Heart Duel (36 page)

T'Heather urged her from the site of death, circling around the dark blood that seeped between the cracks of the gray stones, staining the mortar red.

 
 
There was another Ritual that night in T'Holly Sacred
Grove. This one was not of thanksgiving or joy, but the last rite to release Eryngi's soul to the Wheel of Stars—the cycle of death and rebirth.

The Holly men performed the Ritual and the dispersion of Eryngi's earthly molecules into the ground and trees of the Grove with grief and determination. Only the presence of Genista kept their language moderate.

It was odd to see a feminine form not his Mamá in the Sacred Grove, but Holm sensed Genista was sincerely moved by the Ritual and shared her warmth and comfort with them all. Tinne had done better in marriage than Holm had earlier believed, and he was thankful for that. But his heart ached for Bélla.

A knot of emotions plagued him. To his shame the overwhelming one was failure. He was humiliated that once again someone he loved and tried to save had instead rescued him. Guilt ate at him that he hadn't lived up to his own standards.

He'd managed another calligraphic note to be delivered with his white rose. Like fighting, if he let his fingers form the symbols without thought, the ink flowed gracefully and well.

Holm hadn't known quite what to say. He was deeply involved in the feud, now. Nothing would stop that. And she stood on the other side of the canyon between them—a Healer. A Hawthorn.

Finally he'd closed his eyes and let his hand form the intricate glyph-letters. “I cherish you.”

He didn't know how he was going to overcome his father's hatred of the Hawthorns. Worse, he didn't know how he was going to face Lark with the knowledge that
she
had saved
him,
or deal with his stupid feeling of failure.

Knowing of his stupidity didn't mean he could control the feeling. He'd even tried an hour of meditation in the HouseHeart under the guidance of the whispery voice to no avail. The deep peace that should have been his, the grounding of his Flair and merging of his mind, body, and emotions yet eluded him.

But he did know one thing with bone-deep knowledge. Nothing was going to keep him from making Lark his HeartMate. Not the feud. Not his Family. Not his own flaws.

And not Lark herself.

Holm waited until he couldn't bear the ambiance of the all-male household another moment before 'porting to Lark's door.

He knew he radiated violent desire and need—emotional turmoil he couldn't restrain.

Desperately he maintained control, knowing that, as always, he'd be lucky to make it to the bedroom with his Bélla.

More and more he thought of her as Bélla, not Lark. Lark was her name associated with her Families and her profession. Those two areas were like an embedded thorn in their relationship—ready to fester.

He knocked on her door, sensed Phyll bounding to the other side, then the slower steps of his lover, his HeartMate.

Phyll, this time is for my Lady and me, go sleep.
He nudged the kitten back to bed. Phyll grumbled but accepted Holm's direction.

Holm placed the fingertips of his hand on the solid wood before him and projected his feelings.
Bélla, lover, let me in
.

He could almost feel the warmth through the door as she set her hand opposite his. His throat closed with emotion and the red tide of passion heated his blood until it grew fast and pulsed in his ears. His breath was ragged.

Bélla
.

She didn't open her mind or heart to him. When she spoke it was with hesitant words. “I want no fighter in my bed.”

He absorbed the jolt.
Bélla. I have no blood on my hands, no fury to fight in my heart. I am your lover,
he caressed her with a soothing, whisper of gentle mind-voice.

“You are a fighter.” Her choked tones gave her away: She was in pain, and he was wild to comfort her. His fingers curled into a fist on the door, but he kept the stream of emotion between them steady.

“You've fought before. You will fight again.” He heard her more with his mind than his ears.

I need you. Will you reject me?
He didn't like saying the words, but there was no way to hide his emotions. In his mind's eye his hand on the door pulsed golden, enveloped by the color of the bond between them. He took the aura and let it flow down to his wrist and encircle it—forming a marriage band.

Please! I told you I'm not ashamed to beg.
He tried to overlay his desperation with humor.

As he waited the silence grew thick with reverberating desire. He sensed a weakness in her—her emotions, her loneliness—and pushed. He had no shame, no honor when it came to needing her. Not the perfect HollyHeir in this, either. He would use whatever means necessary to win her. And he would let her use him, his body, however she wished in return.

She withdrew and his gut clenched as he wondered if he'd gone too far.

But her muttered Word opened the door.

Her apartment was shrouded by night—yet he sensed that she'd changed it since he'd last been there. Because of him? Her own Hawthorn scent mixed with something spicier and less floral than the roses. He narrowed his eyes but saw no evidence of his gifts—the multicolored roses or the white ones he'd sent each night.

For the first time it struck him that he'd made the same mistake in wooing his woman that his bumbling friend T'Ash had made with his HeartMate—overwhelming her with gifts. He couldn't prevent a smile of wry amusement. He should have been smoother, more sophisticated than that, but no, he'd fallen into the same instinctive male trap—heap gifts upon the desired one. Lord and Lady how he ached for her—his HeartMate.

She stood before him, small, pale, troubled.

Holm said, “I can't stop this feud. Do you want me to step away from this fight with your Family?”

“Yes! I want you to step away from it—and all fights! But that isn't you, is it, HollyHeir? I can't ask it of you, I haven't the right. And I won't ask it of you. Would you have me step away from my Family?”

“No, never. Will you ask me not to harm your relatives?”

Her gaze dropped. “You must defend yourself.” She turned and walked away, leaving him to enter or go as he wished. She hurt, and her pain twisted through him, stinging.

“I need you.” He sent the words reverberating through the room, over the link between them.

She shrugged. “I want you, too.” Glancing back, she wetted her lips with her tongue. “One last time,” she said. “Our Houses are enemies, we can't continue this affair, but we can share ourselves with each other one last time.”

He didn't deny her words. He just stepped inside, nudged her door shut with a foot, and swept her into his arms.

Just holding her, the press of her soft, curvy form against his, was enough. To start.

It was as he'd said. Comforting. The warmth of her and the sheer
affection
they had for each other seeped into him and smoothed his raw emotions. Circulating to her, they lifted her depression.

And he felt good. Simply good. He could give this to her as no one else did. He had succeeded in something at last today. The most important thing of all, pleasing his lover.

To Lark, Holm felt large and strong and comforting. More, he felt
right
. When the thought sent a bolt of dread careening through her, Holm caught it and vanquished it.

“None of that.” His warm mouth whispered below her ear, and she shuddered at the dampness of his tongue on her skin. Once she was again enveloped in his scent and heat and strength. She reveled in their closeness, the energy flow that more than doubled as it cycled from one to the other. Merged, they were stronger than she'd ever experienced. Too right. She set her pain and grief and worries aside to cherish the moment.

At a word from him their clothes disappeared. Holm set her on her feet and stepped back. His eyes fixed on her with aching hunger that twined through the connection between them, adding sizzle, kindling a yearning in her—heating and flushing her skin from the inside out.

In his nakedness he was dazzling, as always. Tall, well-built, muscles developed to match his frame—a perfect male human specimen to study in an anatomy class. But the brilliance of his gray eyes and the glint of his silver-blond hair even in the room only lit by waxing twinmoons and starlight emphasized his vitality.

Her gaze went to the large, dark bruise on his neck, and she winced. He chuckled. The bruise she'd set on him as her mark—how primitive was that!—was larger and more livid than the first one.

He touched his throat. “I treasure the sting.”

She felt his pleasure as he thought of her lovebite, and noticed the results as his sex thickened.

This was a beggar? She closed her eyes and shook her head. A soft brush of his fingertips against hers and a whiff of him told her he moved. She opened her eyes to see him circling her. His gaze held hers.

Open your senses. See the energy flow between us,
he said as he caressed her temple, then glided away in a slide-step.

She did. A cascade of silver-gold spun between them, linking them in a complex weave she'd never experienced, never seen amongst others before.

An intimate,
right
bond between us,
his mind whispered, but a small frown line appeared between his brows. She blinked, understanding that he struggled for words with her and that frustrated him because it was unusual. Her lips curved—then she noticed the knotted tangle of injury that he kept hidden was much closer to the surface of his mind-heart-emotions now. She could reach out and touch it, find it and smooth it and Heal it. What wounded
him
?

She gathered herself for a probe—and he touched the tip of her breasts. All thought fled.

He circled, and she turned, matching him in steps like the sensual dance they'd done in the air that morning, so very long ago in emotional time.

His fingers trailed down her shoulder, then away. She countered by testing his biceps, then twirling under his arm and out of reach.

His lips parted on a wicked grin, he sent his hands through her scalp to follow her hair to the tips, and she felt the rustling of nerves to the soles of her feet. She gasped.

His hands tugged free and his arms opened wide, he sidestepped, letting her enjoy the view of his aroused body, the intimacy of the dance.

Lark followed instinct. She took a gliding pace to him, skimmed the tips of her nails down his chest, lightly covered with gleaming blond hair.

He shuddered. His face tightened. His hand flicked out and his index finger followed the line of her collarbone, then his fingers fell away as she swayed. Her body readied for his.

She'd never seen anything like the hair on his body. White gold. Tempting beyond belief to explore, to discover texture and density. While she spun in the dance, trying to decide where to touch him next, his hands shaped her waist, darted in to cup her breasts, curved over her bottom.

A mist of glittering desire surrounded her, the sweep of their energy, tender but incendiary, flaring red with passion.

He stepped close and their bodies grazed, skin against skin, her breasts against his side. They both moaned.

She grasped his shoulder, slid her fingers over his lean hip, but the soft curling silver-hair near his groin tempted.

Instead of stepping away, she stepped into his circling dance and grasped his sex.

He stopped, panting.

She looked up and what she saw in his eyes thrilled her. No calm and sophisticated Nobleman, but an instinctive male bent on mating. That she could bring him to this made her heart pound, her blood sing.

She tightened her grasp on the manhood that had brushed her again and again in the teasing dance. “Time to pay.” She didn't know where the words came from, what they meant, only that she'd die if she couldn't have him.

He growled and grabbed her hips.

Laughter ripped from her as she bounced on the sofa, then he was atop her and his shaft was against her most needy flesh and she cried out in yearning.

Look!
he ordered, and caught her gaze with his. His fierce eyes flamed silver.

Mine!
he cried, twining his fingers with hers.

Now!
he prayed and slid into her slowly.

Linked together, eyes, hands, bodies.

Emotions.

Chained together.

He surged and watched her, she surrendered and watched him, they rose and fell into ecstasy. Together.

Twenty-three