A Rose in Winter

by Shana Abe

  "Well, why don't you just grow them yourself?"

  "I have thought of that. But we've needed all our farmers and fields for edible or tradable crops. Right now Wolfhaven cannot spare the men for a field of medicinal herbs."

  "I could do it."

  "What?" She had taken him by surprise, she could tell.

  "Give me a small plot of land. I could tend to your herbs for you."

  "Solange, don't be silly. I don't expect you to work in the soil."

  "I want to."

  "You are the Marchioness of Lockewood."

  "I'm still Solange, my lord. You grew up with me. You above all know of my lavish skills in such fascinat­ing pastimes as sewing and lute playing."

  He shook his head. "I know your skills for getting what you want, my lady."

  "You need the crops. I want to do it. What harm is there?"

  She was so serious and so earnest at once. How could he deny the reasonableness of her request? She had defined his problem and pinned down a solu­tion with the cool logic that marked most of her convictions.

  "It would have to be a small plot to begin with," he said cautiously.

  "Oh, of course. I have seen a stretch of land out by the line of the forest—"

  "No. I'll rebuild the wall around the abandoned garden next to the buttery. It's fallen in many places, but the damage is not irreversible. I do not want you working unprotected, or far from home."

  "Thank you, my lord." She gazed serenely ahead. " 'Tis a wise decision from all sides."

  He tried a small joke. "Wisdom is one of my spe­cialties, you know."

  She gave him a sideways look, suddenly awash in sunlight. "Yes, I suspected as much. Your clever at­tempts to hide it did not fool me."

  He gave a shout of laughter, drawing amazed looks from the seasoned soldiers riding behind them. Few had ever heard him laugh so loudly before, and none had seen such open affection from him to any woman. It was still new to them, this lighthearted side of their Wolf, but none begrudged him it.

  Damon's soldiers knew of the years he had endured, for they had been there beside him. Every one of them had a story to tell about him, how he saved this man's leg with a poultice, or that man's life with a mace in battle. He had collected friends the way most men in court collected enemies, scattered and brought to­gether from every corner of the empire. Each one would have gladly repaid him with their lives, for they figured they owed it to him in one manner or another.

  They were those who were cast aside, men without homes or allegiances, most enlisting in Edward's forces for lack of any other means to earn a meal. Sullen and suspicious when Damon had joined their ranks, one by one they had been drawn to him, to his ruthless fight­ing style, his easy way of treating all men as equals, and perhaps most significantly, to the shadow of pain that lived in his eyes that the men recognized as a spirit kin­dred to themselves.

  Before long, soldiers were waiting on lists to serve under the Wolf. He would take any who wanted to come and fight with him, did his best by them, and al­ways regretted their loss.

  When Edward finally granted his petition for Wolfhaven—with much grousing about being de­prived of his best warrior—Damon announced to his men that anyone who was free to come with him was welcome. He made it clear the castle was in ruins, the land was raw and remote, but this stopped none of them. Many had wives already, a few with children. They all came.

  It had instantly transformed the abandoned castle into a home, albeit a ramshackle one. Local peasantry at first abhorred the intrusion, then embraced it and the new system of work Damon brought. Farmers were eager to cultivate their lots, supplied with the seeds that the marquess gave them. The herds of sheep began to slowly multiply, bringing back the wool trade that Wolfhaven had been known for.

  There was still so much more to do. And now Solange wanted to help, Damon realized. She wanted to be a part of it all, and had come up with this way to be useful. A tendril of something uncurled in his chest, something he had not even been aware of before. It let him breathe easier, a little deeper than he had been used to.

  Solange wanted to help him. She wanted to stay and build up their home.

  He sat back in his saddle and let the mild warmth of the sun soak into his bones.

  Up on a hill, far from the caravan of people going down the forest path, was a broad oak tree no different from any of the other trees that composed these woods. But behind this tree hid a lone man who watched the group go by with sly elation, and then vanished into the woodland.

  "Marchioness?"

  Solange looked up from the paper she had been studying and making periodic notes upon. She placed her quill upon the table. "Yes?"

  It was one of the women; Solange racked her mind to think which one, but couldn't remember. The one with the brown hair and blue eyes who liked to sing? Or was it play the lute?

  The lady smiled shyly. "I am Mairi, my lady, we have met a few times before."

  "Yes, of course. Please do come in." Her fingers were stained with ink and she had nothing to wipe them on but her skirts, which she couldn't do because they were one of the new outfits sewn for her, and she hadn't the heart to ruin it just yet. "Oh, bother," she muttered, looking around for her tattered handkerchief.

  "Allow me, my lady." Mairi produced a white square of cloth from her sleeve.

  "Oh, no, I couldn't," Solange said awkwardly, envi­sioning the permanent black smudges.

  "I insist." Mairi held the cloth out, still smiling. "I have many."

  "Ah. Thank you." Solange took it carefully between two fingers.

  The other woman appeared to become shy again, gazing down at her feet. Solange stared at her bent head, somewhat taken aback.

  It was the first time one of the women of the castle had sought her out, certainly the first time any of them had been to her personal chamber.

  That afternoon she had turned a corner by the win­dow into a workplace for her garden, setting up a com­fortable table and chair to take in the view as she planned. It was considerably more complicated than she had first anticipated, but instead of being daunted, she was excited. She was going to work with living things, nurturing them. She was going to be useful.

  "I know the rug is of intricate design," said Solange gently, "but I don't think it warrants such a flattering inspection. Won't you sit down?"

  Mairi gave an embarrassed laugh. "Thank you, Marchioness."

  "Please call me Solange."

  "Solange. Are those the plans for your garden?"

  "Oh, yes! Have you heard of it, then?"

  "Indeed I have. It's the reason I have come to see you."

  Solange raised her eyebrows. "Have you gardening experience, Mairi?"

  The lady leaned forward in her seat. "I grew up on a country estate, my la—Solange." She took a deep breath, as if to deliver bad news. "I am the daughter of a gardener."

  "That's wonderful! Can you help me, then? I have no gardening experience at all, you see, merely a great deal of enthusiasm."

  "You don't mind that I'm not nobility?"

  "I should think not! If you were nobility, for one thing, you would probably know just as much about gardening as I. How lovely that at least one of us knows what to do. Will you help?"

  "Why, yes, I would be pleased to." They exchanged happy looks. Solange indicated her papers on the table.

  "You could help me map it out if you like, and tell me which plants would best grow where. I don't think you'd much like the sowing part, however," she con­tinued doubtfully.

  "Oh, no, quite the contrary," replied Mairi in her soft voice. "Sowing is the best part, I find. My father taught me from a young age to appreciate the miracle the Lord has made our soil. I'm afraid I'm very much the peasant, for I do still long to plant and seed. That is why I came to you when I heard the news of your garden."

  "Well, then I am just as much peasant as you, for I am very much looking forward to it also. Would you care for something to eat or drink?"

&
nbsp; The afternoon passed in pleasant degrees; a new friendship began unfurling between the two women. For Solange it was a novel experience, and one she was to forever cherish. As the light faded into dusk and they parted for supper, each was aware of another like herself nearby, one more friendly soul in a world that should be filled with them.

  At the great table during dinner Solange mentioned to Damon her meeting with Mairi. "Which one is she?" he asked, scanning the faces of the women in the crowded hall.

  "There, next to Robert. The pretty one in the yel­low gown."

  "Oh, yes. I recognize her. She's Robert's sister, in fact. Came here last summer."

  "As recently as that?"

  "She is a widow. Her husband died and she had no­where else to go."

  Solange leaned around Damon to take a better look at Mairi, who was eating quietly next to her brother at a table near the end of the room. She glanced up, and their eyes met. Solange waved happily. Mairi waved back.

  "She's very nice. I think she'll be a great help with the herbs, my lord. I am surprised you have not pre­vailed upon her knowledge yet to cultivate some."

  "I had no idea of her background, Solange. I never inquired into it. Robert simply told me he wanted to bring his widowed sister here, and I approved. That was all."

  Solange turned back to him. "You'll take in anyone, won't you?"

  The kindness in her voice embarrassed him. "I could not refuse her. She was a woman in need."

  "Not many would care about that."

  "Nonsense, my wife. Any true gentleman has a care for his fellow creatures."

  "You are correct," she agreed. "But perhaps you are unaware of how few gentlemen there are."

  Damon took her hand. "Nay, I know too well."

  "Then you understand why I am the most fortunate of women, my lord."

  His focus on her sharpened, creating that familiar fluttering in her stomach. He raised her hand to his lips. "Come upstairs with me, Solange," he said huskily.

  "In the middle of the meal? What will everyone think?"

  He stood, raising her with him. "Only that J am the most fortunate of men, my dear."

  In the bedroom he stripped her slowly, uncovering her layer by layer, as if in search of a greater treasure behind each movement. She was so perfect, so damn perfect for him, Damon thought, and the way she kissed his fingers, his knuckles, his arms whenever they passed near her lips had him shaking already with desire.

  When at last she stood before him in the discarded pool of her gowns, she showed no shame at her naked­ness. Calm and trusting as a doe in the wild, she watched him with glowing eyes, followed his move­ments as he tore off his own clothes and then knelt be­fore her. Her hand came to rest upon his head, her fin­gers threaded through the shimmering black waves in a lingering caress. He cradled her body with his palms, running over the smooth muscles in her legs, the sweet curves of her buttocks. He slipped one hand between her thighs and parted them, then ran the edge of his hand higher, massaging her until her hips arched toward him and she was gasping.

  Keeping his hand in place, he traced the roundness of her navel with his tongue and traveled downward, amazed again at the contrast of her shapely lines im­bued with purity, enthralled with the pattern of her breathing as he kissed her lower, past the dark triangle that marked her apex, until he had her parted before him and she clutched at his shoulder and begged him to rise.

  He wouldn't. She tasted like nectar and Solange, a unique thing he had never experienced, and but for the driving ache in his loins, he wanted never to end. Over and over he massaged her tender nub with his lips and his tongue, using both hands now to cup her bottom and bring her closer to him.

  She stood with her eyes closed, wanting him to cease his tormenting and yet not wanting him to.

  "Damon," she gasped. The world was him, only him, and the pleasure jolted her so much that she thought she might fall, but she didn't care, because he was there, ready to catch her.

  As the last tremor shook her, he stood and picked her up in his arms and carried her to the table, because it was closest to them, and he had to have her then, right then.

  He sat her on the edge of the table and then placed himself before her. He was stiff and throbbing with need for her, which made his hands a little rough as he pushed her legs apart and entered her wetness.

  The urgency made him thrust deep with a single stroke, penetrating her as far as he could. Her legs were spread wide to accommodate him, her arms back on the table to support herself as he withdrew, and came again, and again, a heavy rhythm that rocked them both to the core.

  Her head tilted back. Her eyes were closed again, but he couldn't stop looking at her face, at her breasts, at their joining, his beautiful wife, his haunting Solange, who panted now and licked her lips and moved her hips to take in more of him.

  And the rhythm filled him, controlled him, flooded his senses until he was the rhythm and nothing more, a simple, powerful thing that was dark and salty and painfully exquisite.

  He bent over her and buried his head in her neck, letting the passion empty him, spilling himself into her with a glorious abandon. She arched into him with a small cry, and he felt the rapid pulses of her own cli­max, squeezing the last ounce of ecstasy from him.

  For a long while they remained locked in that posi­tion, neither willing to end the embrace. Only when he noticed the skin on her arms began to grow cold did he separate from her.

  "You are incredible," he said, pulling her off the ta­ble to stand in his arms. She had no reply to this but to shake her head, smiling in a bemused sort of way that made him kiss her once more.

  "Come, I don't want you to take a chill." He took her to the bed and left her half buried beneath the largest fur he could find while he gathered up her clothing. She looked ridiculously young, with flushed cheeks from love and sparkling eyes; she reminded him vividly of the girl he used to know who thought noth­ing of stealing out at night to count the stars, or climb the highest turret, or whatever it would have been at the time.

  But she was different now. She was his, for one thing, and only his. No man could pull them asunder again, only God, and Damon hoped the Lord had seen enough of his misery without her to take pity upon him and not separate them again.

  "Here." He handed her the crumpled clothing and she burst into laughter.

  "Oh, dear. I suppose I could tell people I fell asleep in them, or perhaps became caught between two very large stones while wearing them ..."

  "Put on a fresh gown if it matters."

  "Yes. I think I should."

  But she didn't move out from under the fur, only peered up at him owlishly. He realized, uncomfortably, that she was waiting for him to leave, or at least move away from her.

  Ever since he had discovered the faded scars mark­ing her, she had gone to great pains, he perceived abruptly, to ensure he did not see her body so plainly again, except when they were making love.

  And since they usually made love at night, he had not noticed any flaws on her. He always insisted upon keeping at least one candle lit, true, but it was a timid glow by any means, and afterward he extin­guished it with no thought at all, only utter exhaustion and satisfaction.

  A flash of guilt streaked through him. This was his fault. He was doing this to her; he was the one mak­ing her pull into herself because of his anger at another person. She should not have to hide herself from him. She should be able to trust him at least that much. His guilt grew.

  He joined her on the bed. "Solange. I want to thank you for what just happened between us."

  She was all blushes and modesty, ducking her head. "You don't have to thank me, my lord."

  "No," he said thoughtfully. "I think you are wrong about that. It is the greatest honor and privilege to be able to make love to the most beautiful woman in the world. Therefore it would be a gross insult to you if I did not thank you."

  Her look said she couldn't decide if he was teasing, and that gave the guilt another
spurt of growth. He pretended affront. "Do you mean to suggest by your doubtful silence that I am anything less than a gentle-man? Although there are numerous persons who would agree with that assessment, I would hope that my own wife would see through to my heart of gold."

  Her face cleared, the shadow of disappointment so fleeting, he almost didn't see it. "Oh, you are joking. How silly you can be, declaring me beautiful."

  "Nay, my lady wife, I am sorry to point out that you are wrong once more." He searched her eyes, willing her to believe him. "I said you were the most beautiful woman, and I by my honor I mean that. No woman on earth compares to you, Solange."

  To his consternation, her lower lip began to trem­ble, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. "You are mocking me," she said. "I will not be mocked." She struggled to free herself from the fur. Damon was ap­palled that she had misread him so completely. He moved to keep her beside him.

  "Solange! No, no! I would not mock you, how could I? How could you even think such a thing? How could you, when you are my life, when you are all that's rare and precious and good to me? You are a drop of perfection in this imperfect, sorry world, don't you see that? You are all that has haunted me, and all that has sustained me in my own weaknesses." He took her hands and would not release them. "When I tell you that you are the most beautiful woman in the world, I say it with all the truth I can find, and I know I must say it poorly, to have you take me so wrong. I will show you, then."

  He let go of her long enough to take up the jeweled stiletto she kept close on the table by the bed. Her breath drew in sharply, but she didn't cower from him, not even when he took her hand again.

  He turned the knife around, closing her fingers around the hilt and raising her arm, pointing the razor-sharp end into his bare chest. "By my vow, and my oath, by my honor and my love for you, fair Solange, I speak the truth. Never have I broken my word, my lady. You are the most beautiful woman in the world to me, in all of creation, and nothing, not time, nor place, nor man nor woman shall ever change that. Your body is but a small part of your beauty, and I cherish it. God, I cherish it. You should know that by now. Sometimes it is all I can think of, the joy of mak­ing love to you. It consumes me; I cannot think or eat or sleep until I am with you again. You must know this, how could you not?