“My prime manipulator is dead,” Blush said, then thought of the cat Fairyfoot, who’d said some pointed words that morning. She let out a breath. “But the ire affects our dreams, too.”
“Yeah.” Dri met Blush’s eyes directly. “I have a deep anger that your mother threatened me and my Family, that she intimidated me.” He sucked in a breath. “And that by the time I got the balls to confront her and claim you, you’d married. You didn’t wait for me.”
She set her own shoulders and said, “I have deep anger that you didn’t come to me, fight for me.” Her eyes sparked. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have had the courage to tie my fate to yours, but we’ll never know. You didn’t ask me.”
He rocked back and forth, heel, toe, heel. “Yeah, we’ll never know.” Jerking his head in a nod, he said, “At least we’ve acknowledged our feelings.” Glancing around, he said, “What are we going to do about the mess of this house and finding the heirloom?”
Blush jutted her chin. “I had an idea about that.”
“You’re the expert.”
His admission wore away only a little of the pain of the previous words—his and her own.
“There is a sieve spell. If we phrase the parameters right, we might find the Paris antique.” From her sleeve pocket, she drew out a papyrus with the spell she’d crafted that morning.
“What’s the catch?” he asked, looking at it.
“It takes a lot of Flair energy, more than I have.”
His gaze was steady.
“More than both of us have, if we tried to work together now. If we mend our quarrel enough . . .” Her voice failed her. His amber eyes were clear but showing once-liquid depths that had hardened until she thought they would snag her and trap her forever, a fate she was beginning to yearn for. “So I could tap into your energy and Flair and strength. If we bond more so we work together better . . .”
“You aren’t talking about going to bed and loving, are you?”
“Not. Yet.”
“All right.” He tucked the papyrus into his pocket, reached out and took her hand, pulled on it. She resisted until he said, “There’s a sacred grove in the back grassyard.”
A frisson of wariness swept through her. Was she truly ready to join with him deeply? But she followed Dri from the house and into the fresh air laden with the scent of spring to a lovely circle of birch trees.
After a moment to settle, he put her left hand squarely over his heart, snared her gaze. “Feel me.”
He opened the bond between them completely, so all that he was, proud and shamed, tender and lusty, was revealed to her. She closed her eyes at the feel of his old anger and disgrace and guilt and regret. “Oh.”
“Know me.” There was a moment of silence as emotions cycled between them. “Forgive me?” He stood there, patient under her hand, the thump of his heart rising with a beat of anxiety that pulsed in the wide link between them.
She drew in a breath, steadied by him, his nearness, his openness, his very character that resonated to her, through her, and back to him. But not enough. She reached for his hand and it was there, between her own. She pressed it against her breasts, over her own heart, opened all herself—mentally, emotionally, spiritually—to him as she’d never done to anyone since her son had been tiny.
A noise caught in her throat as the bond between them grew, brightened to dazzling intensity. “Know me,” she said, though she could barely speak, felt the pulse of him shimmer to her, through her, cycle to him along with the cramped secrets she’d balled and stuffed into corners of her being. Her own yearning for him and failure to act. Her regrets for so much in her life.
Such as the action she’d taken last year when she’d discovered her mother had kept Dri’s ring from her. How fury had filled her and she’d reached for a blazer, shot.
Blush heard Dri’s rough gasp. She’d made a Vow of Honor to never speak of the events, but Dri was sharing her memories.
Her shot had not reached her mother, but the woman had died soon after, as a consequence of Blush’s actions. She’d have to live with that knowledge for the rest of her life. And the knowledge that she’d been relieved when her mother had died.
Know me. Even her mental whisper was shaky. Again she felt the huge wash of relief at her mother’s death, and the kernel of glee that she still lived and her son had triumphed. All the petty and great flaws of her being.
Enough! he said mentally. My Blush is human and errs. As I do.
She opened her eyes to find his gaze still fixed on her, remembered his words, and repeated them. “Know me. Forgive me?”
He matched his deep breathing to hers, and their hearts tuned, and she understood that the next part should be said together, and said mentally and physically by both at the same time.
“I forgive you. I forgive you.”
Knowing him, revealing herself to him, she could do no less.
A clang sounded in her mind, as if the iron tower of shields she’d erected around herself fell. She shuddered at the heat of his touch on her, too sensitized. He dropped his hand and narrowed their connection, and she sighed as the near-pain vanished.
“You have my ring!”
She pulled it from under her tunic, removed it from the chain, and slid it on her finger. “I’ve worn it ever since.”
He swallowed hard, looked away. “Thank you.”
She smiled at him and it was full and free and whole, felt no lingering resentment. She was sure he’d annoy her in the future, perhaps even move her to sputtering anger, but that would be based on new conflicts and not old. “We’re starting clean and clear.”
“Yes,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting. “Though I think we should be safe and use the sex technique, too.”
She laughed. “And I forgave myself.”
He waved his hand. “I let those old mistakes that young man made go.”
Arm in arm, they walked back to the house. He stopped on the stoop. “One last thing I need to know.”
She endeavored to stay relaxed. “Yes?”
“Would your mother have really destroyed my Family if I’d persuaded you to run away with me?”
She thought of her mother, who had been at the height of her power, full of hubris but marginally less cruel then than when her health had deteriorated. Thought of herself then, trained to be the person who pampered her mother the most. “Yes.”
“Ah. I did the right thing.” He slid a glance to her.
“Yes. And if she’d caught us, she’d have killed you and my life would have been worse.” She turned toward him. “I value and respect the man you are today, Dri. I can’t regret the circumstances that made you who you are.”
“But do you regret the actions you took?”
She smiled and it held no taint of bitterness, only the freedom of understanding. “No, because if I had followed you, I would not have had my son, and he is precious to me.”
“As he should be. I look forward to meeting him.”
Boy! came the irascible mental shout from Bonar.
Blush strode over the threshold. “We need to get that man sorted out.” She rose. “Along with every other thing in his house.”
“Let’s do it,” Dri said. “G’Uncle,” he shouted toward the bedroom. “Be with you in a few minutes. Practice patience.”
Dri walked with her to the gleaming space in the front room, joined hands, and linked; the connection between them pulsed with strength, with trust, with respect. Plenty of energy to do the spell. As she felt the wash of positive emotions between them, her inner sight showed a golden rope—the HeartBond, ready to tie them together once they made it to bed. Soon.
As they chanted the spell together, their energy matched and flowed from them to form a sphere. Blush guided the visualization so it filled the house, ready to slowly descend, searching for the one Paris object.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Let’s draw it down,” Dri said.
To Blush’s surprise, she provided more o
f the strength and Dri had the control to gradually sift the Flair through the cottage lower and lower until it vanished into the ground. Her knees gave out and she sagged against him. Wrapping her arms around him, she knew she loved him, knew she didn’t want to live apart from him.
He held her close, stroking her hair.
When she found her breath, she said, “Did it work?”
“Extend your senses,” he said.
Blush did. Mel’s sniffing and snorting at the lingering scent of herbs quieted, and she felt a small swirl of Paris-essence somewhere in the room. But Dri was already pulling her to the far wall.
When they reached it, he carefully picked up a gleaming sword.
“Is that it?” Blush asked.
Glancing at the etching on the blade, he said, “It’s a treasure all right, the sword awarded to GraceHouse Conyza. Bonar will be glad to see it again.” A corner of Dri’s mouth lifted. “Enough that he’ll be mollified when we find the Paris heirloom.” Dri set the sword aside, and Blush saw a panel in the wall, hidden for ages. When he pressed inward on the wood, a hidey-hole was revealed.
She waited, breathless, as Dri muttered a Word and a spell-light glowed on. They looked inside the cache and saw the dark wood frame of an art piece no more than thirty centimeters.
He withdrew the object. It was a framed Certificate of Testing and Nobility and Name, granted to GraceHouse Paris Quadrifolia by the NobleCouncils of Celta, and dated two centuries previous. A beautiful rendition of the plant took up most of the sheet, along with its common name. She inhaled, heard Dri do the same. He touched the glass of the piece with reverent fingers, then lifted his eyes to hers, and she thought she saw everything in his gaze, his Family’s past, their own lives, their future.
“‘Herb True-Love,’” he murmured. “Paris Quadrifolia. True-Love.”
She laughed and pulled her hands away to fling herself into his arms. “It fits, herb True-Love. You are true love, my true love.” Joy filled her, the deep knowledge that all their days would be filled with love, tomorrow and forever.
“And you are mine, Blush, Arbusca Willow, ever were and ever will be. My HeartMate, my true love. Will you marry me and HeartBond with me?”
“Yes, my true love, my HeartMate.”
Heart and Soul
For all my critique buddies, but especially Carla and Alice, who read this work and made it better.
Note: Tinne Holly’s and Genista Furze Holly’s story is told as a subplot in several books. Heart Duel, Heart Choice, Heart Quest, Heart Dance, and the beginning of Heart Fate. I hope you enjoy Genista’s growth, her new life, and her new love.
One
GAEL CITY, CELTA
407 Years After Colonization
Morning Before Halloween
Time to become a different person—or at least continue to become the person she wanted to be, leaving the past behind. Someday she’d be able to integrate her past persona and her new life, but it wouldn’t be today. With the autumn came memories for Genista Furze.
But finally her life was in her own hands. And these last days of the year had her thinking the next year would be better. For the first time in two years.
The antique clock bonged thirty-five minutes before WorkBell, and she drew on her cape to leave for her job—the only job she’d ever held in her life.
She glanced around the mainspace in her small house in Gael City. She had been right to move here, away from the capital. Here she wasn’t Genista Furze, one of the highest—and most notorious—ladies of the land. Here she was Nista Gorse, a woman who lived simply and worked in a clockmaker’s shop.
It was unexpectedly freeing. She was not the disdained youngest daughter of a great noble, not the first divorced woman of the highest rank. As she adjusted her cloak and dispelled the security shield on her house, her hands brushed over her stomach and she flinched. Taking a calming breath, she set aside, as she did every day, the grief that she’d miscarried her baby. Two years ago this week. The end of the year would always be difficult for her. That the grief was fading was the real reason she had hope for the future.
One last glance at her room had her smile curving. Yes, this was a place she’d made for herself. Oh, she’d had money—gilt—personal property, and gifts and used them well, but her rooms were decorated and arranged exactly as she wanted. They were essentially female, something a man might even feel uncomfortable in, and she didn’t care about that at all. Most men had loved her and abandoned her—except her ex-husband, who would have held on far past the time love had withered and turned into dislike between them.
She opened the door and the wind tugged at her cape, her bloused trous under her long tunic. Chill with autumn’s touch. As she turned and closed the door latch, reset the spellshield, she caught a glimpse of her neighbor. Cardus Parryl stood beyond the low hedge that separated their front yards, raking leaves.
He was always in his front garden when she left for work and came home, no matter what the time. She’d tried to avoid him, to no avail.
There was something about him that lit caution within her. Maybe it was the way he carried himself that showed he was a warrior. Lady and Lord knew that having lived with the premiere fighting family of Celta, Genista knew how such men moved. She’d even had lessons herself.
Cardus had a noticeable limp and must be an ex-merchant or city guard, but she’d never seen him in colored livery. Since he had no visible employment and didn’t appear to be wealthy, she figured he had a pension. He’d moved in no more than an eightday after she’d bought her own home.
“Greetyou, GentleMistrys Gorse, Happy Halloween eve.”
“Happy Halloween eve.”
At first she’d ignored Cardus but eventually believed that not returning his quiet greetings was churlish. They’d progressed to short conversations of a few sentences, and she’d begun to anticipate seeing him. Not that she would admit to any attraction, any tingles. She didn’t want to be involved with a fighter, she knew them all too well. Strong, with definite ideas of what a person should or should not do . . . and there would be a continual reminder of the babe she’d lost with her fighter husband, Tinne Holly.
Cardus met her eyes, and she admired his coloring that suited the autumn so well—green eyes and russet hair, a hint of ruddiness in his face from the wind. He wore brown straight-legged trous and narrow-sleeved shirt, and a heavy leather tunic of a caramel color. Yes, he was the image of fall, and she was all too aware that she looked like the wrong season—blond hair and blue eyes.
“Pretty day, but windy.” She smiled.
He glanced around at the leaves that he’d been futilely raking and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have even bothered. Should have stayed on my porch reading my book on Earth.”
A chuckle escaped, surprising her. She was becoming more lighthearted, somewhat like the girl she’d been. “Raking is good exercise,” she said, though he didn’t need it. He was lean and muscular, with broad shoulders. He didn’t seem the type to read when activity could be done.
“It is that.” He narrowed his eyes to the north, where distant mountains loomed that sent the wind. “I don’t think there will be rain or snow omorrow for the rituals and celebrations.” Leaning on the rake, he asked, “Do you go to any?”
A month before she’d have considered that spying and impertinent, but they were making their way gently with commonplace conversation, meeting of gazes. He put absolutely no pressure on her, and she liked that. She appreciated that if he found her attractive—and most men did—he didn’t let it show. He treated her with respect, courteously, and so she wasn’t quite sure whether he really knew who she was or not. Certainly she’d had quite a reputation in the capital, especially before she’d married.
She liked being respected for herself, not her rank.
“Do you go to any parties?” he repeated.
Almost she tossed her head like the old Genista would have, careless, challenging, but she just shook it instead. “No, no bal
ls, no parties, not even a special ritual.”
He inclined his head. “You should socialize more, lady; it would do you good to be with people. We all need others in our lives.”
Genista hesitated. That was the first personal comment he’d ever made to her. From the wariness in his eyes, the impassivity of his expression, she thought he expected her to snap at him . . . or go back to ignoring him.
“Do you go to any parties or special rituals?” She turned the question back to him.
He grimaced, splayed his fingers, and gave the side of his left thigh a hard rub. “Old wound makes dancing difficult, and I’m not much for parties.” His eyelids lowered, but she still felt his gaze. “I hear there’s some good rituals, indoors at several temples, even RoundDome Temple.”
It wasn’t quite an invitation. She didn’t know if he meant it to be or was just stating a fact. The wind flattened her cloak against her, shot cold fingers through the gaps. Again she smiled but shook her head. “Even with the chill, I’d prefer the outdoors.”
His lashes raised, revealing an intense and brilliant emerald gaze. “Plenty of people will attend Halloween and Samhain rituals in the sacred grove across from RoundDome Temple.” He paused. “You should not be alone.”
That was a little too personal for her. She lifted a hand to him in farewell and hurried down her front stepping-stones to the low iron-spiked gate.
Once again she murmured a chant to lower another spellshield, went through the gate, and hurried out. But a few steps later, she glanced back at Cardus. He was watching her and frowning. The wind whipped, but the rake didn’t wobble in his hand. He held it . . . like it could be used as a weapon.
Is Nista back in the workshop? I need to ask her about my mantel clock.” The man’s mellow voice floated through the open door between the workshop and the store, slithering down Genista’s spine.
A few years ago, she’d have accepted the compliments that customer paid her as her due, and would have flirted with him. Before her marriage, she’d have had no qualms about bedding him.
Hearts and Swords: Four Original Stories of Celta Page 18
