Heart Fortune

Jace sat stunned at being addressed a lord.

After the two women left—and he noticed that the next party that came in was seated on the opposite side of the room—he finally shook his mind from a trance. “I’m not a lord.”

T’Hawthorn shrugged. “I’m sure she feels it’s better to err on the side of courtesy and respect. And though I don’t think T’Blackthorn or his sons or cuzes, especially Draeg, would step in here for any amount of gilt, you are dressed much like the trackers when they are working.”

“Oh.” Jace frowned. “I thought T’Blackthorn . . . that the Blackthorns . . .” Jace stopped since T’Hawthorn’s face went still. The Blackthorns did have a curse, sterility or something.

“Straif and Mitchella have adopted. They also consider the young Betony men, Straif’s cuz’s sons, as his own.”

“I don’t know too much about Druida City or the FirstFamilies, haven’t ever associated with nobles.”

“Until now.” The GreatLord leaned back in his chair, floral patterned like everything else from the walls to the rug.

The waitress appeared with two floral china pots, one long and slender, the other short and round, the standard teapot.

“You’re really going to drink that?” the GreatLord asked.

Since Jace had figured out that the man was here to warn him off, or about hurting Glyssa, he just grinned. “I’ve had plenty of bad caff and bad tea and bad drink in the wilds and in the camp. Some of it I’ve made myself. This is going to be a pure pleasure.”

“Ah,” T’Hawthorn said, again studying Jace. “Who do you know in Druida City?”

Jace thought that was T’Hawthorn’s idea of light conversation, since it didn’t sound patronizing or snobbish. “No one except Glyssa.” Then he thought about it. “I suppose some people in the Merchants’ Guild, merchants or guards, might be here.”

“My cuz Cratag T’Marigold is associated with the Merchants’ Guild,” T’Hawthorn said.

The legendary Cratag Maytree T’Marigold. “Never met him,” Jace said. The waitress walked toward them pushing two anti-grav trays loaded with food.

Wonderful smells teased Jace’s nose—there was a cold vegetable and clucker salad showing sprinkles of fresh herbs and thick slices of three kinds of cheese next to equally thick bread, butter, a bowl with a leaf salad, and fruit. His mouth watered.

When the waitress set the plates on the large table, Jace saw that his food differed from T’Hawthorn’s, and actually looked better. The lord had a hearty soup that Jace thought might be too hot, sausage rolls, and a couple of hard-boiled eggs. Well displayed, naturally, but not nearly as delicious looking as his own fare.

“What’s with this?” T’Hawthorn demanded, staring at Jace’s clucker salad.

He stuck a fork in it, tasted. “Really great!”

The waitress smiled smugly. “Naturally we suit the food to the beverage. You got dark roast caff. He got Darjeeling tea.”

“Oh.” The lord’s look was grumpy.

“You can have some of my grapes,” Jace offered, just to rub it in.

“Thanks.”

“Enjoy.” Even with just one word, Jace heard her suppressed laughter. She swished away.

“Excellent food. Your wife create this menu?” Jace asked T’Hawthorn.

“My HeartMate, yes.”

Jace’s stomach squeezed a little at the word, his taste buds soured a bit, and he freshened them with tea. “I like this tea. I’m not sure Glyssa had any.”

“Probably since she drank it a lot growing up with Camellia, and for many years since . . . from the lesser varieties to the rare,” the lord said.

“I understand,” Jace said.

“I believe you do. You’re sharper, more clever than I reckoned.”

Since that sounded like an irritated but sincere compliment, Jace said, “Thank you.”

T’Hawthorn glanced at the room. The noise level that had quieted when they’d walked in, then risen as they’d been gossiped about, had settled to regular levels. It was still odd to Jace that he only heard women’s voices in the background.

The lord cleared his throat. “I want to talk to you honestly about Glyssa. And I want to make sure we are clear between us about her.”

T’Hawthorn couldn’t be romantically interested in Glyssa, he had a HeartMate, yet Jace’s hackles rose. “In what way do you want to warn me off her?” Jace bit into a chunk of creamy, nutty-tasting cheese.

Wincing, T’Hawthorn shook his head, used his knife and fork to cut into the sausage roll. “I’ve come to know her and value her.”

Jace concentrated on eating. “You’ve been married, what, three months?” Hadn’t Glyssa mentioned that while he was paying attention?

“Like many, I have visited the PublicLibrary, know the Licorices . . . and knew Glyssa before Camellia and I wed.”

“I thought you FirstFamilies had ResidenceLibraries that knew everything and shared info back and forth with the PublicLibrary.” Jace wasn’t sure why he was poking at T’Hawthorn, just that he felt irritated enough to do it—or wanted to distract the man from the original topic.

“As I said, I value Glyssa. Your relationship is your business—”

“That’s right.”

“But,” he hesitated, “speaking as one who . . . had troubles with his own HeartMate, I want to let you know that she has friends who will not be pleased if you treat her ill.”

Jace met the man’s purple gaze. “I hear you. And one of the first things I noticed about her when she showed up at camp was that she had high-powered friends. That huge duffle she had sort of broadcast the fact. The pavilion is luxurious.”

T’Hawthorn’s eyes gleamed. “I chose the best for her.”

“Everyone in the camp was impressed,” Jace said politely. “I helped her put up the pavilion myself, very nice.”

“Yes.” The man stabbed at a piece of hard-boiled egg with his fork and when he glanced up at Jace his gaze was sharper than the knife. “Don’t think you can be casual with Glyssa’s feelings, or treat her like some . . .”

“Low-class Commoner?” Jace said, edgy himself, then squashed a couple of juicy grapes between his teeth, sweet flavor spurted nicely.

T’Hawthorn sat poker straight. “I do not often consider the class of a person.”

No “considering” needed, that was probably innate in a FirstFamilies lord. Jace said nothing, broke off a bit of cheese and popped it in his mouth.

“I planned on saying,” T’Hawthorn said with great dignity, also something Jace thought was innate to him, “do not treat Glyssa like she’s”—the lord glanced around, no women were near—“a casual lay.”

Jace’s neck burned. “You’ve made that mistake.”

“Yes.” The lord stabbed another piece of egg.

Jace thought about that, didn’t believe it, figured it was a story he might hear later if he and the GreatLord ever got friendly.

Rearranging his expression into a pleasant one, T’Hawthorn said, “Tell me how that miniature furniture worked.”

“Not quite the quality of this place.” Jace gestured around.

“Ah, well, it’s a new technique.” The lord grinned with a sparkle in his eyes. “Nothing better I like than seeing how new techniques work.”

They ate the rest of their meal with a discussion of some of T’Hawthorn’s entrepreneurial projects, then the man began to casually probe Jace for information about the excavation of Lugh’s Spear.

The door opened and an energy came into the room that caught Jace’s attention as much as the woman