The Lily Brand (17 page)

Lord Allenbright’s pale head rested on Mr. de la Mere’s lap, and he looked so comfortable as if the muscular, nankeen-clad thigh had transformed into the softest pillow. While Allenbright read aloud from a book lying propped upon his belly, de la Mere lovingly played with his sandy-colored hair, letting the short strands run through his dark brown fingers again and again. Sometimes, though, his fingers would stray, caressing forehead or temple, or playfully tapping against a cheek. Very carefully, he traced a golden eyebrow with his forefinger, only to bend forward afterwards and place a kiss on Lord Allenbright’s forehead.

Lillian blinked.

A stray sunbeam created bluish lights in de la Mere’s short black curls. Allenbright laughed, his eyes darting up to his friend’s face. The book, momentarily forgotten, fell flat on his belly when he reached up to wind a hand around the other’s neck. With a little tug, he drew de la Mere’s head downward, his fingers caressing the short hair at the man’s nape.

Their lips met and parted, nibbled and teased each other, until husky chuckles rumbled in the men’s chests.

Allenbright’s hand glided from de la Mere’s nape to his face, cupped his cheek, and finally their mouths met and clung, and the kiss went on and on.

Lillian could see the underside of Lord Allenbright’s chin, a bit of de la Mere’s cheek where his shoulder did not block the view, and her heart missed a beat. They were a statue come alive, a statue from another garden, overgrown and long forgotten, the limbs of marble lovers intertwining, a memento of bygone ages and bygone love.

I did not know…
Lillian’s finger spasmed against the rough bark of the tree.
I did not know such love exists for real. So beautiful it hurts…
The wonder of it, and the beauty, made her eyes sting.

The men changed the angle of their kiss; a smile dimpled de la Mere’s cheek. Then they broke apart, smiling, both of them, until Lord Allenbright looked up and noticed Lillian standing between the trees. Abruptly, he sat up, his radiant smile momentarily dimmed. He murmured something, and de la Mere’s head whipped around, and he also stared at her. A dark frown settled on de la Mere’s features. Lillian saw his lips move, a curse maybe, and Allenbright reached over to grip his friend’s thigh.

Lillian tilted her head to the side.

It looked very much like reassurance, this gesture, intimate reassurance, a large hand curved over a thigh.

Then Lord Allenbright turned back to her, all smiles again, and waved. “A good day to you, Lady Ravenhurst.” His voice was strong and clear, yet with a hint of defiance.

Why he should feel defensive, though, was beyond her. So much beauty after all the ugliness she had seen… She felt herself irresistibly drawn to these men, as if the unadulterated joy she had just witnessed could rub off on her.
Just a little bit
… Her feet whispered through the grass as she approached them. “A good day to you, too. My lord. Mr. de la Mere.”

She saw how their gazes wandered from her hardly tamed curls over the grass-stained dress to her flower-bedecked feet. When he looked up, Justin de la Mere’s frown was gone. Instead, a smile tugged at the comers of his mouth.

Allenbright chuckled. “I see you really do prefer the look
au naturelle
, my lady.”

“Indeed I do.” She stopped a few feet from their blanket.

“And the gardens of Bair Hall are indeed a magical place.” Allenbright’s voice was laced with soft amusement, inviting her to share the joke. “Not only do elusive flower fairies tread there—no, one can also meet some… fauns.”

To her own surprise, Lillian found herself laughing. “If you say so, my lord.”

He nodded earnestly. “They meet in the garden—”

“For lunch,” de la Mere broke in, his lazy, nasal twang at odds with his twitching mouth. “Would you not like to join us, Lady Ravenhurst? We have some cold meat and chicken and Cornish pastries.”

“Oh yes, do join us.” Allenbright scrambled to his feet and offered her his hand. “Flower fairies and fauns simply must have lunch together. One of the time-honored rules of Bair Hall.”

Lillian hesitated, the joy of the moment dissolving. “I would not want… to intrude,” she said awkwardly. She took a step back. “I—”

De la Mere stood, too. “I hope you do not begrudge us our lack of manners, my lady. It would be a pleasure to talk to you awhile.”

“To get to know our best friend’s wife some better,” Allenbright added with a smile. Smiles seemed to come easily to Lord Allenbright. Charm, as well. “We would be delighted.”

Lillian twisted her hands together. “You were reading.”

“Rereading only.” One corner of de la Mere’s mouth twisted briefly.

“I see.”

“Perhaps we might discuss the joys of Mrs. Radcliffe’s literary fancies?” Allenbright coaxed. “Would you like that?”

“I…” Lillian’s gaze darted from one man to the other. They seemed genuinely friendly, these two. She dabbed at the dampness on her throat. “I am afraid I do not know any of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works.”

“Not know any novel by Mrs. Radcliffe?” Allenbright’s brows darted up. “Then you simply must join us, my lady.” Again, he offered his hand.

Lillian waited a moment more, searched his eyes. They were green and clear, without shadows lurking in their depths. Though she did not understand the powerful lure of the joy she had witnessed, she finally gave in to it. With a little sigh, she took his hand and allowed him to seat her on the blanket.

De la Mere flopped down beside her and started to rummage through the contents of the basket. “Are you hungry? With which delicacy might we tempt you?”

“Hm.” Lord Allenbright still stood, hands on his lean hips, the sunlight creating a halo of his golden hair. “Do we have delicacies that might tempt a flower fairy, Jus?” He turned to Lillian. “What do flower fairies normally eat?”

Lillian lifted her shoulders, unsure how to take their clowning. Never before had she met men like them. “Fruit,” she murmured.

“Fruit?” Golden and raven brows shot up as the men exchanged a look. Abruptly, Allenbright sat down on the blanket. “
Fruit?
” he repeated.

Lillian felt the hot flush of embarrassment stain her cheeks. “Fruit.” She made a vague movement with her hand in the direction of the orchards. “The raspberries have ripened. And the black currants…” Her voice trailed off. Again, she lifted her shoulders.

The men exchanged another quick look. De la Mere was the first to regain his composure. “Ahh!” he exclaimed and dived into the basket once more. “Then we’ve got
exactly
the right thing to tempt a flower fairy.” Triumphantly he produced a peach from the depths of the basket. “A peach!” He rummaged around some more and came up with a piece of folded white linen. “And a napkin.” With a flourish he presented fruit and cloth to Lillian.

“Thank you,” she said softly and took both.

“A Bair Hall peach.” Lord Allenbright shifted his weight and leaned back on his hands. “It’s a shame that its owner seems so reluctant to take delight in the joys of the Hall.” His voice sounded wistful.

Lillian kept her eyes downcast and watched how her hands played with the velvety soft peach. Around and around it turned, in shades of darkest red, of orange and bright yellow.

“He’s grown into a recluse, after all,” de la Mere muttered darkly. “Shuts himself up in his study all day. Works himself to death.”

Lillian suppressed a shudder. The atmosphere had changed; the clowning was gone, replaced by an almost angry intensity. She wished she had stayed in the fields and the heat. Gardens, as she should have known, provided only a false haven.

“That damned war!” Allenbright swore, but he hastened to add: “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

“It was not just the war,” his friend argued. “The war only completed what had started before. There was nothing to hold him at home.”

There was one spot on the peach where its skin was so dark that it reminded Lillian of dark, red wine. “He had his family,” she said, so softly she was surprised they heard her at all.

De la Mere’s laugh held no humor. “His family, my lady? Have you not met his family? His grandmother is a heartless cold bitch, his uncle a fat pompous ass, and his cousin a foppish young fool, more concerned with the cut of his waistcoat than the welfare of Murgatroyd.”

In London, Alexander Markham had seemed to like his cousin well enough. But then, Lillian remembered the bouts of jealousy that had surged up from time to time, when the Viscount Perrin spoke of war and manliness and the ableness of a man with his weapon.“Jus,” Lord Allenbright chided gently. “You must excuse our language, my lady. We are no longer used to a lady’s company or to refined London manners. We spend too much of our time on the wild coast of Cornwall.” There was a rueful note to his voice. “I am afraid we have spoilt our picnic party with all this talk of war and such. We planned to speak of the merits of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, did we not?”

Lillian looked up and met his earnest green eyes with her own. “It does not matter, my lord.”

“We know that you have not wed him because of any tender feelings,” Allenbright continued gently. “But you should know that Troy is a good man. The war and his imprisonment have changed him.”

The war, the imprisonment and the brand that had seared his skin.

A lily for Lillian.

Despite the warm summer day, a sliver of ice seemed to touch Lillian’s heart. Hastily, she scrambled to her feet. “I am sure you are right, my lord. Please excuse me now. I need to…” Her gaze darted past the men, even past the trees; she envisioned the small gate guarded by the stone raven, the fields and meadows that stretched far and wide. “Thank you for the… for the peach.”

Surprise registered on their faces. It did not matter. Nothing did.

Lillian felt how coldness drifted up from the earth, reached for her, seeped through her skin and chilled the blood beneath.

“Perhaps you might want to join us again tomorrow?” Allenbright coaxed.

“Perhaps.” Her smile was fleeting, a careful show of politeness. She took a step back.

Yet her husband’s golden-haired friend was persistent. “And if you would like to read some of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, you should check the library at the Hall.” He held up the book from which he had been reading aloud before. “This one is from the library as well. Troy knows how much we enjoy Radcliffe.” He gave her one of his friendly smiles. He reminded Lillian of a puppy, all eager to please.

Suddenly, a wave of anger washed over her, anger that he could smile while for her the coldness had returned, had invaded even this garden, which she had thought safe.

“The library?” She lifted her chin. “I am afraid I do not know where the library is, my lord.”

That wiped the smile off his face.

~*~

Angrily, Lillian stomped past the fields and meadows and sought the coolness of the forest beyond. She did not mind the stones and gnarled roots that bit into the soles of her feet—indeed, the sharp little pains perfectly accompanied the bitterness inside her. The peace of her garden was disturbed, her haven destroyed.

Did they
have
to intrude into my world? They already have so much…
The recollection of the kiss she had witnessed twisted her heart. The miracle and beauty of their love made her long for things that were not for her, had never been for her.

Lillian drew in an unsteady breath.

She felt shaken. As if her world had been turned upside down because of one little glimpse of a love so wonderful. And she, in contrast, had…

…a husband who bore her mark seared into his flesh.

No!
Sick to her heart, Lillian put her hands over her ears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she crouched low to ground.
Stop! Oh please, stop!

She willed the memories away, yet unbidden they rose, a nightmarish parade: His body, still beautiful, though shackled to Camille’s construction. The blood running down the curve of the broad back. And the mark itself, puckered and raw but the design piercingly clear.

A lily for Lillian
.

A sob rose in her throat.

She remembered how she had pressed the brand against his skin, how the smell of burnt skin had filled the room.

Oh God, please, no… no…

Tears streaming down her face, Lillian scrambled to her feet and ran deeper into the forest. She did not care whether thorny branches reached for her dress or cobwebs caught in her hair. Like a small, injured animal, she sought the solitude of the dark, green shadows.

Farther and farther she ran, reaching for the silence of the forest, far, far away from human society. The heart of the forest, known only to badger and fox. And then she slipped and fell, her elbow scraping over the bark of a tall tree, her face buried in old leaves.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she inhaled the musty smell of decay, overlaid with the fresh tang of earth. Her heart pounded in her ears like a drum, drowning out all other sounds. Lillian drew her knees against her chest and rolled herself up into a ball. There she lay, an unborn child in the womb of the forest.

Little by little, the hammering of her heart subsided and her breathing evened. Gradually she became aware of the sounds around her, the rustling of a small animal and sometimes the hoarse call of a jay.

She rolled herself onto her back and stared up to the roof of leaves above her, the brilliant green interwoven with twirling specks of dust and sunshine. Her arm tickled where a few ants scrambled across her skin. Between the twigs of a tree, a spider had spun her web and, touched by a lone sunbeam, the threads glittered like spun silver.

Lillian’s chest rose with a deep breath.

As the light slowly faded, a breeze stirred the lazy stillness among the trees. Leaves rustled, changing the play of light and shadow on the ground below. The little breeze ruffled Lillian’s hair and brought with it the faint, sweet smell of faded woodruff.

Lillian sat up.

This time, she did not fight the memories that rose inside her. Memories of summers gone by when she had walked through other forests with Nanette. Together they had collected the delicate stalks of blooming woodruff in wide baskets, to be bundled and dried. Woodruff to soothe nerves and fight headaches. Woodruff tea to waken the tired heart in late spring.