Heart Duel (18 page)

His mind brushed against hers, like a large hand sliding down her back, soothing her. She remembered he'd touched her like that, comforting. It eased her.

Then she felt the intensity of his thoughts, the leap and twist of his Flair. A whiff of fresh herbs wafted through the kitchen, but was overpowered by the scent of the roses. When Lark looked at the carpet, the stain was gone.

Holm lifted his head, and when his eyes met hers, they were steel-gray and serious. “I'll take that,” he said, picking up the tray. “Why don't you get the drinks?”

She'd automatically pulled two cylinders of cold milk from the no-time, and they stood on the counter.

Now his eyes were gentle as was the curve of his lips. “We don't have to talk about my fighting, Bélla, not now. I know it's a large problem between us. It can wait a while.” His eyes darkened. “But we do have to talk about other things: this morning, my actions and your reaction, and I'll apologize again. This evening and the ball, and how we will be together.”

“I don't think—”

“I don't think you're a coward, Bélla. We have concerns between us that need to be discussed.” Carrying the tray, he went into the mainspace.

Lark watched as his body filled the doorway from the kitchen to the mainspace, then as he went to the sofa—the long, wide red sofa that they'd rolled on together in passion.

“I said I was a reasonable man, Bélla, not a patient one.” His smile quirked lopsidedly, and he held out a hand.

Eleven

He set the tray to hover by the sofa. That offered hand was
becoming like an endearment between them. Despite all inner warnings, she found herself placing her hand in his. Immediately the mind-bond between them strengthened. The circuit of energy between them snapped shut, and Lark rocked back on her heels at the strength of it.

Taking advantage of her momentary confusion, Holm drew her to him, then settled her down on the couch beside him and moved the large tray to cover both their laps.

“Very smooth,” Lark said, when her voice returned, still feeling the buzz of cycling vitality, trying to simply control it and move on with common actions. His mind felt as close to her as his body, outside surfaces touching. Warmth and strength and sheer vigor emanated from him, impinging on the atmosphere around her and fizzing through their bond. “I had anticipated putting the tray between us.”

“Now, Bélla, what made you think I'd allow anything to come between us on this sofa?” He patted the red leather. “I have very fond memories of this sofa, with only a few clothes between us, as now.” He nudged her knees with his own, causing the milk to slosh in the cylinders she'd just put on the tray.

“And”—he grinned, taking a large bite of berry tart and licking his lips as efficiently as Phyll—“I anticipate having other, even better memories of this sofa in the future.” He grinned at her, shameless and charming and amused at both himself and her. The pure joy of life and humor circled from him to her.

Lark decided to ignore his grin and his comment and eat. She closed her eyes as she savored the cocoa mousse in the light cinnamon-dusted pastry horn. “Who made this wonderful treat?”

Holm's wicked chuckle had her eyelids flying open. “A younger son of D'Honey became the T'Holly chef. He has a minimal amount of Flair, can only work the spells common to all Celtans, so his Family didn't value him. They overlooked his other skills, and now he's been adopted into our Family.” Holm leaned back and watched her. “He's not a bad hand with a short-sword, either.”

The casual reference to fighting made her stiffen. Lark sensed he watched her reaction, and felt her withdrawal. He frowned.

Two polite mews came from the kitchen doorway. Two orange-and-cream kittens stood, tails identically crooked. One stared out from wary green eyes, the other from lazy blue. The blue-eyed cat was fatter.

Human talk,
Phyll concluded.
Boring. We will go play in the bedroom.
He trotted away.

Meserv swept a stray sprig of green from his muzzle with a tiny pink tongue and burped. He followed his brother.
Or We will sleep.

With a Word, Holm cleaned his fingers. He slipped his arm around her waist. “Now, my dear one, my Bélla. We will talk.”

His gray eyes remained steel-serious. His fingers stroked the nap of her velvet robe, and she perceived the pleasure he took from its texture and the flesh beneath. She became aware she was naked beneath the robe.

“I'm sorry I trespassed on your privacy this morning.”

“It's my restday, I wanted to sleep in,” Lark mumbled, setting the pastry down. The shadow of nightmares loomed in the back of her mind. She wished that her night had been like previous ones, tossing and turning because of Holm Holly.

“What's this?” With his free hand Holm nudged her chin up. “You had nightmares?” He frowned as if trying to grasp the wisps of recollection ghosting through her mind.

“That's right. Of fighting. You are in a feud with my Family, if you recall. Your brother, your cuz, and you were in a street fight just a few days ago.” She pushed his hand away, tried to stand, but he pulled her closer. Though she felt his intention to comfort, it wasn't what she wanted. “Let me go!” She backed it with a snap in her thoughts.

He released her immediately, frowning. “When you speak in that tone, when your thoughts go flash-white, you can't bear restriction,” he said, puzzling it out. “It was like that this morning. My knowing your scry locale bruised a tender spot. Some place within you that is hurt and angry.”

She walked stiffly away from him and tried to close shields down against him. With effort, he kept a golden stream of emotion and thought connecting them.

“No, Bélla,” he said. The light from the tall, arched windows behind the sofa highlighted the sculpted bones of his face. He looked noble and powerful, yet something about the elegance of his bearing, his concentration on her, caught at her heart.

“No,” he repeated. “You choose. Keep the mental-emotional link between us open and our bodies physically apart, or sit next to me, my arm around you, and the link shut. One or the other.”

She scowled at him, but heard the adamant in his words. One or the other. Her body chose for her. She was accustomed to linking with others to practice her profession, but she was all too needy for human touch. Even Trif, an affectionate person, had taken Lark's unspoken and cool manner at face value, and hugged her only occasionally. She walked back to the couch as if under a spell, fascinated by the line of his shoulders, the clean muscularity of his torso. His darkening eyes held hers, even as he teleported the tray to the kitchen, where she heard it click onto the counter.

When she sat, it was facing him. With one hand, he brushed her hair from her face, his fingers on her cheek infinitely gentle.

He bent and kissed her. The need that spiraled from him held a tide of pure lust. She cut the link.

Holm drew back, cheeks flushed, eyes dilated, and breath ragged. She knew if she looked down at his lap, she'd see his shaft hard in his trous. His arousal had quickened with a speed and urgency that surprised her.

“You distract me far too easily,” Holm smiled, the genuine smile that pleased her more than all his practiced, charming ones. Not bothering to hide his trembling fingers, which beguiled her still more, he traced her closed lips.

“Your thoughts are soft now,” he said.

Lark realized that somehow there was still a tie, something barely there on the unconscious level, something she'd never known before. And Holm distracted
her
. She couldn't think or analyze it right now, when he looked as if she might taste better than his berry tart.

He shoved himself back on the sofa, the depth of it accommodating the long muscles of his thighs, and he clasped one of her hands within his own.

“When your mind reaches flash-white you will not be held or bound by thought or hand—or reason? Why is that?” He played with her fingers, as if the action made him think better. “It sparks a hurt and angry reaction. Let's see. What did you say this morning?” He fell silent.

“Holm, it's nothing to discuss or worry about. This situation is hopeless,” she said, trying to convince herself.

He shot her a stern look. “This ‘situation' is not going away, Bélla. It is real, it is here and now, and it will continue. You must think I'm a fool if you believe I will walk away from such a strong bond between us. You're—” He stopped his own words by pressing her fingers to his mouth. The tip of his tongue tasted her. She tried to wiggle her fingers away.

“None of that,” he said. “We had a bargain, physical or emotional-mental contact. Earlier this morning, you said: 'I don't like Nobles who think that laws, and even common rules of courtesy, don't apply to them. It's the Noble class's most serious and dangerous flaw. It lacks respect.'”

Hearing the truthful bitterness of her own words made her flinch.

“You see”—Holm squeezed her hand—“a physical reaction of pain.”

Her lips pressed together in anger. “You are a very powerful Noble. You have great Flair and rank and gilt. Most people with great Flair and rank and gilt do not think of the laws as applying to them.”

“People like you, Bélla? You have great Flair and rank and gilt.”

“I consider myself a commoner.”

“No! You are the only daughter of a FirstFamilies GreatHouse. That's the blood running through your veins, that's the gene pool you come from. Your husband was born Downwind but rose above his disadvantages.”

She wanted to move from the couch, stand up and pace. She tugged at her hand. He held on tight.

“Physical or emotional-mental, Bélla.”

Giving him a scathing glance, she opened the turmoil of her emotions to him and leapt to her feet. He wanted contact with her, did he? She waited for him to recoil. Nothing happened. Curiosity replaced a little of her anger.

After a few seconds, the hint of a smile curved his mouth. “Strong, turbulent emotions are standard amongst the Hollys, Bélla.”

She hissed.

His smile broadened. “You sound like Meserv or Phyll.” Holm inserted a lilting, hypnotic note into his voice; the same effect swirled through their tenuous bond. “Now, tell me why you cannot bear to be held or restrained at moments.”

“I had a very restricted childhood.”

Holm raised an eyebrow. “And? There is more.”

“Since I had no HeartMate, I was expected to marry at T'Hawthorn's orders.”

“You chose someone else.” A rough note had entered his voice, and a thread of pain twisted through his thoughts.

“I chose Ethyn. My father raged and stormed and threatened. He was furious. I broke off relations with T'Hawthorns.”

“You had T'Heathers.”

Lark assayed a small smile. “They're a FirstFamily, also. They disapproved. No one respected my choice or respected
me
enough to understand and welcome Ethyn.”

“Everyone tried to bind you to their will.” Holm frowned as if trying to sort her emotions out.

“I was still a journeyman Healer, in my last year. Being a potential FirstLevel, my Masters loaded me down with work and timeschedules and examinations. . . .”

“So you fought free of one cage, but had to abide with the other if you wished to fulfil the potential of your Flair.”

His emotions now cushioned her own, bolsters she could rest on, strength she could rely on.

She made an abrupt gesture. “Life was hectic, but manageable and satisfying.”

His head lifted as if he'd caught the whiff of something. She felt a gentle probe and let it disappear into her emotional storm. Yet his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to judge the relationship between her and Ethyn and weigh it with that between himself and her. She hurried on with her story.

“When I lived with Ethyn as a commoner, as students in a shabby part of Druida, I saw how far above the rest of the people the Nobles are—”

“Seemed,”
corrected Holm.

She turned a puzzled face to him.

“We're human and have the same emotions as everyone else.”

She gave a ladylike snort. “You cannot understand how your great Flair and rank and wealth and power isolate you from reality.” Her lips pinched a moment. “Then Ethyn died in a stupid street fight, trying to help Nobles who wanted nothing of him. Helping men who hadn't prevailed against odds to win laurels as he did, but took all that came their way, even the death of a Healer in their fight, as merely their due.” She shook. “When someone flouts the laws at my expense and for their own profit, I'm infuriated. I don't put up with it. I am a FirstLevel Healer and powerful enough in Flair that I can win my way when I want.”