The Lily Brand

by Sandra Schwab

  There was nobody to keep her safe.

  Only herself.

  Only me.

  Taking a deep breath, Lillian straightened. All the fear and horror seemed to slide off her and was replaced by a crystal-clear coolness, so different from the paralyzing, numbing cold that had held her in its icy grip for so long.

  She put the bloodied handkerchief back on the table.

  She knew what she had to do.

  She retraced her steps all the way to his bedroom and from there into his study. His gray greatcoat hung discarded over the backrest of the leather-upholstered chair as if he were about to return for it any moment. In one of the drawers of his desk Lillian found the small pistol that Allenbright and de la Mere had given to him as a present, the same model de la Mere had enthused over on the evening of Lady Holland’s dinner party. Her husband’s voice echoed in Lillian’s head: I do not think my wife is in need of a pocket pistol. Or any other weapon, come to that.

  He had looked so handsome that night, tall and strong, as if nothing could harm him.

  “But you were wrong,” she murmured as her fingers closed around the cool metal. A pistol small enough to fit in a woman’s reticule, small enough to fit in the pocket of a man’s coat, unseen.

  She took his coat then. The thick material settled heavily on her shoulders, fell down to her feet. She had to roll up the sleeves. Yet the coat was warm and draped enough that the pistol would go unnoticed.

  With long, determined strides she went out of the room, to the main staircase and down into the entrance hall. As the coat flapped against her legs, a feeling of power surged through her. This time, she would not stand by and watch.

  “Hill.” Loud and clear, her voice rang in the hall. “Have Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere said where they would be heading?—Good. Send a footman to fetch them. I want them to come to the clearing with the great boulder in the forest. They must come armed, do you hear me? My stepmother has abducted Lord Ravenhurst and she is…” Lillian faltered.

  “My lady?” Eyes wide, Hill stared at her.

  Lillian straightened her shoulders. “Quick, Hill. Do as I say. Else she will kill him.”

  The old butler’s face turned pasty white. “Kill him? M-my lady… one of the footmen could go… surely…”

  She considered this idea for a moment. But the footmen were all either old men or young boys. “No.” She shook her head. “Send somebody to fetch Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere. Quick!” With that she hurried toward the door.

  "My… my lady!” Hill spluttered. “Surely you do not want… you cannot…”

  “Oh, I must, Hill,” Lillian said grimly. “After all, I have known her for most of my life. There is nobody who knows her as well as I do.”

  She rushed out of the door, down the drive of Bair Hall. She knew where the clearing was Camille had spoken of, yet she also knew that it would take her the better part of an hour to walk there. She tried not to think of what would happen to him if she took too long, if Camille grew impatient and displeased. Lillian had to force herself not to run, for exhausting herself would help neither her nor her husband.

  Doggedly she marched on, through fields and meadows, not caring that the hem of her dress, of her coat, became wet and muddy.

  Her mind whirled with images of her husband—from the dirty, bedraggled prisoner to the proud earl, from the hateful stranger to the reclusive man under whose roof she lived. She remembered the moments of his intense anger, but also the moments when she had caught glimpses of the other man—the man with the quick humor, the strong sense of family, of honor. The man who believed in friendship and loyalty, who suffered the gradual destruction of his forebear’s hunting trophies without ever batting an eye. The man who could cast his own inner torment aside and show compassion, who would brave the elements to fetch a doctor for a dying woman. The man who, despite all that had happened to him, was still capable of tenderness.

  Lillian bit her lip and clenched her hands into fists so she would not start crying.

  Everything needs balance, whispered Nanette’s voice in her head. One to do the healing in a place where another does all the wounding.

  And he had been wounded so very dreadfully in the past. She simply could not let it happen again. And so, she thrust the images of her husband aside and marched on, one foot in front of the other, into the shadows of trees. She did not care whether the dead leaves of the past years stuck to her clothes, whether she had to press through thorny hedges, or whether cobwebs caught in her hair.

  She walked on and on, her back straight, her head held high. And finally, the trees thinned out, and with one last stride Lillian stepped out into the clearing.

  They had bound him to the boulder, his back pressed against the stone, the rope around his hands fastened on a tree behind, stretching his body taut. His legs were spread wide and ropes around his ankles secured them to the pegs that were buried deep in the earth. He was conscious and still wearing his shirt and breeches, she saw, with no marks of a beating yet visible. On the side where they had cut off his earlobe, his shirt was soiled with blood, and between his teeth glinted the metal of one of Camille’s bridles.

  Lillian hoped they had not heated it before they had shoved it into his mouth.

  “Ah, look whom we have here.” In perfect, melodious French. Across the clearing, her stepmother smiled while idly playing with a small knife. “It is a pleasure to have you here, chérie.” Maurice and Antoine stood behind her, patiently waiting for orders.

  Black silk rustled as Camille slowly came nearer.

  “We have… ahh… regained your little present.” The rip of her knife pointed toward the bound man.

  But Lillian’s attention remained fixed on her stepmother. “So I see.”

  “I have decided to take it back with me.” The blood-red lips curved some more.

  “To France?”

  “Naturellement.” Suddenly, Camille’s eyes narrowed. “But now that you have spoilt it, I do not know whether it can be of use to me any longer.” As if in thought, she touched the tip of the knife to her lips. “What do you suggest?”

  Lillian forced her spine to remain straight and erect. “I do not know, maman.”

  Camille threw her a look full of disdain. Then her black silks swirled around her as she turned to saunter up and down the clearing. “I have thought—as it is such a nice specimen—that it would be a shame to send it to the mines straight away. For the moment, its tongue can be put to so much better use.” A coy smile flashed over one black-clad shoulder. Antoine’s and Maurice’s faces remained expressionless.

  To the third man present Lillian did not dare look.

  “I have thought,” Camille continued in a singsong voice, “as it will be even more stubborn now, to keep it on the floor.” Abruptly, she turned to beam at Lillian. “For even with its arms and legs bound and restricted, its body can still be of so much good use, lying there, waiting for me to take my pleasure from it.”

  As the pictures her stepmother evoked blossomed in Lillian’s mind, a wave of nausea threatened to engulf her. She saw Troy’s body, bruised and battered, reduced to an instrument, a sex toy.

  Camille’s eyes brightened with pleasure.

  Trust her to notice any weakness.

  “It will give me great delight riding it, I think,” the cruel litany went on. “Pressing my nails into its flesh and seeing the blood spring up. And when I tire of that, it still has its clever tongue to bring me enjoyment, n’est-ce pas? But perhaps we should get rid of its teeth first to ensure it will not get any ideas.”

  The back of Lillian’s dress felt clammy as cold sweat drenched the material, trickled over her skin in endless streams. She wanted to scream and to cover her ears. She was alone and at Camille’s mercy. Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere would not be able to come in time.

  “And then…” Her stepmother halted, flicking the knife through her fingers, and bestowed a loving glance on Maurice and Antoine. “I think we
will chain it differently and I will let my pets enjoy it some.” She whirled around to face Lillian. “What do you think? Is that not a splendid idea?”

  Lillian clenched her jaw and forced the terrible pictures aside.

  “Afterwards, when everybody has grown tired of it, I will send it to the mines, of course. It is in good shape. It should do for a few more months, even years.” Camille’s smile could have been a study of malice. Her eyes glittered like diamonds, and her half-opened lips looked as if she had already celebrated a barbaric ritual where she drank the blood of her victims.

  Lillian slid her trembling hands into the pockets of the wide coat. With an effort, she straightened her shoulders, forced herself to breathe slowly. She must steady herself. She must.

  A soft breeze tickled a stray lock across her cheek, and from the heavy material around her shoulders rose a whiff of sandalwood and oakmoss, her husband’s very own scent, and for a moment it enveloped her like a warm embrace.

  A moment was enough to steady her nerves, to reach for the core of steel inside herself.

  Her face cool and smooth once more, she let her lips curve into a parody of a smile. “Extraordinaire.” Inside the pocket of the coat her fingers closed around metal. “But it sounds like very much work for very little pleasure. Why don’t you just let him go?”

  The trilling sounds of Camille’s laughter filled the clearing. “Oh, chérie, you are priceless!” All at once, the laughter stopped and the woman’s expression changed. “Why?” she almost snarled. “Because you need to take control over them, else they will crush you like a nasty little bug.” Her eves glittered feverishly. “Just as my father crushed my mother because she did not bear him any male heirs. As my first husband tried to crush me.” Camille giggled, her voice suddenly high and thin like a little girl’s. “But, oh, I didn’t let him. How could I let him do such things? I couldn’t let him go on hurting me, oh no, no, no. So I hurt him back, in the middle of the night, when it was dark outside and silent.” Briefly, she put her index finger against her lips. “Sshhhh. Hush, hush,” she continued in a whisper, “so the servants wouldn’t hear. They never heard screams at night, you know. And they didn’t hear his, either. But I heard, oh yes, I heard them, his screams, and they were like music. Like music when I took the control away from him.” She stared at the small knife in her hand as if only now she’d become aware of it.

  Compassion welled up inside Lillian for this woman, who was still a frightened girl deep inside.

  Everything needs balance…

  Her fingers let go of the pistol, and she reached out both hands to her stepmother. “Maman—”

  Camille’s head whipped up, and a snarl twisted her face. “I thought I taught you all about control, chérie, but you have disappointed me. You spoilt it! You spoilt it, and now I am taking it back with me. And for the rest of its measly life it will never again slip my control!”

  Lillian’s breath caught. Her hands fell to her sides, while the blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Not him! Not him! Her moment of compassion passed. Whatever her stepmother had endured as a young girl, she had repaid it a hundred-, a thousandfold, had brought death and despair over innocent men. She would not have him, as well.

  Lillian slipped her hands back into the pockets of her coat and firmly gripped the cold metal inside. Despite the icy fear that gripped her heart, her voice remained calm, without the hint of a quaver. “Then why have you summoned me?”

  Obviously, this question amused Camille. “Oh, chérie, is that not obvious?” Sunlight glinted on her raised knife as she turned toward the rocks. “I invited you so you could watch when I take its balls.” She threw her stepdaughter a little smile. “Surely you knew. They will be my good-bye present for you.” She nodded to the men behind her. “Strip it.”

  “NO! DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM!”

  A little surprised, Camille turned back to her stepdaughter. Surprise was replaced by open amusement as she spotted the pistol in Lillian’s hands. More laughter trickled up, filled the clearing. “Oh, chérie, you would not dare. So put it down before you hurt yourself.”

  Her laughter still hovered in the air when the shot echoed across the clearing.

  The blood did not show on the black dress, but it had been too short a range for the bullet to miss its mark.

  Surprise widened Camille’s eyes. “You…” Blood bubbled over her lips, ran down her chin. The soft breeze that gently stirred the air played a little with black silk before she crumpled.

  Lillian’s gaze fastened on the fallen figure of her stepmother. The boom of the shot still rang in her ears, deafening her, threatening to swallow her up. She gulped and clutched the suddenly slippery pistol tighter.

  One shot.

  She had one more shot.

  Lillian raised her head to look at Maurice and Antoine.

  For a moment, they remained frozen, then they turned and feral snarls robbed their faces of all humanity.

  One shot.

  Coldness washed over Lillian.

  She could not possibly take both of them down at the same time.

  Time seemed to slow, their movements sluggish, almost leading her to believe she had an eternity before they would strike. And strike they would, for it was hate that blazed from their eyes.

  They are going to kill me, Lillian thought numbly. They are going to kill me and then they will kill Ravenhurst, and everything will have been for nothing.

  Yet at that moment two other shots rang out, one after another, so quick that they almost blended into one. Antoine and Maurice were struck in mid-stride, their momentum making them somersault and roll over on the grass.

  “Bloody hell!” For once, shock robbed Justin de la Mere’s polite voice of its nasal twang.

  The pistol dropped from Lillian’s nerveless fingers, landed on the ground with a dull thud. She turned, and with a sob she flew across the clearing toward the bound man at the boulder, the fabric of her long coat flapping behind her like the wings of an agitated bird.

  “Oh, Ravenhurst… Troy…” She did not notice the tears that were streaming down her face as her hands fluttered over his body and reached up to free him of the bridle. “Troy…” When she could not reach the rope that tied his hands, she grew frantic. She sobbed and whispered and clung to him, desperate to set him free, deaf to the soothing noises he made.

  “Lillian, it’s all right. Everything is fine.”

  Gentle hands closed around her shoulders and drew her away. “Here, my lady, let me.”

  Lillian looked up, and through the blur of her tears she recognized Justin de la Mere, his stern features rendered soft by an emotion she could not fathom. He gave her a little squeeze and a smile, then kneeled to work on the fetters, while Lord Allenbright cut the ropes that imprisoned Troy’s arms and hands.

  Lillian waited next to them, shivering so violently that her teeth chattered, and fastened her eyes hungrily on her husband.

  At last, he was free. He stood and rubbed his wrists where the ropes had chafed the skin. Then he raised his head and his gaze met hers. His eyes, Lillian saw, burned like two bright blue flames.

  With two long strides he was before her and hauled her up into his arms. “Lillian,” he whispered against her ear. “Oh, my Lilly.” The voice was hoarse, yet unmistakably his.

  She buried her face in the curve of his shoulder and muffled her sobs against his shirt. She did not care that his friends would watch her tears soaking him to the skin. He was here, in her arms, alive, and that was all that mattered. She clutched him as tightly as she could, horrified at how near she had come to losing him.

  His strong, long fingers stroked her hair, while he pressed fervid kisses on her ear and cheek and every part of her face he could reach. Finally he lifted her head, so his mouth could close over hers, desperate. Her lips yielded gladly, opening for him, welcoming him, as his tongue thrust deep.

  Troy felt his wife’s body tremble in his arms, or perhaps the tremors wracked his own body;
he did not care. Only her warm, living softness could erase the memories of the hell of the last few hours, could chase away the all-consuming fear that had enveloped him when she had stepped into the clearing, small and vulnerable, her face as pale as chalk.

  He tasted the tears on her lips, in her mouth, in his own. Gently, without breaking the kiss, he set her down, freeing his hands to frame her face so that his thumbs could trace the salty cascade that streamed down her cheeks. Tenderly, he brushed his fingers over her closed eyelids, the wet lashes feather-touches against his skin.

  “Hush,” he murmured against her lips, “hush. It’s all over now, Lillian.” He stroked the hair out of her face, loving the silky texture of her curls. They twined around his fingers, tickled the backs of his hands. “Hush,” he crooned. “Hush, my love.” Once more, he enveloped her in his arms, rocked her back and forth while he rained kisses on her face, her mouth. “Everything is fine now.” Finally he drew away so that he could look at her. He brushed at the wetness that clung to her lashes and drank in the sight of her face, red and swollen from crying. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld.

  She reached up to stroke his cheek. He leaned his head into the caress before he captured her small hand in his own and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. Intertwining their fingers, he brought their joined hands down to rest over his heart, while his free hand tilted her chin so she was forced to meet his eyes. “Listen to me, Lillian,” he said slowly and clearly. “Listen. You did it. You set us free.”

  She blinked, her gray eyes still glistening with tears.

  “She cannot touch you now, never again. And you did it all by yourself, do you hear?” He pressed her hand tighter against his chest so that she could feel the rapid beating of his heart. “Through your courage you freed yourself. Your stepmother can no longer harm you or anybody else. In the end, you were stronger than her.”

  Under his fingers her face crumpled again, and he drew her into his arms and against the solid comfort of his body. With hands and lips he soothed and cherished her, knowing she would feel guilty about the death of her stepmother, for his wife was made to heal, not to hurt.