Читать книгу Winter's Bride - Catherine Archer - Страница 9

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.

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 allowed 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.”

She sighed, the heavy fall of her raven-black hair spilling forward over her slight shoulders to pool about her on the bed. “Such as?”

Tristan watched with an unexpected pang in his chest. He had so loved the way that hair spilled across his body when she kissed him…

He gave himself a mental shake. It had been a mistake to bring her here to Molson, where they had been together. He would never even have met the young maiden had he not, when visiting his own lands, decided to attend the local fair on a whim. From the moment their eyes had met across the greensward, Tristan had cared not what side of the war her family might be on, nor his own. Yet he had been a fool to forget all in her eyes. He must remember that that time was no more, must force himself to concentrate on how she had hurt him in allowing him to think her dead, how she had betrayed her own babe.

His eyes narrowed on hers as he answered her question. “Such as why you refuse to admit that you know me even now that we are alone here. It can serve no purpose. There is no one to hear.”

She turned away from him then and shoved the tangled blankets from her legs, as if she had decided he were not worthy of her continued consideration. Lily looked about the dimly lit room. His gaze followed hers over the heavy brocade draperies, the rich dark furnishings.

She sighed and ran a trembling hand through the hair at her temple. As when he had seen her on the stairs the previous night, this sign of weakness stirred his compassion for some reason.

“Well?” he demanded, his own frustration with himself making his voice gruff.

She looked at him then, her brow raised high. Her expression told him clearly that she had lost patience with him. “I tell you, my lord, I am exhausted. There was very little rest to be had upon your horse, and I had been traveling the whole of yesterday. If you insist that there are things that must be discussed between us, I must also insist that I rest first. I can make no sense of any of it at the moment.”

He felt an unexpected and unwelcome sense of admiration for her bravado. Here was a hint of the Lily he had once known. He had admired her spirit from the beginning.

Perhaps that was why it bothered him so much to see the weakness she tried to hide. That weakness only served to further illustrate how much had changed, how much she had changed.

Yet he could not bring himself to insist that, before she rested, she stand up to the weight of what she had done. What harm could it do to allow her to sleep first?

He shrugged. “Then sleep, if that is your wish.” He indicated the bed upon which she half lay.

She looked at him with a momentary relief quickly masked by hauteur.

Smiling benignly, Tristan sat down on the end of the bed and began to remove his own boots. He was somewhat tired himself. It had been a long night, and it would do no harm to have all his wits about him when he faced her with her perfidy.

When Tristan swung around to lie down on the bed, Lily was still watching him. Her eyes became rounder as she saw his intent. “You do not mean to sleep here?”

His smile widened with unconcealed amusement. “I certainly do. You do not think I would go and leave you here alone so you can escape?”

She bit her lower lip. Ah, he thought, so she had been contemplating just such a move. Well, it would do her no good. Even though the way to her own father’s keep from Molson was well-known to her, she was completely in Tristan’s power until he chose for it to be otherwise.

Casually he got up and went to the door. Fixing his gaze upon her own, he turned the key in the lock, then with deliberate care placed the key in the waistband of his leggings.

Her gray eyes narrowed, and she leaped up from the bed. “I will not sleep in this bed with you. I wouldst rather lie upon the floor.” With that she plopped down upon the gold-and-red-patterned carpet.

He frowned. Lord, but she was obstinate, just as in the old days. Then her obstinacy had shown itself in her desire to see him in spite of her parents’ wishes.

Even as another shaft of regret passed through him, tightening his throat, Tristan strode across the room and scooped her up in his arms. Her eyes grew rounder still as she gasped and tried to struggle.

Ignoring her efforts, he tossed her onto the bed and stood staring down at her for a very long time, during which she did her utmost to glare back at him. But once again he could see her fatigue in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the shallowness of her breathing.

Without another word, he turned his back on her and went to the large overstuffed chair beside the empty hearth. Tristan settled back and closed his eyes, though he was aware of her continued scrutiny for quite some time. Only when he heard her lie back upon the bed and sigh with weariness was he able to even attempt to seek his own rest.

It was some time before he was able to sleep even then.