Heart Search

by Robin D. Owens

  If Camellia married her HeartMate, she’d be a FirstFamily GreatLady.

  Her lungs seized. Moving in the highest of the stratospheric level of nobles. With a place at her HeartMate’s side on the FirstFamilies Council!

  She couldn’t get her breath. Dots swam before her eyes. She let her legs fold and slid to her back on the carpet. Couldn’t. Breathe.

  Mica jumped on her chest; air wrenched from Camellia’s chest. The little cat marched up Camellia’s torso to touch noses with her. Mica’s whiskers tickled. Camellia wheezed. Sucked in a breath. Out. Another in.

  Raggedly she overcame her panic. What was that?

  She’d known from seventeen that Laev T’Hawthorn was her fated mate. Known he would someday be the T’Hawthorn. Why was she laid low by that fact now?

  Because she’d hidden her knowledge of him as her HeartMate for so long.

  Because he’d been married and any status related to him did not affect her.

  Because she’d disliked Nivea and didn’t want to ever be like her. But Camellia was ambitious for her business, and it’d do so well if—when—she and Laev wed. And she couldn’t help herself from thinking that, yet still despised the thought that she was thinking of her own gain.

  Mica sat on her chest, staring at her. We deserve to live in T’Hawthorn Residence.

  Trust a cat to think that. Camellia doubted. The price would be too steep.

  Her Fam looked around. This is a pretty place, but it is not T’Hawthorn Residence.

  Camellia couldn’t argue with that.

  And I want My own room, not a closet. Come on! They are waiting for Us!

  “You have to get off me first.”

  Mica hopped onto the bed in her “supervise” mode. Camellia chose a dark brown raw silkeen tunic and trous set of the latest cut. The trous were more straight-legged, the hem on the tunic higher, with wide ribboned embroidery of silver on the seams. The colors, dark brown and silver, were her Family colors, and she hadn’t realized the meaning of them until she’d found the box of documents.

  She angled in the mirror.

  You look good, Mica said, nearly pacing in anticipation.

  And Camellia switched her frown from her reflection to her Fam. “Just how much time have you spent at T’Hawthorn Residence if you know it so well that you can teleport us both there?”

  Mica ignored the question. Brazos and Black Pierre will help us.

  “Oh.”

  Brazos and his FamMan waiting for Us.

  Heat washed through Camellia. “You told them we are coming!”

  We want food. Laev is getting Us good food. Planning well. Mica opened her mouth in a kitty grin and swiped her whiskers with her tongue.

  Yes, Laev T’Hawthorn was a good planner. Camellia had always considered herself a good planner, too, but Laev had had the advantage of being trained by two of the best from a young age. Now that she thought on it, there had been something of the negotiator in that viz of his.

  Hungggrrry!

  “All right!” Camellia followed the small cat back to the mainspace, stepped onto the pad, and held out her arms for Mica. Linking her mind with her Fam, Camellia saw the world in flattened shades of gray. Then they were gone from home and arrived in a castle courtyard.

  Twenty-two

  Two blinks of Camellia’s eyes and she saw that the stone courtyard was surrounded by high walls, an inner courtyard of T’Hawthorn Residence.

  Chef is waiting for Us, Mica! Brazos shouted mentally.

  Mica hopped from her arms and took off after a streak of black.

  Laev chuckled and her gaze swung to him and her breath stopped. He looked too good. She was in trouble.

  His smile faded and his eyes held a wary melancholy. He came up to her and bowed, and she shivered. Though neither of them had said it aloud, they both knew, now, that they were HeartMates.

  He bowed to her as a man would to a woman he cared for, even more, as a GreatLord bowed to his GreatLady. Oh, yes, her life was changing.

  “Thank you for listening to my viz . . . and being willing to listen more to me.” His smooth negotiator tones were back.

  “I—” Her voice cracked. She flushed, cleared her throat, and opened her mouth, and realized she didn’t know what to say.

  He offered his arm. It was covered in butterscotch-colored leather, his full trous were leather and tucked into boots of the same color. An expensive outfit that he wore with ease, that had been tailored for him. He probably didn’t give a thought to how much it had cost. “Camellia, I was truthful in saying that I want to speak to you about our circumstances.”

  That was the second time he’d danced around the word HeartMate . Rather like trying to ignore the looming presence of the starship Nuada’s Sword in the city. But she approved.

  She put her fingers lightly on his arm and the muscle tensed under them. With a wave of his other hand, a large picnic basket she hadn’t noticed lifted. Just seeing the shape of it caused her mouth to water. She glanced up at Laev and managed a smile. “You do have dinner. Good, I didn’t have much for breakfast or lunch and I’m starving.”

  His smile in return seemed warmer than her own—and was she going to measure every little item of interaction between them? She was irritated at herself and the way her mind worked.

  “I promise, no antique sandwiches lurk in the basket.” They walked through the courtyard, his stride matching hers.

  “Where are we going?” She was very aware of his body moving beside hers, but the Residence itself filled her vision and bombarded her senses with sounds and smells of the Hawthorns.

  “I thought we’d eat at a pavilion overlooking the ocean.”

  That caught her attention and she glanced up to find his intent gaze on her, his eyes dark with emotion she didn’t want to analyze.

  “That sounds wonderful.” They came to a square wooden door that opened as they neared . . . and exited to a huge, smooth lawn of green. “How lovely.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  She tried to ignore all the implications firing in her mind about how all this could be hers. But she’d have to take the man. And his Family. And his Residence.

  She didn’t mind admitting to herself that she wanted the man as a man—as a lover for an affair, not so much as a GreatLord and certainly not as a husband or HeartMate.

  They walked through gardens that had been tended for centuries, dream gardens with drifts of blossoming bushes, colors and arrangements that stopped her breath, and around the next curve was a panorama leading to a rise and a tiny jewel of a building at the top.

  The octagonal pavilion was small and airy and built of white marble, with columns and a dome. There were lacily carved marble half walls. Inside was a table dressed in elegant pale lavender linens and the subtle gleam of china and silverware.

  His arm was strong as they took the three steps up, then Camellia gasped at the view. Before her lay the Great Platte Ocean rolling in slate gray waves and tipped with white surf. To her right, closer to a direct path of the Residence itself, was a cut in the land that had been smoothed to a gentle declination down to a wide sandy beach.

  Her toes curled. “I don’t recall the last time I walked on the beach,” she murmured.

  “We can do that now, or after we eat or talk.”

  Since her stomach pitched acid like the waves, she glanced up at him. “Talk first.”

  He smiled. “Good. Do you want to walk on the beach and talk?”

  She thought about how the wind would catch words and whisk them away, how her hair would blow into tangles, irritating her, distracting. How she’d be bombarded with scents and sights of the ocean and birds and shells and not able to focus on him in one of the most important discussions of her life. “I’d rather talk here.”

  “Good.” He turned to her, smiled, took both of her hands. Then, to her surprise, he closed his eyes, making himself vulnerable to her, staggering her. When he opened his lashes, his gaze drilled into her. “I�
��ve missed you,” he said.

  Heat surged through her whole body in one great flush, bringing prickles of aching desire. She found herself leaning a little closer to him. She wanted to pull back, but he smelled so good and she could feel the warmth of him. Their auras impinged and merged, and she couldn’t withdraw.

  “It’s good being with you again.” He glanced around. “Being alone with you.”

  They hadn’t been alone in anything but dreams since he’d first come to her office—and at that time she’d been hiding from herself, not able to enjoy his company. Now she could let herself feel the aura of him, breathe in his scent, stare at him all she wanted instead of sneaking glances.

  As he stared at her.

  “Come sit.” He drew her to one of the window seats that ringed the pavilion, topped with plump pale lavender velvet cushions. Must have spells to stay so beautiful. The seat wasn’t wide enough to lie down on comfortably, so sex might not be immediate.

  Her heart pounded.

  But the minute she sat, he loosed her hands and strode back to the basket and the table. “Wine? Ale? Whiskey? Brandy?”

  She blinked. “You have all that in there?”

  “What I don’t have, I can translocate from the fully stocked bar in the ResidenceDen.” His smile faded. “I’ve been having a drink or two before sleeping.”

  Clearing her throat, she glanced away. “Yes, so have I.” Her mouth tipped wryly. “But mine’s been sleepy-soothe tea.”

  His eyebrows rose. “That works for you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He opened the basket and pulled out a pretty bottle, smiled at her. “Springreen wine.” She knew the special vintage by the curves of the engraved vines on the bottle. Very rare.

  Laev said, “I noticed your wine menu at Darjeeling’s HouseHeart had several offerings of springreen wine, so I thought you enjoyed it.”

  Her mouth was dry, she licked her lips. “I do. And that vintage is unique. Tartness almost overwhelming the sweet.”

  “Almost, but not quite.” He smiled, his wrist flexed as he removed the cork. Then he poured the wine and she heard the soft fizz of bubbles. When he handed her a glass—another crystal antique—he continued, “I like sweet and tart almost in balance.”

  “Me, too.” She took a sip, let the wine lay on her tongue, nearly shuddered with how lovely it tasted. “Wonderful. Thank you.”

  He sat next to her, smiled. “You’re welcome.” With a tilt of his head, he indicated the view and they angled to watch the ocean and drink in silence.

  Camellia became aware of a low and pulsing tone . . . then realized it wasn’t something she heard, but that she felt. Very carefully she opened up her senses, her own Flair . . . and mentally saw a bond between herself and Laev.

  It was golden, as HeartMate bonds were supposed to be, and larger than she’d have expected—nearly the circumference of a writestick. With her inner eye, she studied it. The cord also appeared to be stronger than she’d thought—and though the pulsing red of sex was certainly a component, there were other strands that signified mental and emotional links. Compatibilities? Or just connections? They shared more than she’d anticipated.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Laev said, causing her to jolt a little.

  She savored more wine. He wasn’t looking straight at her now, but she knew he was aware of her every expression, every movement. Their bond had begun to glow and throbbed faster, with tension on both sides.

  When his words came, they were considered, measured. “It’s no secret that I made a terrible mistake in my marriage.” His throat worked, but he went on. “I am not ready for another . . . wife.”

  She found herself nodding, and narrowing her eyes to watch the bond between them. Their thoughts were matching. No surprise, amazement, nor disappointment flowed from her to him and his shoulders lowered, relaxed. His gaze glanced across hers, then back to the ocean, and she got the idea that he wanted a verbal response. The negotiator, planner, having terms stated aloud.

  How much should she say? He probably already knew of her problems with her father and uncle. “I believe it’s common knowledge among those who frequent the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon that the reason I am training is because my male relatives are . . . abusive . . .”

  Laev made a short growling noise that actually pleased her. Then he cleared his throat as if he hadn’t just displayed uncivilized, protective male behavior. “Tinne Holly might have mentioned the reason why he placed you with GraceLord Lemongrass. And Lemongrass and I have spoken a time or two, not much about you, though.”

  “Oh. Well.” A notion formed. How much would he have looked into her background? He was cautious, so was she. She knew a lot about him, could find out more if she asked around. But she wouldn’t, not right now.

  What would he know about her? He was there the day she’d claimed her tea set at JudgementGrove—when this path unfurled for both of them and the trails split away, only recently coming back together. He knew of Darjeeling’s Teahouse and Darjeeling’s HouseHeart. He was a canny investor so he might even be able to gauge her business finances. She didn’t doubt that he could find out all her personal finances to the last silver, but she didn’t think he’d do that.

  “Camellia, did you want to expand upon your male relatives?” Laev prompted.

  Ah, yes, the terms. She looked into his eyes, discovered that she couldn’t hold his gaze when speaking of her concerns, either. She drank a bit of wine to wet her lips, used his own words. “I am not ready for a husband.”

  They breathed quietly together. He reached out and brushed her hair from her shoulders, his thumb gliding along her cheek. She liked that, wanted more of his touch, leaned toward him.

  “I enjoy just seeing you, meeting you, talking with you.”

  He was being so careful, they were being so careful of hurting themselves or each other. A good sign. She smiled, tried a bit of teasing. “You enjoy looking at my derriere.”

  He grinned, tipped his glass to her in a salute. “That I do.”

  She nodded, smiled around the rim of her glass. “It’s mutual.”

  “Good.”

  This time the quiet buzzed with a hint of sexual attraction. Again she narrowed her eyes.

  “Why are you doing that?” he asked.

  Hesitating, she slid her gaze toward him, needed to wet her mouth again. So she drank another marvelous swallow of tart-sweetness wine. “I am looking at the bond between us with my Flair.”

  He stiffened. Calmly, she continued, “People attracted sexually have a bond.” With her free hand, she waved. “Friends.” She smiled. “I have deep bonds with my two good friends.” Again she slipped a look at him. “I have a bond with my Fam. Even though it is newer, it is strong.” She touched her chest. “Mica is close to my heart.”

  Millimeter by millimeter, his posture eased and his contemplation seemed to turn from her to himself, or what wove between them.

  Golden! His mind whisper was harsh and Camellia didn’t know if she was meant to hear it. So she ignored it, even as he gulped the last of his wine. Then his gaze sharpened, but his words, again, were measured. “A bond is not a terrible thing.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  “Within reason.”

  She wasn’t sure whether either of them would be able to regulate their connection, whether the bond itself would fit into the outline of the terms, but wasn’t going to say so. She didn’t want to think of that, either. So she chose other words. “I enjoy being with you, too. I have my own problems . . . and secrets.” She drank the last of the wine, rose, and went to the table for the bottle, returned, and poured a quarter glass in his goblet and her own, finally met his gaze squarely. “I prefer my relationships with men proceed extremely slowly.”

  Now he smiled and swirled his wine. “Slow is good.” He held out a hand, more commanding than offering. She put hers in his and he drew her back to the seat.

  Gazes matched, he said, “I want you
back at night.” His eyelids lowered until all she saw was a narrow, glinting gaze. “More. I want you in my bed for real.”

  Suddenly the wine wasn’t cool liquid on her tongue, but fiery in her belly. She could match him. “Yes.”

  His fingers sifted through her hair, then his palm rested on her cheek. “How lovely you are.”

  The words came out of her mouth without thought. “My coloring isn’t golden.”

  He flinched and pulled his fingers away.

  Stup! She looked away, turned to stare determinedly at the ocean that roared in her ears. “Apologies.” She shook her head, hard, so foolish tears should fly from them. “I should not have said that. I don’t know why I did.” She drank from her glass, didn’t look at him as she continued, “With any bond will come . . . affection, I suppose. The ability to hurt and be hurt. Again, I’m sorry.”

  Breath huffed from between his teeth. “We have a past . . . moment.”

  Camellia figured they had more than one, but shut up and only said, “Yes.”

  “Nivea Sunflower was beautiful to me.” It was a statement and Camellia frowned as she weighed it. No great emotion, no flatness, just a quiet statement of the past, as if he’d said, “The sky was pretty and blue.”

  He set his glass down on the windowsill, framed her face in his hands. “She was beautiful to me, but you are lovely, and that is so much more.”

  She blinked in confusion, and he smiled. “Hers was a breathtaking surface beauty. Your expressions, your character make you so much more. Lovely. Intriguing.”

  Camellia let out a breath at the bomb they’d managed to navigate around. “Oh. Good.”

  “And your coloring . . . I like it very much.”

  “Your eyes are fabulous,” she offered. “Mmmm.”

  He laughed. “I think you’re getting a little giddy. Let’s see what kind of food we have in the picnic basket.” He held up one hand, palm out. “I promise there are no antique sandwiches. I requested turkbird breast and spiced-yolk hard-boiled eggs.”

  “Oh, I love those but dislike making them.”