Shana Abe (19 page)

“Nor me!” She stalked away from him and went below deck.

The fisherman with the pipe operated his vessel with the help of his two sons, both of them blond and nameless. They treated Damon with the respect due a
moneyed man and Solange with the contempt reserved for younger boys. Alain, the father, spent a good deal of time tacking the sail and scanning the skies. But their luck had held so far; the leaden clouds hovered low but that was all. The snow had stopped.

Damon tried to focus on what he had to do next, but the image of Solange’s impatience burned in his mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t have lashed out at her like that. It was hardly her fault he had fallen ill.

Of course it was her fault, he reminded himself. This whole debacle was her fault and he should not forget it again. He squared his jaw, gazing out over the steely waves. But still, what Damon saw were her eyes, dark with some unidentified emotion as she felt his skin.

In his traveling bag he always carried a medicine pouch filled with the bare essentials of herbal remedies for emergencies. It was below with the horses and the rest of their belongings. He would have to go get it to see what he actually had. He thought there would be a few things that would help him now, cinnamon, ephedra. He could decoct them into a tea once they landed.…

Solange’s eyes—was that worry he had read in them? Damon paused, considering.

Worry for herself, perhaps. Worry that she would not be able to reach Ironstag without him. No, he thought wryly, she hadn’t enough sense for that. With or without him, she would continue until either she made it there or died trying.

It hadn’t been worry he saw. Just some faint concern. Why should she care about his health, other than
how it affected her? Why should her view of him have changed at all over these past few days? Only a fool would think such a small amount of time spent together would make any difference after nine years of absence.

He pushed away from the mast, grimacing at the aches that gripped his joints. He felt bruised all over. Most of that was due, no doubt, to the fact that his polite refusal to share a bed with Ghislaine had meant he spent last night huddled on the hearthstones in front of the tavern’s fireplace with his back against a definite draft. Solange, taking up the other half of the hearth, had seemed to rest peacefully in spite of that—the woman could probably sleep through the Apocalypse. But Damon had tossed and turned, roasting on one side and freezing on the other. If he had slept at all, he couldn’t recall it.

Below deck was a cramped space for cargo, and in this case the horses. At least it was out of the chill breeze. He found Solange sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees and her back propped against the slanting inner hull. She was staring moodily into space.

He debated about what to say to her, whether he should even venture a word. Her frosty look was not encouraging. He walked past her to the pile of their belongings, searching until he found the right bag. Tarrant greeted him with a soft neigh.

Solange watched him silently.

He opened the saddlebag and felt around until he found the medicine bag, a thick leather pouch with separate compartments sewn inside it. Each compartment contained an herb, securely wrapped in lambskin.
It was his own design, one that he had made improvements on over the years as he gained practical experience. It had proven its worth again and again to him, his soldiers, his people.

“You should try to stay out of the wind,” said Solange suddenly.

He looked up at her.

“And keep your head covered,” she added. “If your hair becomes wet and you’re outside, you won’t get better. You should stay down here until we reach land.”

“As you said, Countess, it is only a cold. I will be fine.”

“No, you need to ensure that it does not grow to be anything worse. It’s quite easy to have a simple cold develop into any number of serious things, like consumption.”

Something in her voice put him on alert. Instead of telling her he already knew these things, he decided to gently prod her, to see where she would lead him.

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.” She stopped, looking hesitant. After a moment she offered, “One of the women at Wellburn fell ill once. It began as a little thing, a slight irritation. But she … wasn’t careful enough. She was exposed to the cold every day without sufficient protection, and eventually she couldn’t leave her bed. It was even thought … she might die.”

Damon leaned back against the pile of bags. “So, what happened to her? How was she treated?”

“Oh, well, they bled her, of course. The physician was very adamant that she be bled.”

“They bled a woman with consumption?”

Solange stared him straight in the eye. “Yes. They said it was to rid her of the bad blood.”

Damon shook his head. “Leeches are appropriate in certain cases, of course, but I am surprised they continued to bleed her after she showed no improvement. Did they not try herbs? Mustard packs? Tonics?”

“I am uncertain of the full treatment. I didn’t know her very well. But I believe once she became bedridden she was … removed from the elements that caused her harm. She was kept warmer, and dry. They fed her broth and such.”

“Broth.” Damon found himself watching her hands, watching them repeatedly clench and relax around her knees. “How long was she bedridden?”

She leaned her head back against the hull. Her reply was muted. “A long time, I think.”

“How long?”

“About … a year, I suppose.”

Her hands clenched, unclenched.

Clenched.

He was going to change the subject. He wasn’t interested in the rest of the story.

“A year in sickbed. That’s a long time for anyone,” he said instead.

“Yes.”

“I am surprised she was able to pull through that.”

“Many were.” She seemed lost in thought, curled up tightly into herself. He watched her carefully as he asked his next question.

“And tell me, did they continue to bleed her until she recovered?”

“Oh, yes,” Solange said softly. “They always bled her.”

Something inside him was taut, stretched to breaking. It was a deep thing so fragile and frightening, he would not, could not, examine it. It was the thread that held the core of him together, now brittle as glass.

Looking at Solange, at the simple fall of brown hair twisted casually over her shoulder, tightened the thread unbearably. He knew looking into her eyes would break him.

Perhaps she sensed it. She flashed him an overbright smile. “But as I said, this woman recovered. Everything was fine. Today she is hale and hearty, I’m certain.”

He couldn’t reply. He couldn’t think. He didn’t want to. She continued to speak in a cheerful voice, ignoring his silence.

“But you can understand now how important it is to take care of your health, especially when it is already compromised. I think we shall buy you a hat in Dover, to cover your head.”

Footsteps thumped down the short set of stairs from the deck above. Solange hastily tucked her hair back under her cape. She had been avoiding the crew at Damon’s insistence, staying below for most of the voyage. Now she stood up and walked over to the horses, keeping her back to the doorway. The younger of the two sons appeared.

“Papa says to tell you the Saxon cliffs are in sight.”

Damon stared at the boy, mute. He couldn’t absorb what had just been said. The words bounced around
him without meaning. The boy stood still, then shrugged. “Don’t you want to come up?”

Solange answered him. “Yes. We’ll be up soon.”

The boy left. Damon stared at the space where he used to be, then it was filled with Solange herself, on her way out. Without thinking, he caught her arm to stay her.

“This woman,” he began, and then was stopped by the severity in her face. He could find no mercy there; in fact, he thought he could see some of the brittleness singing inside him right now.

“It is over,” she said firmly. “That woman is much better. I didn’t wish to upset you. Don’t make me regret telling you such an insignificant tale. I am certain you will fare much better than she did. You’re stronger than she was.” She twisted out of his grip. “We will buy you a hat,” she said once more, and then hurried up the stairs.

A hat.

Damon began to chuckle, an acrid, painful sound. He had to bend double to contain it, but it grew, slicing his belly as it went. Certainly, a hat was what he needed. A hat would fix everything.

A hat to cover his head. He concentrated on that, imagined a hat that Solange would pick out for him.

For his health.

The boat jarred beneath his feet, sending him swaying to the opposite wall. The strait was growing rougher as they came inland. He should be above. The walls of the hull were growing closer and closer. He needed air, fresh air, to fill his lungs.

The sea was indeed rougher now. Outside, he saw
whitecaps topping the brownish-green waves, row after row of them. Solange stood with the others by the forward mast, all of them watching the chalk cliffs of Dover loom closer and closer out of a hazy mist.

He joined them just as the man and his sons broke away to guide the rig into the port. The wind whipped his hair across his face, stinging his skin, but the sensation was far from unpleasant.

Beside him stood Solange, leaning into the wind with a joy as bright as the day was desolate. A fierce smile lit her face as the ship drew closer inland.

The wind picked up tears from her eyes and blew them away. Or was that just his imagination? It was difficult to look at her directly; that pulled the cord tighter in him. Like her, he turned to face Dover, to the odd comfort of the sight of the busy port.

He was worried about the very real likelihood that Redmond’s soldiers would be there, waiting for them, and so he scanned the shore anxiously as they docked, searching each face, looking for that one hint of betrayal in the eyes of strangers.

Solange kept close to him, kept her face turned down as much as possible. They were surrounded by the shouts of the seamen, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No reason to gallop out of the town, which was what he wanted to do anyway, to run and blend in with the familiar countryside of his native land, to gain the advantage once again by fighting her demons on his own soil.

Yes, it was good to be back. Wolfhaven was miles yet from Dover, and Ironstag farther still, but Damon
could not pretend to be anything but relieved to be out of France.

And Solange … He could not tell what she felt. She had transformed to her now-usual impenetrable look as soon as they had reached the harbor. If he had not seen for himself the exhilaration she displayed earlier at sea, he would have thought she felt nothing at all to be back.

But he knew better. He was becoming more and more adept at reading her again. She was careful to hide her true self, he noticed. It had to be something she had learned as the countess.

He was eager to leave the city; the littered streets and row after row of buildings crowded in on him the way cities always did. And there were too many faces to search all of them. They were vulnerable here. They had to leave.

Screeching cries of children mixed raucously with the hawking of the marketers, the bleating of sheep, screaming roosters and chickens for sale. He was never comfortable with so many people around him. It seemed unnatural, stacking people and animals on top of each other, mingling the garbage and filth with homes and markets.

Damon was born and raised to a different life, one that cities could not touch. It was space and land, the steady cycle of planting and harvest, room to breathe. Dover or London, it made no difference. City life held no appeal for him.

But to his chagrin, the first thing they did was shop for a hat. Solange would not think of leaving, she said, without getting him one. When he pointed out the
danger of lingering in the city, she gave him an astonished look.

“Oh, but this is
England
,” she said. “They won’t catch us here.”

The naïveté of that statement left him stunned enough to allow her to lead him into the nearest shop.

Despite her confident words, she had decided to continue her charade as a boy, keeping her hair hidden and her cloak buttoned closed.

Ragged as they were, the hatmaker was delighted to see customers on this dismal day. Solange explained politely what they needed. Her brother had lost his hat to the winds and needed a replacement. She remained unswayed by the man’s displays of velvet, feathers, and lace. It had to be sturdy, she instructed, a good, plain hat for a good, plain man.

Damon hid his smile when he heard her. They settled on a hat with an unadorned black brim, much to the hatmaker’s open dismay. When Damon paid in gold, however, the little man’s smile returned, along with the fancier goods.

“Something for the young sir, perhaps?” he suggested encouragingly.

Solange shook her head, but Damon walked past her over to examine again the man’s display of wares. His smile became fulsome as Damon lingered over a particularly ornate, ruffled beret complete with blue velvet trim. Solange rolled her eyes and was still saying no as he paid for it, then clapped it on her head.

“My brother, you see, is neither good nor plain, and is properly suited to a fancier style than I,” Damon said, smiling at her scowl beneath the lacy brim.

“Yes, yes,” cried the shopkeeper. “A delicate boy! The ladies will much admire him thus!”

“No doubt,” agreed Damon amicably. “It brings out his better qualities, don’t you think?”

“Quite so, yes, indeed, it does! Those eyes! Such refinement!”

“You have feathers for brains, my brother,” muttered Solange. “We have what we came for. Let us quit this place.”

Damon nodded, bowed to the hatmaker, who bowed in return so low that his nose nearly touched his knees.

“A pleasure, a pleasure to serve you,” he exclaimed as they left.

She tried to take the beret off as soon as they left the store, but Damon laughed and stopped her. “You must admit it hides your face well, Countess. You appear to be quite the city dandy now.”

“I do not wish to be a dandy,” she said clearly.