Catherine Archer - Winter's Bride

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.”