Heart Choice (32 page)

“Bad news,” he said as he sat in a chair opposite her desk.

Mitchella glanced at the wall timer. “I deduce that your morning talk with T'Reed didn't go well. I
know
the budgets and progress reports we've been sending to the man have been excellent.”

Straif grunted. “Too excellent, I'm afraid. We've made incredible progress, kept within my budget. They've moved the date for the open house up on us.”

Her fingers clutching the writestick began to shake, and she hid her hands under the desk. “When?”

“Spring equinox.”

“That's in two weeks!” Her voice was so shrill it hurt her own ears.

Drina yowled.

Nodding grimly, Straif said, “Right. The grounds are still a mess. All the structural problems of the estate have been addressed, but—”

“—we still have a lot of cosmetic work to do. Not to mention the ballroom.”

“No, we won't mention it.”

“I'd planned on using that room for the refreshments, a buffet and tables. We've started remodeling, but there's still a lot of negativity there, we need a priest and priestess . . .” She'd lost him. He was staring out the window behind her. She'd given Antenn the ballroom project. He seemed less affected by the chamber and knew exactly what she planned.

Drina walked down Straif's chest to his lap then back and forth across his thighs, rubbing against him. Absently he lifted his hand to stroke her. The cat purred loudly, and Straif's expression became less strained.

Mitchella nibbled on her bottom lip and began listing things that would have to be done, numbering them by priority. “T'Ash planned a Ritual for spring equinox.”

“I contacted him. He graciously conceded the date to us.”

“Oh.”

Straif glanced around the room. “We'll have to concentrate more on the public rooms.” His smile was wintry. “The Family Suites—Master, Mistrys and Heir—will be off-limits. The library can be a gathering place for the more introverted. A couple of the parlors for smaller groups.”

They hadn't touched the library. It was a large room, full of books, holos, art, and artifacts. Mitchella moved it to the top of her list.

“Can the Great Hall be done in two weeks?”

She smiled with more assurance than she felt in the chill pit of her stomach. “I'll do it myself. Have you told the cook?”

Straif laughed, and his expression lightened even more. “He went pale. I think he wanted to pass out, but he said he could make a tasty spread and started muttering to himself. He'll be fine. I'm going to walk the estate again, see what can be done in the time allowed. The gliderdrive must be trimmed. I know we planned gardens in the large area behind the Residence, but we'll only have time enough to develop a grassyard.”

“That can be beautiful, and well decorated. It's large enough to hold everyone you'd care to invite. If the day is good.”

“I'll have to institute a weathershield if it's cold or rainy. That expanse, and the view of the Residence from there, is the most well-known part of the estate. It must be as perfect as possible. The wall supporting the terrace and the terrace itself must look to be completely restored as well as the steps down to the river.”

Mitchella rose and walked behind Straif. She kissed the top of his head, set her hands on his shoulders, and worked at his knotted muscles.

There was a moment of humming silence, then Straif said, “Thank you. You've already made the Residence so much more a home, as well as a show place. We'll win my title back.”

Drina meowed.

“Drina will help.”

“Of course,” Mitchella choked at the thought of the Fam's “help.” “I'd like to use Antenn more, if that's all right.”

“Fine.”

The scrybowl on Mitchella's desk played a melodious tune. She brushed another kiss against Straif's temple, then went to the bowl and circled her finger around the rim, accepting the call. “Here,” she said.

T'Reed's sour face projected above the bowl. He blinked, then focused on Straif, who sat slightly behind and to one side of Mitchella.

“Greetyou, GentleLady. Blackthorn, there's a new condition that just came up.”

“What now? I
know
the other claimant is behind this, what more of a burden does he place on my back?”

T'Reed's lips thinned, his eyes flickered, his nostrils pinched. “Think of this from another perspective, if you manage to address every concern AllClass Council has—and I agree they are more than many Lords and Ladies anticipated—you will be completely validated.”

“Right. What next?”

The sound of shuffling papyrus came over the scrybowl. “It has been brought to the Councils' attention that the first structure ever erected on the Blackthorn estate was the little Summer Folly, halfway down the path to the river. AllClass Council is most particular that this structure be available for inspection during the open house.”

Straif's face set in granite. “I hear you.”

Drina leapt from his lap to land on Mitchella's desk. She slapped the surface of the water in the scrybowl with her paw, breaking the call, then stalked the desk, hissing.

“I don't recall a folly,” Mitchella said. She'd seen no small decorative building in the grounds.

Smiling bleakly, Straif said, “It fell to ruin in my FatherSire's time.” He stood. “I'll go look at it now. My father once said it would need specialists to restore.” He jerked a nod to Mitchella. “I'd be grateful if you mapped a strategy to address the additional demands upon us, please.”

His body was stiff, he didn't want to be touched. Best for him was sheer professionalism. “I'll do that.”

He gave a little half bow. “My thanks.”

Mitchella worked through the morning, making lists, examining the library. With a molecular cleaning, a little rearranging, and a bit of a glisten-glamour spell, it could look comfortably shabby—a style she could make seem deliberate—as if it had been in use and loved for its ambience for centuries. That could definitely save time.

When Straif arrived for midday meal, his demeanor wasn't nearly as somber as Mitchella expected, and the very steadiness of the man quieted her own frantic nerves. She explained her idea about the library to Straif and received a penetrating gaze and a quiet smile.

“I have an idea about the folly,” he said. “But I want to do some research with the ResidenceLibrary and the city GreatLibrary before I—ah—present it to you.”

Intrigued, Mitchella raised her brows.

Straif shrugged, but his complexion turned ruddy. “I'll be back in two hours. Can you be here?”

“Yes, I haven't finished organizing and inventorying the storerooms. The Residence and I have lists of what is in the first couple of rooms, and anything in the last two centuries, but not what is contained inside the fields of the oldest preservation spells. I'll be in the attic.”

“It's not too hot up there?”

“No, not yet.”

He nodded, then excused himself.

 
 
Midafternoon, Mitchella was back at her desk. She'd
stood under the waterfall and changed her heavy working clothes for a soft short-tunic and trous in teal. She
felt
the heat of Straif's gaze and looked up to see him standing at the threshold of the room. He, too, had changed. He wore a robe of bronze that made his tanned skin golden. He looked like a god.

Her heart thudded hard in her chest. How easily he stirred her. A glance, a thought.

Instinctively she smiled, believed all her love showed in her face and hoped he would not understand how much she cared. When she met his eyes, they held a banked wildness that ignited a flash of desire.

He wet his lips, and she clenched inside; her breasts grew heavy.

When he spoke, his voice was rough. “I found a ritual that will restore the Summer Folly. I need you to perform it with me as Lady to my Lord.”

She swallowed. “Just the two of us?”

“Yes,” he whispered. His gaze dropped to her breasts.

“I don't have great Flair.”

Color tinged his cheeks. “It's a sex Ritual.”

Heat infused her. She'd never done anything like that. She didn't think anyone in her family had ever done such a Ritual, though Danith and T'Ash . . .

“Please.” His voice was even huskier. He held out a hand not quite steady.

She burned, touched her fingers to her throat, and thought she could feel hot blood racing beneath her tunic collar.

“You're dressed fine. Lovely. Beautiful. Woman.” His eyes were bright blue as if he burned, too.

“I don't know how—”

He smiled. “I've drawn most of the circle around the pavilion, charged it with spells. We need only to complete the circle together, say words as Lady and Lord. Mate to infuse the spells with energy and initiate them.”

A hot, red cord of desire, pulsing with golden sparks, snaked between them, easy to see.

“I don't think I've ever felt so aroused in my life as thinking about performing a sex Ritual with my lovely Mitchella.”

She couldn't help standing, going to him, placing her fingers in his and feeling a jolt of passion between them. He grasped her other hand, and she swayed from the sexual punch. Her sex dampened. She yearned for him. For Straif.

He teleported them to a level place halfway down the river stairs, and it didn't seem instantaneous, but flying through bands of colors, of heat, of need, to a place that would be only their own.

Tangles of brush lay outside a small circle of short grass that surrounded the remnants of a small circular temple. The marble flooring was no more than twelve feet across. A meditation place, then, or a site for intimate Rituals.

Fluted Greek columns lay broken. The dome was in three pieces. A tiny part of Mitchella's mind wondered how they could repair such damage, but there was no doubt. She thought the sexual energy sizzling between her and Straif rivaled that of the sun. She wondered if ecstasy's fire would consume her and shuddered in delight.

Straif had arranged an altar, only large enough to hold the minimum amount of instruments. He led her through the small opening of the circle he'd drawn in the ground, set her hand around the athame knife that still had clods of earth on its shining blade. Her fingers curled around the knife, and her breath caught in her throat. It was like a living thing, powerful with Flair. She trembled, wanted to fall to the soft bedsponge Straif had set just beyond the altar.

His hand closed over hers that gripped the knife, his body brushing her back, and he was a seething, dark pillar of energy in her mind, one ready to take her to the limits of desire. He urged her to the unfinished circle, curved her under his body, directed her on what words to say with him as they completed the circle. Golden flames of Flair danced high above them.

They straightened, and Mitchella moaned at the feel of his hard body behind her, male primed to take. His breath came ragged in her ear.

“Please,” she whispered, dampening her lips.

His chest vibrated with a low groan. Waves of passion radiated from him, sensitizing her skin. Her lips were swollen, her breasts full, her core empty. She craved him.

But he led her back to the altar, and they plunged the athame into a deep goblet full of golden wine. His hips arched into her buttocks, and she thought she'd go mad with aching, unrealized passion.

She passed through the ceremony in a sensual haze. He murmured the Lord's words. She didn't know scripted responses, but replied from her heart, her soul, her aching womanhood wanting to be filled. They fed each other honey cake, his fingers traced her bottom lip, his tongue flitted out to taste her fingers. They twined their hands around a goblet of crisp wine and took turns drinking. She thought she'd give him anything in that moment, and his eyes held promises she dared not believe.

Slowly, every touch a caress, they undressed each other and stood in white-golden pillars of sunlight. Straif picked her up, took her to the bed, and placed her on it. He stared at her as if she were a treasure. Again he looked like a god.

He fell upon her, making a place for himself between her thighs.

His fingers twined with hers. “Join with me. Now!” He plunged into her. She rose to meet him. His tongue took her mouth. And a white hot force melded them together, pulsing between them.

They began to move . . . slow, steady, carefully stoking the mounting passion. Just at the moment before all thought fled, Straif flung back his head—neck sinews straining, he shouted, “Build!”

The world became vibration: the mattress beneath her, the thrumming air, the beating sunlight. Mitchella knew this was how the little temple had been built.

Then Straif let his head fall to her, bit her on the neck.

They went wild. Her fingernails sank into his back. He pounded into her. She moaned in response.

Finally, she shrieked her ecstasy, splintering brilliantly. Straif shouted with her, pumping into her. The heat of the sun vanished, replaced by cool shade. Straif's trembling body kept her warm.

A few moments later she opened her eyes to see a dome overhead, tinted the light blue of the ancient Earth sky. Turning her head, she saw the fluted columns, glowing white gold where the sunlight caught them. There were no dirt-encrusted cracks in the smooth, white marble floor.

“We did it,” she whispered.

Straif moaned, shifted, and all her nerve endings clenched in a tiny climax. She forgot everything except him.

The sun dipped lower than the dome and streaked into the folly. The atmosphere changed from wild passion to deep contentment.