Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  Artemisia glanced down the left curving hallway almost furtively, then tugged on his hand and began to walk fast down the right side of the circular corridor. He slowed his steps. “We’re in good time.” He was in no hurry to do this.

  She scowled up at him. “You do recall that I have a sister who is a priestess, don’t you? Who works here? As a counselor?”

  “Now that you prompt me, I do.” Sounded as if Artemisia hadn’t shared her troubled heart with her sister. Garrett matched Artemisia’s pace. He was in no hurry to meet that woman, either.

  Artemisia stopped at a door halfway between the south and east entryway with Leger Cinchona’s name on it. Garrett wasn’t sure whether the position indicated the status the priest had attained or whether the placement was spiritual in nature—Cinchona liked the energy of the southeast.

  Garrett would inwardly admit that the man had good Flair.

  The priest opened his door and Garrett noticed that his office was generally four meters by four meters, the outer wall curved, of course. There was a slight odor of incense and herbs but nothing that would bother Garrett any more than being here.

  Cinchona nodded to Artemisia—good, the man didn’t reach for her hand—and looked past her to Garrett.

  Feeling exposed enough to check that the hall was still empty, Garrett also kept his voice low. “I requested that since much of the reason Artemisia wishes to speak with you involves me, I be included in the meeting.”

  The priest’s eyebrows went up. He met Artemisia’s eyes. “Is this what you want, Artemisia?”

  Thirty

  Garrett felt her palm go damp in his hand. Or maybe that was his. He closed his fingers tighter.

  She sniffed and the priest seemed to take that as a good sign that Garrett wasn’t intimidating her. “It’s true, we have a tangled relationship.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that you’d have lunch or dinner with a man interested in pursuing his own relationship with you if you were entangled with another,” Cinchona said gently.

  Artemisia tugged on her fingers and Garrett reluctantly let them go. She raised her chin. “We weren’t in a relationship, then.”

  “Yesterday noon,” Cinchona said.

  “It’s complicated,” Garrett growled. “Are you going to see us or not?”

  “That depends.” Cinchona didn’t move. “On Artemisia’s wishes—and on yours. Do you trust me as a priest, Artemisia?”

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  “Good to know, but still a small pity that’s all you see.”

  The guy was being too good. Garrett grunted.

  “And you?” He switched his blue gray gaze to Garrett.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said.

  Cinchona cocked his head. “I sense that you don’t trust many people.” He raised a palm. “And you don’t want to talk about your relationship with Artemisia.”

  “You got that right, but if it’s something that Artemisia needs, I’ll do it. I’ll always give her what she needs.”

  Artemisia bumped into the doorjamb as she stepped back and looked up at him. Heat came to his cheeks, but he nodded to her. “I’ve been a stup.”

  “Come in.” Cinchona stepped back and opened the door wide.

  The room was comfortably furnished, and not as if the priest catered mostly to females. Rust and gold and dark brown chairs and cushions, well used but not shabby. Everything about the man indicated he was a lesser Noble, a second son or something, and had never had to worry about gilt.

  But the data from Garrett’s informants had stated Cinchona was a very good man. No doubt kind, compassionate, and caring, like Artemisia.

  Too much like Artemisia. She needed someone, like Garrett, a little rougher in her life.

  “Please, sit,” the priest said.

  There was a long couch with one side that angled up. Garrett nearly shuddered. Since he was the first in, he took one of the three chairs near a wedge-shaped outside corner, obviously set up for couples counseling. He stiffened his spine. He was part of a couple. He leaned against the back cushion, stretched his legs out.

  Artemisia sat in the chair on his right, a little beyond his reach. Cinchona sat in the butterscotch brown fine-grained leather chair. Garrett’s own chair wasn’t as comfortable.

  “I’m Leger Cinchona,” the priest said.

  “I know. I’m Garrett Primross.”

  “Ah, I have heard of you,” Cinchona said. He blinked as if accessing his memories and Garrett let quiet sift into the room.

  Artemisia sighed and settled into her own chair, her face in its usual, sincerely serene expression. Which was good, as was the priest and the atmosphere, but Garrett didn’t have any expectation she’d remain serene long. Not when they started digging into the events of the night before last and the snarled bonds between them.

  Before the man said the blessing that would start the session, Garrett added, “I saw you at Apollopa Park.”

  Cinchona smiled slowly. “I know.”

  “Yeah?” Garrett couldn’t help himself, he angled his body to ruin the line between Artemisia and the priest.

  “You don’t think I could feel such an inimical glare?” Cinchona’s brows rose. He was enjoying this, dammit. Garrett felt his face heat.

  The priest went on, with a hint of a smirk. “You didn’t like my interest in Artemisia. Or rather, you don’t, even now, when it must be obvious that she considers me more of a priest, and perhaps a friend, rather than a gallant to woo her.”

  “What I need to know,” Artemisia said crisply, “is if whatever is between the two of you will impede this counseling session.”

  Crap. Just that easily her mood had been broken. Garrett not only retreated a mental step, but ratcheted down his attitude. “No,” he said.

  “Of course not,” the priest said in a smooth and professionally gentle tone.

  Rusby flung back the flap of his carry case and hopped out to the large, rolled arm of Garrett’s chair. The rust brown weave was loose enough that it didn’t show any pinpricks made by small claws. I am Rusby Primross and I have been very good. He sat straight.

  “You brought Rusby!” Artemisia said.

  At her tone, Rusby huddled in on himself and gave Artemisia big eyes. Garrett could tell the kitten’s feelings weren’t hurt, that the Fam was curious more than anything else, but Garrett kept his mouth shut.

  You don’t want Me here?

  She pursed her lips, looked at the priest.

  “There are no rules against Fams,” Cinchona said. “On the contrary, I’ve found they can be helpful.”

  “Hmm,” Artemisia said, then shrugged. “Very well.”

  “Thank you, Artemisia,” Garrett said.

  Thank you, FamWoman, Rusby said, and revved his thin purr. The comforting sound lasted through the standard blessing for truth and gentleness and guidance.

  Garrett’s nerves tightened.

  Artemisia began to talk. She was unexpectedly generous when she told of the experiment, touched on his ordeal, then revealed the circumstances of Garrett telling her that she was his HeartMate and that he didn’t want her. Her words still made Garrett writhe inside.

  The priest asked penetrating questions about the exact circumstances of the when and why Garrett had spewed so, and when Garrett was slow to answer, Rusby wriggled on his lap. Garrett figured the kitten wouldn’t keep quiet about the nightmares, so he reluctantly answered each and every question, delving further into his feelings, more than he’d ever wanted.

  And as he explained, he felt the bond between himself and Artemisia opening, flowing with emotion, her inherent compassion that tugged on his feelings, his very mixed feelings, in return. He stopped his instinctual squeezing shut of the bond.

  He couldn’t do that anymore.
<
br />   Not if he wanted Artemisia.

  At the end of all the questions, the priest studied Garrett, then Artemisia, then the both of them. “I have heard of your experience with the Iasc sickness, of course,” Cinchona said slowly. “Three years ago when it was discovered you survived and were willing to help fight the epidemic with your blood donations. Also when the most recent experiment was proposed and successfully concluded.” He slanted a look at Artemisia. “Your sister, Tiana, has duties to lead rituals here, and is required to report any other claims upon her energy and Flair. She told us—her peer group and our teachers—that she’d conducted a couple of Family rituals with regard to the experiment.”

  “Yes,” Artemisia said.

  Garrett hadn’t known that.

  She turned and met his gaze. “It was very helpful.”

  Again the priest studied them both, and Garrett felt the man’s Flair brushing him.

  “You have never seen a priest or mind Healer about your experiences? Your loss and grief?” Cinchona asked him.

  “No,” Garrett gritted out.

  The priest sighed. His brows went up and down as he studied Garrett. “I’d recommend that.”

  When Garrett’s jaw clamped shut, the priest amended, “When you’re ready.” He paused. “Since you and Artemisia came to me for counseling, and such is held to be completely confidential, I will not report your breaking of the law about informing your HeartMate that she was your HeartMate. Especially since I can see that you are both being punished by the knowledge.” He drew in an audible breath. “Though I might recommend following the requirements of the law in circumstances such as yours, when one HeartMate informs the other who is unknowing of the link. You violated Artemisia’s free will.”

  “It was a good thing,” Artemisia said and her voice wasn’t even unsteady. “I’d been . . . unconsciously waiting for him. When Garrett informed me that he wouldn’t claim me, it gave me the freedom—”

  “Stop,” the priest ordered, pushed a little Flair behind the word.

  Artemisia did.

  “I see no reason to go over this particular event again since it hurts you both. You will Heal well enough from the emotional pain if it is left alone.”

  Thank the Lord and Lady, this priest might be an okay guy after all. But Garrett hadn’t looked up the consequences of breaking that law. His face hardened into a mask. “If that means staying away from Artemisia . . .” He held out his hand to her. Once again she stared at his fingers, then met his gaze with a troubled one of her own. “I can’t do that. I’ve already stayed away from her too much.” He sucked in a breath and inclined his head to her. “I’m all right with having to prove myself to her. That’s fair for all that I’ve put her through. But . . . but . . .”

  He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  Artemisia’s took his hand again and tenderness—tenderness!—swirled along their bond. “You’re afraid.”

  Only one side of his mouth twisted up in a raw smile. He kept his eyes meeting hers. “Yeah. Afraid I’ll lose you. To another man . . . or worse.”

  “An understandable fear,” the priest murmured.

  “I want a husband and children,” Artemisia said.

  “I know.” He drew all the intensity he had around him. “I can’t say that I am ready for children.” More deep breathing, and no one hurried him. “But I will protect and cherish you to my last breath,” Garrett said. Since he already had a history of doing that with another woman, he figured they’d believe him.

  The priest considered him; this time the man’s pupils were dilated and the guy’s Flair enveloped Garrett.

  Cinchona said, “What if protecting and cherishing Artemisia means you must rid yourself of these negative feelings by piercing the wound of your fear and grief and letting them drain? I believe that’s the best option at this point.”

  Garrett jerked. He’d never thought that he’d carried around an infected sore seething with pus—or worse.

  The priest still looked at him, using Flair that slithered along Garrett’s exposed skin, raising the little hairs on his body. “You sure about that wound business?” Garrett managed.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” Garrett scowled.

  Artemisia dropped his hand, and he missed her touch.

  “By telling us about your experience,” Cinchona said.

  “I’ve lived through it again recently, isn’t that enough?” Garrett snarled.

  “Have you ever told anyone every detail of that fateful trip, or has it only been as dry and factual a report as you could get away with?”

  Bull’s-eye.

  “Once you say it, it should be done,” Cinchona offered.

  “You think so?” Garrett didn’t believe that.

  Cinchona’s own smile was wry. “You think we haven’t counseled warriors such as yourself before? Yes, this procedure often works.”

  Garrett made a disbelieving noise, added, “I can get a guarantee?”

  Now Cinchona stiffened. “I have given you my best recommendations in this matter, the conclusions I came to through experience and the use of my Flair. However, if you don’t wish to take my advice, that is certainly your prerogative. As is deciding whether or when to do this and whether with a different counselor.”

  Oh, yeah, he’d want to lay the whole damn stupidity out for someone else, sure.

  “Such as the best mind Healer, FirstFamily GrandLady D’Sea. I’m sure that under the circumstances, with the service you’ve given to Celta, she would waive her fee.”

  Canny priest. Of course Garrett wouldn’t want to talk to a female mind Healer, especially not one of the highest Nobles.

  Artemisia stood up, straightened her tunic, looked down at him. Her gaze lingered on his arms across his chest, his closed-off body. Dammit, their bond had narrowed and he knew he’d reduced it automatically.

  He didn’t want to do this. He’d never wanted to talk about it, relive it. Hadn’t he already done that enough?

  But he understood from the expression in her eyes that Artemisia doubted him. That if he didn’t go through this now, she might think he wasn’t worth having. He’d lose her. And somehow she’d become too dear to do that.

  He’d meant what he’d said previously, to the marrow of his bones. He’d do what he’d have to, to win her, to keep her safe and cherish her.

  His tense shoulders lifted, dropped as his breath nearly groaned out of him. “Yeah, I’ll do it, right now.”

  Surprise and pleasure flowed through their bond from Artemisia, and her smile at him took his breath.

  “Here’s something to make it easier.” Cinchona had gone to the no-time food storage unit and Garrett hadn’t noticed. The priest held out a tube.

  The liquid really didn’t look like blood. Sure, it was red, but it fizzed with bubbles, was a whole lot thinner and lighter than blood. Pomegranate. Or cranberry. And that reminded Garrett of Opul Cranberry, and the boy’s courage in fighting the sickness. Garrett was supposed to have courage, too, even if everything inside him cringed at doing this.

  He stood and crossed to the priest and grabbed the tube—cool to his touch—and swallowed it down before he asked, “What is it?”

  Cinchona’s smile was wide and gently teasing. “Like I said, you aren’t the first man who doesn’t like to speak of his . . . concerns. We’ll call it a tongue loosener.”

  “Great,” Garrett said. The stuff hadn’t tasted too bad.

  Cinchona waved Garrett to his chair, and he obeyed. He turned his head at Artemisia. His tongue was beginning to feel thick, maybe he wouldn’t talk after all. Not his problem if the potion didn’t work on him.

  Artemisia came to him, curved her hands around his face and bent and kissed his forehead. Memory swam of the t
ime when he was sick. She’d been tender then, too. He was surprised she’d offer the gesture, though. “Thanks.”

  “She’s your HeartMate, who else would be so much of a comfort?” asked Cinchona softly.

  And I am his Fam, Rusby said.

  “Yes.”

  “You have been a good kitten, keeping quiet,” Garrett said.

  Human problems pretty boring, the kitten replied. Even FamMan’s and FamWoman’s. I fell asleep.

  Cinchona’s eyes twinkled. “Kittens do.”

  “Yesss,” Rusby said.

  Then the three of them sat and watched Garrett. His body tightened with wariness. Artemisia scooted her chair closer and took his hand in both of hers. He saw the golden bond between them pulse with emotion—compassion and, affection?—from her. She had affection for him? After all that he’d done?

  He could feel the drink working on him, too, cracking him wide open like he was some crusty shellfish, his outer protective cover gone, the tender, vulnerable meat of him exposed and throbbing anxiety.

  Cinchona said, “The Iasc sickness was traced to an unknown fish with an unknown infection that washed ashore on the beach of the Smallage estate near Gael City. You received a scry from Dinni Spurge Flixweed, who lived on the estate, to meet her at a Gael City health clinic.” The priest’s tone was smooth, nearly hypnotic. He repeated the words Garrett had always used when giving his report of the events.

  “Yes,” and Garrett went on. And told everything, every detail, every feeling, every fliggering twitch of his gut. Like he’d told no one before, from the first person he’d scried from the mountain quarantine clinic after the disaster to the self-righteous and arrogant FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather.

  After an eternity, he came to consciousness as a tiny rough tongue swiped at his wet face. Garrett was curled up on the floor of the office. His throat felt raw, his eyes grimy. Oh, Lord and Lady, he’d spilled his guts, hadn’t he?

  FamMan is awake, Rusby said, with one last lick. Garrett’s face had dried with sweat. Maybe drool, too.