Heart Duel (30 page)

But he needed to see Lark, and he must be calm about it. He'd lure her, tempt her, ensure she renewed her mark on him. He could live without her minute by minute if he felt the bruise on his throat, saw it in the mirror, had others tease him about it.

He wanted to grab her and run to T'Holly Residence, throw her on the bed, and forget about everything but loving her for months. All his muscles tensed at the images that flowed into his brain and set his blood to sizzling. That's what he wanted. But a HollyHeir couldn't do such rash things that would endanger the House.

His skin felt tight, his sinews hummed with a fine tension.

The door opened behind him, and her essence wafted in to envelop him. The tie between them looped around his heart, encasing it, wholly hers.

When he saw her, the hit he took dazed him. How could he have thought he could forsake her? He sank into his physically balanced stance. “Come to me.”

Her eyes were huge and wide, with shadows under them. He held out a hand. “Come to me.” None of the facile, pretty phrases he'd used with other women came to mind, ready to fall honey sweet from his lips. He tried. “You are so beautiful. Inside and out.” He wanted to tell her what she meant to him, but he could only say with a dry mouth, “Come to me.”

She hadn't moved a step, let alone within reach of his fingers. The gap between them seemed infinite. He couldn't move. Something in her eyes—weariness, unhappiness—kept him frozen. No smooth moves or charming words with this woman. “I need you,” he croaked.

Lark stared at Holm. She couldn't help it. She hadn't understood she'd been starved for the sight of him. Passion bloomed in her core, loosening the muscles in her body. She noted distantly that her breathing had quickened and her pulse throbbed in her temple.

A fierce aura surrounded him. When a patient felt intensely, she could see their aura. She blinked. He
did
need her. She sensed his hunger, mental and emotional as well as physical. He'd always radiated strength and vitality. Now she observed desperation and despair.

Her body reacted to his. Her nostrils widened to breathe in his scent, her skin tingled as she recalled the skim of his hands down her. Insidious desire diffused into her bloodstream, causing a liquid heat within her.

She looked at his hand, and it trembled.

“This is madness,” she said.

That broke the spell between them. He strode to her and swept her into his embrace, enveloping her with strong arms, pressing her close to his hard body, dropping butterfly kisses on her face. He lifted her until their mouths were even. As she gasped, his tongue surged into her mouth. The bond sprang between them. His desire enfolded her, transferred from his body and his emotions through their bond, demanding she reject thought and only
feel.

With one last effort, she pulled her lips from the pressure of his. “I can't.”

She tipped back her head and his dark gray eyes, flecked with silver, captured her.

Need.
It pulsed from him to her, a craving so deep and powerful she couldn't deny it. She brought her legs around his waist and settled the aching place between her thighs against his rigid sex. She couldn't tell who moaned. She didn't know who whispered the Word that removed their clothes. Only the fact that they were tangled on the twoseat, his hands on her breasts, sending licks of hot sensation to her core mattered. Only the feel of pliant skin over tough muscle under her fingers mattered. Only the starkness of his handsome face, the craving in his eyes, the slickness of body against body, mattered.

Surging emotions—passion, need, pleasure bordering on pain—broke over her like a wave, and she was lost in a maelstrom of sensuality. His fingers speared through her hair, and he pressed her face to his throat. She tasted him and went mad. The salty, primal essence of him was something she needed more than anything else in her life. She bit him.

He lifted her hips, drove inside her, and the link of body and mind was so close and so right she surrendered utterly. He felt wonderful inside her, stroking her until they raced to reach ecstasy. The rhythm between them matched. Their heartbeats, their breathing, their spiral to the ultimate peak. His energy and intensity burned her, setting her nerves afire with lust and life. His thrusts increased until she thought she'd die from the ferocity, yet she matched him, held him, and with a cry, reached rapture with him.

He arched against her and emptied into her, and she felt the flood of not only his seed, but all his emotions into her in a great tsunami.

And when her wits returned, she shriveled. What had she done? She had acted from impulse, from emotion, from pure physical lust. She could not believe it of herself. “Madness,” she whispered, disappointed and disgusted with herself.

She'd just renewed a bond she'd vowed to let wither and die, just made matters worse for them both at this awful time. She sensed the determination in him to claim her and keep her. A determination that matched her stubborn logic to stay apart.

She cut the exquisite mind tie between them and felt
cold.

“Don't withdraw from me,” he said.

Embarrassment flooded her, flushing the skin on her body. She didn't look at him. “No withdrawal. You are
inside
me.”

He stroked her head with unsteady fingers. “I need all of you, Bélla, the emotional connection most of all.”

“We
can't do this!
”

“Please, Bélla,” he whispered and gentle mind-fingers brushed her, requesting the link. That tie was stronger than ever, Lark
saw
it as a golden cord as thick as her index finger. Each time they met it grew stronger.

She opened her surface thoughts and outer emotions as she raised herself from him and went to a tiny cubby that held a small waterfall.

Holm followed. She didn't dare look at him while she washed, but his mind-soothing, his renewed optimism showered over her like the water. “Bélla, my Bélla, what we have is right. It may not be the best moment to find each other, but it is
right.
”

Feeling better than she had for several days, she drew on a robe and steeled herself to face Holm.

He'd used the small basin and a sponge to clean himself and lounged in the doorway. Naturally. He looked good. Better than good. He looked fabulous. His eyes were clear, the worry hounding his life shoved deep to wherever he kept his secrets—and he had them, she knew that now more than ever. Something long-term bothered him that he wouldn't speak of.

No matter,
she chided herself. The present circumstances were worry enough for the entire city of Druida, and they wouldn't be together for long, anyway.

She lifted her chin. “I will not let this liaison continue. It is inappropriate and completely stupid at this time of our lives.” Brushing past him, she dressed and glanced at the timer. She had twenty minutes before her shift.

Holm's thoughts fell into a “strategizing” pattern.

“No!” she said aloud.

Again he followed her, this time stopping behind her so she could feel the warmth of him at her back, the tickle of his breath on the top of her head. “We will continue to need each other, on many levels. Why deny ourselves the comfort of each other? It's not good for either of us to be apart.”

Lark rolled her eyes. “Such logic!”

“Let me come to you tonight.”

She turned and met his gaze with difficulty. “No.”

“Bélla—”

She didn't want to hurt him, but knew her next words would. “I sleep in T'Hawthorn Residence tonight.”

Nineteen

“My nephew needs me, as does my FatherDam. I spend time with them each day,” Lark said.

He laced his fingers through her wet hair and said a Word to dry it. The affectionate, caring gesture made her heart clutch.

“Family is very important. I'm glad that you haven't severed such bonds. You always give of yourself despite the cost. You're wonderful,” Holm said.

“You exaggerate,” Lark said. The thought of Family weighed like a heavy burden. She chose her words carefully. “I don't visit with my father or brother. We avoid each other because we disagree so.”

Every night T'Hawthorn scried and asked about D'Holly's condition, the visitors she had, the general countenances of her Family. Lark replied with evasions about her health, protestations of ignorance as to the callers, and information regarding the Apples. With her words her father's eyes would chill, his expression would harden, and in that smooth voice of his he'd remind Lark of the unsatisfactory report on her.

She dreaded the scries. When she'd made an attempt to cut them short and stop them, T'Hawthorn merely frowned and said she didn't look well. He would send Cratag over—alone—to check on her. Further, T'Hawthorn would speak to T'Heather about her health. Perhaps Lark worked too hard.

His less-than-subtle threats, all issued in smooth tones, always defeated her. She could never tell if he cared for her or not, and when he finally ended the scry, she felt stupid and angry that she'd responded to him as she'd been taught all her life.

Holm traced her mouth with his finger. “You're frowning. Let me help.”

Lark scowled. “We can't talk without differing, either.”

He grinned. “No, we can't
talk
. But we communicate incredibly well in other ways—where we are in
full
agreement.”

“Thank you for the rose every evening,” she said.

He dipped his head. “I want to ensure you remember me.” No chance she'd forget. He caught her mental comment, and his teeth flashed again in a smile. Then he angled his chin to flaunt the mark she'd put on his throat, ruby and purple. Lark winced. She lifted a hand to touch the bruise, then decided against it.

Too late. He took her fingers and kissed them. “We are learning about each other. You know that I will wear your lovebite proudly. And I,
I
learn to let you go even when I want nothing more than to keep you near.” He ended on a serious note. “But I won't stay away forever.”

She sensed layers of meaning and secrets and determination in his voice, and trembled inside. “I have to go.”

“Yes. For now. Merry meet.”

Lark closed her eyes in pain. “I can't say that. I
can't
.”

His lips brushed her eyelids. “No, it's not a ‘merry parting,' since I don't want to part. But we will meet again.”

“That's not the first time you said that.” She opened her eyes, released herself from his grip, straightened her shoulders and walked to the door.

“That's because I mean it. I'll see you again, soon.” He put a hand over his heart. “I'll be with you if I have to beg for the pleasure.”

“What!” She glanced back at him. He looked tough, but his smile was sweet.

“You don't think I'll beg? I will.”

She just stared at him. His eyes heated and the connection between them rippled with desire. Images of lovemaking swept from him to her and back. They were taking turns begging. She fled.

 
 
Holm's amusement at Bélla's shocked look buoyed him a
moment, then the creeping fear of his Mamá lingering at the entrance to the Wheel of Stars of death and birth oppressed him. He took a quick shower and 'ported home, directly to his new pool. His sanctuary.

Tinne found him there and the sight of Tinne's uncertain expression sent the guilt Holm preferred to ignore blazing through him. So he spoke too sharply. “What have you done?”

Tinne lowered himself to a lounge near the pool and gave a wide grin.

Holm looked behind it to see the flash of inner pain that matched his brother's somber eyes.

“Why did I marry Genista? Her bloodline is good, she has minor Healing abilities, and she's the sexiest noblewoman around. We're hoping to engender the next generation of Hollys immediately.” Tinne waggled his eyebrows.

“You have a HeartMate! You know you have a HeartMate. You always felt so and had inklings during your first Passage. Why did you marry? There's no divorce in a dynastic marriage like this. You fool, why didn't you wait for your love?” All the loneliness Holm had gone through when he thought he had no HeartMate, all the frustration he'd felt waiting after he'd met Lark and felt the pull, all the fury he experienced trying to woo her, exploded in his words.

Tinne shrugged, then lifted a serious face. “I'm sorry you haven't won your HeartMate. Leave this alone.”

Nausea rolled in Holm's stomach. He gripped the back of a longchair to keep from shaking his brother. “I can't. You fool. You should have—”