Winter's Bride. Catherine Archer
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 between 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?”
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,