One Night for Love (8 page)

In truth she was hardly less in shock herself. He had been about to get married. He had thought her dead—she knew that from Captain Harris. But it had been less than two years ago. He had been about to marry again. So soon after.

Lily had caught sight of his bride when she had burst into the church in a panic. She was tall and elegant and beautiful in white satin and lace.
His bride
. Someone from his own world. Someone whom perhaps he loved.

And then Lily had hurried past his bride and into the nave of the church. It had been like last night, like stepping into a different universe. But worse than last night. The church had been filled with splendidly, richly clad ladies and gentlemen, and they had all been looking back at her. She had felt their eyes on her even as her own had focused on the man who stood at the front of the church like a prince of fairy tales.

He was clothed in pale blue and silver and white. Lily had scarcely recognized him. The height, the breadth of shoulder, the strong, muscular physique were the same.
But this man was the Earl of Kilbourne, a remote English aristocrat. The man she remembered was Major Lord Newbury, a rugged officer with the Ninety-fifth Rifles.

Her husband.

The Major Newbury she remembered—
Neville
, as he had become to her on that last day—had always been careless of his appearance and impossibly attractive in his green and black regimentals, which were often shabby, often dusty or mud-spattered. His blond hair had always been close cropped. Today he was all immaculate elegance.

And he had been about to marry that beautiful woman from his own world.

He had thought Lily dead. He had forgotten about her. He had never spoken of her—
that
had been clear from everyone’s reaction in the church. He had perhaps been ashamed to do so. Or she had meant so little to him that he had not thought to do so. His marriage to her had been contracted in haste because he had felt he owed it to her father. It had been dismissed as an incident not worth talking about.

Today was his wedding day—to someone else.

And she had come to put a stop to it.

“Lily.” He spoke suddenly and his hand tightened even more painfully about hers. “It really is you. You really are alive.” He was still looking straight ahead. His pace had not slackened.

“Yes.” She stopped herself only just in time from apologizing, as she had done in the church. It would be so much better for him if she had died. Not that he was an unkind man. Never that. But—

“You were dead,” he said, and she realized suddenly that the path was a short route to the beach where she had spent the night. They had left the trees behind them and were descending the hillside, brushing through the ferns at reckless speed. “I saw you die, Lily. I saw you dead with a
bullet through your heart. Harris reported to me afterward that you had died. You and eleven others.”

“The bullet missed my heart,” she told him. “I recovered.”

He stopped when they reached the valley floor and looked toward the waterfall, which knifed downward in a spectacular ribbon of bright foam over a fern-clad cliff to the pool below and the stream that flowed to the sea. The tiny thatched cottage that Lily had noticed the night before overlooked the pool. There was a pathway leading to its door, though there was no sign that the house was inhabited.

He turned in the opposite direction and strode toward the beach, taking her with him. Lily, who was feeling overwarm at the length and speed of their walk, pulled loose the ribbons of her bonnet with her free hand and let it fall to the sand behind her. She had lost hairpins during the night. The few that remained were not sufficient to the task of keeping her mane of curly, unruly hair confined on her head. It fell about her shoulders and down her back. She shook her head and allowed the breeze to blow it back from her face.

“Lily,” he said, looking down at her for the first time since they had left the church. “Lily. Lily.”

They were walking, not along the hard level sand of the beach, but down it. They stopped at the water’s edge. If only they were still separated by the ocean’s expanse, Lily thought. If only she had stayed in Portugal. It would have been better for both their sakes.

He would have married the other woman.

She would not have known that he had forgotten her so soon, that she had meant so little to him.

“You are alive.” He had dropped her hand at last, but he turned to her now, gazed into her face with searching eyes, and lifted one hand. He hesitated before touching his fingertips to her cheek. “Lily. Oh, my dear, you are alive!”

“Yes.” She had reached her journey’s end. Or perhaps
merely the beginning of another. He stood there in all the splendor of the Earl of Kilbourne.

Neville realized suddenly that he was standing on the beach, at the water’s edge. He had no idea why he had come here of all places. Except that the house would soon be filled with guests again. And this was where he always came to be alone. To think.

But he was not alone now. Lily was with him. He was
touching
her. She was warm and alive. She was small and thin and pretty and shabby, her long hair blowing wildly in the wind.

She was—oh, God, she was
Lily
.

“Lily,” he asked, and he squinted out to sea, though he did not redly see either the water or the infinity beyond it, “what happened?”

He had been carried off unconscious from that pass. Lieutenant Harris had told him in the hospital that Lily and eleven of the men, including the chaplain, the Reverend Parker-Rowe, had died. But the company had been forced to make their escape carrying only their packs and their wounded with them. They had had to leave the dead and their belongings for the returning French to plunder and bury.

Guilt had gnawed at Neville in the year and a half since then. He had failed to protect his men from harm. He had failed Sergeant Doyle. He had failed Lily—his wife.

“They took me to Ciudad Rodrigo,” she said, “and a surgeon dug the bullet out of me. It missed my heart by a whisker, he told me—it was the word he used. He spoke English. A few of them did. They were kind to me.”

“Were they?” He turned his head and looked sharply
down at her. “They found your papers, Lily? They treated you well? With respect?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, looking up at him. He remembered then the large, guileless eyes as blue as a summer sky. They had not changed. “They were very kind. They called me ‘my lady.’ ” She smiled fleetingly.

Relief made him feel slightly weak at the knees. The shock was beginning to wear off, he realized. He should be married now and on his way back to the abbey for breakfast—with Lauren, his wife. Instead he was standing on the beach in his wedding finery with—his wife. He felt a renewed wave of dizziness.

“They kept you in captivity and treated you well?” he said. “When and where did they release you, Lily? Why was I not informed? Or did you escape?”

Her gaze lowered to his chin. “They were attacked soon after we left Ciudad Rodrigo,” she said. “By Spanish partisans. I was taken captive.”

He felt further relief. He even smiled. “Then you were safe,” he said. “The partisans are our allies. They escorted you back to the regiment? But that must have been months ago, Lily.
Why
did no one notify me?”

She was turning, he noticed, to look back up the beach toward the valley. Her hair blew forward over her shoulders, hiding her face from his gaze.

“They knew I was English,” she said. “But they would not believe I was a prisoner. I was not confined, you see. And they would not believe that I was an officer’s wife. I was not dressed like one. They thought I was with the French as a—as a concubine.”

He felt as if his heart had performed a complete somersault in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but he could scarcely get the words out.

“But your papers, Lily …”

“The French had taken them and not returned them to me,” she said.

He closed his eyes tightly and kept them closed. The Spanish partisans were notorious for the savagery with which they treated their French captives. How would they have treated a French concubine, even if she was English? How had she escaped horrible torture and execution?

He knew how
.

He gasped air into his lungs. “You were with them … for a long time?” he asked. He did not wait for her answer. “Lily, did they …”

Had all of Doyle’s worst fears been realized? And his own? But he did not need to hear the answer. It was pitifully obvious.
There was no other possible answer.

“Yes,” she said softly.

Silence stretched before she continued speaking. Somewhere a seagull was crying, and it was easy to imagine that the sound was mournful.

“After many months—seven—an English agent joined them for a few days and convinced them to let me go. I walked back to Lisbon. Nobody there would believe my story until by chance Captain Harris came to Lisbon on some business. He and Mrs. Harris were returning to London. They brought me with them. The captain wanted to write to you, but I would not wait. I came. I had to come. I needed to tell you that I was still alive. I tried last night when there was a p-party at the house, but they thought I was a beggar and wanted to give me sixpence. I am sorry it had to be this morning. I—I will not stay now that I have told you. If you will … pay my way on the stage, I will go … somewhere else. I think there is a way of ending a marriage for what I have done. If you have money and influence, that is, and I daresay you do. You must do it and then you can … continue with your plans.”

To marry someone else. Lauren. She suddenly seemed like someone from another lifetime.

Lily was referring to divorce. For adultery. Because she had allowed herself to be raped as an alternative to torture and execution—if she had even been given the choice. Because she had set her face toward survival. And had survived.

Lily raped.

Lily an adulteress.

His sweet, lovely innocent.

“Lily.” It was not his imagination that she was thinner. Her slender frame had used to have a lithe grace. Now it looked gaunt. “When did you last eat?”

It took her awhile to answer. “Yesterday,” she said. “At noon. I have a little money. Perhaps I can buy a loaf of bread in the village.”

“Come.” He took her hand in his again. Hers was cold now and limp. “You need a warm bath and a change of clothes and a good meal and a long sleep. Do you have no belongings with you?”

“My bag,” she said, looking down as if she expected it to appear suddenly in her empty hand. “I think I must have dropped it somewhere. I had it when I went into the village this morning. I was going to buy breakfast. And then they told me about—about your wedding.”

“It will be found,” he assured her. “It does not matter. I am going to take you home.”

Into complications his mind could not even begin to contemplate.

“It is not that I think of you as a servant, Lily,” Neville explained—the first words either of them had spoken
since they left the beach, “but this way we may avoid the worst of the crowds.”

The door through which they entered Newbury Abbey was not at the front. It was, Lily gathered, a servants’ entrance. And the bare stone steps they ascended inside must be servants’ stairs. They were deserted. The rest of the house certainly was not, if all the carriages that were before the stables and coach house and on the terrace were any indication. And there were people on the terrace too, standing together in small groups—some of those richly clad wedding guests who had been in the church.

Neville opened a door onto a wide corridor. It was carpeted and lined with paintings and sculptures and doors. They were in the main part of the house now, then. And there were three people there in conversation with one another, who stopped talking and gazed curiously at her and looked embarrassed and greeted Neville uncertainly. He nodded curtly to them but said not a word. Neither did Lily, whose hand was still in his firm clasp.

And then he opened one of the doors and released her hand in order to set his at the back of her waist to move her into the room beyond the door. It was a large, square, high-ceilinged room. There were gilded moldings all about the edges of the ceiling, she saw in one glance upward, and a painting on the ceiling that included fat, naked little babies with wings. Two long windows showed her that the room faced over the front of the house. It was a bedchamber, richly carpeted and sumptuously furnished. The bed was canopied and draped in heavy silk. The dusky pink and moss-green colors of the room’s furnishings and draperies blended pleasingly together.