“They’ll disown you.”
“No, they won’t.”
She sighed in exasperation. “This won’t work.”
“I’ll make it work.”
Another thought struck her. “Are you wooing me because I’m a Hawthorn? Is this how you want to mend the feud?”
His mouth tightened. He cut the stream of energy between them. “I need to touch you.”
Lark retreated a step and lifted her palms. “No sex.”
He stood and looked down his straight nose. “I’m perfectly capable of restraining myself when I must, but I need to touch you.”
Holm walked over and curved his hands to frame her face. He searched her eyes. A smile played around his lips. “Would it impress you that I’d marry to stop a feud?”
Her eyes widened. “Perhaps.”
“To impress you I might say that. But I don’t run from fights, Bélla, you know that.”
“Marrying to stop the feud,” she said, consideringly.
His hands dropped to her shoulders and he gave her a little shake. “Don’t think you’ll marry me for that reason. I won’t let you.”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t stop the feud, anyway. My Father would disown me. Our relations are already strained.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“Find another woman, Holm.”
“I’m going to marry you.”
“Why?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then sent her an easy smile. “The simple reason is that I want you, Bélla. Very much. More than I’ve ever wanted any other woman. We match, physically,” He pulled her against him, and moved his hands down her back stroking. “We match mentally. Our connection is effortless and strong.” His mind skimmed against hers, containing just enough sensual hunger to fire her own. She couldn’t refuse him.
Seeing nothing but disaster in their future, she pressed her face against his shoulder and allowed herself a whimper.
“Don’t, Bélla,” he whispered in his hair. “If we are careful, we can make this work.”
Sardonic humor quirked her mouth. “I am known to be a careful person. You are not.”
“I am if the stakes are high enough. These are the highest stakes there are.”
His words stirred her hair and tickled her scalp. She stepped back. He kept one hand on her upper arm and clasped her fingers in his other hand. He put her palm on his chest, pressed his own palm against the softness of her breast to feel the pace of her heart.
“Open to me, Bélla.”
He held her with such care, she couldn’t refuse. The tie between them opened, redoubled, surged, until their hearts beat in time, they breathed together. “We have this bond, Bélla.”
She cut the link.
He caught her shoulders. His eyes darkened to storm-cloud gray. “I’m not an inexperienced fool, I know how precious our connection is, how strange and powerful and wonderful. I’m not going to let you deny it, or refuse to act upon it.”
“You want the bond.”
He tunneled his fingers through his hair. “You want it, too. Should want it. Me.”
“What I want isn’t my only consideration.”
“You would throw away something special because of this—this feud between our Families? Time for harsh words, I think. Did you have a bond like this with your husband?”
She flinched. That arrow hit solid and true. Her lips were dry. “I won’t speak of my husband with you, Holm.”
“Just this one question, Bélla. I think you owe me that.”
“I don’t know what I owe you. I don’t want to owe you, I don’t want you to owe me! I don’t want—”
“We are lovers. Not onenight lovers, not reckless lovers involved in a fling, but two who care for each other, more than affection, more than—”
“No!” She put her hands over her ears, then angled her fingers to massage her temples.
Silence simmered for a long moment. She sensed the impatience prowling inside him, but he didn’t move from where he stood. Perhaps he longed to push her with words, with caresses, with the strong will of his mind, with the emotional attachment between them, but he didn’t. He refrained. Because he didn’t push, she found the strength to answer his questions honestly.
When she looked at him again, his face was taut.
“No, Holm, my husband Ethyn and I never had such a link as the one that’s developed between you and me.” She shook her head in confusion, puzzling how such a thing had sprung so quickly into being. Then she took a deep breath and continued. “And no, I never reached the sort of sexual climax with him that I have with you. We never—He never—” She stopped.
Holm’s eyes gleamed. “I think there are many ways of loving you’ve never tried. Time to expand your horizons—our horizons. I promise—”
“Holm, please. We’ve only met a handful of times. We’ve just become lovers. Can’t you give me some time? Not only is the resolution of the feud between our Families uncertain, but I’m uncertain of the suddenness of this attraction—uncertain of myself.” A gleeful thought pounced and she gave it voice. “Since you insist on comparisons, I knew and worked with Ethyn daily for over two years before we married, and we didn’t become intimate until our wedding night.”
Horrified amazement appeared in his widened eyes. He paled and cursed softly. She didn’t quite catch his mutter, but it sounded like “The man was an idiot.” She ignored the words.
Then his spine straightened and his head lifted with all the arrogance and pride inbred in a Nobleman. The mannerism irritated her, but not as much as before. This was Holm, after all, and Holm only took himself seriously sometimes.
He set his fists on his hips and studied her intensely.
It looked as if this was one of those times.
“You and I linked and participated in GreatCircle Rituals for three years when we were younger, Bélla. We’ve known of each other and our Families all our lives. We’ve become lovers and reached a level of sensuality and a sexual height I’ve never known. We have a strong, emotional, and intimate connection.”
And it sounded as if he’d thought about their relationship seriously.
“I need time,” she said.
Holm frowned, rocked forward as if he wanted to stride over and snatch her up, then settled back into his solid stance.
“I’ll give you as much time to answer my proposal as I can. But I won’t let you deny the bond between us, emotional, spiritual, or physical. I’ll be here in your bed tonight, Bélla.”
“We must be discreet,” she whispered.
He grimaced and jerked his head in a nod. “Yes. Much as I hate it, we must be discreet.”
“I’ll see you at the ball.”
His shoulders slumped in exaggerated dejection even as his fingers snapped Meserv from the couch into his hands. He cradled the plump kitten gently, and Lark felt another bit of the shield surrounding her heart from this man crumble. He shifted Meserv to one broad shoulder.
Holm ’ported his wreath to land on his head. He looked incredibly sexy, a manifestation of the Green Man or the Green Knight of their culture. Breath stopped in her throat.
“I owe you a gift from my own hands. Be sure you’ll receive one from me.” The way he emphasized the words, she’d have thought he offered a HeartGift, but neither of them had HeartMates. She wondered what his creative talent was.
As Holm lifted his fingertips to his lips and sent a kiss her way, his hand brushed the collar of his shirt aside and the bruise of her bite showed. She stepped forward and lifted her own Healing fingers. “Your throat. Now that we’re lovers, you’ll let me Heal—”
Holm fended her off. “No, no, no. It’s your lovemark and I intend to wear it proudly. Just be glad that formal wear covers it, otherwise I’d flaunt it at the ball tonight.”
“Holm Holly with a sex bite on his neck,” she said dryly. “Now, that would be surprising.”
His brows rose. “Yes, it would be. I’ve never showed one be
fore. And, Bélla, be prepared to meet my parents tonight, because I fully intend to formally introduce you.”
She gasped. “You can’t. You said your mother created that music . . . they’d be bound to guess.”
He frowned. “I don’t want them to interfere, but I do want them to know you. I’ll think of something. Is your father, T’Hawthorn, going to be there?”
A short laugh escaped her. “T’Hawthorn supporting centers for Downwind youths? No. Of course he won’t be there.”
Holm closed the space between them in two gliding strides, grasped her hands, and lifted them to his lips, kissing each in turn. “Think of me, Bélla. Until tonight, at the ball, and later. It will be an eternity until we meet again.”
The words sounded as if he’d said them to others, but the punch of feeling behind them was like he believed this situation unique.
“Go with the Lady and Lord,” she said weakly, adding a little wave as he left.
Marriage. He’d proposed marriage. She hadn’t answered. They’d had incredible sex. “Reached a level of sensuality and a sexual height I’ve never known,” he’d said. She began to accept that he really meant to have her as a wife. The daughter of his worst enemy.
MidClass Lodge was exclusive and set just outside “Noble country,” and Holm decided to walk the short distance home.
He whistled snatches of the melody his mother had written for Bélla. His suit was progressing. She hadn’t experienced those dangerous flashes when he’d spoken of marriage.
Rolling his shoulders, he was conscious the underlying tension that had invaded his muscles was finally released in absolutely phenomenal lovemaking. If this was the passion between HeartMates, he hadn’t been giving his friend T’Ash and his father enough credit for getting out of bed every morning. Of course, he thought, they had their women in bed every night. And at hand during the day.
He grinned. He wondered if Bélla would consider him domineering if he spent every night in her bed. Hard to keep that discreet, though.
How would he handle the ball? Someone from the Willows could attend. It wouldn’t be wise to single Bélla out and alert D’Willow of his HeartMate. D’Willow would act on the knowledge for her own ends. Once the Willows knew, rumors would spread to the rest of the Nobles. Even now, he was far from sure how soon he would win his mate.
Then there were his parents. He’d deliberately kept Bélla’s name from them so they wouldn’t meddle. Yet he wanted them to know and value her. Perhaps he could introduce her to them as the Healer who saved Tinne’s leg. They’d know she was T’Hawthorn’s daughter, of course, but they’d see that she was more Heather than Hawthorn. Like all gossip, it was common knowledge that T’Hawthorn and his daughter didn’t get along.
Holm stopped whistling. He didn’t know how he’d get around that thorny issue, make some sort of peace with his father-in-law after the Hollys won the feud. Especially since Holm didn’t like the way T’Hawthorn had treated his daughter, resulting in problems for Holm by causing her to react with white-flashes.
He lengthened his stride, letting his legs loosen and muscles stretch. He hadn’t felt this good in a long, long time.
Never.
Surely his mind and emotions were eased enough that he wouldn’t sleep-port tonight—after more incredible loving with Bélla. No. Positively no chance he’d nightport from Bélla’s bed. Making love with her would solve all his problems. He grinned, free from the bothersome past at last.
“Holm, Tinne,” T’Holly mind-called just as Holm came within sight of T’Holly Residence. “Sparring Room One in quarter septhour.” Holm smiled ferally; just what he needed.
Fifteen
Holm teleported to Sparring Room One and sent Meserv to his suite. Tinne and T’Holly were already present and dressed in practice garb of stretchy trous over bespelled groin-guard. With a Word Holm whipped his day wear off and his fighting clothes on.
Tinne wrinkled his nose. “You could have cleansed before you came.”
Holm only lifted a brow, glanced at T’Holly. “Want me to?”
“Whirlwind spell,” T’Holly grunted.
Holm made a sour face. “Yecch. I hate those things.”
“Who doesn’t?” T’Holly said. “I haven’t used one in years.”
“Women use them all the time. Several of my lovers do.” Tinne smirked.
“It’s not as if my odor will add to this stench. Despite every housekeeping spell, the Sparring Rooms all stink,” Holm said.
T’Holly narrowed his eyes. “Are you criticizing my Residence again?”
Holm grinned, showing teeth, settled into his balance, and shook his wrists out. “That’s right.”
Tinne tensed.
“Go!” T’Holly yelled, leaping for Holm.
Tinne swept a leg at Holm’s legs.
The fight started.
None of them spoke. Grunts, occasional swears, and fighting yells peppered the quiet, but they saved their breath for battle. Holm heard the sounds of body hitting body, thuds of bodies on ground, the whisper of rolls and ducked blows. He saw blurs of darting arms and feet, the stars of shock and pain as hits landed. He felt his own blows connect against the tough muscle and sinew and flesh of his kin. Sweat trickled down him and slicked the skin under his hands as he threw his father or brother. Holm tasted salt, but not blood.
The zing of life and adrenalin flashed through him, the delight of fighting, of practicing his skill. Yet even as his body dodged and tumbled, he knew that this pleasure dimmed beside that he’d just found with Bélla.
The thought of her distracted him for an instant and he took a clout on the shoulder he should have parried. He retaliated and jabbed Tinne nicely in the ribs.
“Stop!” T’Holly cut the air with his hand. Holm altered his fist’s direction so the blow missed his father. Tinne, more committed to the battle, had to drop and roll in a somersault. They ended the session equal in points.
“Towels,” ordered T’Holly, and an instant later all three had thick green towels around their necks. T’Holly mopped his face. “Well done. We’ll rest for a few moments. Sit.”
Holm and Tinne collapsed onto the tough, springy mossbed and sat cross-legged, looking up at their father. The familiarity of their positions made Holm feel like a boy again. He shared a grin with Tinne.
“The Hawthorns are resolved to feud.” T’Holly paced to the end of the mat and back.
“Do we call in our allies?” asked Tinne.
“No. We’ll handle this matter within the Family. But I’ve decided I’ll call in the younger sons from the branches of Winterberry, Blackdrink, and Mounthol who have weathered their second Passage and have an aptitude for fighting. It’s Family policy that all Holly boys, no matter what branch, and no matter how remote, are trained in fighting from the age of three Celtan years. I studied the list of names, and we should have twenty new men as additional Family Guards. The last will arrive no later than two eightdays from now.”
Tinne whistled tunelessly. “A nice number. New friends, how fun.”
The gravity of the feud oppressed Holm. How much distress would it cause Lark? Would she let him comfort her? And could they comfort each other?
“I anticipate deaths, but not a bloodfeud. We should be able to keep our tempers enough to win, and win well. Try not to kill T’Hawthorn’s son or grandson.”
T’Holly stopped and stared at each of them in turn. “We are the best fighters on Celta. It is bred in our very bones, but the reason we are the best is only one.” His gaze speared Tinne, awaiting the proper answer.
“Because we are men of honor,” Tinne said.
“And because we are men of honor, we follow rules stricter than the Noble’s Feuding Code,” Holm murmured. He had spoken those words to the five men in his own lesson that morning.
“That’s right.” T’Holly nodded shortly. “Remember it. We’ll do defensive street fighting this afternoon. Dismissed.”
As soon as Holm left, restlessness im
bued Lark, and her brain picked at the emotions he’d ignited in her and what she should do.
So she cleaned her apartment by hand instead of by spells and got a certain satisfaction from the physical movement.
As she scrubbed the many windowsills, she finally decided that the issue came down to love. She should marry for love and nothing else. There was no other acceptable reason for marriage. Even if she wanted children, it would be bad for everyone concerned if they were raised in a loveless marriage.
She plopped the rag back in the bucket and moved on to the next shelf. She halted in mid-swipe as her logic came to a conclusion and jolted her.
The truth was, she didn’t believe in a deep, abiding love for herself. Perhaps because her parents hadn’t been HeartMates, or in love. Her father’s parents had also married for alliance and gain. FatherDam still lived on T’Hawthorn estates, long after her husband’s death. HeartMates died within a year of their spouses.
The influence of her father, and her father’s House, had never been mitigated by the visits to T’Heather. That set of HeartMates didn’t publicly express their devotion, though it was evident, particularly on an emotional plane.
Of course, when she’d married Ethyn, she’d taken the risk, had hoped to find a true and abiding love, if not a HeartMate. But the depth of the emotion she’d expected had escaped her like sand through her fingers and her heart had gone back to disbelieving in love between two people.
There wasn’t a HeartMate for her in this lifetime. She hadn’t experienced any metaphysical connection to another person during the Passages that had freed her Flair, and that was the prime indicator that a person had a HeartMate—a link during Passage. No, her Passages had been stormy, but controllable, and with no outreaching to touch another’s soul.
Knowing this, she hadn’t hesitated to marry a fellow journeyman Healer. A man with the potential to be a great Healer, a Downwind man who’d triumphed over his rough childhood. To Lark, the violent manner of his death at the hands of Nobles had been as great a wound as his death itself.
Heart Duel Page 17