Heart Choice (7 page)

A loud feline yawn was his only answer.

T'Ash turned back to level a gaze at Straif. “I don't know if the reason your Family became defenseless against the Angh virus—the Blackthorn Curse—was linked in any way to the stones or not. But, know this, T'Blackthorn, those stones were ripped living from the heart of a mountain and split from one great crystal. A disgraceful action on the part of your Family.”

Straif blinked and caught a harsh breath. He'd never heard of such a thing. But could something that destroyed the Blackthorns' immunity to the sickness have come from a mine? “The lambenthysts?” he croaked, wondering if this new idea might be true, might be the key to finding a cure or an immunization against the Angh virus for him.

“Your Family no longer held the mine. I purchased it and returned the stones. I, my wife, Danith, and my Fam, Zanth, all visited a Healer after the trip. No trace of the virus was in our bodies before or after the trip. We all had a genetic scan also, and the gene that grants the immunity to the virus had not changed, as it has in your Family.”

“You don't have the weak gene of the Blackthorns.”

“No,” T'Ash replied softly.

Straif forced his teeth apart to say, “Right.”

T'Ash studied Straif in silence for a moment. “I would suggest,” he said carefully, “that you send a Healer knowledgeable about your disease to Old Grandfather Mountain to check on any bacteria living in the mine. I believe that it would be too dangerous for you to go.”

“Right. Something could flaw my genetic heritage even further.” As he said the words, he became aware of a nasty taste in his mouth.

Drina leaned close to his head and revved up her purr. The sound pulsated through his bones.

“Ah!” T'Ash smiled. “Drina is with you. She was most insistent that she belonged to you and would become FirstFam of T'Blackthorn.”

Drina placed a paw on the scrystone to communicate.
He belongs to Me,
Drina corrected with a sniff.

Her small, cat tones were overwhelmed with loud, rude, male cat rumbles.
Cat is vain, vain, vain. Glad she's gone. She doesn't share.

“Vain, huh, Zanth?” T'Ash said, once again looking to the left. “This is from a cat who wears a fortune in emeralds as a collar.”

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine,
Zanth roared, a black and white paw stretched into the viz, claws extended.

Drina sat up straight.
I need a collar. Sapphires. Or perhaps skycrystals, to match My eyes.

T'Ash's strong, white teeth flashed. “T'Blackthorn might need all the gilt he can lay his hands on to restore his Residence. This isn't time to think of expensive collars for his Fam.”

Drina hissed. Tiny droplets of spit reached Straif's ear.

“Checked on your finances yet, T'Blackthorn?” T'Ash asked.

“No.” In the months he'd been back and forth to Druida, he'd lived with the Hollys in their fortress, drawn his monthly noblegilt from the Council, banked what he didn't need in a simple account, and lived on payment for various hunting jobs.

When he'd left, fifteen years ago, he'd placed the T'Blackthorn fortune in the hands of canny T'Reed to invest, with T'Rowan as watchdog. He didn't recall the original amount. The thought depressed him. He'd be spending time on accounts. As a man of action, he loathed time at a desk, puzzling over figures on papyrus. Still, unlike the T'Ash holdings, the centuries-old T'Blackthorn fortune had not been stolen, or the lands and estates dispersed to other Houses.

He must be an extremely wealthy man.

Straif ran his hand down Drina's soft, fine fur and garnered comfort. She continued to sit rigidly and growl lowly at her sire, Zanth. “Drina, I think our House can afford a pretty collar for my Fam.”

She arched under his hand, her purr became triumphant.

Vain, vain, vain,
said Zanth.

Straif met T'Ash's gaze as he continued to pet his cat. “You remember the color of Drina's eyes, T'Ash?”

T'Ash nodded. “Well enough.”

“Make me a collar for her, will you?”

“Yes. But much as I often wanted to wring her neck, I never did, and we'll have to measure her for the collar.”

Raising his brows in mock surprise, Straif said, “Drina assured me that everyone adored her.”

A belly laugh rolled from T'Ash. Zanth snorted.

Drina said,
Everyone who is Anyone adores Me. I want a pendant on my collar, too. A blue diamond, I think
. “Yessss,” Drina actually vocalized.
I want blue diamonds. Like my eyes.

“Blue diamonds are more costly than emeralds,” T'Ash said.

Zanth yowled.

T'Ash winced. “You've wanted an ear stud, Zanth. I'll make you one.” He switched his gaze back to Straif and nodded. “I'll see you later. Come to dinner tonight, and we'll measure Drina in my Residence workshop and talk about the living stones.”

“Right. Merry meet.”

“And merry part,” T'Ash responded.

“And merry meet again. Until this evening,” Straif said.

“We'll see you then. Both of you. Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” Straif said, cutting the connection. He sat, propping his arms on his knees and leaning his head in his hands, then rubbed his face. It had begun. He had donned the mantle of his title. And his duties.

He was no longer a wanderer, a hunter living from job to job, searching for an answer.

He was GrandLord T'Blackthorn, with a life of duty and obligations.

No more than a moment later, Drina said,
Mitchella comes.

The comment energized Straif. He shoved back the chair and exited the GardenShed, Drina trotting at his heels. Though his spirits lifted at the idea of seeing Mitchella again—and in bright sunlight—he wondered if he'd still feel the punch of sexual attraction. Unusually
great
attraction. He had the lowering thought that he'd dreamed of her last night.

He hurried up the terrace stairs and around the house. Drina kept up, but she snarled mentally. Maybe she'd need more than one pendant of diamonds. Then he saw Mitchella studying the Fountain of Three Goddesses, looking so much better than the exquisite stone women, and his heart lurched in his chest.

 
 
Mitchella was grateful for the lip of the strong stone of
the basin she leaned against. For a FirstFamilies Residence, the security had been pitiful. She'd been asked her name at the greeniron gates and walked in. The Residence itself would be protected better, but she was still shocked that it was so easy to gain access to the estate.

The grounds were a mess of tangled plants. She hadn't seen anything like it since the Clovers had traveled en masse to the countryside to view land they wanted to purchase for a family summerhouse. She'd been a teenager at the time. She shuddered, recalling the long hours of aching muscular labor to bring the land and house up to respectable standards. Though now she thought of it, buying that place and helping furnish it was the start of her interest in interior design. Further, the home had gone through several styles, and the last few had been completely created by herself. Another thing to be proud of, yet her family took her efforts for granted.

At first glance, the exterior of T'Blackthorn Residence was in a dreadful state. A Celtan lichen grew up the underlying creamy yellow stone. With a professional eye, she gauged that they'd be just in time to prevent damage . . . another few months and the integrity of the outside stone would have been compromised.

Ensuring the Residence was whole and strong must be her priority before redecorating. She wondered how best to determine the extent of any structural damage and how best to restore it. She'd never worked on a Residence so large or so old.

Taking a note flexistrip from her pursenal, she recorded her thoughts. She was about to walk up the gliderway to the front entrance when T'Blackthorn himself strode around the west wing. Once again she was glad of the fountain's support, as her pulse quickened just at the sight of his lean, tough body prowling toward her. A warmth flushed her as a few images from her erotic dreams last night flickered in her mind's eye.

She straightened. She'd dressed carefully in dark blue trous and a short tunic that came to mid-thigh, both of sturdy material, since she hadn't been sure of the state of the Residence and whether she'd be doing any physical climbing or crawling to check out windows and floors.

Then T'Blackthorn was in front of her, and she caught his scent and wanted to jump into his arms. She was definitely making a mistake in taking the job.

Though his stance seemed easy, his expression was closed, and Mitchella wondered at it. Then he glanced back at the Residence and guilt, even vulnerability, flickered over his features. Ah. This was something she was used to, but more from social-climbing midclassers than from a FirstFamily GrandLord. Always thinking their homes weren't quite in the shape that they wanted her to see, as if she'd judge them by their surroundings.

There'd been T'Ash, wary of any comment on his Downwind slum background, baffled about furnishing his beautiful Residence. He'd also been resentful that his HeartMate consulted with Mitchella to help with the furnishings. As if Danith D'Ash would have the time to design a huge Residence with everything else she was doing.

And that was the key to the matter. Some people wanted a statement of the class they wished to become and didn't know how to make that statement, and hired her. Some doubted their taste. Some needed guidance in determining their own personal style.

But more often than not, some people were simply too busy to devote time to their homes. They needed help. And Mitchella was here to help.

She smiled, quite professionally.

Straif scowled.

So she lifted her brows. “GrandLord T'Blackthorn, shall we proceed?”

“Call me Straif.” Smoothly he took her arm and started walking toward the front of the Residence. He still frowned.

“GrandLord—”

“I've been in the wilds since I was seventeen, most of Celta isn't so formal as Druida.”

“You're from the highest noble class,” she said.

He grunted, then slanted a look at her. “May I call you Mitchella?”

His low voice saying her name ruffled her nerve endings in a too-sensual manner. “Of course,” she said coolly.

“Good.”

They were very close to the front of the house now, nearly within the semicircular wings arching toward them.

“The back of the Residence is the famous view,” Mitchella murmured. “Though the front is equally graceful and lovely.”

“You can see the back from the river, and the lawn and gardens are so large there that it is easy to image for holos.”

He hesitated, and she sensed that he dreaded touring the Residence.

“I have the plans of T'Blackthorn Residence. Would you like me to do a preliminary survey on my own?” she asked gently.

His gaze burned—with anger, with pain. All directed at himself, she thought.

“No,” he gritted out. His shoulders shifted, straightened as if taking on a burden. Broad shoulders.

His calloused hand cradled her elbow as they mounted the two stairs to the large front porch and the double door. As they reached the doors they swung inward with a little creak.

In the large front hall, checkerboarded in black and white marble, Drina sat on a black marble square, looking perfect. She was obviously posing, and Mitchella's gaze sharpened at the cat's smile. Drina could have definite ideas about the Residence, ideas that might be contrary to Mitchella's.

Five

“Greetyou, Drina,” Mitchella said to the small cat posing
in the center of the grand hall.

The cat mewed politely, but didn't move.

Mitchella glanced around the well-lit chamber. Beautifully proportioned, a marble staircase curved upward to the second story. The walls and the ceiling moldings had once been white but were now gray. That seemed to be the total damage.

“The interior is in good shape,” she said. There must have been surprise in her voice, because Straif dropped his hand and walked over to Drina, picked her up, and set her on his shoulder.

“Yes, no damp or mold or rot. We Blackthorns build to last.” There was a note of pain at being the sole remaining Blackthorn. “The furnishings, especially all the fabric, are bad. The Residence had enough energy to keep itself safe and sound. As for dust,” he turned back to face her, and his smile was twisted, “the Residence has been draining my energy at intervals since last night for housekeeping spells.”