CLAD IN HER night rail with her hair in one long plait, Lily huddled under the covers of the giant state bed.
Just hours earlier at Bennett’s house, she’d thought she and Margery had made an unspoken pact, come to a wordless understanding that they would fight this problem together. But perhaps that wasn’t true; perhaps it had been her imagination. Because if a silent promise had indeed passed between them, Margery had broken it already.
Not that Lily blamed her. As she’d told Rand, were his life at risk, she’d do anything for a chance to save him. But that truth didn’t ease the distress of realizing that, other than Rand, she had no allies here at Hawkridge at all.
Although Beatrix cuddled with her, she’d never felt so alone in her life.
Was she fated to be alone forever?
There must be another way, Rand had said over and over, as though he could make it so by repetition alone. But Lily was unconvinced. It seemed that no matter what solution they came up with, his father would shoot it down.
For a long time she lay awake, stroking Beatrix’s downy fur and watching the shadows made on the walls by the all-too-cheerful dancing flames of the fire. Rand had no love for this house, and as much as she always tried to look on the bright side of things, she couldn’t help but think that in this case he was right. Although it was beautiful, there seemed something evil about Hawkridge, something that made her skin crawl. She didn’t like being alone in this room.
She hugged herself for a long while. Then she climbed out of bed and slid a wrapper over her night rail.
A few minutes later, she knocked softly on Rand’s door. He came to answer, wearing just breeches and a shirt that was open at the neck and cuffs. He looked as sleepless as she.
“Rand? May I just sleep here?”
He gathered her close. “I’m not sure,” he said with a sad little chuckle. “Last night was torture for us both.” Tilting her chin up, he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I’m afraid, sweetheart, that for me, you’re too much of a temptation.”
A heaviness settled in Lily’s chest. She stared down at his bare feet. No matter what he said over and over, he wasn’t convinced that everything would work out. Or else he would want her in his bed, and damn the risk of conceiving.
“Oh, Lily…” He slipped his hands under her wrapper, settling them on her hips to pull her close. His fingers seemed to burn through her night rail.
She raised a palm and placed it against his chest, inside the open placket of his shirt, where his bare skin was brown and warm. “Rand…” Shutting her eyes against the pain in his, she went to her toes for a kiss. Though his lips on hers felt achingly familiar, the caress didn’t bring the relief she was seeking.
The kiss was hot and desperate and set her heart to pounding, but it failed to make her forget that, barring a miracle, he was going to marry another woman.
He reached blindly to unravel her plait, his eyes still closed and his mouth still locked on hers. A pathetic little moan escaped her throat as she wondered if this was the last time she’d feel the loving tugs of his fingers freeing her hair, the last time he’d claim her lips with passionate abandon.
Finally, with a heartfelt sigh, he broke the kiss and swung her up into his arms.
“We cannot,” she said.
“There are other ways, Lily.” He deposited her on his small childhood bed and looked down on her, tenderly finger combing her hair into a halo around her head. “Ways we can be together that don’t carry the risk of getting you with child.”
“But we cannot.” When he stretched out beside her, she turned to meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t even be kissing me. Don’t you see? We cannot be together this way, knowing you might marry Margery. It would be wrong.”
He looked away, staring up at the underside of the serviceable blue canopy. No Queen’s Bedchamber, this—no silk for Rand Nesbitt at Hawkridge Hall. His room was barely more than a closet.
“Yes,” he agreed at last. “It would be wrong.”
She lay back and ran a trembling hand through her hair. What if she was already with child? She had no doubt now that it would make little difference to Rand’s father—he was determined his son wed Margery. She would have to hope her womb was yet empty.
But she couldn’t find it in herself to wish for that. If fate decreed that Rand’s child was the only piece of him she could ever have, she would take it along with the consequences and be happy for the privilege.
“I don’t like it here,” she whispered into the silence. “This house. I cannot sleep in that room alone.”
“Stay with me, then,” Rand said. “I’ll be the perfect gentleman, although it will probably kill me.” He snuggled against her, releasing a strangled groan. “And tomorrow, I’ll take you home. I don’t like this house any more than you do, and I’ve things to take care of in Oxford.”