by Shana Abe
Lady Margaret had politely sent back her full agreement to his condition, chuckling bitterly to herself at the notion that Solange would not suit the man. She knew what the odds of that were: none. Half the men of the castle were openly lusting after the girl, and the other half were too wary of her father to even be seen near her. For a good while now Margaret had watched enviously as grown men, men older than Henry, fell into strained silence whenever the child walked into a room. Amazingly enough, Solange never seemed to notice how none of the men could tear their eyes from her.
It was yet another sign to Margaret that the girl had no sense at all, but that was beside the point. The earl would prove to be no different from the others, Margaret thought, and she was correct.
Actually it had all been delightfully amusing at the time. There was Redmond, hunched in his plain brown hooded cloak over a meal of mutton stew and bread, eating with the common men in the greatroom.
And there was Solange, her nemesis, at the head table. Her silken hair was rolled loosely around her head, her perfect little body shown to ideal advantage in a flowing gown of pink and white. She laughed, she positively glittered during the meal, keeping up a steady flow of conversation with the ward of the marquess. She couldn't have looked more pure and virginal if she had tried.
Margaret was no fool. She understood the subtle power of this young woman, and she recognized the danger it represented to her. This was something that had to be eliminated as soon as possible. Fortunately the solution to her problem had been unable to stop gaping at Solange all evening. Margaret had a splendid time monitoring them both from the main table. Really, she could feel the earl's hunger for the girl all the way from there.
At the end of the meal, as they rose to retire, Redmond gave Margaret a brusque nod. She had merely smiled demurely in return.
After that, the rest was mere formality. Henry had already heartily embraced the notion of an alliance between the two families. Since Redmond had satisfied himself with examining the girl personally, the negotiations were conducted via messenger, the deal sealed in wax long before Henry thought he met his future son-in-law in the flesh. As far as Ironstag knew, he first saw the earl only an hour before bis daughter did at that fateful supper the previous night.
Yes, the earl had been delighted to take Solange off her hands. That left only one real problem: Damon Wolf, Marquess of Lockewood, ward of Ironstag.
Naturally Margaret had noticed the way the two of them clung together. She noted his innate tendencies to protect her, his far from brotherly looks when he thought no one watched. For a good while she had even considered Lockewood as a marital possibility for Solange.
Solange, daughter of Jazel. Solange, the living porcelain image of her dead mother. Solange, with that breathtaking face, that translucent beauty, reminding Henry every day of his deceased wife, the French coquette.
Margaret had her heart set on the royal coronet of a marchioness, and she was convinced her lover's reticence to marriage was really due to some latent devotion to Jazel. The logic of it seemed simple enough. Get rid of the daughter, and the reminder would be gone. Henry would then reconsider his marital status, she was positive.
Therefore Damon Wolf would not do. Oh, his castle and his lands were dismal enough to wish on her worst enemy, but still on English soil, and therefore still conceivably close enough for visits.
Ah, but Redmond had promised her he would banish the girl to his French estate at his earliest possible convenience.
It had been Margaret who suggested to Henry to send Damon out with the hunting party for extra provisions last night before the earl arrived.
And it had been Margaret who suggested to Henry his terms of agreement for Solange, after Lockewood had left Henry's study in a fury over having his suit denied. Ironstag had come to her chambers full of shocked anger over the boy's proposal—he had not seen it coming, really, the man was as dense as his daughter at times—but he had left her later in a much better mood.
The cat's smile curled broader. Margaret lifted her hand and tapped her fingers lightly against her chin. The priest was still mumbling on in a monotone, putting half the congregation to sleep in spite of the importance of the moment.
But Lady Margaret was fully awake, enjoying the denouement of the show she herself had orchestrated. And it was stunning.
Solange concentrated on holding on to the feeling of nothingness that floated inside her. It was growing more and more difficult.
Her mother's wedding gown was cut from stiff velvet, designed for a different generation. It had a fitted waist formed by a thick satin sash that tied just under her breasts. The material had held up well over the years, hidden from light in a leather trunk so that the deep, rich red of it was as brilliant today as it was the day Jazel wore it. The ruby-colored velvet was as excellent a foil for the daughter as it had been for the mother, setting off the clarity of her skin and the darkness of her eyes.
Solange did not know, nor would she have cared about, what an exquisite picture she presented to the gathered assembly. Her chestnut hair tumbled freely down her back, as brides were allowed this one day to show off whatever beauty they may have regularly hidden under cones, veils, and headdresses. On her head was an elaborate full crown of flowers created from spun gold, with petals of sapphires, amethysts, and rubies, and leaves of emeralds. In the center of each flower was a large pearl. It was Redmond's bridal gift to her, she later discovered, a thing so delicate, she barely felt the weight of it.
Under her hand was his arm, solid, immovable. She felt the rigidity of it with the muscles in her palm; she felt how useless it would be to try to adjust things in any way. Redmond used his other hand to hold her fingers fixed on him, as if even now he did not believe she wouldn't run away. How different he felt from Damon's sinewy strength.
Oh, God, she could not think of Damon now. Not now.
Not after this morning, when he had come to her one final time.
She had been almost done dressing, ostensibly aided by a throng of women present to help prepare her for the wedding. Solange knew as much as anyone else that they were there to make sure she did exactly what she was expected to do. She did not require twelve women to help her dress.
She let their fawning attentions flow and eddy around her. They were the embodiment of her father's will, and so she allowed the women to giggle and touch her, adjusting her body, her arms, and legs like a wooden doll. They straightened her undertunic, slipped her feet into satin shoes, bedecked her with bracelets, rings, and a necklace, dabbed her body with perfumed oils that she would never ordinarily wear. Solange kept her gaze fixed on a point far outside herself, of this room.
From the hall came a duo of raised masculine voices.
She honed in immediately on Damon's tones, deep with anger. The bevy of women swirled to surround her with collective squeals of dismay as the door swung open.
Damon brushed past the still-protesting guard, knocking his hand away easily. He took in the protective cluster of women, then motioned them away.
"Leave us," he commanded.
None of the women moved, though several exchanged nervous glances.
Damon looked impatient, and took a few steps forward. The women backed up together, jostling Solange along with them. She struggled free, slapping away their restraining holds on her.
"Everything is fine," she said to them. "Go now. You may wait outside the door."
The leader of the group spoke. "We're not to leave you alone, milady. The marquess has so commanded it."
"Well, I will not be alone, will I? The Marquess of Lockewood will be here with me. Go."
Still they did not move. Solange threw up her hands in mock exasperation. "Merciful heavens, what do you think will happen? I am hardly likely to crawl out the window, now, am I?"
The women muttered uneasily among themselves, but with her urging were now shuffling out the door.
"Only a moment,
my lady," called out the leader as Damon shut the door in her face. "We must be ready on time!" she yelled through the wood.
Solange and Damon faced each other across the expanse of her chambers. She was wearing an undertunic that was composed of layers of thin cotton and lace. It was demure enough but nevertheless provoked evocative thoughts in him. She rubbed absently at the collection of gold and pearl bracelets covering her arms. She wasn't wearing his ring.
"Talk to me," he commanded in that deep voice again. "Tell me what I am seeing is some sort of scheme to get out of the ceremony."
Solange steeled herself for her part in this charade. She turned around and wandered over to the dressing chamber, where the wedding gown was laid out in full splendor. "This is no scheme, I'm afraid," she said, running her fingernails through the scarlet velvet. They left a trail of ragged little furrows in the thick pile.
Damon stalked over to her and pulled her around to face him. "What are you doing, then? Are you going to marry him after all, after everything that happened between us last night?"
She stood stone still in his grip. "Yes, Damon, I am going to marry him. Father came by this morning and convinced me of it. I'm sorry."
"Sorry? You're sorry? What the hell has come over you? You can't marry that bastard, he wants only your money and your lands, you know that! He cannot love you. I love you, Solange."
He gripped her shoulders tightly, willing her to look into his eyes and read the truth there. But she was changed, different in some sly way he could not fathom.
"Love is irrelevant for marriage," she said. "I am well aware the earl is interested in my dowry far more than my person right now. That simply does not matter. Father has reminded me of my familial bonds. I will be strengthening the family with this union, and that is of tantamount importance." She shrugged. "We cannot control fate, and my fate is cast."
"What are you doing?" he rasped. "I cannot believe this is you talking."
"Damon, last night was an impetuous mistake for both of us. If I had been thinking clearly, I never would have bothered you at all. I'm afraid that the suddenness of it all overcame me, and naturally I turned to you for help. You have always been, after all, my older brother. I have always counted on you as such."
Her words cut him to the quick, as they had been designed to do. She broke away from his grip and went over to her night table. She closed her fingers over something, then glided back to him, graceful as a swan on water. In her outstretched hand she offered him the ring he had given her.
"Take it back," she said. "I cannot accept it."
His life was shattering to fragments around him, cutting him deeper and deeper, bleeding his very soul dry. She held her arm motionless, waiting for him to take the ring from her palm. His throat closed; he had to blink to clear his vision. She was making the choice for him, he realized. He could not fight for her if she did not want him.
She did not want him. She did not want him, when he would have gladly given his very life for her with the snap of her fingers.
She was choosing to become the plaything of a stranger rather than accept him. His pride finally rebelled at this indignity. Ignoring her offering, he snatched her by the waist and pulled her roughly against him.
She recovered her balance quickly and attempted to escape his hold, but he grabbed the hair at the nape of her neck and held her head in place as his Lips claimed hers.
The garnet ring hit the floor with a muffled chime and rolled, unnoticed, in a wide half-circle away from them. It tumbled over against the bedpost, masked in the pattern of the carpet.
He put his anger into the kiss, along with the anguish he couldn't conceal. He was ruthless, plundering her mouth again and again, trying to force her to reveal something of her true self. He would conquer this for-eignness in her, he would make her respond to him with the passion he knew she felt for him.
It was almost her undoing. She held her arms out stiffly from them both, her fingers spread wide. With every last ounce of her willpower Solange fought the drugging desire he produced in her. This was Damon, the other half of her soul. How easy it would be to just give up, to submit to the darkness washing over her, to let go of it all and kiss him back. And what could her father really do to them that would be worse than separation? Her own life was of little importance to her without Damon, but his survival depended on her now. . . .
Damon ended the kiss by pressing his face against her neck, a rough feeling that made her shiver. "I am not your brother, you know that," he whispered harshly. "Run away with me! Come away and be my wife."
He couldn't see, but her face twisted in pain, her mouth opened on a soundless cry of grief. Her father would hunt them down, she knew, aided by Redmond. They would be caught and punished before they got far, she would be forced to marry the earl anyway, and Damon—
"Solange, I need you. You need me in spite of what you say." Damon shook her gently, then rocked her close again. "Come with me. We can do it."
"No." She struggled to push herself away from him. "You ask too much! It's not worth it to me!" She pushed her hair back with trembling hands and said wildly, "Don't you understand? You are not worth the sacrifice! I don't want you!"
His face turned ashen before her eyes.
"It is impossible. Please go now." She tucked her hands behind her back to keep them from reaching for him.
He stood mute, unmoving. She took another step away from him.
"I'm sorry, Damon. I must prepare for my wedding now. You must go."
Time suspended, brittle as December grass. Seasons of knowledge of each other tumbled and fused with dreams of their future together. Gossamer dreams, so fragile. Then the moment shattered, everything blown away with her unyielding refusal.
"My apologies," he said presently. "I didn't mean to disturb you." He turned and left the chamber, walking quietly into the midst of the waiting women outside. He closed the door behind him.
Solange stood still amid the rubble of her dreams. She felt an aching pride at her performance, just before the choking cry trapped in her throat overtook her. She ran over to the bed and smothered her face in the furs, burying the sound in the pelts. Her body bowed with racking, dry sobs.
Soft hands touched her shoulders; hushed voices urged her to rise.
Solange collected herself. She raised her head from the bed. Her eyes were feverish and bright, her cheeks like parchment.
"Enough, I am fine. Let us continue."
And the marriage ceremony dragged on. The Earl of Redmond repeated his vows in that mellow voice that had the ladies sighing. Solange watched him with curious detachment, the wetness of his lips, the way he grasped her fingers, using his whole hand to control her.
The priest now turned to her, and she said the words after him without thought, her mind on the clouds outside, flying with the hawk over golden fields.
Her voice was so muted that the members of the congregation had to lean forward to catch the words at all. Redmond listened thoughtfully to her melodious inflections, marking the absence of life in her voice.
Not that it mattered. She would revive soon enough, he knew.
The priest gave the final blessing upon them both, and declared them husband and wife in the eyes of the Lord God, amen.
Redmond turned to his bride and lifted her chin with one finger. She appeared dazed, unaware of what was happening. He lowered his head and kissed her lips.
Approving murmurs broke out in the crowd. Redmond raised his head and threw the audience a rakish grin. Many of the women were wiping tears from their eyes. The gentlemen looked relieved it was finally over. Now was the time for the feast.
Solange followed the earl back down the aisle through the patchwork of colored sunlight, heedlessly crushing the flower petals strewn beneath her feet. Behind her a choir of young boys soared into an aria, the sound resonating throughout the chapel.
How strange it all was, she thought. How unreal. Here was the earl by her side n
ow as her husband, instead of the man she had always expected to see in that place.
Here was her father congratulating them both, joining them to accept the felicitations of the gathering group that crowded around them.
Here were all the people who had made up the folds of her life, yet who had never seemed to like her, suddenly all smiles and charms in her direction. Here was her father's mistress, a woman who had openly and deliberately ignored her, now kissing her cheek and telling her how much she would be missed.
Perhaps it was all just a bad dream, Solange thought remotely. Yes, a bad dream, the worst dream possible, really. She would wake any moment now to her normal life. She would find Damon and tell him about it, ask him to interpret all the nuances of it for her. He was so good at that.
But to be a true nightmare, surely Damon himself would appear now. He would be staring at her, the new Countess of Redmond, probably shaking his head at her folly. She would begin to realize just what it was she had sacrificed for this future, and the pain in her would reawaken.
Solange shook her head, fighting back that treachery.
"Are you tired, my angel?" Redmond pushed his hand under her hair to cup the back of her neck. She hated the creeping chill of his touch.
"A little," she replied, taking a careful step away from him.
His fingers tightened, holding her firmly. He greeted another couple cheerfully as they filed into the greatroom for the banquet, then leaned down again. "You may sleep in my arms during the ride. I'm afraid I brought no carriage for you, since a carriage would not make it through some of the paths on our journey home. But you will be comfortable with me, my lady."
Her attention flickered to life. "We leave today?"
"Of course. You heard the conversation last night. We will be off as soon as the feast is done. Your women are packing your belongings for you now."
The last of the guests entered the hall and were seated. Redmond escorted Solange up the pedestal to the main table, where her father and the rest were waiting for them.