A Rose in Winter

by Shana Abe

  Solange tilted her head and gave him a penetrating look. "I see. Tell me, who was that man?"

  "Howard Longchamp. He is emissary to Edward, here only on royal business. He will be gone soon."

  "Yes. That was abundantly clear."

  She said nothing more, only continued to examine him in that disturbing way. She was a charming witch, a cloud of tousled hair framed her face, her skin as pure as cream in the morning light. Without conscious will he found himself staring at her lips, wanting to taste them again.

  "You should go," he said slowly.

  "Should I?" She raised a winged brow.

  His body responded to her unspoken invitation immediately. Longchamp, he thought. "I have to get downstairs before he comes up again. We don't want him coming up."

  "No," she said.

  His mind was thick as soup this morning. She wasn't behaving like she was supposed to. She wasn't acting like a noblewoman who had just been compromised. She wasn't shrill, or overwrought, she didn't cry or scream in outrage; just the opposite, she seemed both relaxed and in good spirits. Amazing for a gentle­woman who had just been called a whore by a strange man when she was caught in another man's bed.

  But this was Solange, and she had always managed to surprise him. Damon shook his head to clear his thoughts. "I will send a maid to your room with some­thing appropriate for you to wear. I'm sorry, I must get ready or risk offending Longchamp, and thus Edward, further."

  He stood, picked up her nightgown and gave it to her, then politely turned his back as she put it on, even though he felt foolish doing it. When she was done, he offered his hand and walked her to the connecting door. They reached her room. Damon simply stopped and stared down at her.

  Solange was here, he thought again. His mind couldn't break that thought. She had come back to him, shared herself with him in the most intimate way a woman could with a man, and all he could do was tell her to go back to her room and dress. He was an idiot. He should be thanking her on his knees, telling her he worshiped her, that what they had shared was beyond anything he had ever known. None of the pretty phrases would leave his tongue; all was lost in the sheer improbability of the moment.

  She watched him struggle for words, golden eyes under a dark fan of lashes. Finally, what he said was: "This was my mother's room."

  He wanted to kick himself. Oaf, his mind chided, what a stupid thing to say.

  But she nodded. "Yes. It's perfect."

  He cleared his throat. "I'm glad you like it."

  The moment grew longer. They could both hear people out in the hallway again, greeting each other, starting the day.

  "Well, good-bye," he said, letting go of her hand.

  She held on. "Damon. Thank you."

  He could feel himself blushing like a schoolboy. " Thank you," he responded without meeting her eyes. He left.

  Howard longchamp was a notoriously bad loser. Damon expected to have to pay dearly for the morning, and he was not disappointed. When he ar­rived in the greatroom, he found Longchamp sprawled in a chair, nursing a black eye with a piece of raw mut­ton. Godwin stood beside him, weaving his clever blend of fact and ficdon, as usual. The rest of the hall was uneasily divided between Damon's men and the king's soldiers, each group clustered along either side of the main table, all of them grumbling.

  Damon was not worried about his side. Though a somewhat motley team of men, each was unquestion­ably loyal to him and none would act without his signal.

  The king's soldiers, however, might be a problem. Their pride had been stung with the blow to Long­champ, and men who had openly disliked the emissary before now smacked their fists into their hands and muttered that he had been done wrong. Thank God they were significantly outnumbered.

  And there was also the little matter of Damon's reputation to be considered. Although the years had significantly exaggerated his skill at battle, his talents at conquest, and his tactical prowess in general, there was a grain of truth or more in every rumor, and Damon was smart enough to make use of the legend when needed. Now looked like as good a time as any. Fortu­nately for him, the one part of the legend that was no exaggeration was the part about the demons inside of him. They drove him forward now, taking the stairs two at a time to reach his prey.

  Careful, he thought, attempting a mastery he wasn't feeling. He couldn't afford to alienate Longchamp completely, not in light of the mystery of Solange's de­parture from Du Clar. It was a weakness he didn't want exposed yet, not until he found out what actually hap­pened. Once he had the facts, he could determine a course of action. Until then, his hands were tied. There could be no doubt the story would spread sooner or later. He needed it to be later. If Longchamp met Redmond's soldiers, there could be hell to pay. He would have to placate the man as best he could.

  Damon was richly dressed in his usual black, the heraldry on his chest a silver wolf under a crescent moon. The conversation filling the room ceased as he appeared. He towered over most of the men around him. Many of the king's men Were more than a little in awe at their first sighting of the Wolf of Lockewood, who walked as if he commanded the entire kingdom, and not just this wild, unsettled portion of it.

  Longchamp saw him coming and removed the mut­ton from his eye. "Lockewood! Your conduct is scan­dalous, even for you! Edward is going to learn of this first thing! That you would attack a peer of the realm over nothing more than a common whore is insufferable!"

  All thoughts of tactical caution fled. Without break­ing his stride, Damon came up to the emissary and picked him up again by his tunic, a deliberate repeti­tion of his earlier actions. The men he passed shifted forward as one, but no one made a sound.

  "The lady is not a whore," Damon said in a deadly voice as he dangled Longchamp in the air. "If you refer to her once more, in any way whatsoever, you will find yourself on the far side of hell, am I clear enough for you?"

  The other man's face was changing from bright red to purple. "Yes, yes," he cried. "Quite clear!"

  Damon dropped him back into the chair. "Excel­lent. Now, read me your damned parchment and then get the hell out of my demesne." He crossed to the head chair at the main table and took his seat, where a servant immediately placed a mug of tea and plate of food before him. He ignored the crowd and began to eat.

  Longchamp cast a fearful but determined glance at a chest near his chair. "I will, of course, be taking the re­quired payment with me to the king."

  "Of course," interrupted Godwin with a grin. "It is all there for you, my lord, the same as when you counted it earlier."

  "Get on with it," Damon commanded in a bored voice.

  Longchamp had regained his composure enough to realize he still had the backing of Edward's men, which brought some of the former brashness back to him. "As the king's chosen man, it is up to me to decide the proper moment to begin." He reached hastily into a pocket of his cape and withdrew the parchment when Damon began to stand. "And that moment is now," he added. He broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper.

  The first part had to do with Damon's deeds on the field, a recounting of his infamous victories which Longchamp read in a suffocated voice. This was pure politics, a standard way to boost the recipient of any sort of royal gift. A vanity of Edward's, since Ironstag would not be a gift from him at all, and another exam­ple of his humor, to have Damon's bitter enemy recite his triumphs aloud before depleting his coffers. The scroll continued by going on to the Marquess of Iron-stag, naming him a loyal and worthy servant, a good man who had requested a boon from his bountiful king. This was the part that interested Damon.

  "Hear ye, hear ye," Longchamp read loudly. "Be it known that Our faithful servant Henry of Ironstag did request to break the entailment of his estate as a great favor from Us, and We did grant it to him afore he died. Therefore let it be known that Damon Wolf, Marquess of Lockewood, is hereby the sole heir to the grand estate of Ironstag. As penalty to this break, how­ever, We decree that Lockewood bestow upon Us the sum of one full year's p
rofit from the estate of Ironstag, to be paid to Our emissary by none but the marquess himself, at the time of the reading of Our decree by Our royal emissary."

  Damon sat back and continued eating.

  "Be it also known that at the behest of the late Mar­quess of Ironstag, the Lady Solange, Countess of Red­mond and sole offspring of Henry, shall be disinherited for as long as she shall remain wed to Stephen, Earl of Redmond, with the exception of any legitimate chil­dren from that marriage, who will each receive a single payment of a sum not to exceed the annual profit of the estate of Ironstag.

  "Furthermore, it is a condition of this royal decree that if she yet lives, the Lady Solange shall be wed to Damon Wolf, Marquess of Lockewood, in the unfor­tunate event of the earl's death, and being that the Marquess of Lockewood has not already wed."

  Damon choked on his tea. The rest of the men in the room erupted into comment, drowning out Long-champ's voice. Of all the faces in the room, only God­win's remained unchanged, his inscrutable smile firmly in place. Longchamp pounded petulantly on the arm of his chair, trying to regain control.

  "Read that part again," commanded Damon in a thundering voice, stilling the crowd.

  Longchamp obeyed, barely able to conceal his glee that the Wolf of Lockewood had been trapped into wedlock with a woman he surely had not seen since childhood. May she be fat and pockmarked, he thought vengefully as he read. May she have a brood of unpleasant children to reduce his estate to nothing! May she always remember the touch of another man, her first husband, and so will slowly kill Lockewood by breaching his damnable pride!

  Damon couldn't believe it. He searched his memory, trying to recall any hint in his last conversa­tion with Henry that he had planned something like this. Nothing, not a single clue could have prepared him for this blow. Marry Solange! She would never stand for it. She would run away first, rather than be tied down again, he knew it.

  But underneath the initial shock grew a pool of cool, collected thought. It was the Wolf in him, rescu­ing him once more.

  Why not marry her? asked the Wolf. You want her, and now between them Edward and Henry have ensured that you may have her. She really has no say in the matter at all. She is only a woman, and so has no legal right to decide her fu­ture. It was in her best interest to have her father and her king look after her.

  And they had chosen him to do it.

  If you have to, continued the ruthless Wolf, you should lock her up until she sees reason. Convince her of the soundness of the plan. Explain to her logically that she has no alternatives. Ultimately she'll have no choice but to do it. She needs your protection now, and this is the best way to give it to her. It will be for her own good.

  Longchamp had stopped reading aloud, mouthing the last words of the document to himself in delighted disbelief. Damon was alert to this, but Godwin was on top of it, reading over Longchamp's shoulder the final section of the decree. His face tightened unpleasantly. He threw Damon a warning look.

  "Furthermore, We take it upon Ourselves to an­nounce," called out Longchamp, resuming his role, "independent from the will of the late Marquess of Ironstag, that if the Lady Solange be eligible, and if the Marquess of Lockewood be eligible, that should either party refuse the lawful union of them both, one or the other or both shall be brought to the royal court to deal with Us, and shall be taken by force if need be."

  "What union?" asked a clear, resolute voice.

  All heads turned. Solange stood still at the entrance to the hall, silhouetted by a patch of sunlight from the archer's hole high above. She had been given the gown of someone's wife, a bliaut of cranberry-colored brocade with black corded trim. The gown underneath showed a deeper red as she walked farther into the room, toward Damon.

  It took him a moment to adjust to the sight of her dressed as a woman again, but the color and the flow­ing lines of the gown suited her immeasurably. She had left her hair to hang in one thick plait down her back, but had placed two combs of silver on either side of her temples to hold the soft strands in place. She ap­peared regal, dignified, and puzzled.

  "What union is he referring to, my lord?" she asked Damon again.

  "This matter does not concern you, woman," said Longchamp arrogantly with a cautious look to Damon.

  "I think it does," she countered, giving him a frown. "You spoke of a union for the Lady Solange."

  "So?"

  Damon was up and out of his seat already, but he couldn't reach her in time. Even Godwin was attempt­ing to catch her attention. She spared them both a wary look, then faced Longchamp with her hands on her hips.

  "I am the Lady Solange. Tell me your news."

  Chapter Ten

  You are the lady solange?" Longchamp dropped the royal parchment to the stone floor.

  All hell erupted in the hall. Everyone was talking at once, some shouting to be heard, while Longchamp had risen to his feet, staring at Solange with an open mouth.

  Damon and Godwin reached her at the same time, both of them taking her arms and trying to get her to leave before the noise died down and Longchamp could question her further.

  "What is happening?" Solange tried to shake them off.

  "A little time, my lady," Godwin pleaded.

  "Go back to your chambers, Solange, and I will come up and talk to you when this is settled." Damon was practically dragging her away.

  "No, you will talk to me now, my lord! Or I will talk to the emissary myself!" With a quick twist she wrenched free of them both and whirled around, headed back to the center of the room.

  "My lady! My lady!" Longchamp's voice could now be heard above the roar. The men calmed almost im­mediately, all wanting to hear what would happen next.

  Godwin looked at Damon and shrugged. Damon walked to stand beside Solange, his look flinty.

  "Do you mean to tell me," Longchamp was saying incredulously, "that you are the Lady Solange, Count­ess of Redmond?"

  "I am."

  "Daughter of Henry, late Marquess of Ironstag?"

  "That is correct." Impatience tinged her voice.

  Longchamp shook his head. "This is beyond any­thing. Lockewood, do you comprehend the sin you have committed? You've taken another man's wife! Openly! Shamelessly!"

  "It wouldn't be the first time," said someone from Damon's side, and muffled laughter wound its way around the room. Longchamp turned beet red.

  "I am no one's wife," Solange called out. "I am a widow, visiting an old friend on the way to my father's estate."

  Damon sighed, partly with relief. It was all over now, he supposed. He took Solange by the hand. "My lady will agree to the terms of Edward's decree, as will I. There is no need for force."

  "What terms?" she demanded.

  The countess did not look pleased with the turn of events, Longchamp noticed. Perhaps she was not en­amored of Lockewood after all. If he were lucky, she would resist the marriage, and he would have the plea­sure of her company all the way back to London. It would be small pittance against what Lockewood had put him through, but better than nothing.

  She was quite lovely. And if she was willing to share her body with the Wolf, then why not with him too? After all, Longchamp thought, he possessed a certain masculine charm that pleased the ladies, or so he had been told. Yes, it could be quite a diverting trip. . . .

  Damon looked down at his future bride and decided to answer her question. "Marriage," he said succinctly. "King Edward has decreed that you and I shall be wed. Would you care for some breakfast?"

  "What!"

  "My cook sets a very fine table. You must be fam­ished. Your last meal was lunch yesterday. Allow me, my lady?" Without giving her a chance to respond, he pulled her to his table, bending his head low to whisper in her ear. "Don't fight me now, Solange. Just let me get this man out of here and I will tell you everything."

  "Marriage," she repeated aloud. "Marriage to you?"

  "Breakfast for the countess," Damon instructed a nearby serving girl. "Yes, to me. May I suggest a sp
e­cial tea to accompany your meal? I blended it myself."

  "My lady, have you any children?" inquired the emissary hopefully.

  "No. No, I don't. Would someone please explain to me what is going on?"

  Godwin was there, reassuring. "Our astute and good king has decided my lord would make you a fine hus­band, my lady. He has sent his man to tell us so himself."

  Damon handed her a mug of steaming tea. "Take a sip," he encouraged.

  She put the mug down. "But this makes no sense. Why would the king bother with me?"

  Longchamp gathered the parchment and his cape together. If he couldn't have the woman, then the least he could do was to see to it that Lockewood would have to fulfill his sentence as soon as possible. "I think it far past the time you were wed, Marquess. We wouldn't want anyone to cast aspersions on the countess's honor, would we?"

  "Anyone who did that would be a dead man as soon as I discovered it," Damon said silkily. "But I am in full agreement with you for once, Longchamp. Fetch the priest, by all means."

  "The priest?" Solange echoed faintly.

  Damon held the mug up to her lips. She stared down into the steamy contents and saw the reflection of a frightened sixteen-year-old girl, a girl who had been sold off into marriage in a manner much like what was happening to her now. But that girl had been an innocent, nothing more than a pawn between two pitiless men.

  That was nine years ago. The woman today pushed the mug away from her face. "I will not be coerced like this."

  "Then I shall be forced to take you to London with me, my lady, to meet with King Edward himself. And he will be most unhappy to see you, I am certain." Longchamp stomped back to the table with the mutton on it and slapped the meat back over his eye.

  "He cannot make me go with him?" She made it a question to Damon.

  "Aye, he can. Edward granted him that power. I be­lieve you heard that part of the reading." He placed the tea in front of her and covered her hands with his own.

  This couldn't be happening to her again. She wasn't ready for this. Never in her most fanciful dreams had she imagined that Damon would take her to bride. Even after last night she had not expected it. Things were unfolding here too fast. Damon had no real idea of what he would be getting with her. She needed time to consider what would be best.