by Shana Abe
She had declined food or drink, wanting only to lie down somewhere, anywhere, and sleep forever. The other men looked as tired as she felt and scattered to their own corners of the castle almost immediately. Damon did not press her for refreshments, but instead took her straight to this chamber. He lit the fire for her himself while she stood swaying wearily in the center of the room. Then he took her gently by the shoulders and led her over to the bed. He looked closely at her, unsmiling, and bid her a good night.
Then he left.
Solange tried now to remember which door he had exited. She thought it might have been the connecting door, but at the time she had paid no attention. All she had wanted to do was strip herself of her dirty clothing and fall into the softness of the feather bed. A maidservant had come by—or was that her imagination? No, because she was wearing a nightgown, a pretty thing of fine pale blue wool, and she had brought none to wear. Also, she didn't feel the grime of the trail as she should. She had taken a quick sponge bath, that's right. The maid had brought the gown and pitcher of water, yes, there it was, on the table, and then left without saying a word. She had definitely left through the hall door.
With the quilt trailing behind her, Solange walked over to the connecting door. It had a plain iron handle, she noted, which opened easily to her touch.
Behind it was a second bedchamber, just as she guessed. If anything, it was bigger than her own, sparsely furnished, and as familiar to her as could be. The figure in the bed was silent, unmoving, a dark shape she couldn't make out. Nevertheless, she had no doubts about who lay there sleeping. This was Damon's room.
It had the spareness typical of his style, a simplicity of design both masculine and elegant. He had a matching window here to the one in her room, with the same view. She saw a few scattered rugs of muted colors, solid wooden furniture, one or two massive trunks, and—this was new to her—a rather daunting collection of weaponry on the far wall, from crossbows to gauntlets to spiked morning stars.
But he had also kept the things she remembered. There was his vast pharmacopoeia, now taking up an entire wall. He had made a clever rack for them out of jointed, crisscrossing wooden planks that reached from floor to ceiling. Some of the jars and pouches still had her inked cards in front of them, balanced in the nooks.
She also saw the row of stones, placed on a far table, and beside them was the handkerchief, a small square banner of her love for him, faded and frayed but still kept after all this time.
Of all the things to keep, she thought regretfully, I left him with that sorry little bit of cloth. It should have been so much more.
The sadness overtook her without warning, the bittersweet heat of it blurring her vision, making her press both hands over her mouth to stifle the cry. She turned back to the door, grabbing up the quilt with hasty hands, trying to make no noise at all as she retreated.
"Solange," came the quiet call from the bed.
She stopped, stunned to the core.
"Come here," Damon said.
She didn't move. She couldn't move.
"Please," he added in a ragged whisper.
She had to do something. She had to decide. Behind her she heard him move the blankets off him, heard him stand up.
She was out of time and out of options. This was what you wanted all along, whispered a knowing little voice inside of her, this is the real reason you opened the door. You should at least he honest with yourself.
Solange straightened her shoulders and dropped the quilt. It fell in cushioned folds to the ground at her feet.
She was breathing rapidly, though from fear or anticipation she couldn't tell. Turn around, the voice scolded, turn around and face him, he deserves that.
So she did, standing in the well of the fallen quilt. The nightgown twisted at her feet, forming a sheath that hugged her body with sudden appeal, leaving him to halt halfway between her and the bed. To her extreme embarrassment, she saw that he was nude. After one mortified glance downward, she kept her eyes trained on his face.
"Solange," he said again, and this time all the raw need he felt was apparent. "If you don't want me to shut that door behind you forever, you had better leave now."
She licked her dry lips. "I don't want to leave."
Still, he didn't come over to her. His eyes glittered with an inner heat in the darkness, his hands clenched to fists at his sides. "You don't understand what I'm saying to you. I made a mistake when I called to you. Go back to your bed."
She responded by taking one careful step out of the quilt, then the other. The nightgown swirled free, briefly highlighting the outline of her figure as she came forward. She closed the short distance between them, stopping a foot away to search his face.
"I understood what you said, Damon Wolf. I don't want to go back. I want to be here. With you."
His jaw clenched tight. He was speechless, part incredulous, part ravenous. Damon had awoke from a dream of childhood hiding places to find her standing in the darkness of his chamber, and for a time the dream lingered; she had seemed a part of it. When she had moved to leave, he had called to her without thinking, only wanting.
That was his weakness, the want. He would never be able to escape it.
"Please." A soft shiver took her, causing her to hug her arms to her chest. "I'm so cold."
He had no resistance. It was Damon who took the last step needed to bring them together. As he pulled her into his arms, all she felt was a fervent elation to be doing this at last, no regrets, no sorrows to trail her. Tonight she would live again, she would do the thing she was meant to do from before time, when the stars were just a thought in the universe.
He kissed her with all the passion he had shown before, and she relished it, returned it to him twice over. She kissed his face, his neck, used her arms to pull herself higher, to reach all of him that she could. Before she knew it, he had picked her up, cradled her to his chest as he carried her over to the bed.
She didn't want to let go of him when he bent over to place her amid the blankets, but he gave a crooked smile and allowed her that, moving in beside her and then lifting her tenderly up to his body. She gasped in wonderment at feeling the length of him against her, all hard muscle and sinewy lines. Her hands found his head and held him for her kiss, meshed with his silken hair. The clean scent of him surrounded her, intoxicated her.
His hands caressed her body through the gown, leaving a heated trail wherever they went. She wanted more, the nightgown was confining her, so she began to tug it off. Damon stopped her by capturing both of her wrists in one hand and pulling her arms gently above her head.
"Not yet," he said huskily. "Let me do it."
He kissed her again, a heated lingering, and outlined her lips with the tip of his tongue. She opened her mouth willingly in response and he groaned with approval, plunging in deeper. She thought she would burst into flame at his tantalizing rhythm, but he wasn't going to give her what she wanted yet. She tugged lightly against his grip on her wrists. Damon shook his head with a teasing smile. Instead, his free hand began to trace a sensitive path up her legs, stroking her skin in velvet sweeps, exploring every part of her that his fingers could reach. He pushed the nightgown up to her waist, then resumed his quest, drawing lazy circles farther and farther up her legs until she was trembling with anticipation.
When he found her delicate center and began to rub, she gave a breathless cry, half embarrassed, half exalted. He silenced her with his lips, keeping up the relentless plunging of his fingers again and again into her moistness, always withdrawing to renew his caress on the little bud of her pleasure.
He watched her face, captivated by her response. She was everything he had dreamed she would be. Her eyes were closed, as if she could hide herself from her own reaction to him. She was gorgeous, highly erotic in spite of herself, her lips full and wet from his, her mouth slightly open. He had never seen such a natural response given in passion; she was innocent and wanton a
ll at once, a combination that aroused the blaze in him immeasurably. He was stiff and throbbing, already on the brink.
Without releasing her hands he shifted until his head was at her breasts. He blew on the finely woven gown, finding her nipples delightfully hard. He covered one with his lips and began to suck through the material, tugging at her lightly with his teeth.
The effect upon her was immediate. Her back arched up to meet him while her head turned to the side. "Please," she whispered, over and over. "Oh, please . . ."
He couldn't wait any longer. In one smooth motion he released her wrists and pulled the gown over her shoulders until she was free of it, tossing it aside. She was magnificent, just as he had known she would be. Her breasts were firm and full, inviting him to take their rosy tips into his mouth. Her stomach was flat but still soft, her downy triangle of dark hair led to long, lean legs, legs that he envisioned cradling him.
"My God, you are so beautiful," he said reverently with every ounce of truth in him.
Her eyes opened. "You are more beautiful," she replied seriously.
He gave a muffled laugh, but her hands were on him then, skimming his body until she found his manhood. His laughter soon gave way to an anguished moan as she began to caress him. After a few seconds he had to stop her.
"Solange, you are driving me insane. I cannot be responsible for the consequences if you keep that up."
Her voice was filled with admiration. "You are the most amazing man ever created. I want to know all of you. . . ."
He moved on top of her with an urgency he couldn't disguise, pushing her legs apart with his knees until he found the wet entrance, trying to go as slowly as he could manage. She was so tight, so incredibly tight around him. He gritted his teeth and pushed all the way in, burying himself to the hilt. He thought he might die right then from holding back, the pleasure and the agony were so great.
She clung to him but remained very still, as if aware of his precarious hold on his will. Both of them were breathing in rapid, shallow pants. He began to move in short thrusts, drawing out each stroke a little longer than the last. Her legs drew up and her arms tightened around him. She pressed her face into his shoulder.
At that instant everything else melted away: all the anger, all the misery of the past, all his fears for the future. There was only her beneath him, only Solange in his whole world, only the movements they shared, the building peak of liquid fire between them, leading forward in a harmony of kisses and murmured endearments. She was as fragile as etched crystal, as hot as the blue heart of a flame, he wanted to fill her with himself until she was nothing but him, could never be anything but his.
Her hips twisted to match his rhythm as she gasped his name and threw back her head, clenching around him in pulsing ecstasy, and he thrust deep and hard, learning her, loving her, giving himself up to her in a blinding moment that peaked and shimmered throughout his entire body, so deeply inside of her, he could not tell where he ended and where she began. It didn't matter anymore.
"Damon," she said against his shoulder. He rolled them both over carefully, still joined, facing each other. He stroked her back, felt her body relax; grow still, her breathing slow to a steady deepness. He withdrew from her slowly, pulled the blankets over them both.
Hazy thoughts of getting up, of returning her to her room buzzed through his head, but before he could gather the strength to leave her arms, Damon himself slipped away into a heavy slumber, lulled by the precious feel of her breath against his chest, comforted by the warmth of her body against his, right where she belonged.
Someone was pounding on his door. No one should have been at his door at this hour, partly because the gray light of the room indicated that it was still indecently early, and partly because Braeden, his squire, was supposed to be sleeping on a pallet blocking the entrance to prevent just such a thing from happening.
Damon covered his eyes with one hand and groaned inwardly. For some reason, the lassitude of sleep would not leave him. He felt warm and safe and completely unwilling to leave his bed. Had he retired last night so late? He didn't usually need very much sleep—
Solange! He bolted upright, heart pounding, but there she was, beside him still, curled up tightly against him with the blankets pulled up to her chin, showing all the trust of a child. She stirred and stretched, let out an adorable yawn. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Solange was in his bed, here, at Wolfhaven.
Solange had spent the night with him.
"My lord! My lord, please wake up!" It was the voice of his squire and the mutterings of others. The pounding continued unabated.
Solange had spent the night with him and now someone, several someones from the sound of it, was about to find out about it.
Damon climbed out of the bed, grabbed a blanket for warmth, and strode to his door. "Go away," he said distinctly.
"Lockewood, is that you? I demand you appear this instant. I have awaited your leisure long enough!"
"It is Longchamp, my lord," came a new voice heavy with irony. That would be Godwin. "I think he wants to meet with you rather badly."
"For a month I have endured the somewhat questionable hospitality of your castle, Lockewood, and I have had enough! I told your men to awaken me as soon as you returned, and yet they deliberately disobeyed my command! It is outrageous!"
"I will be out shortly," Damon said. "Go away."
"You will be out now, by order of His Majesty King Edward!" Longchamp blustered.
Across the room, Solange was sitting up in the bed, wide-eyed, holding the blankets up to her chest. She began to look around frantically for a place to escape.
"Stay," Damon mouthed to her, then turned back to the door. "Howard, I have told you I will be down soon. That will have to be good enough."
"It is not good enough! I was told you would be back from France soon, as well, but it took you three weeks! I wish to quit this accursed place the moment I have discharged my duty! If you do not open the door right now, I will read the royal parchment here in the hallway, and collect the gold from your coffers myself!"
As soon as the man mentioned the parchment, Damon was working the lock on the door, furious at both Longchamp's audacity and the possibility that he would spill the secret of Ironstag to the unwitting ears of Solange before he was ready to tell her.
He swung the door open and blocked the entrance with his body. "As you may see," he said coldly, "I am not yet ready for an official meeting with His Majesty's emissary. I require time to dress."
Howard Longchamp was a thin man with narrow eyes, which were now even narrower in anger. "I will await you inside your chamber! I want no wily tricks to keep me pacing downstairs for you. The day is already clear for traveling, and my men and mounts are ready. All I need is your attention—" With sudden force Longchamp pushed against the door, taking Damon by surprise with his rudeness. The handle pulled free from his grasp and Longchamp shouldered forward triumphantly, followed by a jostling mass of his men and Damon's.
The entire tableau froze at a feminine cry of distress coming from the bed, and a flurry of blankets covering the form huddled there. Longchamp paused, taking in the scene, then finished his sentence. "—and your gold."
"Get out," Damon ground out, coming toward him.
"Really, man." Longchamp affected a pose of indifference he was far from feeling. "Your whore can stay or go, I care not."
Without a word Damon picked up the man by his tunic and threw him across the threshold, where he slammed against the wall in the hallway.
"Oh, dear," said Godwin mildly. "He's going to have such a headache when he awakens."
"All of you, out!" Damon ordered, infuriated. "Godwin! See to it that this thing"—he indicated the crumpled form of Longchamp—"is attended to below stairs. Gather up the damn gold and give to him! I will be down soon!"
"Aye, my lord." With a respectful bow Godwin left, pushing the others out in front of him. He shut the door with a quiet
click. Damon locked it.
God, what a mess. From under the blankets he could make out the shivering form of Solange. He hurried over to her, eager to reassure her, doubly eager to find out what she had managed to put together from the conversation she had heard.
The blankets quivered and shook, alarming him. It must have been an appalling experience for her, to be exposed like that to a coarse group of men. He would be lucky if she wasn't in hysterics.
He sat on the side of the bed and placed his hands firmly on her trembling form. "Everything is all right. They're gone now, all of them."
She didn't reply, but did raise her head to show just her eyes peering out at him from the covers. He tried a reassuring smile. "You can come out."
The eyes were followed by the rest of her, but she doubled over with her face to the bed. He was presented with the smoothness of her bare back framed by long, dark hair.
He felt completely inept. "It's my fault. I was a fool to open the door in the first place. Damn that man, he's been a thorn in my side since—well, for years now. But don't take what he said to heart, my sweet. He was just—"
Solange drew in a great whoop of air, and released it in a gale of laughter that rang to the rafters.
He stared down at her, astonished. She was laughing so hard that tears sprang to her eyes. She reached out one hand and held on to his arm, then withdrew it quickly back to the covers, giggling still. "If you had but seen his face when he saw me," she began.
"He saw you?"
"Aye! But only for a moment. But his face, Damon! He looked as if you had punched him full in the stomach! I've never seen such bulging eyes!"
Damon had to smile a little at the picture she described. "Well. You do somewhat resemble his wife, you see."
"Really?"
"Only in the most superficial way. You are far lovelier than she could ever hope to be."
"Poor lady, to be married to such a pompous fool. I quite feel sorry for her."
"Don't," he said curtly. "She has plenty of diversions to entertain her."