Winter's Bride

by Catherine Archer

  But what did it matter what she thought?

  He also knew they could not allow it to happen again. Though theirs was no true romantic liaison, he loved Genevieve as a sister, and she deserved better from him. He replied simply, “I agree most heartily. I also overreacted to seeing you so unexpectedly. You are the Lily I once knew. However, no matter what might happen at Brackenmoore as far as your memory is concerned, you are no longer she. I also have a new life. I must tell you that I, too, am engaged to be married—to my brother’s ward, Genevieve Redgreaves. We will never speak of what occurred here again.”

  Her eyes widened as he finished, then she nodded very quickly, turning her back to him. Her voice seemed bright with satisfaction as she replied, “That is very well then. We will never speak of it again.”

  Her obvious relief was unexpectedly disturbing. She did not face him as he said, “I will have some things brought up to you so you may make ready for our journey.”

  She gave a brief nod and spoke with cool indifference. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Unaccountably frustrated with her demeanor, he bowed briefly and strode from the chamber without a backward glance.

  Chapter Three

  Brackenmoore.

  Lily’s hands felt like they were carved from ice as she peered through the evening gloom toward the very dark and imposing edifice of the castle. It seemed to fairly loom over the curtain wall like an enormous coiled dragon, and the salty tang of the nearby sea aided her imagination in the creation of reptilian scales for the beast. Her numb fingers fumbled as the white mare Tristan had given her to ride seemed to balk at the sight as well.

  In one of their few and extremely brief exchanges of the day, Tristan had explained that he lived here with his family. He had said that he felt it was of benefit to Sabina to be near them—and his intended bride, Genevieve.

  Dear God, the name had the power to bring an ache to her chest. When Tristan had so calmly, so coolly told her of his engagement, she had felt as if he’d run her through with a dull blade. Lily told herself it was because of the fact that she, Lily, had betrayed Genevieve by lying with the man she was to marry. How would Lily face this unknown woman?

  Her troubled gaze ran over Tristan’s back as she thought about the note she had written for Maxim. It had said simply that she was not in danger, that he should have no concern for finding her and that she would return to him before long. Tristan had taken the missive, ensuring her that it would be delivered, and in such a way that it would not be traced.

  Now she could not help asking herself how she could have had the temerity to do such a thing. What would Maxim think of her undeniably extraordinary request for him to simply await her eventual arrival?

  What had come over her? Why had she come here? Why worry her future husband by listening to the wild talk of a man she did not even know?

  Surely it was because she had to see the child, as she had told him. And perhaps try to learn why Tristan would fabricate such a story. Yet in the darkest part of her mind she also knew it was because she could not dismiss her own unrestrained reactions to him. Something must account for the fact that he seemed so familiar, for the fact that she had allowed him to touch her, make love to her as if he had some right.

  Allowed him? an inner voice chimed mockingly. Lily knew she had done far more than allow. She had encouraged, entreated, rejoiced in him.

  No matter how difficult it might be, she simply had to find out what was going on. It did not seem possible that she could have had a child, that she could have loved Tristan enough to betray her own father and mother by running away with him.

  Still, he knew so much about her.

  She told herself again that his story simply could not be true. Her mother and father had cared for her so tenderly since her illness. They would never do anything to harm her.

  It was possible for her to come here seeking the truth without damning her own family, to discover that it was Tristan Ainsworth who lied. She would do so without a repeat of the events of that morning. She was promised to Maxim and would not again reveal her attraction to this man.

  That was the only way she might eventually forgive herself for what she had done with Tristan.

  “Lily.”

  “Yes?” she replied, looking up in surprise at hearing Tristan speak her name. Immediately she realized that, while her mind wandered unchecked, they had reached the castle gates. Drawing herself up in her saddle, she nodded. She would attend to her surroundings more fully. All in this keep, and even Tristan, were strangers to her.

  “Are you feeling well?” he asked, his dark eyes studying her closely.

  She nodded again quickly, her own gaze dropping to the horse’s white neck. It continued to be difficult to meet that gaze after what they had done together in that big soft bed back at Molson Lodge.

  She was not sorry when he turned without further comment and led the way beneath the portcullis, now raised. Her mount followed his without urging, seeming eager for their journey to end.

  As they passed through the curtain wall, she realized that it must be some ten feet thick at least. The rough stone was dark, nearly black in color, and she wondered if that was caused by the structure’s nearness to the salty sea. Or could it be that the builder, some long deceased Ainsworth, had deliberately fashioned his fortress from the darkest and most intimidating material available?

  Her gaze returned to Tristan’s broad shoulders. The sheer determination and ruthlessness he had displayed in abducting her made her think it might very well be the latter.

  What would happen, she wondered, should this man again decide that he wanted her? Lily tried to still the shiver that raced down her spine, deliberately averting her gaze from the shoulders her own fingers had clung to with such desperate need.

  The courtyard was nearly empty. In view of her own confused feelings, Lily was glad of this. She was very tired and beginning to feel more and more as if what was happening was some product of her imagination.

  They dismounted and handed their horses over to a young serving man of whom she barely took note. All her thoughts were now centered on the fact that she was soon to meet the child that Tristan claimed was hers. He led her up the wide stone steps of the keep and opened the great oaken door, which swung inward slowly on well-oiled hinges.

  The light inside the enormous, high-ceilinged hall was dim, and there were many folk already stretched out upon their bedrolls. Just before they stepped inside, Tristan bent close and whispered, “I am sorry for any offense that you might feel due to the manner in which I must address you henceforth. We must remember to behave as if you are indeed a personal servant to Sabina.”

  She bowed her head. “Of course. I will take no offense.” Lily wished for no one here to know of her true identity. She could act the part of servant for a few days. After that she would be going back to her own life.

  What would she say to her own family—to Maxim? She would have to leave that decision until the moment arrived.

  Tristan went before her, going directly to a woman who was banking the fire in the enormous hearth at the far end of the room. She turned to look at them, then dipped a curtsy when she saw Tristan. “My lord Tristan. We had not expected you home so soon.”

  He shrugged, even as Lily felt the woman’s curious eyes upon herself. She felt them linger on the shapeless gown of faded brown, which had been the only garment Tristan could produce for her at the hunting lodge. Lily twisted self-conscious fingers in the rough fabric. It was of poor quality even for a personal maid. The serving woman who had brought it to her at Molson had informed Lily that it was a castaway of one of the kitchen girls.

  Without thinking, Lily raised her chin defiantly. She frowned then at herself when the serving woman’s gaze moved thoughtfully from her to Tristan.

  Tristan ignored the questioning expression. “Is Benedict abed, Maeve?”

  Her attention diverted, the portly woman sniffed with obvious but fond disapproval. “Nay,
not that one. He’s up in the records chamber working. I took him a warm drink not more than minutes gone by and told him he needed to be abed, but he would not heed me.”

  Tristan took a deep breath and turned to indicate Lily. “Maeve, this is Lily. Lily, Maeve is the head woman here at Brackenmoore.” He swung around to the older woman again. “I have brought Lily to act as personal maid to Sabina.”

  “Personal maid?” Her assessing gaze swept Lily again, who had to suppress the urge to comment on such rudeness from a servant.

  Again Tristan ignored the woman’s reaction. “Lily, please follow me.”

  He started off without waiting for the “Yes, my lord,” she muttered in reply. Hurriedly, she followed him to an arched opening at the far side of the hall, which led directly onto a winding stair.

  As they went up, the stone stairs were lit only by the taper Tristan had taken from the wall holder at the bottom. Lily sighed, telling herself she would have to quell her resentment at the head woman’s manner. Lily was not accustomed to being so summarily treated by a servant, but as a servant herself she must become used to thinking of Maeve as her superior.

  At the opening to the second floor, they moved down a long hall until they reached the end. Tristan stopped abruptly before a heavy wooden door and turned to face her.

  Taking a deep breath, he took Lily’s arm and drew her forward with him. He seemed preoccupied and oblivious of her reaction to his odd demeanor. He opened the door, and they slipped inside as he closed it quickly behind them.

  The first thing Lily noticed was the many shelves of books that lined the long narrow chamber. More books were piled in front of the shelves and atop them. There were also books piled on the desk at the far end of the room, where she now saw a ravenhaired man bent over an enormous tome. He looked up just then, and as his eyes came to rest on her, they widened with what Lily could only call astonishment. It quickly became bewilderment.

  Tristan felt a wave of relief that was physically weakening when he saw the look of utter disbelief and amazement on his older brother’s face. The words that exploded from him as he stared at Lily could leave no one in doubt of his shock. “Dear God, is this a ghost?”

  Some of the tension that had been growing in Tristan since he’d realized Lily was alive left his knotted shoulders. Clearly, Benedict had not known that she lived, which meant he had not deliberately lied to Tristan by saying that she had died in the carriage accident on that terrible day.

  Tristan nearly sighed aloud in relief. He had not wanted to think that his brother would betray him in that way.

  Immediately he knew that he must speak with Benedict alone. He owed his brother some sort of explanation for bringing Lily to his keep. As head of the family and baron of the lands, Benedict did have some say in her staying at Brackenmoore.

  If word that Lily was here did get out, the wrath of Maxim, Earl of Harcourt, might well fall upon their heads. Tristan’s lips twisted at the mere thought of the man.

  It would be dangerous to rile such an enemy. Though Tristan was not fearful for his own sake, he had the welfare not only of Sabina, but of his entire family to consider. Maxim’s displeasure over the king allowing Benedict to serve as warden to Genevieve, who was Maxim’s own cousin, was surely little abated. The earl would certainly have difficulty in making trouble for them at court now that Edward was king, but he could attempt to do so. Harcourt had kept a hand in both camps during the war between Lancaster and York, and still had managed to continue his favor at court. Tristan felt sure that young Edward’s outward friendliness toward many of those whose loyalty was uncertain had something to do with settling old angers. With his father, Richard of York, dead, he had a mammoth task ahead of him in bringing order to England.

  Though the problems of state were important to all in the realm, they were not paramount in Tristan’s mind at this moment.

  Tristan turned to Lily quickly. “I must speak with my brother alone, please.”

  She looked at him with obvious unease in her gray eyes. “This man, as well, believes he knows me?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  Lily was clearly unnerved by this, for she looked up at him with confusion. “I—I…don’t understand.”

  Sighing deeply in frustration, he shrugged. “Benedict is understandably shocked. He believed you dead. But I have no intention of trying to convince you of that, nor will he. You are free to believe what you will, Lily. However, I would like an opportunity to explain this situation to my brother in private.”

  She raised her chin. “I will await you.” Admiration for her courage made a new wave of regret wash over him. If only—

  “What is going on here?” Benedict’s deep voice interrupted his thoughts.

  Tristan answered shortly, somewhat surprised that his brother had managed to remain silent for so long. “Just one moment, please?”

  He took Lily back out into the hall. “I will try not to be overlong.”

  She nodded, her gray eyes enormous in her pale face.

  When Tristan concluded his explanation of everything that had occurred since he had first seen Lily at the inn—nearly everything—Benedict looked, if possible, even more amazed than when he had first seen them standing in the doorway. “Are you certain, Tristan, that she is not lying to you, simply saying that she cannot remember in order to evade your anger?”

  Tristan’s lips pressed tightly as he shook his head, then spoke wryly. “You sound as suspicious as Lily. But to answer your question, nay. At first, I thought as much myself, yet I am now certain that she does not lie. She was not pleased to admit that she did have some sense of familiarity with me.” He recalled with chagrin just how familiar they had been. “I do not believe she would have come here if she was lying. I am sure it is only her own uncertainty in the matter that has made her come.”

  “You mean to try to pass her off as Sabina’s maid?” Benedict asked. “How do you hope to perpetrate such a hoax? As Gray’s daughter she has surely not done a jot of work in her life.”

  Tristan looked his elder brother directly in the eyes. “That may be so, but I—we mean to do this, Benedict. In spite of the fact that she is convinced that I have fabricated the whole tale, I feel Lily has a right to know that she has a child, that what she believes about her life is nothing more than a lie told to her by those she most trusts. If, understandably, you prefer that she not remain at Brackenmoore, I shall take her and Sabina to the hunting lodge for a time.”

  Benedict raked a hand over his face. “I still don’t fully understand why you felt compelled to bring her here. If she does not believe you and has no memory of what you were to one another, why could you not just let well enough alone—walk away?”

  Tristan stood in agitation. “How could I walk away from Sabina’s mother?”

  “Genevieve will be the child’s mother. Sabina is loved by her, myself, Marcel, Kendran—all here at Brackenmoore—and has done well enough without the woman who birthed her.”

  It was true. Everyone doted on the three-year-old child. But that did not mean that Lily did not have the right to know her, to love her. It was not her fault that the past had been stolen from her.

  Benedict said nothing more for a long moment, considering his younger brother. “She is to marry Harcourt.” The disgust in his voice was obvious.

  Tristan grimaced. “Aye, she is. And there is nothing that will stop that, unless she remembers. Surely if she does recall the truth and realizes that her parents have deceived her, she will no longer blindly fall in with their wishes in that. Marriage to that man is a fate I would wish on no woman.”

  Grimly, Benedict asked, “You are set on this?”

  Though it nearly choked him to say the words, Tristan replied with conviction. “I am. I feel I owe her this much for what we shared, no matter that it is gone.”

  Benedict spoke very deliberately. “Are you certain of your motives here, Tristan? Could it be that you hope she will remember all that happened betwe
en you, recall her love for you?”

  Tristan shook his head in quick denial, though the words made him feel a strange unrest. “Nay, ‘tis not possible. As I said, what we had is gone. I will have no poor imitation. You do not understand how I feel in this. I would not want her lest she could come to me as she did before, and that is not possible now. Too much has changed.”

  It surprised him no small amount when Benedict nodded his own head in assent. “You are right. I do not understand how you feel. I have not loved like that. I could not allow myself the luxury of putting love before all else. Yet simply because duty to Brackenmoore and all who abide here will ever be foremost with me, I begrudge you nothing in your own desire for such a love. If at any time you realize that you do still want this woman, Tristan, I will accept your wishes as I did not before. You have shown yourself a man beyond your years since the accident. The decision will be yours and yours alone.”

  Tristan could not but feel moved by his brother’s faith in him. He decided that there would be little gain in further trying to convince him that all was over between himself and Lily. Benedict was the man he most honored and respected—not simply his elder brother, nor as one of the most influential and respected intimates of the slain Richard of York. Tristan’s feelings stemmed from the fact that Benedict was the most honest, dependable and strong man he had ever known. He had taken over as head of their family ten years before at the age of eighteen, when their parents’ ship had been wrecked returning from a visit to their aunt Finella in Scotland. Benedict had fulfilled his duties with both diligence and love.

  Though Tristan did not say it aloud, he hoped that love would someday come to his brother. Benedict deserved no less.

  Tristan bowed. “I thank you.”

  Benedict interrupted him gently. “There is but one matter. What of Genevieve?”