A Rose in Winter Read online

Her lips were full and sweet, had always looked to him like ripe cherries, or red roses, and more recently, like soft, forbidden feminine things. He watched his thumb trace their outline, watched them part gently, and felt her warm breath against his fingers. Her eyes were sleepy now, half-lidded, full of flames he should have recognized before.

  All thoughts of caution fled. She was offering herself to him and he was powerless to hold back anymore. Nothing could be more right.

  Damon tilted his head and rested his lips against hers. He was uncertain, breathless, and trying desper­ately not to frighten her. Her lips were softer than he imagined, tasting of some unknown delicious thing that could only be her. It was a potent realization that had him suddenly crushing her closer.

  The kiss deepened, the blood pounded in his head, obscuring all but her. The taste and smell of her over­flowed in him, added raw power to the embrace as the fire roared through him. Solange, Solange, Solange . . .

  Solange helped him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body tightly against his. Her firm breasts met his chest, her hair surrounded them both like a shadowed secret. She drew back to take shal­low gasps of air, but he was beyond that, kissing her cheeks, the elegant line of her jaw, the tender throat. He heard a moan and realized only distantly that it came from him.

  She responded eagerly, a little clumsy in her inexpe­rience and haste. Her fingers caught in his hair, tugging at him.

  He held her close and tried to show her all the plea­sures she could have, but was distracted by the scent of her skin, the salty taste of her cheek beneath his tongue.

  There were tears running down her face. Many, many tears.

  The knowledge left him sick to his stomach. God in heaven, what was happening here? He was an animal, to use her like this.

  He grasped her arms and pulled them free of his neck.

  "Mistress?"

  It was Adara, her maid, entering the chamber with tonight's dinner gown and bliaut.

  Solange turned swiftly away to face the window, wiping her tears away with the tips of her fingers. "Leave it on the bed, Adara. I will be with you in a moment."

  Damon felt the woman's scrutiny. He stood. "I must go. I will see you at supper, Solange."

  She faced him, still sitting. She said nothing, merely searched his face with her eyes. For the first time, he felt uncomfortable with her. Her clear, penetrating gaze was unsettling.

  Her lips appeared wet and bruised, glistening. He had to leave now, before he did something to com­pletely humiliate himself.

  "Yes," she said softly. "I will see you then." She lowered her gaze, freeing him to walk briskly from the chamber.

  Solange stood in front of the polished glass that reflected her image back to herself in wavy seg­ments. She raised her eyebrows. The wavy Solange did the same, only the eyebrows were the thickness of caterpillars and reached up into the hairline of the re­flected girl. She lowered them, and the girl in the mir­ror resumed her regular warped pattern.

  The glass girl was strangely beautiful to Solange, an image of herself and yet not herself, dressed in an emerald green gown with an embroidered blue and gold bliaut over it. The bliaut hugged her figure, draw­ing in the gown underneath with girdled ties of gold that looked richly elaborate in the mirror.

  She took a step sideways for balance as Adara tugged on the chained belt hanging low from her waist. The maid worked quickly, her hands as informal as always, but there was something different about her tonight, a suppressed excitement Solange could sense but not articulate.

  Silently she stared at the woman working on closing the links of the belt. Was it odd, she wondered, that she had known Adara all her life and yet really knew nothing about her? It wasn't that she didn't care to know. Adara had the same aloof attitude that Solange had encountered in all the serfs. It seemed to be a com­bination of fear and condescension, and for the life of her, Solange couldn't figure out why.

  "Adara," she said. "Do you like me?"

  The woman's hands paused, but she did not look up from her work.

  "Eh? Like? Of course I do, milady."

  Solange studied the bent head curiously. "If that is so, why do you never smile at me?"

  Adara released the belt. It fell into a graceful circle about her hips. The jeweled ruby tips of it settled into the folds of her skirt. Adara stood up without answer­ing the question, and went to retrieve the golden net to bind Solange's hair.

  "Have I done aught to offend you, Adara? Have I been cruel or unjust and not known?"

  Her hair was bundled quickly into the net, twisted painfully tight against her neck. She dipped her head and touched the back of it, following the diamond-shaped contours of the delicate metal with her fingers. Her eyes found Adara's in the glass.

  The maid shook her head, lips compressed. Solange decided to press on. "Have I offended any of the other serfs, then?"

  "Nay, lady, where do ye get such talk?" She hurried on, before Solange could answer. "Supper is yet, mi­lady. Ye ought to be below stairs by now."

  Adara bobbed a brief curtsy, then turned and rushed out of the chamber. Solange sighed, used to this reac­tion. She made a face at herself in the glass.

  "No doubt you are some monstrous, ugly devil," she whispered to the reflection, "designed to frighten old women and little babies."

  But then, why would Damon kiss her?

  "Because you asked him to, foolish girl," she replied to herself. Obviously he would never have kissed her on his own. She had practically thrown herself at him. He must have been perfectly appalled.

  Damon, her love.

  Damon, with hair of raven's-wing ebony, the color that held all the rainbows in the world under sunlight.

  Damon, with dark brown eyes so immeasurably beautiful that she knew in them all the mysteries of the stars could be revealed to her if she searched deep enough.

  Damon, who had abruptly stopped her kisses, want­ing no more of her.

  But she had so much more to offer.

  The intensity of his embrace had overwhelmed her. She had been waiting for it for such a long time, count­less eternities. When it had finally happened, when he had finally enfolded her in his arms in a way that told her he thought of her as more than just a sister, her joy had flowed out of her heart to form silent tears down her face. That moment had been the happiest she could ever remember.

  But that was over. Now she must set her mind to go about wooing him all over again. She had to salvage things.

  Solange tugged despondently at the net in her hair, then swept her skirts up in her hands, testing their weight. Too heavy to do anything that was not practi­cal, like running or climbing. The older she became, it seemed, the heavier her clothing. She sighed and left her chambers to begin her plans to win Damon back.

  The castle at night was a magnificent sight. Torches and braziers illuminated the meticulously embroidered tapestries which were the result of generations of noble­women's stitches. The dancing shadows all around her reminded Solange of pleasant, unexpected things, like the taste of honeysuckle or the scent of autumn. Al­though drafty and damp as all castles were, Ironstag was placed on the trailing edge of a forest, which meant there were always plenty of fires burning to take away the chill.

  The furniture, cloth, jewelry, and plate her father provided were all of the best quality. Some were handed down from pillaging ancestors, some he had obtained through careful maintenance of the harvest and trade of his crops and wool. His lands were fertile and extensive. He was often a favorite of the king's at tax time.

  The Marquess of Ironstag lived well, and when he chose to entertain, he did so lavishly. The finest spices available from merchant traders were plentiful in his kitchens, obtained on yearly trips to London and Dover: from caskets of ginger and saffron to precious bundles of dried tea leaves from the Orient.

  Everything about Ironstag was designed to impress.

  Solange rounded the corner of the main staircase, then stopped. Below her the
serfs bustled in an unusual frenzy of activity, and again she felt that sense of un­ease. No company was expected that she knew of. The usual group of minor nobles who lived in the castle with them were present, and she saw when she looked more closely, so were some unfamiliar figures.

  Soldiers in orange and green tunics milled about in the crowd, jesting and drinking, examining the great stateroom curiously. They were all long-haired and bearded, with a wild, harsh look she instinctively did not like.

  Someone saw her lingering at the bottom of the stairs, and elbowed his companion. The knowledge of her presence spread like wildfire throughout the crowded room, until she could see literally all eyes upon her. A hush descended.

  Solange did not know what to do. She was un­used to such widespread, meticulous attention and not schooled in the finer arts of court behavior. A furious blush stole up her neck and turned her fair cheeks to scarlet. Desperately she searched the crowd for a friendly face, but was met only with open, brash stares.

  She took a step forward, and then another. She lifted her chin a little higher to hide the quiver of anxi­ety in her stomach. Where was Damon? Where was her father?

  That question, at least, was answered for her.

  "Daughter." The hearty, booming voice came from behind the backs of the soldiers. One by one they parted to reveal Henry, standing by the giant fireplace with another man. With great relief Solange slipped through the crowd to go to them.

  Henry met her halfway, then escorted her back to the man he had been talking to. "You look exception­ally fine," he muttered under his breath, as if to reas­sure himself.

  Solange looked up at him in surprise. He had never complimented her on her appearance before, or in­deed, on anything at all. She had the impression he thought of her as a sort of domestic pet, to be fed and stroked now and again but never deeply regarded. She opened her mouth to thank him, but the marquess cut her off. He clapped the stranger on the shoulder.

  "Well, good sir, this is she."

  Solange waited in vain for either man to complete the introduction, but they only stared down at her, both appearing lost in some deep thought. She felt her stomach clench tighter in the silence.

  "I greet thee, kind sir," she finally murmured shyly, staring down at her hands. She was afraid to look up and confirm her thoughts that the entire population of the castle was eagerly watching this strange scene.

  Without warning the man reached out and took her hand, pressing it to his lips. Startled, she looked up into his face, taking it in for the first time.

  He had the brightest eyes she had ever seen. They seemed to reflect all the light in the room without re­vealing any of their own color. In fact, they appeared not so much like eyes at all, but rather like two shiny glass balls in a man's face. For an instant she felt a tingle of alarm as his lips gently touched her skin. A man without eyes has no soul, she thought whimsically.

  But then he smiled, and the empty eyes shifted to a light gray color, and he was just an ordinary man af­ter all.

  Her father spoke. "Daughter, this is the Earl of Redmond."

  "Lady Solange," the earl said with just the right French accent. In what seemed a peculiar trick of time, she watched his lips move before she heard her name. Sol-ahnjh...

  Her own lips parted slightly in shock. She knew ex-actly who he was, of course. Stephen, Earl of Red­mond, was the latest heir to a neighboring family of nobles that had been held alternately in either great es­teem or great revulsion by her own family for cen­turies. The clashing dynasties held a continuous, and of late frigidly cordial dispute over land boundaries and tithings from the villages that straddled the lines of the two estates.

  It had ultimately taken a royal decree to stop the fighting. Wily King Edward wanted neither of two of his most profitable estates to bankrupt each other in petty skirmishes, so he had claimed the disputed strip of land as his own and thus ended the feuding.

  What astonished Solange was that the earl was here at all. The official feud was over but hard feelings abounded on both sides. Each remained convinced it was the fault of the other that the precious land was lost. Redmond's uncle, the late earl, was generally re­ferred to by her father as "that bloated old goat," and when he had died five years earlier Henry had held a week-long feast to celebrate, inviting all the neighbor­ing nobles except the new earl.

  Solange surmised this Redmond must have looked little like his uncle. No one could possibly say he re­sembled a goat, she thought. A tiger, perhaps, or a lion, more like. He appeared at least a decade older than she, with long hair and a beard like the rest of the strangers, but unlike them, he was not swarthy. His hair curled in yellow ringlets down his back, almost as long as her own. His beard was rust colored and well trimmed, but still managed to conceal most of his face.

  She noticed a strangeness about the man, a subtle haze that fogged her senses, made her slightly light­headed.

  "Sun angel," Redmond said. She couldn't seem to stop staring at his mouth, mesmerized by the slowness of the sound coming from it. The lips closed in a smile, and she looked up again into his pale eyes.

  "An apt name," he said, smiling still.

  She realized he was talking about her, and lowered her head again to cover her disorientation.

  For a frozen moment that stretched on and on, no one said anything at all. Solange twisted her hands to­gether nervously, wishing for all the world she were back in her chambers, or the stables, or anywhere but right here, right now.

  Henry broke the silence.

  "Excellent. Let us sup."

  The crowd in the greatroom erupted into noise, talking, whispering, bellowing for service from the serfs. Benches scraped the stone floor, servants scurried around with pitchers of mead and ale, platters of steam­ing roasted meat and vegetables, trenchers of bread, and thick wedges of cheese. Honey-glazed figs and other sugary treats were offered all round. Plates clat­tered on the tables, cups were slammed heartily against the wood.

  It almost seemed to be a celebration.

  Solange was escorted between Henry and the earl to her usual place next to her father at the head table.

  Diners at her father's table were privileged enough to receive their own chairs instead of sharing benches, all set up on a stone platform overlooking the rest of the room.

  To Solange's extreme embarrassment, Redmond was placed on her immediate right, which meant they were to share a trencher of bread. Ordinarily it was Damon who sat beside her. But where was he?

  Solange scanned the hall anxiously, searching the crowd for his familiar form. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Her appetite deserted her. She was filled with re­morse and a terrible shame. She had disgusted him so much with her flagrant advances that apparently he couldn't even bear her presence. She swallowed hard at the lump in her throat. If she were to lose Damon, she didn't know what she would do.

  He was her best friend. Her only friend, really.

  For some time the earl had been patiently holding a small bite of meat between his fingers by the side of her face, waiting for her to notice. In the interim, the rest of the assembly had stopped what they were doing, one by one, to record the outcome of this choice offer­ing. Once again the hall grew silent.

  Solange slowly registered the change even in her misery. She looked up to find the thick fingers of the earl hovering inches from her lips, dripping with the juices of the meat.

  Her eyes widened at this familiarity. Surely he didn't expect her to eat from his hand? He gazed at her steadily, no expression on his face. He did not take the meat away.

  Solange pressed herself as far back as she could into the ornate chair, throwing a desperate look to her fa­ther and then to the faces in front of her. Most of them watched her avidly, food forgotten halfway to mouths, goblets raised and arrested in mid-motion. A few of the women gazed at her with what looked like sympa­thy, even pity. But it was her father's look that fright­ened her.

  His brows were snapped together, hi
s mouth pinched. It made him appear years older than he was, and angry. She had never seen him look at her that way before. He nodded his head at her, indicating she should take the bite.

  Her breath drew in sharply at that nod. She looked back at the earl, unwilling to do this, unwilling to show such obsequiousness in front of not only this man, but also the rest of these people who had never loved her.

  Redmond met her eyes calmly, waiting. The meat was growing cold, the juices were congealing, but he did not move his hand.

  Solange could only think that somehow her father had heard of her brazen behavior with Damon earlier and this was some cruel punishment designed to teach her a lesson. The scope of it seemed bizarrely out of proportion to her offense, but no other reasons for this humiliating situation sprang to her mind.

  She had better do it. She couldn't risk angering her father further, lest he forbid her to see Damon.

  Cautiously Solange came forward in her chair, lean­ing toward the hand and the meat. Her own hands gripped the carved armrests tightly. She could feel the anticipation rising in the air around her, a greedy en­ergy that focused on her lips coming closer and closer to the earl's fingers.

  As delicately as she could, Solange closed her teeth around the bite and pulled back.

  The earl resisted her a little, holding on to the meat until she was forced to close her lips over his fingertips. As soon as she did so, he released her.

  She sat back hastily, chewing and staring down at the array of food in front of them. The meat was taste­less in her mouth, dry. A sudden wave of chatter hummed all around her, rising and falling in cadence, settling down to nothing.

  The hall was quiet once more, the third time this evening. The third time she had ever heard it this quiet in all her life.

  Solange swallowed the meat. In an agony of self-awareness, she looked up again.

  The earl was holding a goblet of wine in front of her to drink from.

  It was his goblet.

  For a long time she simply stared at it. She noticed his hand was tanned but the skin unbroken, unscarred by battle. She noticed the laced cuff of his tunic sleeve was sewn with minute, almost invisible seams. She no­ticed that his hand did not shake in spite of holding the heavy gold goblet, one of her father's finer pieces, in front of her face.