Heart Choice (21 page)

He stared up at her with deep, intense eyes. “I know nothing of her. I can see only you.”

Mitchella caught her breath. “This is a mistake.”

His eyes flamed, the muscle in his jaw flexed. “Just a little touching, then. Here in the chair.”

With a smooth move that showed his strength, he set his hands on her waist, lifted her, and brought her close. Mitchella put her hands on his shoulders, opened her legs and folded them on either side of his thighs, then sank down, kneeling in the chair. When her sex settled on his rigid length, the erotic touch seared her so she moaned and closed her eyes. She dared not move, to do so would start the ultimate climb to ecstasy.

“I could remove our clothes with a Word.” His voice was so low that it might have come in her mind rather than to her ears.

She shuddered at the idea. She'd never had a lover so Flaired. The thought tempted her. She panted, but shook her head, then swallowed hard. When she'd controlled the rising tide of desire, she opened her eyes. His were the dark blue of a turbulent sea, full of so much naked passion she drew back, and rubbed sex against sex. They both groaned.

He closed his eyes. A bead of sweat appeared at his hairline.

She wanted to bend forward and taste that droplet of sweat, wanted to let her tongue linger on his tense face, trace down to press against his lips, feel the bunched muscle at the corner of his jaw. So she closed her eyes, too.

Behind her eyelids, swirls of colors danced, infused with the tinge of desire. A mist of bright, sparkling orange and silver engulfed her. She was afire. Straif. His passion mixed with hers, she was swept away in an undertow of sensual emotion.

He needed her
. To him, she was everything soft and beautiful, the essence of woman. His desire held a wild force that sank into her, raged through her until her blood was as hot and racing as his. A thousand strokes against her skin, arousing every nerve ending, flicks of flame against her nipples and the sweet nub between her legs ignited her passion until she was throbbing, aching, desperate. Nothing mattered except embracing the firestorm, melding with him, merging with him.

Mitchella
. His mind whisper was another strong, pure caress rippling through her, throwing her to new heights of sexuality. She wanted to run her hands all over him, but wasn't aware of her physical body. All was heat, all passion. She thought she groaned and sent the fire licking at her loins out to him.

It whipped back to her, lashes of sensation that stroked her core, then burst into sweet release.

Her body fell against his, limp. His heart thundered under her ear. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.

She felt as if she glowed with a sheen of fulfillment. No physical climax had shattered her so. She was sated, yet it had been a mental orgasm. His sex was soft, as if all the passionate energy he'd experienced had also been released mentally.

Not just mental fulfillment, but emotional. His arms cradled her with the gentleness of a true lover, and he was utterly open. He hid nothing from her, and his need for her was still there, twining them together. It wrapped around her heart.

His hands stroked her back, and the feel of their width, their power, flashed another surge of pleasure through her. She didn't have the strength to groan, so she lay against him—smelling the clean, crispness of sage, the wild male of Straif. She flushed. She'd matched him in that wildness. Those dancing flames of desire that merged and exploded.

Her breasts were flattened against his chest, and suddenly her tunic was too thin. If she stayed, the sex between them wouldn't be mental. Her hands itched to touch his body.

Summoning the tatters of her control, she pushed herself away, used a little Flair to reach her feet. She'd never had the power to move so easily, floating-flying, but being around him and the Residence had increased her Flair, for now.

“Stay.” Straif's fingers opened to grasp, then lay flat.

She looked down on him, knowing that she was far too close to falling in love with the man. “I don't want to discuss this.”

“It's only a matter of time—”

“I'm gone.”

His hand swept out to grip her wrist. “Gone? No, I won't let you leave the Residence.” And he spoke those words that arrowed straight to her heart. “I need you, Mitchella.”

She freed her hands, pushed her fingers through her hair, lifting it to cool her thoughts.

His body stiffened. “Your hair is beautiful—the color, the texture, I want it to brush my skin. My naked skin.
All
of my skin.”

Images leapt before her eyes, the tough length of his tanned body on cream-colored sheets, the contrast of her red hair against his skin. She couldn't move. Deliberately looking to the black windows where a stream of raindrops spattered, she said, “I'm leaving your suite, not your home.”

“It
is
becoming a home for me, Mitchella. I can't thank you enough for that.”

She rubbed her temples. “We both have much to deal with. You must defend yourself to keep your title and estate.”

He moved abruptly. “I need to find the cure for my flawed gene.”

That had been in his mind—all the time before desire had banished it for a while. His other, longer, passion.

It hurt.

This was where their paths separated completely. She could never have him as more than a temporary lover. Better accept they'd be lovers, shield her heart for the inevitable break, try to keep the affair light. Difficult with the emotional connection they'd made but she'd do it.

When she knew she could smile with true sincerity, she looked at him. “I'll see you in the morning. What's your schedule?”

He scowled, turned his head to stare at the windows. “I have an appointment with T'Heather, the Healer, then will be back here to consult with T'Vine.”

Both actions were part of his quest, his other passion. His first passion. The passion that would last longer than the one they shared.

She nodded. “Tomorrow I will work on the ResidenceDen.” She ignored his stiffening. “If you keep having appointments with FirstFamily Heads of Households, you will have to use the ResidenceDen as a statement of your faith that you are the proper T'Blackthorn.”

He growled.

“Then I'll do preliminary work on the Great Hall, my rooms.”

“Is your suite all right?” He frowned. “I'm sorry, I'd forgotten your loss. Only last night. Tell me if I can make your stay here easier.”

He could keep his hands off her, his mouth, his desire from overwhelming her. That wouldn't happen.

The reminder of her homeless state, of her loss, had tears stinging. She'd thrown herself into her work to keep from thinking too much—feeling too much. She should retire to the guest suite for a good cry. Weep and grieve for what was gone, then accept she'd have to rebuild her life, get a good night's sleep, and move forward. She'd done it before, she'd do it now.

She glanced up to find him gazing at her, his expression softer than she'd seen. “You've done an incredible amount today,” he said, then looked to the bedroom's open door, back to her. “You won't stay?”

“No.” Not tonight. She turned and walked to the hall door.

“Mitchella?”

Stopping, she looked back at him. “Yes?”

“Merry meet,” he said the ritual words, lacing them with so much passion she visualized her sex meeting his.

Incredible. She flushed. “Merry part,” she said, opening the door and stepping into the cool corridor.

“And merry meet again!” his voice lilted, but the amusement didn't hide the determination.

Mitchella closed the door with a snap.

 
 
The Healer, GrandLord T'Heather, gazed steadily at
Straif. Straif's stomach tightened. He stared back at the GrandLord and composed his face into impassivity. The Healer looked more like a farmer, broad with rough features. They sat in T'Heather's ResidenceDen, furnished for the complete comfort of a man who often worked long hours and came to the place exhausted. After only a couple of days, Straif was learning the concepts of interior design. Scrutinizing the room kept him from anticipating bad news.

GrandLord T'Heather flung a brawny arm along the back of the long sofa they shared. “I am sorry to inform you that nothing has changed. The problem with your genetic code is still there and still incurable by the Healers.”

It was a harder blow than it should have been. “Thank you for your expertise.” Straif nearly strangled on the words, glad they came out gruff and not ungracious.

Eyes softening, T'Heather said, “I'm sorry my news isn't better. I know you've searched Celta for a remedy. I must warn you that since your gene is flawed, you are still susceptible to the Angh virus, and it could be fatal.” He turned away. “Indeed, I don't know how you survived the first time.”

Straif did, but it was something he tried never to think of.

Speaking more briskly, T'Heather said, “I will send your updated information to the botanist, Culpeper, who continues to work on the problem. If he'd found any mitigating herbs, he would have told me. I understand that you often checked with him on the occasions you returned to Druida.”

Straif heard the disapproving note. Another Lord who thought he should have stayed and minded his home. He stiffened. He
wouldn't
ask T'Heather about the other Blackthorn claimant who had seen Heather's heir.

“Do you still come to my new twinmoons Ritual tonight and offer your Flair in reestablishing my home?”

T'Heather winced. “You're blunt.”

“I prefer to know my allies and enemies.”

With a short nod, T'Heather replied, “I understand Ailim Elder is officiating with you. She is close to her time, I request that I be next to her in the Circle.”

“Done.”

“My lady is coming also.” He smiled. “We heard Holm and Lark Apple will be arriving from Gael City. We like to see our Daughter'sDaughter as often as possible.”

“My cuz Holm supports me on this.”

“Holm's father, T'Holly, will be there?”

“I'm allies with T'Holly, many Hollys will participate.”

“Should be an interesting evening.”

“A lot of energy will be raised.”

T'Heather nodded again. “Sufficient for all your needs.”

Straif rose. “I'll ensure your standard fee is transferred to your account.”

Standing, T'Heather shook his head. “No. You may recall a couple of years ago the Councils sent you to find a man called Stringer in unexplored Brittany.”

“Yes.” It had been a challenge. He'd found the man barely alive and brought him back to Druida, a long, grueling trip.

“Culpeper made the request for your services to the Councils. Stringer was his younger partner. Like Culpeper, we expect Stringer to marry into the Family. Very good work on your part.” T'Heather offered his hand.

Straif shook it.

T'Heather clapped Straif on the shoulder as they walked to the door. “I support your claim as T'Blackthorn, but not this continued quest to find a cure for your genetic heritage—an unhealthy obsession.” His mouth thinned. “Trying to Heal you and your Family was the most devastating time of my life, memories I will never forget. Consider letting your line die.”

Straif flinched.

“Putting your Family at risk with every generation—you could watch your children die. They could fail to save you. Sooner or later your Family will perish. You have the opportunity to stop this heart-wrenching situation.”

Spoken as a man who had four grandchildren and the knowledge his line—his special Flair—was safe.

“I will find a cure,” Straif gritted out.

Now T'Heather's eyes held the grief he'd felt at failing to save the Blackthorns, held hard choices, held denial. “I don't think so, you have tried for fifteen years. There is no solution. Give up this quest. It is a fixation.”

Heat came to Straif's cheeks. “No.”

Scrutinizing him again, T'Heather said slowly. “Since Ruis Elder has recommissioned the Ship,
Nuada's Sword,
it could provide you with answers we Healers can't.”

The suggestion stunned Straif. The colonist Ship,
Nuada's Sword
. His pulse beat hard in his ears as excitement raced through him. He couldn't find words.

 
 
Straif bumped into Mitchella as she hurried from his Res
idenceDen. He'd known she was there, of course, but having a woman who'd soon be his lover off-balance in his arms was the best thing that had happened to him all morning. Since Vinni T'Vine would soon appear and prophesy about Straif's future, he didn't anticipate his day getting appreciably better.

“Oh, you're here,” she said with a bright smile that made him suspicious, though she made no effort to escape his embrace.

He lowered his head to kiss her soundly, liking the slow burn firing his loins. She pressed against him, and he enjoyed that, too. Then she broke the kiss and smiled. This time her eyes were misty with emotion, her lips curved sensually. Good.

“I take it Antenn is at grove-study.”

“Yes.” Her expression clouded, and she stepped away from him. “I'm sorry you don't get along. It complicates matters.”

“Don't suggest that you leave.”

She chuckled. “No chance of that once he informs the Cang Zhus that he's staying here.” A crash came from the ResidenceDen, and Mitchella scowled. “Drina. There was a vase she didn't care for. We agreed that it didn't match the ResidenceDen, but I was going to put it in storage or—”