Shana Abe (6 page)

But here she was, not in her chambers after all. The truth of that thought slowly drifted though his mind, coalescing on the image of Solange standing there, in front of him. She was here. She had come to him.

A log in the fire popped loudly and fell apart, releasing a shower of sparks around her.

The pleasure of her presence overwhelmed him, making him drop the longbow and sack of arrows he had been carrying from the late-night hunt. He stepped away from them and opened his arms to her.

Solange needed no further encouragement. She flew to him.

Her embrace was a heady relief.

Damon leaned his cheek against her hair, closing his eyes, inhaling her scent. He turned his face and kissed her hair lightly, over and over.

He smelled of horses and sweat, an earthy odor that she appreciated more than she ever thought she would. He was here, he was holding her, and everything was going to be all right. The shivers had stolen the momentum that brought her there and left her body empty, but Damon gladly took her weight.

She would not cry. She would not.

She did anyway.

His fingers caught on the golden net binding her hair, she had forgotten to take it off. Carefully he pulled the pins loose from the sable strands, capturing the net and then tossing it aside.

Her hair unfurled, cascading down in a glossy waterfall, clinging to them both. Her shoulders shook with her quiet sobs, and it began to register on Damon that they had a true problem, despite the bliss of comforting her.

He led her over to the bed and sat her down gently. She wouldn’t let go of his tunic until he knelt in front of her, and even then she clutched his sleeve with one
clenched fist. He might have murmured sweet words to her, he wasn’t certain.

Her distress consumed him. He had to stop it. Her head remained bowed, but the sobs were diminishing. He stroked her hands, her face, until she quieted.

“Solange,” he said softly.

Her name on his lips nearly brought her to tears again, absurdly enough. The longing in his voice was such a contrast to the strangeness with which the earl had said her name.

She stifled the panic building in her throat. “Did you hear?” she asked instead.

He concentrated on wiping away her tears. He couldn’t answer right away, the emotions were still too raw. She waited.

“Yes,” he admitted finally.

Her breath came out in a rush; she pulled his hand down from her face and held on to it. “What are we to do, Damon?”

Her implicit trust in him warmed him as much as it created a fear of failure. He needed to get facts. “You really knew nothing of this plan before this evening?”

“Nothing, I swear! Father has never mentioned marriage to me before now. He barely speaks to me at all. And none of the others would speak to me of it, as you know. I met the man for the first time tonight and even still they did not consult me, but began to bandy about the word as if it were a foregone conclusion.” She shuddered, remembering her humiliation. “I would never marry a man like him!”

“Who would you marry, then, Solange?”

She looked away. Her fingers plucked at the folds of the quilt on the bed.

“Who?” he asked again, his entire being waiting for her answer.

Her face grew troubled once more, but then she gave an uncertain smile. “There is only you.”

It was the answer he craved, the one he needed to go forward with his plan, but it still left him momentarily winded. He folded both of her hands together and pressed them against his forehead, thanking the Lord, thanking her. After a moment he got off his knees and went to one of the large trunks resting against the wall by the bed. He opened it and reached in, feeling through the clothes for the small leather pouch that he had been worrying about for months now.

He found it and shut the trunk, coming back to her. With her large, solemn eyes and loose hair draping her shoulders she seemed to him a kind of saint, a beauty too fragile to remain long in this world. The thought chilled him, but he brushed it aside, coming again to kneel before her.

“This is for you,” he said simply, and placed the pouch in her hands.

She gave him a questioning look but said nothing, turning the little bag over in her hands to get the feel of it. She loosened the drawstring at the neck of it and shook out a ring into her open palm.

He was sorry he couldn’t do better. It wasn’t a grand ring, in his opinion, but he had immediately thought of her when he saw it for sale at the summer festival several months past. It did not sparkle and shine like the jewelry women usually favored. Rather, it had an unusual
design and a bloodred stone that glowed like the sunsets Solange loved. It had taken all his spare coin and several head of sheep to get it, but he thought it worth it now for the look on her face.

The ring was delicate but ornate, gold with an oval cabochon of garnet in the center and two small pearls surrounded by raised golden petals on each side. The rounded cut of the deep red garnet drew the weak light into itself. It gleamed mysteriously, set off by the silver-white pearls.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She touched the gilded patterns of it reverently, contrasting the slickness of the garnet with the hard, intricate shapes of the gold. Finally she looked up at him, incredulous that he could give her something so obviously rare.

Damon plucked the ring from her palm and slid it onto her finger. “I got it when I went with the wool-selling party to the festival last summer. A Gypsy was selling gold from his cart, and this ring was in a basket with some other things, not nearly as nice.”

Still she said nothing, so he added, “I was hoping you would like it.”

“I have never seen anything so fine as this,” she said, and meant it.

Together they stared at the ring on her finger and considered what it meant to them now. How odd that a band of gold, even one as lovely as this, could change her life and fortune, Solange thought. She welcomed the newness of it, closing her fingers in a fist.

A sense of rightness filled Damon, as if seeing the
ring at last on her hand was as natural as breathing. She was wearing his troth now, and both of them knew it.

Solange slid off the bed onto her knees in front of him. She rested her head on his chest and held him as close as she could manage.

“I will speak to Henry tonight,” he said, gathering her closer. “I’ll tell him how we feel about each other. I’ll tell him we were waiting to announce it to him a little later, and how his plans with Redmond have taken us by surprise. He must understand.”

“He wants the lands,” Solange said into his chest. “Father indicated the match would join our lands together, forming an alliance.”

Both of them knew the importance of this. Alliances between neighboring nobles could make or break a fiefdom, and if the lands were already bordering each other, so much the stronger could the alliance become.

“He can have my lands for an alliance,” Damon said fiercely. “He can have them in
forfeit
, if he wants.”

“Damon, no—”

“Yes! But I think he’ll realize how much smarter it would be to have us living there, working with him. I’ll give him a portion of the crops, of the herds, the rents, whatever he wants.”

“Truly?” His generosity of sacrifice for her was unbelievable.

“Truly. I will persuade him to see reason. He cannot be so cold to keep us apart. We belong together, Solange, and no man anywhere can ever change that.”

“I know,” she replied. “I’ve always known.”

The depths of her eyes told him it was true, she did feel the power between them as he did. He kissed
her lips once, then once again, relishing the sweet taste of her.

The dark magic was beginning to weave around them again. Damon broke the hold, unwilling to surrender to it yet. There were too many plans to make right now. And there was the marquess to consider.

That sobered him. Despite his determined words, Damon realized it was going to be extraordinarily difficult to persuade her father to let him have Solange as his bride and leave the earl empty-handed.

In fact, Damon was certain Redmond would not be willing to leave with nothing at all. He would demand respite for his troubles, for traveling out in expectation of a wedding that never took place. He would demand compensation of some sort, for that was the only way he could salvage his pride.

Damon had to come up with something to offer him, something so impressive, he wouldn’t miss marrying the daughter of a powerful, wealthy nobleman. Hidden deep in the corners of his mind was a nagging, malicious voice that told him he really had nothing to offer either the marquess or the earl in exchange for Solange, nothing at all.

He stood, and pulled her up with him. “We must get you back to your chambers. You need to get some sleep tonight, for we don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”

Solange felt a chill at his words, which echoed almost exactly her own thoughts earlier. When she had thought it, a sense of resolution had filled her. Now, hearing Damon say it, all she felt was foreboding.

He was ushering her toward the door, one arm
around her waist. She stopped him from opening it by stepping in between him and the handle.

“Damon. It will work, will it not?”

He cupped her cheek with one hand. She was his hope, his future, his whole life.

“Aye,” he said. “It will.”

T
rue to the Earl’s words, the morning dawned bright and fair, if crisply cold. Golden lances of sunlight reached across the room to warm Solange’s bed cozily. She was used to this effect and had perfected a way of sleeping with her head under the covers to block the early morning sun. Solange was a typically heavy sleeper, and it took her maid several minutes to rouse her enough to accept the mug of bitter tea that she liked to drink every morning upon awakening.

“ ’Tis a shame to sleep so late, especially on this morning, milady.” Adara seemed in an excellent mood for a change, even chipper.

Solange rubbed her eyes and wondered at that. “What is so special about this morning, then?” Was it her birthday? Was it someone else’s?

The old woman clicked her tongue. “Tch! As if ye could truly forget, little slypuss! Why, mistress, the priest is already in the chapel. He came before dawn. Today is the day of yer wedding to the man!”

Everything came back to Solange in a rush, causing
her to choke on her tea. Indeed, how could she have forgotten?

Last night marked the beginning of the rest of her life as far as she was concerned. She quickly checked her hand, and yes, there it was, the glorious ring Damon had given her. She had not dreamed it after all. Her heart filled with exultation.

After Damon had escorted her back to her room—he distracted the guard while she slipped through the door—he must have sought out her father, as planned. As she lay in her bed last night, she had prayed and prayed for her father to accept Damon’s suit, until exhaustion had at last swept her into unconsciousness.

Please God, let it have worked
.

Adara had gone to the dressing chamber and was busy fussing over something Solange could not see.

“A pity,” the maid was muttering to herself. “Look at this hole here. The thread is loose enough to cast a net, I’ll warrant.”

Suddenly Solange leapt out of bed and ran over, grabbing Adara by the shoulders and spinning her around. “Tell me! Tell me who it is!”

Adara eyed her wildly, backing up. “Eh? Who?”

“The man! Who is the man I am to wed today?”

Solange could not know how she looked at that moment to the superstitious peasant woman. The devil’s magic she was said to possess surely flowed around her now, with her hair crackling and her eyes like golden flames. Without meaning to, Adara crossed herself.

“The man, mistress, the man from Redmond, of
course. He is the man ye met last night, do ye not recall? A fine man, a fit husband for ye.”

“Redmond,” Solange repeated, aghast.

Adara moved over to the chair taking up most of the dressing chamber. She indicated a stiff bundle of scarlet cloth draped across it. “This be yer mother’s gown, mistress, from her wedding these years past. My lord himself wanted ye to wear it today. I’ve done the best I could with it, I have,” she added defensively. “ ’Tis an old gown, and not in best repair. A French thing, no doubt. But it will fit ye.”

“Redmond,” said Solange again before her knees gave out and she sank to the floor. The woolen skirts of her nightgown pooled around her waist. She buried her face in her hands.

Adara rolled her eyes fearfully and began to curtsy her way out of the chamber. “Yer father bids ye to dress quickly. I will return in a few minutes to help ye.”

“Wait!” Solange scrambled to her feet and caught the woman before she had made it to the door. “I want you to deliver a message to my father. I want you to tell him I must see him immediately.”

“Milady, the marquess is off preparing for the wedding—”

“I don’t care about that! Tell him that I will not dress, I will not be ready until he comes to me, do you understand? I will not do one little thing until he arrives. You tell him for me.”