Heart Journey

by Robin Owens

  “I only know Straif, and though I told him a lot . . . it was before he took up the title. Since then . . .” She hunched a shoulder.

  “I think it’s a rule: Never Tell Everything You Know To A FirstFamily Lord or Lady. Which is probably why they are so curious and controlling. As for Winterberry, he’s an interesting character study. Such the epitome of a guard.”

  “He struck me that way, too,” Del said. “He is a man who is his work.”

  “Like you are a cartographer,” Raz said softly.

  “And you are an actor.”

  “It’s not just a job for us.”

  “No.”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushed her fingers with a kiss. They descended the stairs to the backstage area in silence.

  Del glanced at him. “You don’t seem too concerned about being a target of thieves.”

  He shook his head, squeezed her hand. “That’s one way to break a romantic moment.”

  She blinked up at him. “I didn’t know we were having a romantic moment.”

  “Here.” He picked her up and carried her down the hallway, feeling utterly masculine.

  Laughing, she put her arms around his neck. “Nice.” A small sigh escaped her. “Nice.” Her eyelids fluttered shut. “Can relax, not handle everything. Sometimes that gets tiresome.”

  He kissed her brow. With amusement lacing his voice, he said, “Dear heart, you will be handling something later on tonight . . . otherwise, I’ll take charge.”

  Del lifted her lashes just enough to see Raz’s strong jaw, his handsome features. Another sigh got trapped in her chest. She wouldn’t think about the future, would think only about the now. The matter with Helendula was handled. Caretaking for the Elecampane HouseHeart was handled, her commitment to T’Ash for new landscape globes was being met, no problem there . . . Ah, she had misspoken about the number of FirstFamily lords and ladies she knew. She knew T’Ash, but he hadn’t struck her as a FirstFamily lord. Like Straif when she’d met him, T’Ash had a tough, commoner-type manner.

  Raz was the elegant noble, even when he was completely himself. He’d been raised in privileged circumstances, like she, but he hadn’t rubbed those manners off; instead, he’d polished them. A contrast between them.

  She had nearly sunk into a doze by the time he murmured a Word and the spellshielded door of his dressing room opened. He lowered her to a couch that smelled of new furrabeast leather. She sat up, opened her eyes to see his tender smile. “Sleepyhead,” he said.

  Raising her brows, she said, “I didn’t get too much sleep last night . . . too aroused.”

  Fire lit behind his eyes. The bones of his face seemed to sharpen and his lips curved in desire. He stepped toward her, eyeing the couch. “I haven’t broken this in . . .”

  “Good. We won’t. Get your things.” She stood and wandered around his dressing room. It was larger than she’d thought, plenty of space to pace—a screen in the corner if he wanted to change when others were with him, though nudity didn’t concern most Celtans. The only time it bothered her was when she was outdoors where there might be predators.

  She looked around while he tidied up the dressing table that held tools of his trade and gathered a few things into a satchel. The leading lady, Lily Fescue, had kicked up a fuss with Del staying backstage before the show, so she’d spent a few minutes in the green room, reading the guest and performers book and studying the holograms of the founders. The new holograms done by T’Apple. Since she and Doolee would be sitting for that artist, she’d paid attention to his technique and approved. The holos had matched the old-fashioned atmosphere of the room . . . It had the feeling of being classic for the theater.

  Here in Raz’s dressing room, there were bare shelves and a square of pale-colored wall where something had hung. The place was emptier than she’d imagined and she was reminded once again of the burglaries.

  Raz gripped the handle of the bag and joined her. He glanced at the wall. “That had a tapestry of the world.”

  “Really? You put it up?”

  “Yes.” His smile flashed, showing his even, white teeth. “Cherry Transport has always valued maps.”

  “Nice,” she repeated and took his fingers again; she liked being physically linked to him. “What era of the world did the tapestry show?”

  “Second century of colonization.” His smile was self-deprecating. “Those tapestries were all the rage a decade ago, easily and, ah, inexpensively obtained. Good value for a small budget.” He opened the door, closed, and spellshielded it behind them.

  “Mmm. I think I might have one or two myself. You want a replacement?”

  “Sure. But you don’t need to give me gifts.”

  His words struck them at the same time and they stopped, looked at each other. His face showed more color than usual. “I didn’t mean that the way . . . I’m not a gigolo. I don’t take money from women.”

  His explanation hurt more than his first careless words. “I think you’re having a problem with my age.”

  “No, I’m not. No, I don’t.” He closed his eyes, opened them, smiled a deliberately charming smile that was reflected in his eyes. Turning fully to her, he took her other hand, kept his gaze on hers. “I am deeply attracted to you, Helena D’Elecampane. I value you as a friend. I would treasure any gift you would give me.” He nibbled at her knuckles and she felt heat rising between them. His voice thickened. “As I hope you would treasure any gift I give you.”

  “Yes.” She wanted to believe him . . . could feel he was sincere through their bond. But this was an issue she couldn’t let slide. Not with her HeartMate. If he’d been a regular lover she could have ignored it or walked away. They had to thrash this out, and now.

  Eighteen

  The theater was full of patches of light, shades of dark deepening into black shadows. Dim. Odd, unfamiliar noises came to her ears. His world, not hers.

  “I’m sorry, Raz, but—”

  His grip tightened on her hands. “No. I won’t let you go because of one stupidity I said aloud.” His expression was stark in the silver light. “I am an actor.”

  “We agreed that you took your profession seriously, Raz,” Del said mildly. “You are an excellent actor.”

  His muscles eased and he shifted his stance slightly, but he didn’t loosen his grasp on her hands. He wanted her, and that was good. “Women have tried to buy me.”

  “I’m sure they have, but I wouldn’t. I want your respect, Raz. I am not a woman who would buy a man.”

  “No, you aren’t.” He grimaced. “I know you aren’t.”

  “But still you insulted me.”

  His jaw flexed. “A foolish moment. A defense. I apologize. Don’t go away, Del.”

  She let the silence hang and seethe for a moment, learning the trick from him, and was that good or bad? How much would being with him change her? A question for another time. She let out a sigh. “I won’t go away.” She could have made light and cynical, said he was too good a lover, but that would hurt them both. Looking deep into his eyes, letting the link between them widen so she felt his self-anger, let him feel her hurt—he flinched, brought her hands to frame his face, leaned down, and kissed her on the mouth. It was a kiss of promise.

  She didn’t sink against him, kept herself separate. But she let her lips soften under his, let his tongue into her mouth, tasted him and let him taste her. Then she stepped back. “I won’t go away.” Not soon. She was beginning to think she was in trouble, her options in life narrowing. Another consideration for another time. She stroked those wonderful cheekbones. Didn’t say she was falling in love with him. How easy it was to forgive him . . . because their link gave her what he was feeling.

  She’d had flashes of the past from him when he’d been young and struggling and poor and a woman had wanted to buy him. A beautiful, accomplished woman and he’d been tempted . . . until he’d seen her selfishness . . . and that he’d be another accessory.

  Del wound her arms around h
im, sent her desire for him, the caring for him that welled inside her to him through their link, kissed him. She broke it when they began to pant, and stepped back completely from his embrace, angled her head to meet his eyes, and smiled. “I’m not going away soon. But I think we need to know each other more.”

  His answering smile was wicked. “I agree. We should go to my apartment and work on that.”

  “Out of bed, too.”

  “Of course.” He took her hand again and swung it as they walked toward the stage door. They signed out with the guard and stepped into the summer’s night. They’d driven to the theater in his glider, which had been parked a couple of blocks away, but now waited, gleaming red, under the new security light.

  Del did a rapid calculation as she let Raz open the door and hand her into the vehicle with the courtliness he did so well. When they’d accelerated, she said, “I anticipate giving you two more gifts.”

  “Cherry, on auto,” Raz said and turned to Del with an anticipatory gleam in his eyes. “Two gifts.”

  Del nodded. “A world tapestry to replace the one you lost.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “A surprise,” she said.

  “A surprise,” he breathed, his voice infused with delight. Again he took her hand, kissed it. “My favorite.” Then he winked. “But I will remind you that earlier we agreed I would be in charge of our entertainment for the rest of this evening . . . to let you relax and enjoy . . .” he added virtuously. “You are only expected to handle one easy thing.”

  Del shook her head. “Raz, you’re too good.”

  “I know.”

  “But you are deluded if you think you are easy.”

  His apartment was as handsome as he. There was a nice-sized mainspace that she felt he used for entertaining with light brown walls and one red wall where the windows were. All was streamlined and tidy, with less stuff than she’d imagined. A battered model of Lugh’s Spear sat solitary on one shelf. His HeartGift wasn’t here; he kept it in his dressing room at the theater.

  Through an open door she saw that the bedroom was equally large and a shade darker than the mainspace, almost like a cozy cave. There was a puffy quilt and more pillows on the big bed than she had.

  Then Raz distracted her as he ordered some music on and led her into a dance. She wondered why until he brought her close to his aroused body and she realized he wanted to romance and seduce her. She was in a mood to be romanced and seduced.

  She let all thought siphon from her mind and reveled in physicality. Their bodies moved together and she liked the pressure of hers against his. She became aware of the underlying fragrance of his space . . . a hint of cherries, cocoa, all those sweets that didn’t last long in her pack on the trail. His hands guided her in a turn and she knew he was a much better dancer than she, but it didn’t matter.

  With her hand around the nape of his neck, she played with the silky hairs there and his breathing went ragged, as fast and choppy as her own.

  He was ready.

  So was she.

  He guided her to the bed and the music throbbed with the beat of her heart. Definitely making-love music. The man knew what he was doing. That didn’t bother her, either; they’d both had other lovers, but he was her HeartMate—and she kept that last smug thought to herself.

  Instead, she opened the link wide between them, so he knew what she was feeling. Her yearning for him—his body with hers—atop or under, but bare skin rubbing against bare skin. Her passion and desire for him.

  She grabbed his head and pulled it down and kissed his mouth, hard, opening his lips with her tongue, and he let her in and she stroked him—with her tongue and with her hand. She knew when his mind hazed dark and red and he thought of nothing, letting lust claim him as she fed his and hers.

  He muttered thickly, but the spell to undress them both didn’t take and he ripped at her clothing. With a flick of her fingers, she freed him from his trous. This she understood, half-dressed, frantic coupling, the surge of sex against sex, letting desire run free and high and wide. Falling to the ground—bedsponge—rolling and panting. Hands on her breasts, stroking, sending shocks into her core, until she must have this man.

  Then they were plunging together, rocking, clawing, zooming up the mountainside of ecstasy, and jumping and falling and falling and shouting their release and collapsing in pure pleasure against each other. Sprawled on the bedsponge, legs tangled together, side by side.

  As unsteady breath matched unsteady breath, pulse beat kept pace with pulse beat; Del opened her eyes and struggled to focus on her HeartMate. When she saw his eyes were wide and glazed, she found the energy to smile.

  “Lover,” she said, her voice a husky rasp.

  His mouth opened but nothing came out, not one wisp of word from a master of words. A bubble of laughter rose through Del, bringing energy. They were still linked, physically and emotionally, and she kept the bond wide, pushed him back, and rolled with him until she straddled his hips, atop him, looking down. His white shirt was open in a wide V to the waistband of his black trous, and at the reddish bite on his chest, her eyebrows rose and she rubbed it. “I don’t recall doing this.”

  He groaned, closed his eyes, whispered, “Do it again.”

  She wiggled her butt, got a satisfactory response from Raz. Taking his hands, she meshed fingers with him.

  She bent down and licked, sucked, the skin over his collarbone and he arched under her, spearing her with pleasure. Everything inside her heated and tightened, ready for another climb to the peak again, this one long and slow. She rose and fell, testing them both, and his eyes sharpened, his stare latching on to her own. Then he deliberately rolled his eyes back in his head. “Older women are known to be able to wipe a man out.”

  She liked that he could laugh at himself, at the dregs of their argument, gurgled with laughter again, kissed his swollen lips with her own. “Pretty boys.”

  A fierceness came to his gaze. “I am not a boy.” He rotated his hips precisely and orgasm roared through her, taking her breath. She gasped.

  But he didn’t stop, tightened his grip on her fingers. “Look at me.”

  Trembling, she met his eyes. Blue and wild and thrilling. He thrust again and she rode him for a minute, then her lax muscles revived and she took the rhythm from him. Their gazes locked and she saw his rising passion, knew her own pupils dilated as they moved together faster, faster.

  His eyes went blurry again and she saw him fall, pushed herself a little and fell with him again, loosed his hands as her arms wrapped around him, and he held her tight, and they fell all the way into sleep together.

  Del awoke in the morning naked and tucked into Raz’s bed, feeling incredible, loose and relaxed and able to concentrate on her HeartMate and only her HeartMate. He was gone from the bed, and the scent of caff pervaded the apartment.

  The scrybowl jangled, some ancient, bouncy Earth tune that was associated with the theater, but that she didn’t know the name of. She was beginning to realize that the theater world had more ties to the past than she’d ever thought. She was usually focused on the now and the future—what was around the next bend that she could put on the next map.

  Raz walked into the bedroom and handed her a mug of caff, then strolled over to the scrybowl with a grace that was a pleasure to watch. He ran his finger around the rim of the bowl. “Here, Johns.”

  Del recognized the name as the actor, St. Johnswort. She pulled a sheet over her breasts, but Raz didn’t activate the spell that would send the image of Johns from the water in the scrybowl to hover above it as a two-way viz. Good.

  Johns grunted. “Got lucky last night, eh? Meet me at the Thespian Club in a half septhour for breakfast. Got news of an . . . upcoming project.”

  Through their bond, Del felt Raz’s excitement. “I’ll be there,” he said.

  Del drank her caff. It burned her tongue. After she set the mug on a coaster on the wooden nightstand, she rolled from the bedsponge and headed into the w
aterfall room, washing briskly and keeping her mind blank and her emotions tamped down. Raz had his life, and he’d shared a lot of it with her. She shouldn’t expect to be included in everything he did. She hadn’t included him in much, so she had no cause for complaint.

  Raz joined her in the waterfall, grinning as he resoaped her body. “Good idea. We don’t have much time to spare.”

  “We?”

  His expression stilled, eyes cooled. “You don’t want to see the Thespian Club, breakfast there?”

  She hated feeling stupid and female, but it had to be said. “I thought you didn’t want me to come.”

  He caught her fingers, slipped soap into them, and brought her hand to his chest. Del rubbed, he felt good. His hands feathered through her hair, he tipped her head up and kissed her on the lips, then broke away. “Del, we’re going to spend time with each other, right? That means coming with me to the Thespian Club, where I often eat breakfast and stay around to talk and be with others of my ilk.” He turned around. “Now scrub my back.” As she did, he glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes serious. “And that means you invite me to participate in activities with you. You’ve been the evasive one.”

  Happiness flooded her, but she didn’t show how delighted she was. She nodded. “Fine, but I don’t belong to a social club.”

  He shrugged. “Plenty of things to do in Druida.”

  They took the glider to the Thespian Club. The humidity was high today and Del could feel her hair curling tighter and shrugged. She’d look like a fuzzy dandelion. It had taken both Raz and her to mend her clothes—they both had mending spells but hers worked on leather better—and both trous and shirt had tinting spells on them so now she wore an ice blue shirt and dark blue slacks. And boots with ventilation spells. Her feet wouldn’t get hot, they’d be protected, and they wouldn’t stink if she and Raz got naked again. All worth the price.