Shana Abe (31 page)

“Solange! Solange, are you up there?”

The voice was muted, as if it traveled over a long distance, but the worry it carried was distinct. Before she could answer she heard the footsteps running up the stairs and so decided to stay where she was and wait for Damon to come in.

“Here I am,” she called when she heard him reach the top.

“Solange? Good God, what are you doing in here? We’ve been searching for you! Why didn’t you answer our calls?”

“I didn’t hear you,” she replied. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I didn’t think I had been up here that long. I thought you were to be gone for the day?”

Instead of answering her, he shouted down the stairs. “I’ve found her, she’s fine!”

Damon pushed the door open as wide as it would go before a stack of trunks behind it stopped him. It was enough to let him squeeze through the opening.

He looked upset. Seriously upset. She put the lavender down. “Are you well, Damon?”

“Am I well? I have just spent three of the most harrowing hours of my life imagining all sorts of grim endings for you! You were lost outside, you were drowned in the ocean, you had fallen from the turret—”

“Really, my lord, I would never be so clumsy as to fall from a turret. I have had a plethora of experience in climbing them, if you will recall.”

“I did recall! Why the hell do you think I thought of it in the first place?”

She stood. “As you may see, there is no cause for alarm. I have not fallen, or drowned, or been lost at all, except lost in my own thoughts up here.”

He enveloped her in a fierce hug, cutting off her breath and lifting her feet off the floor. “Do not leave again without giving someone word of where you are headed, Solange.”

“But I only—”

“Unless you wish for me to die young from acute distress.”

“Of course not! I just—”

“Promise me.”

He kissed her cheek. His breath warmed her ear, making her smile in spite of herself. “Very well, Damon. I promise.”

“Thank you.” He released her and took a look around the room. “Now, be so good as to tell me how you managed to pick the lock to this place. None of our attempts have met with success.”

“Pick the lock? I didn’t. The door was unlocked.”

His gaze was sharp. “Impossible.”

“I assure you, it is very possible, since it is true.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But there is no key to be found for this door anywhere. It has remained shut up tight since before I took over the estate. Some of the serfs even swear it’s haunted up here.” He gave a short laugh. “Which is why, I suppose, I’ve left it alone for so long. I’d been planning on knocking out the door sooner or later.”

Solange went back to the trunk she had been going through and knelt again. “I’m glad there’s no need for that. Come look what I have found.”

She showed him the miniature. He studied it in silence, then knelt beside her and handed it back. “Where did you find it?”

“Here, underneath these clothes. Damon, this was her trunk! These were your mother’s things, I’m sure of it.”

Once she said the words, she felt better immediately, as if by voicing her thoughts aloud they had come true. She picked up the black bliaut, wanting to show him the wolf embroidered on the shoulder, but he had seen the twigs of lavender and raised one to his nose.

“I remember this,” Damon said slowly. “I remember this smell.”

“Yes,” said Solange. “I remember it too.”

“No, I mean from long ago. From before I came to Ironstag.”

“Ah, well,” she said, “I have discovered it much more recently than that.”

“She loved lavender. She always did.” He seemed
far away, twirling the little stick of dried flowers between his two fingers. Solange sat by quietly, giving him time to capture the memory. His profile was handsomely intent, a purely masculine version of the painted lady’s features. She loved them both, mother and son, and the ache in her heart now was bittersweet. At least he has this, she thought, at least there is this small thing for him. For us, she amended, when she saw the smile he gave her.

“What else is there?” he asked.

The next few hours flew by again, lost in the discovery of scrolls and bits of jewelry, of old saddles and spurs and ragged cloaks. They were forced to leave when even the little candle sputtered in the vase, its glow becoming dimmer in the advancing darkness. Before they left he scooped up the sum of the gowns Solange had discovered, saying, “Why don’t you take these until we can get some new ones made for you? I don’t think she would mind your having them.”

“No,” Solange replied, opening the door for him, “I don’t think she would either.”

I
t was their secret place. She was scrambling away from him, laughing, almost choking on her laughter, while Damon chased her, scolding her
.

She was young, very young, with Damon still a full head taller. He almost caught her but at the last second she danced out of his reach, giggling, waving her fist playfully in front of her face. The green of the grass around them was very rich
.

No, no, said Damon in his stern voice, and she didn’t
understand yet that his anger was real, not play. She hadn’t understood
.

She clutched her prize tighter in her chubby fist, loving this new game. Again she moved it toward her mouth
.

No! cried Damon, leaping for her again, and he had Redmond’s face, and Redmond’s blank eyes, and it was Redmond’s hand reaching out for her, trying to hurt her—

N
o!” cried Solange, waking with a start.

Damon was with her instantly, holding her, murmuring to her in a soothing voice. “ ’Twas only a dream, my sweet.” He wrapped his arms around her and kept her close, stroking the hair off her forehead until she relaxed again. She turned in his arms and lay on her side next to Damon so that she could see his face.

The bed was soft and deep. Eventually his caresses slowed and faltered as he slipped back into sleep. It was not so easy for her.

He liked to keep her in his room at night after they made love, claiming the bed was wider. She hadn’t minded. Her room was close enough for convenience, but she would have been happy beside him wherever he lay his head. He slept heavily these past few days, worn from working from dawn till late in the evening. Yet when she expressed concern he claimed he was content enough as long as he had her to come back to.

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.