Heart Choice (34 page)

Taking his silence for interest, Ship began lecturing, “The fact that hybrids can occur between Celtan and Earth species is fascinating. It extrapolates that the ancient idea of a ‘seeding of life' throughout several galaxies actually occurred.”

Straif's ears hurt, and his head began to ache.

“Stop, Ship,” Captain Ruis Elder said. He lounged against the metallic doorjamb. Straif hadn't heard the doors open.

“Am I done?” Straif asked, sliding to the floor and dressing.

“Yes.”

For some reason, perhaps because the man had faced incredible challenges, triumphed, and now had a lady and a baby, Straif didn't want to talk to Elder. He nodded to the man, feeling white around the lips. He didn't like Ship's Healing. “Sorry, Captain, but I must leave. I didn't realize the tests would take so long.” Straif inclined his head. “Merry meet,”

Elder smiled and moved from the doorway. “And merry part.”

“And merry meet again,” Straif ended and hurried from the Ship. Drina waited for him in Landing Park, teleported herself around his shoulders and purred all the way home, telling him how she'd bested her sister in boasting.

When they entered the estate, the cat spied a flurry of moths and hopped down to pursue. Straif watched her a moment, saw her snatch a moth out of the air and munch it, and winced. He left her to her hunting.

Mitchella met him at the door with a genuine smile. Though a shadow lurked behind her eyes, and she didn't greet him with a lover's kiss, she said, “Welcome. I have another attic storeroom finished, why don't you come look?” In her voice was pride for herself and affection for him. She reached out for his hand, stopped, and her smile brightened. She tossed her loose mane of red hair over her shoulder as she turned to cross the Great Hall and climb the grand staircase. “You should take stock,” she said.

“I'll be with you in a minute,” he choked out, and went to the ResidenceDen, sealed the door, primed the scrybowl and said, “Connect me with
Nuada's Sword.
”

A moment later the Ship's voice, sounding tinny and distant, answered. “
Nuada's Sword
acknowledges communication from T'Blackthorn Residence and T'Blackthorn.”

“I forgot to ask today—what of a woman who experienced Macha's disease as a child and is sterile; can you fix her?”

There came a faint whoosh from the Ship, like a sigh. “If the disease has passed, then her eggs would have been destroyed. She will have no children from her individual genetic code. As for carrying another's fertilized egg becoming a fetus and a child, of course we can mitigate that. We understand her uterine lining is damaged, but with monthly invasive surgical procedures of minimal pain—”

“Stop,” Straif said. The metallic, alien Ship had just unnerved him. He could not imagine subjecting Mitchella to its procedures. “Thank you for your time,” he said and disconnected. He stuffed the knowledge and everything he'd experienced to the back of his mind. Mitchella was waiting for him.

She stood on the steps of the grand staircase, and he thought the beautiful sweep must have been made as a backdrop for her—the hard, white, square marble steps contrasting with the vibrant, lush woman. She wore an emerald onesuit, cut a little tight, and he swallowed. He didn't know what to do.

Mitchella tilted her head at him, then her smile faded. She descended the staircase, but didn't speak until she was close to him, intimately close. He could hardly breathe.

“Why are you so disturbed, Straif? We both knew our association was only professional”—she gestured widely—“and any affair between us could only be temporary.”

“You're in love with me!”

Her eyebrows raised. “Am I?”

He didn't like her response, but he didn't want to argue. “You aren't angry with me?”

“Any affair between us can only be temporary,” she repeated.

“Then we're still lovers?” He was confused.

She smiled that sexy smile that sent blood pounding from his brain to his loins. She lowered her eyelids. “If we want to be.”

“I want,” he said. “I want now. You're a fascinating woman, Mitchella.” He didn't know how he'd do without her, but that was weeks away. He needed her this very moment. “Let's go to bed.”

She touched her fingertips to his chest, and his breath caught, went ragged. “There's more than one bedsponge in the attic storerooms.” Her hand slid down and cupped him, and his cock strained against his trous, his hips thrust instinctively. Bedsponge. Attic. Sex. Now. “Give me a viz,” he said. He might be able to 'port them in this condition.

An image formed in his mind, straight from hers—of them naked and rolling around on a stack of huge carpets. Mating. He groaned, dragged one tiny thought after another through the haze of passion back into his brain, ordered his thick tongue—which yearned to taste her—to form words. “Viz locale.”

The illusion of the two of them vanished, the pile of rugs remained, a grid glowed on the room. He grabbed her. 'Ported them to the rug pile. The moments without her touch since the afternoon before had stretched into an eternity. His need was too great for him to be gentle. He needed the feel of her under his palms, the smooth pliancy of her skin against his callouses, to send the zing of raw sexuality through him so he'd
feel. Live.
He let sensation rule, ravishing them both.

Later, when he had time to look around the room, he found that she'd tinted the walls a creamy yellow. Crowded with colorful rugs, a jumble of polished furniture, it still seemed utterly comfortable, welcoming. Like the woman. Like his Residence.

For only this moment.

 
 
Antenn joined them for lunch in the small dining room.

“How is your quest coming?” Mitchella asked.

Straif didn't like the shaky undertone of her voice, so he followed her cue.

“The Healers and scholars of Celta hold no hope.” He kept his tones even. He cut the marinated furrabeast and ate. It seemed to melt in his mouth. The fresh vegetables were sprinkled with tasty spices. He'd definitely have to keep the cook.

“And?” Mitchella prodded.

Antenn watched him with a narrowed gaze.

“The Ship,
Nuada's Sword,
is working on a remedy. The more I've thought about it, the more I want to send a man to the mines T'Ash spoke of, get some scrapings or cultures or whatever. T'Ash sent me a map.” He waved his fork. “Residence and I researched. The problem with the Blackthorns definitely dates around the time we took the lambenthysts from the mines to install in the Fountain of the Dark Goddess.”

“That's interesting,” Mitchella said, but she didn't sound as if she meant it. Antenn didn't speak at all until he excused himself from the table and stomped away.

“I take it that Antenn is upset with me,” Straif said.

Mitchella raised her eyebrows. “I was slightly upset yesterday afternoon. He is very protective.”

“Right. He's resentful of me, too.”

She shrugged. “We'll manage for the little while we're here.”

Anxiety arrowed through Straif. “When I'm confirmed as GrandLord T'Blackthorn, I'll want to do a few,” he hunted for a word that wouldn't insult what she'd already done on such a limited amount of gilt.
“Upgrades,”
he finally said.

With an exasperated huff, Mitchella said, “Straif, you're a man. So far you're perfectly happy with all the changes we've made. Live with the Residence as it is for a while. Concentrate on the landscaping and your other duties.” Her voice lowered. “Let your HeartMate upgrade when you find her. She'll want to make changes to suit herself.”

“No.” He didn't want Mitchella putting an unknown, uncared-for woman between them as a barrier. He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, held on to it hard as she tried to slide her fingers away.

The scrybowl on the sideboard trilled. Straif glanced at the grass green color pulsing from the water. “It's GreatLord T'Reed.”

Mitchella looked up. “Oh?”

Straif grimaced. “I was gone this morning at the time of his usual call.” He flicked his thumbnail against the bowl. “Here,” he said.

“Greetyou.” T'Reed's sour countenance appeared in the water droplets hovering over the bowl.

Smiling thinly, Straif said, “What can I do for you?”

“He—the Councils are concerned at the amount of remodeling going on with the Residence. It is one of the most beautiful FirstFamilies homes, modeled after one of the great houses of Ancient Earth.”

Mitchella jumped to her feet. Straif waved for her to stay silent.

“Who's there with you?” demanded T'Reed.

“My interior designer, Mitchella Clover, of The Four Leaf Clover.”

“Ah,” T'Reed said.

Silence lengthened as Straif waited for T'Reed to speak first. Strategy.

T'Reed cleared his throat again and said, “The Councils want to know if there have been any structural changes to the building during the restoration.”

“Let me handle this,” Mitchella said, swinging around the desk to face T'Reed. She placed a hand on Straif's shoulder and licks of fiery irritation radiated from her to him.

“Greetyou, GreatLord.” Mitchella ducked her head in courtesy.

“Greetyou, GentleLady,” T'Reed said.

“The Councils want to know if there have been any structural changes to T'Blackthorn Residence?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“No,” Mitchella said and touched the water of the bowl, ending the spell.

Straif turned his comfortchair and pulled her into his lap, nuzzling her ear. “That's my domestic Goddess. Tell them all off.” He laughed.

“How dare they believe that I would harm this Residence! That I have no sense or taste. Make structural changes to the Residence, indeed.”

She was a warm, vibrant armful, and her wiggling aroused him. “How dare they,” Straif whispered, turning her in his arms. He did like sitting with Mitchella in chairs. His mouth found hers, and his tongue plunged in, savoring the taste he couldn't get enough of.

Her arms twined around his neck, and her tongue forayed into his mouth. His body heated, thought vanishing.

“Mitchella!” Antenn banged through the door, then gasped.

She broke the kiss and pushed against Straif. He let her go. A moment later she was standing beside Straif and smiling at Antenn.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, her voice low and husky and full of affection.

Antenn flushed, looked aside. “I need to talk to you.”

“I care for Mitchella, Antenn. I won't hurt her.” Straif had no idea why he said the words.

Eyes blazing, Antenn's mouth worked, then he said, “You already have. You don't think of her
first
. You don't really want her. You want your curse broken, that's all you want.” He turned back and strode through the door.

“I'll go see what he needs,” Mitchella said, gliding away from Straif.

“I won't hurt you,” Straif said.

“Antenn was rude, but he is right,” she said softly, smiling gently in a way that pierced Straif but left his mind scrambling. Words jammed in his throat, and he could only watch as she sauntered away and followed her ward.

He stood, only knowing that he must go after them.

 
 
Mitchella saw Antenn pause by the ballroom door, scrub
his sleeve across his face, stiffen his spine, and stride across the threshold.

A booming voice said, “Are you back, little boy?”

The sneer quickened her pace, until she nearly ran to catch up. As soon as she entered the room, she saw him, chin jutting, glaring up at a tall man with a mean expression. She stopped her rushing steps to stroll to them at the end of the room. The man was the supervisor of a crew she hadn't worked with before—because they all had little Flair. The New Twinmoons Ritual had done a lot to cleanse the ballroom of despair, but the chamber's vibrations were still slightly negative. This confrontation would only reinforce the undertone of dark emotions.

Three of the room's corners had been hidden by inserts of curved paneling, turning the area into an oval. They stood at the fourth, with the paneling half up.

When Mitchella joined them, the man switched his contempt to her. She blinked at his inimical stare. She'd never encountered anything quite like it before. Her heart thumped faster at the threat. She wanted to put her arm around Antenn's shoulders, but he was in charge of this project and that would be unprofessional. “What's the problem, foreman?”

The man stuck his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He was taller than she, and since he looked down his nose as well as curling his lip, she didn't think the conversation would go smoothly.

“I don't got no problem,” the foreman said. He jerked his unshaven chin at Antenn. “He's the one that gots the problem.”

“Antenn?” she asked.

The tops of his ears were red. “They're using different wood for this corner. Less expensive, not what we ordered.”

The man shrugged. “I thought that in spite a' the fact this here's a Residence, you wanted to keep the costs down. So I did. No one's gonna notice.”

Antenn said, “The width of the panels are different, it will unbalance the symmetry of the room.”

The rest of the crew watched with interest.

Mitchella studied the half-built circular insert. “Antenn's right. It's absolutely necessary that this corner is like the others. Take down what you've built here and replace it with matching paneling.”