“Ahem!”
Cough.
“Damn it all. We go through hell and he gets the girl,” a young male voice said.
Ailim giggled and broke the kiss. She tapped his shin with her foot, and Ruis reluctantly put her on her feet, pulling her back against his body. He scowled at the interrupters.
The Council Herald, Danith D’Ash, and the Holly brothers stared at them.
“Merry meet, Captain Elder.” D’Ash dipped a curtsy.
Ruis frowned. “Merry part, and merry meet again. Forgive us, but we have business to attend to.”
Tinne snickered. Holm nudged him in the side. “Merry part and merry meet again, Captain Elder.” Holm bowed.
Ruis gazed down at Ailim who raised her face to him. Her blue-gray eyes were dilated and her lips were red and swollen with passion. He swallowed, then managed a wink. “Let’s go home to the Ship.”
She smiled.
“Let’s go play,” he said.
She threw back her head and laughed, waved goodbye and echoed, “Let’s go play!”
Turn the page for a preview of
the next futuristic romance from
ROBIN D. OWENS,
Heart Duel
Coming May 2004
from Berkley Sensation
PRIMARY HEALING HALL, DRUIDA CITY,
Summer
FirstLevel Healer Mayblossom Larkspur Hawthorn Collinson faced the gold-inlaid door of NobleRoom One. She inhaled deeply and battled a sense of injustice. Primary HealingHall NobleRooms held all the best furnishings and equipment. Privacy and luxury for the privileged class. NobleRoom One was the best, reserved for FirstFamilies Lords and Ladies.
She shunted aside a contrasting image of the barren wards of AllClass HealingHall, where she also worked. Noble or common, an injured person needed her Healing skill. This thought came easier now than it had when her Healer husband had died trying to help in a streetfight between feuding nobles.
When she entered the room, Holm Holly rose from a chair, his expression serious. “How’s my kinsman Eryngi?”
“He’ll recover.”
Holm’s eyelids lowered for an instant. “Thank the Lord and Lady.”
“Yes.” She glanced at her patient, Holm’s brother Tinne. He lay on the Healing Bed. He winked at her. ThirdLevel Healer Gelse, who was administering pain relief, nodded.
Lark turned back to Holm. She studied him, telling herself she scrutinized him for hurt, nothing else. He looked immaculate, every silver-gilt hair in place, not a smudge on his bloused shirt and trous, not a tear in his elegantly woven cloak thrown over a chair. “You were in the fight, HollyHeir?”
His jaw muscles flexed. “An ambush.”
He said nothing about her Hawthorn name or Family—a Family feuding with the Hollys—and she admired his courtesy. She raised her chin. “You don’t appear any worse for wear.” There weren’t even perspiration marks on his clothes, but then there wouldn’t be; the cloth would carry a spell to erase those. With the thought, Lark became aware of his scent, musky and attractive.
“I don’t look roughed-up because I’m the best at my skill,” Holm said. He dipped his head. “As are you, Mayblossom.”
She gritted her teeth. She hated that name, but hadn’t corrected him when they’d had their first real conversation about a month ago—after a planning session for the charity ball to fund AllClass HealingHall. He’d escorted his mother, D’Holly.
The way he used Lark’s given name reminded her that no matter how she denied her class, she had grown up his equal and he still considered her that, even though she was the widow of a common man.
Crossing to the Healing Bed of layered permamoss covered in silkeen, Lark took Tinne Holly’s hand. She nodded to Healer Gelse and smoothly made the pain-relief transfer.
“My heartfelt thanks, GraceMistrys Gelse,” Holm said, flashing a charming smile.
Gelse looked like she might melt. Then she shook her head as if to disperse bemusement and left.
Lark stared down at the handsome blond youth of twenty. “Well, GreatSir Holly. It’s been a while since I treated you.”
“Three years ago, my second Passage, when I fought my death-duels in the slums of Downwind, when I helped T’Ash.”
“When T’Ash saved your hide,” Holm said.
Tinne grinned, and Lark couldn’t suppress her own smile. She lifted the poultice off Tinne’s thigh. His trous had been cut from the injury, but the ends of the fabric appeared melded. The burn was bad, a third-degree streak from his knee to the outside of his hip. From the amount of relief she’d been applying, she’d thought it was a first-degree burn. He must have a high pain threshold. She wondered if it ran in the family and glanced at Holm, only to meet his intense scrutiny.
His gaze switched to Tinne. “You’ll wear a scar from that one,” Holm said to his brother.
“Really? That makes six,” Tinne replied with relish.
Lark set her teeth at the sentiment, but built a layer of Healing energy between her hands and the burn. “So, what have you been doing, GreatSir, besides playing blaser-target?”
“Not my fault. Those fliggering Hawth—”
“Tinne,” Holm said.
“Ah.” Tinne pinned his gaze on Lark and smiled winsomely again. She had the unmistakable Hawthorn coloring of blue-black hair and violet eyes. “Sorry, GreatMistrys Hawthorn.”
“It’s GentleLady Collinson. Call me Lark.” Lark carefully repaired the muscle, intertwining lengths of sinew, siphoning more energy faster.
“Ah. Yes. I’m grateful for your skill. I don’t feel a thing, and it’s looking much better—” Tinne raised his torso.
Even as Lark jerked her head at Holm, he was pushing his brother back to the bedsponge.
“GreatSir Tinne, I’m sure your family has an estate and an occupation for you,” Lark said, trying to distract his mind while she Healed his body.
“Ah, yeah. Second sons always get the fighting and fencing salon, The Green Knight.” He sounded pleased. “My G’Uncle Tab is teaching me, so I can become a Master and train young-bloods for the duel, street fighting—”
“Exercise and entertainment. Sport. Exhibition bouts,” Holm continued easily.
Tinne’s gray-blue gaze went to his brother. “Huh?”
Lark used a spurt of anger and disgust to Heal. The muscle glowed with health. The flow of the ALL through her picked up some of her own energy, tiring her. She concentrated harder at sloughing the dead skin away, bringing new skin to the top, transforming the cells to the proper shape and thickness for an outside layer. She quickened her pace, but didn’t forfeit an atom of care. In a few seconds she was done. “All finished. Send the record to Primary HealingHall Library and T’Holly Residence.”
“Immediate payment authorization of all Holly charges to the HealingHall,” Holm commanded.
“Funds transferred,” acknowledged both the deep male tones of T’Holly Residence and the comforting feminine voice of Primary HealingHall.
Tinne sat up. With a pretty, rhyming verse, Lark placed a spell on the injury, keeping it clean, but letting the flow of air through to the wound. “The bandage spell will gradually diminish over a week. Have your GreatHouse Healer examine the burn daily.”
“Despite the fact that we are the Family that needs one the most, we have no HouseHold Healer. Perhaps you would be interested in the position?” Holm asked.
Shock forced Lark to look into Holm’s gray eyes. She felt a tiny jolt. Small though it was, it was still a little stronger than the quiver she’d experienced the last time they’d met. She found speech. “Impossible.”
“Huh?” Tinne asked again, his puzzled glance on his brother, then his lips curved. He stood and picked up her hand and kissed it. “My thanks, GentleLady.” He glanced at his brother, hesitated, then said, “We would be pleased if you joined GreatHouse T’Holly. As you know, ours is a line of fighters, not Healers. We have no Family member who is capable of Healing. You would grace our hall
s.”
Lark smiled at him. “Quite impossible.”
Tinne put a hand over his chest and sighed. “You have anything for heartbreak?”
Lark laughed and shooed him out. He left with a bounce in his step.
Holm reached out and grasped her hands before she could follow Tinne. A shudder rippled through Holm’s body. For an instant Lark imagined fear dawning in his eyes, then the odd expression vanished and he smiled as he cradled her hands in his own.
“Such power and Flair and beauty. T’Holly GreatHouse would honor and respect you, Mayblossom.”
She stiffened. His palms were hard but gentle, his warmth and vitality astonishing. She tugged at her hands. He didn’t release them.
“HollyHeir...”
“You know it’s Holm. Even though the proper Heir name should be Tinne, for the Hollys it has always been Holm, after the first colonist who landed on Celta. I’m Holm.”
She tugged again.
He waited an instant, kissed one of her hands, then the other. The press of his mouth was firm, yet held a note of tender determination. His lips against the backs of her hands sent a sensual tingle throughout her body, which she took as a warning.
Slowly, he released her fingers. “Merry meet,” he said.
“And merry part,” she replied automatically.
“And merry meet again.” He shot her a brilliant look. “And we will meet again, Mayblossom. Soon.”
Her mouth curved in a bitter smile. “I hope not. The feud, the injuries, death.” A picture of her slain husband rose to her mind.
Holm’s eyes narrowed. He grasped her shoulders and placed a short, hard kiss on her mouth. “We’ll meet again.”
“I don’t associate with fighters,” she called as he strode from the room, squelching the intimate memory of those firm lips on hers and the unexpected rush of desire. She buried the new sensations under old bitterness, hurt, and anger, muttering to herself, “I don’t want to associate with fighters. I hate and despise fighting.” And if her appointment as the head of Gael City HealingHall came through, she’d be gone from Druida before the month was out.
She yanked a cord to begin the Flair-spell-technology that would refresh and sterilize the room. Visualizing her bedroom, she gathered her Flair and teleported home.
Voices mumbled, swords swirled and clashed with discordant blows. Holm fought Hawthorns, spinning, using sword and dagger. The flash of a sword thrust at him. He hesitated. Tinne fell. Holm riposted and pierced the Hawthorn’s heart.
Screams hit his ears. Words he couldn’t distinguish. She drew his glance. Mayblossom Hawthorn, FirstLevel Healer. His HeartMate.
He woke on a shuddering groan. Dew coated the long grass a few centimeters from his nose. He’d curled defensively in his sleep—but only small night animals and birds rustled around him.
Not again! Sleep-teleporting again. The fourth time in two months.
Holm staggered to his feet, his breathing a harsh rasping. His arm ached all the way to his shoulder from his fierce grip on his dagger.
The night’s chill breeze dried the cold sweat on his body. He shivered. He was naked. And alone.
The horizon was at eye-level. He looked up, past the branches of a great ash tree, and found the bright starry skies of Celta dimmed by the light of two waxing twinmoons. Once again he’d ’ported to the crater north of Druida that held the ancient Great Labyrinth—a meditation tool.
He didn’t want to meditate or recall being trapped in a blood-colored dream of fighting and death. Or think of the ragged shroud of the previous nightmare where he’d failed his brother. Tinne hand sunk into the black, sucking swamp of the Great Washington Boghole—a dream based on unfortunate truth. Holm had floundered helplessly to save his younger brother, but Tinne had managed to rescue them both. Holm suppressed the groan that echoed in his chest, just as he’d suppressed the memory and ignored the dreams since the incident nearly three years ago. He’d hoped he’d banished those forever.
His mouth flattened. No doubt his subconscious thought he needed to consider some problems. He was at the center of the labyrinth and it would take a septhour to reach the end where he could ’port out. A person could teleport in, but never out.
He loosened his grip on his dagger and switched hands so he could wipe his sweaty palm on his thigh, wondering what he’d do if this plague continued into the windy autumn and snowy winter, whether he’d have beaten whatever caused the dreams by then.
Stretching, he worked his muscles and steadied his pulse from the dream’s divulgence of his HeartMate.
Holm wasn’t surprised. He’d known the minute he’d touched her earlier in the day. The dreams had primed him, her touch had triggered the revelation.
His thoughts unwillingly trailed back to the nightmare. His brother had died. He’d failed again. Holm scrubbed his face.
The forcelines of the labyrinth pulsed with rainbows of energy. He sighed and started the long walk out. Somehow he was sure that, as always, he’d fail to quiet his busy mind or find the core of serenity inside him that everyone said was there.
“Please, sit, son,” T’Holly, Holm’s father, rumbled and gestured to one of the large, comfortable wingchairs stationed in front of his desk.
Holm stared balefully at the chair. It represented all the reprimands of his childhood. When he became T’Holly and succeeded to the title and the estate, that chair would go.
When Holm saw his mother perched on the side of his father’s desk, her hand in her husband’s, Holm tensed for the emotional blow.
He grumbled inwardly. He’d known someday this moment would come, but, as usual, they’d surprised him. He’d just run out of time. And he needed time. He wasn’t ready to start his wooing. She wasn’t ready.
He reminded himself that he respected his parents and had sworn a loyalty oath to T’Holly as GreatHouse Lord. But Holm’s mind sharpened as he sat. He had to play this game of wills smoothly.
His father cleared his throat. “Your mother and I have been talking. . . .”
Holm’s gut tensed. The worst news always began: “Your mother and I have been talking.” Whether it had been problems with manners, responsibilities, his tutor, his psi power—his Flair—he’d always sat in this chair and heard those words. Though his father said the words, Holm knew who prompted the little talks. He stared at his Mamá. She didn’t meet his eyes.
His teeth clenched in dread.
His parents exchanged glances, then his father turned his pewter-gray gaze again onto Holm. “You’re thirty-seven, and while that isn’t the great age here on Celta as it was on Earth, it is time you married.”
Holm would have given a great deal of gilt for a stiff drink right then. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep his face impassive. “None of my three Passages, the emotional storms that freed my Flair, indicated a HeartMate. I want what you have.” Maybe that would earn him a little more time.
His Mamá looked at him with sorrow in her turquoise eyes and moved closer to his father.
“We know you don’t have a HeartMate, dear.”
Staying expressionless and meeting her eyes was hard. But the stakes were too important for anyone except him to know the name of his HeartMate. He hadn’t had time to strategize how he’d win Mayblossom Larkspur Hawthorn Collinson.
D’Holly sighed. “Many don’t have HeartMates.” She nodded with determination. “But it’s time you wed. A fine marriage can be had with a good woman. Love can follow, I’m sure.” Her voice faltered at the end, since being a HeartMate, she couldn’t know personally. She swept her hand wide as if encompassing the city. “The Alders have a perfectly happy marriage, and my sister Nata loves her husband. . . .”
T’Holly continued for his HeartMate. “We need to know the Holly line will continue. We need heirs. At least two sons from you.” His father was being less than his usual diplomatic self. The fact that T’Holly found the topic distasteful didn’t stop Holm from resenting him.
“A few daug
hters would be nice, too,” D’Holly murmured. She flashed the charming smile Holm had inherited. “As many as you can engender.”
A growl rolled from Holm’s lips before he could stop it.
His father raised winged silver brows and looked down his nose. “We expected this reaction.”
He tapped a crystal set into the desk. A calendar-moon holo materialized between Holm and his parents.
The ResidenceLibrary spoke. “An appointment with the matchmaker, GreatLady Saille D’Willow, has been made for Holm, HollyHeir. The meeting was expedited for two days from now, on Quert. It is to be a full session, no gilt limit.”
Holm winced at the expense. The globe spun faster until it disappeared in a flash of blue-white light.
“We want you to be happy, dear, that’s why we’re sending you to the foremost matchmaker on Celta. D’Willow won’t have any difficulty finding you a suitable wife.” His mother sounded troubled but determined.
“But you don’t want me to be as happy as yourselves, with a HeartMate marriage,” Holm said.
His father snapped into straight rigidity. “You know if you had a HeartMate we would do everything in our power to welcome her to the Family.”
Holm narrowed his eyes and let a faint smile play on his lips. “Would you?”
“Of course,” D’Holly said.
Holm lifted his brows. “By your Words of Honor?”
T’Holly scowled. D’Holly furrowed her forehead. “Yes, by our Words.”
“By our Words,” T’Holly echoed. “Not that it is applicable. D’Willow’s matchmaking ability is the best. She doesn’t personally see very many.” He cleared his throat and handed Holm a sheet of papyrus. “Perhaps this will help her, and you.”
Holm didn’t have to read the papyrus to know what was on it. “A list of eligible women from Families with whom it would be advantageous to form a close alliance?” he mocked.
“Don’t take that tone with your father,” D’Holly said, in reflexive defense of her husband. “I’m sure several of the ladies listed are women you could come to love. I quite like Hedara of GreatHouse Ivy and am very fond of Gwylan of D’Sea.”
Heart Thief Page 37
