Heart Choice (35 page)

Someone shuffled behind her. “Don't got enough wood.”

Every instinct in Mitchella sharpened. “I'd like to see the receipts for the materials . . . both types.”

The foreman grinned, showing crooked, stained teeth from tobacchew. “Now I don' seem to have them receipts.”

“What happened to them?”

He shrugged.

“You're fired. I'll file a complaint against you at the GuildHall, and since I contract out a lot of remodeling work, I'll make sure that your company, and you yourself, will have a black mark against you. Leave, now.”

He slapped her. Pain shot along her cheekbone, fired in her face. She staggered back.

Antenn jumped on the man, shrieking.

The man yelled, wrenched the boy's arms from him, and flung him away.

Twenty-three

Flair sizzled. Invisible force slammed the foreman into
the half-built wall; it fell on him. He and the splintered wood crashed to the floor.

Straif strode into the room. He swept the rest of the workers with a look, and they stood as if petrified.

Twisting a hand in the foreman's shirt, Straif dragged him to his feet. “I don't tolerate abuse of my dependents. I don't care to be cheated, and I don't like your face,” he said softly. Danger whisked around the room.

With his free hand, he snapped his fingers, then curled his palm upward. A tiny scrybowl appeared. Straif blew on it. “Guardsman Winterberry,” he ordered.

A few seconds later the deep voice of the guard answered. “Winterberry here.”

“T'Blackthorn. I think we have a suspect in the firebombing, the reflective Flair trap, and other threats.”

“No, no!” howled the foreman.

“Quiet!” Straif ordered, and though the man's mouth continued to work, dribbling spittle that mixed with blood from a cut on his forehead, no words were heard. To Winterberry, Straif said, “We certainly have a case of assault and fraud. The fligger hit Mitchella.”

“I'll be right there,” said Winterberry.

“I'll wait for you in the workroom in the east wing.”

“Let me handle this, GrandLord,” Winterberry said.

Straif swore. Staring at the foreman in front of him, Straif said, “Workroom,” and snapped his fingers. The man vanished.

“FirstFamily Lords,” muttered Winterberry, “Always difficult.
I will handle this
. Done.” He ended the scryspell.

Glancing at the rest of the crew, Straif said, “I want you all to wait in the workroom in the east wing. Winterberry and I will discover everything you know.”

A rapping came on the doorjamb.

Everyone turned to see the cook. “An early dinner will be served in a septhour,” he said, and hastened away. The others scurried out of the room.

Finally able to tear her attention from Straif, Mitchella ignored her throbbing face to pat Antenn all over. “Are you all right? Are you hurt anywhere?” Her lip was cut and swollen, and her words were a little garbled.

Antenn shook himself, glared furiously at Straif. Mitchella could sense the boy's anger that he couldn't protect her, his humiliation, his resentment that Straif had handled the situation so quickly and easily. Antenn's emotions seethed, nearly explosive. He shrugged her hands away. “I'm all right.”

“I can see that,” Straif said. “You did well, defended her, kept him from striking her again.” He swept Mitchella up in his arms. “I'm taking Mitchella to her suite. I'll have T'Heather come and Heal her face.”

Mitchella held out a hand to her ward. “Antenn? Come with us.”

He turned away from her and huddled into himself.

Worried, she nibbled her lower lip, then gasped at the pain.

“There, there,” crooned Straif in a voice that didn't match his grim face or dangerous eyes.

Since Antenn was beyond her reach as Straif's strides ate up the ground, Mitchella switched her attention to him, trailed her fingertips along his clenched jaw. His steps hesitated.

“There, there, yourself,” she said.

He held her close as he climbed the staircase. “I did not kill the man. I didn't even beat him to a pulp.”

“Very restrained of you.”

When he reached the top of the stairs, he leaned a moment against the wall next to Mitchella's door, rested his forehead on hers. “I can't believe a beast like that was allowed in my home.”

“My fault,” Mitchella whispered, stroking his face. “I wanted workers who weren't disturbed by the ballroom.”

Straif shuddered out a breath. A corner of his mouth lifted ironically. “Just added more rough energies to the place. We definitely need to get a priest and priestess for a Ritual cleansing.” He pushed away from the wall. “Open,” he ordered the door. The knob turned, and the door swung open. Straif crossed to an overstuffed chair and sank into it, still holding Mitchella. She knew she should move, but the rush of danger had faded, languor replacing it. Straif was being so tender, so gentle with her.

“Let's see that cheek of yours,” he said, urging her to turn her head with his fingertip against her chin. He swore when he saw it. “That fliggering bastard left his handprint on you!” His eyes took on the wild tint of blue.

Mitchella slid her hands into his silky hair on each side of his face, her eyes fixed on his. “Kiss it and make it better?”

His muscles eased from battle-tension, his gaze softened. “Yes.” With no more pressure than a butterfly's wing, his lips brushed against her stinging cheek, once, twice, again, and again. Then his tongue wetted her lips. His mouth touched hers. Warmth unfurled inside her, she surrendered to him, to anything he wanted. The bond between them opened wide.

Straif's outer hand slid from her hip to her butt and squeezed.

“Ahem!”

Straif's head jerked up. Mitchella blinked and turned to see a flushed T'Heather at the open door, holding a Healer's bag.

“Winterberry vized me. Said there was an assault on a lady.” T'Heather stumped in. “The guard is downstairs in the workroom. The Residence informed me you were here. Now, let's see that face of yours, GentleLady Clover.”

Mitchella stood, her knees wobbly. She tilted her head toward T'Heather. He swore worse than Straif. “The injury itself is not that bad,” T'Heather said. He set his hand against her face exactly as the foreman's hand had struck her. With a flash of warmth and a Word, the pain was gone. T'Heather moved his palm all over her face, jaw, and neck, and the swelling subsided. He grunted. “Minimal skin and muscle trauma; you won't even have a bruise.”

“You do good work.” Mitchella smiled tentatively, and when nothing hurt, grinned.

But the Healer was looking at Straif. “It's a bad day when a man can assault a woman in a FirstFamily Residence.”

Straif growled.

T'Heather continued, “Too many nasty surprises going on here, Blackthorn. Stop them.”

“Right.” Straif stood. He wrapped an arm around Mitchella's waist. “I don't know how many of those actions the other Blackthorn is behind. I would guess the workman who did this to Mitchella was his spy.”

T'Heather jerked a nod. “Winterberry will figure it out. He doesn't fail. The Councils will listen to his report.”

“They'd damn well better. Keeping me in the dark doesn't help me in stopping those ‘nasty surprises.' What do I owe you?”

Eyes narrowed, T'Heather's lips curled in an edgy smile. “I will bill the Councils. Let them see the consequences of their actions.”

Straif's smile matched the Healer's. “Good idea.”

“Blessed be,” T'Heather said.

“Blessed be,” Mitchella and Straif said.

With a wave, T'Heather 'ported from the room.

When he was gone, Mitchella saw another person standing at the open door, the cook, Gwine Honey, eyes bulging.

“Yes?” asked Straif.

Honey squared his shoulders. “The guardsman sent the workers home and the foreman to jail.”

“Yes?”

“Dinner's ready. I can't find the boy.”

Mitchella sighed. “He was very irritated with us.”

“He came up a few minutes ago,” Honey said.

Had Antenn seen them kissing? That would have hurt him more. She must talk with him.

“Thank you, Honey,” said Straif. “We'll be right down to dinner.”

“You look a whole lot better,” Honey said, staring at Mitchella. He nodded. “Good.” He clumped down the west stairs.

“I'll get Antenn,” Mitchella said.

“Kiss me, first.” Straif tapped his lips. “A good one. Just to make sure everything is working properly.” He grinned and Mitchella couldn't help smiling back.

“Oh, very well.” She pressed herself against him, centimeter by centimeter until their bodies were flush. To her dazzled mind the bond between them pulsed a throbbing rainbow of colors. She reveled in holding him until their scents mingled—sage and summer flowers. She looked at him, a chuckle in her throat at the sheer delight of the anticipatory heat running through her body. “Mmm, good,” she said.

He appeared dazed, and that was even better. Flexing her knees to make sure they'd hold, she walked away with an extra roll in her hips. He moaned behind her.

All her pleasure fled when she discovered Antenn wasn't in his rooms. “Antenn!” A tiny blue white holosphere bobbed to her from the mantle of the bedroom.

“Mitchella, I want to spend tonight with the Clovers. I'll see you after my apprenticeship tomorrow.” His words were stiff, and in the holo his eyes shifted.

Desperate panic speared her. She hurried to the scrybowl and called the Clover Compound. He was probably with Mel and Pratty.

“Here,” answered Pratty.

“Aunt Pratty, is Antenn there?”

Pratty's kindly face folded into resignation. “Yes, he's here, and angry. He won't tell us what is wrong, and he won't talk about you.”

“I'll be right there.”

Pratty looked troubled. “I don't think you should come, dear, give him time to cool off. I don't know what happened, but all his boy's pride is raw. Leave him be.”

“I'd like to speak to him, please.”

Sighing, Pratty called, “Tell Antenn that Mitchella wants to talk to him.”

Mitchella heard his dragging steps even through the scrybowl. When he appeared, his expression was closed, and when he saw her, his shoulders hunched. Not good signs.

“I was worried about you. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he replied, and she knew he was physically fine, but emotionally hurt.

She kept her tone even. “Thank you for letting me know where you were.” She searched for words. “I know you're upset.”

He stood still, mutinous.

Mitchella sighed. “We don't have to talk about this now, but I think we should discuss this tomorrow.”

Antenn shrugged.

His eyes showed hurt and anger. Was this the boy who'd let her hold him just the night before? There had been such tenderness between them, yet now he seemed on the other side of a chasm. “I love you, Antenn,” Mitchella said quietly.

His lip thrust out like the little boy he'd never been allowed to be. Perhaps he finally believed he could act nastily and still be loved. Mitchella had thought they'd conquered that mountain long ago. “Do you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she put all the warmth and love she felt into her words. “I love you.”

He seemed to relax. Then a shadow passed behind his eyes and he inhaled deeply and said, “I want—”

“An-tennn!” called one of the Clover boys, “Dinnnerrr!”

“I want—” Antenn started again, then his gaze went past her and he looked angry again. “I want to stay here tonight, in a big place full of people. I don't want to live in an empty formal Residence anymore. I want us to look for our own place.”

Straif's hand curled over Mitchella's shoulder, his fingers warm, his thumb stroking her shoulder blade.

“We'll talk about that tomorrow afternoon. Sleep well and blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” Antenn choked and cut the scryspell.

“I'm sorry I've made your lives difficult,” Straif said, then added, “Dinner is served. Since it's one of the entrees Gwine is practicing, he's almost hopping up and down for us to sample it.” Straif turned her and kissed her brow. He took her hand in his, and they went to the dining parlor.

“What of Winterberry?”

“Winterberry cleverly left me a report. The work crew noticed a change in the foreman's habits when he took this job. Though they aren't saying anything against him, it's evident that he's been defrauding us.”