by Shana Abe
Solange watched him silently.
He opened the saddlebag and felt around until he found the medicine bag, a thick leather pouch with separate compartments sewn inside it. Each compartment contained an herb, securely wrapped in lambskin.
It was his own design, one that he had made improvements on over the years as he gained practical experience. It had proven its worth again and again to him, his soldiers, his people.
"You should try to stay out of the wind," said Solange suddenly.
He looked up at her.
"And keep your head covered," she added. "If your hair becomes wet and you're outside, you won't get better. You should stay down here until we reach land."
"As you said, Countess, it is only a cold. I will be fine."
"No, you need to ensure that it does not grow to be anything worse. It's quite easy to have a simple cold develop into any number of serious things, like consumption."
Something in her voice put him on alert. Instead of telling her he already knew these things, he decided to gently prod her, to see where she would lead him.
"Do you think so?"
"Yes." She stopped, looking hesitant. After a moment she offered, "One of the women at Wellburn fell ill once. It began as a little thing, a slight irritation. But she . . . wasn't careful enough. She was exposed to the cold every day without sufficient protection, and eventually she couldn't leave her bed. It was even thought. . . she might die."
Damon leaned back against the pile of bags. "So, what happened to her? How was she treated?"
"Oh, well, they bled her, of course. The physician was very adamant that she be bled."
"They bled a woman with consumption?"
Solange stared him straight in the eye. "Yes. They said it was to rid her of the bad blood."
Damon shook his head. "Leeches are appropriate in certain cases, of course, but I am surprised they continued to bleed her after she showed no improvement. Did they not try herbs? Mustard packs? Tonics?"
"I am uncertain of the full treatment. I didn't know her very well. But I believe once she became bedridden she was . . . removed from the elements that caused her harm. She was kept warmer, and dry. They fed her broth and such."
"Broth." Damon found himself watching her hands, watching them repeatedly clench and relax around her knees. "How long was she bedridden?"
She leaned her head back against the hull. Her reply was muted. "A long time, I think."
"How long?"
"About... a year, I suppose." Her hands clenched, unclenched. Clenched.
He was going to change the subject. He wasn't interested in the rest of the story.
"A year in sickbed. That's a long time for anyone," he said instead.
"Yes."
"I am surprised she was able to pull through that."
"Many were." She seemed lost in thought, curled up tightly into herself. He watched her carefully as he asked his next question.
"And tell me, did they continue to bleed her until she recovered?"
"Oh, yes," Solange said softly. "They always bled her."
Something inside him was taut, stretched to breaking. It was a deep thing so fragile and frightening, he would not, could not, examine it. It was the thread that held the core of him together, now brittle as glass.
Looking at Solange, at the simple fall of brown hair twisted casually over her shoulder, tightened the thread unbearably. He knew looking into her eyes would break him.
Perhaps she sensed it. She flashed him an overbright smile. "But as I said, this woman recovered. Everything was fine. Today she is hale and hearty, I'm certain."
He couldn't reply. He couldn't think. He didn't want to. She continued to speak in a cheerful voice, ignoring his silence.
"But you can understand now how important it is to take care of your health, especially when it is already-compromised. I think we shall buy you a hat in Dover, to cover your head."
Footsteps thumped down the short set of stairs from the deck above. Solange hastily tucked her hair back under her cape. She had been avoiding the crew at Damon's insistence, staying below for most of the voyage. Now she stood up and walked over to the horses, keeping her back to the doorway. The younger of the two sons appeared.
"Papa says to tell you the Saxon cliffs are in sight."
Damon stared at the boy, mute. He couldn't absorb what had just been said. The words bounced around him without meaning. The boy stood still, then shrugged. "Don't you want to come up?"
Solange answered him. "Yes. We'll be up soon."
The boy left. Damon stared at the space where he used to be, then it was filled with Solange herself, on her way out. Without thinking, he caught her arm to stay her.
"This woman," he began, and then was stopped by the severity in her face. He could find no mercy there; in fact, he thought he could see some of the brittleness singing inside him right now.
"It is over," she said firmly. "That woman is much better. I didn't wish to upset you. Don't make me regret telling you such an insignificant tale. I am certain you will fare much better than she did. You're stronger than she was." She twisted out of his grip. "We will buy you a hat," she said once more, and then hurried up the stairs.
A hat.
Damon began to chuckle, an acrid, painful sound. He had to bend double to contain it, but it grew, slicing his belly as it went. Certainly, a hat was what he needed. A hat would fix everything.
A hat to cover his head. He concentrated on that, imagined a hat that Solange would pick out for him.
For his health.
The boat jarred beneath his feet, sending him swaying to the opposite wall. The strait was growing rougher as they came inland. He should be above. The walls of the hull were growing closer and closer. He needed air, fresh air, to fill his lungs.
The sea was indeed rougher now. Outside, he saw whitecaps topping the brownish-green waves, row after row of them. Solange stood with the others by the forward mast, all of them watching the chalk cliffs of Dover loom closer and closer out of a hazy mist.
He joined them just as the man and his sons broke away to guide the rig into the port. The wind whipped his hair across his face, stinging his skin, but the sensation was far from unpleasant.
Beside him stood Solange, leaning into the wind with a joy as bright as the day was desolate. A fierce smile lit her face as the ship drew closer inland.
The wind picked up tears from her eyes and blew them away. Or was that just his imagination? It was difficult to look at her directly; that pulled the cord tighter in him. Like her, he turned to face Dover, to the odd comfort of the sight of the busy port.
He was worried about the very real likelihood that Redmond's soldiers would be there, waiting for them, and so he scanned the shore anxiously as they docked, searching each face, looking for that one hint of betrayal in the eyes of strangers.
Solange kept close to him, kept her face turned down as much as possible. They were surrounded by the shouts of the seamen, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No reason to gallop out of the town, which was what he wanted to do anyway, to run and blend in with the familiar countryside of his native land, to gain the advantage once again by fighting her demons on his own soil.
Yes, it was good to be back. Wolfhaven was miles yet from Dover, and Ironstag farther still, but Damon could not pretend to be anything but relieved to be out of France.
And Solange . . . He could not tell what she felt. She had transformed to her now-usual impenetrable look as soon as they had reached the harbor. If he had not seen for himself the exhilaration she displayed earlier at sea, he would have thought she felt nothing at all to be back.
But he knew better. He was becoming more and more adept at reading her again. She was careful to hide her true self, he noticed. It had to be something she had learned as the countess.
He was eager to leave the city; the littered streets and row after row of buildings crowded in on him the way cities always did.
And there were too many faces to search all of them. They were vulnerable here. They had to leave.
Screeching cries of children mixed raucously with the hawking of the marketers, the bleating of sheep, screaming roosters and chickens for sale. He was never comfortable with so many people around him. It seemed unnatural, stacking people and animals on top of each other, mingling the garbage and filth with homes and markets.
Damon was born and raised to a different life, one that cities could not touch. It was space and land, the steady cycle of planting and harvest, room to breathe. Dover or London, it made no difference. City life held no appeal for him.
But to his chagrin, the first thing they did was shop for a hat. Solange would not think of leaving, she said, without getting him one. When he pointed out the danger of lingering in the city, she gave him an astonished look.
"Oh, but this is England" she said, "They won't catch us here."
The naiveté of that statement left him stunned enough to allow her to lead him into the nearest shop.
Despite her confident words, she had decided to continue her charade as a boy, keeping her hair hidden and her cloak buttoned closed.
Ragged as they were, the hatmaker was delighted to see customers on this dismal day. Solange explained politely what they needed. Her brother had lost his hat to the winds and needed a replacement. She remained unswayed by the man's displays of velvet, feathers, and lace. It had to be sturdy, she instructed, a good, plain hat for a good, plain man.
Damon hid his smile when he heard her. They settled on a hat with an unadorned black brim, much to the hatmaker's open dismay. When Damon paid in gold, however, the little man's smile returned, along with the fancier goods.
"Something for the young sir, perhaps?" he suggested encouragingly.
Solange shook her head, but Damon walked past her over to examine again the man's display of wares. His smile became fulsome as Damon lingered over a particularly ornate, ruffled beret complete with blue velvet trim. Solange rolled her eyes and was still saying no as he paid for it, then clapped it on her head.
"My brother, you see, is neither good nor plain, and is properly suited to a fancier style than I," Damon said, smiling at her scowl beneath the lacy brim.
"Yes, yes," cried the shopkeeper. "A delicate boy! The ladies will much admire him thus!"
"No doubt," agreed Damon amicably. "It brings out his better qualities, don't you think?"
"Quite so, yes, indeed, it does! Those eyes! Such refinement!"
"You have feathers for brains, my brother," muttered Solange. "We have what we came for. Let us quit this place."
Damon nodded, bowed to the hatmaker, who bowed in return so low that his nose nearly touched his knees.
"A pleasure, a pleasure to serve you," he exclaimed as they left.
She tried to take the beret off as soon as they left the store, but Damon laughed and stopped her., "You must admit it hides your face well, Countess. You appear to be quite the city dandy now."
"I do not wish to be a dandy," she said clearly.
"Come, come, don't be so modest. Your rather amazing hat was perfectly made for a lad of your exquisite refinement."
"You are ridiculous!"
"You will slay all the ladies with one look, I vow."
"They will die laughing, no doubt."
"You have entirely the wrong view of it, Philippe. No, I suppose I should call you Philip now. Leave it on, I pray you, at least until we leave the city. It does set off your looks, you know."
She shot him a suspicious glance from atop Iolande, but all he did was smile guilelessly. He was telling the truth, so help him. The frills and lace both framed her face and concealed her features, a double advantage as far as Damon was concerned. He could see her all he wanted, but from a distance all was obscure but for the hat.
He settled his own firmly about his head, then brought Tarrant to a trot, deciding that he was feeling much better, all in all, than when the day began.
Dover was a bustling place, even this late. At Solange's insistence, they stopped for a mediocre dinner at a tavern near the entrance to the city. Perhaps he was getting soft in the head, he thought, allowing them to flirt with jeopardy like this. But there was no denying he enjoyed watching her pleasure over a tableful of food. He needed to see the shadows under her eyes fade completely. He wanted that, a sign she was better now that they were so close to home. Now that it was almost over.
Damon requested hot water from the tavern girl and brewed a strong tea from the herbs in his medicine pouch.
Solange followed the process avidly even as she devoured the boiled mutton and pigeon pie. It was as if she had not eaten in weeks. There was some satisfaction in seeing her eat her till, but what charmed him was her complete delight over the fresh hot bread and creamy winter butter. She ate her share and another, then looked around hopefully for more.
He gave her his.
"One would think," he said mildly, "that they did not bother to feed you at all in France."
She didn't reply at first, but then said, "I find myself exceptionally hungry, that is all."
"I see that."
She lowered her eyes but did not stop until the last morsel was cleared from their table.
They purchased extra provisions for the journey, two blankets, an extra flask for water, and four more pigeon pies. Despite her pleadings, he refused to stay the night in an inn, citing the obvious hazards of giving too many people an opportunity to remember them. As much as he would like to have slept on a real bed again, even the thought of her sharing it with him could not make him stay in town.
Their goal, he reminded her, was to reach Ironstag as rapidly as possible. Unless she wanted to risk the chance of the Redmond soldiers finding them again? He would, in fact, be interested in hearing what they had to say to her. . . .
"But I have nothing at all to say to them, my lord. You are correct, it would be much better for us to continue on this evening. I am ready now, if you are."
And that was that. They made good time out of the city and were quickly into the countryside of Kent. Damon began to breathe a little easier, embracing the smell of the land. The moon was waning, casting a shallow glow that was little brighter than the starlight. They met no other travelers on the road.
They rode in companionable silence, each deep in thought.
Damon's mind wandered, from childhood to manhood, from innocent moments in apple groves to not-so-innocent moments at court. How strange the path his life had taken. He had ended up where he had begun, at Wolfhaven, but the winding way to get there had proven to be torturous. The Church would tell him the ways of the Lord were mysterious, and he had to agree. All he had to do was look over at his companion to confirm it.
She rode easily beside him, pensive but not grim. She had kept on the silly hat he bought her; she claimed it kept her head remarkably warm and was truly sorry they had not bought the same one for him.
The lace jiggled in time to the horse's steps, creating a fanciful dance around her face and down her neck. How beautiful she was, Damon thought, even dressed so strangely. How uncommon she was, how striking.
How he loved her.
He turned his head and tightened his jaw, but he couldn't deny it any longer. He loved her undeniably, loved her still after all that she had done to him.
It split him into two different men, two men with two minds. The Marquess of Lockewood, Knight of the Royal Court, was in a fury over it. How dare he abase himself to her after what she had done? What kind of man would want to return to a woman who had spurned him to marry another, who had ruthlessly and effectively cut him out of her life after deliberately leading him to believe she cared? And who even had the audacity to pretend she still cared today? It was intolerable.
The warrior in him refused her, refused all she stood for, all the humiliation and pain of the past that she alone had created for him.
But the other man had a different view. It was quieter, a
ll the more determined behind the bluster. Damon was not certain who that could be, the other man in him who looked at Solange and saw his own completion, the perfect complement to who he was and wanted to be. This man had grown up with the girl, knew her gentle heart, her strengths and foibles. He knew her soul, because it still matched his own.
This man ached for her, for the whole of Solange, in all her passion and glory and false pride. But with it came a price. Damon was desperately afraid that the identity of this part of him would turn out to be his true heart. And then he would be lost again, for who was to say that Solange would ever want him in return?
She had scorned him once and it had been enough to shatter the boy he was then to dust. Deep down, Damon was afraid she still wielded that power over him. He had come too far, worked too hard, and had too many lives depending upon him to ever risk losing himself like that again. He simply could not do it. To have to start over again would kill him this time, he was certain.
It meant he would live the rest of his life alone. Constantly surrounded by other people, yes, and certainly even with a wife someday, but ultimately and utterly alone.
He needed an heir for Wolfhaven, and so he would do his duty to his forefathers, but there could be no joy in him for the fulfillment of it. He planned to be a good husband to his bride. He would provide for her and protect her, father children and admire the mother she would become. He still intended to keep that pledge to himself. But she would not be Solange, so she could not be his soul's mate. He knew now finally that he would not be able to love the woman he took in marriage. He was never going to get his heart back from Solange.
God worked mysteriously, indeed. For all intents and purposes, the woman riding beside him now was as free for remarriage as any widow of means could be. In fact, how delighted Edward would be to gain a portion of the treasury and estate of a woman as rich as Solange surely was now. She would have to remarry soon, Damon realized. Edward would insist on all her assets being properly protected.
Odd to think of her as a titled widow, a wealthy woman, this unkempt gamin in her voluminous cloak and frilly beret. Her hands poked out of the cloak to handle the reins, looking like nothing so much as a little girl's holding on to her mother's leading strings. The only jewelry she wore, he noticed, was his ring.