And then she remembered another time when he had risen above her, his skin clammy with cold sweat, and half hidden by the curly hair on his chest the lily, the burnt flesh—
With a stricken sound she reached out and covered the mark with her hand, feeling the heavy beats of his heart against her fingertips. The warm glow of the moment evaporated like water on a hot stone.
A lily for Lillian.
Her responsibility.
Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Lillian, no,” his voice cut through her guilt. He feathered gentle kisses over her face. “It is all right,” he said, his voice tender. “It is all right.”
“I am sorry, I am so sorry.” The tears overflowed and ran in bitter, salty streaks down her cheeks. Ice filled her heart, froze the blood in her veins.
He rolled to his side and wrapped her in his arms, bringing her face down onto the welcoming curve of his shoulder. But the tears came harder and harder.
She felt him press his mouth against her hair. “It is all right, Lillian.”
“How can you say that?” she sobbed. “How can it be all right?”
His hands came up to cradle her face, and he held her away from him. “Because we can make it so.” His eyes burned into her, willing her to believe. “We can make it right again. We have already started, don’t you see? Can’t you feel?” He moved his body against hers. “Can’t you feel the rightness, Lillian?”
She stared at him, felt the fire rekindle where their bodies touched, skin to skin. She shivered.
A crooked smile lifted his lips. “We can make it all right, Lillian,” he whispered, before his mouth came down and claimed hers. His tongue seared her lips, coaxing them to open for him, and when they did, the sensual, moist glide of his tongue against her own made her dizzy with yearning.
“Touch me,” he coaxed. “Touch me, Lillian, and make it right again.”
Yet still she hesitated, suddenly shy of touching him like that, intimately and with tenderness. After all this time, how could she still be capable of tenderness?
He kissed her jaw, her throat, nibbled at her earlobe, then slid lower and brushed his mouth over the upper swell of her breast. “Touch me,” he murmured against her skin. “Like this, just like this…” And his tongue whirled over the rosy tip of one breast, making it tingle and burn and muscles deep in her stomach contract.
And how could she not touch him after that? How could she not smooth her hands over his arms, down the curve of his back, and over his sides? And how could she not smile in delight as she felt the muscles bunch under her questing fingertips and hear her husband groan with pleasure.
With pleasure.
It was then that Lillian finally understood. She could not hurt him, would not hurt him if she touched him like this, with tenderness and the intent to give pleasure. Only pleasure from now on.
She took a deep breath, and the last of Camille’s fetters sprung free.
Dizzy with joy, she continued her exploration of her husband’s body. She learned the taste of his skin, the salty tang of his sweat, and inhaled the scent of him mingled with the musk of his arousal. And under his hands and his mouth she felt the fire within her flare up again. Together, they fanned the flames, making them burn higher and higher, until he finally slipped into her so he was buried deep, deep inside.
A smile spread over his face then, of such intensity as she had never seen. It was as if he were lit from within. It was there in the glow of his eyes and the soft curve of his mouth.
Lillian felt an answering smile lift her own lips.
He sighed, a sound of utter contentment. Then he wriggled his forearms under her shoulders and cuddled her close, all the time looking at her, looking.
Watching.
It is said that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, and in that moment it seemed to Lillian as if this were indeed true: For once, his eyes were clear and untroubled. Free of anguish and pain.
They had slipped from the past, both of them, and had finally arrived in the present. The man Lillian held in her arms was not the prisoner in the stinking cell, was not the man in chains whose blood had dripped onto Camille’s floor, was not the earl whose eyes had burned with hate and wrath, was not even the husband she had wed on the wrong side of town.
The man Lillian held in her arms was Troy.
Just Troy.
Lillian reached up to stroke the damp hair at his temple. “I love you,” she whispered.
For a moment, he leaned into the caress like a kitten, and she almost expected him to purr. Then he turned his head and placed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss in her palm. Smiling, he looked back at her. “I love you, too,” he said.
And then—he moved.
Their gazes remained locked. Even when the flames of their desire licked at their skin and their breathing became pants and moans, even then did they not look away. They made love with their bodies, their eyes, and their souls. And the flames consumed them both.
~*~
Later, they lay among the rumpled sheets, Lillian’s head on Troy’s shoulder. With one arm, he held her close, while she gently stroked his chest and played with the springy dark hair there. More often than not, however, her fingers strayed to the brown mark on his skin. Now that most of the candles had burned down, it was almost invisible, flickering in and out of existence as the light danced over them.
She pressed a tender kiss upon it, as if the touch of her lips could undo the pain she had inflicted so long ago.
“It no longer hurts, you know.” His lips brushed her temple, and he took up her hand. “And it does not bother me now. In fact…” Smiling, he kissed her palm. “…I like it. Your mark upon me.” He threaded his fingers through hers and brought their joined hands back to rest on his chest. His strong, brown hand engulfed her slender fingers, swallowing them up. His thumb gently stroked over the pulse at her wrist.
“I have got something for you,” he finally said.
Surprised, Lillian raised her head. “For me?”
He nodded, intently watching the play of their fingers. “I went to France with a purpose.” Only then did he look at her. There was an odd expression in his eyes that Lillian could not interpret. “I will be right back.” His fingers slid from hers, and he left the bed.
Lillian huddled in the blankets, suddenly feeling bereft. Her gaze was drawn to his firm naked buttocks as he went around the room. To the graceful curve of his back, toned with muscles. And then there was that spot on his neck, just below the hairline, that small, vulnerable-looking spot. Her fingers twitched with the urge to stroke the skin there, to lay her hand over that stretch of flesh, to take him into her care.
Mine, she thought. Mine.
He rummaged in the top drawer of his chest and came back with a small velvet bag. Upon his approach, Lillian settled higher among the pillows against the headrest. The mattress dipped as he sat down on the side of the bed, his face somber.
Worried by his expression, Lillian reached out to touch his hand. At that, he smiled a little, yet when he looked at her, he grew serious again.
“You once gave me something,” he began. “A precious gift it was. But it took me some time to understand its full significance. At first it was just gold to pay my way to freedom. And that, of course, was precious for me. But I did not understand… how much more it was.” His gaze never left hers, and she saw how very blue his eyes were, that intense cornflower-blue that so easily touched her soul. She remembered that last smoldering look on a muddy lane in France and the sight of glinting gold flying through the rain. “Nanette… Nanette made me see its real worth.” He swallowed. “A gift of your heart. So much more precious than mere gold.”
Lillian blinked. A lump rose in her throat and rendered her powerless to speak.
“So I went to France to get it back. For you. To give you back that gift of the heart.” He reached out and tenderly wiped away the single tear rolling down her cheek. “A heart for a heart.” He opened the velvet bag an
d let its contents fall into his hand.
But Lillian did not look down. Her gaze remained locked with his, even as her eyes welled over, even as he slowly raised his hands and the cool metal settled on her skin. Carefully he fastened the chain and made sure that no hair would be caught in the tiny rings.
She did not need to look down to know what it was. She had worn the locket for so many years that the weight of it felt instantly familiar.
“It is a bit dented in one place,” Troy said huskily, “but the miniatures are still there. I give it back to you, my Lilly, and I thank you for the gift.” He leaned forward. “And I thank you for my life.”
A sob caught in Lillian’s throat.
“Twice, if I recall correctly.” A smile tugged at his mouth. His hands came up to frame her face. “I love you, my Lilly,” he murmured before he kissed her.
The tears now flowed freely over Lillian’s cheeks. Wet, hot tears, as she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “I love you, too,” she whispered shakily against his lips. “So very much.” His warmth surrounded her, and she let the heat of his body seep into her skin until it warmed her heart forever.
They had overcome the past, and now the future was theirs.
~ THE END ~
THANK YOU!
Thank you so much for reading The Lily Brand! I hope you’ve enjoyed Troy & Lillian’s story.
It would be awesome if you could leave a review of the book on the site where you purchased it, or on Goodreads. Reviews help other readers find new books and authors. I appreciate all reviews and thank you for your support!
Acknowledgments
For the most part, writing is a solitary business, yet this book wouldn’t have come about without the help of many lovely people:
First and foremost my thanks go to the wonderful ladies of the Ladies of Lallybroch Literary Forum: Thank you for teaching me how to fly! I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you!
Extra-special thanks to our own Lady LaLa, for being an inspiration for us all, but also for letting herself be bullied into proofreading the last few chapters of this novel.
A million thanks to my editor, Chris, for taking a chance on this bumbling new author. Many thanks to Teresa, for her enthusiasm and the cover quote; to Gaelen, for her friendship and advice; to Ulla, who knows why; to the members of La porte de pierre, who helped me with the French swear words; to Martin for Debrett’s; and to Dee, for giving me confidence when I needed it. Meeting you was like meeting my very own fairy godmother!
Furthermore, I’m deeply grateful to everybody who patted my hand during last-minute panic attacks: Jen, Trish, Ulla, the other Sandy, and the members of the Beau Monde.
Last but not least, I would like to thank my parents for always enabling me to pursue my dreams.
About the Author
Award-winning author Sandra Schwab started writing her first novel when she was seven years old. Thirty-odd years later, telling stories is still her greatest passion, even though by now she has exchanged her pink fountain pen of old for a black computer keyboard. Since the release of her debut novel in 2005, she has enchanted readers worldwide with her unusual historical romances.
She holds a PhD in English Literature and lives in Frankfurt am Main / Germany with a sketchbook, a sewing machine, and an ever-expanding library.
Find her online at:
www.SandraSchwab.com
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Other Books by Sandra Schwab
The Lily Brand
Castle of the Wolf
Bewitched
Betrayal
Springtime Pleasures
Allan’s Miscellany (Victorian)
The Bride Prize
A Tangled Web
Devil’s Return
Eagle’s Honor (Ancient Rome)
Eagle’s Honor: Banished
Eagle’s Honor: Ravished (autumn 2015)
Eagle’s Honor: Vanquished (2016)
The Lily Brand Page 27