Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Books by Catherine Archer
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Copyright
Tristan wanted her, needed her
more than anything in his life.
He would carry her to the bed and…
His eyes opened wide, his gaze flying to the bed. To the heavy blue coverlet on which his child slept, oblivious to his madness. Dear God, did he have no control over himself where this woman was concerned?
As abruptly as he had taken Lily into his arms, Tristan released her. He looked down at her, her lips that were swollen from his kisses, her eyes that were heavy with passion. And wanted her still, in spite of knowing how very wrong it was.
Lily’s eyes darkened with confusion even as he watched, her hand coming up to cover her swollen lips as she whispered, “Dear heaven, help us.”
A bitter laugh escaped him. “I do not think there is any help for us, Lily—either in heaven or hell…!
Dear Reader,
This month we’re celebrating love “against all odds” with these four powerful romances!
Winter’s Bride by longtime Harlequin author Catherine Archer is the first book in her terrific new series, SEASONS’ BRIDES. Keep a hankie close by while reading about Lily and Tristan, whose love, planted years past, blossoms again. Their long-ago secret affair produced a child, but a carriage accident tore them apart, as Lily was thought to have died. But fate intervenes, and the now amnesiac Lily is hired as the nursemaid of Tristan’s daughter—her daughter. Lily’s memory dawns slowly as Tristan’s actions trigger the sweet echoes of a love too strong to be forgotten…
Barbara Leigh’s The Surrogate Wife, set in early America, is about the struggle of forbidden love. Here, the heroine is wrongfully convicted of murdering the hero’s wife, and is sentenced to life as his indentured servant…And don’t miss The Midwife by Carolyn Davidson, about a midwife who must care for the newborn of a woman who dies in labor. She and the child’s stern father marry for convenience, yet later fall in love—despite the odds.
On the heels of a starred review from Publishers Weekly for Midsummer’s Knight, Tory Phillips returns with Lady of the Knight, the frolicking tale of a famous knight and courtier who buys a “soiled dove” and bets that he can pass her off as a lady in ten days’ time.
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals® novel.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Winter’s
Bride
Catherine
Archer
Books by Catherine Archer
Harlequin Historicals
Rose Among Thorns #136
*Velvet Bond #282
*Velvet Touch #322
Lady Thorn #353
Lord Sin #379
Fire Song #426
†Winter’s Bride #477
*Velvet Series
†Season’s Brides
CATHERINE ARCHER
has been hooked on historical romance since she read Jane Eyre at the age of twelve. She has an avid interest in history, particularly the medieval period. A homemaker and mother, Catherine lives with her husband, three children and dog in Alberta, Canada, where the long winters give this American transplant plenty of time to write.
This book is for my daughter Rosanna. She introduced
me to Tristan and made me fall in love with him as
she had.
This book is also for Elaina, who, like Lily, is finding her
way out of the sadness of the past.
I would like to say a word of thanks to my editor,
Patience Smith, for her amazing work ethic and her
gratifying directness.
Prologue
England 1458
Benedict urged his mount to a faster and still faster pace, even though the heavy snowfall made doing so extremely unwise. He had to reach his brother—and his brother’s mistress—before it was too late.
Tristan could not be allowed to tie himself to the wench, whose family supported Lancaster. She may have convinced Tristan that the whelp she carried was his, but Benedict was skeptical. He knew the repute of her family, knew that lying to get what they wanted was not above them. And it was most likely the case with their only offspring.
Benedict had lessoned his own siblings to a higher standard, which was why Tristan held such faith in this girl. He judged her by his own intent. Benedict was less naive. He had been left to look after himself and his three brothers when their parents died, and that he would do, no matter how determinedly Tristan resisted him.
He prodded the stallion again as another wave of trepidation took him. There was more to his haste than his desire to save his brother from such a marriage. Some time ago, he had seen the Grays’ own coach approach the crossroads to Westchurch just as he himself had come from the opposite direction. Their driver had taken no notice of him, a lone rider on the darkened road. They searched for a coach.
Even though the conditions of this stormy night did not favor such haste, Benedict had been able to press his mount to a gallop and thus outdistance whomever else sought the lovers. And even resorting to such dangerous speed might not gain him enough time. He must get to his brother and away before the girl’s family did. He had no wish for this folly to cost Tristan his life.
In that instant he was distracted from his thoughts by a dark shape in the road far ahead of him. His breath caught as he realized that it was an overturned carriage.
Even after telling himself that it could be anyone, he was not able to still the throb of anxiety in his chest as he approached. The Ainsworth arms on the side of the carriage confirmed his deepest fear. It was indeed his own family’s conveyance. The driver lay crumpled beside it.
Benedict pulled the reins so hard he brought his mount to a rearing halt. He leaped to the ground, his hands searching for and finding no signs of life in the poor fellow. He had no time to mourn, turning to open the door of the overturned carriage even as an unfamiliar sound prodded at his consciousness. It was a weak and reedy, high-pitched wailing. The sound of a babe crying.
Grimly, Benedict raked the inside of the carriage with his eyes. He was intent now not only on helping his brother but also in ascertaining the source of that feeble cry.
The inside of the red-velvet-lined coach was drifted with snow, and he realized the window must have broken out. His horrified gaze lit first upon his brother. Tristan lay in a crumpled heap against the opposite door, unmoving. Even in unconsciousness he kept his arms about the form of a young woman, who was clothed in a diaphanous white gown. There was no sound other than the crying of the babe, which seemed to be coming from somewhere in the area of the woman’s lap.
Benedict’s gaze flew back to his brother, and his heart swelled up into his throat as he noticed the spreading red color on the snow. It also darkened Tri
stan’s gray coat and the white fabric of the girl’s gown, which partially covered his brother as he held her close to him. Both of them lay far too still.
Benedict leaped inside.
As he raised Tristan’s wrist, he also looked to the woman. His lips thinned as he searched the white face, which had been hidden by the folds of her gown from his previous vantage. There was no hint of color. Indeed, she was as white as the snow and her own gown.
Concentrating then on his brother, Benedict closed his eyes in relief as he felt the faint pulse of his blood. But that relief was only momentary. Such a faint pulse meant that though there was life in him yet, it hung by a tenuous thread.
All of this he realized in the space of a heartbeat, after which he quickly knelt and moved aside the girl’s skirts until he found the form of the mewling child. It was so small and blue, so cool to the touch. Fear for the babe shot through him. It was not likely to last the night if he did not get it in from this storm. Even if the child were not his brother’s he could not abandon it here, in the hope that the other coach would arrive in time. Lifting the little one into his arms, he then felt for the pulse of its mother. He was not surprised to find no sign of life.
Quickly he made the sign of the cross on her forehead. Though he had not wanted Tristan to be duped by her, he had wished her no such ill as this. His heart was heavy that one so young and beautiful had met such a tragic end. Then there was no more time for mourning the loss of one he had not even known, when he must certainly act now or lose his own brother.
Only moments later he was riding away, the unconscious Tristan laid across the horse before him, the still-crying babe in his arms. He cast one last glance over his shoulder toward the poor creature who had died this night, before urging his horse to a gallop.
He did feel sympathy for her and for the family who would soon mourn her loss, but he must now think about the two who had survived and keep them alive.
Chapter One
England 1461
Lady Lillian Gray looked about the common room of the inn with little interest. She awaited the head of her guard, who had disappeared through another doorway. The low ceiling was paneled with dark wood, and behind her a staircase of equally dark wood rose into the shadowy corridor above. A fire was lit in the depths of the hearth at the end of the chamber, and several men occupied the tables that dominated its length. Each seemed more focused on the contents of his cup than on anything else.
The haunting sense of loss, which had been so much a part of Lily’s awareness since waking after an accident some three years gone by, overshadowed all. That terrible accident had claimed her memory of all events preceding the moment she had awoken.
She nearly started as Sir Seymour spoke at her elbow. “My lady?”
She swung around to face the head of her guard, whose face wore a respectful and distant mask. His manner had been thus since he and the rest of her future husband’s men had arrived at her father’s keep to fetch her that very morning. While they had remained deferential, they gave no hint of welcome to their master’s intended bride. She withheld a sigh as she replied, “Yes.”
Clearly unaware of her discontent, the knight bowed. “The innkeeper has assured me that you are to have his very best rooms, my lady, just as my lord Maxim instructed. There will be no need for you to present yourself in the common room for the meal. I have requested that food be brought to you in your own chambers, as my lord has also instructed.”
Lily nodded. “Thank you.” It mattered not if she dined alone. She would have felt alone even in their company. Still, she was displeased at not being asked which she would prefer. It seemed that no one ever asked what she wanted, certainly not her parents. They always decided what was best for her.
Sir Seymour bowed formally and turned away to direct one of the men who stood on alert behind them. “Bring in my lady’s light baggage.”
That man, also a stranger to her, hurried out.
Maxim had insisted that only his own men were to be entrusted with bringing her to his home keep of Treanly.
Treanly. The name seemed so foreign to her still, even though she knew it was to be her new home. Her wedding to Maxim on her arrival there would settle that irrevocably.
She looked toward Sir Seymour’s back with unconscious regret. If only she knew more about where she was going, about what she would find there! But the knight seemed an unlikely source of information. He maintained that mask of deference at all times and certainly would share nothing about his master, whom he referred to with the gravest of formality. Quickly she told herself that it hardly mattered.
What could matter when her own parents seemed near strangers to her at times? Any of the deep love she must once have felt toward them had been wiped from her mind, though their dedicated care had left her with a debt of gratitude that could never be repaid.
She could not deny that there was also some relief in going away from Lakeland Park. The strain of trying to remember a past that she did not recall, her parents’ obvious hurt that she no longer felt the bond of their common experience, were more painful to her with each passing day.
Lily did not want to think about that now. She wanted to look ahead, to concentrate on the new life she was about to begin. Even though she could not dispel the ever-present lethargy that gripped her, some small part of her did hope she would be accepted by her husband’s folk, that her new lord might come to have some care for her.
The marriage to Maxim had been arranged by her father after only one actual meeting between the couple. Although she knew him not at all, Lily had agreed without demur. Her father had been so eager for the match. Lily felt that even if she could not recall her love for her sire, surely she owed him her obedience. She was afraid that she had not, in the past, been as dutiful a daughter as she should have been. She did, at times, feel a sense of rebellion against her father’s wishes, even when she knew he was right in deciding what was best for her.
If Maxim had seemed distant when they met, it must certainly be his greater maturity and the weighty responsibilities of running his own lands that made him appear so. At forty-two, he was over twenty years her senior and likely not given to making youthful declarations or displays of affection. There had been a hot sort of hunger in his eyes when he thought she was not looking, and although it had made her feel slightly uncomfortable, it indicated that he was not completely indifferent to her. And had he not sent her the chestnut mare she rode to Treanly as his wedding gift to her?
Further strengthening her impression of his stalwart character, he had insisted that she journey to Treanly for the marriage, saying that he could not leave his lands unattended. Her parents had agreed with his request, though it was not possible for them to accompany her, as her mother had fallen ill only weeks before and could not risk traveling in winter.
Again, Sir Seymour spoke her name, drawing her from her thoughts. “Lady Lillian.”
She swung around to face him.
He held up her bag, casting a disapproving glance over those seated beyond them in the common room. “If you are ready to go up now?” He seemed anxious to lead her away from this public room. “I will see you safely there myself.”
Lily nodded, wanting to give the knight no cause for worry as to her tractability. “I am ready.”
With no more conversation, Sir Seymour swung toward the stairs and motioned for her to precede him.
As Lily moved toward the steps, she pushed her sable-lined hood back slightly from her face in order to see more clearly where she was going. The lantern that hung from the wall bracket cast its light upon the bottom treads, but little reached the stairs above.
Just as she was about to start up, she heard the sound of booted footsteps moving down. Realizing the stairway was too narrow for two to pass comfortably, Lily stepped back, looking upward…and became very still as her gaze met that of a man.
A man whose face was cloaked in shadow, but who radiated an emotion so raw it held her captive.
And that emotion seemed somehow to be directed at her.
Even as she watched, his gaze narrowed and he continued further into the light, his expression so intent that she felt a strange ripple of awareness course down her spine. She wanted to look away, but found that she could not. Though she could not deny that the gentleman was handsome, with his blue eyes and dark, dark hair, that was not what continued to hold her so still.
As she saw his face more clearly some instantaneous and overwhelming sense of recognition washed over her—through her. Like a sweeping wind, it seemed to penetrate flesh and bone to the very inner core of her—the core that she had been unable to access since the accident.
And then, just as abruptly, the sense of awakening was gone. Again there was nothing. She immediately experienced a numbing dizziness.
Completely disoriented, Lily swayed, putting a hand to her forehead.
Tristan Ainsworth looked down at the woman at the foot of the stairs with utter disbelief. The light was not strong, but he would know her anywhere, those wide gray eyes, the sweep of black hair that fell to either side of her fair face from a center parting. Those well-remembered and beloved features were equally patrician and delicate at one and the same time. Each was perfectly in harmony with the others and molded of milky white skin so soft to the touch that it had made him tremble to do so. Her figure, though covered by the lush and enveloping cape, was equally well-known to him. She was tall and slender, her hips and waist narrow, her breasts high and perfectly molded, with raspberry tips. From the first moment of seeing her he had felt that it was as if on that fateful day God had decided to create a woman especially for Tristan’s eyes—his heart.
Winter's Bride Page 1
