Heart Duel (46 page)

Zanth smirked and pranced over to T'Ash.
Look at Me. Me perrrfect. Life is good.

Lark stared. The skin before his ears showed under thin fur and was ridged with scars. Both upright ears held nicks. Old scratches crisscrossed his muzzle.

Holm laughed and Lark blessed the cat. She reached up, took Holm's hand and smiled brilliantly at the Ashes. “Time for bed,” she said. Holm stiffened beside her, but she ignored it.

I'll be gentle,
she sent to him.

He cracked a smile and said polite good-nights to his friends, but he acted as if she dragged him to his doom.

When they reached their suite, the sitting room wasn't quite as Lark had left it and she received a little shock. Holm had been in their rooms. After years she was now sharing her space again with a man, a permanent partner. Lark was glad she'd had Phyll to practice on first.

She took a sleepy Meserv from Holm's shoulders and patted the kitten. He opened cloudy blue eyes. She set him on his feet and tweaked the tip of his tail. “Phyll has claimed a closet for himself and you. It's all your own. It has some very soft pillows and”—she bent down to whisper—“some dirty shoe and boot liners of mine and Holm's.”

He rumbled purring gratitude as he trotted to the closet.

Lark looked up at Holm, but found him frowning at a striking piece of framed calligraphy standing on the largest table, as if he'd forgotten he'd placed the piece.

She started toward it and he stopped her. He looked at his work, then her, then scowled as if it wasn't good enough.

At least he wasn't chanting his mantra.

He waved to the twoseat, which looked brand-new like all the elegant yet homey furnishings. Lark wondered if GrandLord Furze had transferred a suite from Mitchella Clover's shop, the Four Leaf Clover. She wouldn't have been surprised.

She dropped into the twoseat and watched Holm, keeping their link as wide as he allowed—slightly larger than the cord. Incrementally he was letting her open their bond.

“You once said you loathed and despised fighters,” he said.

She wondered if he was deliberately trying to keep them apart. Wetting her lips, she folded her hands and said, “You're my HeartMate.”

“So the issue really doesn't matter?” There was a hint of mockery in his tone that she hated. She wanted to go to him, but his manner deterred her.

“Much has happened since I said that, and I've thought about everything a great deal. It isn't fighting that I loathe and despise, it's violence—the wish to deliberately wound and hurt another. And you are not a violent man,” she ended softly.

He half turned, his fine profile evident in the dim light. “I am under certain circumstances.”

“As I could be. I realized it this morning when I saw my father tormenting you. I don't know what I might have done to him, if—” She couldn't go on.

His breath escaped in a sigh. “I like fighting, practicing my skill, training. And I'll be doing that for the rest of our lives, most especially in Gael City.”

“But you don't like violence, injuring or taking lives.”

“At one time—”

“Not now.”

“No, not now.”

“You are not a violent man,” she repeated.

Holm didn't know how he felt about her change of heart, so he turned back to stand in front of his calligraphy. The papyrus and ink were the finest. The frame was sparkling new, made by T'Ash with true artistry. It had been Holly green, but now was gold with Heather lavender-rose highlights.

He touched the lower right-hand corner of the glass and his mouth twisted. His signature—his former self. Everywhere he went, everything he did was a reminder that he was no longer Holm Holly, even this gift that he'd made the night his Mamá had been taken to the Ship and he'd yearned for Lark.

Taking the piece to the twoseat, he offered it to her. It symbolized all he had been, all that was the past. But the symbols also flowed with all he'd wanted then, and wanted now with her, the future.

Her breath caught. “It's a HeartGift, isn't it?”

He'd hoped she wouldn't ask, because then he wouldn't have had to tell her. His mouth tightened. “Yes. It doesn't have the power of the usual HeartGift, because I just made it.” He looked at it, and saw its inadequacy. The parchment he had taken so long to prepare and colorwash with subtle blends, the bold strokes of ink he had practiced again and again, interminably, losing himself in the crafting so his other problems ceased to exist, the ink itself—nothing about it pleased him now.

Holm set his shoulders. He'd done his best. It hadn't been enough. Throughout this whole situation, he'd felt he was trying to catch up with her—her exquisitely civilized philosophy of life, her gentleness and innate goodness.

“I'll send it away,” he said. And destroy it in private.

“No.” Her hands curled around his wrists and her unexpected touch rocked him. He'd been so withdrawn that he hadn't been observing her, anticipating her moves so he could brace himself. Waves of hot desire and ferocious longing rolled through him.

She scanned his face, and she blushed as she felt the spike in his pulse, the tightening of his body. She took the gift from him, and through their bond he felt
her
arousal—the deepening ache between her legs as her body quickened for his. Her face flushed even more, and she met his eyes squarely and laughed. “Not the effect of a HeartGift made during Passage? How would either of us know? Sufficient enough to stir
my
blood, Holm. I want your HeartGift badly. Very badly. I want you badly.”

She closed her eyes and shared the strong impact of his gift upon her senses. When she opened her eyelids, her gaze was deep purple. She set the calligraphy aside, stood, took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

With a Word she undressed him. “Lie on the bed and let me see you, Holm. Let me find any and all little aches and bruises and scratches and Heal them. It's been a wretched day.”

He'd lost his wits. He couldn't put together a thought, let alone a strategy for dealing with his woman. He'd run out of emotions, too. Everything she said made perfect sense and was what he wanted. Very odd. So he went to the bed and lay on his back.

With a wordless crooning, she sifted her fingers through his hair. A thousand nerve endings in his scalp tingled. He could almost see it bathed with the glow of Healing. The cut on his forehead closed and the background throb faded.

Her fingers loosened the tight muscles of his neck with a touch, warmed them with the vitality cycling between them, the energy that blended and merged so perfectly, that increased as it circled from one to another. Her hand curved around his throat, pressed the skin she'd bitten during their last wild lovemaking and that she'd Healed that morning, devastating him. She leaned over him and her sweet breath sighed into his ear. “Later. Later we will make love, but this time is for me to comfort and soothe you, to make all your hurts go away, to pamper you and envelope you in my love—as only a HeartMate can do.”

He made a sound and sank into the bliss of being cosseted. Time stretched and became blissful. The warmth of her hands, her soft, loving words, her Healing was a balm poured over him, seeping into him to soothe raw emotional pain like honey.

Even when he rolled over and she used her Healer's touch on his front, he experienced affection, caring, love, but no lusty desire. This is what he needed now, more than anything. How could she have known when he hadn't? He drifted off.

Lark sat on the bedsponge and looked at Holm, her tears falling unchecked. All the new injuries he'd sustained in the fight were gone, never to mark his already too-scarred body. His tender nerve endings and muscle fibers, previously taut, were wrapped in small spell-cushions. He slept, but she'd felt his pain and ached at his confusion at the loss of his world. She admired the effort he made to cope.

While Healing, she'd let the stream of her Flair dissipate her raw feelings and wrenching experiences of the day. The shock of Holm's claim that she was his HeartMate—that had been like a blow to her solar plexus; the sight of the street melée had brought back vivid memories of Ethyn's death, her bitterness, and overlaid them with the horror that she might lose Holm, too; the death of a brother she'd never been able to deeply love, and any potential that they could become close.

She cried for that, for Huathe, using Flair to keep her sobs silent and her nose unstuffed, only letting the tears roll down her face and dampen the bedcover.

Worst of all had been the sight of her father ready to kill Holm. Her stomach clenched at the recollection. She'd never forget that sight for the rest of her life, but she hoped it and the emotions that had ripped through her would dim.

Holm shifted as if her upset disturbed him, and she regulated her breathing and packed away the wretched memories. She examined him. He'd rest until his energy levels reached their normal state, then waken. When he did, she'd finish her work. A smile curved her lips as she went to the waterfall to bathe. The next stage of Holm's Healing would be a passionate encounter, and then her initiation of the HeartBond.

She washed vigorously, trying not to think of her father and Laev grieving over a lost son in an echoing Residence, of T'Holly and D'Holly missing their lost son as the place he'd always filled was empty, and her own inner fear that she'd hurt Holm too much to bond together.

 
Her sleep was fitful. He'd move close and his scent would
insinuate itself into her dreams, dreams that wove fear and loss and lust together. He'd roll over and his movement would wake her to groggily look and appreciate the fine lines of his back, or even push the linens down to ogle his butt.

Though they'd only spent an afternoon and one night together, she'd already learned his sleep rhythm. She was wide awake a good septhour before she thought he'd open his eyes.

So she looked at him. Again. She didn't think she would ever tire of looking at the man, of wishing she'd been in his life so she could have prevented many of his scars. Though if his attitude had been the same as Tinne's, he would have honored those scars. She shook her head. HeartMates, and what did she know of him besides his basic character? Nothing of the real details of his life.

She pondered how she'd seduce him since she had no experience. Should she whisper him awake with love words? Should she pet him from collarbone to hip and between, as her hands itched to do? She thought and planned and discarded plans and worried.

Then she decided to relax, and in doing so, let her body follow instinct. She steeped herself in his presence—the strong bond between them that could comfort or arouse. She sent him fizzy sparkles of love and passion and he groaned in his sleep and rolled on his side to face her. She snuggled close and let their bodies brush, her nipples against his springy chest hair, her legs along his muscular ones. Close enough that she could breathe in the essence of him, open her lips and dart out her tongue to taste him.

Daring more, wanting more, she lifted her top leg and hooked it over his, opening her body to him. Just with the action, her arousal kicked up a notch. She twined her arms around him and tasted the hollow of his neck. Her breathing quickened and she nibbled the line of his jaw. His sex stirred and grew and touched her between her legs where she needed him, then he shifted and withdrew. She whimpered in frustrated desire, moved so his manhood nestled close again. She needed him inside her, but needed something else even more.

Lark twisted until her mouth touched the spot she'd bitten and Healed before. Holm tensed and wakened. He angled his head so she could fix her mouth better against his throat. She opened her lips and kissed his neck.

They stayed entwined that way for long moments, her leg around his hip and open to one thrust of his shaft. His head back and arched to her open mouth, waiting the nip of her teeth. Lark said nothing, but sent her passion like hot beads rolling through their link, to increase his desire and have it returned threefold to her. The pleasure of anticipation dizzied her until she only felt his skin under his mouth and the dampness between her legs that ached for him.

She broke. She said, “I love you,” and bit him.

With one smooth movement he was over her, on her, in her. One lunge and his full, hot sex filled her until she moaned with delight. And he stopped.

“Bélla,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Yes, Holm. Yes. Anything. Everything. Yes. Love me.”

He propped himself on his arms. His face was close to hers, but she could barely see the glint of his eyes.

“Slow,” he rasped, “good and deep.”

She moaned another “Yes.”

He settled into her, widening her legs. She gasped at the feel of him stroking her deep inside. “Holm,” she pleaded, fit her emotions with his, felt the pulsing of his shaft, the pulsing of her core, the pulsing of their tie.

Holm lifted, sank. Slow, sweet, deep. His thrusts were steady and even and maddening, until she tilted her hips for the best penetration, locked her legs around him, spurred him on with bolts of passion through their link.

Faster, harder, deeper, rocking into her, sending her soaring to the heights in a twisting, twining dance of pure, luscious sensation.

Close, close. The HeartBond. Oh, she needed him. In her body, in her heart. In her soul.

She plucked a thread of pure shining white and spun it. He stroked her, set his hands under her to squeeze her bottom, angle her so they climbed together. She took the starry-white thread and sent it along the link, deepening the connection between them, tying their emotions together.