by Robin Owens
She started to grunt acknowledgment, then recalled she was in the city being a noble and would need words. So she nodded and stretched her mouth in a smile. “Thank you.” She’d paid an outrageous fee to a glider service to be available for a month. She prayed she’d be done in Druida by then.
Shunuk barked. The man glanced down. “Greetyou, FamFox. Do you attend the Spindles’ party, too? They have Fams in their Residence.”
Shunuk snorted and bolted out the door. The driver offered his arm and Del laid her fingers on it as if she’d need his assistance to walk the couple of meters to the glider. As she slid into the vehicle, she saw Shunuk sitting in shadows, ready for the adventure of the night. She wished she were anywhere but on the way to a party. He turned his head, lifted his lip, and his teeth gleamed. You smell and taste good, he said. Complementary to your mate.
Her heart gave a fast, hard thump. She hoped HeartMate mutual attraction would be good enough, because she felt gauche and wordless.
Raz made his entrance into the Spindle ballroom on a wave of applause that warmed him. He smiled, bowed, and began to mingle. Everyone here liked the play, appreciated theater.
Most of the faces in the packed room were familiar. Some were wealthy producers who fanned hope that his success was being noted for the future. He wondered if any of them had a copy of Amberose’s new play.
As he sipped springreen wine, he scanned the crowd. His gaze stopped on a woman in red who he’d never seen. She was across the width of the ballroom, hovering near an arbor twined with honey-suckle, wearing a simple red gown and long jacket. Her hair was short, soft blond curls. Her skin held a golden tan, and he thought her eyes were pale green. Striking.
She appeared slightly awkward in the setting . . . her body quiet and stiff, not open and pliable. Observing, not part of the party, and not observing like an actor . . . or a writer or an artist. Like someone who didn’t entirely like people or being around them.
Interesting. Why was she here?
Not someone he knew, not someone who should have attracted him, since she also radiated impatience. But there was a certain something about her . . .
A look of contempt, hastily masked, crossed her face when two married-to-someone-else lovers discreetly slid into the arbor next to her for conversation. More and more interesting. Not a city woman, then, who was accustomed to marriages of convenience . . . but the way she held herself was noble . . . or so completely confident in herself that she knew she was a master of her craft. What could possibly be the craft of such an individual?
The unique puzzle of her pricked his curiosity.
“Wonderful play, I like this role much better than the last. You were fabulous,” a woman gushed and he turned with a practiced smile that became sincere when he took Signet D’Marigold’s offered hand. She belonged to a Family who had supported the arts for generations and she still glowed with love for her HeartMate whom she’d wed in the spring.
“Thank you,” Raz said. He kissed her cheek, not having to bend much. She was tall and willowy, about the same height as the unknown woman in red. He glanced that way. She remained by herself.
Signet turned to follow his gaze. “Who are you . . . oh, very interesting person. Do I know her?” Signet’s eyes unfocused and Raz watched fascinated, knowing she drew on her Flair to see the psi power of the woman in red.
Signet’s husband, Cratag T’Marigold, slipped an arm around her waist and Raz smiled at the big man. It amused Raz that the warrior eyed him with suspicion. As if Raz had pursued Signet instead of just acting god to her goddess in a couple of nonintimate rituals. After reflexively scanning the room once more, the man met Raz’s eyes and said, “Saw your play last night. Good job.”
“Thank you.”
“But I could teach you a better punch—showier—to take the villain down. Better theater.”
“Really?” Raz was hooked and they discussed it.
Signet smiled at them, then took a glass of something pink and frothy from a passing waiter. Raz watched as she crossed to the woman, tilted her head, and spoke.
The woman narrowed her eyes, then a smile bloomed on her face, showing dimples in each cheek that softened her. She responded to Signet, her stiffness relaxing, becoming as animated as Signet.
“Huh,” Cratag T’Marigold said. “I think I know her, too. And not from here in Druida.”
That both satisfied Raz’s ego that he’d guessed correctly about the woman and increased his curiosity. “Who—” But Cratag was moving off. If Raz didn’t want to appear like he’d been deserted by his friends, he needed to catch up with the man, which he did, amused.
“It’s so good to see you again and know you’re doing well,” Signet said. She turned to them as Raz and Cratag stopped. Cratag slipped his arm around Signet once more. “Let me introduce you to—” Signet started.
“Del Elecampane.” Cratag stuck out his hand. “Long time since we met on the trail. Don’t know that I ever thanked you for helping me get to a Healer after that slashtip incident.”
The woman took Cratag’s hand, squeezed, then dropped it and shrugged attractively toned shoulders. “No thanks necessary. You’d’ve made it on your own. I just helped.”
Cratag ran a finger along a white scar on his cheek. “Signet, Del tended my wounds. My scars would have been worse without her.”
The man’s scars were bad enough.
“Scars aren’t important,” Signet said.
Scars like that would ruin Raz’s career.
“No, scars aren’t important,” Del agreed.
Signet beamed at her.
“Appearances count less than most folk think,” Cratag said.
Well, Raz was certainly in the minority in this foursome.
Signet met his eyes, lifted her brows. “Raz, a good actor can have many appearances, yes? One of your skills is to change characters or nuances of character by a slight change in appearance?”
That he could agree with. “Of course.”
Del smiled at him, flashing those dimples again. She offered her hand. “Helena D’Elecampane—Del.”
“Cerasus Cherry—Raz.” He took her hand and a sweet surge of lust went through his fingers directly to his groin. With a deep breath he caught her scent, wild lavender. Her hand was not a soft, city hand. She had calluses and her grip was firm. He swallowed.
“I admire your work,” she said. “You were wonderful in the play last night.”
She meant it, was completely sincere. This was not a woman who would be indirect or lie. The compliment meant more to him than many others he’d heard that night. “Thank you.” He let go of her hand and felt a pang at the loss of contact with a unique woman and turned to Cratag and Signet. “So you, Cratag, knew Del from . . .”
“Brittany.”
Raz stared. “The southern continent?”
“That’s right,” Cratag said.
“I know her because our parents were friendly,” Signet said, “and she was in a grovestudy group that met in Celandine Park, like mine did.”
“An older group,” Del said with a smile.
“Circles and circles,” Signet said. She leaned against her husband, looked at Raz. “Odd how that happens, isn’t it? Del is a cartographer.”
“Cartographer,” he said. “Mapmaker?”
“Yes,” Del said. “I scout and measure the terrain of Celta. I’m on the trail most of the time.”
Why did that seem like a challenge?
On the dais, musicians struck up a Grand March. Signet linked her arm in Cratag’s and pulled him away to take a place in the dance line.
Del flinched. She hoped Raz wouldn’t ask her to dance; she’d forgotten the intricate steps of the pattern. More and more her thin layer of civilization was eroding. Raz obviously was more comfortable with Signet—that type of arty woman—than with her.
She was warm, heated from the inside out since he’d grasped her hand, her blood hot and racing. Her tanned skin would keep her from showin
g a deep flush. A little pinkness might hit her cheeks, but Raz would be used to women flushing in his presence, probably liked it. Preferred pale or pinkened skin to golden.
He turned with courtesy. “Would you care to dance?”
She shook her head. “I don’t recall the steps, thank you very much.”
His smile showed in his eyes as well as his lips. She felt her breath actually catch. Lady and Lord!
Their gazes locked; she could almost feel a link between them unrolling like a string that led through a dangerous maze.
“Raz, shall we?” The question came from their hostess. She smiled benignly on Del. “My HeartMate will be opening the dancing with Lily Fescue, the lead actress of the play.”
“Of course,” Del said. She should have figured that out, shouldn’t she? She was so rusty at social events. “Thank you for the invitation, I’m enjoying myself.”
The older woman beamed at Del, then whisked Raz away.
That Del was enjoying the event surprised her. But she liked Cratag and Signet Marigold, though Signet had stretched the truth when she’d said their parents had been friendly. Within the ranks of GrandHouse and GraceHouse nobles, status was mostly based on how early the house had been founded. Sometimes that could be overcome by wealth. Del’s parents had certainly believed so and had done their best to raise the Family a few notches in the social scale. They might even have done it, Del didn’t know. It must have been bitter to them that all they’d “worked” so hard for would be left to a daughter who didn’t care a silver sliver about Druidan noble society.
She’d stopped talking to her parents years ago and had only a twinge when she recalled their deaths a decade before from a sickness that had swept Druida. Another reason she disliked the city; too many people close together to spread disease.
She watched the dancers, all lined up according to status. Status meant nothing in the wilds, and she preferred that. The atmosphere that had smothered her when she’d walked in began to descend again and she rolled her shoulders and went for another glass of springreen wine.
The party had been uncomfortable and tiresome before Signet D’Marigold had come up to Del. Talk had been boring and the people shallow. Her gown—with no trous!—had been restricting; she had to watch how she held her arms so the long pocket sleeves didn’t sweep around ridiculously. Her shoes hurt. That was what she got for being on time. She should have known that Raz Cherry, an actor, would make an entrance.
All the actors made entrances. It got so she watched to compare their styles. The rushing-I-am-late-but-so-cute of one young actress; the hauteur of the man who played the villain in Raz’s mystery; the intense virility that preceded a large man with rough features whom she recognized as Klay St. Johnswort, a leading man about the same age as her HeartMate.
The food was good and so was the wine. She nibbled and sipped and observed. There was social jockeying and deals being done off the dance floor.
On the dance floor her HeartMate moved with a grace that stirred her. Straif T’Blackthorn, tracker and noble, didn’t move that well. Cratag T’Marigold, a warrior, didn’t move as well.
Del wasn’t quite sure she could define what set Raz apart, but it was there. Charisma? The man had that and she’d never valued the trait. He wouldn’t be at a loss speaking to anyone and that baffled her.
She retreated again to near the arbor; the light wasn’t as bright here and she liked the natural scent of the flowers more than any of the perfumes people wore.
She watched Raz in one of the least intimate dances of their culture and ached with desire. Taking another swallow of wine, she wondered if she could bring him to her in another erotic dream that night. Heat flooded her.
Six
Raz danced in between conversations with those who could advance his career. He enjoyed the party and interacting socially, but that wasn’t as important as work.
He still wasn’t sure why Del Elecampane had come and that continued to pique his curiosity. He kept an eye on her and was amused to see that some people gravitated to her simply because she was different. Occasionally she became animated, her hands expressive, her dimples winking as she spoke of . . . maps.
A satisfying septhour passed before he gave himself another break from business.
Trillia walked up to him with a sloppy grin and a drink he knew was over her limit, another one of those pink foamy things most of the women were guzzling. She wobbled and he steadied her. She came from an acting Family and had worked most of her life, knew the inside of the business and all the gossip for two decades past. She’d been the first to welcome him on the stage of his first show and a very sweet lover. They’d remained friends after their affair had ended. Both of them had a policy of staying friends with their lovers.
Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him with a damp smooch on his cheek, looked up at him with wide blurred blue eyes, and gave a little hiccup. “Got the part of Fern Bountry in Gael City. I am hoping it will make my name, separate me from the rest of my Family.” A loud sigh escaped her. “Gael City.” She shrugged soft, round, white shoulders. “Well, we’ve never played there for long; it’s time.” Trillia tried to straighten but leaned against Raz instead. “I’ll miss the Thespian Club and you.” Her smile held deep humor. “Would love to see you with your HeartMate.”
“That’s me,” Morifa Daisy purred. She was a socialite Raz had broken up with the week before. She slipped her arm between his biceps and his side, giving his muscle a squeeze.
His stomach sank. He had hoped to avoid a scene, especially here. He made sure from the outset that his casual partners knew he was uninterested in just one woman for the long term. Hell, everyone in Druida knew that from the newssheets’ social columns.
Trillia hauled herself up, and this time she stood, not even swaying, her gaze sharp on Morifa. Trillia shook her newly long and dark curls. “No, you aren’t his HeartMate. You don’t have the stamina to keep up with him, not to mention the heart.” As the woman gasped, her nails digging into Raz’s arm, Trillia walked away and was scooped up by her current partner and left the party on a laugh.
“That bitch,” Morifa said.
“Trillia is one of my oldest and dearest friends.”
“Were you making love to her at the same time you were me?”
“No. I don’t believe in more than one lover at a time,” Raz said.
Morifa was spoiling for a scene and he didn’t want adverse gossip tonight. He tried an easy smile and played along with her first statement. “You’re my HeartMate?” He sincerely doubted that. “Isn’t it illegal to tell me so? Takes away my choice or something?”
Morifa’s lips pursed into a sulky pout. She lifted her chin, glanced around as if she hoped to gather a crowd. Worse and worse. With a simple turn and some pressure on her arm, he led her to the vacant arbor, though Del Elecampane stood close. His eyes met hers and he gave her a rueful smile.
She would be a minor audience but a critical one and his pride stung that such an intriguing woman would see him in a poor light. She glanced aside, took a few steps to the closest group, and introduced herself. From the tautness of her back, Raz thought she was still aware of what was going on with him.
Raz allowed a charming smile to curve his lips as he looked down into Morifa’s petulant brown eyes. “HeartMates?”
“I wouldn’t have had to tell you if you hadn’t broken it off with me last week.”
Ah, that was the problem. He had done the ending, not her. Nothing to do but to play this scene she’d set up to the finish.
He let out a soft breath, drew one of her hands to rest on his chest. “HeartMate, you know we’ve connected during those wonderful dreams.” He lowered his lashes and looked at her from under them, saw she was becoming nervous. “When will you give me the HeartGift you made for me?” His smile widened. “I could feel you working on it years ago.” Morifa was older than he, four years, five? Now that he thought on it, so was his HeartMate, but by so much? He didn’t thi
nk so.
She stilled, and he sensed that she regretted staging the scene, too.
“You know I would give you anything you wanted.” She pressed her lush breasts against him. They both knew she wasn’t wealthy enough to give him much if he’d wanted to go the gigolo route, which he didn’t. Gilt wasn’t as important as his craft and his career.
He ran his hands down her arms, then back to her shoulders, gripped her, and set her a pace away but kept his glance intense. “Isn’t the best way to claim a HeartMate to give me a HeartGift?” He dropped his hands and stepped back. “You present the gift you made for me during your last Passage. I accept it. You let me know it is a HeartGift and claim me as your HeartMate.” He looked at her expectantly, lips still curved.
Morifa frowned, but it was the most graceful way Raz had thought of for letting her save face.
She stared out of the arbor. “Tomorrow,” she said.
They both understood she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Not tomorrow, not in the future. She turned sharply on her heels and her gown swung around her. Her narrowed, predatory glance swept over the crowd, landed, and she swished away. Raz thought he’d already vanished from her mind.
He let out a long, quiet breath and found Del Elecampane watching him with interested eyes. She held out a glass of pale green wine to him, sipped one of her own.
“Excellent job, MasterLevel Actor.”
He didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. Here was a woman who didn’t play games. Whom he wouldn’t have to play games with, wear masks with. Take her or leave her as she was. For the moment, she was a very nice change.
His smile went wry. “The best I could do.”
Del turned and looked at his ex-lover. Morifa had latched on to Guy Balsam. Thank the Lady and Lord that friend of Raz’s preferred men. Del studied the woman and said, “Yes, you handled that well. I think she could have turned nasty. And I think she’s going to be disappointed again.” Del shook her head, met Raz’s eyes once more. “You would have been in a bind if she called your bluff, made a firm date to come by tomorrow with a HeartGift.”