A Rose in Winter Page 9

  She stared down at him, speechless.

  "He lingered for a week. That was when he sent for me and bid me to come to you personally with the news."

  "He sent you?" she whispered.

  "Aye. It was a deathbed wish. I could not refuse him." Anger tinged his voice, alive again at the memory of the imperious old man, commanding him even now, long past the time he had thought to be free of Ironstag.

  Damon had been knee-deep in the autumn harvest at Wolfhaven when the messenger arrived. He had not communicated with Henry for many seasons now and had no wish to begin again. But the messenger had convinced him of the peril, so he had ridden back to Ironstag with him.

  It had been a bad accident, breaking an arm, a leg, several ribs, and the physician couldn't say what more. A chill had settled into his chest. Damon could tell from the first glance there was no hope for survival. The old man must have been pushing death away with all his will, waiting for Damon to arrive.

  Or perhaps he had merely ordered death to wait, Damon thought sardonically. Henry surely had enough arrogance for it, even now.

  The marquess lay flat in his sprawling bed, alone, as he had been for years now. Lady Margaret had long ago left to hunt for less reluctant prey, leaving behind her a succession of women to fill his bed. Eventually he had married again: the gentle damsel from Leeds, who bore several miscarriages until finally succumbing to the perils of childbirth, taking the stillborn child with her. After that Henry had sworn off remarriage, grow­ing cantankerously old, keeping his cronies beside him as he counted his gold and mapped his lands.

  Damon was inwardly shocked by his appearance now, although he was careful to let none of his emo­tions show. Henry had aged more than two decades in half as many years, a frail figure with waxy skin and fiery eyes.

  The physician by the bed was a man Damon didn't recognize. He left the room protesting that his patient must not speak more than a few words. Henry ordered him furiously out the door, then fell back into the pil­lows from the exertion of raising his voice.

  Damon said nothing, simply stood by the bed. He brushed some dirt from his boots.

  "Go to Solange," Henry commanded in that gasp­ing voice. "Tell her yourself what has happened."

  "It is not my place," Damon responded evenly.

  He never wanted to see her again. He couldn't see her again. Just the mention of her name brought him to a cold, unpleasant sweat.

  Henry took a ragged breath. "Lockewood, it is my final request of you. I have raised you. I have provided for you. Now you must do this one last thing for me. She is my daughter. I have heard nothing from her for almost eight years." His eyes grew dim. "Nothing at all."

  Damon paused, considering this. He knew that Solange and her husband had removed to Du Clar, the earl's French estate, about a year after the wedding, but then he, too, had heard of nothing more.

  He had not bothered to investigate further. In fact, he had shunned all offers of assistance in finding news of her. He wanted no reminders of Solange.

  But to cut off her father? That seemed unlikely. Da­mon had always assumed the two of them had remained in communication.

  Henry coughed, a terrible wet sound from the bot­tom of his lungs. "I have sent her greetings every year, Lockewood. Every year I get no reply. She turns my men back from the gate of the estate; she won't even allow them entrance! She turns them away with noth­ing, nothing to bring back to me."

  Damon shut his eyes. He did not want to be a part of this.

  "Eight years," hissed the marquess. "What has hap­pened to her? Does she have children? Is she dead? Is her heart so hard that she could ignore the mortal farewell of her own father?"

  Is she dead? Against his will he felt his soul clench at the words. She could not be dead. He would have known that.

  Would he? mocked a familiar voice inside him. It was vanity to think he could maintain a connection of any sort with her over such a long time and distance. Anything could have happened to her, continued the voice, anything at all. And you never bothered to find out. A brave knight indeed.

  "I've heard rumors," said Henry softly.

  Damon waited, then asked, "Of what?"

  "Unmentionable things. Alchemy. Devil worship."

  Damon's mouth grew dry. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to know. But the marquess rasped on.

  "I cannot believe this. I won't. Go to her. See for yourself if she is still alive."

  Damon walked away from the sickbed, paced the room impatiently. He did not want to do this. Not a single particle of him wanted any part of this. But God, Redmond, an alchemist! Performing those forbidden experiments, mixing chemicals and devilish sacrifices with the worship of the profane, a member of that hid­den society of men who would sell their souls for the secret of making gold. And Solange, wed to this. It could not be true.

  He did not want it to be true.

  "You fooled me, boy," croaked the old man sud­denly. "You fooled all of us."

  "And how is that?"

  "Didn't think you had the nerve. Didn't think you'd leave to solve the problem on your own. You circumvented all of us, by God, went straight to the king." A weak chuckle interrupted him, and then Henry continued. "You knew where the heart of the power lay, didn't you, boy? Took care of Wolfhaven all by yourself."

  A faint stirring of the old wrath welled up in Da­mon's chest. He focused on that, pushing aside the worry that thinking of Solange had conjured. "I was hardly likely to ask anything further of you, my lord. You made it clear I was an unwelcome presence in your demesne."

  Henry's voice got stronger. "Yes. But I was wrong about you, Lockewood."

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not."

  "Got yourself knighted. Got your lands back. Fought right beside Edward himself, I heard. Fought like all the demons of hell were inside of you, that's what they said. The Wolf of Lockewood, they called you. No fear. No fear at all."

  "Fear accomplishes nothing."

  Fear was reserved for those who cared about living through the battle. One of the supreme ironies of his life, Damon had always thought, was that the lack of caring for it seemed to ensure its perpetuation. He had thought his life worth nothing without his love, and somehow that worthlessness had stretched on and on, carrying him along with it. How long, he thought bit­terly, how damn long it had taken him to crawl out of that despair. And now this man wanted to plunge him back in without a second thought.

  Henry was silent, watching, inert in his bed. He missed nothing of the expressions on his visitor's face. He bided his time, waiting for the anger to play out, waiting for it to thin enough to feed his plot fur­ther. He had lived a long enough life to know he was doing the best thing.

  Finally.

  "Go to her, Wolf of Lockewood," he said for the last time. "You're the only one who can reach her now."

  Damon rubbed a hand across his eyes. What choice did he have, really? None. In the course of a few min­utes this old man had managed to destroy the years of defense he had created, slaying his guard with a few carefully chosen words. Years, he thought acidly, spent building a wall against her that had proven to be no more sturdy than cobwebs.

  Solange, he thought, you she-devil, for bringing me back.

  "She'll not thank me for bringing her this news, nor will her husband."

  "No," replied Henry with a sigh. "But I will thank thee, Damon Wolf."

  He had died that evening before Damon could think of a rebuttal strong enough to release him from Ironstag's mad command.

  He was needed at his own home. This crop would carry his people though the winter, and it was essential that it be harvested in time to beat the first frost. He could not spare the time to travel across the ocean to deliver a message to the woman who had spurned him. The ocean, for God's sake. It would take a month at least. It was an insane idea.

  But of course he went. Ironstag had managed to trap him one last time.

  The duration of the journey was actually slightly less than he
had originally considered, since he had caught a fair wind across the channel and the earl's estate was not far inland. Damon traveled lightly and swiftly, with no accompaniment to slow him. He had chosen to travel alone despite a plethora of offers from the men at Wolfhaven to accompany him. He had politely refused them all with the excuse that he would be returning soon and that right now each of them was needed at home for the harvest, which was true enough.

  But the real reason was buried deep within him, buried so well he couldn't even acknowledge it to himself: His secret fear was that he would crumble at the sight of her. He wanted no witnesses for that, and therefore he had to see her alone. She was a ghost that had lived in his heart every single day for the past nine years. Now it was time to exorcise her. He was not the callow youth she knew. He was a man, a knight, even, by the grace of the sword of the king himself.

  A knight with no heart, for Solange had stolen it wrongfully a long time past. Now he would gain it back.

  Every day he spent on this journey became a torture to him. He was eager to simply have it done. Thoughts of her that he had managed to suppress for years came winging back, just as he had dreaded.

  Her laughter, for example. How her laughter had infected him, had tickled him in some ridiculous way until he had to end up laughing with her. Her sense of joy and wonder at the details of nature . . .

  Her smile. The warmth of it spread everywhere, blinded him. Her hair, her long, silken hair, her delight at running through meadows, her intensity in her work—painting, reading, helping him with his studies.

  But what Damon remembered most while riding toward Solange through the French countryside was her scent.

  Yes, the scent of Solange, her fragrance, that flowery spice of her that owed nothing to perfumes or oils. It was the essence of something truly magical, of moonlit mist and fairies, like one of the stories she would tell.

  It maddened him at the campfire he built every eve­ning, chewing on the smoky meal of the hare or quail he had bagged that day.

  It bothered him astride his horse, going through the plowed fields and empty woods of this foreign land.

  But at night it was the worst. At night, when he lay on the hard ground with just a blanket between him and the endless sky, she would come back to him on the breeze, a hint of magic he could never contain.

  Of all the flowers and herbs he had memorized, none came close to her sweetness. Now, on this trip, she haunted him more than even the first few years without her. It made him clench his teeth until the muscles in his jaw ached.

  His mood swung from despair to hope and ulti­mately to anger for having these feelings at all. His fury was aimed at her, at her father, but mosdy at himself. He had been doing so well without her. He had almost managed to forget the pain.

  That thought seemed ludicrous now. The instant he saw her again he knew he would never be able to truly forget.

  This hard journey had led him here to the French estate, where, somewhat to his surprise, he had gained immediate entrance. It all happened too fast. He thought he would have time to prepare. He thought he would be able to at least change clothes before gaining an au­dience with her. But no, they led him straight here to the chamber room, a frozen place, where she had risen to greet him from the dais, sending her women over to the fireplace, showing no more surprise at seeing him than if they had just parted a few hours before, not years. His spurs clicked against the marble floor as he crossed over to her.

  Solange.

  At last. It was a moment of epiphany. Here she was in front of him, a grown woman, a widow by her ac­count. His mind was having a difficult time taking it all in.

  But his body was not, by heaven. He wanted her as fiercely as he ever did. He nearly could not breathe for the want.

  He would not crumble, no matter the cost. He wanted to shout at her, he wanted to know why she had rejected him, why she had rejected her father, her homeland. Instead, he kept his lips tightly shut, mark­ing her reaction to his news.

  She turned away from him, took a few blind steps to the thronelike chair topping the dais. She did not sit, however, merely stood next to it, arms crossed over her chest. He saw the shiver take her again and again. Her head dipped low.

  "My lady," he began.

  "My father is dead. The earl is dead. I find—" Her voice broke, a tremulous waver before she recovered. "I find that I cannot think right now. I must rest."

  As if on cue, the court women swarmed over to her, taking her arms and leading her down the steps. In frustration, Damon watched them go. He felt robbed of his moment after coining all this way. It couldn't be over this quickly. He would not allow her to disappear just yet.

  "Countess," he called.

  Solange stopped, then turned. The women fanned around her.

  "I am weary," Damon said clearly. "I have traveled far to reach you. I require food and a place to bed for the night."

  His words seemed to snap at her, drawing her spine straighter. "Of course. Forgive my poor manners. I'll have one of the men show you to your chambers and arrange to have dinner brought to you. I'm afraid it is past the evening meal, but there is always plenty of food in the buttery."

  She murmured instructions to one of the ladies, who curtsied and fluttered away.

  "Someone will be with you shortly," she said. "Good eve to you."

  They left as a group out the chamber door, a flash of gold in a wash of pastels.

  The fire popped and sizzled behind an iron grate, echoing off the emptiness around him.

  He was awakened from a sound sleep by a hand placed over his mouth.

  In an instant he had drawn the stiletto from beneath the pillow and pressed it against the throat of his at­tacker. It was a move so deeply ingrained from the years of battle that it took him a full minute to realize that both the hand and the throat belonged to a woman.

  To Solange, to be exact.

  The dimming fire allowed just enough of the deli­cacy of her features to stand out in the darkness. She showed no reaction to the sharp dagger but looked down at him calmly, waiting for the recognition to sink in.

  He drew the knife back, then pushed her hand away. "Are you mad?"

  "Shhh. You must speak quietly, lest they hear you."

  He tossed the covers off himself and climbed out of the bed. He was almost fully dressed, another habit learned from battle.

  "What is the meaning of this, Countess? You have no place here."

  "Please, Damon, lower your voice. They must not find us!"

  He stared at her in the darkness, baffled. Her ur­gency was real enough; he reckoned if the newly wid­owed countess was discovered with another man on the very night of the death of her husband, her reputa­tion would not survive.

  The Solange he knew wouldn't have given a shrug of her shoulders over something like her reputation. Yes, she was the countess now.

  "Leave," he ordered curtly.

  She approached him slowly, hands held out in ap­peal. "It is my every intention to leave. That is why I'm here."

  "What?"

  "I want to go with you back to England. I want us to leave here tonight."

  He laughed softly. "Your wits are addled, Solange. Go back to your women."

  She made an exasperated sound. "The hounds of hell could not drag me back there. I have to go with you, tonight, right now."

  She looked so thin and lovely, and very serious. A heavy black cloak swirled around her ankles, but as she moved toward him he saw to his amazement that she was wearing a tunic, hosiery, and buckskin boots: men's clothing. She was still talking.

  "We need to leave as soon as you may be ready. I'll help you if you like." In the darkness she took on the earnestness of a young girl, breathless and beguiling. " I can pack very quickly."

  He shook his head. "You'll not go anywhere with me, Countess. I'm not courting that kind of trouble. Seek your adventures elsewhere."

  She paused, looking as if his barb might have actu­ally hurt. He ignored the fla
sh of guilt. She would not use him, damn her, for whatever game she was playing. He would not submit to that.

  "You don't understand." Her voice was subdued. "I have to go."

  "And why is that?"

  She chewed on her lower lip, another girlish habit he found suddenly annoying. But then her face cleared, became resolute. "If you will not help me, then I will go alone." The cape billowed to life as she swept past him toward an opening in the far wall he had not noticed before.

  He caught her before she could vanish into the blackness.

  "What is this, madam? You have deliberately put me in a room with hidden doors and secret tunnels? Is it so that you may creep in here in the disguise of nightfall? Is that your amusement these days, Solange?"

  "Of course. I knew you would bolt your door closed tonight. How else was I to get in?"

  Her look was so innocent, he practically could be­lieve in her virtue again. Amazing, this acting ability she had discovered.

  How convenient for her to have a room to keep her lovers nearby, tucked away from prying eyes. What sort of husband had Redmond turned out to be, to al­low his wife this unusual freedom in his own home? Damon was almost sorry he could not question him for himself.

  "But the man is dead," he muttered. Very interesting. "Pardon?"

  "Your husband. I have just remembered myself. You are a widow driven mad with mourning, no doubt. Someone should be watching over you."

  She shook him off with supple strength. "You have changed greatly, Marquess. You should not be sur­prised to learn that I have changed as well. You speak now of things you could not possibly know anything about. My apologies. I didn't mean to disturb you."

  Before he could think to respond, she was gone, her footsteps fading away down the tunnel.

  "Damn. Damn, damn, damn."

  It was no accident, he knew, that she had chosen to throw back at him his own words from their parting those years past. She was too clever for it to be any­thing else.

  She wasn't really fleeing the estate. She wouldn't act so rashly, he reassured himself. She had nowhere to go that he knew of. It would be a folly beyond belief to think she could make it back to England on her own— a woman, a gentlewoman, who really knew nothing of the ways of the world. She could not be that foolish.