Heart Duel (5 page)

“I'm sorry,” she said in a small voice against him, “but we would have expected you to marry, HeartMate or no. Just as we expect you to marry quickly now.” She rubbed her face on the cloth, then she kissed his cheek once more.

His mother glanced at the report. “But now you don't have to settle for a wife, you have a HeartMate!” Her dimples flashed.

Holm sighed. “I don't think it's going to be as easy as your and T'Holly's courtship.”

“No? But a HeartMate bond—it can't be very difficult.”

“Tell T'Ash that.”

“Ah, T'Ash.” D'Holly gave an airy wave. “There were extenuating circumstances, his unfortunate childhood. . . . Nothing like that for you, my dear.”

Now was the time for his own dancing—around the subject. He couldn't tell her anything he didn't want his father to know. Holm gave her a final hug, stood, and stretched. His mother rose and nearly matched him in height, a tall, slender woman. The Hawthorns ran to small and curvy. Holm's daughters would be lucky if they got their FatherDam's height.

“Did the report name the lady?” Holm asked.

D'Holly squinted down at it. She said she was too busy to get her eyes Healed back to their youthful acuity. Holm just thought she was too impatient for the eight-day procedure. He came from an impatient family.

“No, D'Willow didn't say who your HeartMate was. Odd. No, ah, but she says
you
know.”

He had to tell his mother enough that she'd give him time to woo Lark, yet couldn't reveal his HeartMate was a Hawthorn. That would guarantee that his parents would interfere. The whole situation was messy—and would become even more chaotic if GreatLords T'Holly and T'Hawthorn got involved.

“I've had inklings.” Since two months ago when he'd met Lark to plan the charity dance to benefit AllClass HealingHall, and had felt an unexpected pull. Ever since, he'd made it a point to see her at least once an eightday. He fought his own nature to pounce, but also fought a deep, unsettling feeling that if he gave into the desire, his life would change forever.

D'Holly's feet pattered in a little tap dance. “Tell me.”

He plucked the report from her fingers and tossed it to the pallet. Meserv opened one eye as if considering a pounce, burped again, and curled onto his side.

Holm took his mother's hands and drew her into a waltz. He danced her from the small alcove to the cool stones surrounding the deep blue irregular pool.

She laughed and hummed a waltz of her own, one of her first musical compositions. Music continually ran through his mother's mind. She was always accompanied by some mental tune. Music and dancing would distract her.

“My wooing won't be easy. My HeartMate's a Healer.”

D'Holly almost missed a step. Her eyes widened, then she winced. “Oh, dear. Healers almost never approve of fighting. And Hollys
are
fighters. Why, you, after your father, are the premier fighter of Celta.”

“I know.”

“It is the basic nature of the Hollys. Something that we will never breed out of the line.”

“I know.”

“It is
expected
of the Hollys.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps it will take two weeks of courting.”

“Yes.” He spun her into a sweeping turn. She closed her eyes in pleasure. When she opened them, they focused on the bare triangle of his chest and the dark red scar of a blaser burn.

“Oh, dear,” she said again. “Scarred. All of you. My innocent babe that was once so smooth and flawless.”

“Not for a long time.”

“Who's that dancing with my HeartMate?” T'Holly's voice boomed, then was smothered by plants and the waterfall at the end of the pool. “GreatHouse Residence, music if you please, an Earthen waltz for my GreatLady and me.”

Music filled the solar.

“Louder!” T'Holly ordered. The beautiful “Blue Danube” drowned out his voice. He gracefully cut in and took his wife in his arms. “This is a frivolous place, glass and greenery, a pool, and a waterfall. A waterfall! On top of the Residence.”

Like many GreatHouse Residences, the Holly home was modeled on an Earth castle. It had no fairy-tale charm but was a real fortress, walls rising five stories before angling outward in battlements—a solid, square building with no turrets and no windows on the outside until the last level. The pool had been in the basement. Holm had hated the dank, moldy place. He'd had to fight for the remodeling, and his father would voice displeasure all of his life. It was worth it.

Meserv mewed and sat on Holm's foot.

T'Holly whirled his HeartMate away. Passiflora threw back her head and laughed.

They made a fine picture, a man and a woman in the prime of their lives: he looking down at her with open adoration, she returning all his love.

Holm fisted his hands and shoved them in his pockets. He wanted that. He wanted that badly. Looking at them, he knew the loneliness of his heart, and the yearning of his soul for that one special person. The longing permeated his being, not only heart and soul, but also his mind and body. Nothing would be right for him until he had his own HeartMate. Lark Collinson. He would get her, and keep her.

We will get her,
Meserv said.

Three

Lark blinked at the bright late summer afternoon as she ex
ited Primary HealingHall. She rolled her shoulders. Her four-septhour shift had become grueling when a D'Hazel's noble, greatly-Flaired child had been 'ported to intake. The girl had tried to fly. It had been an exhausting, wrenching case.

Lark's weary, shuffling feet caught on a crack in the pavement and she stumbled. Phyll mewed. She patted the new double bag she carried in reassurance. One side held the accouterments of her profession. The other section, with a meshed end, held Phyll, resting after helping her. Even a tiny spurt of energy from the kitten, when linked with her own, could yield incredible results. When she and her husband had linked, they'd been the most powerful Healing team on Celta.

Two guards wearing Hawthorn colors of purple and gold stepped from the shadows beside the fluted stone columns of the portico. One was her cuz Whitey, completely Healed of the injury he'd suffered the day before. The other man was vaguely familiar. They'd been sent by her father. Her fingers tightened on the bag. Anxiety fluttered through her.

Whitey nodded to her, but glanced at his timer, impatience on his face. The other bowed shortly, “T'Hawthorn requests your presence, GreatMistrys.”

It took a moment for Lark to recognize the large, solid man. A harsh white scar that twisted from his jaw to his once-broken nose jogged her memory. Cratag. The slash and the nose hadn't been tended because Cratag had been in the rainforests of Brittany, the southern continent. He was a son of the Maytree branch of the Family who'd emigrated to Brittany several generations ago.

Lark swallowed to ease the tightness of her throat. A summons from her father. For a moment she thought of refusing, but stiffened her spine. No matter how weary, her father had issued a command and would expect obedience. To refuse would be cowardly and postpone the inevitable.

“Greetyou, Whitey,” Lark said. Despite the tremor of her nerves, she inclined her head to Cratag, in the manner that had been drummed into her. “Please don't call me ‘GreatMistrys,' I'm a GentleLady now.” She'd married a common man, flouting her father.

Irony flashed in Cratag's violet eyes. “FirstLevel Healer,” he replied, using her professional title.

Her cuz Whitey shifted restlessly. “Listen, Cratag, you wouldn't mind taking Lark to T'Hawthorn by yourself, would you? I'm—ah—late for an appointment.” He winked broadly.

With a casualness that belied her tension, Lark said, “I'm sure Cratag and I will be fine without you.” She glanced at her wrist timer. “I'm free for the rest of the afternoon.”

Whitey clapped Cratag on the shoulder. “Many thanks. You don't need to mention I left to T'Hawthorn, right?”

“No,” Cratag said expressionlessly.

Whitey hitched his sword-blaser belt and took off at a lope.

“Shall we go?” Lark wanted to get any interview with her father over with as soon as possible.

Cratag gestured to the side of the portico to the huge, deep metallic purple T'Hawthorn glider hovering above the ground. She walked over, straightening her blandly pastel tunic over wide-legged trous and wishing for an elegant dress as better armor. She pressed her lips together.

At an intoned Word from Cratag, the door lifted open. Lark slid in and onto the padded silkeen bench, carefully placing her bag on her lap.

Cratag started to shut the door and move to the back, but Lark said, “Join me.” Company would be welcome.

After a brief hesitation, Cratag took a seat beside her.

“Glider, return to T'Hawthorn Residence,” he ordered.

The glider accelerated silently forward on the cushion of air beneath it.

“So, Cratag, how do you like being in Druida instead of Brittany?” Not only was she interested in the man, but she needed distraction from her mounting apprehension.

He narrowed his eyes. “I didn't think you cared much about me.”

“Of course I do. You're Family.”

He matched her questioning gaze with a serious one of his own. “We've only met a handful of times. As for Family, T'Hawthorn's your father, but you don't visit.”

Lark caught her breath at this bluntness. Phyll stirred. Cratag wasn't polite, as every member of a GreatHouse was expected to be. Even Whitey was polite when he deigned to speak to her. It didn't matter, what mattered was the feud. “Tell me, Cratag, do you enjoy fighting?”

He ran his forefinger down his scar. “Not especially. A man does what he must. My Flair's minimal, but my sword skills are useful. They've earned me a place in the GreatHouse, and a room in the Family Residence. I'm grateful.”

Lark wetted her lips. “And what do you think of this feud between Hawthorn and Holly?”

He shrugged heavy shoulders. “It's not my place to decide what's worth fighting for, it's T'Hawthorn's. I obey my orders.”

“I'm sure you have other skills besides fighting,” Lark said softly. “That's not how we are raised on Celta. There's good land and a career for everyone if a person is determined.”

“The daughter of a GreatHouse can say that. Someone with exceptional Flair who's powerful herself. Others must use what circumstance gives them.” He looked straight ahead. “Land and wealth aren't my goals. I want Family, to belong.”

“Yet this feud with the Hollys is dangerous, could very well cause your death. The Hollys are well known as fighters—the Hawthorns are planners and traders. A feud is a horrible thing. It could spiral out of hand, set the entire city against us, against both Families.”

He pinned her with sharp scrutiny. “Do you prophesize? Did you have a vision? Is it Flair speaking, Lady?”

She wished she could say yes, anything to stop even one Hawthorn from fighting, but she shook her head. She lifted her hands. “I'm a Healer. I've had no premonitions. I only know that mending bodies shattered by swords and blasers is horrible and unnecessary.”

Cratag hesitated, gave a slight nod, then returned his attention to the view outside the glider windows. “Speak to T'Hawthorn.”

When they arrived at T'Hawthorn Residence, Cratag ushered Lark into her father's ResidenceDen. She sat in a wingchair of dark blue with dainty golden dragonflies, a Hawthorn symbol. She always chose that chair for any Family discussion. Gently she set down her bag containing Phyll. Just the thought of her Fam comforted her.

“Drink?” asked Cratag, standing in the small alcove that housed the bar.

“No, thank you.” After expending so much energy Healing earlier, she knew she'd need all her intelligence to match wits with her father.

“We have cinnamoncaff, caff, tea, cocoa, rootsweet,” Cratag offered softly. She wondered how much her nerves showed.

The door opened and her father entered. A stocky man, imposing in spite of his medium height, Lark had inherited her coloring from him. She had the same black hair and dark violet eyes. Time had carved the lines on his face deeper and the silver streaks of hair at his temples wider since the last time she'd seen him a few months ago.

And the moment he walked in, the mantle of GreatHouse FirstDaughter,
his
daughter, dropped over her, and she knew that this time, as always, she would not be able to escape that role. She suppressed an inner, angry sigh at herself, stood, and curtsied to the GreatLord, the Head of the Hawthorns.

“Be seated.” T'Hawthorn nodded and settled behind his desk. “Our feud with the Hollys will be escalating.”