HeartMate

by Robin D. Owens

  He'd continue with his previous tactic of sending her presents through the night.

  Her words told him that she'd felt the carnal power of the HeartGift. At least he knew the HeartGift had attracted her. After a few moments his temper cooled, and he was able to smile. Not only did the HeartGift attract her, but it had stirred sexual feelings. The idea lightened his weariness.

  Someday he would give her the necklace. But he was resolved that the new HeartGift would be a true reflection of himself. She would have a harder time ignoring that.

  Ping!

  Whir.

  Urga, urga, urga, arrgh, ka-CHUNK.

  In the wee hours of the morning the twiddley melody of her collection box had driven Danith mad. She'd flung a heavy pot at it in desperation. It hadn't broken the box, and it hadn't stopped the sound, merely changed it.

  Now, in the first dawn light, she pulled on some clothes and dragged herself into her mainspace.

  Sitting in a nest of gems, several necklaces draping around her, Pansy purred, deeply satisfied. Dark ruby beads complemented her subtly shaded gray fur.

  Before Danith went to see the last harassing gift—at least The Necklace hadn't appeared—she sifted her fingers through the bowl of polished stones. A smooth wedge of green aventurine felt particularly pleasing, soothing, and she tucked it through the slit in her tunic into her trous pocket.

  Pansy purred louder. She must be wearing several thousand gilt worth of jewels. They couldn't possibly be real, could they? Or perhaps they could. T'Ash was a wealthy GreatLord who could afford to spend gilt on a prospective mistress.

  Danith's lip curled. She would not be seduced by a GreatLord.

  Dawn filtered through her shutters. A yowl rose from the grassyard. Squaring her shoulders, Danith grabbed the food-sack and went to fulfill her duty of feeding the feral cats. She did not function well on little sleep.

  Danith opened the door. On the top step sat the huge, ugly, lovable cat. He smiled an ingratiating smile.

  He held a string of beads in his mouth!

  The cat dropped it on her foot. Slobber rolled down between her bare toes. She shuddered.

  Carefully reining in her anger, she picked up the string of beads. It was the worse for wear, with a few tooth marks, but she recognized it from T'Ash's Phoenix, where she'd seen it a few weeks before. It was meant to be attached to a personal amulet, but Danith didn't wear amulets.

  With a questioning mew, Pansy came to stand beside her, trailing a tangle of jewels: two necklaces, a brooch, four pins, a pair of clip earrings, and a redgold chain.

  The torn sniffed, then sat up straight, raising his chin. An emerald collar worth a fortune caught the light, sparkling like nothing Danith had ever seen before. Her fingers itched to caress the collar.

  The cat's rusty purr resonated.

  She touched the collar. "You!" T'Ash's voice roared.

  Danith jumped.

  A fierce hologram of T'Ash solidified and scowled at her. "Know you that this is my Fam, Zanthoxyl. Harm him and you answer to me!"

  Zanthoxyl preened.

  "Zanthoxyl," Danith muttered. T'Ash's cat—Fam—of course. She should have known, they looked a lot alike. A cat bearing gifts. The wretched man had even suborned his Fam. This was too much.

  And nothing she ever asked for or wanted.

  Now she was going to tell him so. She'd confront him with his degenerate ideas of playing sexual games with a common woman and throw the gifts back into his face.

  Yes, that would be satisfying.

  She had no room in her life for decadent GreatLords.

  She stomped to her bedroom, slipped a pair of weaves on her feet, grabbed the jewels at hand, thrust them in a sack, and left, slamming her door behind her and muttering the security Word.

  Zanthoxyl smiled at her from her front sidewalk. She scowled at him, but his cat grin didn't slip. The beginning of a nagging headache buzzed behind her eyes. She rubbed her free hand on her temple.

  Danith considered the cat—the Fam. She'd never met an animal bonded with a noble. They were supposed to be intelligent. "Take me to T'Ash."

  The cat's smile widened even more. He rumbled a purr and turned to trot down the street, tail waving.

  Danith marched behind him. The buzzing in her head increased, sharpening her annoyance. She grumbled. "It's Midweekend, true. But I have things to do, errands to run, and no bloody time to spend fending off some stupid, brutish scruff."

  Jewels clinked musically as she transferred the sack to her other hand. Her wrist brushed her tunic over her trous pocket, and a soothing warmth startled her. She touched a lump. The stone. She should throw it away. She reached for it.

  Zanthoxyl turned his head and emitted a long, rising whine. She left the stone in her pocket to rub her temple again.

  The Fam picked up speed and Danith walked faster.

  Half a septhour passed as Danith followed the cat. The streets had widened, as did the space between houses. Now they were in an area of large, old Noble estates. She slowed. Not a house could be seen, only hedges, or walls, or green-iron fences showing lush growth behind them. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

  She was a common woman and he a GreatLord. All the power was in his hands.

  Bel completed its rise from behind the horizon, shining white-blue rays upon the empty gray stone-paved street. No public carriers traveled this area. The GreatLords had enough Flair to teleport to where they wanted, or used personal gliders.

  She'd never been this deep into noble country. Perhaps she should just turn around and go back home, pretend the whole thing had been a bad dream.

  She stopped in the middle of the wide street.

  "Prrrp." It was a small, conciliatory-type noise, coming from Zanthoxyl.

  He pricked up his horizontal ears as far as they could go, only a slight lifting, and made a series of little noises, almost encouraging her. Her head throbbed until she could barely think.

  Zanthoxyl crossed to her and stropped her ankles, front and back, purring like a motor. It was the loudest sound in the large, quiet street.

  Danith looked down, a multitude of coarse black and white cat hairs clung to her clean trous. She sighed and hiked the loop of the sack up her arm to her shoulder. She would have to return the jewelry, at least. And make her position as a nonmistress clear.

  "Very well," she said to the Fam, and bent to pat him. Her headache eased. "I hope we're nearly there."

  The cat bobbed his head and renewed his trot, checking often to see that she hadn't strayed.

  Soon they came to an intimidatingly huge set of greeniron gates. The top formed curlicues, and the fence running down each side of the property bristled with wicked spikes. And worse. The whole thing positively glowed blue with a shield spell. Danith had no doubt that if she touched it, she would be shocked into oblivion, and an alarm would summon the master. Definitely time to turn around.

  "Prrrp, prrrp," Zanthoxyl said.

  He stood before a meter square gate, obviously designed for the Fam, next to the great greeniron ones. He touched a paw to one of the bars and the blue forcefield vanished.

  "No," she said. "I am not crawling through your gate."

  In a flash he was behind her, hissing.

  Danith put down the bag, then placed her hands on her hips. She tapped her foot. "I am not crawling through your gate."

  He did something worse than hiss, than whine. He licked her bare feet through the straps of her weaves.

  She shuddered at the feel of his rough tongue and backed up. A step, two.

  "Prrrp!" Warning.

  She stopped. When she turned, she wasn't surprised to see herself next to Zanthoxyl's gate.

  He smiled and tilted his head.

  "Ping! Whir. Urga, urga, urga, arrgh, ka-CHUNK." Zanthoxyl's mimicry of her broken collection box was uncanny. It also did exactly what she suspected he wanted. It whipped up her anger once more. Her feeling of being imposed upon, harassed.

  She snarled and
snatched the sack. She didn't want T'Ash's gifts, and would let him know that in no uncertain terms. Descending to her hands and knees, she pushed at the gate and scuttled through an archway of thorn hedgerow on a beaten path of dirt.

  The stench hit her. She gasped and took a lungful of fetid air. The path stank like something out of a sewer. She hurried forward, avoiding the worst of the trail, and her hand slipped in something slimy. She held her breath and continued to crab forward, feeling wetness seep through her tunic and the knees of her trous. She hoped it was dew.

  As soon as she was through the hedgerow, she stood. One glance at her clothes made her decide not to examine them closely. With two fingers she plucked a softleaf from her flat trous pocket and wiped her hands. She stuck the crumpled and stained softleaf in the sack.

  Clang! The gate rang behind her. She turned to see Zanthoxyl standing, surveying his kingdom, tail straight up.

  The metal clang of the gate was echoed by faint clangs in the distance.

  The estate was dappled in light and shadow. The sun, Bel, had not yet touched the deep gloom near several hedges, huge trees, and outbuildings. Only the grassy areas looked blue-yellow with sunlight.

  The grassyards, flowerbeds, and bushes were pristine, too much so. Strict and severe. She glanced toward the green swath of lawn and caught her breath. Though it appeared healthy enough, it didn't look as if it was the centuries of tended growth that holos of the other Residences sported. She blinked. For an instant it looked all gray and black and burned. An illusion. She blinked again.

  Hadn't there been a fire? She couldn't remember. But as she examined the Residence, she knew. The modern structure stole her breath with its beauty. Angles and curves melted into a sensual delight to the eye, something she now expected of T'Ash. Burnished windows of glisten-glazed hardglass shone in the sun, reflecting rainbows on the grassyard. Whatever stone the Residence was actually constructed of didn't show, only a smooth layer of blinding white armourcrete.

  She winced. She didn't like white. She'd paint the entire thing a creamy-yellow.

  Still, there was no mistaking it belonged to a GreatLord. Glisten-coated hardglass windows and armourcrete. The Residence might not loom with stone walls, towers, and crenelations, but she'd bet it equaled or surpassed any other Residence fortress.

  "Ping! Whir. Urga, urga, urga, arrgh, ka-CHUNK," said Zanthoxyl.

  It stirred her ire again. She turned, eyes narrowed. She had words to say to the GreatLord.

  The cat, now ahead of her, ran across the meadow. She ran after him, thoughts grim.

  The smell of the forge came to her first. Hot metal, cold chemicals, male sweat, and pure, unadulterated, hair-raising Flair. The repetitive pounding grew louder.

  Danith stopped in her tracks. She stood, stunned at the sight of T'Ash's gleaming body clad only in a brief loincloth. Her breath clogged in her lungs and her own body underwent an unusual reaction—her breasts tightened and a low ache started between her legs. Shocked at her response, she could not tear her gaze away from T'Ash.

  The strengthening sunlight didn't reach into the dark swaths of blackness inside the forge. Only fire highlighted the anvil and the man. And what a man! His broad shoulders tapered to lean hips, then to taut thighs and buttocks. The muscles of his back and arms flexed as he worked, pounding at a length of sharp steel, and looking as strong as the metal. Also like the steel, his swarthy skin showed white scars from a hard, pounding life. A knot that had to be a knife wound was under his right shoulder blade, a long line twined from the nape of his neck to around the left side of his waist.

  As he worked, he chanted words of Power. She stood for moments watching him, so enthralled that her breathing came in time with the rhythm of his hammer.

  Though the planet Celta had been founded by those espousing Celtic traditions, the colonists had not shunned other mythologies, and every child learned about the many ancient cultures of their ancestors. To Danith, T'Ash was the living image of Hephaestus, the Greek God of the forge. At that thought her stare traveled down his solid, straight thighs, and she shook her head, coming out of her daze. He carried scars, but he wasn't crippled like the God. And Hephaestus had been the butt of jokes, not a perpetrator.

  Still uncomfortably attracted to him, she tried to recapture her anger at his presumption, but failed. She sighed. The most she could summon was irritation at his harassment, and she wondered why. The man had been more than a nuisance.

  His spell ended with a shouted Word that thundered past her ears and a last, ringing blow on the metal. He lifted the shining blade, and the redgold inlaid pattern nearly seared her eyes.

  She said nothing, but he whirled around. Long, tangled black hair framed his face, which looked thinner, harsher than when she'd seen him at the shop two nights before. His blue eyes were bright and piercing in their intensity. He held a lethal weapon, his stance predatory.

  Fear should have swamped her, but like anger, it found no place in her heart.

  He smiled and her knees weakened. The smile didn't make him look a mite softer, or even more attractive. But she sensed it was genuine.

  He was glad to see her. Twisting, he pushed the blade back onto the anvil. Then he faced her once more and gave a half-bow. His smile broadened.

  That smile drew her into the forge. She bit her lip, the small pain allowing her to marshal her wits. If she couldn't retrieve her rage, she could at least feign it.

  She scowled. "You!" She pointed an accusatory finger at him, trying to remember her angry thoughts and put them into words. "You wretched creature. You insulting, insensitive, obnoxious—"

  "Downwind scruff?" he asked, too softly. The fire that roared in the forge also sparked blue in his eyes.

  Danith took a step back. She glanced behind her.

  Zanthoxyl sat squarely in the middle of the long open wall of the forge, and somehow she got the feeling that if she made a run for it, he'd be faster, and pounce. She didn't like the idea.

  But oddly, neither T'Ash nor Zanthoxyl intimidated her; instead they prodded her temper once more. Who was T'Ash to be offended? It was she who had been the object of his less-than-humorous jokes.

  Her fingers hurt. She looked down to the sack tightly clenched in her fist.

  She dropped the bag.

  A flash of something like pain showed on his face.

  She didn't care for the surge of pity his small reaction pulled from her.

  She lifted her chin. "I'll be blunt. Somehow, I think you can only understand bluntness. I don't like feeling pressured. I don't like being harassed. I have no intention of becoming a nodding acquaintance, let alone a sex-partner. I think a man who uses a seduction spell is—"

  "Low. Lower than a Downwind scruff."

  He repeated the words almost exactly. She frowned. No, not almost—exactly. And used Downwind short speech to say so. She stared at him.

  He activated a spellshield around the long knife, then stretched his massive body.

  She gulped. Then got further annoyed that his body distracted her, that he aroused unwanted attraction in her.

  He looked at her with an impassive expression that she sensed concealed a deep sadness. He rubbed his chest.

  The hair on his chest was curlier than that on his head, and thinner. She would have expected a hairy pelt, but he was obviously more man than beast.

  Silence draped the forge.

  Danith reached for the vestiges of her anger, but it was gone again. How could a shade of hurt in sky-crystal blue eyes disarm her so?

  "It wasn't a seduction spell," he said softly.

  "No? Then what was it?"

  He didn't answer, and now she hurt, as if for some reason she had really expected a rational explanation. "That's what it felt like." She waved a hand, groping for words. "An attraction. Something you'd try on me, like you kept trying to tempt me with that other jewelry."

  The faintest smile curved his lips, before his gaze dropped to the sack. When he raised his eyes, they were o
nce more fathomless.

  She plodded on. "A cheap little seduction spell on a common, Flairless woman to incite lust and draw her to you. A little amusement for the great T'Ash. A plaything. A sextoy—"

  He moved more quickly than she could follow. His huge hand manacled her wrist, his fingers overlapping.

  His jaw clenched. His eyes fired once more. "No. Not like that. You are not a toy." His other hand touched her shoulder, slid up her neck and his fingers nudged her chin until she met his blazing stare. "Never. Not an amusement."

  Then his hand curved around the nape of her neck, and she trembled with sensation. With ease he pulled her against his large form. The very touch of his skin sent pulsing little shocks throughout her. She drew breath to speak, and his scent acted on her like drugged wine, dizzying her beyond reason.

  She saw the flash of blue eyes for just an instant before he bent down and put his mouth on hers. Kissed her. A very gentle, almost tentative kiss. His very lack of demand disarmed her. She hadn't noticed how soft his lips were. Surely the softest thing about him.

  His hands cradled her head as his mouth brushed against hers once again. More than sensuality spun between them, an extra energy, a heart-threatening tenderness. And he feathered their lips together again. Pleasing, tantalizing, a small courtship.

  His was the sweetest kiss she had ever known. How could the fiercest man she'd ever met give her the sweetest kiss?

  She pulled her mouth from his, put a hand to her lips. "This can't be." She struggled to think, but his scent, his masculinity, scrambled her mind.

  "Yes. Divination Dice foretold. Don't you practice prophecy?"

  "The cards. I drew the Lord of Blasers," she blurted.

  "Yes!" His gaze burned blue, just like on the card. Bespelled, she lifted her fingers and trailed them down his square jaw.

  He groaned. He lowered his head once more. His tongue outlined her lips, tasting her, and she couldn't resist. She opened her mouth to let him in and plunder.

  When his tongue rubbed against hers and she tasted him, fast, liquid desire enveloped her.

  The kiss passed beyond sweetness, beyond passion. A layered fog closed about her. She sensed the complexity of the man, and the intensity. Both she wanted to deny, both drew her to the flame.