by Shana Abe
"Solange, listen to me," he said firmly.
She whirled around and whispered, "I will not let you fight them! There are too many, you would be killed! I won't allow it!"
"Fight?" echoed one of the thieves, a giant of a man with white-blond hair. "Did she say she wants us to fight?"
"Fight who?" asked another.
"There will be no fight," Damon said loudly. "My lady, allow me to introduce my men"—he looked up and glared at them—"who will have an excellent reason to be out here looking for me, rather than at Wolfhaven, where they belong."
Her jaw dropped. "Your men?"
"Yes. Gentlemen, I present Lady Solange, Countess of Redmond."
Slowly, deliberately, she broke away from his hold on her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed. She turned around and took in the group, who were now looking somewhat abashed, except for the leader, the one with the scar.
"My lady," said that man, dismounting. He gave her a sweeping mockery of a bow, waving about an invisible hat.
"Godwin, my steward," said Damon with a freezing look.
Solange gave no reply. Her back was ramrod straight, her lips pursed. Damon could hardly blame her for her lack of civility. He was ready to strangle the group of them himself. He watched helplessly as she finally nodded, then excused herself in a quiet voice and went over to her horse. The sight of her long hair swaying against her thighs made him grit his teeth. He stalked over to the others.
"Please do enlighten me," he ground out, "as to why I am seeing any of you here at all, especially at this particular moment."
The other men shifted uneasily in their saddles, but it was Godwin who coughed discreetly behind his hand. "We came with urgent news, of course, my lord. As to this moment, all I may say is we were quite unaware of your . . . intimacy with the lady. We were merely following your trail."
For the first time since he had known him, Damon found his steward's blithe sarcasm annoying. "You are fortunate, Godwin of Lockewood. Any other man who dared insult the countess would feel the cut of my blade."
Godwin arched his brows. "Indeed? Well, perhaps I am fortunate, as you say, my lord. Although you would just have to sew it up again, as you did for me before." He fingered the thin scar running down his cheek. "Rather a lot of work for you, I would think."
"Enough. Why are you here?"
The steward dropped his careless pose, assuming a grave demeanor that portended trouble. "We came to intercept you, my lord. We had no idea you would bring the countess with you."
The others were dismounting, walking over to him with covert, awed looks in the direction of Solange. She was busy packing her bags.
Damon felt the inexplicable forces of his life pulling together for one strange moment, uniting him with the vision of his past and the hard-won efforts of his present represented in each worn, loyal face around him. He shook his head to rid himself of the effect, then pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure mounting in his head.
"It was just as unexpected for me, I assure you," he said.
"She's the one?" asked Aiden, a dark-haired man in his thirties.
"Aye," answered Damon.
Again the men grew silent, now openly watching Solange loading up Iolande with prim precision, marching through the broken stalks of hay in her old tunic and hose with the dignity of a young queen. Only Damon could guess how much it cost her to hold on to her mask. He knew she was probably quite embar-rassed.
She was mortified. Her treacherous hands refused to stop shaking, so she kept her back to the group as much as she could manage. She had finished packing the bags, so now she pulled out the curry comb and began to groom Iolande. She didn't care that the horse didn't need it. She didn't care if they thought it strange. She didn't care what they thought of her! Indeed, Solange thought wrathfully, she wouldn't care if she never saw any of them again in her entire life, including Damon Wolf.
To be caught like a common trollop trysting in a field by a group of sneering jackanapes! And worse yet, to have the man she was trysting with not only know them, but introduce her to them as well. . .
All she wanted, she told herself, was to go home. Things would become clear to her once she was safely back at Ironstag. If they would not take her there, she would think then about where to go next. She had options. She was not destitute.
She would think of something.
Across the field the men huddled in a single clump, all eyes aimed at the woman brushing her horse. Godwin was the first to break the silence.
"My, how cozy! Are you two—"
"No," Damon interrupted before he would have to hear the dreaded question. "Do not place too much importance on whatever you thought you just witnessed, am I clear? The countess and I are nothing to each other."
"Very well," continued Godwin after the barest pause. "Then certainly you won't mind me inquiring of the rather unusual travel arrangements the lady has chosen to make? She is a countess, after all. Her husband must surely be an accommodating man. ..." Godwin grinned. "Unless you have killed him, of course."
A few of the others smiled nervously at this, but Damon only shook his head. "Not I, my friend. Apparently the earl took care of that problem for me by ending his miserable existence the day I arrived."
Amid the exclamations of the others, Damon gave a summary of events leading up to their discovery by the haystack. He kept it as brief as he could manage, but was still bombarded with questions.
"Why would she want to leave?"
"She was going to run away alone?"
"What do Redmond's men want?"
"You been posing as brothers all this time? And people believed it?"
"You're headed for Ironstag?"
"You slept in a cave?"
The last question was from Braeden, his fifteen-year-old squire, who revealed a good deal of envy in his tone.
Damon held up his hands. "You know all that I know now. No doubt the circumstances of my lady's departure from Du Clar are unusual, but as I said, she would have left alone if I had refused to accompany her. It is readily apparent that she is quite eager not to meet Redmond's men, and equally apparent that they do want to meet her just as badly.
"I am escorting her to Ironstag and no farther. What she does with her life from then on is none of my concern. Now, tell me this"—he surveyed the group with an acid glare—"what required four of my best men to intercept me against my specific orders to stay at home and tend to the harvest?"
Only Godwin met his gaze with pure innocence; the others looked away at the sky or at their own hands. "Why, I carry a message for you, my lord," he said.
"A message? Four of you to deliver a message?"
"You couldn't expect me to go alone, my lord? What, with thieves and rogues around every corner?" Godwin gave an exaggerated shiver. "I would be their fodder in a matter of days!"
"He needed a guard," said Aiden stubbornly. "We all insisted upon it, didn't we?"
A chorus of affirmatives answered this question. "And the harvest is sound," added Robert, the blond giant. "It was all but finished when we left. You needn't worry."
Damon knew when he was defeated, and he didn't want to waste time arguing with them. They were already here; nothing was to be done about it but accept it. In truth, he was relieved to see them. If they did meet up with the soldiers, it would be a fairer fight.
Behind them, against the bright blue sky, he could see Solange, who was beginning to pace impatiently beside her mount.
"Tell me, then. What is it?"
"Well, you see, we expected to greet you in Dover in a few days, but you made much faster time than we anticipated. I'm not sure how you managed that. Your clandestine traveling modes would seem to slow you down rather than speed you up. ..."
"Yes, yes, Godwin. The message?"
"I'm afraid, my lord, that Ironstag must wait for your company."
Damon felt an uncomfortable foreboding.
"Why is that?"
<
br /> "It seems, my lord, that the king's emissary is waiting at Wolfhaven to see you. He's waiting right now." The foreboding sharpened to dread, which made his voice curt. "If you do not tell me what you are talking about, Godwin, I will personally see to it that you are confined to duty in the buttery for a month doing nothing but scrubbing pots and talking to old women—"
"The emissary is awaiting you to read the royal parchment declaring that Ironstag is yours."
"What?"
Godwin smiled, enjoying the effect of his announcement. "The Marquess of Ironstag left his castle and all his lands to you, the Marquess of Lockewood."
Robert clapped one meaty hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations, my lord."
Denials rose to his lips, but he knew his men would not dare play a prank such as this. So help him, all Damon could think of was how this news was going to affect Solange. Was the estate supposed to go to her? He remembered the family tree well enough to know that Solange represented the end of her line. There were no cousins or uncles to inherit. When she had married Redmond, everyone had assumed the marquess planned to have Ironstag go to his eldest grandson through Solange. How did Henry get around the entailment?
Godwin, as usual, answered his thoughts. "Apparently Ironstag had no wish for Redmond to inherit, my lord, in any capacity. He is specifically excluded from the entailment. Ironstag paid our king a goodly sum to ensure it."
"And the countess?"
"Ah, yes. The countess is also excluded."
Damon muttered an oath under his breath. It appeared the old man had the last laugh after all. By forcing Damon to take over Ironstag, he had effectively tied him to Solange whether he willed it or no. What had possessed him to make such a drastic move? Had the pain of his final days driven him to madness?
Damon shook his head, perplexed and annoyed all at once. He would have to work out this problem, see about how he could reverse the marquess's order and give Ironstag over to Solange. He sure as hell didn't want it. Time was what he needed.
"I must take the countess to Ironstag before going home. The king's message can wait."
"I don't think so, Damon," said Godwin seriously. "It took all our resources to get them to permit us to travel alone to fetch you. Howard wanted to send out a small army after you. We didn't tell him why you'd gone to France, only that you'd be back soon."
"Howard? Howard Longchamp? Bloody hell."
Damon's dealings with the king's minions had taken an unforeseen turn for the worse when Longchamp had decided to make an enemy of him. Longchamp had been, and Damon supposed still was, one of Edward's closest advisers. Typical of Edward's twisted sense of humor to send him out to deal with this.
Aiden rubbed his beard. "Perhaps Howard's still vexed that his wife invited you to her bed more often than him."
"Or perhaps he's still upset over that time you humiliated him in front of Edward, when you pointed out the flaws in his plan to take the castle Glencairn," added Robert.
"Or perhaps it was all those times you defeated him in the joust," said Braeden with pride.
"Or perhaps the man is simply an ass," stated Godwin. "It doesn't matter. He was frothing at the bit to send out a contingent of soldiers to bring you back to Wolfhaven in all haste. Fortunately, I was able to dissuade him."
Damon raised a brow. "Dare I ask how you accomplished that?"
"I merely pointed out that Edward wouldn't be pleased to have the Wolf of Lockewood angered by an excessive show of force, implying a lack of trust in one of his most loyal warriors. And that our king would not be pleased to learn Howard would be the one who usurped his authority in this matter. I reminded him of how Edward can be a little touchy on the matter of authority."
"Beautifully understated." Damon shook his head. "But what I fail to understand is why Howard is at Wolfhaven at all. Why couldn't he read the declaration to you, as my proxy?"
"Ah, well, you see, in addition to the fact that Edward declared that you must be there personally for the reading, there is a little matter of gold to be paid, my lord."
"Edward is a greedy bastard," threw in Aiden. "He's charging you an inheritance fee for Ironstag."
"On top of what Henry paid to him already? This is getting worse and worse."
The rest of the men grunted in agreement. Damon stared bleakly at the sky, then let his eyes rest on Solange, now mounted up and waiting with poorly concealed irritation to ride.
"Mention nothing of this in front of the countess, understand? I must think about how to tell her."
"The marquess left a provision for any offspring of my lady . . ." Godwin let his voice trail off suggestively.
"No. She has no children. At least, I don't believe she does." Damon was appalled at himself, at his lack of basic knowledge of this woman he claimed to love. His world was turning upside down. "Let's go," he said brusquely.
"I was beginning to wonder if I should continue my travels alone, my lord," said Solange with just a hint of sarcasm as he climbed into the saddle. "I wouldn't wish to tear you away from your men."
"My apologies, Countess," he replied. "We had urgent business to discuss."
She looked ready for a fight, but he wasn't going to give her one. All the weariness of the past few days caught up with him at once, coupled with the news of Ironstag and, of course, the still-startling fact of Solange reentering his life. For the first time in his life Damon felt at an utter loss as to the best path to choose for his future. It had seemed so clear before, and now the choices were too confusing. In the center of all the conflict stood Solange: delicate, obstinate, captivating Solange, made, it seemed, to be his ultimate, final temptation. In the battlefields of life she remained his sole weakness, the golden icon he both cherished and reviled. She was the perfect rose in the winter of his heart. He wanted to crush her, he wanted to adore her, but thanks to her father, he now could no longer settle on the solution of ignoring her.
She rode slightly ahead and to the left of him, carrying on a hesitant conversation with Godwin, who was at his most ingratiating. Her cloak and hat covered all her features to him, but he needed no visual aid to picture her face. She would be giving Godwin her solemn, slightly suspicious look, since he was a stranger to her, albeit a voracious one. Her chin would be tucked down, her eyes clear and unblinking. She would be carefully dissecting every word he said to her, examining each for hidden meaning. She would be using her clever mind to analyze Godwin's smile, his posture, even his horse for clues to unwrap his motives. She might yet decide to play his game and lead him on, Damon thought with amusement.
Well, Godwin couldn't say he hadn't been warned. All the men here knew of Solange and her role in his life. All of them had heard the tales, had listened to the growing legend of the girl who had broken Damon Wolf's heart. Some of the reports that had gotten back to him had made her into something no longer resembling a woman at all, but sometimes a mythical creature of celestial beauty, too pure for the earth. Or more often, a soulless siren who had drained away his tender feelings, leaving the shell of the Wolf behind.
Neither version was true. Solange was actually somewhere in the middle, but Damon of Lockewood could not pinpoint exactly where. Wherever it was, she was definitely on the human side. He had felt the proof of that today.
His true musings of her, late night memories over ale and campfires, had been entrusted to only those closest to him, and Godwin was one of those. No doubt the steward was on some mission of exploration of his own, out to discover the workings of this woman he had heard of for years but never met.
"I myself prefer the color pink," Godwin was saying. "A man who wears a pink hat, I say, is a fearless man indeed."
"Ah," said Solange.
"Would you be surprised, my lady, to learn that I once owned not only a hat of the finest pink wool, but also a matching doublet and cape? It is a fact. The ladies were quite impressed, I assure you."
"Really."
"But no m
ore so than the men! Why, when I entered a room, the conversations ceased immediately! Crowds parted as I walked through, men and women both held mute in stunned admiration!"
This won him a small, dubious smile from her.
"But, alas, I lost my handsome set of pink in a game of chance," he continued. "A rigged game! The men at court became so jealous of my clothing—none could match it, you see, this color pink coming from only the rarest of Persian cockleshells, each more costly than the last—that they decided to divest me of my set publicly and permanently. They plied me with wine, worn—er, wine, and befuddled me so that I had no possibility of winning against their wicked plot. When I was out of coin, they would take nothing else but the hat, cape, and doublet. And that was that."
Solange was intrigued in spite of herself. "Did you not attempt to win them back?"
"Oh, yes! Naturally! But they would hear nothing of it, my lady! Those villains burned my outfit that very eve! I was devastated!"
"It was a merciful plan from heaven itself, the night we burned those hideous clothes," injected Aiden. He had dropped back to listen to the tale and monitor the lady's response. "You should have thanked us for sparing you the embarrassment of wearing such foolish things. 'Twas a merry bonfire we had in the courtyard that night!"
"You see, my lady," said Godwin mournfully, "how the scoundrel still does not repent his sin against me. A shameful state, indeed."
"You burned his clothes?" Solange asked Aiden.
"Aye, all of us. But it was my plan."
"It was my plan, Aiden Gerard!" Robert looked indignant. "The rest of you just helped me out with it!"
"Ho! And who decided to get Godwin drunk that night?"
"Well then, who rounded up that tavern wench with the red hair and the magnificent pair of-—"
"Gentlemen!" Damon had heard enough. "Suffice it to say it was a mutual effort. Do not attempt to bore my lady with the details."
"Oh, no, my lord. I am not bored. Pray, do continue, sir," she said sweetly to Robert. "The tavern wench had a magnificent pair of what?"
Robert blushed to the roots of his pale hair. Aiden snickered audibly. Even Braeden looked abashed.