A Rose in Winter

by Shana Abe

  "Of teeth, my lady," answered Godwin. "She had two perfectly formed, white teeth, right in front, here. She was actually quite famous for them. They were so magnificent that one barely even noticed the absence of the rest."

  Solange gave a knowing smile. "How unusual, I would enjoy meeting a woman like that."

  "As entertaining as that would be, I'm afraid the lass lives in London. It would be a far way to go from here."

  There was no mistaking the twinkle in Solange's eye. "What a pity. But someday, perhaps, I shall go to court and find this unique woman. Shall I tell her you sent me, good sir?"

  "Not if you wish to get past her door!" laughed Aiden. The others joined in.

  The rest of the day passed with the same casual, easy banter that marked the familiarity of old friends. Solange spoke little but listened closely, happy to learn whatever she could of Damon and the life he had lived these past few years, summing up what she could of the circle of men around her.

  Damon had chosen unusually loyal men, she sur­mised. From the good-natured teasing passed around, she would have thought them more friends to him than servants. Although he laughed and joked with them, it was clear he was the leader of the group, and the others always deferred to his judgment. He radiated power; it was far more than the pure muscular strength of him, more than the image of the handsome, black-haired knight on his stallion. His power stemmed from an inner confidence, Solange thought. From the top of his hat down to his spurs he appeared to be a man of action, a man accustomed to leadership.

  And he was taking nothing for granted. He kept his unfathomable eyes pinned to the horizon, or making quick sweeps of the surroundings as they passed through each knoll, each valley. His men, she noticed, did the same, following his cues. It was the extreme opposite of Redmond's relationship with his men. They had respected him only as far as they feared him, and emulated him only to flatter him. It was a pattern she had seen again and again. Thank God she would never hear another fawning word spoken of the earl. She doubted she would be able to keep her silence in the face of such insincerity again.

  As night fell, they camped at the base of a small hill, the men unpacking their steeds with rapid efficiency. Solange kept her distance by making up a bed near Io­lande, politely refusing an offer of extra furs from both Godwin and Aiden. She wrapped her cloak around her and fell asleep almost immediately.

  Damon kept up a desultory conversation with God­win on the status of Wolfhaven after the others retired, occasionally poking a stick into the fire to send sparks flying up into the velvet sky.

  "Why don't you just bring her closer?" asked God­win bluntly after watching Damon's eyes linger wor­riedly on the sleeping form of Solange for what seemed to be the hundredth time. "It must be cold over there anyway."

  "She won't like it," Damon muttered.

  "She won't wake up," countered the steward.

  Another shower of sparks flew into the night. With an air of resolution Damon tossed the stick into the fire and strode over to Solange. She was curled up into a tight ball, one arm tucked under her head as a pillow.

  She had kept her hat on under the hood.

  Carefully he knelt and scooped her up in both arms, moving as smoothly as he could so he wouldn't jar her awake. He had wondered when the hard traveling would finally drain her, and the fact that she didn't even stir in his arms confirmed his fears. All she did was give a little sigh as her head came to rest against his chest. He carried her back to the fire, then stood un­certainly, unwilling to let go of her just yet.

  "I believe it is time for me to withdraw for the first watch, my lord," said Godwin in a low voice. "Good night." He stood up and walked away to the perimeter of the camp.

  Damon watched him go, then looked back down at the face of the sleeping woman in his arms. He crossed to his own pallet, made up of the extra furs garnered from his men. He had been going to cover her with them after she fell asleep. Now gently, slowly, he low­ered them both onto the pile, nesding her into the warm softness. He would sleep across from her, he de­cided, close enough to gather warmth from the fire.

  But when he tried to remove his arms from her, she whimpered and frowned fretfully, still fast asleep. When he tried again, she had the same reaction. He had no choice, he told himself. She obviously needed to rest, and if she awoke now, she might be too dis­turbed to fall back easily into slumber. It really was for her own good, Damon thought as he lay beside her. She would rather freeze from her own stubbornness than admit weakness, he knew. He had to protect her from herself.

  He lay on his side, facing her, her backside pressed against him. His arm against the ground cushioned her head while the other drew the furs over them both, then curled around her waist. Solange took the arm holding her and wrapped her own around it, hugging it to her chest. She let out another sigh, and this one sounded like contentment.

  Right now, for this stolen moment, he knew how she felt.

  Solange awoke in a different place from where she fell asleep. And although she woke up covered in furs, she had a distinct impression that something was lacking, something she couldn't quite articulate. She presumed she had been moved closer to the fire at some point during the night, and she couldn't help but be grateful, since the nights were growing colder and colder. Still, it was odd. Something was missing, but she had no idea what.

  It was early yet. Dawn broke with rising color to the eastern horizon, already tipping the treetops with rosy gold. Thrushes were trilling off in the forest, announc­ing the new day.

  Solange sat up, stretching. All the men were off a good distance, sitting on a fallen log, talking in low voices, and sharing a breakfast of hard biscuits. Damon rose and came over to her when he saw she was awake. His hair hung loose in smooth waves, setting off the tan of his face in a way that left her curiously short of breath, reminding her abruptly of that moment in Ca­lais when he rubbed her hands. He seemed to search her eyes for something, a line of worry creasing his brow.

  Wordlessly he handed her a biscuit. She accepted it, thanking him. He hesitated, then asked, "How did you sleep?"

  "Very well, thank you," she replied cordially. The morning air left puffs of frost hanging between them.

  He frowned, then turned on his heel and went back to the others.

  What a mystery the man was. She had thought from the kiss they shared yesterday that perhaps he did feel something for her, after all, but then with the change of a few hours he was back to treating her like a barely tolerated stranger. She could not make it out. Well, she refused to dwell on it. Never mind that the kiss had been one of the most amazing things she had ever ex­perienced. Never mind that she thought she might have died in perfect bliss right then.

  She would pay it no mind, because Damon obvi­ously didn't. Her heart hurt just a little at that, but she concentrated on getting ready to ride.

  Solange devoured the stale chunk of bread while checking on Iolande, then rushed through her morn­ing ablutions, wanting to be ready to go as soon as possible.

  It didn't take more than two days for her to real­ize they were headed in the wrong direction.

  She had planned this journey long enough to realize the problem was subtle but persistent. To be certain, she checked the path of stars repeatedly, and compared them to both the sun and the direction they were trav­eling. They weren't much off the proper route, but it would be significant enough to make them miss Iron-stag entirely by miles. Should she say something? It seemed peculiar that none of the men, seasoned sol­diers, she presumed, had noticed. Solange was slightly shocked to think that she would be the only one who knew how to navigate.

  Perhaps they were caught up in the worry of watch­ing out for the enemy. She hoped that was it.

  To make matters worse, the weather was about to change. That old familiar smell was back, as well as the numbness in the tips of her fingers. Snow was coming. She decided they couldn't afford to waste time mean­dering simply because she had to placate masculine pride. Th
ey had to reach sanctuary very soon. She would speak to Damon privately, and let him set the correct course.

  That evening after a meal of roasted pheasant, So­lange approached him instead of bedding down imme­diately, as was her habit. He was alone, off staring at the stars while his men argued cheerfully over the last hen.

  "May I have a word with you, my lord?"

  She glided silently into his view, the witch's element in her alive again. Starlight gilded her hair silver, lit her cheekbones, glistened on her lips. He found it painful to meet her eyes, impossible not to remember her kiss, her body, or that long, innocent night they shared of which she remembered nothing. He didn't reply to her question, merely nodded his head in acquiescence.

  "Damon, I am uncertain of how to say this to you."

  His attention honed in on her with jagged speed. "Yes?"

  She tilted her head to look up at him. "I believe we are headed the wrong way, somewhat too westerly. I didn't wish to say anything in front of the others, but if we keep going this way, we won't reach Ironstag in time."

  He fought against the disappointment, telling him­self he had no right to expect anything else from her. Certainly nothing personal. Certainly nothing so out­rageous as an admission of attraction, or love. Still, he had been expecting this particular conversation from her sooner or later, knowing how observant she was. He would have preferred it to have been later.

  "What do you mean, 'in time'?" he asked, stalling.

  "Winter is here. Snow is coming. We'll want to reach Ironstag before the first of the storms hit, which means we'll need to ride longer to make up for the lost time. We'll have about four days before it begins."

  The solution leapt out at him. It was so simple, he wanted to laugh with the discovery of it. He turned away from her to study the stars again. "If what you say is true," he said finally, "then Wolfhaven is much closer."

  She paused, considering this. "You would take me to Wolfhaven?"

  He heard the quiet wonder in her voice, and closed his eyes to hide the relief he felt. Let it work, he prayed, please, Lord, let it work. "It would seem to be best, don't you think?"

  She said nothing, but turned her head to follow his gaze to a slanted row of three glimmering stars: Orion's belt. Right now the constellation hung low in the sky, so close that it seemed on top of them, the eternal hunter returning with each winter season. It was her favorite constellation, had always been. He knew that.

  "At Wolfhaven," said Damon in his peaceful voice, "the spires touch the heavens. It's easy to believe you can reach out and sweep the stars from the sky into the palm of your hand."

  Longing filled her, a violent yearning for a place she had visited ten thousand times over in her dreams. J want this, she cried in her heart, please, let me have it now, at last. Let me have it for this small time and I'll be good forevermore.

  Oh, please.

  "Wolfhaven," she whispered, and it was all he needed to hear.

  Chapter Nine

  It was their secret place. None of the adults knew of it, none would guess that it was there, the thicket of briar bushes, a miniature valley of the richest green tucked up against a crumbling old Roman wall. They had to make a tunnel through the brambles to reach it and were rewarded with a long, hidden blanket of grass containing wondrous things: shiny ants, beetles with iridescent shells, quartz peb­bles both smooth and rough. Above them tiny birds with speckled throats sang in short, piercing bursts.

  She was young, very young, with Damon still a full head taller. He sat beside her, cross-legged in the grass. Blades of grass tickled her chin. But she wasn't happy. Damon was angry with her. Damon was upset, and that meant she was upset.

  Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled unchecked down her rounded cheeks. For once he did not comfort her, he would not hold her.

  I'm sorry, she sobbed, I'm sorry I did it. Please, Damon, I'm sorry . . .

  His boyish face was unchanged, condemning. You knew better, he said, I told you not to do it and you did anyway. That was very bad.

  No, she cried, and thought her heart would break.

  Bad girl, scolded Damon, but now he was a grown man, here in the thicket beside her, a huge man without the warm brown eyes of the boy she knew. The man's eyes were hard, glittering. They were filled with disgust.

  She reached out to touch him again, and now she was grown too, a woman's hand stretching for him, a woman's voice pleading with him. Please . . .

  He changed again, the boy and the man shifting, but re­maining the same person at once. Both of them rebuffed her, made her sit alone in the well of thick green grass, made her feel her punishment with the keen sharpness of a knife. Was it so bad, she wanted to say, was it that unforgivable? I had to do it! You are my life, please hold me again . . .

  But all he did was shake his head.

  No. Never again, never again . . .

  And in the distance, she heard the lonesome howl of the wolf. . .

  Solange jerked awake, covered in a cold sweat that molded her nightgown to her form and chilled her to the bone. The wolf cry she had heard in her dream came again, a haunting echo of forlorn depths, sending shivers to her soul.

  It was her first night at Wolfhaven, the first few hours still, she would guess, and the first time she had had the dream in many months. She hated waking up this way; she hated reliving the pain of loss over and over again. She had hoped this dream would have stayed behind at Du Clar, where it had been born. She didn't want to go through that again. Foolishly she had thought it would be vanquished now, but she was wrong.

  To calm herself, she wrapped a warm quilt around her and climbed out of the bed, going over to the gabled window overlooking a misty forest. The win­dow was already open; she had left it that way deliber­ately, uncaring if the cold air came in. At least there was air flowing, a breath of life in the room. She pushed the panes open wider and leaned her elbows on the sill, enjoying the briskness on her face. Beyond the forest and curving around to the south was the ocean, crashing against steep granite cliffs. The steady boom of the pounding surf carried over the treetops.

  Wolfhaven.

  Poised between the land and the sea, more savagely beautiful than even she could have imagined, Damon's druid castle felt right to her from the moment she set eyes upon it.

  It felt like home.

  Not like Ironstag, of course, that physical home of her birth and unsuspecting youth. Wolfhaven felt like the phantom home of things she barely remembered, times so far past she could never name them, ghosts of friends, companions. She recognized the blackened towers, she knew the elegant, sharp lines of the castle even as she looked upon them for the first time. Her spirit had cried out in gladness to be back here and she didn't question that. She didn't want to question any­thing at all, no doubts, no fears in her new life. She wanted to embrace everything joyfully, she wanted to replenish her life's blood here in these ancient halls. She didn't know how long she would be allowed to stay, but she would relish every moment.

  It was what she was supposed to do, she was sure of it.

  Damon's arrival at Du Clar had been an unexpected shock, doubled by the news of her father's death. Her knight's timing, however, could not have been more fortuitous as far as she was concerned. She had already made plans to leave the estate as soon as possible; his visit had merely speeded her decision by a day or so.

  She had planned to seek sanctuary in a convent, an English one if she could manage it, and had collected enough gold to ensure her welcome at any of them. But Henry's death ripped a sudden hole in these long-awaited plans, and then the decision to go to Ironstag instead had seemed natural.

  She would never have returned to the castle if her father were still alive. It was a sullen grudge, childish, no doubt, but anchored in a woman's fear of being re­turned to Du Clar without being heard, or, worse, without caring.

  Well, perhaps she had merely wanted to say good­bye. Looking back upon those final moments at Du Clar, Solange realized she
had acted without much thought at all but rather on pure instinct. She supposed Ironstag would have belonged to Redmond now, but she was certain she could have made it there and been gone again before his men showed up.

  But with a sudden turn of the stars Wolfhaven be­came home. She didn't miss Ironstag. It felt as if she was supposed to have been here all along. It had just taken her a few extra years to achieve it.

  Her room was open and airy, filled with things she naturally loved, as if someone—no, she amended to herself, as if Damon had placed each piece of furniture, each thick rug, each glowing tapestry with her in mind. Even the window, the large, gorgeous window, faced west into the sunset, her favorite view. It was an impossible thought, of Course. She wasn't so vain as to think he actually did decorate a room for her, since he could not have known she would ever be here. But perhaps some of her taste did reflect in this magical room. Perhaps he had remembered, and thought enough of it to, well, emulate it a little.

  Or perhaps she was just a stupid dreamer, she told herself firmly. He probably had nothing to do with the furnishings of any of the rooms. He was the marquess, after all, and decorating was women's work.

  Which led her to an interesting question. Was there a current Marchioness of Lockewood? She cupped her chin in her hand. He would have told her, she decided. She would have known somehow.

  She turned and gave a speculative look to a tall wooden door in the wall by the bed. It was not the door to the hallway outside, that one was over by the fireplace. This was a connecting door leading to an­other chamber. Another bedchamber.

  They had arrived long after the household had gone to bed, so late that the moon had already left the sky. Solange had been in a strange daze of excitement mixed with exhaustion. When she had her first view of Wolfhaven, satisfaction was added to the myriad emotions within her. But for all the glory and wonder the castle evoked, she barely had time to take it in, for by then the gates were being raised by the night guardsmen and Damon was ushering her inside, assuring her that Iolande would be well provided for.