“I bring a note from your Mamá,” T’Vine said.
Holm tensed and held out a hand. “D’Holly.”
“She will always be your mother.”
“That’s true. But she isn’t my Mamá anymore.”
Lark winced.
Holm read the note aloud. “To my dear Holm and Lark. I give you my blessing. A mother’s blessing, a GreatLady’s blessing. Go with the Lady and Lord.”
“You are blessed even without her,” Vinni said. “She sent this, too.” Vinni handed a music strip to Holm. Lark crowded near to read the title. “Holm and Lark’s Wedding Theme.”
She sniffed. Holm’s hand trembled as he carefully put the music in the envelope and tucked the letter in a trous pocket.
Vinni stared down at something and turned dark red. Lark followed his gaze. Her HeartGift, the phallic pearl set in silver, lay gleaming coral against deep green moss. Lark scooped it up and handed it to Holm. “My HeartGift.” She smiled at Vinni. He shuffled his feet and drifted closer to the labyrinth path. “Holm, put it in the box.”
Holm’s cheeks reddened, too. The pearl disappeared.
“There’s always the best vintage of wine in the T’Vine grape arbor about halfway through the labyrinth,” Vinni said.
“A very good idea,” Holm said. “Was there something you wanted to talk to us about, Vinni? Some little prophetic bombs you’d like to drop?”
“Yes. No. I don’t think you need reassurance.” He flushed even more. “You two glow, and all turned out as it should have. Taught me a lesson,” he muttered under his breath.
With a quick hand, Holm grabbed him by his shirt collar. The young lord stilled.
Holm smiled, with teeth. Vinni opened his eyes wide and seemed to huddle in his shirt as if trying to make himself the image of innocence. Lark pressed her lips together so they wouldn’t twitch.
Holm bracketed the boy’s neck with one large hand and they all linked. Lark gasped, thrown into the maelstrom of the boy’s mind—with deep spaces, shifting fog and sparkling lights unknown to her. She narrowed her contact to Holm to a thread.
“Another lesson, young GrandLord,” Holm said smoothly, but it echoed in her head. “I will teach you to bow properly.”
He instructed on both the physical and mental plane, imprinting the physical movement on the boy’s mind, then Holm dropped his hand and stepped back. Vinni looked almost as dazed as she felt, and she wondered how Holm could be unaffected. No doubt the strength of his physicality and will.
Vinni blinked in the sunshine.
Holm smiled. “Now, bow to my HeartMate.”
With a grace she’d never seen from him, the boy swept her a formal bow. Marking the moment with an inclination of the head, Lark said, “Merry meet.”
“And merry part!” Vinni grinned and he was all boy again.
“And merry meet again,” Lark and Holm said.
“We will all meet again.” Vinni smiled, waved, and walked to the path from the labyrinth, leaving them.
“A moment, Holm,” Lark said. Slowly she turned around, absorbing the beauty of the Great Labyrinth, its path and the offerings by the Noble Families. She tilted back her head and inhaled the mixture of scents—Celtan flowers that grew naturally in the bowl of the crater and those that had been cultivated by the Families. She saw hawthorn hedges with dried petals beneath them a few circuits into the labyrinth.
Bel highlighted the circular ridge of the crater in gold and the night breezes picked up warmth to caress her. The ash tree was simply one of the most beautiful trees she’d ever seen and she knew why the ancient Earthans chose it as the World Tree. Here in the middle of the labyrinth, it looked as if it might encompass all the magic of the world.
Holm slipped an arm around her waist, and she delighted in his touch, in their bond that deepened intimately every moment they spent together. Knowing this time was precious to her, he waited.
Glancing up at him, she wondered again at her sheer luck in winning such a man.
He grinned. Not luck. Destiny. And I won you.
Always the competitor. But her face shadowed.
She gestured to where they stood, near the beginning of the path out of the labyrinth. A path they’d walk together as they would match all the steps of their lives. “This is the end of our lives as individuals.” She pointed to the opening between lichen-covered boulders. “This is the beginning of our lives as HeartMates.” She waited.
After a moment puzzlement showed on his face. He cleared his throat. “You want something from me.”
Lark raised her eyebrows. “I’d always heard you were an accomplished lover. I don’t know where that idea came from.”
He laughed and at least that sounded genuine. “Since I met you, Bélla, I’ve bumbled my way through this courtship.” He placed her fingers on his lovebite. “So confused and clumsy, it was only when I wore this that I felt sure of your love.”
“That’s right, love. I’ve told you I love you.” Wetness backed behind her eyes. She couldn’t bear to say any more. If love words had to be prompted, they were worthless.
“I’m bumbling now, aren’t I? I’m failing you, my HeartMate. I’m doing something wrong. Already.” His words were rushed, tinged with a hint of panic. If she hadn’t been so hurt and irritated she’d have been amused at Holm, the smooth lover, the fearless fighter looking as if he might panic.
Closing and opening her eyes, she decided to try a different approach. She turned in his arms to face him and lifted her palms against his cheeks. Staring into his eyes, she dropped her shields and let him know all of her, down to her core, her HeartMate love of him.
“I love you, Holm,” she said gently.
His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. “I’ve told you I love you, haven’t I?”
She shook her head.
He opened his mouth. Shut it. Swallowed. “I love you, my Bélla,” he croaked. “That was harder than I thought.” He brought one of her palms to his lips and kissed it, then the other. “Perhaps because I’ve never said the words to any other woman except D’Holly. I love you, Mayblossom Larkspur Bélla Hawthorn Collinson—Apple.”
He grinned. “Of course, I will always stand ready to demonstrate my adoration.”
An inner kernel of tightness that Lark hadn’t realized she harbored vanished. She took his hand and squeezed. “Let’s leave the past for the future.” Narrowing her eyes, she scanned the flowers dotting the bowl of the labyrinth. “I think there are enough blossoms that I can make a set of HeartMate Wreaths.”
Holm lifted their linked hands and kissed her fingers. “Such talented hands—Healing, wreath weaving.”
She slanted him a look. “You have good hands, too.”
He laughed aloud. “We’re well matched in that, as in so many things. Let’s go find that wine Vinni spoke of.”
The golden flow of their bond sparked between them.
The kittens tumbled back, covered in dust and leaves and blossoms. Come on! they cried. They looked up at their humans and grinned, tiny red tongues darting out and flicking at their whiskers. A matched set.
Life is good, Phyll said.
Let’s go play! Meserv said.
We all have fine fate, they said together.
Holm looked at Lark and his love blazed in his eyes.
Her own love rushed back to him through their HeartBond. “Come, let’s go expand our horizons,” Lark said.
“Yes, love, let’s.” Holm grinned.
They started on the path out of the labyrinth of their past to the brilliant horizon of their future.
Turn the page for a special preview of the next futuristic romance from Robin D. Owens
Heart Choice
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
In the booth at her club, Mitchella stared into her wine and wondered how much longer she could keep The Four Leaf Clover open without asking for a loan from her family. She winced. She’d probably get the loan, but she’d get silent partners, too,
and that wasn’t what she wanted.
Her mouth turned down. She was already lacking because she was sterile—in the huge family of Clovers who prided themselves on being the most fertile family on Celta, Mitchella was the only one in her generation unmarried and without a brood of children. Macha’s disease when she was a girl had taken that from her. Sometimes the ache was so soul-deep that she could hardly bear it, even though she loved her ward, Antenn Moss, as if he was her own son. But Antenn was growing quickly and would leave her house for journeyman education soon. Another depressing thought.
So she set her mind back on her interior design shop. To have to admit to her Family that her business was still struggling after four years, when she’d been sure it would be solid and successful by now, was another mark of deficiency.
She took a sip of her wine and grimaced. The Woad Garden was a private club catering to the upper middle-class and lower nobility, but Mitchella’s palate had become educated with the fine wines served at T’Ash Residence during her frequent dinners with her friend Danith. Thank the Lady and Lord for Danith D’Ash! Because of Danith and the complete starkness of T’Ash’s new Residence, Mitchella had stayed in business this long. She’d even managed an uneasy truce with the GreatLord himself.
She sighed and settled deeper into the smooth furrabeast leather bench. She’d taken a booth in a far room, empty except for her. Everyone was home with their families, their HeartMates, their children this rainy spring night. Only Mitchella was alone. She rolled her eyes at the self-pity, a sure sign she was tired. Usually she had too much energy to indulge in such stupidity. Well, she was human—that meant she had moments of foolishness.
Mitchella pushed her glass aside and leaned back on the firm-but-giving bench back. She nodded. She’d done a good job with The Woad Garden. A smile hovered on her lips. This chamber was a dark hunter green with gleaming oak trim and shutters. With brown leather benches in the booths and a touch of brass in the accessories, it was supposed to appeal more to the masculine patrons, but she’d ensured that a sole woman would feel comfortable, too.
She’d done a good job here, and every place where she’d consulted. Why was it so difficult getting commissions? She tapped her fingers on the table and noticed her nail tint had faded. Feeling like she wanted something a little more elegant than the jade that matched her onesuit, she concentrated. After a moment her nails became a delicate, shimmering pink.
She was still admiring her hands when Weat, the owner’s younger son, poked his head into the room. When he saw her, he grinned. It was so good to see someone brighten at the sight of her that Mitchella relaxed and sent him a genuine smile. His eyes fixed on her breasts and his glance glazed a bit, then he hurried to her. “There’s a man here to see you about business.” Weat darted a glance around the room. “You can use this room for awhile, if you’d like.” He grimaced. “We aren’t busy tonight.”
Mitchella rose and shook off her gloom. A little humming in her bones let her know her future called. She knew it was only a matter of time before The Four Leaf Clover exploded into success. Perhaps this was the moment!
She beamed at Weat. “Thank you very much, GentleSir.”
Weat flushed. “I’ll send him back.”
A moment later a man’s large outline filled the shadowy doorway. As he walked into the mellow light, her insides tensed. She studied him, aware of contradictions. He moved with supple grace and carried himself with inherent arrogance—an arrogance that shouted “nobleman.” Yet he displayed more than a few rough edges. He should have looked out of place in the elegant club, but he didn’t.
His clothes, though once of good quality, looked frayed at the shirt cuffs. And the shirt cuffs showed no embroidery denoting a noble name. She relaxed. Though she cultivated a good, professional manner for Nobles and interacted well with NobleLadies, she didn’t like NobleLords.
But this man wore working trous with narrow legs instead of excess, costly fabric caught and cuffed at the ankles. Scuffed and scratched celtaroon boots—and it took heavy duty to scar celtaroon—molded his narrow feet and muscular calves. The celtaroon itself had faded from its original orange and blue pattern to beige and gray, something that took years.
His jaw showed dark stubble, and his body looked far harder than anyone would expect a pampered nobleman’s to be. She could only figure that the aura of complete power was due to his competence in the untamed wilds of Celta.
He sizzled her nerve endings. She was a tall woman, built on voluptuous lines, but he was taller still, with shoulders that could block her view. Dark and dangerous, with only a hint of refinement and an undercurrent of sensuality, her senses thrummed to life in pulses that sent a flush under her skin and stirred her insides.
She glanced at his wrists again. He didn’t wear marriage cuffs.
Mitchella swept a wisp of tumbled hair behind her ear, glad she was wearing the jade silkeen onesuit that contrasted well with her flame-colored hair. She shifted her shoulders a bit so more tendrils fell over the curves of her breasts, and she smiled, adding a bit of her Flair—charisma—to enhance herself.
The intriguingly sexy man raised his brows as she stepped from behind a wing-backed chair. His eyes widened as they lingered on her body.
Her onesuit was cut less full than fashion demanded, shaping her breasts, waist, and hips. She’d paid an outrageous sum for it, but now it was all worthwhile.
“Can I help you?” She didn’t have to lower her voice to huskiness; her attraction to him made it come out that way.
“I’m afraid so.” His voice was deeper than she’d imagined, richer, with cultivated tones. “I need some good decorating skill and new furnishings.”
She liked the way he said “I need.” She could imagine him saying it in more intimate circumstances with the rich, mellow note in his voice turning rough and demanding. Her insides shivered.
Then her mind took over. Good skill and many furnishings, sounded like a nice, expensive job. She refrained from rubbing her hands together, but her smile expanded.
He turned and cocked his head, then again met her eyes. “I’m told you’re the best.” It rumbled out of him, quietly, and all Mitchella could think of was tangled bedsheets.
She wet her lips. His cobalt eyes fastened their gaze on her mouth.
She hadn’t meant to tease him, her throat felt uncomfortably dry, and the effect he was having on her body began to unnerve her. She had to take care, she couldn’t afford to lose a lucrative commission.
“I’m grateful for the praise.” She struggled to sound calm, his virility kept her off-balance. “May I ask who recommended me?”
He smiled, a curve of well-shaped lips in a strong jaw. Her heart pounded harder. “You may.” He took a step forward.
Now she could smell him and the scent of tough masculinity was highlighted by the clean fragrance of sage. Sage conjured up a traveling man, an explorer. And she knew it was true of this man with every beat of her heart. She inhaled and exhaled audibly.
He leaned closer.
“Rrrrowww!” demanded a dainty cat, gliding into view.
“Drina,” Mitchella said flatly. Her friend Danith D’Ash had raised Drina.
“My Fam.” He shook his head in amazed amusement.
Everything in Mitchella tightened in wariness. Only powerful noblemen had Fams, and she didn’t care for noblemen. Danith’s husband, T’Ash, had once teleported her across the city with an angry thought. Mitchella had never forgotten the sheer terror of the experience. She and T’Ash still treated each other guardedly.
A Fam, a cat raised by GreatLady Danith D’Ash, and Drina’s own sense of complete superiority added up to only one thing: this man was a Noble of the highest class. Mitchella’s smile turned merely courteous as she moved behind a large wooden antique buffet partitioning the room, putting a barrier between them. She inclined her head to the cat. “Greetyou, Drina.”
Drina sat like a small, elegant white and beige accessory to the room. Her
tail curled over dark brown paws. “Prrrp,” she mewed politely.
The NobleLord glanced down at Drina. “She had to make an unexpected stop, otherwise she would have arrived with me.”
Drina stood, stretched, and with waving tail, began to explore the room.
Mitchella bit her lip. His gaze heated and he strode forward, with masculine grace that almost equaled the Fam’s. But now Mitchella’s mind was firmly in control of her body. She slammed a door on her desires. Being sterile, there could never be anything more than a brief liaison between her and a nobleman. She cut the small aura of charisma and let her eyes cool.
“And you are?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed and he eyed the buffet between them. His nostrils flared, and he smiled, still attracted.
Too bad.
“Blackthorn,” he said in a husky voice. “Straif Blackthorn.” Worse than she’d thought. A FirstFamily GrandLord. Nothing could ever come of a relationship with this man. Never ever.
“I’d heard you were back.” All she knew was he’d come and gone from Druida several times in the past years. She didn’t pay much attention to noble activities.
She recalled his GrandHouse Residence. Her eyes widened. Oh, how she’d love to get her hands on that house. Passion for her craft surged within her. “Are you going to restore T’Blackthorn Residence?”
The Italianate house of many arches made her fingers itch to return it to its former beauty. She must have the general plans and history of the Residence in her files.
He lifted a brow at her change of attitude from the sensual to the practical, then moved up to the buffet and leaned against it—into her personal space. He didn’t stop his own provocative signals of male interest and intent.
Damn! She hoped she hadn’t issued a challenge. Straif Blackthorn—she stiffened, remembering old school lessons; the Blackthorns were trackers, explorers, and hunters.
He sent her a hot look from half-closed eyes and she felt the tingle from her toes to her head that sparked small shocks throughout her middle. She refused to react and kept a pleasant smile on her face.
Heart Duel Page 36
