Heart Dance (19 page)

With a wry smile, Saille straightened and made her a cup of caff, which her mother should have done, but hadn’t. “I supposeyou’re thinking about everything except the fact that you’re my HeartMate.”

A shudder ran through her at his low voice and the words that she’d never be able to ignore. He held out a pretty, delicate china cup, decorated with tiny boughs of holly, and met her eyes. It was as if he was offering a great deal more. As if the cup represented his HeartGift that was residing in the no-time on the floor below.

She turned on her heel. “I’ll get your HeartG—the ... the object Fairyfoot brought in.”

“Don’t. Don’t, Dufleur.” His voice was quiet. “I’m not going to pressure you. In any way.”

Cautious, she turned back to him.

His glance scanned the room. “You think I couldn’t figure out what was going on? Why you’re attending all the social events this year? Not because you want to. For D’Winterberry, D’Thyme, D’Holly, but not for Dufleur.” He moved the hand cradling the cup. “I know what it’s like to be ignored. Or pressured.You aren’t going to get either reaction from me.”

His hand remained steady, more, there was something in the way he held the china that she couldn’t quite understand, as if he recognized the simple beauty of the piece and enjoyed it. Like his gaze told her he saw something in her that deeply satisfied him and that he enjoyed. “Please, sit. We can talk.”

Scowling, she said, “Your MotherDam ruined my father’s good name.”

“She was good at being mean.”

Dufleur blinked.

He laughed, not with amusement. “One of the reasons she maligned your father was because she wanted to make it as difficult as possible for us to meet, and learn each other, and love. She used her Flair to hide you from me. Are you going to let her cruel plans succeed?”

Her chin wobbled, and she hated that betrayal. “The hurt is still raw.” She cleared her throat, glanced away. “The consequencesof her actions are still affecting me—my mother and me.”

She took the cup of caff with both hands and raised it to her lips, sipped. The combination of honey, dark caff, and cream sank into her taste buds. Perfect. He’d made the perfect cup of caff for her.

It was rare that she, with her mind usually on her work, even made a good cup of caff for herself. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He didn’t move to sit down, simply stood there looking at her with eyes of blue that deepened every second.

They observed each other for a minute. She’d listened to gossip about him last night and had despised herself for it. She
hated
rumormongering, since the Thymes had been the butt of it. Talk about him had been admiring. That wasn’t so bad, she was sure.

Everything she’d heard about him confirmed what he’d told her. His MotherDam had scorned him, might have disinherited him, except he carried the most Family Flair. The less-charitablefolks had muttered that the only reason old D’Willow
didn’t
disinherit him was because if she ever revived she wanted to return to a powerful GreatHouse. Though most peoplespoke of D’Willow as dead.

Dufleur didn’t think of the woman as dead, and she was sure the man standing here in front of her didn’t, either. Shadows lived in the back of his gaze, there were faint strain lines around his eyes. His beautiful blue eyes.

He took a step forward and removed the cooling cup of caff from her hands. “You don’t want to taste this,” he said, and set it aside. “You want to taste me.”

Firm fingers wrapped around her own, drew her toward him until their bodies touched. Her heart rate sped, her breathing went erratic as he pulled her into his embrace, against his strong body. He bent his head, and then they were sharing uneven breaths. His mouth brushed hers, gentle, tender.

He was right. Suddenly she craved to learn the taste of him. Their coming together in dreams hadn’t included that sense. Taste.

And his tongue was slipping across the line of her lips, and she couldn’t help herself, she gave a small moan of need. He pulled back slightly, and she saw his lips curve into a smile. His right hand moved to the back of her neck and sent a tingle to every nerve ending all the way down her spine.

She tipped back her head and opened her mouth in invitation.

His hand on her derriere pressed her close, until she felt the hardness of his erection against her. Another ragged moan tore from her as her nipples tightened, her core dampened, needing this man and what he could give her.

Her body swayed even closer, into the heat and hardness of his. His solid arousal pressed against her, evidence of his passionthat created a twisting desire of her own. Hard chest, long, muscular thighs, firm belly. She gasped at the feel of him, and he took advantage of her open mouth to plunge his tongue inside.

The taste of him exploded through her. Man, deep earth, the last fierce winter storm before spring. The tang of him was alreadyin her blood, settling into her heart, never to be forgotten.

Starving. Her body was starving for closeness, for a chest against her breasts, maleness to her female.

For the enveloping aura of someone who cared, the touch of a mind against hers that held attraction, delight, respect.

His tongue slid against hers, and her knees trembled and weakened, leaving her to lean against him, and the warmth and the strength and the hardness of him was all she’d ever dreamed of desire.

No thought. Only sensation. The breadth of his shoulders underher kneading hands, the tender skin of his nape under thick, soft hair.

He bowed her back in his arms. She’d never felt so supple.

His breath in her, sweeping through her like the most preciouswind of time.

A loud cough came.

Trumpets shattered the throbbing silence.

They jerked straight. Dufleur whirled from his arms to face an older, blond, solid woman filling the open doorway. Dufleur blinked, then stared. The woman wore the livery of the Councilsof Celta, blue and gold, and carried a cylindrical document holder. Her expression was solemn. She flicked a thumbnail against one of her brass buttons and the fanfare stopped. “Dufleur Thyme?”

“Yes?” She was aware that Saille was moving behind her, and he handed her the cup of caff he’d reheated with a word.

“I am the Herald of the AllClass Council. Here on official business.”

“I don’t understand.” Why was she here? Was it the Winterberryestate dispute? Had someone deduced she was conducting illegal time experiments? Her throat closed.

Saille came to stand beside her, took her arm, and moved her to a couch. Dufleur sat.

“Herald, would you like anything to drink?”

The woman slightly relaxed her stance. “Thank you, GreatLordT’Willow, black caff would be welcome. The day is bitter.” She seated herself in a large, plush chair, placed the document cylinder on her knees, and watched Saille refresh a bowl of cocoa for Fairyfoot from the no-time caff cupboard, and pour a cup of black caff.

Saille glanced at Dufleur. “Not many Residences have such no-time caff areas. I take it you installed this one?” He handed the Herald her cup. Picking up his own, he joined Dufleur on the couch.

“Yes,” Dufleur said. She’d fiddled with all the no-times of the Residence when she’d moved in, to keep herself busy in her grief.

“Ahem,” said the Herald, placing her caff on the table and opening the tube to withdraw papyrus. Her voice softened. “I am here with a list of gilt and properties as reparation for your ordeal with the dark cult two months ago.”

Dufleur jerked abruptly, her caff nearly sloshing over the rim of her mug. She squeezed her eyelids tight shut, a mistake, bringing the horrible memories back. “No,” she croaked.

Saille’s palm curved over her shoulder. “Please explain,” he said coolly.

Fifteen

The Herald said, “The murderers were stripped of all assets, and they were set aside for reparations to the surviving victims and the lost victims’ Families. It was determined that those involved be contacted in the same order as . . .”

The same order as the attacks. That would make Dufleur fifth.

Now the Herald was staring straight ahead, face grim. The events of two months ago had shocked all of Celta. No one remainedunmoved.

Without looking at either of them, the Herald said, “Most of the Noble Families have refused any reparations.”

“They can’t have their children back,” Dufleur whispered harshly. She’d been older than all of the other victims. Of six, only two had survived.

The Herald pushed the papyrus at Dufleur.

She locked her fingers together. “I don’t want—”

“Take the reparation,” Saille said. “You deserve it. You can use the gilt.”

“No!”

He grasped the papyrus, glanced at the list, then up at Dufleur. His shoulders tensed, and his aura flamed with anger at what she’d been through, yet his eyes held a hard, considering look. “There is a piece of property close to here. A GrandHouse estate. Vacant now. Ritually cleansed of all evil nine times by priests and priestesses.”

“I could not live there.” Her words were jerky. Live in a place where someone who’d tried to kill her had once resided? She shuddered.

“There’s a guesthouse. Little used, it says. It might make a fine . . . studio . . . for you.”

She stared at him. A lab. He meant she could use the place as a laboratory.

What had he seen? What had he guessed?

She’d been working on her experiments, but there had also been obvious packing.

What did he know?

Through will she kept her fingers from clenching into tight, anxious fists. She stared into his eyes that were no longer warm and admiring but cool and impassive.

He said, “This would give you a separate workspace.”

Forcing her mind away from Saille, she smiled weakly at the Herald. “Can . . . are there specifics on that property?”

Upending her cylinder again, the Herald shook out four holospheres and handed a black one to Dufleur. All too appropriate.When she settled the sphere in her palm, the holo began to run. It showed a fair chunk of land and a tall, narrow Residencewith peaked gables, and an unattractive, squat building, long and low, off to one side.

Narrowing her eyes, Dufleur judged the distances. Using standard spellshields, even if the laboratory exploded, nothing else should be harmed, except . . .

“Is this a true Residence?” Dufleur whispered.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the Herald.

Dufleur swallowed. “Does the Residence live?” she asked in a whisper.

“No.” The Herald smiled perfunctorily, as if Residential entitiesmeant nothing to her. “The GrandHouse was a new upstart,only a few generations old, not even a century. The house is but a house.”

“Take it, Dufleur,” Saille urged.

Her mother would want the gilt the estate would sell for— though Dufleur couldn’t imagine that with all the space in Druida anyone would want the property. She really didn’t want it either, but she needed someplace to work.

If she tripled or quadrupled the shields on the guesthouse, or, better yet, modified the shields to
implode
the building, no one could possibly be hurt. She knew the exact force of the explosion that had destroyed her father’s laboratory, then weakened their Residence until it collapsed and caught fire. She could defend against such an explosion.

“No one else has accepted reparations?” she asked in a thin voice, stroking the black holosphere with her fingers.

“Some gems. A country estate,” the Herald said. “Nothing here in Druida.” She bent a kindly look on Dufleur. “Only you and Trif Winterberry survived.”

“It’s a different matter for the other Families who lost someone,” Saille said.

“Indeed,” said the Herald.

A thought struck Dufleur. “You go to Trif Winterberry after me.”

“Yes.”

Dufleur couldn’t imagine that Trif, her husband Ilex Winterberry,or any of the Clovers would want the estate with the guesthouse. Or much of anything. Her whole body chilled until her very lips felt blue, as memories crowded her mind with her experiences, with the horror and grief everyone involved felt. She cleared her voice, lifted stinging eyes, squared her shoulders.

“This is what I want. I personally want the estate with the guesthouse and enough gilt to reimburse Primary Healing Hall and the Healers who saved my life, and a reward to Hazel Guardhouse and Ilex Winterberry who saved my life.” She waved a hand. “Others would know the appropriate amounts.”

“None of that will be a problem,” said the Herald, taking out a writestick and jotting notes on the back of the papyrus.

Dufleur sat up straight. “If, after you visit Trif Winterberry, there is still reparation gilt and properties available, I want it all to go into a trust for the Families of the victims, excluding myself.Please ask T’Reed to create the trust and administer it.”

“He will probably donate his services,” Saille said quietly.

“Noted,” said the Herald.

“This generation, these Families, may be too grief-stricken to want or need the reparations, but sometime in the future when the horror fades . . .”

“A very good idea.” Saille squeezed her shoulder. “Good job.”

To Dufleur’s astonishment, the Herald immediately transferredthe property to her and had all the documents—and the keys to the house and guesthouse—forwarded to the Winterberrycollection box for Dufleur. Fairyfoot volunteered to get them. She was sure that an empty estate would have good hunting.

Life-changing events once more progressed at a pace that made Dufleur’s wits spin.

As soon as the Herald was gone, Saille placed his empty caff cup down with a click on a saucer and said, “So, what were you doing when I interrupted you this morning?”

The bond between them pulsed with curiosity from him.

Dufleur wasn’t sure how to answer. She stood and walked to the no-time where the most time molecules lingered. Finally she met his eyes and said, “Even though we have a . . . link, I don’t know you well.”