Heart Duel

by Robin D. Owens

  “Storage,” T’Holly muttered, glared around the table. “I like the Residence as it is.” He looked to his HeartMate. “Passiflora has never complained.”

  Tab snorted. “Passiflora has her own suite. Her rooms are as beautiful as any in her former Residence, T’Apple. Apples appreciate beauty. An’ you, Holm senior,” Tab waggled his fork, “traipse in an’ outa your HeartMate’s suite at will. All the rest of us,”—Tab gestured to the table of men—“are stuck with this bleakness.” Tab scowled right back at T’Holly and deliberately clinked his fork on his plate. “You’re facin’ a new daughter-in-law, and a Healer ta boot. What are ya gonna do ta welcome her? Or do ya expect her ta stay in her suite? You’d better think about it,” he ended.

  After that, conversation languished. It was unsuitable to say that a GreatLord sulked, but Holm would have wagered that was what his father did.

  His mother moved her chair a little closer to her HeartMate, and Holm believed the HeartBond between them carried soothing comfort from her to T’Holly, underlaid with music.

  Tab ate placidly, a smile touching the corner of his mouth, glad, no doubt, that he’d retire to his own home—comfortably and exotically furnished with items from his sea days.

  Tinne seemed lost in his thoughts. A line of concentration knit between his brows. Holm warily suspected that his younger brother had guessed the name of Holm’s lady and was deliberating on the ramifications of a Hawthorn-Holly feud and a Hawthorn-Holly HeartMating. The situation Holm found himself in didn’t appear to please Tinne.

  But then the circumstances weren’t satisfactory to Holm, either. Even the “dinner” painting across from him was more cheerful than pondering the tangle of feuding and loving. So, of course, he returned to thinking of his Bélla, her immediate and fiery response to him. The growing connection between them, so extraordinary and intimate, with the cycling energy that sizzled and echoed the emotions between them, the passion between them, was something he didn’t think he could do without. And they weren’t HeartBonded yet.

  Finally T’Holly pushed himself back from the table. “We have matters to discuss. Let’s talk in the ResidenceDen. Relatives of T’Hawthorn Family are increasing their presence in Druida and their attacks on us. We had three skirmishes today. It looks as if our disagreement is getting serious.”

  “The Holly-Hawthorn feud’s been serious since ya both fought an’ broke the GreatSeal in the Guildhall,” Tab said.

  T’Holly winced. “That was thirty years ago.”

  “Neither of ya have forgotten,” Tab pointed out. “Neither of ya have made any peace overtures. NobleCircle Rituals have ta choose between havin’ T’Holly or T’Hawthorn for Council workin’s.”

  “And they usually choose me,” T’Holly said.

  Tab snorted. “The problem with you, Holm the Elder, is that ya can’t admit a mistake, from the decor of your Residence ta breaking the GreatSeal. That’ll cost ya someday.” He glanced at D’Holly, who’d been playing with Meserv next to her chair. The kitten batted at a bright blue ribbon dangling from her fingers. Tab snorted again as the ribbon swung out of Meserv’s reach and he failed to follow and pounce.

  “Have a good evening, Passiflora.” Tab ducked a nod.

  She lifted her gaze from the kitten and smiled sweetly. “The music muse is whispering in my ear. I’ll work a while at my craft.” She sent an intimate smile to her HeartMate as she rose from the table and the men stood, too. “And you all will work at yours.” Her glance touched Holm’s throat and softness came to her eyes. “Don’t dawdle in your wooing, dear. I’d like to be a MotherSire before the year ends.”

  His father looked at Holm gravely, as if considering the escalating conflict with T’Hawthorn. “I agree. The sooner the next generation of Hollys is bred, the better.”

  Holm gritted his teeth, but still smiled at his Mamá.

  Tinne shot Holm a concerned look.

  Holm deliberately placed his napkin upon his plate and rose. “About the feud, I’m sure you’re right, it’s heating up.” He touched his brother’s arm as he passed Tinne, and nodded to G’Uncle Tab. “We definitely need to strategize.”

  Tab said, “The cuzes from the countryside are doin’ well, an’ should come here for further trainin’.” He smiled briefly. “It’s always been the reward for passin’ the first test, ta be accepted at T’Holly Residence ta live and drill.” He followed T’Holly and Holm from the dining room. “Tinne will be workin’ with me at The Green Knight with my other students. That means you, Holm, will give our five cuzes intermediate instruction.”

  Holm nodded, but his heart clenched a moment in revolt at switching his thoughts from love to war.

  Ten

  Lark awoke to music. Soft and soothing, yet holding an underlying lilt of exuberance—almost a dance. It complemented the heady fragrance of the roses perfectly.

  “Bélla? Wake up, my delightful Bélla.” Holm’s voice issued from the scrybowl. His tones contrasted with the music, deep and sensual. Just the sound of him caused her skin to tingle. How could he have such an affect on her?

  “Bélla?”

  She decided to ignore him, burying herself in the permamoss bedsponge and drawing a fluffup pillow over her head. But that muted the music, and it was simply too exquisite to dismiss. It refreshed her spirit. She’d slept poorly, tormented by dreams she couldn’t, wouldn’t remember. Dreams that featured street fights and blood.

  “Bélla?” The ace street fighter whispered.

  Lark sat up and threw the pillow at the wall.

  “Bélla, my Bélla?”

  “My scry and viz location are coded, GreatSir. They should not have been available to you.” She raised her voice so it carried to the mainspace and her scrybowl.

  “You don’t like the music?” He sounded hurt.

  “I don’t like Nobles who think that laws, and even common rules of courtesy, don’t apply to them. It’s the Noble class’s most serious and dangerous flaw. It lacks respect.”

  The music continued, but Holm remained silent for a full minute. “Forgive me. Done.” He disconnected and the bewitching music stopped.

  Lark rose with a sigh and rubbed the back of her neck. Phyll and the fitful sleep had left her with a headache. She summoned PainRelief from the medicinal no-time storage unit, unwilling to spend the most minor Healing energy on herself.

  Grumbling, she stripped off her thin silkeen nightshirt as she went to the waterfall and bent her neck beneath the wet heat. She hadn’t been on call and today was a restday so she hadn’t dressed in quilted pajamas.

  When she emerged from her shower, a luscious aroma of freshly baked pastry filled her apartment. Phyll danced around her feet with ever-increasing yowls. Food, food, FOOD!

  Lark plucked a robe off a bedroom hook and tossed it on, then walked to the mainspace. Streaks of soundless red lightning emerged from her scrybowl. An urgent call.

  A quiet bell rang at intervals from her collection box.

  Holm Holly scried. He sent Food and music, Phyll said.

  That wasn’t all he sent. As she opened her collection box, an angry, ruffled Meserv jumped out. He pounced on Phyll and they immediately became a whirl of growling, rolling kittens. Lark watched helplessly, not feeling up to separating and scolding them, particularly not for acting on natural instincts.

  The mouthwatering scent wafting from a white carton demanded immediate action. She lifted the top of the thin box and licked her lips when she saw an assortment of muffins, tarts, turnovers, and pastry horns filled with cocoa and sprinkled with siftsugar and cinnamon. The man was diabolical. She broke off a piece of berry tart and let the flaky pastry dissolve on her tongue. The sweetness of fruit filled her mouth. Shutting her eyes, she savored.

  A top-of-the-line baker had created such delicious master-pieces, someone from the Family of T’Wheat or D’Maple. Celtans as a whole had sweet tooths, and Lark was no exception. She hadn’t had a pastry like this since the last time she dined at T’Hawthor
n Residence.

  Grabbing a bespelled cleantowl to erase every trace of food from her fingers, she lifted a translucent green flexistrip from the box. Music. No title or composer showed on the slip. Lark put the flexistrip in the entertainment slot and activated it. The music she’d awakened to filled the room with peaceful joy.

  Phyll and Meserv trotted over. Phyll sported a scratch on his nose, Meserv one by his ear.

  Food, they chorused.

  Lark eyed Meserv’s bulging tummy. “Holm was awake and active. Didn’t he feed you already?”

  Big sapphire eyes in a tiny kitten face exuded innocence.

  Food! Phyll pawed at her foot.

  She picked her kitten up. “Very well. I’ll get some hot furrabeast bites and greenmix from the no-time.” Phyll wiggled in her hands and looked around her arm to where the collection box stood open. Cocoa mousse!

  Lark frowned. She gazed into Phyll’s emerald eyes and said, “D’Ash’s feeding instructions said nothing about cocoa mousse.”

  Phyll scrunched his face. His whiskers twitched. Then he opened his eyes and smiled a sly cat-smile. Milk. Cocoa mousse made from milk. Milk es-sen-tial for Cats. Milk builds strong bones, strong bodies.

  Calcium. She narrowed her eyes at Phyll. “How do you know that cocoa mousse is made from milk?”

  I visit T’Ash chef with Sire.

  Lark sighed. Everyone in Druida knew Phyll’s Sire, Zanth, terrorized the T’Ash chef. “Two spoonfuls of filling, that’s all. No pastry.” She put Phyll down on the kitchen floor and pulled his gently steaming breakfast from no-time.

  Pastry never good at T’Ash’s. Phyll attacked his food.

  “Not with a nervous chef.” Lark put her hands on her hips. “Your food won’t vanish in two seconds if you eat slower.”

  Cocoa mousse will. Meserv.

  Horror hit her. She ran for the collection box. A small orange-and-cream tail waved above the edge of the box. When she reached it, Meserv had each of his front paws in a tart and his nose buried in a cocoa mousse pastry horn.

  She laughed and lifted him. As she did, her hand brushed a message button discreetly attached to the side of the box. A holo of Holm Holly formed.

  He inclined his head, his face serious. “Forgive me for intruding, Bélla.” He opened his mouth, closed it, shrugged. “I am an impatient man.” He shrugged again and tried a charming smile. It warmed her. “Please invite me for breakfast.” His image raised a hand. “I have a full day and will not be able to see you again until the ball tonight.”

  The ball tonight? Memory tugged. Another charity ball—this one for the Downwind shelters funded by T’Ash. She had promised to go. Damn.

  Holm’s holo winked out. Her scrybowl jingled, clashing with the music that had transformed into a long, romantic melody plucking at her heart.

  Lark crossed to her scrybowl of prismatic glass. “Here,” she said. The water in the bowl swirled, and once again Holm looked out at her. He smiled. But what impressed Lark was the instant pleasure that had lit his eyes when he first saw her, then another emotion, a flash of uncertainty.

  “Bélla?” His smile went wry. “How many times must I apologize?” His gaze fixed on her mouth. “You have a berry stain next to your lips.”

  “That’s all the pastry I’ve had,” she said in mock exasperation and bent down to scoop up Meserv and hold him above the scrybowl so Holm could see. “This cat of yours . . .”

  Meserv’s nose looked like a blueblackberry. Orange and red stickiness coated his whiskers. A gob of cocoa mousse decorated one ear. He opened huge blue eyes. And burped.

  Holm laughed. “He’s a charmer, isn’t he? Mamá can’t refuse him.”

  “I didn’t let him feast on purpose. He took the opportunity when I fed Phyll a nutritious meal.”

  “Good strategy, Meserv,” Holm said.

  Meserv rumbled a purr.

  Now Holm’s gaze looked as innocent as his kitten’s. “I can be there in an instant. With more pastries. Please invite me to breakfast, Bélla.”

  She hesitated.

  “Do I have to apologize again, Bélla?” he repeated.

  She sighed. “No. Come, then. For breakfast only.”

  He grinned. “I’m there.” The scrybowl went clear.

  Lark hastily placed Meserv on his paws. Her hands reached for her hair, then she stopped and her lips compressed. She would not primp for the man. If he wanted to visit her, he could take her as she was. No, that wasn’t good phrasing. If he wanted to visit her, he’d have to look at her commoncloth robe. She glanced down and found her nipples peaked against the thin fabric. She raced for her bedroom and a thick velvet dressing gown that matched her eyes.

  A couple of minutes later she heard a knock on her door and smiled. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d ’port to her hall. She thought he’d show up in the mainspace. The location of that room and the sofa would be imprinted on his memory.

  She smoothed her rich, purple velvet robe, drew in a breath, and opened the door.

  Holm cocked his head. “You’re playing the music.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “It’s a gift for my—for you.”

  “Thank you. Who composed—Ow!” Lark cried out as Phyll nipped her bare foot.

  Meserv eating ALL THE MOUSSE! Phyll shouted loud enough for anyone telepathic in the building to hear him. He hopped up and down on all paws. I can’t get him!

  Lark whirled and ran to the mainspace, Holm laughing behind her. Meserv had wedged himself and the pastry box within a ring of vases burgeoned with blue-to-lavender roses.

  Between laughs, Holm whisked his kitten from his treasure and hiding place and teleported him into the kitchen. “Clean yourself up, Meserv, or I’ll take a wet cloth to you.”

  Meserv hissed.

  Holm crouched down in front of Phyll, who stared at the table as if calculating his jump. “I have more.” Holm’s voice lilted. Phyll whipped around and Lark noted the box in Holm’s hands for the first time.

  With a gentle touch for the fragile carton, Holm opened it. Scents drifted from it and Lark’s stomach grumbled. Holm laughed up at her. “Ah, my own sweet is human, then.”

  “Very,” Lark replied.

  Holm lifted out a pastry horn stuffed full of cocoa mousse. Phyll whined and sat, now eyeing the treat and Holm’s large fingers as if he might try to snatch it. Lark’s mouth watered.

  “Don’t think you can win a fight with me, GentleSir Phyll,” Holm said, but dipped a finger in the horn and held it to the kitten.

  Phyll licked it.

  “That’s unsanitary,” Lark said, wishing he’d offered her the first bite—just as he had to Phyll, with his finger. She could imagine the taste of cocoa mousse and Holm, then swirling her tongue around his finger, taking it into her mouth. The thought nearly made her swoon.

  Holm raised his eyebrows. “Who are you concerned about, Phyll or me?”

  “What?” asked Lark.

  Holm stood and broke off the other end of the pastry and popped the thing into her mouth. Light, rich cocoa taste exploded in her mouth. Textures caressed her tongue—frothy mousse, flaky pastry, slick siftsugar and cinnamon.

  “I think I’ve found a secret weapon to discombobulate my own delightful Bélla. Cocoa mousse.”

  Me, too, said Phyll. More for Me.

  Lark gathered her wits. “Two spoonfuls, only.” She went toward the kitchen, licking her lips.

  “Bélla, you can have two entire pastries.” Holm’s dark voice tempted her.

  The last, lingering note of the music was spoiled by the sound of retching. Lark and Holm ran to the kitchen threshold as Meserv vomited on the floor.

  Lark looked at the regurgitated food, appalled. “That is your kitten. That is your problem.”

  Holm sighed. “Not again.”

  I never throw up, Phyll said virtuously, trotting in to look at the puddle and Meserv.

  “Watch and learn this spell,” Holm said, taking Lark’s hand. “It’s
easy.” His mind brushed hers and Lark opened to him. She gauged the amount and variation of Flair. He spiraled their hands together and intoned, “Mess begone!”

  The vomit vanished.

  Lark pulled her hand away, still staring at the floor. “There’s a stain on my carpet.” The deep blue pile showed a dark brown spot.

  Holm shifted his feet. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take care of that yourself.”

  Lark watched Meserv trot to examine Phyll’s empty bowl.

  Holm must have felt her dismay. “Don’t worry about the kitten. Stomach upsets are common among cats, especially kittens, and once they get the stuff out of their bellies, they’re usually perfectly fine.” She heard the echo of a feminine voice in her thoughts and knew Holm had spoken to D’Ash.

  Lark blinked, thinking back to the brief scan she’d made of Meserv’s vomit, now analyzing it as a Healer. “There were no greens in that vomit. Did Meserv eat his greens today?”

  Red tinged Holm’s cheeks. He glanced away. “I don’t know. My Mamá insists on feeding him.”

  Lips thinning, Lark turned and poked a finger into his chest. “D’Ash provided me with sprouting greens. I give them to Phyll at the intervals she instructed. You make sure that you, you, the FamMan of this animal, the caretaker, feed him.”

  “Yes, my Lady.” In a quick move he’d captured her hand and rained noisy kisses on it. “Forgive me, my Lady.”

  Hot embarrassment prickled her face. “Stop that, you fool.”

  “Bélla” His quiet, low tone was the only warning he’d changed the topic. “You know I want you to call me ‘Lover.’”

  “No,” she choked.

  Again he caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth, this time brushing his lips back and forth across the back. His soft nuzzling lips caused heat to spark inside her. She quelled the incipient blaze by drawing her hand away and stepping back.

  Food! Phyll yowled.

  “Yes, food,” Lark agreed. “Greens for your brother there—”

  And two spoonfuls of cocoa mousse for Me. Mousse I will enjoy. Mousse that will stay in My stomach. Mousse that will pass through My in-tes-tines. Mousse that I will—