Shana Abe (4 page)

She sat back hastily, chewing and staring down at the array of food in front of them. The meat was tasteless in her mouth, dry. A sudden wave of chatter hummed all around her, rising and falling in cadence, settling down to nothing.

The hall was quiet once more, the third time this evening. The third time she had ever heard it this quiet in all her life.

Solange swallowed the meat. In an agony of self-awareness, she looked up again.

The earl was holding a goblet of wine in front of her to drink from.

It was his goblet.

For a long time she simply stared at it. She noticed his hand was tanned but the skin unbroken, unscarred by battle. She noticed the laced cuff of his tunic sleeve was sewn with minute, almost invisible seams. She noticed that his hand did not shake in spite of holding the heavy gold goblet, one of her father’s finer pieces, in front of her face.

Instinctively Solange knew this offering was different
from the last. Eating the meat from his fingers had been suggestive at best, lewd at worst. Drinking from his cup would mean another thing entirely. Something even more intimate. It suggested, to her, that he wanted to command her in some way. To possess her.

She could not do this. She would not. This man, this
stranger
, had no rights to her, and certainly had no right to force her to drink from his hand. Her lower lip began to jut out mutinously, her eyes slanted back and sparkled with resentment.

Henry shifted in his massive chair beside her.

Solange knew if she looked at her father that she was doomed to lose this battle. She kept her eyes on the goblet. Seconds ticked by.

A minute.

Henry moved again. He said her name once.

Her eyes shifted and were captured by the gaze of the earl. She saw intent there, her future meshing and dissolving in the flatness of his irises. She saw that ultimately, her game was futile. He had already taken measure of her spirit and defeated it with his own cunning. The pale eyes held determination, and some admiration for her too. But he would not let her win.

Henry said her name once more. His voice echoed away, falling heavy into the pregnant silence.

Redmond allowed her a little smile that only she could see, a subtle concession. He moved the cup over to her mouth and pressed the cold metal rim against her lips, tilting it up. She could drink, or she could allow the wine to spill down her face.

She opened her mouth and drank.

The crowd cheered wildly. Men pounded their fists
on the tables, ladies tittered in shrill voices. Even the serfs were smiling and chattering as they began to serve the supper again.

Very deliberately Solange wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Redmond laughed out loud, then took the goblet and downed the rest of the contents. He turned to the woman on his right and began to compliment her lavishly on her outfit. The level of noise climbed to a delirious high.

Henry ignored her completely, talking in hushed tones with Lady Margaret, his latest mistress, seated on his other side. Solange was left feeling beaten, confused and utterly alone in an immense room brimming with people.

She was used to feeling alone, except for Damon. She thought perhaps everyone in the fiefdom, from noblemen to serfs, was there to witness her defeat at this game she could not name. Everyone except Damon. At least that was some scrap of comfort to her.

To keep herself from leaping from her chair and running away, Solange concentrated on the image of his face, square-jawed and handsome, wavy black hair brushing his forehead. She imagined he was beside her now, telling her what nonsense it was to care what these people thought of her. Telling her that he loved her and that was all that mattered.

She would go to him tonight, as soon as she could, she decided. She would steal out of her chambers and melt into the shadows until she reached him. Then she would beg his forgiveness for her actions this evening.

Perhaps he would hold her again, just hold her close to him, so that she could feel the strength of his heart
beat beneath her cheek. Perhaps she could convince him to love her as she loved him, not as a sister, not simply as a friend—

The tail end of a sentence containing her name chased randomly through these thoughts.

Solange is eager to start
 …

She frowned, deciphering what she had heard, listening for more.

“… soon, I trust. The weather is uncertain this time of year, as I am sure you are well aware, Ironstag.” Redmond leaned past her, talking to her father. “It would be folly to delay our departure any longer than necessary.”

“I agree. The priest will be here tomorrow morning, according to my messenger. He’s making the trip from Scallypeak even now.”

The blood drained from her head in a sudden rush, and she was gasping for air, unable to speak out.

A traveling priest visited the castle once a year on his annual circle of fiefdoms. During that time he took confessions, baptized babies, married couples, and consecrated whatever dead had accumulated since his last visit.

There was no reason to have a priest come out on a special, and surely expensive, trip to Ironstag.

No reason at all, unless the Marquess of Ironstag wanted him very, very badly.

Solange closed her eyes and then opened them again. Her father was still addressing the earl.

“She’ll go richly prepared, Redmond. Your soldiers had better be ready to defend her dowry.”

Before he could answer, Solange spoke.

“Father? What are you discussing?”

Henry reddened. It was some measure of his ignorance of his daughter’s nature that he felt annoyed with what he thought of as her unusually stubborn behavior this evening. His voice was curt. “We are discussing your marriage, of course. Do not interrupt me again, Solange.”

She ignored that order, growing bolder with her rising panic. “Marriage to whom?”

God help her, she already knew the answer to that. It made all the strangeness of the evening come together with perfect clarity. She kept her face turned to Henry, even as she felt the earl beside her cover her hand with his own.

“Why, to me, angel. It’s why I’ve come.”

His low, melodious tone reverberated in her ear, echoing again with its peculiar delay. She snatched her hand back, still not facing him, and instead pleaded with her father.

“Marriage? Father, I am not ready for such an honor. I need time to—to prepare myself, to learn the proper lessons to become a wife! I am unworthy, I would surely disgrace the earl if married now!”

There was a pause as her father blinked down at her incredulously, as if seeing her for the very first time.

Redmond spoke softly in his velvet voice, but had overtaken her hand again. He pressed against it heavily. “Is that a threat, Solange?”

“No.” She shook her head at him, trying futilely to escape his grip. “Not a threat, sir, a fact!”

Henry scowled. “Enough, child! You have had a full sixteen years to learn the ways to become a proper
wife. Your maidenly
modesty
”—his emphasis on the word said clearly he doubted it was such—“is becoming, but this course has been planned and laid for many months now. You will become the wife of Redmond. He is a nobleman of excellent stock, equal to our own. His lands march along with mine for a good long border before splitting off. Our families will be united, as will our armies.” Her father considered her thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head.

“You should be grateful I have done so well for you, daughter. You will be the mistress of your own castle, and several smaller manors. Your sons will inherit a great combined estate.”

A tight band of pressure across her chest was making it difficult for her to breathe, impossible to think. She had to leave, she had to find Damon. He would right things for her. He always did. She could not outwit the two of them by herself.

“I must go—” She began to rise from the table.

The earl pulled her back down beside him with a grip of steel at her elbow. He was smiling at her gently as he crushed the flesh at the tender crease of her arm. Haltingly she obeyed him, furious at his show of force, more furious at her inability to stop him.

“Solange,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

He waited, then took his other hand to physically turn her face to his. He was careful not to bruise her cheeks.

Solange met his eyes reluctantly, keeping her chin tucked down. The curious sense of light-headedness enveloped her again, the haze of him now surrounding
them both. The earl gave her a wide, attractive smile. He had large teeth.

“An angel so lovely should not spoil her looks with disagreeable tempers. It is neither becoming, nor wise. You are a true beauty, Solange. You may depend upon me to see to it that you are always thus.” The grip on her cheeks became a caress. “You will see me tomorrow morning bright and fair, as a blushing bride is always eager to meet her husband.”

Once more it seemed to her that his eyes had no color, no life of their own, yet they held her spellbound, drew her into their bottomless depths.

“You will be there, Solange. I promise it.”

His thumb traced the outline of her lower lip in a terrible parody of the loving stroke Damon had given her earlier. Redmond leaned down toward her, his fingers now framing her mouth.

She pulled away, shaking her head. “You go too fast, my lord.” Her cheeks flared bright red, not with embarrassment, but anger. She gestured mutely to the attentive crowd below them.

The earl followed the wave of her hand, then sighed. “Perhaps you are right. We will save the fastness, then, for another time.”

She stood quickly, before either man could think of something else to stay her. “I would retire early, Father.”

Henry stared at her, then at the earl. His face was inscrutable. “Go, then. Tomorrow will be busy enough.”

She dipped a careless curtsy in the general direction of them both, then fled the great hall. The earl
watched her slender form silently, noting the naturally graceful sway of her hips, the proud set of her shoulders.

“She will be there,” he said again quietly.

“Aye,” said her father.

S
he could not get warm. The fire had died in her chambers while she was gone, leaving only smoldering embers in the bed of the fireplace. None of the servants would come to relight it, since they were all busy downstairs helping with the feast.

Not that she wanted them there anyway. Her primary concern, the thought that kept her chilled feet moving, was getting to Damon.

Solange stripped off her confining clothes as quickly as she could, tossing the belt and garments in a tangle on the covers and furs of her feather bed. From the bottom of a huge leather clothing trunk she pulled a pair of thick woolen stockings and a large tunic, followed by a pair of soft-soled leather boots. All were dyed to muted, dark colors.

These were her prowling clothes. Damon knew her penchant for stargazing from odd locations, and had presented them to her the previous spring when he discovered she was tying her skirts up past her knees for ease of movement whenever she sneaked out.

He told her he had been haunted by visions of her
being discovered that way by a guardsman, or worse, the cumbersome skirts making her lose her footing on any of the narrow ledges or trees she liked to crawl about. He had given her the clothes one night as she came to visit, cautioning her to always wear them instead of her usual feminine garments when she wanted to venture out unnoticed.

Solange had been completely delighted. The men’s clothing had freed her in a way she had never imagined. Her entire life she had worn only the finest of garments, but they were still the heavy skirts, the tight oversleeves, the multiple layers of cloth on cloth common to noblewomen. Her gowns were designed for fashion and modesty, not comfort.

Now she shivered into the men’s clothing as quickly as she could. The tunic settled over her shoulders in a cloud of soft cotton. She added a dark brown woolen vest from the trunk for warmth. A cape might be too noticeable, and certainly too much material to worry about. The boots came on last, hugging her legs up past her knees.

The window by the bower had been left open, and now a chilled breeze circled her, wafting through the silver wedge of moonlight slanting across a patterned Turkish rug on the floor.

It was a clear night. But the weather could shift in a heartbeat. The following day could bring rain or snow, or perhaps the last of the fair days of early winter. But of all things, it absolutely could not be her wedding day.

She didn’t bother to stuff a pillow under the covers of her bed to substitute for her sleeping form as she
usually did. Haste made her impatient, and so she was almost discovered by the grumbling guard outside her room before she discovered him.

She backed away from the entrance as quickly as she could, holding her breath. Lord, she hadn’t even been careful in opening the heavy wooden door. The sheer weight of it necessitated her inching it open, which is what saved her.

Solange pushed the oak door shut again, praying the hinges would not choose just then to let out a squeak for oiling. The door swung closed with an almost silent click.