Heart Search (19 page)

Authors: Robin D Owens

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal

BOOK: Heart Search

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“That’s handy,” Camellia said.

“Yes, though I haven’t done it much since I was a child.” He joined her again, picked up his cup, and stretched his legs out. This time his smile was lopsided and genuine and affected Camellia much more. Not good. How would she ever be able to put the man out of her thoughts if he smiled at her like that?

“Beautiful room.”

He glanced around. “Yes, thank you.” Another quirky smile. “I haven’t put much of a mark on it. The room remains much like it was when my FatherSire was alive. And I think he didn’t change it from his father or FatherSire.”

Camellia savored the last of the tea in her cup. “So your Family hasn’t been led by a D’Hawthorn, a GreatLady, for a while?” She placed the cup in its saucer, found her Flair had extended to test the atmosphere. Overwhelmingly male. Recalled that the Residence had spoken in a male voice.

Laev was frowning, as if tabulating the past Heads of Households in his mind. “You’re right, it’s been some time. At least a century and a half. And I’m the fifth T’Hawthorn in a row.” He grimaced. “We haven’t been as long-lived as some of the other Families.”

“But powerful,” Camellia said. “Your FatherSire was Captain of the FirstFamilies Council, which made him the head of all the councils.”

Laev’s lips curved deeper, but his eyes took on a hint of tension. She should leave, not want to ease that strain, to help the man who seemed now to have vulnerabilities she’d never have guessed. Despite the essential male feeling—and with no bitter tang of anger or hatred for those less noble—the room was comfortable. She poured herself another cup of tea and met Laev’s eyes steadily. “I think you’ve added more to this room than you believe.”

He blinked as if coming back from a past vision. “I haven’t.”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe not in the furnishings, but in the . . . quality of the Flair.” The more she felt the psi power around her, the more it sank into her skin; she experienced its undertones, like a perfume, or the taste of a complex tea.

“I’ve only been GreatLord for three months,” he said.

“But you worked in this area for a long time before, yes?”

“The ResidenceDen has two offices off it.” His smile turned tight. “For the usual two children of the Family. I am an only child, as my father was, and FatherSire. I had an office here.”

“You miss your FatherSire?” There had been affection in the tone.

“Yes.” He looked at the impressive desk. “He was . . . tough . . . when I was a child, but he mellowed in his later years.”

Not from what Camellia had heard, but no one saw the real inner workings of a Family. “He was an impressive man.”

“Yes.” A touch of red showed on Laev’s cheeks, and she finally recalled how the last T’Hawthorn had died. She couldn’t help it, she laughed.

Laev closed his eyes.

“Don’t you think it’s wonderful?” she said.

“Why? Because despite his public service, the fact that he made cinnamon a common spice, what most people recall most is that he died in a lady’s bed?”

Camellia wasn’t sure of the
public service
bit, either, but she saw that the manner of his FatherSire’s death bothered Laev. She reached out and put her fingers over his clenched fist, met his turbulent eyes, the color of a deep lavender that she used in some brews. “Isn’t that the way most men want to die? During sex? Hell, I wouldn’t mind it, either.” She shouldn’t have mentioned sex. Warm tremblings began stirring in her lower body.

He turned his hand over but didn’t link fingers with her . . . yet the touch of palm on palm went straight to her core. His hand was strong, not soft. She rushed into speech.

“What would he have thought?”

“He’d have been mortified.”

“Are you sure? Maybe his proud... um . . . business and professional persona. But the man?”

Laev opened his eyes wide and grinned at her. Grabbed her fingers and squeezed, withdrew his hand. “You’re right. As a man . . . well, it was pretty evident that he’d satisfied the lady, at least, and he’d have cared about that.”

Camellia choked and leaned back into her own space. “Ah, yes. How was his sense of humor?”

“Deeply buried,” Laev said. He stood and prowled the room, and Camellia could almost see the paths along the rugs that he—and his forebears—used when they considered important matters. Laev looked up and his smile was easy, like a boy’s. The boy he might have been before Nivea. “You’re right, though. He might have been amused.” Laev looked away, murmured, “The situation has been difficult to deal with, though.”

“Ah.” Camellia cleared her throat. “Well, he was human, and every human makes mistakes.” She knew at once she’d made one as soon as the words left her mouth and Laev’s smile vanished.

Nivea. She always stood between them.

He pulled on his impassive mask. “Yes,” he said coolly.

She rose and kept her chin lifted and her eyes steady. “Everyone makes mistakes, T’Hawthorn.” Her mouth turned down. “I have.” Because she couldn’t walk away from the hurt that filled him, she walked toward him, stopped close enough that she had to tilt her head back a bit to meet his gaze, spoke bluntly.

“You aren’t the only one to make a life-changing mistake.”

“A bad mistake for my Family.”

Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Your mistake was very public. Don’t you think that every single FirstFamily has recovered from bad mistakes? They may be less well known, so they are private Family secrets.” Her shoulders shifted. “Better that all is known.” The urge to reveal some of herself could not be fought. “That’s what I tell myself when
my
father humiliates me. When I know someday he will land in gaol.” She breathed heavily through her nose, cheeks continuing to flame. “But there’s no room for blackmail there, like other Family secrets might draw.”

He watched her with an inscrutable face. Why had she bothered to tell him such? Making a cutting gesture with her hand, she walked back to the rug in the corner of the room that was his teleportation pad, then faced him. “You weren’t the only one to be deceived by Nivea and the Sunflowers.”

“Others knew I was making a mistake and I didn’t listen to them.”

She snorted. “Lady and Lord, who does at seventeen? Mica, I am leaving; ’port to me now!”

Her Fam appeared on the rug, back arched and hissing.
Don’t want to go! Like it here!

“I am your FamWoman, and I am leaving.”

“And Brazos will answer to me for disobeying,” Laev said loudly, as if he knew the Fam would hear his words, either mentally or relayed by the Residence. “No special pillow he requested.”

With a growl, Mica jumped into Camellia’s arms and turned her head to look at Brazos, who appeared on Laev’s desk, whipping his tail.

Camellia sent a tendril of her mind questing in Tiana’s direction. She was in GreatCircle Temple. A check on Darjeeling’s Teahouse found Camellia’s office teleportation pad available. Breath pushed from her lungs. “Appears like everything’s fine at my business.” She looked at Laev, who was as urbane as always, GreatLord T’Hawthorn, rich, noble, powerfully Flaired.

“Thank you for your graciousness. I do appreciate it.” She looked at the beautiful china on the lovely antique table. “Thanks for the tea, also.” Then she squeezed Mica.

Had good time, Brazos,
the cat sulked.

“You’re welcome,” Laev said.

Camellia ’ported before he said anything else.

When she arrived at her office to the sweet scent of prime spiritual cleansers and a new rug—Aquilaria must have authorized that—and the babble of conversation from the dining rooms, a sigh bubbled from her. All was right in this portion of her world. “Scry Darjeeling’s HouseHeart.”

The wall scry panel lit and connected with Darjeeling’s HouseHeart. Camellia’s manager answered immediately, smiling. “There has been no problem here, Camellia.”

“Thanks.”

“Your brother dropped by, but that was all.”

Camellia’s gut tightened and she really regretted eating that sandwich. The taste seemed to coat the back of her throat again.

“He was favorably impressed, I think,” the manager said, beaming. She had a soft spot for Senchal. She raised her brows. “And he paid.”

“That’s good.” Camellia heard a noise and saw Aquilaria standing in the doorway, hands tucked in the opposite sleeves of her tunic. Camellia said, “I’ll be by tomorrow.”

The manager nodded. “See you then.”

“End scry,” Camellia muttered, then spoke to Aquilaria. “How much did the ritual and the new rug cost?”

Aquilaria stared at Mica, who was checking out the rug with punctuating sniffs. Aquilaria laughed.

“Yes?” Camellia asked.

“FirstLevel Priest T’Sandalwood sent an invoice to the NobleCouncil and the Guildhall, to be charged against T’Darjeeling’s NobleGilt account.”

“As far as I know, my father hasn’t fulfilled his annual NobleGilt salary for years . . . decades, maybe,” Camellia said. “GreatCircle Temple won’t ever see that payment.”

Aquilaria shrugged. “And the priest and priestess considered filing charges of blasphemy.”

“Blasphemy!” Another unusual occurrence.

“But decided that your father would be punished enough when the curse catches up with him.”

“Huh.” Camellia hoped so but didn’t think that would happen. Her father always slid out of situations.

“Everything is fine here, Camellia. You don’t need to stay.”

“I’ll tour the dining rooms,” Camellia decided. It would soothe her nerves to know everyone was having a good experience.

At the end of a septhour, she was satisfied that the happenings in the office had minimally affected her patrons. The teahouse itself was doing well, and several customers said that they’d been to the HouseHeart to compare. Occasionally some stated that they had a preference for one over the other. That tested Camellia’s hostess smile; she’d have liked them to love both, but tastes were definitely subjective.

Mica had pranced along beside her and accepted many pets, faded away if the patrons didn’t care to see her. All in all, Camellia was satisfied with her Fam, too. The little cat hadn’t sulked for very long.

Camellia, with a purring Mica attached to her shoulder, congratulated Aquilaria on a good job, then went to the teleportation pad in her office and ’ported home. She landed on the small, inexpensive rug in her mainspace and stood a bit, looking around her home. It was
hers
, reflected herself, and was comfortable enough. She shouldn’t compare it to Laev’s ResidenceDen. Her house wasn’t even a century old, not to mention nearly four.

But she really liked the ambience of T’Hawthorn Residence. Like the man, it throbbed with possibilities. Had Laev
listened
to her? She didn’t think so. Men didn’t. For a while she’d treated him as if he was a friend and wasn’t sure why. It must have been the charm of the place . . . or the nice way they’d all treated her, including Laev. Respectfully.

She walked through her home, decided that she should do a little ritual cleansing here, too. She hadn’t taken the time since her father and uncle had first invaded her space a few days ago, and they’d definitely left smudges in her atmosphere. Camellia didn’t want her friends to be besmirched by any of her relations’ negative emotions . . . or her equally negative reactions to them.

So she lit special incense sticks and placed them in every room, then went to the no-time to pull out the expensive steaks she’d bought for the next time she wanted to pamper herself and her friends . . . and stared at the empty space where six thick furrabeast steaks should have been. Where they’d been that morning.

Gone.

Thirteen

M
ica stretched to stare into the no-time raw meat storage compartment. There is no furrabeast.

“I know,” Camellia said through gritted teeth. Frustration spewed through her, stinging the back of her eyes with angry tears. She swallowed bile, looked down at Mica. “I think my uncle took our steaks.”

The little cat gasped in shock.
No!

“Yes.”

The mean man took MY food!

“That’s right.”

I will scratch him, again and again! Bite him!

“Can you smell any trace of the steaks?”

Nose elevated, Mica trotted from the small galley kitchen to Camellia’s bedroom, back to the front door.
Went like this.

“That’s what I thought.” Pressing her lips together, Camellia closed the door of the no-time. She wanted steak.

You said I could have furrabeast steak,
Mica whined.

“We’ll pick it up on the way back from the guard station. Come along.”

Mica hopped to her shoulder.

This time it was the male guard who was available to take her complaint. He was cool. “Come to swear out a complaint against your father again?”