Catherine Archer - Winter's Bride

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?”

Now it was Tristan’s turn to rub agitated hands over his face. “I do not know. I suppose I must tell her.”

“I would advise against it. She loves Sabina so and wants to be her mother. How can you take that from her for no reason, when Lily may never remember? As you say, Lily intends to stay for only a short time, presumably merely long enough to convince herself that you have indeed fabricated the whole story. Why not give the situation some time? When you have a clearer idea of what will occur, you can explain it all to Genevieve. But again, it is your decision.”

Tristan was tired—tired of thinking, tired of trying to ferret out the best course with the realization of each new disheartening complication. All he wanted was to be with Lily, to see her face, hear her voice, think about the moments they had spent in one another’s arms.

Tristan recoiled from his own thoughts in horror. Lily and the way they had made love were the last things he should allow himself to dwell upon now or ever again.

What he had told Benedict about not wanting Lily was true. There would be no repeat of those moments at the lodge. Not when Lily did not know him—love him.

Tristan rose, feeling more weary than at any time in his life. “I will take your advice to heart. I will say nothing to Genevieve for the moment. There is no need to hurt her more than must be.” But as he moved toward the door he felt an unexpected surge of energy.

Lily was waiting on the other side of that portal.

He told himself that it was because he was to introduce her to Sabina. He loved the child so, was proud of her. Perhaps seeing the little one would open the locked doors in Lily’s mind as nothing else had. He could not even allow himself to consider what might happen then.

As he reached for the handle, Benedict’s voice halted him. “I must add this one piece of advice out of love for you. Go carefully, my brother. I know that you believe her story of forgotten memory, but Lily may ultimately prove to be lying. Please, for your own sake, guard your heart so it is not broken again.”

Tristan paused and smiled at his brother. “There is no need to worry. I know what I am doing, Benedict.” Then he turned away, feeling that the words did not ring quite as true as he would have wished.

Lily was utterly and completely unnerved. Benedict Ainsworth’s shocked reaction at seeing her could not have been feigned.

She spent the interminable time until Tristan returned thinking of the expression of recognition and horror on his brother’s face. Something was going on here, but she knew not what.

Now more than ever she needed to see the child.

Yet when Tristan did emerge from the chamber, doubt clasped Lily in a tight grip. She found herself studying him closely.

Tristan returned her scrutiny. “Are you ready to see her?” His eyes seemed to search her own for something…

Lily looked away. She was too numb to even try to fathom his expression. Stiffly, she replied, “Aye, I am ready.”

She could see the rigidity that came over his body at her distant manner, but she could not alter her behavior. She felt as if everything was now happening at a long distance from herself. She had no more palatable reactions to give. When he motioned for her to follow him, she hung back farther and farther as he made his way down the long, dimly lit hall, then up the steps to the third story of the keep.

What would she say when she met the child? What if she did have a sense of knowing, as she had with Tristan?

As they continued down the hall, Tristan said nothing and simply matched his steps to hers. At last he came to a heavy oak door, stopped and turned, his dark gaze coming back to her. His face showed civility and possibly a hint of pity. He seemed to assess her feelings in the space of a heartbeat. “You have no need to be apprehensive about seeing her. She will be sleeping.”

Lily crossed her arms over her midriff, daunted that he had read her so very easily. She knew it would be useless to try to deny his accuracy. “I do not know how I will feel, what I might recall and what it would mean to my life.”

He watched her for a long moment, his gaze softening even more, then he held out his hand. “I understand.”

Her heart turned over in her breast. God help her, but she responded so very quickly and on such a deep level to his gentleness. She was unable to prevent herself from moving forward and taking the offered hand.

Then, while still exhibiting that same gentle strength, he opened the door and drew her inside. The chamber was bathed in the golden glow of the fire. It was large but warmly appointed, with small furnishings and brightly colored fabrics. The heavy blue drapes, which matched the bed hangings, were pulled closed over tall windows. These windows must let in a great deal of light during the day. A narrow cot, obviously made up for an attendant, rested against the outside wall. A serving woman sat sewing near the fire directly across the room from the small, carved wooden bed. When they entered, she stood up and said, “My lord Tristan.”

He nodded. “You may go now, Maggie. You will not be needed this night.”

As the woman left, Lily realized that the child was obviously well cared for. She was not surprised. Tristan had made no secret of his love and devotion to his daughter.

And according to his claim, her daughter.

Taking a deep breath for courage, Lily forced herself to move with him across the room without hesitation. She had come this far, and for the very purpose of seeing the little girl. She would do so.

Tristan stopped just shy of the bed and moved to stand behind her. Lily looked at him in confusion.

His voice was so soft she could barely hear it. “This moment is for you.”

Hesitantly, Lily nodded. It would be best if she did not have the compelling power of his presence beside her when she looked at the little one. She knew already how susceptible she was to Tristan’s nearness.

She took the last steps to the bed alone. The hangings had been pulled back to let in the heat of the fire, and all she had to do was lean over…

Taking another deep breath, she did so. Lily had to put her hand up to stifle a start of shock, amazement and wonder as she looked at the little girl.

Sabina Ainsworth’s straight black hair fell to either side of her smooth white forehead. Her cheeks, though rounded with baby fat, were shaped by highly defined bones. Her small mouth was pink and sweetly curved, her chin softly defiant.

Lily was frozen in place. She could not deny that she was looking down at a face that was very like her own must have been some eighteen years gone by.

But even while acknowledging this, she felt no rise of recognition, no immediate recall of how they could be so alike. Disappointment and relief swept over her in the same instant. Both were immediately replaced by consternation.

She had solved nothing. Now even more questions rolled unanswered inside her.

Slowly she backed away from the bed. She could feel Tristan’s gaze upon her, but refused to meet it. Lily did not wish to talk about her feelings with this man. Somehow she knew it would make her even more vulnerable to reveal her confusion to him now.

She was not even certain she wished for Tristan to know any of what was going through her mind—though he seemed to be able to read her easily enough that she had little hope of hiding anything from him.

Tristan moved past her, first making sure the covers were pulled up on his daughter, then tenderly bending to kiss her tiny forehead. He then turned to Lily expectantly.