Heart Fate (3 page)

“Come!” he called.

His wife walked through the door, and at the pallor of her face, the refined slenderness of her once voluptuous curves, a pang arrowed through him. Things had not been right between them since they'd lost their unborn child. He'd tried to reach her . . . but she turned more to her own Family, blaming his for the mishap. As was right.

But she wouldn't speak of their loss. Nothing he did comforted her. If she wanted to attend a party, he took her out but they hadn't made love for a long time. They hadn't even had soulless bouts of sex for months. They couldn't connect emotionally anymore. He'd changed, too, become more somber, less impulsive than he'd been. Not the man she'd married.

More, he'd forgiven his parents for breaking their Vows of Honor that had cursed the Family and led to her miscarriage. She hadn't been able to do so. Bitterness lined her fair face. She hadn't wanted to live with her own Family, but hadn't wanted to live on the small country estate that he owned. She seemed to both love and hate T'Holly Residence. She found no peace.

He stood, forcing a smile, and waved to the comfortable chair in front of his desk. It wasn't often she came to see him when he was in his den. They didn't spend much time together.

She wore a gauzy sea green gown that shimmered with silver sparkles. Real silver, he knew from the bill. The dress emphasized the beauty of her blond hair, deepened the color of her eyes. There were smudges under those pretty eyes. He frowned and started around the desk. She raised a hand. “Please, sit.”

Humming wariness infused his muscles, making them tense, heavy. He dropped back into his chair.

Unusually still, she folded her hands in her lap, another rare gesture. Tinne's gut twisted.

“I want a divorce.”

The emotional blow knocked him breathless. He fell back into the soft leather squabs of his chair. He opened his mouth but no words came. He shut it, his mind reeling for some response. Finally he croaked, “There is no divorce for FirstFamilies.”

“There never has been.” Genista's mouth trembled, and she swallowed. “But I asked SupremeJudge Ailim Elder to have legal people craft a law.” She gestured, and it was beautiful and graceful as always, but with none of the verve she'd had before . . . before. “I don't want to retire to separate Households and live that way, still bound together.” Her eyes were damp but steady. “I don't want to be bound to the Hollys.”

No physical blow had ever been harder. He couldn't breathe.

“I've followed all the steps for divorce that the other classes have. All the horrible tests of body and mind and spirit that proves a marriage is over.

“Also the SupremeJudge thinks that additional measures are necessary to ensure that a FirstFamilies marriage is not dissolved too lightly. She suggests having the SupremeJudge and three FirstFamilies Heads of Households agree that the marriage is broken. I arranged that as well.”

He could barely process this. Silence reigned as he tried to keep his mind from the shattering pain. Finally he forced from a dry throat, “Who agreed to this terrible action?”

“SupremeJudge Ailim Elder; D'Sea—the mind Healer; T'Heather— the FirstLevel Healer; T'Willow—the matchmaker.”

Genista drew out a sheaf of papyrus from the sleeve of her gown and placed them carefully on the table. “All my test results. The formal documents for divorce. Everything is in order. All my personal items have been 'ported to my Family's Residence, and I'll teleport myself as soon as I leave you.” She glanced at him, away, then back again, flashing him a smile that held no humor. “I was cowardly, but not too cowardly. I left a message in your parents' and brother's and G'Uncle Tab's cache about the divorce and the procedure—my tests. You will have to be tested, too. Your Family will be notified when they wake.”

She was too far ahead of him. He couldn't keep up. He stared at the white pages. They should be red with blood.

The corners of her mouth turned up. He sensed the smile was as forced as his own had been. “Come now, Tinne. You know we married for other reasons than love.”

“I love you.” The words he hadn't said for a long time rushed out of him now.

She shook her head. “I don't think so.” She bit her lip, swallowed hard. “We were excellent lovers in bed, connected sexually more than anything else. I came to love you, and I think you loved me. Once. But we can't go back to who we were . . . before.”

Despite her words echoing his thoughts, he protested. “We can try again. Counseling.”

“That didn't work before. It won't work now. We've grown apart.”

Anger flamed. He narrowed his eyes.

Now she raised both hands, palms out. “Please don't fight this, Tinne.”

Another blow. Fighting for what he wanted was second nature for a Holly.

“The scandal,” he croaked.

She shrugged. “If the Hollys cared about scandal, they shouldn't have stirred one up and kept it boiling for the last few years by refusing to mend their broken Vows of Honor.”

He stared at his hands—competent with sword, knife, blazer, yet helpless to keep his wife. “I can't even recall how long it has been since a Noble Lord or Lady has divorced.”

“Eighty years.” Her words were stilted. “That's what Judge Elder said.” Genista's slender fingers tipped with pink tinted nails came into his narrowed vision as she waved at the papyrus. “The conclusion is that a divorce would be best for me.”

Failure ate his gut.

“Don't,” she whispered, and he felt the small link between them cycle with grief, as always. But this was different. He wrenched his gaze up to hers.

Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her face. “It's
not
your fault. You
didn't
fail, or at least no more than I. If there is failure, guilt, it's a shared thing. But we . . . we . . .” She withdrew a softleaf from her sleeve, wiped her tears, and blew her nose. Then she straightened and lifted her chin.

“I'm not the same woman you married. I can't go back to being that person, and I can't continue to be with you and not be reminded of my loss.”

She met his gaze. “You must also be mentally and emotionally evaluated before we can continue with the divorce—the seven tests. I've set up appointments for you later this morning, since I thought you'd want this done as quickly and cleanly as possible.” Her smile was sad. “If your tests show that you love me deeply, we will try grief Healing again. But I don't think that will happen.”

He hated this. Hated that she might be right. Hated that she knew him so well and could slice him so deeply.

Genista rose from the chair and walked to the door. She stopped with her hand on the latch and glanced over her shoulder, appearing much less anxious than when she'd entered. “Tinne,” she said in nearly a whisper, “I know you have a HeartMate.”

“She's wed,” he said automatically.

“And she's seventeen, isn't she? Has she had her Second Passage?”

He shrugged. “I don't know.” He'd never spoken to Genista about his HeartMate and didn't want to now.

Her smile was as sad as her eyes. “You have strong Flair, so she must as well. You'll link with her during her Passage. I'd rather not be around when that happens.”

“My fault again,” he croaked.

“No, once-my-dear.” One of her shoulders rose, then fell. “It's destiny. We had our time together, and it was good, it was wonderful.” She turned away. “But when times turned bad, they were tragic. I haven't been able to rise above that tragedy, and I can't, if I remain wed to you.”

Blow after blow after blow. In all his life of daily sparring, of deathduels, he'd never felt so pummeled.

“I'd like a new start. In a new place. Gael City, probably. Find your love and claim her.”

Impossible.

His wife opened the door and left without a backward glance, closing the door with a final, quiet push.

Tinne stood and marched stiffly to the bathroom, where he puked his guts up.

Two

The man was large, tall, and broad. Rough-looking with scars on
his face. That alone told Lahsin he wasn't Druida City born. She bounced off him, and her weak knees might have buckled if he hadn't grasped her upper arms. She wouldn't be able to get away from him.

His brows came down. “Now who are you?”

She didn't really know, but said, “Lahsin . . . Burdock.” She didn't think she wanted her birth name, but she wanted Yew even less.

He looked up and down wide dawn-empty Bountry Boulevard. She sensed he wasn't exactly sure where the Burdock Estate was and whether she was near it.

One side of his mouth quirked up. “Returning from a night out?” His fingers gentled on her arms, then dropped.

“Yes, yes,” she babbled, hitching the knot of her bag up her shoulder. “Clothes, you know. My timer is broken.” She waved her arm that had her perfectly good timer under the warm coat. At that moment the sun rose bright enough to show the colors he wore. “You're a Hawthorn,” she blurted.

He inclined his torso. “Cratag Maytree, a guard in T'Hawthorn's household.” He shook his head slowly. “But I don't think you should be out here on your own, even as early and deserted as it is. P'raps I should see you back to your Residence.”

She pinned a bright smile on her face. “I'm perfectly fine.” She waved again, and the sleeve of her cloak slipped down. Black bruises from Yew's fingers showed on her wrist.

Cratag looked down at his own fingers and flexed his hands, and Lahsin stared at his hands, too. Cratag's fingers could fit on the bruises. He was a bigger man than Yew, but her ex-husband had large, blunt fingers that didn't go with the rest of his carefully cultivated aristocratic appearance.

The heat of humiliation burned her cheeks.

Cratag put a meaty hand on her shoulder, again gently, and his squeeze was small and comforting, like he knew his strength and used it carefully.

“You want to press a case for assault?” he asked softly. “Report this to the Druida guardsmen? I know an honorable one.”

She shook her head frantically. She had to be going. Now. Sooner than now.
Transnow.

Voice even quieter, he said, “You don't have to be afraid of me. And you don't have to be afraid of whoever did this to you. As you noticed, I'm a Hawthorn guard, and I'm close to my Head of Household, GreatLord T'Hawthorn himself. He who was Captain of all the Celtan Councils last year and the year before. I can take you to him, you can tell your story. Commoner or Noble, he'll see that right is done and you're protected.”

She felt her eyes get wider and wider, and her heart thumped so hard and fast that she thought it might break through her chest. Talk to another FirstFamily Lord? No, no, no! They all stuck together. No one would listen to her. No one would believe her. She wanted nothing to do with FirstFamilies, or even Nobles, ever, ever again.

Wanted nothing to do with men for that matter. If this Hawthorn guard had been female . . . but that was just a silly wish. A distracting thought, when she'd better get her fear under control, now. She swallowed, dipped a curtsy. “No-thank-you-very-much.”

His eyes narrowed, his tone roughened. “I'm going to give you some advice, GentleLady. If the man you were with put those marks on you, he's not a good man. No matter how good a lover he is, he's not a good man, and he won't treat you right. Probably not any woman right. So you don't go back to him. You leave him. You hear what I say?”

She nodded violently.

They stared at each other. He lifted his hand from her shoulder, raised it.

And she flinched again.

Everything about him got even slower as he scratched the scar on his cheek. He took a couple of paces back, and the breath she'd been inadvertently holding shuddered out.

There was more scrutiny on his part. Enough so she realized that he had very little Flair and was depending on sight and experience and body cues, or whatever.

“GentleLady,” he said so abruptly and in such a low, dangerous rumble that she jumped, dropped her bag, and scooped it up without her gaze leaving him. He could still stop her. Such a big man could do anything with her he wanted. The new day and all the threat it would bring wound her fear and tension tighter.

He put his hands in his trous pockets. She noticed he wore working trous, not the fancy, blousey Noble trous that used a lot of material to proclaim the worth of the wearer. And he stepped back several more paces. Far enough that if he lunged at her, she should be able to get away.

“GentleLady,” he repeated.

The sun was definitely over the horizon now, and she glanced around. T'Yew Residence wouldn't be stupefied for long, would soon give the alarm. She'd already lost too much time. She knew none of the town gates well enough to teleport to them, if she could 'port. She'd be caught.

“Listen to me!” he demanded.

It was enough to have her jump again, but this time her fingers clenched over the cloth knot of the bag.

“You're sure you won't put yourself under my protection? I'm an honorable man, I promise to help you.”

She didn't know she had enough breath to laugh, but she did. Her eyes stung, and she sniffed loudly. All very rude.

He nodded. “Very well. Looks like you're in trouble, maybe I can help another way. Have you heard of FirstGrove? It's a sanctuary for those who need one.”

“A myth,” she said, her voice higher and shakier than she wanted.

“A sanctuary,” he repeated. “Find a door, and it will open and protect you.”