’t put her in Dark Ops’ crosshairs—that had been Bragg’s doing. His pursuit of Faith could have blown the lid off the cloneprogram. Marshall had wooed Amity under false pretenses, but he’d been trying to clean up the mess to prevent them all from ending up in the brig. He genuinely had liked her—at least the woman she was then.
Nobody had forced her to marry him. Shecouldhave hidden out on Terra Nova or Earth until a Cosmic Mates match came through, and then moved to some alien’s planet. That would have put her out of reach of Dark Ops. Instead, she’dchosento accompany Faith to Refuge.
It wasn’t his fault her asylum request had been denied.
All things considered, his marriage offer had been rather magnanimous. Shouldn’t she be a little grateful?
If she’d had limited options, he’d had even fewer.
Beatings will continue until morale improves.
Perhaps realizing the agency had a “morale problem,” Dark Ops had been tightening the screws, beefing up monitoring and limiting freedoms to prevent desertions. Just before Bragg had been “born,” the agency had begun inserting tracking devices in all its clones.
Breaking free had been now or never. If Marshall hadn’t taken this chance to run, he wouldn’t have gotten another. He shouldn’t feel guilty.
Except, he did.
But not for the reasons Amity might assume.
A draft of cold air swept into the cabin as she entered.
“This is it?” She gasped, her dismayed gaze riveting on the lone bed.
“’Fraid so,wife.”
Her sour expression gave the impression she’d pulled a nasty retort from her quiver of ready insults and was nocking it into her bow, but she pressed her lips together, strode to the lavatory, and peered inside. “At least we have indoor plumbing.”
Hands on her hips, she took inventory of the meager furnishings. “The table and chairs look handmade.”
He’d reached the same conclusion about the rough-hewn wooden furniture held together by dowels instead of screws or nails. “I imagine this is the kind of stuff I’ll be building,” he said. Lucento had informed them he’d assigned him to the woodworking shop.
