Shana Abe (33 page)

“I want to.”

“You are the Marchioness of Lockewood.”

“I’m still Solange, my lord. You grew up with me. You above all know of my lavish skills in such fascinating pastimes as sewing and lute playing.”

He shook his head. “I know your skills for getting what you want, my lady.”

“You need the crops. I want to do it. What harm is there?”

She was so serious and so earnest at once. How
could he deny the reasonableness of her request? She had defined his problem and pinned down a solution with the cool logic that marked most of her convictions.

“It would have to be a small plot to begin with,” he said cautiously.

“Oh, of course. I have seen a stretch of land out by the line of the forest—”

“No. I’ll rebuild the wall around the abandoned garden next to the buttery. It’s fallen in many places, but the damage is not irreversible. I do not want you working unprotected, or far from home.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She gazed serenely ahead. “ ’Tis a wise decision from all sides.”

He tried a small joke. “Wisdom is one of my specialties, you know.”

She gave him a sideways look, suddenly awash in sunlight. “Yes, I suspected as much. Your clever attempts to hide it did not fool me.”

He gave a shout of laughter, drawing amazed looks from the seasoned soldiers riding behind them. Few had ever heard him laugh so loudly before, and none had seen such open affection from him to any woman. It was still new to them, this lighthearted side of their Wolf, but none begrudged him it.

Damon’s soldiers knew of the years he had endured, for they had been there beside him. Every one of them had a story to tell about him, how he saved this man’s leg with a poultice, or that man’s life with a mace in battle. He had collected friends the way most men in court collected enemies, scattered and brought together from every corner of the empire. Each one
would have gladly repaid him with their lives, for they figured they owed it to him in one manner or another.

They were those who were cast aside, men without homes or allegiances, most enlisting in Edward’s forces for lack of any other means to earn a meal. Sullen and suspicious when Damon had joined their ranks, one by one they had been drawn to him, to his ruthless fighting style, his easy way of treating all men as equals, and perhaps most significantly, to the shadow of pain that lived in his eyes that the men recognized as a spirit kindred to themselves.

Before long, soldiers were waiting on lists to serve under the Wolf. He would take any who wanted to come and fight with him, did his best by them, and always regretted their loss.

When Edward finally granted his petition for Wolfhaven—with much grousing about being deprived of his best warrior—Damon announced to his men that anyone who was free to come with him was welcome. He made it clear the castle was in ruins, the land was raw and remote, but this stopped none of them. Many had wives already, a few with children. They all came.

It had instantly transformed the abandoned castle into a home, albeit a ramshackle one. Local peasantry at first abhorred the intrusion, then embraced it and the new system of work Damon brought. Farmers were eager to cultivate their lots, supplied with the seeds that the marquess gave them. The herds of sheep began to slowly multiply, bringing back the wool trade that Wolfhaven had been known for.

There was still so much more to do. And now
Solange wanted to help, Damon realized. She wanted to be a part of it all, and had come up with this way to be useful. A tendril of something uncurled in his chest, something he had not even been aware of before. It let him breathe easier, a little deeper than he had been used to.

Solange wanted to help him. She wanted to stay and build up their home.

He sat back in his saddle and let the mild warmth of the sun soak into his bones.

Up on a hill, far from the caravan of people going down the forest path, was a broad oak tree no different from any of the other trees that composed these woods. But behind this tree hid a lone man who watched the group go by with sly elation, and then vanished into the woodland.

M
archioness?”

Solange looked up from the paper she had been studying and making periodic notes upon. She placed her quill upon the table. “Yes?”

It was one of the women; Solange racked her mind to think which one, but couldn’t remember. The one with the brown hair and blue eyes who liked to sing? Or was it play the lute?

The lady smiled shyly. “I am Mairi, my lady, we have met a few times before.”

“Yes, of course. Please do come in.” Her fingers were stained with ink and she had nothing to wipe them on but her skirts, which she couldn’t do because
they were one of the new outfits sewn for her, and she hadn’t the heart to ruin it just yet. “Oh, bother,” she muttered, looking around for her tattered handkerchief.

“Allow me, my lady.” Mairi produced a white square of cloth from her sleeve.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Solange said awkwardly, envisioning the permanent black smudges.

“I insist.” Mairi held the cloth out, still smiling. “I have many.”

“Ah. Thank you.” Solange took it carefully between two fingers.

The other woman appeared to become shy again, gazing down at her feet. Solange stared at her bent head, somewhat taken aback.

It was the first time one of the women of the castle had sought her out, certainly the first time any of them had been to her personal chamber.

That afternoon she had turned a corner by the window into a workplace for her garden, setting up a comfortable table and chair to take in the view as she planned. It was considerably more complicated than she had first anticipated, but instead of being daunted, she was excited. She was going to work with living things, nurturing them. She was going to be useful.

“I know the rug is of intricate design,” said Solange gently, “but I don’t think it warrants such a flattering inspection. Won’t you sit down?”

Mairi gave an embarrassed laugh. “Thank you, Marchioness.”

“Please call me Solange.”

“Solange. Are those the plans for your garden?”

“Oh, yes! Have you heard of it, then?”

“Indeed I have. It’s the reason I have come to see you.”

Solange raised her eyebrows. “Have you gardening experience, Mairi?”

The lady leaned forward in her seat. “I grew up on a country estate, my la—Solange.” She took a deep breath, as if to deliver bad news. “I am the daughter of a gardener.”

“That’s wonderful! Can you help me, then? I have no gardening experience at all, you see, merely a great deal of enthusiasm.”

“You don’t mind that I’m not nobility?”

“I should think not! If you were nobility, for one thing, you would probably know just as much about gardening as I. How lovely that at least one of us knows what to do. Will you help?”

“Why, yes, I would be pleased to.” They exchanged happy looks. Solange indicated her papers on the table.

“You could help me map it out if you like, and tell me which plants would best grow where. I don’t think you’d much like the sowing part, however,” she continued doubtfully.

“Oh, no, quite the contrary,” replied Mairi in her soft voice. “Sowing is the best part, I find. My father taught me from a young age to appreciate the miracle the Lord has made our soil. I’m afraid I’m very much the peasant, for I do still long to plant and seed. That is why I came to you when I heard the news of your garden.”

“Well, then I am just as much peasant as you, for I
am very much looking forward to it also. Would you care for something to eat or drink?”

The afternoon passed in pleasant degrees; a new friendship began unfurling between the two women. For Solange it was a novel experience, and one she was to forever cherish. As the light faded into dusk and they parted for supper, each was aware of another like herself nearby, one more friendly soul in a world that should be filled with them.

At the great table during dinner Solange mentioned to Damon her meeting with Mairi. “Which one is she?” he asked, scanning the faces of the women in the crowded hall.

“There, next to Robert. The pretty one in the yellow gown.”

“Oh, yes. I recognize her. She’s Robert’s sister, in fact. Came here last summer.”

“As recently as that?”

“She is a widow. Her husband died and she had nowhere else to go.”

Solange leaned around Damon to take a better look at Mairi, who was eating quietly next to her brother at a table near the end of the room. She glanced up, and their eyes met. Solange waved happily. Mairi waved back.

“She’s very nice. I think she’ll be a great help with the herbs, my lord. I am surprised you have not prevailed upon her knowledge yet to cultivate some.”

“I had no idea of her background, Solange. I never inquired into it. Robert simply told me he wanted to bring his widowed sister here, and I approved. That was all.”

Solange turned back to him. “You’ll take in anyone, won’t you?”

The kindness in her voice embarrassed him. “I could not refuse her. She was a woman in need.”

“Not many would care about that.”

“Nonsense, my wife. Any true gentleman has a care for his fellow creatures.”

“You are correct,” she agreed. “But perhaps you are unaware of how few
gentlemen
there are.”

Damon took her hand. “Nay, I know too well.”

“Then you understand why I am the most fortunate of women, my lord.”

His focus on her sharpened, creating that familiar fluttering in her stomach. He raised her hand to his lips. “Come upstairs with me, Solange,” he said huskily.

“In the middle of the meal? What will everyone think?”

He stood, raising her with him. “Only that
I
am the most fortunate of men, my dear.”

In the bedroom he stripped her slowly, uncovering her layer by layer, as if in search of a greater treasure behind each movement. She was so perfect, so damn perfect for him, Damon thought, and the way she kissed his fingers, his knuckles, his arms whenever they passed near her lips had him shaking already with desire.

When at last she stood before him in the discarded pool of her gowns, she showed no shame at her nakedness. Calm and trusting as a doe in the wild, she watched him with glowing eyes, followed his movements as he tore off his own clothes and then knelt before
her. Her hand came to rest upon his head, her fingers threaded through the shimmering black waves in a lingering caress. He cradled her body with his palms, running over the smooth muscles in her legs, the sweet curves of her buttocks. He slipped one hand between her thighs and parted them, then ran the edge of his hand higher, massaging her until her hips arched toward him and she was gasping.

Keeping his hand in place, he traced the roundness of her navel with his tongue and traveled downward, amazed again at the contrast of her shapely lines imbued with purity, enthralled with the pattern of her breathing as he kissed her lower, past the dark triangle that marked her apex, until he had her parted before him and she clutched at his shoulder and begged him to rise.

He wouldn’t. She tasted like nectar and Solange, a unique thing he had never experienced, and but for the driving ache in his loins, he wanted never to end. Over and over he massaged her tender nub with his lips and his tongue, using both hands now to cup her bottom and bring her closer to him.

She stood with her eyes closed, wanting him to cease his tormenting and yet not wanting him to.

“Damon,” she gasped. The world was him, only him, and the pleasure jolted her so much that she thought she might fall, but she didn’t care, because he was there, ready to catch her.

As the last tremor shook her, he stood and picked her up in his arms and carried her to the table, because it was closest to them, and he had to have her then, right then.

He sat her on the edge of the table and then placed himself before her. He was stiff and throbbing with need for her, which made his hands a little rough as he pushed her legs apart and entered her wetness.

The urgency made him thrust deep with a single stroke, penetrating her as far as he could. Her legs were spread wide to accommodate him, her arms back on the table to support herself as he withdrew, and came again, and again, a heavy rhythm that rocked them both to the core.

Her head tilted back. Her eyes were closed again, but he couldn’t stop looking at her face, at her breasts, at their joining, his beautiful wife, his haunting Solange, who panted now and licked her lips and moved her hips to take in more of him.

And the rhythm filled him, controlled him, flooded his senses until he was the rhythm and nothing more, a simple, powerful thing that was dark and salty and painfully exquisite.

He bent over her and buried his head in her neck, letting the passion empty him, spilling himself into her with a glorious abandon. She arched into him with a small cry, and he felt the rapid pulses of her own climax, squeezing the last ounce of ecstasy from him.

For a long while they remained locked in that position, neither willing to end the embrace. Only when he noticed the skin on her arms began to grow cold did he separate from her.