Shana Abe (13 page)

Yes, the scent of Solange, her fragrance, that flowery spice of her that owed nothing to perfumes or oils. It was the essence of something truly magical, of moonlit mist and fairies, like one of the stories she would tell.

It maddened him at the campfire he built every evening, chewing on the smoky meal of the hare or quail he had bagged that day.

It bothered him astride his horse, going through the plowed fields and empty woods of this foreign land.

But at night it was the worst. At night, when he lay on the hard ground with just a blanket between him and the endless sky, she would come back to him on the breeze, a hint of magic he could never contain.

Of all the flowers and herbs he had memorized, none came close to her sweetness. Now, on this trip, she haunted him more than even the first few years without her. It made him clench his teeth until the muscles in his jaw ached.

His mood swung from despair to hope and ultimately
to anger for having these feelings at all. His fury was aimed at her, at her father, but mostly at himself. He had been doing so well without her. He had almost managed to forget the pain.

That thought seemed ludicrous now. The instant he saw her again he knew he would never be able to truly forget.

This hard journey had led him here to the French estate, where, somewhat to his surprise, he had gained immediate entrance. It all happened too fast. He thought he would have time to prepare. He thought he would be able to at least change clothes before gaining an audience with her. But no, they led him straight here to the chamber room, a frozen place, where she had risen to greet him from the dais, sending her women over to the fireplace, showing no more surprise at seeing him than if they had just parted a few hours before, not years. His spurs clicked against the marble floor as he crossed over to her.

Solange
.

At last. It was a moment of epiphany. Here she was in front of him, a grown woman, a widow by her account. His mind was having a difficult time taking it all in.

But his body was not, by heaven. He wanted her as fiercely as he ever did. He nearly could not breathe for the want.

He would not crumble, no matter the cost. He wanted to shout at her, he wanted to know why she had rejected him, why she had rejected her father, her homeland. Instead, he kept his lips tightly shut, marking her reaction to his news.

She turned away from him, took a few blind steps to the thronelike chair topping the dais. She did not sit, however, merely stood next to it, arms crossed over her chest. He saw the shiver take her again and again. Her head dipped low.

“My lady,” he began.

“My father is dead. The earl is dead. I find—” Her voice broke, a tremulous waver before she recovered. “I find that I cannot think right now. I must rest.”

As if on cue, the court women swarmed over to her, taking her arms and leading her down the steps. In frustration, Damon watched them go. He felt robbed of his moment after coming all this way. It couldn’t be over this quickly. He would not allow her to disappear just yet.

“Countess,” he called.

Solange stopped, then turned. The women fanned around her.

“I am weary,” Damon said clearly. “I have traveled far to reach you. I require food and a place to bed for the night.”

His words seemed to snap at her, drawing her spine straighter. “Of course. Forgive my poor manners. I’ll have one of the men show you to your chambers and arrange to have dinner brought to you. I’m afraid it is past the evening meal, but there is always plenty of food in the buttery.”

She murmured instructions to one of the ladies, who curtsied and fluttered away.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” she said. “Good eve to you.”

They left as a group out the chamber door, a flash of gold in a wash of pastels.

The fire popped and sizzled behind an iron grate, echoing off the emptiness around him.

H
e was awakened from a sound sleep by a hand placed over his mouth.

In an instant he had drawn the stiletto from beneath the pillow and pressed it against the throat of his attacker. It was a move so deeply ingrained from the years of battle that it took him a full minute to realize that both the hand and the throat belonged to a woman.

To Solange, to be exact.

The dimming fire allowed just enough of the delicacy of her features to stand out in the darkness. She showed no reaction to the sharp dagger but looked down at him calmly, waiting for the recognition to sink in.

He drew the knife back, then pushed her hand away. “Are you mad?”

“Shhh. You must speak quietly, lest they hear you.”

He tossed the covers off himself and climbed out of the bed. He was almost fully dressed, another habit learned from battle.

“What is the meaning of this, Countess? You have no place here.”

“Please, Damon, lower your voice. They must not find us!”

He stared at her in the darkness, baffled. Her urgency was real enough; he reckoned if the newly widowed countess was discovered with another man on the very night of the death of her husband, her reputation would not survive.

The Solange he knew wouldn’t have given a shrug of her shoulders over something like her reputation. Yes, she was the countess now.

“Leave,” he ordered curtly.

She approached him slowly, hands held out in appeal. “It is my every intention to leave. That is why I’m here.”

“What?”

“I want to go with you back to England. I want us to leave here tonight.”

He laughed softly. “Your wits are addled, Solange. Go back to your women.”

She made an exasperated sound. “The hounds of hell could not drag me back there. I have to go with you, tonight, right now.”

She looked so thin and lovely, and very serious. A heavy black cloak swirled around her ankles, but as she moved toward him he saw to his amazement that she was wearing a tunic, hosiery, and buckskin boots: men’s clothing. She was still talking.

“We need to leave as soon as you may be ready. I’ll help you if you like.” In the darkness she took on the earnestness of a young girl, breathless and beguiling. “I can pack very quickly.”

He shook his head. “You’ll not go anywhere with me, Countess. I’m not courting that kind of trouble. Seek your adventures elsewhere.”

She paused, looking as if his barb might have actually hurt. He ignored the flash of guilt. She would not use him, damn her, for whatever game she was playing. He would not submit to that.

“You don’t understand.” Her voice was subdued. “I have to go.”

“And why is that?”

She chewed on her lower lip, another girlish habit he found suddenly annoying. But then her face cleared, became resolute. “If you will not help me, then I will go alone.” The cape billowed to life as she swept past him toward an opening in the far wall he had not noticed before.

He caught her before she could vanish into the blackness.

“What is this, madam? You have deliberately put me in a room with hidden doors and secret tunnels? Is it so that you may creep in here in the disguise of nightfall? Is that your amusement these days, Solange?”

“Of course. I knew you would bolt your door closed tonight. How else was I to get in?”

Her look was so innocent, he practically could believe in her virtue again. Amazing, this acting ability she had discovered.

How convenient for her to have a room to keep her lovers nearby, tucked away from prying eyes. What sort of husband had Redmond turned out to be, to allow his wife this unusual freedom in his own home? Damon was almost sorry he could not question him for himself.

“But the man is dead,” he muttered. Very interesting.

“Pardon?”

“Your husband. I have just remembered myself. You are a widow driven mad with mourning, no doubt. Someone should be watching over you.”

She shook him off with supple strength. “You have changed greatly, Marquess. You should not be surprised to learn that I have changed as well. You speak now of things you could not possibly know anything about. My apologies. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Before he could think to respond, she was gone, her footsteps fading away down the tunnel.

“Damn. Damn, damn, damn.”

It was no accident, he knew, that she had chosen to throw back at him his own words from their parting those years past. She was too clever for it to be anything else.

She wasn’t really fleeing the estate. She wouldn’t act so rashly, he reassured himself. She had nowhere to go that he knew of. It would be a folly beyond belief to think she could make it back to England on her own—a woman, a gentlewoman, who really knew nothing of the ways of the world. She could not be that foolish.

With a muttered oath Damon picked up his scabbard and secured it around his waist. It took only a few minutes to toss his scant belongings back into the traveling sack, but he could feel each second slipping by.

He hurriedly shoved his boots on and laced up the sides. She would be at the stables by now, or who knew where that tunnel let her out of the house. She might have already had a horse waiting in some hidden location, in which case he would have to track her either by sound or wait until dawn, when he could see her horse’s prints.

By dawn the entire household would realize their mistress was missing. And who would they first suspect in this dangerous mystery?

Damon flung his cape over his shoulders, grabbed the sack, and strode out the door. As quietly as he could, he picked his way over the sleeping bodies of the pages and serfs who lay on the floor on the way to the main doors. A brace of hounds raised their heads inquisitively as he passed, but made no move or sound.

“Good dogs,” he mouthed. He wondered fleetingly if Solange had trained them the way she had the hounds of Ironstag. And then he was past them all, out the doors and into the night. No guard challenged him, a fact that registered at the back of his mind but that he did not take time to heavily consider. He had to find the stables.

It didn’t take him long. There was no sign of Solange, however, either outside the wooden building or in the steamy darkness. He saddled his stallion on his own, keeping a hand over his muzzle to quiet him as he led him outside. Curious that the stableboys had not awakened; and neither had the pages in the hall. A strange coincidence that Damon was beginning to suspect was no coincidence at all.

Tarrant was well trained, and stood obediently as he mounted. Once more Damon paused to listen for any sign of Solange to betray her presence, but he heard nothing save the crickets singing to each other. At his signal the stallion began an eager canter around the walls of the estate. He wanted to be certain she had not slipped out some hidden way on foot.

“Hsst!”

He pulled up and turned at the sound behind him. She was on a roan mare behind a crook of trees. One pale hand waved him over to her. Tarrant covered the distance in no time. She greeted him before he could speak.

“Have you changed your mind, or are you merely searching for me to return me to Redmond?”

“I believe you said the earl had passed beyond this mortal coil, Countess.”

“Redmond’s men, then. They are one and the same. Well?”

The hooded cloak lent her an air of mystery he did not need tonight. His head was still fogged with the ache of slumber, yet it seemed he had not slept for weeks. The reason for this inconvenience was now sitting before him, astride, bold as a fishwife, demanding his allegiance to whatever scheme she had created. Damon thought her flight ill advised at best and criminal at worse. He could think of no good reason for a wife to run away from her dead husband’s affairs.

The mare whickered and pawed the ground, exciting Tarrant to snort and shake his head. He calmed the beast with a steady hand. “I will not accompany you unless you fully explain what this is about.”

“Fine. God be with you.”

She wheeled the mare around and took off at a gallop. Whatever else she had become over the years, she was now an excellent horsewoman, Damon saw. It was almost a pleasure to watch her, except for the fact that he was having to dodge branches and roots to keep up with her.

“Dammit, Solange!” He made an attempt to grab
the reins from her as soon as he had drawn even, but she maneuvered the mare to artfully dodge his attempts. Then suddenly she stopped, pulling her mount up into a clearing of the woods. He followed, slowing to match her pace, then stopping beside her.

“That was a foolish risk, Countess! These woods are so thick, it would take nothing at all to knock you from your mount, or worse, trip her up to land on top of you! I cannot believe you have developed such a disregard for the care of your animal!”

Solange pushed her hood back impatiently. “You are the one who has taken the foolish risk, Lockewood! Both Iolande and I know these woods all too well! I have lived here many years, in case you do not remember. We could find our way out of here blindfolded if need be.”

He couldn’t think of what to reply, and so stared at her in frustrated silence. She hadn’t turned out at all as he thought she would have. She was not needy, not broken by the sight of him as he was by her, not desperate, except to leave.