Heart Duel (20 page)

How delicious. A forbidden affair. Something else to give spice to the idea. A secret, forbidden, flaming fling. The words made her lips curve further and her fingers fly in crafting the wreath, intertwining the stems, angling and showcasing certain blossoms, and the cluster of Holly leaves that meant “foresight” in the language of flowers. As much as she needed foresight, she didn't seem to be able to act on reason.

She pulled silver seagem beads from her tunic pocket and threaded them through the whole, then stepped back and admired the effect. Almost perfect—just a twitch or two here and there . . .

“Perfect,” a cool voice said from behind her, “as always. You have a true gift, my dear.”

Lark turned to see T'Horehound standing in a shaft of sunlight, holding a quietly purring Phyll. A tall man with gray hair, his body was almost attenuated in its thinness. He wore a long simple robe the same green as his plants.

“Greetyou, T'Horehound,” Lark said. “Thank you, as always, for letting me use your garden.” She reached out and corrected a drooping alstroemeria.

A smile touched his mobile lips. “And I thank you for your thanks.” He nodded toward the flowers on the worktable that she'd culled from her pickings for T'Horehound's own wreath.

He looked at her wreath and sighed. “I see that it is no use in continuing our standard conversation with a request that you wed me, or my Heir, or my Heir's Son. You have found another mate, again and at last.”

Lark blinked and frowned in confusion.

T'Horehound gestured to the wreath for Holm. “Look at the flowers you wove for him, my dear Lark. They include two-hearts, deep red carnations, blue violets.”

She stared, noticing her choices, now. Blood drained from her face and hands, making her fingers clumsy, then still. “No,” she whispered. “No. It cannot be any more than a simple romp.”

T'Horehound lifted his thin gray eyebrows. “My dear Lark, you are not the woman for a simple romp. I know it. You know it.” He indicated the headpiece again. “I'm sure he knows it.”

The GrandLord's brows lowered in concentration. “He must. The style you have woven is for a Nobleman, of taste and elegance. A passionate man. A man of honor who will not bruise something as fragile as these blooms or your heart.” T'Horehound raised his eyes to meet hers.

Lark stuck her bottom lip out and jutted her chin. “I could be a woman for a quick tumble. If I wanted.”

He smiled, showing even teeth, then shook his head.

She lifted her chin one centimeter more. “I could. That's what I want.”

T'Horehound's laugh matched Phyll's cat-chuckle.

Lark grabbed the rest of the flowers and started weaving them efficiently, almost automatically.

“Another thing,” T'Horehound said, rubbing the side of Phyll's muzzle. “If you have any influence with D'Ash, my dear, I would like you to put in a word for me. I wish for one of these.” He lifted Phyll and examined him as if he were an infinitely amusing and precious object.

“I'm sorry,” Lark said. “I received him from young Vinni—T'Vine.”

A shiver coursed down T'Horehound's long body. “Thank you, no. No need to mention my whim to that boy. I would rather not meet him.” T'Horehound lowered Phyll to his paws. Her Fam gamboled over to her.

T'Horehound studied her for a moment, then smiled sadly. “I will leave you to your work, my dear. Merry meet.”

“And merry part,” Lark said.

“And merry meet again,” T'Horehound said, strolling down a stone path bordered by weeping sylvias and soon lost from view.

Lark finished her offering for T'Horehound, then scowled at her wreath for Holm. Ruthlessly she plucked the ferns and flowers signifying love—almost a HeartMate love, and she knew she had no HeartMate—from the circle and set them aside to weave a small headpiece for one of the T'Horehound children.

Now she prowled the garden, studying and selecting blooms that spoke of desire and passion and brevity, and not of eternal love. She mixed anemone and asparagus fern—expectation and fascination, added An'Alcha and yellow iris for passion, jasmine for sensuality, poppies for evanescent pleasure. Around it all, she inserted fluffy and fragile celtan momentaryflora. The flower she used the most was different-colored tuberoses—dangerous passion—as a warning for herself.

Bel rose high and wafted heavy scents of the garden to Lark as she worked, creating three other wreaths besides the one for Holm. The pure pleasure of the mingled fragrance satisfied her since she'd been breathing roses for days. Her fingers slowed and her eyelids drooped until she finally halted. When she stood back to admire her offerings, she smiled. They never matched her perfect vision, but sometimes letting her hands work unconsciously provided interesting and appealing results.

Before she could think better of it, she sent the wreath to Holm—a challenge, a test, and a message.

 
 
At the desk in his sitting room, Holm breathed deeply of the
incense he'd commissioned and just received. When he'd contracted for it, he'd told D'Ivy that he wanted a scent for self-control. She had blinked, then made some comment on the spiraling feud with T'Hawthorn and the ever impulsive character of the Hollys. Holm was sure the stuff would work just as well for sexual self-control. As he caught the smell of sage, overwhelming the plantain and echinacea, he repeated his now well-known mantra and tried to sink deeper into meditation.

Half a septhour earlier he'd finished individually tutoring his cuzes in advanced swordplay. The group included Eryngi, now back to normal after his great Healing, cracking fewer jokes and paying more attention to his footwork.

Spread on Holm's desk were new annotations for their wills from T'Holly, Tinne, and Tab. Holm was to review and seal them as a witness and give the documents to T'Yarrow.

Just looking at them made his jaw clench and teeth hurt. His heart beat in a heavy rhythm. One slip of the foot, one moment's inattention, and any one of them could be dead. How could he keep his father, brother, and uncle safe? How could he save them? He didn't want to fail in this, too.

His fingers stroked his favorite bauble, a baroque pearl, and he thought of Bélla. Was she dreaming her own dreams or had his nightmares impinged on her through their connection? Dreams of fighting and the feud, she'd said. His lips thinned. They'd been her own dreams last night. His had been of failure.

When he'd awakened in the Great Labyrinth
again
in the deep of night he'd been trying to save Tinne from suffocating in the boghole, sinking himself—and had failed, as a brother and as HollyHeir.

Before that awful dream had been one about the first time he'd nightported. There'd only been that one small episode in his life, when his Aunt Leea and his Blackthorn cuzes had succumbed to the deadly virus and he'd been so devastated he'd sleep-ported to their estate. The estate that stank of corruption and death. A Healer had 'ported him to his parents' suite with instructions for grief treatment. The rest of the winter he'd spent hours with a mind-Healer.

Now he'd be HeartBound to one of the greatest Healers on Celta. She'd probe at those dreams if he let her. But he didn't want her to know of his imperfections and failures. The long walk out of the labyrinth hadn't yet calmed his mind, taught him how to reach the still central core of himself. He shook his head. A
minor
issue, especially compared to winning the feud and wooing his HeartMate.

Finally his glance focused on the wills. He wanted to set them flaming with a twitch of his finger—denying the possibility of death. Instead he scanned the papyrus and made notations of the changes, sent copies to the ResidenceLibrary and to a sealed file in the Guildhall.

The incense and the soft gleam of his pearl worked on him. He cheered a little. He'd definitely made progress this morning with Bélla.

A knock came, and his Mamá cracked open the door and peered inside. When Holm met her glance, she smiled and traipsed in.

Holm pushed the smoking brass incense burner to one side. “You looked pleased.”

“I am. Work went wonderfully well.” Her dimples flashed. “The muse gifted me last night and today with several compositions. I'm ahead of my commissions and will be dropping them off this afternoon. It's a beautiful day for walking. I saw you training with our cuzes outside.”

She scanned his rooms. “Though it's quite comfortable here. You've furnished your suite with elegance and style, I hadn't noticed.” She sighed. “And not to your father's taste.”

“They are my rooms.”

“Of course, and I'm glad you have your new conservatory. That was well done of T'Holly.”

She came and stood next to his chair, ran her fingers through his hair, as she'd done so often when he was a boy. “I'm afraid I was wool-gathering last night during dinner, and not paying you as much attention as I should.”

She hadn't been as sharp and quick with questions as usual, and he'd been grateful. He took her free hand and lifted it to his lips. “You are the Holly's treasure. You give us joy, and we're glad you practice your art among us. We prize your music and creativity.” Why did smooth words flow from his mouth for every woman except his Bélla?

Passiflora patted his cheek. “All my men make me feel cherished.” Holding his gaze, she spoke: “I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. How fine a person you are. You are my son, and a man, and soon to give your heart over to another woman. It's a moment that must be recognized.”

Holm put his hands over hers. “Thank you, Mamá.”

She shook her head in wonder. “Where did the years go? It seemed just yesterday your father was asking me for a dance.” She began to hum an ancient waltz. “We wed an eightday later. You should be able to do the same.” She tilted her head, looking at him. “I know my sons. I think you worry overmuch.”

The knowledge of the rough days ahead took a bit of the shine off her words of praise. He
didn't
worry overmuch.

Passiflora rested her hand on his shoulder. “You will find that each time you meet with your HeartMate, the link between you will grow stronger. Even before the ultimate consummation of the HeartBond, she will be with you.”

She touched her breast. “Your Father was like a song in my heart.” She chuckled again. “And in my head. I
heard
him, the rhythm of his thoughts ran as an undertone to mine when we were courting.” Now she placed both hands on his shoulders. “From the evidence on your throat, you must have met your lady enough times for that to have developed. Rest your head against the back of your chair. Shut your eyes. Relax. And
listen.
”

Holm did as she bid. First he became aware of the light beyond his eyelids, golden spellballs that softly lit his sitting room. He dismissed that sight and concentrated on the exact hue of black of his love's hair, the violet of her eyes. Next came the lingering scent of the incense he'd been burning and his mother's familiar apple fragrance. He shut that away, and when he inhaled he thought of hawthorn blossoms instead. His fingers rested lightly on his desk blotter and the thick suede feel changed to the commoncloth trous-suits his Healer wore. He wanted to dress her in the most expensive of silkeens.

Finally he sank into the image of her, how she looked, laughing, on the beach, and the link between them. He strengthened that bond, visualizing it as deep purple and green intertwining, then changing from House colors to silver, then gold. The connection pulsed with the energy and the life that circled between them. With every pulse a whisper came to him, then a beat, then a flow of not-quite-melody, something like the humming of his own thoughts mingled with notes of birdsong, and finally the ancient cadence of the ocean and the heart. His Bélla was a Healer, her lifeforce beat in the same meter as a human heart, the same song.

“Ahhh,” said Passiflora, and broke the spell.

Holm opened his eyes and she took her hands from her shoulders. “You see?” she said. “You are bonded and can sense her even now.”

His mother blinked rapidly, sniffed. “My son will soon wed.” She sniffed again. “It is good.”

When she looked at him, tears dewed her eyes. Again she touched his hair. “Silvergilt hair, the Holly legacy. It looks just as good on you and Tinne as on your Father.”

“But we are better looking. Finer features—your genes helped out there.”

She laughed and shook her head again. “The Hollys have always been wildly handsome and irresistible, each generation, in their own way.” She tugged lightly at his hair, then dropped her hand, to bend down and lightly kiss his cheek. “My Blessing upon you and your HeartMate, son Holm.”

He inclined his head, his chest tight. “Thank you, Mamá.”

With one last smile, she danced from the room.

Holm's lips were still curved when his personal chime sounded. “A private and confidential delivery for T'HollyHeir,” a low, incredibly sexy voice said.

Holm's smile widened as he heard the seductive voice of his announcement. It was the first time in a long time that he actually noticed the voice he'd bespelled for his rooms as an adolescent. The voice belonged to his first lover. Now his smile turned reminiscent. An older woman, she'd been patient, demanding, and inventive. He'd chosen well.

The chime and voice came again, pulling Holm from nostalgia. “Personal acceptance is required for the delivery to remain,” it added. The unusual stipulation snagged Holm's interest.

“Who's it from?”

A small pause followed. “To release such information, the delivery spell has requested I verify your personal password and your voice print.”