by Shana Abe
His ring. She hadn't taken it off since he had seen her, from the estate through the storms and the cold passage back to England, she wore it always.
Damon smiled bitterly to himself. Should he be flattered or apprehensive? If only he knew.
"What are you thinking, my lord?" She had been watching his feelings chase one another across his face and could contain her curiosity no longer.
"I was thinking of God, and the strange ways in which He works," Damon replied.
"I did not realize you were so religiously inclined."
"Religion finds you when you need it," he said cryptically.
"Does it? Then I am unenlightened, I think."
He didn't respond, so she let the silence carry them for a while. He seemed to be struggling with something in himself, something dear, she guessed. Poor Damon, it could not be easy for him to deal with her again. It would be much kinder of her to simply let him go, she knew. The way to Ironstag was clear cut from here, even if it was not close. She was positive she could make it on her own.
Then Damon could return to his castle and his lands. To his life. His duty to her was done long ago. It was either pure chivalry or sheer obstinacy that kept him with her. She was being selfish to want him to stay. It was awful of her to make him continue on just to have the fleeting pleasure of his company, to memorize him all over again to last her for the rest of her life.
She thought she had done it once, all those years ago. What a gift it was to have another opportunity to see him, even if the pleasure of it was solidly intertwined with the pain of knowing he did not want her. And why should he? He was a man now, a knight even. He had a life and a world far outside of her own. His future was firmly planted at his beloved Wolfhaven, while hers was really no more rooted than a milkthisde wafting in the breeze.
Leaving Du Clar had been an act of desperation that had built over years of suppression. It was over, it was done, but all she had considered at the time was escape. She was fleeing to Ironstag because it remained her home in her memory. But her welcome there was not assured, she knew.
Her father's death dealt her a serious blow. After her marriage, after Redmond had removed her to France, she had tried to be at peace with the notion of never seeing Henry again, but she knew now her resolution had been self-deluding.
She had never really believed it. Even though he had never bothered to see her, to send inquires of her or to answer her carefully reviewed missives, she never believed he would cut her off so ruthlessly. Time had proven her wrong. Her father was gone now and forever, ironically so close to her bid to break away from Redmond. She could never see Henry again, save in marble effigy on his tomb.
She would never be able to ask him if he had known anything of the man he had given his daughter to save his name.
Of Damon she had expected to hear nothing, and was not surprised over the years to have this thought confirmed. Indeed, a large part of her wanted to hear nothing of him, could not bear to even think of him. Far more painful than the loss of her father was her separation from her love, especially knowing that what he thought of her could not by any means be considered loving. But nevertheless, it was Damon who had kept her alive all this time.
How he would laugh to hear it, she knew. The knight riding beside her would not appreciate the information; in fact he barely resembled the Damon who had advised her in her dreams, the Damon who had whispered to her in her heart to be brave, to be cunning and resourceful. It was embarrassingly clear that the man he was now wanted nothing to do with her.
So she would cling to the memories and soon create new daydreams from the moments she shared with him now. It was better than nothing, and she was grateful.
She was greedy, she would take what she could get of Damon Wolf. Ashamed and yet shameless, she would not release him to his world just yet. They would have him for the rest of his days. She wanted to hold on to him for just a while longer, to fill herself with him until she could take no more. That was all. It wasn't too much to ask.
"Tell me of Wolfhaven," she invited him.
He seemed to come out of some reverie, shaking his head. "Wolfhaven? What is it you want to know?"
"Anything. Anything you wish to tell me."
"You know the history of Wolfhaven."
"I want to know about today. Tell me what it's like to live there. Tell me what you do there."
"Do?" He was overwhelmed with answers. "I do what any lord should do for his manor and villages. I plant crops—"
"Which?"
"Mainly wheat, also barley, rye. Some oats and flax." He made an impatient gesture. "I fail to see why you should be interested in this subject, Countess."
"Why should I not be? I grew up with you, hearing the stories of your castle. I think it's only natural I would wish to know of the fulfillment of some of those plans we made."
Solange grimaced, regretting the words as soon as they left her tongue. She had not meant to remind him of their shared past, especially of the youthful dreams they had built together. She could feel him retreat from her.
"What I mean to say, my lord, is that I am curious—"
"I understand full well your meaning, madam. You need not elaborate. Wolfhaven is a working system consisting of the castle, the villages, and all the inhabitants therewith. We are largely an agricultural society, relying upon a series of crops to support the population and provide trade with neighboring lords. We also raise sheep for wool, much like Ironstag but on a smaller scale, of course." His voice was flat and emotionless; he spoke to her as if lecturing a pupil.
Solange gave a little sigh. This was not at all what she really cared to hear about, but she understood that his dry recital of facts was all he was going to offer her unless she queried further. She wasn't feeling daring enough for that.
"I see," she said meekly. "Thank you."
They bedded down for the night against a haystack, one of many dotting the constant fields of stubble left after the harvest. Solange slept with her hat beside her and Iolande hovering nearby, as if standing guard over her sleeping mistress.
Even Tarrant seemed uneasy over something, waking Damon with soft snorts and restive steps in the hay. These were not the signs of danger, however, and so after each disturbance, Damon sank again into a weary slumber, only half wondering what was bothering his horse. Probably the stallion was just as ready to end this trip as he was.
To be certain, he asked Solange about the impending weather the next morning when they awoke.
She stared intently at the sky, and then at the ground, then shook her head. "Fine, I think. No snow, no storms coming soon. Today should be clear and fair."
He grunted an acknowledgment, giving Tarrant an accusing look. The horse only stared back at him placidly.
Perhaps they were not as alone as it seemed, Damon thought as he prepared for the day's ride. Perhaps all his senses had failed him, after all, in his careful scouting of the land, his listening to the winds. Was this what Tarrant was trying to alert him to? Was there danger afoot?
They had to go. He turned to Solange, opened his mouth to tell her to mount up, but then he closed it again.
She was perched on a stone with her legs tucked under her and the sunlight behind her, combing out her long hair. It was something she did every morning before braiding it up again, but usually Damon tried to be elsewhere when she began. He stayed where he was, paused in adjusting the girth and stirrups on his horse.
It was hypnotic, following the stroke of the ivory comb through the heavy tresses. She started at the top and worked her way down, having to stretch her arm out full-length to reach the ends before allowing the captured strands to tumble back down against her body. In the morning light her hair glowed with auburn fire. He remembered so clearly how it felt in his hands, against his lips.
She parted another section of hair and began on it, the same pattern, the same results: thick, glossy locks falling to curve against her, molding to her shap
e. She tilted her head and the sun shone with it, a shifting halo of brilliance that surrounded her, deep reds and coppers, rich dark browns. The ivory comb worked through so slowly, so rhythmically, he could count the pace. She used her free hand to smooth the locks after each passage.
It was unusual to see a woman's hair so openly displayed. Even Solange kept hers tucked away when she could. He felt he was intruding, watching her perform this simple task. He thought absently that he should not be looking, that he had been about to tell her something, but the stroking of her hand and the comb swept away that thought. He could not stop staring.
Again the comb separated the strands, again it slid down the tresses with silky ease, leaving a wake of softness behind. Every time she moved, the cascade of hair moved with her, rising and falling with each breath.
Without the cape to hide her body, her femininity was plainly revealed under the gray tunic she wore. It had a simple drawstring at the throat to tighten or loosen. The knot was free now; the strings hung limply to the tips of her breasts. He could see a wedge of creamy white skin where the cloth fell to the sides. He could see her hair brushing the tunic, lying trapped between the folds of cloth and her skin. He could feel the tantalizing stroke of her hair, the tender delicacy of her body. He could feel her wrapped around him, all of her at once—hair, skin, scent—pressed against him, welcoming him, wanting his touch as he wanted hers.
They were collapsed together on the ground, and her tunic was open to him, baring her breasts to his lips. He was tasting her, the shocking sweetness of her body, the fullness of her embrace as she writhed under him. She was covering him in kisses, she was twining her long legs around his waist, moaning with desire. He was tugging the tunic off her, the hose, impatient, eager to feel her hot and bare against him. She was helping him, lifting her arms up to be free of the clothing, then clutching him closer, pulling him into her, gasping his name . . . "Damon? Damon?"
He realized Solange was still seated on the ground before him, comb paused halfway though her hair. She looked concerned and very fully clothed. "What's amiss, my lord? I spoke to you and you didn't reply. You were looking at me so strangely."
Fortunately, life at court had taught him well how to say one thing while thinking another. His mouth was responding before his mind had fully caught up with him.
"I was . . . contemplating other matters. What did you ask me?"
"I said, do you think it wise of us to travel by day now, instead of by night?"
The image of her beneath him, naked, alive with passion, would not vanish. Damon struggled to focus beyond it, to form a logical reply to her question, but when her lips moved, he saw himself kissing them. When her arms lowered and the comb released her hair, he saw himself buried in it. He turned away stiffly, checking the already tightened girth to his saddle.
He heard her stand up behind him. "Are you well?" she asked uncertainly.
"Yes." He took a heavy breath. How could she not know? How could she not feel it too? She was a widow, by heavens, no longer an inexperienced maiden. She had to realize what she was doing to him, that she was deliberately torturing him. It was enough to drive a sane man over the edge, and he had already been there too many times.
"Damon?" She came up behind him and placed her hand lightly on his arm.
The simple touch jerked him back to the present. He pulled away from her and turned, baring his teeth in a semblance of a smile.
"Day versus night, you ask? It doesn't matter now. We are close to the conclusion of this little sojourn, aren't we?"
Her eyes grew wide, even a little fearful. He almost hated her for that, hated that she could feel fear of him, when all he had ever wanted to do was protect her, take care of her, love her.
Damon took a menacing step in her direction. "Now, what's amiss with you, Countess? You do not look yourself."
Solange shook her head in bewilderment. "I don't understand you. You are angry. Have I done something wrong?"
"Something recently, you mean? I don't know, you tell me." He was stalking her now, steadily matching each step she took to put space between them. One hand was raised as if to push him away; the other was grasping the folds of the tunic together. The fear in her eyes became stronger.
"Stop it! Why are you behaving in this odd manner? Are you feverish?" She halted defiantly, daring him to come closer. Brave, foolish little Solange, and so he caught her up easily. She crashed into his chest, helpless because her arms were pinned and he would not let her put her feet down firmly to the earth. He held her tightly against him until she stopped straggling, until she only stared up at him in almost comical disbelief.
"Yes, my lady," he drawled. "I think I must be feverish. It is the only reason I can think of to do this." He covered her lips with his own.
She didn't fight him. She didn't do anything but hang there in his arms and let him kiss her. It didn't matter. He was beyond caring about any objections she had.
Nine years he had dreamed of these lips, nine years of longing for one more chance, just one more, to savor her again. No man should have had to live like that. He would not spend the rest of his life regretting a passed opportunity.
For a heartbeat all he felt was the closeness of her. Her lips were warm and succulent, and completely still under his. It was too much like that fateful kiss they had last shared on her wedding morning, and his heart cried out with anger and despair.
But then she moved. He instinctively tightened his arms to prevent her from escaping, but she wasn't trying to back way. She was attempting to move higher in his arms, to match herself more equally to his height.
She was kissing him back.
The last remnants of reason retreated into the roaring hunger that gripped him. A part of him knew this was the moment he had been waiting for all this time, her response to him, proof she was not immune to the desire that flamed to life between them.
Sweet Lord, she was not. Her hands inched out from between their bodies to hold on to his shoulders, enabling him to pull her closer, his fantasy becoming reality faster than he could take it in. His body knew what to do, however. It answered hers with a surging heat. He bent her almost backward over his arm, bracing her against his legs. She was light, so light he barely noticed her weight. Her hair slid silkily under his palms as they traveled up her back, down to cradle her thighs, then up again.
Their lips meshed and parted, sharing the same breath. The maidenly shyness she had been treating him with had vanished as if it had never been. Before him now was a woman, a siren, arousing him with a bold rashness he wanted to drown in. He kissed her jaw, her neck, straightening to lift her higher to reach the hidden softness beneath her ear. Her head tilted back, helping him.
Slowly he released her, allowing her body to slide over every muscled plane of his own. Her tunic caught on his and rose to her waist. He slipped his hands under it and felt the satin of her skin beneath his palms. They traveled up to cup her full breasts, softly squeezing their roundness. Solange gave a startled gasp and then moaned in pleasure, arching farther into his hands. Her reaction was like a thunderbolt running through him.
Damon was intent on getting her to the ground. He had to find a good place to lay her down, anywhere without the stubble of cut hay. She was panting for him, ready for him, and he was more than ready for her. He would toss her onto the haystack, it didn't matter, he had to be inside her soon or risk losing his thin grasp on the resolution not to make love to her in the dirt.
She stiffened suddenly, trying to pull away from him with a muted cry. He held her immobile against him, confused—she couldn't want to stop now, she wanted him, he knew it—but Solange braced her arms against his shoulders and shoved, looking wide-eyed at something behind him.
"Damon! Thieves!"
The agitation in her tone penetrated the haze of passion fogging his mind. Immediately he released her and turned, reaching to his waist for the stiletto he always carried there. His fingers groped
at the empty sheath; the dagger lay on the ground next to that morning's breakfast of pigeon pie, much too far to reach in time.
Close behind him, right next to the haystack, was a half-circle of four mounted men dressed in rough, dirty clothing. Two of them were leering at the couple, but the others just stared at them blankly.
The man closest to them, a bearded fellow with a long scar down one cheek, followed Damon's glance to the stiletto and back again to his empty hands. And then the thief gave a wicked smile.
Chapter Eight
My goodness gracious," said the scarred man. "It appears we have caught the couple unawares."
Solange took a step forward around Damon, as if to block him from the strangers. "We have nothing of value. You waste your time with us."
The man effected an exaggerated look of surprise. "Oh? I think perhaps our time has seldom been better spent, eh, boys?"
The group broke into muffled chuckles. Damon scowled at them and then took her gently by the shoulders. "Solange—"
At the mention of her name the men choked into an astonished silence, but she didn't notice. She ignored the warning of Damon's tone and faced them, hands on her hips. "What manner of men would creep up upon a pair of pilgrims, to rob them of what little means they possess? You are cowards, all!"
Damon pulled her back to him. "Solange," he said again.
"So be it," she said haughtily. "Take it all, then. But leave us our steeds; they will not serve anyone but us."
The men were staring down at her from atop their horses, dumbfounded, although Damon couldn't say if it was at the speech of the lady or the fiery beauty she radiated.
Amazing, he thought reluctantly. She stood in front of him, vehemently defending both of them from a group of men, all of whom were more than twice her size, and on horseback. It was a touching scene, if a ludicrous one.