The woman at the bottom of the stairs was his Lily.
But Lily was dead. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, telling himself that this was only another vision, another specter that would fade away as the others had. For had he not seen Lily in innumerable places, innumerable times, only to discover that she was not there?
Taking a deep breath, knowing with that sinking feeling in his gut that she would be gone when he opened his eyes, he forced himself to do so anyway. There Lily stood.
Still he could not allow himself to believe. Even as he watched, she swayed, grabbing for the railing.
Dear God, there was no mistake. No specter of his conjuring had ever fainted.
Lily.
A great cascade of longing filled him. It grew, washed over and through him as if he was standing beneath a raging waterfall. He was held completely immobile by the very force of it.
As if through a haze he saw that the man behind Lily was moving forward to take her arm. He seemed not to notice Tristan’s reaction, for he was intent upon the lady herself.
It was the man’s presence that finally brought him back to reality. Tristan could not deny his own interest in any man who would be with Lily.
His Lily.
Nay, he corrected himself quickly as a sudden revelation hit him. If she was alive and had not even contacted him in these three years, she was not his Lily.
His tormented gaze swung back to her face. He saw her glance brush his length once again, a strange haunted look in her lovely gray eyes. But there was no sign of true recognition, which made no sense whatsoever. She had known him as well as any human being could another.
Or so he had thought at the time. Perhaps he had only been fooling himself, and she had been toying with his affections, as Benedict had said from the very beginning.
Quickly he focused on her escort, who seemed, if his manner and dress were any indication, to be a knight. The reverence in the man’s voice as he took her arm and asked, “My lady, are you unwell?” told Tristan that he did not hold himself as her familiar.
She spoke in a whisper, and to Tristan it seemed she carefully kept her gaze away from himself. “I…nay, not unwell. I only felt dizzy for a moment.”
The man frowned in concern. “It has been a long day, and I ask your forgiveness for that. I have pushed you so far only because my lord bade me make haste in his anticipation of your arrival. Perhaps I have been overzealous. My master would not be pleased for you to become ill and our journey delayed.”
She raised a white hand to brush the dark hair back from her pale forehead. Even from where he stood Tristan could see that her hand was trembling as she said, “Have no great concern for me. I am sure I will be fine. As you said, we traveled far this day. Morning will see me quite recovered.”
Tristan found himself frowning at this assurance. It was clear that she was quite delicate of constitution in spite of her words, even more so than when he had known her. For then she had been imbued with a vitality of spirit that had made her appear stronger than her physical being. He looked again at that trembling hand. The bones in it and her wrist looked as fragile as those of a dove.
The man spoke again, even as he began to draw Lily up the stairs past Tristan, whom he ignored except for a brief, disdainful glance. “Your lord husband will be very glad of that.”
Tristan froze once more, feeling as if ice had replaced the blood in his veins. Not only had Lily forgotten him and the love they had shared, but she was married. Married to another man.
How could she just forget him, forget all they had shared as if it were nothing? How could she forget the very product of the love they had shared, their own child, Sabina?
The thought made rage flow through him with the force of the winter storms that pummeled the coast at Brackenmoore, his family home. It was too much to be borne.
He would not bear it.
* * *
That night, Lily woke with a start, realizing instantly that she couldn’t breathe. There was something pushing down upon her face. The fingers pressing into her cheeks told her that it was a hand.
She made to move away, but could not. Her body was held by a heavy weight. It felt as if someone must be using his or her own body to hold her down.
Wildly she tried to think as her sleep-fogged mind attempted to make sense of what was going on. She tried to see around that large hand. The room was not as dim as it had been when she retired, for someone, surely her assailant, seemed to have opened a window, allowing the moonlight to pour inside. Briefly, she wondered if the chamber had been entered by that method, even as her desperate gaze came to rest on a man’s face.
She started, her mind reeling as she realized that it was the man from the stairs, the one who had caused such a strange reaction in her. The man had seemed so familiar, though she could not understand why. She did not know him, nor why he would accost her this way in her chamber.
She moved her head from side to side, trying to free herself, wanting to ask this madman why he would do this to her. He only held her more firmly, causing her teeth to dig into her lips painfully. Without thinking, she opened her mouth, sinking her teeth into that hard hand.
“God’s blood,” he cursed in outrage.
He lifted his hand for a brief moment, barely long enough for her to sputter, “Who are you?”
There was no reply. Immediately he forced a scrap of soft fabric between her lips and held it there, then secured it with another piece of cloth, which he tied behind her head.
Driven beyond her usual strength by fear, Lily began to struggle beneath his weight. Even in her frantic state the bedcovers hindered her greatly. Realizing that it was foolish to expend her strength in this hopeless position, Lily grew still. Glaring in frustration and confusion, she met his gaze. Those strangely compelling eyes of his, so close to hers, seemed to mock her puny efforts.
Anger made her thrash anew. Her exertions were redoubled when shame washed through her as she recalled her own folly in thinking him quite attractive, at knowing that she had not been able to forget the chance meeting on the stairs. In the long interval before she had finally been able to fall asleep, she had gone over and over that strange and unexplainable sense of recognition she had felt.
Bitterly Lily told herself not to think about that. She must certainly concentrate instead on finding out what he wanted with her.
As if her own thoughts had triggered him to act, he stood and began to roll her more tightly in the bedclothes. Horrified, she began to struggle harder.
It was of little use. His much greater strength and the fact that she was already covered in the blankets prevented her from freeing so much as a hand before she was completely immobilized from head to foot.
Then there was no more time for thought as she felt herself being lifted and draped over what she was sure was the man’s shoulder.
Desperately she wriggled inside the roll of bedding. Her reward was a jarring thump as she landed on the floor. She clenched her teeth at the pain in her hip, which had hit hardest, telling herself that it was worth it if someone had heard her. But the only sound that followed was a muffled curse from her assailant. He uttered a husky-voiced warning, “Don’t try that again, unless your hope is to get someone hurt. I won’t be thwarted,” before she was again lifted and flung over his shoulder.
This remark did nothing to ease Lily’s fears or explain what was happening. It told her only that the madman was serious. Though she was not familiar with her future husband’s men, that did not mean she could cavalierly put them at risk by alerting them. For whatever reasons of his own, this man clearly meant to take her no matter what the cost.
Perhaps it would be best to allow this knave to get her outside the inn, then make her escape.
With that thought in mind, Lily forced herself to acquiescence as she felt herself being carried out the door and down the stairs of the inn. No sounds came to her within the muffling folds of the blankets.
Tristan all
owed himself not a moment of doubt or sympathy as he took her through the darkened inn. The common room was vacant other than for two gentlemen who snored loudly as they slept upon benches before the fire. The depth of their slumber indicated that it might be aided by drink.
He was not sorry. In spite of the cold seriousness of his warning to Lily, he did not wish to actually harm anyone. He would have taken her out the window, which was the way he had entered her room, but that would be near impossible, carrying the awkward bundle she made.
Nay, he did not wish to harm anyone—even Lily, though his heart burned like a hot coal inside his breast at the thought of her perfidy. All he wanted…well, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He only knew that he had to confront her, tell her what he thought of her betrayal. He had to make her understand that she could not just look through him as if he did not exist, as if their daughter had never been born.
Sabina deserved better than that from the woman whom they had all thought dead—whom Tristan had mourned with an unceasing agony. Even when he had agreed to an engagement to his brother Benedict’s ward, Genevieve, he had grieved that his bride would not be Lily. Each and every waking moment since his recovery from his accident—that fateful accident in which he had thought she died—had been accompanied by pain at the realization that he must go on without her.
Jagged sorrow sliced him anew, but unlike all those other times in the past three years, it was dulled by a smoldering anger. She would know just what she had done to him.
Lily would acknowledge that she had wronged him—and their daughter.
Mayhap then he would let her go. He would be glad for her to return to her husband and the new life she had made for herself without them.
The very thought of that unknown man made Tristan’s lower belly twist with renewed rage. Quickly he made his way from the inn and out into the courtyard, where he had tied his horse.
He knew it would not be an easy journey to his hunting lodge, Molson, with Lily lying across the saddle in front of him, even with the full moon to light his passage. But they should be able to reach the lodge before dawn. He needed night to mask his escape. The soldiers who now slept so peacefully in their own chamber next to the one Lily had occupied, and the others in the stables, would have no witnesses to tell them where she might have gone.
Tristan was feeling as if things were going even better than he could have hoped as he laid her across the front of his patiently waiting stallion. It was then that she began to thrash about once more, and he very nearly dropped her on the ground. Roughly he whispered, “You are only going to hurt yourself if you fall. What good will that do you, Lily?”
It was as he spoke her name that she became suddenly and utterly still. This seemed odd…almost as if she were surprised that he knew it.
He shook his head, telling himself that it was impossible. She knew him. There could be no mistaking the shock on her face when she had seen him on the stairs of the inn, even though she had quickly pretended otherwise.
He swung up into the saddle behind her, urging Uriel toward Molson.
Daylight was just threading through the trees near the village as he rode up the hill to his hunting lodge. It had been built just before his parents had died ten years ago, and though not nearly as large as the castle at Brackenmoore, was more comfortable and definitely warmer in winter. That he did not make his permanent home there had more to do with his wanting to be with his family than anything else. He felt it was good for Sabina to be surrounded by those who loved her, especially growing up without a mother. His betrothed, Genevieve, seemed quite content to remain there as well.
He did not allow himself to believe that his reluctance to live at Molson had anything to do with the fact that it was there he had been with Lily. That it was there they had culminated their love, shared their innermost thoughts, made plans for a life together. Due to its close proximity to Lakeland, it was filled with memories of their stolen moments together.
He had thought of none of these things as he had left for Molson the previous day to see his man, Wilbert, the craftsman who was making the polished metal shield for the lighthouse at Brackenmoore. It was only by chance that Tristan had stopped for the night at the very inn where Lily had chosen to take her rest. If not for that odd twist of fate he would never have seen her, would not be holding her before him at this very moment.
Tristan rode to the front entrance of the three-story lodge, which was built in the fashion of a manor house and called a lodge only because of its original intended use, and dismounted. He then reached up to take Lily down from where she had lain for the past several hours. As he did so she groaned in protest.
In spite of not wishing to feel anything but outrage, Tristan frowned in chagrin. He had been so lost in his own thoughts, in his anger, that he had given little consideration to her comfort. Of course she was stiff and sore from lying in one position for so long. He looked down and saw that the blankets had pulled away from her face during the ride. Even in the dim light he could see that she was too pale. Avoiding any eye contact, he reached out and removed the gag from her mouth. Immediately she sucked in a great breath of air, closing her eyes as if overcome by the sheer joy of doing so.
Telling himself that he was giving her no more than the same consideration that he would toward even an enemy, he eased her down slowly into his arms. Even then she gave another quickly muffled gasp of pain. He supported her there for a long moment, giving the blood a chance to begin flowing through her veins.
Obviously her discomfort was not completely debilitating, for when she spoke, her voice, though confused, was also demanding. “Who are you?”
His lips twisted in ire as he told himself his sympathy was misplaced. She did not lack the energy to continue the charade that she did not know him. “Do not try to play games with me, Lily. I am not interested in them.”
She replied heatedly, “Please, sir, I play no games. I beg you explain who you are and why you have abducted me!”
He pressed his lips together in irritation at her question. “I’m sure you recall my warning about not getting someone else hurt by being foolish. You will not try to enlist aid here. No one would give it in any event.” Beyond that he would not deign to answer. Once they were alone he would speak. He would not participate in this pointless questioning, which was no more than pretense. Roughly he flung her over his shoulder and moved to bang the knocker upon the oak-paneled door.
It seemed a very long time before it swung inward and Hunter poked his head through the opening. “My lord Tristan?” He pulled the door wide, even as Tristan stepped across the threshold.
The elderly servant’s amazed green eyes focused on the bundle his master carried. Tristan gave a mental shrug. He knew he could not hide the fact that he carried a body. He had not meant to. He knew the servant’s loyalty was without question. Yet the man was a human being and must surely have some curiosity. Unfortunately for him, Tristan was of no mind to satisfy that curiosity.
Now that he was here, standing in the entryway of his own home in the cold light of morning, he was not sure he could explain even to himself what he had done. Tristan could not hope to escape the consequences of this act. For surely Lily would not keep silent when he let her go, after he had told her exactly how he felt about her duplicity. As angry as he was, Tristan knew he could not harm her in order to prevent her from telling what he had done. The very thought made his stomach muscles clench sickeningly.
He forced himself to focus on Hunter rather than try to understand the depth of his reaction. “Are my chambers ready?”
“Of course, my lord, as your letter requested, though we had not expected you until much later in the day.”
“I…yes, there was an unexpected change of plans.” Tristan raised his dark eyebrows and shrugged. “I’m sure you understand.”
The poor man did not look as if he did understand. Not in the least.
Tristan’s mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “Well, thank you,
Hunter. I’ll go up now.”
“Yes, my lord Tristan.” The elderly gentleman bowed. “I trust you’ll let us know if you have need of anything.”
“Of course.” Tristan smiled, glad to have passed this awkward moment with so little commotion. He then turned and made his way up the darkened stairs at the far end of the wide entryway. Not much of the morning light had found its way through the shuttered windows above the door. But Tristan didn’t require much lighting. He knew where he was going.
Upon reaching his rooms, he pushed open the door and went directly to the dark cherry-wood bed, where he deposited his burden without ceremony. As soon as she landed on the mattress, Lily began to wriggle out of the blankets.
He stood back and watched as her dark head emerged, the huge dark circles of her gray eyes finding him with fury and outrage. “Now, sir, will you tell me what is going on here?”
Tristan bent over her, feeling his anger rise afresh at her continued pretense of not knowing him. “I will tell you nothing until you stop this masquerade.”
She sat up straighter on the gold brocade bedcover, clearly trying to gather the scattered edges of her dignity around her as she shook her head. He tried not to notice how the thin fabric of her diaphanous white night rail clung to the curves of her breasts, hips and thighs. Nor would he allow himself to think of the times he had pulled the heavy draperies that covered these very windows closed, undressed her in this very bed and…
As Lily began to speak, he concentrated with determination on her words. “I yield, sir, if it will please you. I have somehow perpetrated some masquerade against you. Now will you set me free?”
He frowned, seeing that she was making as if to humor him. “I can’t do that, Lily, not yet. Not until we have discussed a few things.”
Winter's Bride Page 2
