Heart Choice (4 page)

Mitchella backed up. “More?”

“More cards—room models.”

She pulled out her cards and offered him the one of mock-furrabeast leather grain. He activated it. A meter-sized image of a masculinely furnished den materialized. T'Blackthorn tilted his head. “Nice. A little conservative for my taste.” He shot her a look. “You'll remember that.”

“That's my business. Of course.”

He nodded.

“We'll meet tomorrow at Midmorning bell, then. I want to start work on the pink room immediately, in the MistrysSuite.”

Mitchella stiffened her backbone. “Absolutely not.”

T'Blackthorn raised his eyebrows.

She lifted her chin before answering. “Your wife must decorate the suite.”

He scowled. “I'm not married.” He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “I think I have a HeartMate. I touched her during my last Passage when I learned to control my Flair.”

Mitchella should have been relieved. Of course he'd have a HeartMate, someone he'd bond with body, heart, mind, and soul. Most FirstFamily Nobles were that lucky. It came of having great psi powers and breeding for Flair. Bonded HeartMate couples led to more stable Families and increasingly Flaired children.

Instead she flinched inwardly. He had a HeartMate. It would be complete folly to have an affair with him.

As if he'd read her mind, he said, “I'm not ready to find or bond with my HeartMate. Everything must be perfect before I do that. T'Blackthorn Residence must be restored and sparkling. Other—problems—must be solved.”

So he'd be happy to have an interim affair with a commoner before he sought his HeartMate. Typical man. Typical Noble. The thought bolstered Mitchella's resistance to the electricity between them.

“I'll be glad to make T'Blackthorn Residence as perfect as possible, GrandLord,” she said coolly, professionally.

Drina jumped up on the buffet and swiped a paw at one of the pink cards Mitchella still held. The cat impaled it on her claw. She tapped the indentation and the pink model room appeared. Staring at T'Blackthorn, she mewed.

His lips quirked in amusement, and he slid a sidelong gaze to Mitchella. “She wants the pink room.” Narrowing his eyes, he studied Drina, then glanced back to the model bedroom. Now a small Drina image sat regally on the bed.

T'Blackthorn shook his head. “She said the room would complement Her, make Her look beautiful. She's right.”

They were both right, Mitchella realized. The cat looked perfect in the room.

He gazed at Drina, and when he spoke, his tones were quelling. “Your room is the small dressing room between the MasterSuite and MistrysSuite,” he informed the cat. “I'm sure GentleLady Clover can decorate it to your undeniably good taste.”

Drina pressed the holo control on the business card again and again, until the pink room, magnified and distorted, overwhelmed the real room they stood in.

“Very well,” T'Blackthorn sighed. “I'll indulge you this once. The Heir'sSuite has a playroom that shares a wall with the GrandLord's MasterSuite. I'll convert that room into your bedroom and have a connecting door cut.”

Mitchella barely kept herself from goggling at T'Blackthorn's casual wave of a hand as he outlined the reconstruction.

Drina flexed her paw, and the model room vanished as the card spun to the carpet. It was just a business card again. With a claw-hole in it.

He looked at Mitchella, his gaze lingering on the tumble of her hair, her face, her lips. “I think we will do very well together.”

“That's my job.”

He offered a hand. Reluctantly, Mitchella gave him her own. Instead of shaking it, he lifted it to his mouth. The soft pressure of his warm lips went directly to her center. She pulled away, pasting on another professional smile.

“Tomorrow at Midmorning bell, then,” he said.

“Yes.” She'd be up all night studying all the information she could on T'Blackthorn Residence. She was sure she recalled it being featured several times in various publications on architecture, furnishings, how the FirstFamilies lived. She needed plans and dimensions. Old holos of how the rooms looked. Perhaps she could even get some sort of idea of the previous owners' tastes.

Then realization struck.

The Blackthorn curse.

She stared at him.

He, just like T'Ash, had lost his entire Family.

But not to a rival nobleman—to some disease. Her stomach clenched. This man and she had another thing in common. Loss. He had lost all he loved in the past. She had lost the hope of children to love in the future.

T'Blackthorn stilled as if understanding she'd finally remembered the history of his line. She wondered if he read her own heartache.

They shared a moment of silence throbbing with untold griefs. Then, T'Blackthorn inclined his head. “Merry meet.”

“And merry part,” Mitchella replied through dry lips.

“And merry meet again,” he said. “Come, Drina.”

Drina brushed against Mitchella, purring loudly, leaving little white hairs clinging to her onesuit, then jumped to T'Blackthorn's shoulder.

“Right,” Straif said to his Fam, then looked again at Mitchella. “Drina thanks you for the pink chamber. We'll start with that.” Cat attached to his broad shoulder, he strode from the room.

Mitchella let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She'd hurry home to research T'Blackthorn Residence. At least doing the first room would be easy.

It was, after all, her own bedroom.

 
 
Since T'Blackthorn Residence had siphoned off much of
his energy, Straif decided to walk back home. Even the thought of facing his decrepit home didn't lower his spirits—much. He'd already taken steps to make it beautiful again, as lovely as it had been in his childhood. A place of warmth and comfort. Just one glance at Mitchella Clover and he knew she could fulfill his dreams for his home. And maybe for himself—for a while, too.

Mitchella Clover is not too ugly for a human,
Drina said.

Straif laughed. He supposed that was a compliment. His spirits lifted. Mitchella Clover was fascinating and beautiful, and he enjoyed the sizzling punch of sexual attraction between them. He felt more himself and alive than he had for a long time.

“What about me?” he teased the little cat sitting on his shoulder. He had plenty of years in the wilds of untamed Celta—since he'd just turned seventeen—and showed the wear of them on his body.

You are beautiful,
Drina said.

Straif stopped in his tracks. He turned his head and came nose-to-nose with the cat. “I am?”

He blinked at the cat-logic. He'd never heard of beauty-by-association before.

That was stunning, all right. Since he didn't know what to say, he kept walking, taking the turn onto Bountry Boulevard, moving from middle-class Druida to Noble Country. The tree-lined street was one of the oldest in Druida and ran along the edges of many of the FirstFamilies estates. Full dark had fallen, and arrhythmic patters of raindrops splashed from the trees. Drina hissed. Straif strengthened the weathershield around her until she was safe from any drips.

He cleared his throat. “I disagree about Mitchella Clover; she is very beautiful.”

Drina tensed, her claws biting into his shoulder.

“Ah, her coloring complements yours.” That was certainly true, and both females projected femininity. He couldn't see sharing a rough campsite with either of them. A wisp of memory brought back the last time he'd seen a woman's face in the flames of a campfire—and his last lover.

He'd had a simply-sex affair with a lady on the southern continent of Brittany until he'd gotten word that the Holly-Hawthorn feud was heating up and his uncle, T'Holly, needed him. Once he'd arrived in Druida, like everyone else in the Holly Household, he'd been preoccupied with the feud and its aftermath.

He hadn't even gone to see his occasional lover here in Druida, GraceLady Kalmi Lobelia. But then the last time he'd seen Kalmi she'd raged at him for leaving her. He'd figured she never wanted to see him again. A pity because she'd been a good prophetess and there was always the chance she might see the way to repair the defect in his Family heritage.

He stretched his legs in a stride, feeling the smooth working of his muscles. He'd been without a lover for over three months. Now the thought of Mitchella Clover raised his spirits. He'd been honest in telling her he had a HeartMate, but had also informed the exquisite lady that it would be a long time before he went in search of the woman to claim her as his wife—years perhaps. He wasn't even sure where he'd stashed the HeartGift he'd made during his last Passage—the mental trial that freed his psi power, his Flair.

Finding his HeartMate was another goal that could sink him in gloom. Refurbishing his home might take months, but he was still no closer to a fix for his flawed gene than he had been at seventeen. It could still take a long time, but that was for the future.

Right now he anticipated a few months with the delectable Mitchella. Though she was a commoner, she had a nice bit of Flair, and he sensed she knew how to play the sex game. He wouldn't push—much. All he had to do was to depend on the heated attraction between them. Sooner or later they would wind up in bed.

Drina yowled in his ear, and he tensed. He'd been ignoring her, and her mews had escalated.

“Yes?” he said.

“Right.” He noticed she'd made the request as they were passing T'Holly Residence where he'd stayed until that morning. He smiled. She was one smart feline. He stopped by the greeniron gates and rang a small bell. Through Flair-technology the sound would echo within the castle. Straif faced the crystal scrystone.

Three

Only a few seconds passed before the T'Holly butler's
face appeared in the gate scrystone. He inclined his head at Straif. “How may I help you, T'Blackthorn?”

The man's face appeared strained, reflecting the tension of living in a Residence where the Lord and Lady were deteriorating under the weight of broken Oaths of Honor at disowning their son, Holm Holly, when he wed his HeartMate against their wishes. Yes, Straif had been right to leave this place. Better the ghosts of his own dead than the ghosts of the living Hollys.

Straif shifted until Drina, riding his shoulder, showed into the scry. “Might I borrow a plump pillow for my new Fam? Perhaps the one in the guest room I've been using?”

The butler smiled, and his eyes twinkled. “I'll send it to the coordinates of T'Blackthorn ResidenceDen, as I did your traveling bedroll and other possessions.”

“Right. Many thanks.”

The butler cleared his throat. “Perhaps blue velvet would be acceptable?” His lips twitched as he studied the regal Drina.

Straif winced. “I have a request for . . .” He didn't know if he could spit it out. What possessed him to accept a Queen-of-the-Universe FamCat?

Drina brushed the side of his face with soft, soft fur and purred, sending approving and affectionate thoughts.

“I have a request for a blue velvet pillow with golden tassels,” Straif said.

A cough came from the butler. “Quite so,” he choked out.

“Thanks. Merry meet,” said Straif.

The butler's face fell into serious folds, “And merry part.”

“And merry meet again,” Straif ended. They both knew it was a lie. There was no merriment in the Holly Family, but they themselves had to learn how to deal with their changed circumstances. Straif could no longer help.

Straif nodded, cut the call, and walked away from T'Holly Residence. It was a couple of miles to his home.

Drina revved up her purr.
Mitchella Clover likes you. I saw.

Now that was a cheerful topic. “I like the looks of her, too.”

“I agree.”

“Of D'Ash?”

Drina gave a delicate snort.
Of Mitchella Clover.

Straif knew exactly what the cat was doing. She was repaying him for the pillow. Cats tended to take favors seriously. He was surprised to hear himself say, “I think I'd like to find out about her all on my own.” The Blackthorns were hunters and trackers, puzzles appealed. And a woman they had to track and find and unravel was a challenging prize.