by Shana Abe
Tonight he had loved her with the fervent, almost violent passion that had become his hallmark lately. No matter how late he came to their bed, no matter how hard he had worked that day, he would kiss away her worries for him, kiss her until she had no choice but to respond to him.
He could not let a day pass, he said, without making love to his wife. It would be a grievous sin, he was positive.
So he always joined her in the bed, else playfully captured her and dragged her over to cover her with himself. His intensity soon erased any playfulness, however; she couldn't help but be a little awed that such a man would worship her body with his own in this manner.
He claimed her as his own again and again, holding her, stroking her, bringing them both to the height of passion so many times, she felt as if she might die from the pleasure of it all. This was Damon, the lover of her dreams, who had shattered those inexperienced musings with the power of his actuality. He had proven to be so far beyond her initial comprehension. He had shown her a new universe.
"I love you," Solange breathed, watching him. "I love you, I love you. I have always loved you."
He didn't stir; she had not expected him to. Indeed, her whispered confession had not been intended for him to hear awake. She wasn't ready for that step yet.
But soon. She wouldn't be able to stop herself from declaring it soon; she came closer every day. The only thing that held her back was her husband himself.
She thought he loved her. He acted as if he did most of the time. He showed her a courtesy that was reserved only for her. His actions toward her publicly had been nothing but kind and chivalrous, sparking lively gossip from the other occupants of the castle, she knew. Here was the dreaded Wolf of Lockewood, treating the woman he had been forced to wed with not only mercy, but all showings of consideration!
Her lips curled up at the memory of the disbelieving stares whenever he held her chair for her, or stood when she did, or the way he tended to hold her hand without thought while talking to others.
Not that any of it had taken away from his intimidating reputation as a warrior. Instead, she noticed many of his men began to imitate his manners, showing a marked improvement in the tempers of the castle populace that reached well down into the village. She had overheard one wife remarking to another that she barely recognized her own husband anymore, and hoped his lordship intended to keep up his fine example for the sake of the womenfolk!
There was also that goodly portion of the castle population that had known of her through the legend. In fact, it seemed to Solange that she heard the muted gossip wherever she went now: There she was, the woman who had left their master to despair while she married another, yes, it really was she, and was she so fair as she had been painted? Some said aye, others sniffed disdainfully, still full of offense for the sake of their lord. But whether they approved of her or not, her mere addition to Wolfhaven heaped more reverence upon the story of the Wolf. The marquess must indeed be magic, they whispered, to have lured back the one who left him those many years ago. His powers stretched beyond comprehension, they said.
And she heard the other hushed tales as well, those of the man she had previously been with. Black stories laced with bloodshed and wickedness that followed her down the halls of her new home, constantly at her heels, it seemed. It was a wonder to her that such gossip could be told at all, for she felt the same unpleasant chill creeping over her skin whenever she heard the name of Redmond as the speaker did who told of it. Who would wish to rekindle such a presence here, under the protection of their lord? It seemed she must reconcile herself with the knowledge that the shadow of her former life would ever cling to her, no matter how much she wished it gone.
She could live with that, Solange decided. For casting that shadow was the bright sun of her true love, and, after all, who could have light without darkness?
As far as she could tell, Damon had ignored all the rumors, and she had tried to emulate him. But privately she agreed with his admiring people. Yes, Damon was magical. She discovered a little more of this every day she was with him.
He was a fine, noble, amazing man, a man filled with light and goodness, which made the darkness in him all the more noticeable to her.
And it could be very dark, indeed. Often he avoided her company when these moods struck. She tried not to be hurt when he left her abruptly, or lingered over some work that could have waited until later.
Solange saw past his tightened face and the anger in his eyes to the pain that was the root of it all. It was no consolation to her that the root seemed to be a perfect image of herself.
She knew she was not perfect and had never been. This particular darkness stemmed, she perceived, from the fantasy image of a life that never was. If they had actually married those nine years ago, if they had actually defied her father and Redmond, where would they be today?
What if he had stayed with her a little longer in her room before the wedding, what if he had kissed her just once more? Would she have been able to resist him? Would she have found the strength to send him away? Would they have run away together to find their own happiness and not endured nine years of separation that had threatened to consume them both?
Would Wolfhaven have been theirs sooner? Would the land have been more settled, the people more at peace?
Would they have a family now?
What if there were no scars on her body, and there were no secrets to her past? It was a siren's song, pondering those thoughts, a deceptively harmless fantasy that was not harmless at all.
She knew this darkness because there were times— not often, no, she fought to ignore the seductive lure—but definitely times when it tantalized her.
What if, what if... It was the magic phrase that was no friend to her, yet plagued her relentlessly in her husband's eyes.
It was ironically amusing that her worst enemy seemed to be a ghost Damon had created of her true self. He would not let go of that other Solange, no matter how false. She could see him struggle not to let go of it. He didn't care how much it hurt him. He was torturing himself with different endings to their story because it was a cover for what truly hurt him. She could guess what that was, but was still helpless to stop it.
Guilt was a powerful emotion, she found.
The darkness in Damon was an unpredictable thing, arriving without warning, vanquishing his charm and any apparent good humor with a blistering heat. She would even swear she could feel it come over him as a change in the air, much like she could feel the weather's shifting moods.
Oh, she knew well enough now which subjects to avoid. Anything about the past could set him off, so she took care to answer his questions indifferently, as if it no longer mattered to her. She never brought up the topic herself. It was a constant struggle to balance the darkness with light, but she would not stop trying.
And always, always she endeavored to cover her arms and her legs from him as unobtrusively as possible.
In the depths of his self-torturing he became incapable of helping her fight her own demons. Perhaps this made her stronger, having to deal with it alone, she didn't know.
But she did know a part of her would have liked to share it with him: the humiliation, the betrayals, the emotional pain that dwarfed whatever physical pain she might have had. Part of her wanted relief from that past, but the only relief she could rely upon was the passage of time. Someday, she hoped, someday she would look upon it all with nothing more than gratitude that she was no longer in that place.
And then, perhaps, time would heal Damon as well.
But as for now, she was alone in this battle with her past choices. At the same time, she didn't feel she could afford to leave Damon alone with his. It made her more guarded than she liked with him. It made her think of old times when she had felt as free as a sprite around him, had trusted him with everything about herself up until that very last day.
Nothing stays the same, Solange thought firmly. Change is goo
d. I will make it be good.
In his sleep Damon sighed and rubbed his chin.
I love you, she thought again, and then closed her own eyes.
Chapter Twelve
The hart seemed suspended between the mist and the water. It was a large buck, handsome and ruddy, with a full rack of antlers and very calm eyes.
It was looking right at her.
A rosy line of sunlight was slipping up the pond, illuminating the depths to a mossy green glow. The sun was rising fast and the hart was about to vanish into the woods.
"Go on," she said softly, "I won't tell them you were here."
With a sudden brilliance the hart leapt from the edge of the pond, where he had been standing to drink, leaving a shimmering arc of water behind him as the only reminder that he had been there at all.
Solange watched the arc fall back into its element, creating ring upon ring on the surface of the water. The sunlight picked out the ripples in a glittering celebration.
She had ridden ahead again, something she absolutely was not supposed to do, but Iolande was impatient for a run and simple human logic could not convince her mount to wait for the plodding pace of Godwin and the rest. The monastery was not that far, after all, and what harm could come of her traveling around a bend a few minutes before the others? She always reined in and waited for them before she got too far.
Even riding sidesaddle she could outpace them. That had been the first long and serious argument between her and her husband. She wanted to ride astride all the time, but Damon finally had to insist she use the proper form when in anyone else's company. His argument was that she had an obligation to set an example for the other noblewomen, but his real reason was that she looked just too damn alluring riding astride. It was shocking and provocative all at once, and there was no way in hell he was going to allow any of his men to see his wife in that position again.
Solange grimaced, adjusting her leg around the horn of the saddle for comfort. The reason for the slow pace of the others was the long, flat farm cart being pulled by a team of plow horses. The road from Wolfhaven to the monastery was fairly well traveled by now, but there were plenty of ruts and ditches along the way. She didn't expect the team of horses to work harder to keep up with her. She merely wanted to let Iolande have her head for a brief stretch at a time.
"My lady, whatever it is I have done to so offend you, please allow me to offer my most sincere and abject apologies."
Solange turned laughing eyes to Godwin, who had just ridden up behind her on his own mount. "Why, sir steward, you have done naught to offend me, as you must know."
"Indeed? Then, alas, I must conclude my lady has a black heart with no just cause, to wish me dead at the prime of my youth."
"It was only a little gallop, Godwin."
"Your husband has expressly charged me with your welfare on this trip, as you know, Marchioness. I doubt very much he would be so blithe if he knew you did your best to leave the rest of us behind at every opportunity."
"Then I do owe you an apology. I have no wish to bring trouble upon your head."
"It is not my head I am so worried about. It is my neck."
"I shall ride with the rest of you, Godwin."
"Thank you. I was so looking forward to living another day, you see."
It was turning out to be relatively warm, considering the past week had been frosty with snow. Iolande was not the only creature among them who was heartened by the unexpected temperature. All the horses picked up their feet a little higher, and the rest of the men were trading jokes and stories back and forth in glad voices.
It was a good day for a ride, and conveniently timed. Damon's herbal supply was in sore need of restocking after the autumn and winter of early colds and maladies that had swept through Wolfhaven. He had established a small trade relationship with the monks, who agreed to grow some of the more essential herbs he needed in addition to their own in exchange for gold.
Damon had ridden ahead of them all in order to prepare the monks for their arrival. The head abbot, Father Ignatius, was a cantankerous old fellow, he had explained to her, who would not deal with anyone but him and never took kindly to unannounced visits. He also flatly refused to read missives, Damon continued with a wry smile, and was known to turn back his party at the gate for any number of reasons, from protests over the color of their horses to disagreements over Scripture. His favorite method, however, always involved quizzes about angels.
"Once he denied Aiden entry because he could not answer the question of which angel governs fruits and vegetables."
"Is this the same monastery that sent over the priest to marry us?" she asked.
"Aye. Father Ignatius was taken to bed that day, thank God."
The monastery was smaller than the other ones she had seen, but had the same solid stone wall surrounding it as was usual, with a coarse wooden gate that was heavily barricaded. It swung open readily enough, however, when their group arrived and announced themselves.
Damon was there to greet them. He immediately walked over to Solange to help her off her horse, and gave her a resounding kiss. There was a chorus of disapproving sounds from the string of monks standing behind him. Damon smiled against her lips, and then released her.
"My lady," he said, taming them both around to the monks, "allow me to introduce to you the good friars of the Most Holy Grounds of Lockewood. Brothers, my lady wife, the Marchioness of Lockewood."
Solange sank into a graceful curtsy. The monks nodded, and one came forward nervously. "My lord, Father Ignatius said to load up your cart as quickly as we could manage. May we begin?"
"Aye. All is ready. My men will assist you."
Everyone but Solange had done this before, and the mass of monks and soldiers moved off as a group to a separate stone structure from the main building. Damon took her arm.
"Would you like to see some of the grounds?"
"Is it all right?"
"I don't think anyone will stop us if we just walk outside. I've already inspected the crops, so all they need to do is load them. Godwin knows what to do for the herbs, he's been with me every time I come here. It won't take long."
The monastic grounds were plain in the wintertime, but the inner fields still held many signs of cultivation. Narrow wooden stakes dotted one plot with the nubs of the pruned vines still visible. All the plots were neatly plowed, if empty, and were scattered randomly among the buildings making up the order.
"There doesn't seem to be an abundance of space for the crops," Solange observed as they stepped around another tiny square of land jammed up against a wall.
"No. The order here is very small, and so was the space allotted to them. It's a difficulty for us. I was fortunate enough to be able to negotiate a deal with the Father for what little we can obtain here."
"Really?" A hare scampered across one of the brown fields, a silver streak diving into a burrow.
"Although the monks could use more land, what the church wants is more gold. That's why they were willing to talk to me at all."
"You pay them in coin?"
"Aye. It's the best of a bad bargain for us. For all the wealth Wolfhaven represents, we're almost always poor for gold. Edward's tax for Ironstag has effectively depleted us, at least until the next wool shearing, or harvest."
"Here now! Here now, you young impudents! What do you think you're doing over here?"
Coming toward them on an angled trail was a bent old man in a monk's habit, waving his fist in the air.
"Father Ignatius," Damon greeted him. "How delightful to see you once more. May I introduce you to the marchioness? My lady, our good Father."
The friar came up to them with a belligerent air. "So, this is she, eh? Well, that gives you no leave to go tramping about my grounds! Uncivilized heathens! Tell me this, Marchioness, tell me who is the Angel of Destiny, eh?"
Damon began to speak, but Solange cut him off. "I believe that would be Oriel, Father."
>
"Eh? Oriel? Well. Ahem. Very well, get on with you, then. I don't have all day to be talking to the likes of you! On with you!"
"Good day to you, Father," said Damon cordially. He was smiling as they walked away.
The cart was fully loaded upon their return, with Damon's men standing by. None of the monks were in sight. "It's all here," said Godwin, indicating the piled bushels of dried herbs tied in bunches.
Damon walked over to the cart. "It's less than last year."
"Just so. I inquired, but the monks declared it was all they could spare."
"I know. I had a conversation about it with Father Ignatius." Several of the men rolled their eyes at the name. "He told me the demand for their liquors and spices is rising, so that our humble crops must come second."
"And what question did you have to answer for the pleasure of that conversation, my lord?" asked Robert with a wink to the rest of them.
"'Which hour of the night does the Angel Farris govern?' By the way, it's the second hour, in case it comes up again."
"I've learned more of angels than swordplay, dealing with this place," grumbled Aiden.
"I'm certain our Father would say it's good for your soul, my friend," replied Damon. "And I am not sure that I would disagree. Let's be off."
Damon rode beside her on the way back, pointing out the barren stalks of wild herbs he would harvest in the summer, or a family of quail hiding under some fallen leaves. Solange listened and nodded, but the question that kept nagging her finally had to be voiced.
"Damon, even with what you buy from the monks and what you may find yourself in the wild, you still don't have enough herbs?"
"We don't have enough of the right herbs. Some of the rarer ones, such as anise, I get from traders in the cities. Those I replenish as I need to, usually about once a year. But some of the more common herbs, as you know, are used much more frequently than others. I keep those in a separate room that is better able to hold larger quantities. Even still, I run out very quickly."
