A Rose in Winter Read online

  Instinctively Solange knew this offering was differ­ent from the last. Eating the meat from his fingers had been suggestive at best, lewd at worst. Drinking from his cup would mean another thing entirely. Something even more intimate. It suggested, to her, that he wanted to command her in some way. To possess her.

  She could not do this. She would not. This man, this stranger, had no rights to her, and certainly had no right to force her to drink from his hand. Her lower lip began to jut out mutinously, her eyes slanted back and sparkled with resentment.

  Henry shifted in his massive chair beside her.

  Solange knew if she looked at her father that she was doomed to lose this battle. She kept her eyes on the goblet. Seconds ticked by.

  A minute.

  Henry moved again. He said her name once.

  Her eyes shifted and were captured by the gaze of the earl. She saw intent there, her future meshing and dissolving in the flatness of his irises. She saw that ulti­mately, her game was futile. He had already taken measure of her spirit and defeated it with his own cun­ning. The pale eyes held determination, and some ad­miration for her too. But he would not let her win.

  Henry said her name once more. His voice echoed away, falling heavy into the pregnant silence.

  Redmond allowed her a little smile that only she could see, a subtle concession. He moved the cup over to her mouth and pressed the cold metal rim against her lips, tilting it up. She could drink, or she could al­low the wine to spill down her face.

  She opened her mouth and drank.

  The crowd cheered wildly. Men pounded their fists on the tables, ladies tittered in shrill voices. Even the serfs were smiling and chattering as they began to serve the supper again.

  Very deliberately Solange wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Redmond laughed out loud, then took the goblet and downed the rest of the contents. He turned to the woman on his right and began to compliment her lavishly on her outfit. The level of noise climbed to a delirious high.

  Henry ignored her completely, talking in hushed tones with Lady Margaret, his latest mistress, seated on his other side. Solange was left feeling beaten, confused and utterly alone in an immense room brimming with people.

  She was used to feeling alone, except for Damon. She thought perhaps everyone in the fiefdom, from noblemen to serfs, was there to witness her defeat at this game she could not name. Everyone except Da­mon. At least that was some scrap of comfort to her.

  To keep herself from leaping from her chair and running away, Solange concentrated on the image of his face, square-jawed and handsome, wavy black hair brushing his forehead. She imagined he was beside her now, telling her what nonsense it was to care what these people thought of her. Telling her that he loved her and that was all that mattered.

  She would go to him tonight, as soon as she could, she decided. She would steal out of her chambers and melt into the shadows until she reached him. Then she would beg his forgiveness for her actions this evening.

  Perhaps he would hold her again, just hold her close to him, so that she could feel the strength of his heart­beat beneath her cheek. Perhaps she could convince him to love her as she loved him, not as a sister, not simply as a friend—

  The tail end of a sentence containing her name chased randomly through these thoughts.

  Solange is eager to start. . .

  She frowned, deciphering what she had heard, lis­tening for more.

  ". . . soon, I trust. The weather is uncertain this time of year, as I am sure you are well aware, Ironstag." Redmond leaned past her, talking to her father. "It would be folly to delay our departure any longer than necessary."

  "I agree. The priest will be here tomorrow morn­ing, according to my messenger. He's making the trip from Scallypeak even now."

  The blood drained from her head in a sudden rush, and she was gasping for air, unable to speak out.

  A traveling priest visited the castle once a year on his annual circle of fiefdoms. During that time he took confessions, baptized babies, married couples, and con­secrated whatever dead had accumulated since his last visit.

  There was no reason to have a priest come out on a special, and surely expensive, trip to Ironstag.

  No reason at all, unless the Marquess of Ironstag wanted him very, very badly.

  Solange closed her eyes and then opened them again. Her father was still addressing the earl.

  "She'll go richly prepared, Redmond. Your soldiers had better be ready to defend her dowry."

  Before he could answer, Solange spoke.

  "Father? What are you discussing?"

  Henry reddened. It was some measure of his igno­rance of his daughter's nature that he felt annoyed with what he thought of as her unusually stubborn behavior this evening. His voice was curt. "We are discussing your marriage, of course. Do not interrupt me again, Solange."

  She ignored that order, growing bolder with her ris­ing panic. "Marriage to whom?"

  God help her, she already knew the answer to that. It made all the strangeness of the evening come to­gether with perfect clarity. She kept her face turned to Henry, even as she felt the earl beside her cover her hand with his own.

  "Why, to me, angel. It's why I've come."

  His low, melodious tone reverberated in her ear, echoing again with its peculiar delay. She snatched her hand back, still not facing him, and instead pleaded with her father.

  "Marriage? Father, I am not ready for such an honor. I need time to—to prepare myself, to learn the proper lessons to become a wife! I am unworthy, I would surely disgrace the earl if married now!"

  There was a pause as her father blinked down at her incredulously, as if seeing her for the very first time.

  Redmond spoke softly in his velvet voice, but had overtaken her hand again. He pressed against it heavily. "Is that a threat, Solange?"

  "No." She shook her head at him, trying futilely to escape his grip. "Not a threat, sir, a fact!"

  Henry scowled. "Enough, child! You have had a full sixteen years to learn the ways to become a proper wife. Your maidenly modesty"—his emphasis on the word said clearly he doubted it was such—"is becom­ing, but this course has been planned and laid for many months now. You will become the wife of Redmond. He is a nobleman of excellent stock, equal to our own. His lands march along with mine for a good long bor­der before splitting off. Our families will be united, as will our armies." Her father considered her thought­fully for a moment, then shook his head.

  "You should be grateful I have done so well for you, daughter. You will be the mistress of your own castle, and several smaller manors. Your sons will in­herit a great combined estate."

  A tight band of pressure across her chest was making it difficult for her to breathe, impossible to think. She had to leave, she had to find Damon. He would right things for her. He always did. She could not outwit the two of them by herself.

  "I must go—" She began to rise from the table.

  The earl pulled her back down beside him with a grip of steel at her elbow. He was smiling at her gently as he crushed the flesh at the tender crease of her arm. Haltingly she obeyed him, furious at his show of force, more furious at her inability to stop him.

  "Solange," he said softly. "Look at me."

  He waited, then took his other hand to physically turn her face to his. He was careful not to bruise her cheeks.

  Solange met his eyes reluctantly, keeping her chin tucked down. The curious sense of light-headedness enveloped her again, the haze of him now surrounding them both. The earl gave her a wide, attractive smile. He had large teeth.

  "An angel so lovely should not spoil her looks with disagreeable tempers. It is neither becoming, nor wise. You are a true beauty, Solange. You may depend upon me to see to it that you are always thus." The grip on her cheeks became a caress. "You will see me tomor­row morning bright and fair, as a blushing bride is al­ways eager to meet her husband."

  Once more it seemed to her that his eyes had no color,
no life of their own, yet they held her spell­bound, drew her into their bottomless depths.

  "You will be there, Solange. I promise it."

  His thumb traced the outline of her lower lip in a terrible parody of the loving stroke Damon had given her earlier. Redmond leaned down toward her, his fin­gers now framing her mouth.

  She pulled away, shaking her head. "You go too fast, my lord." Her cheeks flared bright red, not with embarrassment, but anger. She gestured mutely to the attentive crowd below them.

  The earl followed the wave of her hand, then sighed. "Perhaps you are right. We will save the fast­ness, then, for another time."

  She stood quickly, before either man could think of something else to stay her. "I would retire early, Fa­ther."

  Henry stared at her, then at the earl. His face was in­scrutable. "Go, then. Tomorrow will be busy enough."

  She dipped a careless curtsy in the general direction of them both, then fled the great hall. The earl watched her slender form silently, noting the natu­rally graceful sway of her hips, the proud set of her shoulders.

  "She will be there," he said again quietly. "Aye," said her father.

  Chapter Two

  She could not get warm. The fire had died in her chambers while she was gone, leaving only smoldering embers in the bed of the fireplace. None of the servants would come to relight it, since they were all busy downstairs helping with the feast.

  Not that she wanted them there anyway. Her pri­mary concern, the thought that kept her chilled feet moving, was getting to Damon.

  Solange stripped off her confining clothes as quickly as she could, tossing the belt and garments in a tangle on the covers and furs of her feather bed. From the bottom of a huge leather clothing trunk she pulled a pair of thick woolen stockings and a large tunic, fol­lowed by a pair of soft-soled leather boots. All were dyed to muted, dark colors.

  These were her prowling clothes. Damon knew her penchant for stargazing from odd locations, and had presented them to her the previous spring when he dis­covered she was tying her skirts up past her knees for ease of movement whenever she sneaked out.

  He told her he had been haunted by visions of her being discovered that way by a guardsman, or worse, the cumbersome skirts making her lose her footing on any of the narrow ledges or trees she liked to crawl about. He had given her the clothes one night as she came to visit, cautioning her to always wear them in­stead of her usual feminine garments when she wanted to venture out unnoticed.

  Solange had been completely delighted. The men's clothing had freed her in a way she had never imag­ined. Her entire life she had worn only the finest of garments, but they were still the heavy skirts, the tight oversleeves, the multiple layers of cloth on cloth com­mon to noblewomen. Her gowns were designed for fashion and modesty, not comfort.

  Now she shivered into the men's clothing as quickly as she could. The tunic settled over her shoulders in a cloud of soft cotton. She added a dark brown woolen vest from the trunk for warmth. A cape might be too noticeable, and certainly too much material to worry about. The boots came on last, hugging her legs up past her knees.

  The window by the bower had been left open, and now a chilled breeze circled her, wafting through the silver wedge of moonlight slanting across a patterned Turkish rug on the floor.

  It was a clear night. But the weather could shift in a heartbeat. The following day could bring rain or snow, or perhaps the last of the fair days of early win­ter. But of all things, it absolutely could not be her wedding day.

  She didn't bother to stuff a pillow under the covers of her bed to substitute for her sleeping form as she usually did. Haste made her impatient, and so she was almost discovered by the grumbling guard outside her room before she discovered him.

  She backed away from the entrance as quickly as she could, holding her breath. Lord, she hadn't even been careful in opening the heavy wooden door. The sheer weight of it necessitated her inching it open, which is what saved her.

  Solange pushed the oak door shut again, praying the hinges would not choose just then to let out a squeak for oiling. The door swung closed with an almost silent click.

  She pressed her ear to the crack but heard nothing unusual from the guard. Her breath came out in a silent rush; she leaned against the door for strength un­til her knees quit shaking.

  A guard, indeed! One of her father's men, looking none too pleased to be pulled away from his supper. A serious strategic move on the part of Henry, but she wasn't beaten yet. He obviously expected her to try to bolt, but in honesty Solange hadn't considered any­thing that drastic. Damon held the key to right this problem. But how to get to him?

  Solange went over to the bed and sat down, recon­sidering her options. She drew her legs up to her chin and wrapped her arms about them, trying to warm herself in the cold air. Another breeze drifted past the leaded glass window.

  Her lips pursed thoughtfully, but she had already made her decision. It was her only choice, really. She hadn't climbed out there since one moonless night a few years before, when she had almost fallen to the cobblestone courtyard below. She had grabbed a loose stone as a handhold and it had nearly meant her death. No one but Damon ever knew of it, but the incident had put enough fear into her not to venture out that way again.

  She imagined the stones had not grown any tighter over the past few years, but circumstances were desper­ate and so was she. She bit her lip for courage.

  This time she was careful to tuck two pillows be­neath the covers before she left, just in case.

  The view from the window was breathtaking. Her chambers occupied not quite a full fifth of the upper floor of one of the four walls of the castle. Directly be­low her was the usually raucous inner courtyard, which bustled with village folk and nobles alike during day­light hours. At night it was deserted except for an occa­sional soldier on guard duty, making lonely rounds.

  Beyond the castle gate was the meandering cluster of squat buildings that made up the village, a sizable one by common standards. Past that spread the gracious landscape of England in its full beauty. Even in winter Solange saw wonder in the frosted grass, the bare limbs of the trees softly glowing in the moonlight. The line of the forest trees was cut back unevenly, giving tantaliz­ing glimpses into the darkened world beyond.

  It was a world Solange had visited many times, but never enough to satisfy her love of nature and of all liv­ing things. The wild forest paths were as familiar to her as her own face, but she always managed to discover a new marvel whenever she went out.

  Of course, Henry knew nothing of this. To the best of his knowledge, his daughter spent her time doing all the proper things a young gentlewoman should. Occa­sional reports of her absences reached him, but when­ever he bothered to summon her for questioning, she always assured him she was off reading, in private.

  At least Henry himself had scoffed at the notion of keeping his only child uneducated and had hired a tu­tor specifically to teach both her and his ward to read not just English but Latin, in addition to the regular studies of science, mathematics, and religious philoso­phy. It would prove to be one of the few occasions in his life when he broke with tradition, but nevertheless it remained a godsend for Solange, who, along with Da­mon, had already devoured most of the scrolls, manu­scripts, and books available in the castle.

  The meetings between Solange and her father were invariably the same. She would be summoned to his private study, alone. The marquess remained seated be­hind an enormous table of mahogany, framed on either side by two giant royal family crests draped from the fringed tapestries behind him. The crests held dancing green and yellow hons and griffins—all with fearsome teeth—on a background of royal blue. It was an mtirni-dating effect for any visitor, and Solange was not im­mune to it.

  The study always reminded her of the things she was expected to become; things that held infinite rules that all circled back on each other, as inescapable as a Cel­tic knot.

  Her father would ask
why she never arrived for Lady Matilda's sewing lesson, or Lady Josephine's singing lesson or whatever it was. Solange would wait for her list of transgressions to end, then state simply that she had been reading and had forgotten about the lessons.

  Henry would rub his beard and then nod absently. He would tell her for the thousandth time that al­though the ladies of the castle didn't approve of her lit­eracy, he didn't see anything wrong with it. Then she was dismissed. Until the next time.

  Tonight the forest looked blackly obscure, even to Solange. A shiver overtook her as she leaned uncer­tainly out the bower window. An examination of the stones below her revealed nothing. The moonlight, created harsh shadows that left the rock looking pitted and scarred, manifesting the illusion of niches in the wall where actually there were none.

  It was going to be a perilous climb, no doubt, but she only had to go down one floor to get to an unguarded room. Bight below her chambers was the library, which would almost certainly be empty at this hour.

  She hooked one leg over the sill and then paused, listening. She could swear she heard horses, several of them, running for the gate of the castle.

  The guard below heard them too, and summoned help to open the gate.

  Solange pulled her leg back in quickly, then ducked down to watch the courtyard unseen.

  Men were greeting one another in cheerful tones, although she couldn't quite make out what they were saying. The horses clattered through the open gate and onto the cobblestones, snorting and prancing about impatiently. It was a hunting party, from the looks of it.

  One rider had a familiar posture, ramrod straight in the saddle but without stiffness, powerful and in con­trol of his giant sorrel gelding.

  Damon! She raised her head farther, confirming it was he. No one else seemed such an innate extension of his horse but Damon, a naturally gifted rider.