Heart Change

by Robin D. Owens

  T’Hawthorn’s head came up. “You’re right, a blessing. But despite the clashes between us, I always respected Holm Holly Junior and knew him to be an honorable man—who has turned out to be a better man than his father. I do not like what I know of this Nivea Sunfllower, and she’s avoided meeting me. Nor do I like what I’ve heard of her father, parents.” The lord shook his head. “I love Laev.” A slight smile curved T’Hawthorn’s lips. “And he may very well be a better man than I. So why would I dislike his HeartMate so?”

  “Hard to understand,” Cratag said. Another noble matter he knew little about.

  With a wave, T’Hawthorn dismissed him, and Cratag was glad to go.

  He and Laev had a good workout, then sat in a sauna, surrounded by nice, hot stone walls. D’Marigold’s sauna was small and made of some fancy wood that didn’t make him sweat as much, though it smelled better.

  Cratag let Laev vent and ramble on about Nivea. Just being in the young man’s presence with his preoccupation with his love made Cratag think more about Signet. He loved her. “It isn’t just the sex,” he said and was horrifie d he’d said it aloud, and Laev was turning to him with a gleam in his eyes.

  Yeah, Cratag was hot. Maybe his face was red from the heat. It had certainly gone to his brains . . . or maybe not. Could he handle a man-to-man talk about love with Laev? Cratag didn’t know, didn’t really want to find out, but it looked like he’d raised the subject anyway.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Laev said, in his best FatherSire’s deliberative manner. “There is more to love than sexual passion.” Then Laev’s jaw clenched, and he glanced away. “Wish I was getting some sexual passion.”

  “It seems to me,” Cratag said carefully, “that a HeartMate—HeartMates—would want to share their passion.” Lady and Lord give him words. “I mean, they’d be drawn together.”

  “I am; we are.”

  “She must be very strong to deny a HeartMate passion.”

  “Nivea is. And she reveres her father, who thinks I’d take advantage of her. Seduce her and leave her or something. She’s shy. And my GreatHouse Family intimidates her, them.” Laev speared his fingers through his wet hair. “Lady and Lord knows that FatherSire can intimidate anyone.”

  Cratag listened to the excuses, and his spirits sank. Didn’t sound like love to him . . . but wasn’t he a little afraid of Signet’s status, wary that he’d be thought of as a leech if he lived with her? And he didn’t even care much what people cared about him. What would it be like if he was a young girl?

  His mind boggled at trying to put himself in Nivea Sunflower’s place, and he took a mental step back and thought of what he, a trained guardsman, had observed. Nivea not as love struck as Laev. Nivea’s shy smiles matched with sharp, brown eyes weighing everything around her, like girls Cratag had known in his childhood who’d determined to marry wealthy, older men. Who, unlike Nivea, had used their bodies and sex to do so. Cratag had seen Laev’s arms full of expensive gifts for her, but didn’t think she’d given Laev so much as a softleaf.

  Cratag cast around, trying to think of a HeartMate couple, trying to make Laev think of a HeartMate couple he could contrast with his own circumstances. Once again his mouth opened before he thought. “What about Vinni T’Vine and Avellana Hazel.”

  Laev stared at him. “What about them?”

  “They’re a HeartMate couple, and even as young as they are, they want to be together most of the time.”

  Laev frowned.

  “What about affection?” Cratag went on. “Those two are very affectionate, and, ah, affection is part of true love, HeartMate love. Must be. Leastwise all the couples I’ve seen . . . your aunt and Holm HollyHeir, the Ashes. I’m sure you have feelings of affection for GentleLady Sunfllower—”

  “Of course.” The stiffness was back in Laev’s voice and a hint of misery in his eyes.

  “—she must be very affectionate with you, too. Holding hands . . .” Cratag thought of how often his hand reached for Signet’s, her fingers twined with his. “Sweet kisses on the cheek or forehead.” He and Signet had shared those, too, and he couldn’t believe he was talking about this. Inspiration struck. “Have you spoken to your aunt about this? I know that you’ve gone to her sometimes when you were troubled.” Let a woman talk sense to the lad.

  “No.”

  “Maybe you should.” Feeling on a roll, Cratag said, “Have you taken Nivea to meet her? She’s not intimidating. Her first marriage was to a commoner.”

  Laev stood up. “I took Nivea to meet her. Everything went fine. I’m tired of defending my love. Talking about this.” Everything didn’t really go fine, then. Cratag sensed Laev’s aunt had cautioned him. “Waterfall, now,” Laev said.

  Well, Cratag had failed, not surprising. Go to the fallback position, delay, delay, delay. “Yeah, let’s head for the waterfall. Are you going to spar with your lady?”

  Stopping in his tracks, Laev stared at Cratag once again. “Spar with Nivea?”

  Cratag pretended not to hear the incredulity. “Sure. If she’s going to be a GreatLady, she should know self-defense.” He found himself smiling. “I’m teaching Signet.”

  “Nivea is in her last year of grovestudy, still learning self-defense there.” As if hearing his own words that revealed how young she—and he—was, Laev continued. “I don’t think she likes it much.”

  “She wasn’t apprenticed to anyone and is now a journey-woman?”

  “No.” Laev stepped into the tiled room and ordered the waterfall on high and hot. Water smacked the flo or in a hissing wave. But the shelf ran across the length of a short wall, and Cratag joined him under there.

  “Give her her own studio, her own craft room when you redecorate for her. Not only one suite but more rooms just for herself. She will be mistress here. There are some rooms I know that your mother and FatherDam made their own.” Cratag finally ran out of words, though he knew he’d have to press on after he’d washed. Meanwhile Laev actually appeared thoughtful.

  When they were dressing, Cratag went back to the subject. “Bring your lady to Signet’s,” Cratag offered. “There is no pret tier Residence in Druida. Civilized. Refined. Sophisticated.” All the things he wasn’t.

  Laev raised his brows but said nothing, for which Cratag was grateful. “Let the girl get some good decorating ideas.” He looked at the gray walls surrounding them, as they had since he’d stepped into the Residence. “Lord and Lady knows, this place isn’t feminine. Or, uh, have you been to the Sunflowers’?”

  “It’s a very nice house,” Laev said.

  “Becoming an intelligent Residence?” Cratag asked.

  Laev looked confused. “I don’t . . . I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? The Sunflowers have been around long enough, haven’t they?” Cratag might be pushing the rough, outsider manner, but Laev wasn’t objecting to his questions, and that was good.

  Brows lowered, Laev said. “Yes, they’re an old Family.” Then he grimaced. “I think they lost their Family estate a couple of generations back.”

  Cratag shrugged. “Too bad. Happens.”

  “Yeah.” But Laev glanced around. “This place is sort of—”

  “T’Hawthorn Residence is darker than D’Marigold Residence.”

  A door slammed in the distance. Obviously T’Hawthorn Residence itself.

  “Come on by to Signet’s.”

  Laev opened his mouth, and Cratag held up his hand. “At least mention the idea to your Nivea. She might like to see D’Marigold Residence. Sounded like that to me at that tea we all had together.” Cratag actually didn’t know; he hadn’t paid that much attention to the women.

  “Did she say that?” Laev said.

  “Who wouldn’t want to see the D’Marigold Residence?” Cratag fudged. “You said you’d always wanted to.” That he did recall. He lifted his voice for T’Hawthorn Residence. “It’s a very feminine Residence. A woman would like it.”

  Frivolous, came the low grumble of T’Haw
thorn Residence. Marigold has always been frivolous. Only good for arty types. A window rattled.

  Laev looked at Cratag and they shared a smile, and Cratag was relieved. Maybe all his babbling had not been in vain.

  Several days passed, and Cratag’s gut eased. They were back on schedule, and everyone was better than before. Avellana wasn’t as rigid in keeping time to the minute, Vinni had returned to casually visiting every other day. Neither of the children had asked permission to go down to the boathouse. Signet was casual, but studied Avellana now and then as if measuring the girl’s Flair.

  The FamCats were entertaining—Du was appropriating airs like he was the master of the house; Beadle, to Signet’s and the Residence’s alarm, began bringing in mice to play with, a dead bird, even the occasional skirl. He’d present his prize to whomever was closest. Vinni and Avellana praised the cat and reported to the Residence; Signet tried to coax Beadle to take his tribute outside; Cratag would salute the cat and order it to dispose of its prey outside like a warrior. The last method worked best.

  Rhyz, Avellana’s Fam, had relaxed, too. He was still in the girl’s presence most of the time, but he wasn’t always on guard.

  Cratag still went armed, with knives in his shirt or jacket sleeves, and had had a session with Signet with the boots she’d made. She personally ensured that she’d set the sheaths best for his reach. His pulse had thudded hard as he looked down on her as she knelt at his feet, her golden head bent, her face intent on making the boots perfect. No one had ever taken such care of him.

  No one.

  How could he leave her?

  But he looked around the Residence—the frivolous, arty Residence—and knew he couldn’t be kept like a pet. All he knew was fighting and guarding, and neither Signet nor the Residence needed him for that.

  She didn’t need him for anything.

  Thirty-two

  Laev didn’t bring Nivea to meet with them, view the Residence, talk to Signet. He gave Cratag a string of excuses that didn’t sound like him.

  Meanwhile, T’Hawthorn called every day, and his news was that Laev was under a lot of pressure to marry the girl.

  Trying to double-check his own feelings, one evening after Avellana had gone to bed for the night, Cratag had had a short conversation with Signet in the sitting room while they’d shared the double lounge chair. “If you thought you were a HeartMate with someone, wouldn’t you want to get confirmation of that from a matchmaker?”

  She’d turned so quickly in his arms, he’d had to catch her knee before it damaged him. With a wide smile, she said, “Do you want to consult T’Willow about us? I think he’s out of town but I can make an appointment.”

  “No!”

  She reared back, and he realized he was making a mess of this as much as any other conversation he’d had on the topic. “He’s too expensive.” And unlike T’Hawthorn, Signet didn’t have vast wealth to pay another GreatLord for an immediate appointment.

  Signet’s face set. “You don’t think seeing if we’re a good match is worth such expense?”

  “No, I mean yes, but . . .”

  Blood had drained from her face leaving it pale, her eyes shocked and hurt. “I’m sure I could do a trade with GreatLord Willow. If you wanted to consult.”

  So Cratag just went with his gut. He captured her as she tried to wiggle away and let his fear out, “It would kill me if he thought we were a bad match.” He brought her close, nuzzled her neck, breathing in the scent of her. She relaxed in his arms, snuggled close. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that,” she whispered.

  “You’re more optimistic than I am,” he said, sliding his fingers under the tabs of her tunic at the shoulders, peeling the cloth down to see her pretty, nearly translucent breastband and her even more beautiful breasts.

  But she set her hands under his chin, nudged his head up until their eyes met. “No, no, I’m not.” Her lips trembled, and her pupils dilated. “You should know the worst of me.”

  “There is no worst of you.”

  “Yes there is.” She drew in a large breath, “Before I met you, before I knew what my Flair was, I didn’t care whether I lived or died.” She swallowed, and her blue gaze slid away. “If it hadn’t been for the Residence . . . I couldn’t do that to the Residence. But sometimes I tempted death.”

  The thought of losing her curdled his gut. What would he have done in that sterile room of his at T’Hawthorn’s if she’d died? He’d have felt a terrible blow. Even though he hadn’t known her much then, only as a woman who’d attracted him. He might have even realized what he had lost and that would have been horrible. He gathered her close and rocked until fear dribbled away and his mind cleared, and he met her eyes again, stroked his fingers—his big, rough, scarred fingers—over her soft cheek. “An optimist,” he murmured, then said it stronger. “You kept on going even when you didn’t think life would get better, didn’t you?”

  She cough-chuckled, her eyes damp. “Yes. Before all this started I was going to the theater, where real drama belongs. A tragedy to make me feel better.” A tear dribbled from her eye, and Cratag swept it away with his thumb.

  “An optimist.” Then he slid his hand down, over her breast, and tapped her heart. “Here you believe that everything will eventually turn out all right. Or for the best.”

  “Or what needs to happen will.” She nodded and covered his hand with her own.

  “I don’t believe that. I think crap happens and will always happen despite what we do to keep it from getting in our paths and on our boots.”

  She smiled at that then craned around his shoulder. “Excellent boots.”

  He was wearing the ones she’d crafted, of course. “The best, made by the best.”

  Then her hands were on his head, massaging it, rubbing the shortness of his hair and causing his whole scalp to tingle and his groin to swell.

  “I told you the worst of myself,” she murmured.

  Fligger, he hated “discussions” like this, but she was right. They had always treated each other fairly. Knowing his mouth had gone grim, he looked her in her eyes again. “I’ve killed men . . . and a woman or two.”

  She nodded. “I thought you must have.” Her palms left his head to slide down his shoulders and clasp his biceps. “You’re a guardsman. You had a rough life in the southern continent and made your way north.” A line twisted between her eyes. “I’ve heard those towns bordering the Plano Strait are dangerous.”

  He nodded. “Very.”

  “But you never killed if you could help it. You never took a life lightly.”

  “No, I can say that’s true.”

  She shifted until she was under him, wrapped her legs around his hips until they were sex to sex and all words left him. She was so soft and so limber and so damn female that all he wanted to do was love her.

  And her emotions swept through him, too, through their link. Desire, passion. Love?

  She said a Word, and their clothes fell away from their bodies, and he was inside her, in her heat, snug, cherished.

  “I think we’re a very, very good match,” Signet said huskily, and Cratag damn well tried to make it true.

  Signet was awakened before dawn the next morning by a softly chiming ball. Blearily she stared at it. “Bright Brigid’s Day!” The calendar sphere chirped. “You are expected at Meadowsweet Temple in half a septhour.”

  The words sank in.

  Bright Brigid’s Day, a craft festival for only women.

  On ancient Earth, Brigid’s Day had been celebrated more than a month earlier—as spring first hinted that it would be coming. Celtans had modified the dates of all the old sun and fire holidays. Unlike on Earth, here on Celta, the Solstices and Equinoxes were more important . . .as the time of turning of their own sun, their own planet, the new home of the colonists.

  Today the women of Druida City celebrated the spring and creative forces in the aspect of the Goddess as Brigid. Women of every class throughout the city went to their
favored temples and offered their creative work—if they chose. Some women, of course, had to sell their work to make ends meet and didn’t participate, but others, such as Signet, who was a cobbler as a hobby, usually brought their work to show off.

  There were Bright Brigid Day Fairs all over the city, and on this day, status was less important than like-mindedness. The Fair Signet attended was one of women who especially prized the arts. And though most of the women were noble like herself, there were commoners who came with a sense of style that Signet could never match. She’d see actresses and artists and musicians. The greatest of them all would be the composer GreatLady Passiflora D’Holly. D’Hazel would not be there.

  Signet hadn’t missed a Bright Brigid’s Day since she’d first gotten her monthly flow and was allowed to participate. Many of Signet’s parents’ friends would be waiting for her, checking on her mental state. She’d be glowing with love and a purposeful life, and they’d be pleased.

  So she dressed in light silkeen trous and tunics, a pastel rainbow. The tunic had the exaggerated long square pocket sleeves that continued to be fashionable, especially for nonworking noblewomen. Frivolous, but Signet felt beautiful in the robes and smiled.

  It was still dark—most liked to be in the ritual circle at a temple and say the opening blessing when the sun rose—when Signet checked in on Avellana.

  The girl was neatly under the covers, her face innocent and vulnerable. The sleeping child tugged at Signet’s heart. By next Bright Brigid’s Day, Avellana would have been long gone from here. And everything in Signet’s life would be different because the highborn girl had stayed.

  When Avellana grew old enough to choose a Bright Brigid’s Day group, it would not be Signet’s. She would go with the highest noblewomen of the land to GreatCircle Temple.