Shana Abe (14 page)

“You actually think you can make it back to England on your own, don’t you?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “Of all the idiotic notions you’ve ever come up with, this is the zenith.”

“I require neither your approval nor your censure, my lord. I am not interested in your opinion of my wits. I have a long trip ahead of me. I’ll thank you to leave me in peace and let me go on my way.”

“There are thieves, Solange! Hordes of men cut loose from the wars, scattered about with no homes
and no loyalties. They prey on travelers far more seasoned than you! What do you think would happen to you if you were captured by one of their gangs?”

“They will not catch me.”

“As simple as that, is it? Well, if you do make it to the docks alive, just how were you going to cross the channel? No one but scoundrels and rogues would take your money for passage.”

“If you really must know, I am going to disguise myself. As a boy. If they won’t take my gold, I will work for my passage.”

He uttered a short laugh of disbelief.

“You really have no concept of the world out there, do you?” Damon took in her long lashes, her soft mouth. “They’ll take your gold, all right, and your body as well. It will please them mightily to have such a pretty hostage, boy or woman.”

“I will come up with some other strategy, then! I will think on it on the way there.”

“And winter will arrive before you can make it back to Ironstag. How do you plan to survive the storms? Don’t you remember how sudden and fierce the snowstorms would rise and take over everything in their paths? Don’t you remember all the good lives lost to them each winter?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I remember.”

“Then God in heaven, woman, what are you thinking? The chances of you reaching Ironstag alive are as good as none! You would risk your life for this adventure of yours? Is your frivolity so great?”

“Damon Wolf, I will say this to you only once more. I have to go. The reason I have to go is simply
that I cannot stay. I
will
not stay.” Her voice rose in pitch, and the mare took a fretful step sideways. Solange patted her neck and continued. “There are no ties to bind me here any longer. I am a free woman and have the right to travel as I see fit.”

“If that’s so, why not travel with a contingent of the earl’s men to protect you? Why this need for veiled exits and secrecy?”

“What concern is it of yours?” she burst out. “Leave me in peace, I pray you! I wish no ill upon you, but leave me in peace!”

“Would that I could,” replied Damon grimly. “But I fear your flight of fancy has already rendered us quite unpopular with your people back at the estate, who will be stirring soon, no doubt. I cannot return there without you. Let someone else explain that their mistress has taken it in her head to run away.”

She stroked the mane of her horse, running her fingers through the coarse dark hair. She spoke down to her hands. “So, my lord, are you saying you will accompany me?”

“Aye, I will, though it goes against all my good sense. God protect us, woman, from the repercussions of this deed.”

“I do not rely on God to protect me any longer,” she replied. “I will protect myself.”

S
he had a tent rolled up in one of the packs on her horse, a heavy green cloth that she insisted would blend in with the foliage of the landscape.

“It’s too awkward,” Damon said, dismissing the bundle without a glance.

The late afternoon sun shone down with little warmth through the canopy of the forest top, creating a patchwork of shifting shadows for the travelers. They had clung to the woods as much as possible, not wanting to be noticed on any of the main roads or empty fields. This made their progress much slower than Damon thought it should be, and that irritated him. They had been riding for hours, to him it now seemed like days, and he could not keep his eyes open any longer.

If it weren’t for her, he would have gained a full night’s rest before beginning his trip home.

Hell, if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have had to make the trip in the first place.

They had agreed to stop and rest until nightfall in the heart of an oak wood, with nothing around but trees and brush. Even the sky was missing, hidden behind the tangle of branches above them.

Solange waded over to him through the thick covering of leaves on the ground, waving the tent cloth in the air.

“It is necessary,” she insisted, “for protection against discovery.”

“And what will prevent your mount from being discovered? Did you bring a tent for her too?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Without her unsettling gaze Damon let his guard down for an instant to admire her beauty, even through his exhaustion. Her slight form was set off by the melted mix of scarlet, gold, and green leaves around her. Even in a shapeless cloak and with circles under her eyes, she
was undeniably the most attractive woman he had ever seen.

Her eyes snapped open. “Iolande is a good horse. She will make no noise while we rest. She will not move from where I place her.”

“Would that you were so biddable,” he muttered under his breath.

Solange threw the tent down by his feet.

“I had no idea it was going to be so difficult to travel with you,” she exclaimed.

He ignored the wad of cloth and walked over to Tarrant, loosening the girth and removing the saddle with a grunt. The great stallion stood patiently, allowing Damon to remove the bridle as well.

“Use your head, Countess. I am assuming that one of your priorities right now is to make haste, with as much secrecy as possible, correct?”

She gave him a little frown. “Correct.”

“Supposing, then, while we are dozing in your fair tent, a meandering group of pilgrims comes our way. Or better yet, a parcel of your dead husband’s men, looking for us. What then? Will we ask them nicely to wait for us to escape from the folds of your tent before mounting up and riding away?”

“Why, I—”

“You’re going to have to trust me on this, Solange. We will sleep in the leaves, with leaves for covering. I am going to hope your mare is as well trained as you indicate, for our horses will be the only things that may call attention to us.”

“Is yours?” she asked a little defiantly, hands on hips.

Damon shrugged. “Tarrant is a warhorse of the finest stock. He has kept me alive through too many battles to remember. He is trained to my specifications, and follows what I order.”

She walked over to the stallion before he could warn her to stay away and cupped his chin in her palm. She said nothing, only stared into his liquid eyes for a long while. Tarrant didn’t move, locked to her eyes. He allowed the caress with calm patience.

Damon swallowed the protest on his lips. The stallion was trained to kill strangers. He had seen pages and squires literally shake with fear at having to handle him. He had personally attended to at least two lost fingers from men acting too hastily around Tarrant’s mouth, dammit, and here was Solange casting her strange charm over his horse. His horse! Was there nothing she could not tame with her touch?

It infuriated him so much that he had to look away from the scene before him. He scuffed his feet in the leaves.

“He is devoted to you.” Solange gently released his muzzle. “What does his name mean?”

“Thunder,” responded Damon gruffly. He was gathering a bed of leaves together, bent over with his back to her. “Thunder. It’s all I heard back then.”

The cry of battle was always lost to him, lost in the pounding of the hooves and of his own heart. With every gallop forward he had focused more and more on the sound of it, the combined deafening power of it. It drowned out the fear in him, it hammered over the revulsion he felt at lifting his arm against another human being.

He had lived in the thunder because it was what he had to do. His lands depended upon it. His men depended upon it. His king depended upon it. And the thunder took his weaker feelings and drowned them, let him live in the rhythm of battle, let him survive again and again when those around him had long ago fallen.

The thunder had even obscured the image of Solange at the time, which was his saving grace. Nothing before or since then had shown that power. Only battle, only death and destruction took him away from her. So many times he had been afraid it would poison his soul, this path he had chosen. But it was too late to worry. If he became blind to pain, so much the better.

“Thunder,” said Solange. “A fine name, I think.”

“I do not care,” he ground out, “what you think. Attend to your horse so that we may rest.”

She said nothing to his brutal tone but instead went over quietly and began to unsaddle her mare.

Damon’s hands were clenched into fists; he made a conscious effort to release them. He did not want that thunder now, not now. He sought to distract himself with a question to her.

“What happened to your other mare, the one that left Ironstag with you? What happened to Gytha?”

He sensed rather than saw her careful tensing.

“She was put down,” she said after a pause.

“Why? What was wrong with her? She was sound enough when she left.”

“She had an accident. She had to be put down.”

Solange pressed her face briefly against the neck of Iolande and tried to breathe soundlessly through her
mouth. She fought to stem the torrent of feeling that swelled at the mention of her previous mount.

Noble Gytha, the only living friend of either man or beast left to her from home. A brave little brown horse, following her from Ironstag to Wellburn and then all the way to France, carrying her faithfully until Redmond came back.

Iolande snorted softly, impatient with her mistress’s slowness in attending to her. Solange bit her lip and then patted her mare on the shoulder. She pulled off the saddle and began to rub the horse with the curry brush she had been certain to pack. She could feel Iolande’s preening pleasure, she had always loved being curried. Solange did it personally whenever possible.

“Good girl,” she murmured. “Thou art such a lovely girl.”

The mare nodded her agreement.

Damon shook his head and wondered why he should be at all amazed at the scene. Even now, as a fugitive, when she should be half out of her mind with either fear or grief, Solange calmly talked to animals as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps she
was
a witch, as it was always rumored. He wouldn’t be surprised.

But no. She turned a careful glance to him over her shoulder as she moved around the horse, a shy look from her dark eyes, her braid unraveling down her back; he could see that she was just a woman. A woman no different from any other.

It still pained a part of him to think this, so he deliberately did it again. She was an ordinary woman, a fair one, no doubt, but as mortal as he, and as full of folly.

He had seen dozens of women just like her since he had broken away from Ironstag. Hundreds. And what was so fair about her anyway?

Since she had abandoned him, he had found a bounty of English roses: women with eyes the color of the summer sky, or greener than mountain lakes, women with hair brighter than gold, brown as a fawn, or burnished like copper. Tall or short, thin or plump, the most celebrated beauties of the land had all flocked to him at Edward’s court, had sought him out and flattered him, invited him to their beds with the most blatant advances. They had wanted him, those court beauties known for their fickle ways and exquisite tastes.

None of them talked to animals, he wagered.

None of them had been Solange.

She was humming now as she finished brushing her horse, a simple tune he recognized from childhood. She seemed buoyant, almost cheerful, in spite of the odd circumstances. Damon honestly didn’t know what to make of it.

The humming stopped. “Shall we take turns at a watch? Do you think it necessary?”

“No. If aught approaches, Tarrant will warn me.”

“Of course,” she said, giving the stallion an approving look.

Damon busied himself with settling into the bed of leaves he had formed for himself. Solange gave her mare whispered instructions. He could have sworn he saw the animal wink at him. He rolled to his side, throwing more of the dry leaves on top of him, deciding he would just ignore her. He was certain that after
he had gotten some sleep, the world would seem a much clearer place and he would be better able to make some sense of it. He simply needed sleep.

Solange came over to her leafy bed not far from his. She could see his features hardened in a deliberate attempt to shut her out. She lowered herself into the pile, nestling into it. The leaves were softer than she had imagined they would be and smelled wonderful. What a delightful way to retire, she thought. What a pity it could not be done all the time.

With her head resting in the crook of her arm, Solange stared at her rescuer, for that was how she saw him, bitter looks or no. She kept her breathing slow and even and was rewarded with the eventual relaxation of his face.

First his jaw unclenched. Then the furrow between his eyes smoothed away. Finally he slipped into complete slumber, a heavy doze. A single curling lock of ebony graced his forehead. He must have been quite tired, she thought. She hoped that might also account for at least some of his bad mood. How she longed to see his smile again.