Heart Dance

by Robin D. Owens

  His expression sobered. “Then we have the absence of love in our lives in common. We lived as children in loveless homes. I’ve now been blessed with a Family who cares for me, reunited with my mother. I’m sorry you don’t have the same.”

  His eyes fired. “But you will. From me, you’ll have every shade of love. Affection, HeartMate love.” His tone dropped. “Passionate desire.”

  She stepped back. “I wouldn’t know what to do with all that. How to act.” How to think with such distractions.

  Stretching his hand, he said, “Please.”

  “I don’t think I can,” she said, and shifted back to the reality of lying in her bed, with Fairyfoot snoring beside her legs.

  Still, his last words echoed. “I do think you can.”

  The strange plane vanished, but Dufleur was still linked with him. Saille waited until he was sure he could seduce her, then slipped into her dreams. Thinking of her had made him ready. His body hot and throbbing. Yearning. He placed his hand in the curve between her shoulder and her neck, brushing her cheek with his thumb—as he always preluded the lovemakingbetween them.

  “Dufleur.” He could finally say her name, hoped she would say his.

  Suddenly she was out of bed and two paces from him, her face pale, her eyes wide and huge. Looking wary.

  “I would never hurt you,” he said.

  Her expression didn’t change. She sidled close to a bright blue energy field that rippled behind her. He sensed it was the plane, but she’d called him to it before, he hadn’t gone on his own. She could escape, and he couldn’t follow.

  Fourteen

  He kept a smile on his face, made no aggressive gestures.

  What could he do that wouldn’t make her slide into that otherness?

  It occurred to him that his time with her had been like a dance—he approached, they touched, separated, she retreated. Watching her carefully, he made a formal bow. Held out his hand in a position to take the tips of her fingers in the most formal of the ancient dances. Much, much less than the dance of bodies in loving he wanted.

  But his need to simply touch her raged. Hardly to be satisfied with the smallest grasp of fingers, but gaining her trust was uppermost. With slow, small steps he neared her. Inclined his torso in a half-bow. “Only a dance, Dufleur.”

  She tilted her head, eyes narrowed. And he knew that she, living with her parents, had been more isolated than he, banishedto a country estate. There, he’d made friends, practiced his Flair among the countryfolk, become an excellent potter. He’d created a fairly contented life, even if he hadn’t been able to fulfill his true potential.

  Her parents hadn’t loved or valued her, even as she strove to satisfy them. He saw that clearly in her aura of wariness. He forced his smile wider, sent her love in it. She stepped back.

  “Simply a dance, Dufleur.” He hummed a couple of bars of a pavane.

  She snickered.

  He winced, obviously his voice hadn’t magically changed in this other place to become pleasing. He thought he was on key, she probably heard otherwise. But her fear had faded. His vulnerabilityhad disarmed her? “You hum the dance, then.”

  Surprise flashed in her eyes. Had no one let her ever lead? She wetted her lips, and he nearly groaned, squashed his physicalneeds to the back of his mind. Earning her trust was more important. He kept that phrase at the forefront of his mind, chanted it to the beat of the dance he’d tried to vocalize.

  Dufleur hummed the melody. Set her fingers in his.

  A jolt of desire blazed through him. She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes, but when he only moved into the openingsteps of the pattern, she relaxed and matched his steps. They sailed through the dance, experiencing their connection in this dreamtime much as they had a few hours before.

  He wooed her with glances, touches, the warm steadiness of his hand. The last was her thought that came to him. What she liked most about him. The warm steadiness of his hand. He tucked the notion away to consider later.

  Her body relaxed and became supple, responding to his even at arms’ length. Her mind brushed against his, accepting the connection between them.

  The dance ended. He bowed over her hand, dared to kiss it.

  Desire swamped him.

  She withdrew from him, but her glance was less wary. “Thank you,” she said, and vanished.

  She’d known who he was and had enjoyed their time together.That was enough. For now.

  Though he knew she’d retreat again the next time they met.

  Dufleur woke with the buzz of an imminent headache and tears drying on her face.

  Fairyfoot mewled about breakfast, so Dufleur overindulged the cat with a scrambled egg and watched the feline return to bed to curl up and snooze.

  Dufleur’s own breakfast was tense, as her mother whined about the estate examiners. And the fact that Dringal finally had gilt and was spending it on updating the Winterberry Residencespells. Dufleur only pointed out that as WinterberryHeir, Dringal had a responsibility to the Residence. Her mother retortedthat she wouldn’t be in that position if Dufleur’s father hadn’t blown up their own Residence.

  And the headache came as Dufleur kept her jaw clamped shut to prevent angry words. She did, however, take a copy of the examiner’s list of witnesses that had been addressed to her and opened by her mother. She looked at the names—Meyar and Ilex Winterberry, D’Winterberry and Dringal D’Thyme, and the WinterberryResidence itself were the main entities involved. With relief she noted that she had only a half-septhour slot and was listed with neighbors and other casual contacts and Tinne Holly who’d been adopted by D’Winterberry for a couple of weeks.

  Two things were interesting about the form. There were no names under the “Clients” listing for D’Winterberry or D’Thyme. They couldn’t be earning their NobleGilt—had they been collecting the annual income paid by the Noble Council for their services? That would be bad.

  A special empath examiner would be admitted to the HouseHeart,his memory later to be altered. Interesting.

  Dufleur wanted to ignore the whole business, but even being on the outer edges of the situation, she couldn’t do that.

  What would happen to her mother if she was judged neglectful?The title of WinterberryHeir taken away? Would she and her mother have to find a new place to live? Meyar would probablylet Dufleur stay in the Residence, but she probably would go wherever her mother did.

  She’d let her subconscious fears rule her long enough, she needed to work. So she had to find another place, perhaps a small abandoned building near the docks. She shivered just thinking about the amount of winter traveling to and from such a location.

  Her stomach tensed when she thought about what the Residencemight reveal about her, so she did another cleansing ritual of her laboratory.

  She hadn’t begun to pack her equipment when she found a small old memory ball that she’d thought was blank. A paragraphof one of her reports caught at her and she sat to listen, pulling papyrus and writestick close to jot additional notes. She’d been planning on following in her father’s footsteps, perhapsshe should experiment with something very different.

  It wouldn’t hurt to do a few simple experiments, to feel herselfin the Time Wind again. That would ease her fears, give her confidence. Her fingers flexed. She could re-create her first experiments,see where she’d change her hypotheses.

  You are working in the hidden room! Fairyfoot covered the distance between the bedroom and her perch in the laboratory in several long bounds and sat upright on the velvet stand, turningbig eyes toward Dufleur. Her purr rumbled. Time to play with time. She smirked. I am very clever.

  Someone must have told her so lately. Too bad.

  The next thing she knew, a tap came on her bedroom door, and Saille T’Willow called, “Dufleur? Your mother told me you were down here.”

  Fairyfoot jumped down, ran into the bedroom. We are here! she trilled. Come in!

  He strolled in, a mass of fresh lilies in his arms, a
ll colors.

  Dufleur’s mouth fell open. She could only think of her appearance.Her hair. Her clothes. She was dressed in one of her worn-out drab tunic and trous suits covered by her lab coat. Lady and Lord.

  His lips curved as he took in the tumbled bed. “Restless night? Me, too.”

  Fairyfoot ran toward him, wound herself around his trous. He was dressed perfectly, stylishly. He looked incredibly male, and his aura blinded her senses.

  “Good morning, Fairyfoot,” he said.

  She sniffed. You have That Scruff Cat’s hair on your trous.

  Saille lifted and dropped a shoulder. “He’s my Fam. Adjust.” He turned again to look at Dufleur. Gave a half-bow. “You’re beautiful this morning.”

  She stared at him in horror. It must be after MidMorning Bell, the earliest time a social visit was acceptable. Her mother had admitted him. He was a FirstFamily GreatLord. One of the Twelve. Dufleur’s mind scrambled.

  With a flick of his fingers, a tall, exquisitely shaped porcelainvase of a deep blue green appeared on her writing desk in the bedroom. Filled with water. He put the lilies in the vase, stirred them around, and the bouquet appeared even more dazzling.Reds—scarlet—and yellows and oranges, coral, peach. All bright and cheerful when the day outside the windows lashed snow and ice.

  “You’re a Thyme,” he said, gesturing to his floral gift. “You could keep these fresh forever with a syllable. What are you doing?”

  Lord and Lady. Lady and Lord. Lord and Lady. Her experiment! She said a Word of Dismissal, but it wasn’t enough, and a puff of black smoke appeared along with a trace of burnt pine she hoped was covered by the lilies’ pungent fragrance.

  Fairyfoot hopped behind Saille.

  No use hiding her work. Try to be cool—when her body warmed under his gaze—keep his eyes focused on her, not the scene behind her. She tried a weak smile. “As you can see, I’m not dressed for callers.” She pushed at her hair, aimed a look at Fairyfoot.

  Now he was frowning. “You don’t have a suite. Not even a sitting room. Just a bedroom and a—”

  Fairyfoot! Dufleur shouted mentally.

  I will help. She placed herself in front of Saille again, put a paw on his boot, and looked up with an ingratiating smile. Let’s go upstairs to the Gray Sitting Room. There will be food.

  “Caff,” Dufleur croaked. Twitched her lips in a smile again. What would Passiflora do in a situation like this? That thought sure didn’t help. Passiflora wouldn’t have been caught unawares,and Dufleur had no iota of Passiflora’s style. She cleared her throat. “Please, wait for me in the Gray Room.” Heat surged across her neck, up to her face, burned on her cheeks. “Thank you for the lovely flowers.”

  He watched her, sympathy lighting his eyes. “Since I’m discomfiting you, I’ll go.”

  She sighed relief.

  “To the Gray Sitting Room and wait for you there. How do you like your caff?”

  “Um, milk and honey.”

  “Right.” He scooped up Fairyfoot and cradled her in a broad forearm, unaffected by the fact she was leaving hair all over the wide sleeve of his fine blue jacket. His gaze went beyond her, to her lab, traveled down her dishevelment, and lingered on her lab coat. He nodded, and he wasn’t smiling, now. “We’ll talk. HeartMate.” He closed the door gently behind him.

  Oh, Lady and Lord.

  Disaster.

  Dufleur entered the sitting room attired in one of her new tunic-trous suits with the brocade tunic cut right at the knee and yards of shiny silkeen in the puffed trous gathered into cuffs at her ankles. The clothes were of her Family color of vibrant royal blue. She’d noticed that the cuffs of T’Willow’s white shirt carried the bright green embroidery of his GreatHouse.

  To her surprise, her mother was entertaining T’Willow and also dressed in new, very conservative, clothes. Dringal smiled and rose, excusing herself as Dufleur came in, sending her a directlook as if to tell her to do anything she could to keep this man happy. Including sex. Dufleur swallowed and nodded to her mother.

  Dufleur stood, wordless, looking at anything but the man lounging on the dark green sofa. The room itself had been cleaned, the furniture polished, the walls freshly tinted a pale gray with a sheen of silver. Everything gave off a slight scent of minty lemon. The Residence was receiving a long-delayed sprucing up. Dufleur only hoped most of the funds she transferredto the bank account—and the gilt her mother got from Quert Apple for her tatting—went to helping the Residence and not to yar-duan.

  With a wry smile, Saille straightened and made her a cup of caff, which her mother should have done, but hadn’t. “I supposeyou’re thinking about everything except the fact that you’re my HeartMate.”

  A shudder ran through her at his low voice and the words that she’d never be able to ignore. He held out a pretty, delicate china cup, decorated with tiny boughs of holly, and met her eyes. It was as if he was offering a great deal more. As if the cup represented his HeartGift that was residing in the no-time on the floor below.

  She turned on her heel. “I’ll get your HeartG—the ... the object Fairyfoot brought in.”

  “Don’t. Don’t, Dufleur.” His voice was quiet. “I’m not going to pressure you. In any way.”

  Cautious, she turned back to him.

  His glance scanned the room. “You think I couldn’t figure out what was going on? Why you’re attending all the social events this year? Not because you want to. For D’Winterberry, D’Thyme, D’Holly, but not for Dufleur.” He moved the hand cradling the cup. “I know what it’s like to be ignored. Or pressured.You aren’t going to get either reaction from me.”

  His hand remained steady, more, there was something in the way he held the china that she couldn’t quite understand, as if he recognized the simple beauty of the piece and enjoyed it. Like his gaze told her he saw something in her that deeply satisfied him and that he enjoyed. “Please, sit. We can talk.”

  Scowling, she said, “Your MotherDam ruined my father’s good name.”

  “She was good at being mean.”

  Dufleur blinked.

  He laughed, not with amusement. “One of the reasons she maligned your father was because she wanted to make it as difficult as possible for us to meet, and learn each other, and love. She used her Flair to hide you from me. Are you going to let her cruel plans succeed?”

  Her chin wobbled, and she hated that betrayal. “The hurt is still raw.” She cleared her throat, glanced away. “The consequencesof her actions are still affecting me—my mother and me.”

  She took the cup of caff with both hands and raised it to her lips, sipped. The combination of honey, dark caff, and cream sank into her taste buds. Perfect. He’d made the perfect cup of caff for her.

  It was rare that she, with her mind usually on her work, even made a good cup of caff for herself. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He didn’t move to sit down, simply stood there looking at her with eyes of blue that deepened every second.

  They observed each other for a minute. She’d listened to gossip about him last night and had despised herself for it. She hated rumormongering, since the Thymes had been the butt of it. Talk about him had been admiring. That wasn’t so bad, she was sure.

  Everything she’d heard about him confirmed what he’d told her. His MotherDam had scorned him, might have disinherited him, except he carried the most Family Flair. The less-charitablefolks had muttered that the only reason old D’Willow didn’t disinherit him was because if she ever revived she wanted to return to a powerful GreatHouse. Though most peoplespoke of D’Willow as dead.

  Dufleur didn’t think of the woman as dead, and she was sure the man standing here in front of her didn’t, either. Shadows lived in the back of his gaze, there were faint strain lines around his eyes. His beautiful blue eyes.

  He took a step forward and removed the cooling cup of caff from her hands. “You don’t want to taste this,” he said, and set it aside. “You want to taste me.”

  Fir
m fingers wrapped around her own, drew her toward him until their bodies touched. Her heart rate sped, her breathing went erratic as he pulled her into his embrace, against his strong body. He bent his head, and then they were sharing uneven breaths. His mouth brushed hers, gentle, tender.

  He was right. Suddenly she craved to learn the taste of him. Their coming together in dreams hadn’t included that sense. Taste.

  And his tongue was slipping across the line of her lips, and she couldn’t help herself, she gave a small moan of need. He pulled back slightly, and she saw his lips curve into a smile. His right hand moved to the back of her neck and sent a tingle to every nerve ending all the way down her spine.

  She tipped back her head and opened her mouth in invitation.

  His hand on her derriere pressed her close, until she felt the hardness of his erection against her. Another ragged moan tore from her as her nipples tightened, her core dampened, needing this man and what he could give her.

  Her body swayed even closer, into the heat and hardness of his. His solid arousal pressed against her, evidence of his passionthat created a twisting desire of her own. Hard chest, long, muscular thighs, firm belly. She gasped at the feel of him, and he took advantage of her open mouth to plunge his tongue inside.

  The taste of him exploded through her. Man, deep earth, the last fierce winter storm before spring. The tang of him was alreadyin her blood, settling into her heart, never to be forgotten.

  Starving. Her body was starving for closeness, for a chest against her breasts, maleness to her female.

  For the enveloping aura of someone who cared, the touch of a mind against hers that held attraction, delight, respect.

  His tongue slid against hers, and her knees trembled and weakened, leaving her to lean against him, and the warmth and the strength and the hardness of him was all she’d ever dreamed of desire.

  No thought. Only sensation. The breadth of his shoulders underher kneading hands, the tender skin of his nape under thick, soft hair.

  He bowed her back in his arms. She’d never felt so supple.

  His breath in her, sweeping through her like the most preciouswind of time.