Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  Clearing her throat, she said, “When we have a candidate, we should bring him here so you could check him out.”

  “We must ensure he will not give away our secret!” The Residence sounded upset.

  “That’s true. You might have to do some background research on the men before they visit.” She blew her nose again, wiggled around until her pillows were right, and began to sink into a pre-sleep meditation.

  “They must be honorable!” the Residence insisted.

  Her lips curved. “Like we are,” she said, closing her eyes.

  “Yes.” There was a thump. “My Mugwort Family is honorable.”

  Wistfulness rose like a mist within her. Not many people she knew truly believed that the Mugworts were honorable.

  She was tugged from falling into the softness of sleep by a twist of anxiety at what she had to do in the morning—revisit the past that she wanted to leave behind. Get involved in the mess of retribution and murder. She had no doubt that in the days to come, she’d have to defend her Family’s honor.

  And she’d probably see Garrett in the morning regarding the case, but she’d already decided to shield herself from him. She could do that, pretend he was nothing to her . . . until it was true, until the thread between them withered from lack of use. Until she found someone else to love and wed and have children with.

  Her face was cool from the dampness of tears when she finally fell asleep.

  * * *

  As usual, Garrett walked around the long rectangular inner courtyard of MidClass Lodge. The heat of the day was fading and there were others strolling, or sitting on benches—those who liked people in the conversational groupings of chairs or people more solitary like him, sitting alone on benches in the garden.

  And walking with Rusby on his shoulder was a pain. Everyone who passed had to comment and speak to Garrett or try to talk to the Fam. Rusby’s mental shout gave Garrett a headache. The women cooed.

  When dark had fallen and most folk had retreated into the building, leaving those whose cycles better fit the night, Garrett stopped by the gate to the beach. He noted that the greeniron would be useless in keeping Rusby in the yard. The kitten could slip under the thing, or between the simple, upright spears. Garrett idly confirmed that this wasn’t the gate in his dreams.

  “Ssst!” came from the dark beyond the gate, along with, It is Black-and-White and I have news of your altar man.

  Garrett’s heart jumped. He scrutinized the shadows beyond the gate but didn’t see the cat, only smelled fish and fur-with-a-hint-of-salt-spray.

  Not news of the raccoons? he asked.

  The kits were ready to wean and all scattered. Not a group anymore.

  That was a little sad . . . no, disappointing.

  We are all looking for each of them, Black-and-White added virtuously. Garrett thought he might be cleaning grains of sand from between his pads.

  All right, Garrett projected. He turned and propped his shoulders against the redbrick wall next to the gate. Rusby jumped down and went to sniff at the portal. He gave Garrett a dirty look when he realized Garrett had bespelled all openings of the gate against the kitten. Though Rusby could and did touch noses with Black-and-White, who had slipped through the bars.

  Tail waving, Black-and-White sauntered up the flagstone path to one of the doors. Narrowing his eyes, Garrett saw bowls there, a new deal. Huh. Someone must have figured out that feral animals with Fam potential were frequenting the courtyard. He wondered if whoever put the bowls out was looking for a Fam. And whether management knew and/or approved.

  What of the background check on the altar man? Garrett called mentally.

  All ferals have talked. Even dogs. Even foxes. The cat sniffed. Even housefluffs. We have agreed. No bad stuff. We give the altar man a rating of Very Good Man.

  Garrett wanted to cuss, but didn’t. Of course that was nice to know. Artemisia deserved a very good man. She didn’t deserve Garrett and his problems, his stupidity in hanging on to the past. His cowardice.

  Rusby nipped him on the ankle. Since Garrett wasn’t wearing boots, that hurt.

  “Dammit!” At least he could swear at that. He flung out a hand and pulled the kitten into his palm fast with Flair.

  Wheeee! Rusby said.

  “Let’s head on in,” Garrett said.

  * * *

  Garrett needed his woman. Deep and dark in sleep, he knew if she wasn’t near, he’d have wrenching nightmares again. And he knew pain awaited when he woke . . . some sort of emotional pain that was worse than the physical. In his experience, physical pain didn’t last as long as heart hurts.

  She’d been comfortingly close lately, but now when he reached for her through their bond, it was tiny. He didn’t like that. He had to stretch more to find her, search.

  She should not be so far away; why had he allowed it?

  But he would always be able to find her. She lived in the back of his mind, had since he was seventeen, even when he’d had Dinni.

  Dinni was the past and long gone, had not fit him as well as this woman. His HeartMate. He, the primal man, knew her.

  So he broke free from the mind’s constraints and reached for her.

  Twenty-five

  Garrett gave a satisfied hum when he found his HeartMate. Not sleeping in his bed, pity. But sleeping.

  Heat flooded him and he was hard and hungry for her. He didn’t remember making love to her in his Passage Flair-freeing quests and he needed.

  He flung the coverlet off her, slipped next to her. He sensed more than saw her pearly skin, and as he curved his hand around her full breast, felt the weight, he recalled her nipple was light pink until it puckered and flushed with his touch—there!

  She rolled to him, wrapped her arms around him. So good! Being held filled his inner heart-canyons of deep need. Her hands ran along his back and he shuddered at the tactile memory.

  Yes, they’d danced this coming together before, long, long ago.

  And her scent rose to him . . . the fragrance of her skin, and even better, the blossoming scent of her arousal. To speed things up—he was so hard he was hurting and he yearned to slide into wet warmth—he set his fingers on her sex. Another thing so easily remembered, how she liked to be touched, the form of her. The dampness.

  Her small moaning whimpers of passion that had his breath coming uneven.

  She nibbled along his jaw.

  He stroked her, teasing her. Teasing himself until need became unbearable.

  Until her hands bit into his shoulders and she drew him over her and her body was soft and cradling under him and her hips tilted and he slid into her—so gooood!—and then they were rushing, groaning, her muscles tensile under her soft skin where his hands curved over her bottom—fine, fine ass. And they rose together and spun into the universe of sparkling stars and endless night and he exploded with her like stars.

  And they settled down together, sparks from fireworks, and he became aware of night birds calling outside an open window and the smell of verdant greenness and secrets.

  So soft under him. Long tendrils of her silky hair clinging to his face. Her heart beat hard and in tune with his. Made for him. His.

  Wonderful, the best.

  What the hell do you think you are doing! Her angry voice shattered his peace. His heart shrank and his mind struggled to understand.

  He was flung back into his own bed, his own room. The smell of kitten and sound of soft snoring was sensed, then lost as her fury thundered along their bond—their luscious bond that was shrinking to a taut, minuscule fiber.

  Wha’? Wha’? Artemisia.

  HOW DARE YOU. YOU ARE THE LOWEST OF THE LOW. HAVE YOU NO HONOR?

  “What!”

  But she wasn’t listening. His head pounded as he heard the gigantic echo of a door
slamming shut.

  Panting raggedly, he sat up and put his head in his hands. Then became aware of his own odor. Physically, he hadn’t been with the woman, despite all the sensations.

  Rusby snuffled. Garrett could imagine kitten comments on the smell of sexual release and the state of the linens. Discretion wasn’t cowardly. Not in the middle of the night. So, he whispered a tiny spell to keep the kitten asleep while he stripped and remade the bed.

  When he stood, he moved like an old man, muscles creaking worse than after he’d survived the Iasc sickness for the second time . . . a couple of nights ago.

  He knew the reason. His heart—and his body—wanted Artemisia, despite the thorns of the past embedded in his brain, and the fear of loss screaming inside him. He’d never thought that he’d been a man who gave in to fear. He was wrong. He’d let fear eat him alive.

  He’d let his fear rule his thoughts enough that he’d been a complete idiot and had made a terrible mistake.

  He did want Artemisia.

  Lifting Rusby to an empty space atop his bureau, he grabbed the sheets and yanked them from the bed, stalked to the cleanser in the waterfall room, and shoved them in. Got clean ones. Not as smooth as those he’d slept on at TQ or sensed at Artemisia’s. Harsh in comparison.

  He could afford better, now. The past was truly past.

  Time to also acknowledge that Dinni had been right in not wedding him because he had a HeartMate—and Artemisia had been right when she spoke of the girl that he’d loved. Childhood sweethearts, first lovers. All that was good and real and right.

  He had a HeartMate who would fit him better, who he’d ignored because he’d wanted what he wanted, not what was best for him. Dinni had been wise and he’d refused to see that. Just because she’d ended their relationship first? Before he was ready to let go?

  All right. Dinni’s timing had sucked, and as a practitioner of sleight of hand, he knew excellent timing was essential.

  His own timing had sucked, too. Namely discovering that he truly, mind deep, heart deep, bone deep, wanted his HeartMate, Artemisia Mugwort—a courageous and compassionate and strong woman. After he’d already rejected her.

  He wondered how soon she’d forgive him. What he’d have to do. He couldn’t sit back and wait, the woman—his woman—was meeting other men to check them out as a husband and father!

  Oh, yeah, that hurt. That idea damn well sliced him in two. Pain enough for him to stagger as if the linens he held were massive boulders.

  He’d have to figure out how to prove himself to Artemisia, but he’d make sure he was a part of her life as much as he possibly could. At least the liaison job would keep them together, and give him time to plan how to court her.

  He made the fliggering bed, took a damn shower, and slipped under a sheet. Then he chewed a sleep-inducing pill and let sleep drag him under. The herbs worked. An image came of the sacred grove, then the rusty gates behind which his dream garden beckoned with lush growth and a Healing pool.

  He recalled that Artemisia lived near Healing pools. His last thoughts were idle wonderings about Artemisia’s home and the itch of curiosity settled under his skin. He would find out.

  * * *

  Artemisia awoke a septhour before WorkBell at the sound of dawn songbirds singing outside her window. She wanted to sleep more, lounge in bed after the intense few days . . . and, all right, pull the covers over her head and forget the deep wound inside her. Forget that her HeartMate had visited her in her dreams. She would not let him spoil her for someone else.

  But more than anger and the sensations of sex with Garrett weighed on her emotions. There was lost hope of a true HeartMate marriage. Not to mention murder, and the discovery of the murder weapon, and how her Family was being implicated again.

  She had to take the knife to the guards. And she and Randa had an appointment with Danith D’Ash.

  Whoosh. Flop.

  Rising to sit, she followed the sound . . . and her mouth opened in surprise as she watched a Fam opening swish back and forth in the bedroom door. Randa waddled toward her, and she let out a sigh. She had a Fam, another blessing.

  Randa hooked her claws on the long comforter that draped over the elevated bedsponge and climbed up. Greetyou, FamWoman. The raccoon’s muzzle lifted and her mouth stretched in a smile, showing little pointy teeth. She hurried over to Artemisia, stopped to sit and clasp her paws together as she stared at Artemisia’s body under the covers.

  Artemisia patted her lap. “Come on.”

  Randa ran up her body and snuffled under Artemisia’s chin, leaving a slight wet smear. Love you, FamWoman!

  “I love you, too.”

  “I am pleased that you are here, Randa,” said the Residence.

  Yes! I am! And I will be a good Fam. I will no longer be a feral ’coon. I will stay on the estate. There is no reason to go outside the walls. I am home.

  Artemisia smiled, and looking into Randa’s eyes, she said, “Yes, you are. But we’re still going to D’Ash to make sure all is well with you.” Artemisia dressed quickly in one of her best work tunics and tops.

  Her father knocked at her door, then opened it. He held a simple square wooden box. His face was pale, his expression weary. “I studied the knife. It is definitely a cross-folk altar knife, crafted by one of their more famous artists.”

  “Valuable?”

  “Valuable enough for me to extrapolate that it came from a private chapel of a Noble cross-folk Family.”

  One that had been luckier than the Mugworts.

  Her father continued, “Or one of the chapels in their main church.” He shrugged, offered her the box.

  Though he’d shielded it to keep the vitriolic negativity within, she still took it gingerly.

  “And, Artemisia”—his green gaze, the same color eyes as her own, met hers in a heavy, straight look—“the knife was created after the Black Magic Cult murders, so it is unlikely that the murdered man had it in his possession.”

  “You mean that he used such cross-folk objects to point the authorities at us long ago, but didn’t have this knife then.”

  Her father smiled slightly. “I’ve always been proud of your intellect.”

  She didn’t feel so smart for letting her HeartMate have dream sex with her, letting him hurt her. She refrained from rubbing her chest over her heart. “Thank you.” She concentrated on the murder weapon, not really recalling what a regular altar knife looked like. “Randa and I are leaving now for Danith D’Ash’s office.”

  Randa whimpered.

  “You’ll be fine,” Artemisia said. She kissed her father’s cheek and accepted his hug before walking into the corridor and checking to see that Randa followed.

  Artemisia sensed that her sister, Tiana, had left for the day, and a small pop told her that her father had teleported away.

  At the northeast side door, she paused. “I’ll see you later, Residence,” she said.

  “Yes. I am studying the rosters of the FirstFamilies for a good man for you.”

  Artemisia’s mouth dried, then she swallowed. “All those FirstFamily Nobles are extremely powerful; do you think they’d be satisfied here—and being bespelled never to speak of you?”

  “All FirstFamilies keep secrets,” BalmHeal said absently.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyone would be honored to live here with us,” the Residence said. “Preliminary research is favorable for the Blackthorn men, sons of a cadet branch who were brought into the Family and took that name.”

  Artemisia figured she wouldn’t be able to talk the Residence out of his newest plan right now. “I do insist that the man I marry be someone I can love.”

  “You can love a man who is Noble as much as one who is not,” the Residence retorted.

  “See you later,” Artemisia grumbled.
>
  “I love you, Artemisia,” BalmHeal Residence said.

  “I love you, too.” But it didn’t stop her from being exasperated with the Residence. She and Randa walked to the area that held the secondary Healing pools. The estate had two sets of natural Healing hot springs and a trio of warm swimming pools. Near the secondary pools were the chapels—the small round Temples, one open-air and one enclosed, and a small building that Artemisia’s mother used for her worship. It was an equal-armed cross with a tiny dome in the center painted yellow on the outside and deep blue and silver on the inside.

  About once a year, the whole Family celebrated a ritual with her . . . but for a long time, Tiana and their father had crafted more spiritual and less Lady-and-Lord-centric rituals that the whole Family would participate in. Occasionally, they included both the cross-folk quadri-spirited god and the Lady and Lord in overlapping rituals.

  Theirs was an eclectic household, and the flexibility of spirituality and religion had helped Tiana in her career since she became accustomed to crafting unique and creative rituals. As for Artemisia, she took great comfort in the old rituals of Celta, in the belief of a dual and loving Pair—a Lady and Lord.

  Randa walked with her but occasionally coursed into the underbrush. They didn’t speak to each other mentally, were quiet together, but the bond between them hummed with affection and that was nice.

  Yet when she reached the door of her mother’s chapel, she experienced the serenity that permeated this equally sacred place. Her ruffled emotions—from sex with Garrett and the whole throbbing hurt of the last few days—were soothed.

  Until she thought of the prejudice and intolerance of people for those who were different. Like Garrett’s distrust of Nobles.

  She had to stand and breathe deeply as she marshaled her feelings before she entered the holy place.

  Hadn’t their ancestors left Earth because they were persecuted for their psi power? Why couldn’t people learn from history?