by Shana Abe
He turned his head and looked up toward her window, the moonlight bringing to bold relief the planes of his face, the waves of hair curhng down to his collar. Solange remained where she was, willing him to see her, unwilling to draw the attention of the other men.
He didn't see her.
He dismounted with the other men and disappeared into the castle, talking with the others. A group of stableboys led the horses away.
She withdrew from the bower and ran lightly to the door, again pressing her ear to the wood.
The volume of the party in the hall decreased momentarily, then swelled anew. That would be the mark that the riders had entered the hall, and were probably now reporting to her father. Over it all she could hear the restless footsteps of the guard, moving away from her door.
Slowly, so slowly she closed her eyes and measured the time and space with her whole body, Solange pried the door open a scant inch. A rush of heated air pushed through the opening, lifting wisps of hair off her forehead, warming her cheeks. She pressed her face against the crack.
She couldn't see the guard. Her narrow field of vision included just the wall opposite, and part of a burning torch. The door opened enough to let her see with both eyes now; she tilted her head sideways to get a better angle.
There he was, standing down the hall at the top of the stairs. He obviously wished to be down there with the new arrivals. The guard shifted from foot to foot, then leaned over curiously to hear better.
He threw a glance over his shoulder and Solange pulled back swifdy. This corner of the door was in shadow, and there was no noticeable light coming from her chambers. The guard, who had been well into his fourth cup of ale before he was ordered up there, noticed nothing unusual.
Solange silently counted to thirty in Latin, then braved another look.
He had taken several steps down the stairs. He was visible only from the knees up, his back to her.
She saw her chance. Before she could reconsider, she slipped out the door and shut it gently behind her. The guard still did not turn. As soon as she heard the familiar click of the latch closing, she dashed down the hall in the opposite direction from the guard, running on her toes for silence. There were no cries of alarm, no sounds of pursuit.
She paused, panting, at the entrance of a narrow tunnel that burrowed through the spine of the castle, all the way around. It was old, and seldom used. Solange knew it by heart, which was fortunate tonight, since the length of it was utterly black.
The darkness didn't bother her. She walked forward confidently, supporting herself on both sides with her arms outstretched against the stone walls.
Damon's chambers were in the wing adjacent to hers, one floor down, but not too far away. Several times she had to clear away the cobwebs that stuck to her face, and more than once she stumbled over an uneven stone in the floor. Nothing broke her pace, however. Damon was close, and so salvation was near.
Finally she reached the narrow stairs leading down to the outer rooms of the main hall. Here and there torches began to appear again, leaning away from her in their gutters, following the draft.
"Almost there, almost there," she chanted under her breath. Ahead loomed a giant hallway that led to the main artery of the castle. She moved cautiously now, observing the flow of people passing by the opening, intent on their own business. An occasional burst of drunken laughter rebounded down the tunnel. It seemed even the torch flames shivered.
Here! She had reached Damon's door. Her fingers clenched on the latch and squeezed. It was locked— no, only stuck, for the door moved slightly when she put her shoulder to it.
Someone was coming.
A man and a woman appeared at the end of the hall, holding each other close. Their coy laughter carried, and she knew that she had to disappear now. In desperation, Solange heaved at the door with all her might. It opened. She fell inside, then whirled and shut it just as the couple passed.
They walked on down the hall, his low tones mingling with her giggles until they could be heard no more.
Solange leaned her head against the wooden planking, breathing heavily from an equal combination of exertion and fear.
After a moment she turned, taking in the details of the room, noting the low fire, the simple arrangement of Damon's few belongings scattered neatly throughout. The familiar goodness of the surroundings began to seep into her system, calming her.
Damon kept his room deliberately spartan. There were, for example, none of the plush luxuries that decorated her own, like the sumptuous curtains and tapestries, the polished oak bed frame, the numerous carpets she loved with colors so deep and vibrant they seemed to eat up the chill from the stones beneath them.
No, nothing very much like that here, although he could have had those things if he so desired. But Damon preferred his surroundings more stark. Even so, Solange could appreciate the easy harmony of it. And there were a few drops of whimsy here and there.
Here, on the table by the window where he liked to study, was a collection of colorful stones laid out in a straight line from one end of the tabletop to the other. Solange recognized each one of them, since all had been her gifts to him over the years. No two were alike—some crystalline, some fancy colored, striped or spotted, others plainer, yet all contained a beauty she had been compelled to share with him. He had received each one as a solemn treasure, always discussing the merits of each as she found them.
He kept them by the window, he told her, because when the sun laid across them they lit up his room like a symphony of nature.
There, by his pillow, was the linen handkerchief she had embroidered for him with his name over a year before. In honesty, Solange thought it a pitiful example of needlework, but at the time she had been proud enough to present it to him. It was almost embarrassing to look at now, the sloppy stitches, the uneven lines. Yet he kept it always by his pillow.
And here, on a group of sturdy tables placed against the far wall, was his vast collection of herbs, all neatly jarred or kept from the light in leather pouches. There were well over two hundred of them, a botanical array that added the spirit of decoration to his chambers, if not the intent.
Propped up outside each container was a stiff piece of vellum folded in half, naming the leaf or flower or root within. She had labored over the labels for weeks, writing both the Latin and English names, attempting careful little drawings on the edges to illustrate each herb.
She noticed absently how faded the ink had gotten. She must see about starting some new ones for him.
The dwindling fire drew her to crouch by the hearth. She was sweating and shivering all at once, holding her hands out to absorb what she could from the sullen flames. But the shaking would not leave her body.
Solange stared blankly ahead, seeing not the cherry glow before her, but the empty, colorless eyes of the earl. Her father's words reverberated all around her, announcing her marriage to this person . . . her marriage . . .
You will become the wife of Redmond . . .
And the earl's chilling smile, his quiet voice: You will be there . . . I promise . . .
Her teeth began to chatter convulsively, but she didn't notice.
The door to the chamber slammed open, hitting the wall with a startling crack! Damon strode into the room still wearing his riding cape, rage apparent in every step. He kicked the door shut behind him, not seeing her small form by the fire.
He looked magnificent. Gone was the shadow of his youthful years. Solange saw a man coming toward her, a man with a bitter look she was unaccustomed to seeing on his face.
She stood.
For a moment Damon was dumbfounded. He halted abruptly, simply staring at her, then squinting, attempting to see if she was a trick of his will.
Solange stood awkwardly, as if unsure of her welcome. She was wringing her hands together, something she did only when she was unusually nervous. The slender elegance of her figure was outlined by the firelight.
/> He didn't know what to do, what to think. The news of her engagement to Redmond was being toasted again and again in the great hall, and he had been turned away by the guard at her door when he went to confirm the story with her. His stomach was a sick ache; he couldn't believe she would refuse to see him.
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 tightness 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."
Chapter Three
True 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.
