life and your family. I donât understand, Tristan. Why would you do that?â
Their eyes met across the chasm that separated them. His gaze was unutterably bleak, achingly cold, but in that moment she forgot to be frightened or angry and wanted only to hold him. She wanted it so much that she almost felt dizzy.
His lips quirked into a bitter, heart breaking smile. âYou want your child to have a history?â he said in a voice of mesmerising softness. âIn my family you get six centuries of it, and roots so deep theyâre like anchors of concrete, holding you sotightly that you canât move. That doesnât give you an identity, it makes it almost impossible to have one. That is why I never, ever intended to have children.â He paused, passing his hand briefly over his face in a gesture of eloquent hopelessness. âI have no choice about the family I was born into, but you can still choose something different for your baby. Cut your losses, Lily. Get out while you still can.â
Lilyâs heart felt as if it were being seared with a blowtorch. Slowly, deliberately, she shook her head. âOur baby,â she said quietly. The ground was cold beneath her bare feet and she was shivering, but her voice was strong and steady. â Our baby. I believe in family, Tristan. I believe in marriage.â
Tentative butterfly wings of hope were beginning to flutter inside her. He was offering her the thing sheâd always longed for. Marriage; a proper family for this babyânot like the inadequate, truncated version she had grown up in. Not quite a fairy tale happy ending, but a version of it. Hadnât she always vowed that she would give her own children the family life she had never had?
âThis wonât be that kind of marriage,â Tristan said coldly. âThis will be in name only.â
âWhat do you mean?â she whispered.
He made a brief, dismissive gesture. âI have a life. A life that I have carved out for myself against all the odds. A life that I wonât give up and I wonât share. Youâll be my wife, but youâll have no right to ask anything about where I go or what I do.â
âThatâs not a marriage,â she protested fiercely, feeling the emptiness beginning to steal through her again. âThatâs not a proper family.â
As she spoke he shrugged off his dinner jacket and now he laid it around her trembling shoulders, tugging the lapels so that her whole body jerked forwards. âNo. But itâs the best I can offer,â he said harshly. âI canât make you happy, Lily. I canât be a proper father to this child. Find someone who can.â
The deliciously scented warmth of his body lingered in the silk lining of his jacket, and she pulled it closer around her. Theunexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture he had made breathed life back into the fragile hope inside her. Looking up into Tristan Romeroâs dark, aristocratic face, Lily saw the pain there, and instantly she was transported back to the tower; to standing at the window as the rain fell on the lake outside and looking at the watery moonlight washing his sleeping body on the bed. She remembered exactly the muscular curve of his back, the small, shadowy indentation of his spine at its base, the ridges of his ribs. She remembered the tracery of long, pale scars that cut across his shoulders and she remembered the suffering etched into his sleeping face and the anguish in his voice as heâd cried outâ¦
She remembered gathering him to her. Stroking him until his heartbeat steadied, until the lines beneath his brows were smoothed away and she had chased away whatever nameless horrors tormented him. For a short while then, against the odds, she had touched him. She had reached him and he had clung to her. Could she reach him again? Not for a moment, but for a lifetime, for the sake of the baby she wanted so much?
That was what
Their eyes met across the chasm that separated them. His gaze was unutterably bleak, achingly cold, but in that moment she forgot to be frightened or angry and wanted only to hold him. She wanted it so much that she almost felt dizzy.
His lips quirked into a bitter, heart breaking smile. âYou want your child to have a history?â he said in a voice of mesmerising softness. âIn my family you get six centuries of it, and roots so deep theyâre like anchors of concrete, holding you sotightly that you canât move. That doesnât give you an identity, it makes it almost impossible to have one. That is why I never, ever intended to have children.â He paused, passing his hand briefly over his face in a gesture of eloquent hopelessness. âI have no choice about the family I was born into, but you can still choose something different for your baby. Cut your losses, Lily. Get out while you still can.â
Lilyâs heart felt as if it were being seared with a blowtorch. Slowly, deliberately, she shook her head. âOur baby,â she said quietly. The ground was cold beneath her bare feet and she was shivering, but her voice was strong and steady. â Our baby. I believe in family, Tristan. I believe in marriage.â
Tentative butterfly wings of hope were beginning to flutter inside her. He was offering her the thing sheâd always longed for. Marriage; a proper family for this babyânot like the inadequate, truncated version she had grown up in. Not quite a fairy tale happy ending, but a version of it. Hadnât she always vowed that she would give her own children the family life she had never had?
âThis wonât be that kind of marriage,â Tristan said coldly. âThis will be in name only.â
âWhat do you mean?â she whispered.
He made a brief, dismissive gesture. âI have a life. A life that I have carved out for myself against all the odds. A life that I wonât give up and I wonât share. Youâll be my wife, but youâll have no right to ask anything about where I go or what I do.â
âThatâs not a marriage,â she protested fiercely, feeling the emptiness beginning to steal through her again. âThatâs not a proper family.â
As she spoke he shrugged off his dinner jacket and now he laid it around her trembling shoulders, tugging the lapels so that her whole body jerked forwards. âNo. But itâs the best I can offer,â he said harshly. âI canât make you happy, Lily. I canât be a proper father to this child. Find someone who can.â
The deliciously scented warmth of his body lingered in the silk lining of his jacket, and she pulled it closer around her. Theunexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture he had made breathed life back into the fragile hope inside her. Looking up into Tristan Romeroâs dark, aristocratic face, Lily saw the pain there, and instantly she was transported back to the tower; to standing at the window as the rain fell on the lake outside and looking at the watery moonlight washing his sleeping body on the bed. She remembered exactly the muscular curve of his back, the small, shadowy indentation of his spine at its base, the ridges of his ribs. She remembered the tracery of long, pale scars that cut across his shoulders and she remembered the suffering etched into his sleeping face and the anguish in his voice as heâd cried outâ¦
She remembered gathering him to her. Stroking him until his heartbeat steadied, until the lines beneath his brows were smoothed away and she had chased away whatever nameless horrors tormented him. For a short while then, against the odds, she had touched him. She had reached him and he had clung to her. Could she reach him again? Not for a moment, but for a lifetime, for the sake of the baby she wanted so much?
That was what
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