Shana Abe (23 page)

“Really.”

“But no more so than the men! Why, when I entered a room, the conversations ceased immediately! Crowds parted as I walked through, men and women both held mute in stunned admiration!”

This won him a small, dubious smile from her.

“But, alas, I lost my handsome set of pink in a game of chance,” he continued. “A rigged game! The men at court became so jealous of my clothing—none could match it, you see, this color pink coming from only the rarest of Persian cockleshells, each more costly than the last—that they decided to divest me of my set publicly and permanently. They plied me with wine, wom—er, wine, and befuddled me so that I had no possibility of winning against their wicked plot. When I was out of coin, they would take nothing else but the hat, cape, and doublet. And that was that.”

Solange was intrigued in spite of herself. “Did you not attempt to win them back?”

“Oh, yes! Naturally! But they would hear nothing of it, my lady! Those villains burned my outfit that very eve! I was devastated!”

“It was a merciful plan from heaven itself, the night we burned those hideous clothes,” injected Aiden. He had dropped back to listen to the tale and monitor the lady’s response. “You should have thanked us for sparing you the embarrassment of wearing such foolish things. ’Twas a merry bonfire we had in the courtyard that night!”

“You see, my lady,” said Godwin mournfully, “how the scoundrel still does not repent his sin against me. A shameful state, indeed.”

“You burned his clothes?” Solange asked Aiden.

“Aye, all of us. But it was my plan.”

“It was
my
plan, Aiden Gerard!” Robert looked indignant. “The rest of you just helped me out with it!”

“Ho! And who decided to get Godwin drunk that night?”

“Well then, who rounded up that tavern wench with the red hair and the magnificent pair of—”

“Gentlemen!” Damon had heard enough. “Suffice it to say it was a mutual effort. Do not attempt to bore my lady with the details.”

“Oh, no, my lord. I am not bored. Pray, do continue, sir,” she said sweetly to Robert. “The tavern wench had a magnificent pair of what?”

Robert blushed to the roots of his pale hair. Aiden snickered audibly. Even Braeden looked abashed.

“Of teeth, my lady,” answered Godwin. “She had two perfectly formed, white teeth, right in front, here. She was actually quite famous for them. They were so
magnificent that one barely even noticed the absence of the rest.”

Solange gave a knowing smile. “How unusual. I would enjoy meeting a woman like that.”

“As entertaining as that would be, I’m afraid the lass lives in London. It would be a far way to go from here.”

There was no mistaking the twinkle in Solange’s eye. “What a pity. But someday, perhaps, I shall go to court and find this unique woman. Shall I tell her you sent me, good sir?”

“Not if you wish to get past her door!” laughed Aiden. The others joined in.

The rest of the day passed with the same casual, easy banter that marked the familiarity of old friends. Solange spoke little but listened closely, happy to learn whatever she could of Damon and the life he had lived these past few years, summing up what she could of the circle of men around her.

Damon had chosen unusually loyal men, she surmised. From the good-natured teasing passed around, she would have thought them more friends to him than servants. Although he laughed and joked with them, it was clear he was the leader of the group, and the others always deferred to his judgment. He radiated power; it was far more than the pure muscular strength of him, more than the image of the handsome, black-haired knight on his stallion. His power stemmed from an inner confidence, Solange thought. From the top of his hat down to his spurs he appeared to be a man of action, a man accustomed to leadership.

And he was taking nothing for granted. He kept his
unfathomable eyes pinned to the horizon, or making quick sweeps of the surroundings as they passed through each knoll, each valley. His men, she noticed, did the same, following his cues. It was the extreme opposite of Redmond’s relationship with his men. They had respected him only as far as they feared him, and emulated him only to flatter him. It was a pattern she had seen again and again. Thank God she would never hear another fawning word spoken of the earl. She doubted she would be able to keep her silence in the face of such insincerity again.

As night fell, they camped at the base of a small hill, the men unpacking their steeds with rapid efficiency. Solange kept her distance by making up a bed near Iolande, politely refusing an offer of extra furs from both Godwin and Aiden. She wrapped her cloak around her and fell asleep almost immediately.

Damon kept up a desultory conversation with Godwin on the status of Wolfhaven after the others retired, occasionally poking a stick into the fire to send sparks flying up into the velvet sky.

“Why don’t you just bring her closer?” asked Godwin bluntly after watching Damon’s eyes linger worriedly on the sleeping form of Solange for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “It must be cold over there anyway.”

“She won’t like it,” Damon muttered.

“She won’t wake up,” countered the steward.

Another shower of sparks flew into the night. With an air of resolution Damon tossed the stick into the fire and strode over to Solange. She was curled up into a tight ball, one arm tucked under her head as a pillow.

She had kept her hat on under the hood.

Carefully he knelt and scooped her up in both arms, moving as smoothly as he could so he wouldn’t jar her awake. He had wondered when the hard traveling would finally drain her, and the fact that she didn’t even stir in his arms confirmed his fears. All she did was give a little sigh as her head came to rest against his chest. He carried her back to the fire, then stood uncertainly, unwilling to let go of her just yet.

“I believe it is time for me to withdraw for the first watch, my lord,” said Godwin in a low voice. “Good night.” He stood up and walked away to the perimeter of the camp.

Damon watched him go, then looked back down at the face of the sleeping woman in his arms. He crossed to his own pallet, made up of the extra furs garnered from his men. He had been going to cover her with them after she fell asleep. Now gently, slowly, he lowered them both onto the pile, nestling her into the warm softness. He would sleep across from her, he decided, close enough to gather warmth from the fire.

But when he tried to remove his arms from her, she whimpered and frowned fretfully, still fast asleep. When he tried again, she had the same reaction. He had no choice, he told himself. She obviously needed to rest, and if she awoke now, she might be too disturbed to fall back easily into slumber. It really was for her own good, Damon thought as he lay beside her. She would rather freeze from her own stubbornness than admit weakness, he knew. He had to protect her from herself.

He lay on his side, facing her, her backside pressed
against him. His arm against the ground cushioned her head while the other drew the furs over them both, then curled around her waist. Solange took the arm holding her and wrapped her own around it, hugging it to her chest. She let out another sigh, and this one sounded like contentment.

Right now, for this stolen moment, he knew how she felt.

S
olange awoke in a different place from where she fell asleep. And although she woke up covered in furs, she had a distinct impression that something was lacking, something she couldn’t quite articulate. She presumed she had been moved closer to the fire at some point during the night, and she couldn’t help but be grateful, since the nights were growing colder and colder. Still, it was odd. Something was missing, but she had no idea what.

It was early yet. Dawn broke with rising color to the eastern horizon, already tipping the treetops with rosy gold. Thrushes were trilling off in the forest, announcing the new day.

Solange sat up, stretching. All the men were off a good distance, sitting on a fallen log, talking in low voices, and sharing a breakfast of hard biscuits. Damon rose and came over to her when he saw she was awake. His hair hung loose in smooth waves, setting off the tan of his face in a way that left her curiously short of breath, reminding her abruptly of that moment in Calais
when he rubbed her hands. He seemed to search her eyes for something, a line of worry creasing his brow.

Wordlessly he handed her a biscuit. She accepted it, thanking him. He hesitated, then asked, “How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you,” she replied cordially. The morning air left puffs of frost hanging between them.

He frowned, then turned on his heel and went back to the others.

What a mystery the man was. She had thought from the kiss they shared yesterday that perhaps he did feel something for her, after all, but then with the change of a few hours he was back to treating her like a barely tolerated stranger. She could not make it out. Well, she refused to dwell on it. Never mind that the kiss had been one of the most amazing things she had ever experienced. Never mind that she thought she might have died in perfect bliss right then.

She would pay it no mind, because Damon obviously didn’t. Her heart hurt just a little at that, but she concentrated on getting ready to ride.

Solange devoured the stale chunk of bread while checking on Iolande, then rushed through her morning ablutions, wanting to be ready to go as soon as possible.

It didn’t take more than two days for her to realize they were headed in the wrong direction.

She had planned this journey long enough to realize the problem was subtle but persistent. To be certain, she checked the path of stars repeatedly, and compared them to both the sun and the direction they were traveling. They weren’t much off the proper route, but it
would be significant enough to make them miss Ironstag entirely by miles. Should she say something? It seemed peculiar that none of the men, seasoned soldiers, she presumed, had noticed. Solange was slightly shocked to think that she would be the only one who knew how to navigate.

Perhaps they were caught up in the worry of watching out for the enemy. She hoped that was it.

To make matters worse, the weather was about to change. That old familiar smell was back, as well as the numbness in the tips of her fingers. Snow was coming. She decided they couldn’t afford to waste time meandering simply because she had to placate masculine pride. They had to reach sanctuary very soon. She would speak to Damon privately, and let him set the correct course.

That evening after a meal of roasted pheasant, Solange approached him instead of bedding down immediately, as was her habit. He was alone, off staring at the stars while his men argued cheerfully over the last hen.

“May I have a word with you, my lord?”

She glided silently into his view, the witch’s element in her alive again. Starlight gilded her hair silver, lit her cheekbones, glistened on her lips. He found it painful to meet her eyes, impossible not to remember her kiss, her body, or that long, innocent night they shared of which she remembered nothing. He didn’t reply to her question, merely nodded his head in acquiescence.

“Damon, I am uncertain of how to say this to you.”

His attention honed in on her with jagged speed. “Yes?”

She tilted her head to look up at him. “I believe we
are headed the wrong way, somewhat too westerly. I didn’t wish to say anything in front of the others, but if we keep going this way, we won’t reach Ironstag in time.”

He fought against the disappointment, telling himself he had no right to expect anything else from her. Certainly nothing personal. Certainly nothing so outrageous as an admission of attraction, or love. Still, he had been expecting this particular conversation from her sooner or later, knowing how observant she was. He would have preferred it to have been later.

“What do you mean, ‘in time’?” he asked, stalling.

“Winter is here. Snow is coming. We’ll want to reach Ironstag before the first of the storms hit, which means we’ll need to ride longer to make up for the lost time. We’ll have about four days before it begins.”

The solution leapt out at him. It was so simple, he wanted to laugh with the discovery of it. He turned away from her to study the stars again. “If what you say is true,” he said finally, “then Wolfhaven is much closer.”

She paused, considering this. “You would take me to Wolfhaven?”

He heard the quiet wonder in her voice, and closed his eyes to hide the relief he felt.
Let it work
, he prayed,
please, Lord, let it work
. “It would seem to be best, don’t you think?”

She said nothing, but turned her head to follow his gaze to a slanted row of three glimmering stars: Orion’s belt. Right now the constellation hung low in the sky, so close that it seemed on top of them, the eternal
hunter returning with each winter season. It was her favorite constellation, had always been. He knew that.

“At Wolfhaven,” said Damon in his peaceful voice, “the spires touch the heavens. It’s easy to believe you can reach out and sweep the stars from the sky into the palm of your hand.”