Heart Duel (19 page)

Lark laughed shortly. “Except with my father. When I'm with him, I revert to the child. I can barely hold my own against his will.” Her mouth turned down. “I can only hold my own by distancing myself. And he will never change, never value my wishes. He will always seek to manipulate and intimidate me into his mold. I don't wish to live where I will never gain the respect I'm due.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “That's why I applied for the Gael City HealingHall.”

“Bélla—”

She rounded on him. “Then you stroll into my life and believe I should give you anything you want.”

“It's not that way! There's a bond between us.” He rose to keep pace with her, striding up and down the mainspace with her, not touching her, only keeping the bond steady. “I'm sorry I scried and vized without formally getting your number from you. I thought only of contacting you, of being here with you, of renewing our bond. When I asked T'Holly ResidenceLibrary for your scry locale, I didn't ask if it was coded. That is my fault, and I apologize for invading your privacy. I respect and value you, no one more!”

She didn't believe him. Scowling, she pointed her finger at him. “And you, Holm Holly, HollyHeir of the GreatHouse Holly, of the FirstFamilies”—she almost mocked him as she recited his rank—“have you never failed to receive what you wanted?”

Holm stared at her incredulously. Anger flickered in his eyes. He shook his head. “You seem to have forgotten that my brother Tinne and I were stranded in the harshest landscape on this continent. It took more than an eightday to trek to the nearest town, then make it back to Druida. It wasn't an easy journey, I assure you. Luck was with us and we survived.”

Though he didn't project them, Lark received emotions and images—the smallness of the lifepod, the horror of his brother and himself as they catapulted through the sky, orbited the planet, then plummeted down.

His voice grew softer. “I've experienced the cold, hunger, thirst and lack of shelter that Ethyn might have known.”

Lark saw it all. Holm and Tinne in shock and abandoned near the foot of the 241 mountain range, already winter when Druida was still late autumn. Sleeping together on a featureless plain, shivering, trying to conserve warmth and life. Trudging through the rugged landscape, battered by the screaming mollyck wind that insinuated defeat into their minds if they didn't keep their shields up, melting snow to slake their thirst.

Then a horrible misstep as Tinne fell into the Great Washington Boghole—something especially hurtful edged that memory, flashing by before she could analyze it. She only knew it had changed both brothers and their relationship.

Holm's words interlaced the pictures. “I've also endured the fear that I might never see my home and Family again, the knowledge my Mamá and father would be sick with worry and grief.”

She knew that had been the worst. The spending of Flair by each of them and both linked, trying to contact their kin, frustrated by the mollyck, until they were exhausted and in worse shape than before.

“I've known leeches from the boghole, animal attacks. Tinne and I gave exhibitions of fighting for meals and supplies at an outpost or two between Lake Meraj and Ragge Town. If we hadn't been who we were, Hollys and carrying more than one weapon apiece, we wouldn't have survived.”

The trip came to her in flashes—dark smelly camps of men where they provided entertainment, hiring out as guards for a merchant from Ragge Town to Tory Town, haggling and pawning their daggers to convince a freighter airship to fly them to Druida.

He fell silent and Lark sifted through her own memories of the day they'd arrived back in Druida. A day that would never be forgotten in Celtan history, House histories, or those who lived through it.

She'd been called to Heal that horrible day when a Fire-Bombspell swept the Council Chamber, a spell that consumed flesh and couldn't be stopped. Though she'd focused on minimizing the deaths, draining her Flair recklessly to save and Heal, she vaguely remembered a pair of shabby men who'd helped carry the wounded, lay out the dead. Holm and Tinne Holly.

Holm gasped. For a moment they both remembered the slaughter in odd, disjointed images from different angles; the carnage, the smell of burnt flesh and urine and blood and death. The helplessness to stop the plague. Grief.

They had shared that experience.

Lark covered her face with her hands. Holm led her back to the sofa to sit within the circle of his arms. “I'm sorry.” Her voice came out muffled.

“You had cause to reproach me,” he said. “Both before and after that little expedition I've been as arrogant and complacent as you accused. From now on, you'll scold me and remind me of my flaws, but you'll also know that I, too, have experienced deprivation. Adversity did me a deal of good.”

Lark felt his large hands on her shoulders, then they inched down, slow and caressing, to her elbows and up to her hands. He lifted her palms from her face without much effort.

“Your emotions are not flash-white. I can hold you, and comfort you and—”

An appointment globe appeared. “HollyHeir reminder. Quarter-septhour notice. The five new cuzes have been welcomed to the Residence and chosen rooms. Your first session as Master for intermediate training is due to start in Sparring Room Two in quarter septhour: lessons in coordinating defensive sparring and unusual techniques.” It clicked a bit. “After the training, you are allotted a septhour to refresh and review the legal affairs of the House before your quarterly meeting with Legal Adviser T'Yarrow.” With a flash the sphere disappeared. Holm winced. “I hate that thing.”

Lark smiled. “You have a busy day.”

“An appointment with T'Yarrow,” Holm grumbled. “Guaranteed to last all afternoon.”

“An Heir's duty,” Lark said.

He snorted. “Only because Father argued with T'Yarrow, and used that as an excuse to hand over the dry stuff to me.”

Rising, Lark opened the door for him. He stood slowly, his steps to her equally leisurely. When he reached her, he shut the door and framed her face with his hands. The bond between them tugged, vibrated, as he tested it.

“You can feel that, can't you, even though we aren't consciously linked? It's not something I've ever had with anyone else, with
anyone
else, and I'm not going to walk away from it. I want to test that bond. Experiment,” he whispered as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Even before his lips touched hers, her heart hammered hard in her chest, anticipating the swirl of feeling that would envelope her. The desire to be with this man in every way could become an addiction. She'd have to be careful. Then his mouth closed over hers, caressing, and her mind fogged. His lips opened hers, his tongue sliding against hers, probing. She shut her eyes. The taste of him was all that was masculine and vital, another thing that could become addicting.

He groaned and his hands glided down to pull her hips against his rigid flesh. She moaned at the feel of him, reminding her that she was a woman and the intimacies of passion she could share with him.

His hands squeezed her hips a final time and he tore himself away from her. When she opened her eyelids and her glance met his, the light of desire turned his eyes silver.

“I must go.” His voice was thick. “It's a good thing I have five young men who'll work the tension from me.” He wrinkled his nose. “Sparring Room Two, it's only slightly less scented with sweat than the others. Meserv,” he called.

The kitten ambled from the bedroom.

Holm stooped and picked his Fam up. Holm's index finger stroked the top of the kitten's head and Meserv purred. “Petting Meserv also helps to keep me sane. Still, this breakfast was worth my suffering.”

His stare pinned her as she stood, the current between them charged with sparking energy. “You know that however complicated this situation is around us, I will not be deterred in seeing you. You know that the attraction between us is more than simple lust, there is the bond. You have accepted me into your life.” He dipped his head in courtesy. “That is great progress. Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” Lark echoed, still shaken from the force of the truths he'd just spoken. Before she could think to say anything else, he disappeared.

For a moment, Lark considered returning to bed, but knew it would be futile. As she tidied up the mainspace and kitchen, she thought of the gifts he'd given her that morning: fabulous music, exquisite pastry, a minor spell, spine-tingling kisses, soft caresses, a strong link she could rely upon. He'd listened and tried to understand her, then given her the most important gift of all, acceptance of her feelings and herself
as
herself. Respect.

During his recital of his trek she'd sensed the hurt—a pain like the sore mass of spasmed muscle. It centered around Holm and his brother and the Great Washington Boghole. She could help there, if she dared and he allowed. She knew enough about Holm by now to understand that some things he'd push to the back of his mind and expect them to vanish or resolve themselves without effort. If they were together, she could help him Heal that hurt—

Her hands twitched as her blood still hummed with the energy they'd raised between them. She couldn't sit at home and rest, but walking the beach would only remind her of Holm. There was only one thing to be done—she'd go to T'Horehound's garden and practice her primary creative skill, and make a gift for Holm.

Twelve

A few moments later Lark wandered in T'Horehound's
huge estate garden, nerves calming. She'd chosen to live at MidClass Lodge for the large courtyard garden, but after a few months, she'd been frustrated at the lack of floral variety she needed for her art. She'd approached T'Horehound, a close friend of Culpeper, and T'Horehound had graciously given her leave to use his garden. She hadn't been there since the start of summer and wondered why she'd been so overcome by work that she couldn't take the pleasure of simply rambling the paths.

Now she studied the plants with an eye toward her craft, a basket on her arm. Even as she touched one plant, then another, testing the fragrance they left on her fingers, Lark called herself a fool. Getting involved with Holm Holly was stupid, foolish, idiotic.

Then she reassured herself. She might be able to get away with a passionate affair with Holm Holly. A
short
lusty fling. If she was very, very discreet, her father would never find out and use the knowledge against her.

She heard kitten whufflings and saw Phyll leap from a leafy bush to attack a stray twig on the path. Flipping it into the air, he let it fall and pounced again, tossing it, pouncing, catching it in his claws, and finally chewing it.

Wistfully she plucked a strand of flamingbells and carried it to her nose, inhaling the scent that reminded her of Holm's. Perhaps she could indulge herself this once, without thought of Family, or Family interference. Her father would intervene, completely, finally, and even fatally, if he found out she bedded Holm Holly.

She placed stems in her wide basket and continued on, choosing blooms and requesting the plant's permission to pick, then gently severing the flower, and in thanks saying a simple spell to Heal the plant and send it energy to grow.

By the time she reached the work arbor, she'd convinced herself that the foolish act would be ignoring Holm's offer and turning him away. No woman in her right mind would refuse sex with Holm Holly. She grinned. From all accounts, he was perfect in bed—at least that had been the rumor for years. Just thinking about rolling around on bedsheets with him made a low ache settle in her core and her blood simmer.

Yes, keeping their association on a quick, physical basis would be just the thing. She dismissed the fact that with touching of minds, with simply speaking to each other of weighty matters, they had passed the point of being simple bedmates.

As for making this gift for him, it wasn't truly a gift—more like a test. Would the fighting Holly accept a floral headpiece from her? Would he wear it?

She had no doubt he was solid in his own masculinity and self-worth. The only real question was whether he'd accept such a personal gift from her, a gift made with her own hands for him alone. Would that be more than what he might want from her? It was a risk.

She smiled again as she recalled their last kiss. No, he wanted more. He yearned for ecstasy, just as she did. Surely something so hot and tempestuous would flame high, then burn itself out. It couldn't possibly last. It would be secret.

That sent an additional thrill through her. A secret. Something for herself alone, shared only with him. If she was careful, she could even keep Trif guessing.