"Yes," he said.

"Then you had better train Lily," she said. "Or better still, you had better allow Mama to train her."

"I will not have Lily made unhappy, Gwen," he said.

"Is she is happy as she is, then?" she cried. "Are any of us happy? Oh, what is the use? If we are unhappy, it is not Lily's fault. Or even yours, I suppose. Why is it that we always seek to blame someone for our misery? It is just that I have been determined to dislike Lily quite intensely."

"Gwen," he said, "she is my wife. And it was a love match, you know."

"Oh." She raised her eyebrows. "Was it? Poor Lauren."

She said no more, but raised an arm in farewell as he mounted and rode toward the driveway.

Lily had not yet returned to the abbey, he discovered when he arrived there himself, having left his horse to a groom's care at the stables, though she had left the dower house a good half hour before he had. Where had she gone? It was almost impossible to know, but she had walked into the forest when she left the dower house. Perhaps she was still there. Not that it would be easy to find her. And not that he ought to try.

But perhaps she had lost her way. He strode off past the fountain and across the wide lawn toward the trees.

He might have wandered among them for an hour and not spotted her. It was sheer coincidence that he saw her almost immediately. His eye was caught by the fluttering of the pale blue dress that had been the first of her new clothes. She was standing very still against a tree trunk, her hands flat against it on either side of her body. He did not want to frighten her. He did not attempt to silence his approach as he went to stand in front of her. Even so, he could see the unmistakable fear in her eyes.

"Oh," she said, closing them briefly, "it is just you."

"Who did you think it was?" he asked her curiously. She was not wearing a bonnet—his mother would be scandalized—though her hair was neatly dressed.

She shook her head. "I do not know," she said. "The Duke of Portfrey, perhaps."

"Portfrey?" He frowned. But she had been afraid.

"What have you done with your cloak?" she asked.

"I did not wear one today," he replied, looking down at his riding clothes. "It is too warm."

"Oh," she said. "I was mistaken, then."

He would not touch her, but he leaned his head a little closer to hers. "Why were you frightened?"

Her smile was a little wan. "I was not really. It was nothing. I am just jumping at shadows."

His eyes roamed over her face. She looked even now as if she were afraid to abandon the safety of the tree against which she leaned. A new and painful thought struck him.

"I have thought about your captivity," he said, "and I have thought of you in Lisbon, trying to get someone in the army to believe your story. But there is a chunk of missing time I have not considered, is there not? You were somewhere in Spain and walked all the way back to Lisbon in Portugal. Alone, Lily?"

She nodded.

"And every hill and hollow and thicket in both countries might have concealed a band of partisans," he said, "or French troops caught behind their own lines. Or even our own men. You had no papers. I should have given thought to that journey of yours before now, should I not?" What sort of terrors must she have lived through in addition to the physical hardships of such a journey ?

"Everyone's life contains suffering," she said. "We each have enough of our own. We do not need to shoulder the burden of other people's too."

"Even when the other person is one's wife?" he asked. She should have been able to look on the partisans as friends, of course—they were all Britain's allies. But her experience with the one group must have given her a healthy fear of meeting another band. And he had not even thought of that journey. "Forgive me, Lily."

"For what?" She smiled at him and looked her old sweet beguiling self again. "These woods are beautiful. Old. Secluded. Filled with birds and birdsong."

"Give it time," he told her. "Eventually you will come to believe in the peace and safety of England. And of your home in particular. You are safe here, Lily."

"I am not afraid now," she assured him, and her serene smile seemed to bear out the words. "It was just a—a feeling. It was foolish. Am I late? Is that why you came for me? Are there visitors? I forget that there are always visitors."

"You are not late," he said, "and there are no visitors—though there will be this evening. But even if you were late and even if there were visitors, it would not matter. You must feel free here, Lily. This is your home."

She nodded, though she did not reply. He held out a hand for hers without thinking. But before he could return his arm to his side, she took his hand and curled her fingers about it as if touching him were the most natural thing in the world to do. It was a warm, smooth hand, which he clasped firmly as they began to walk in the direction of home.

It was the first time he had touched her since that afternoon at the cottage. He looked down at her blond head with its coiled braid at the back and felt curiously like crying.

She was changed. She was no longer Lily Doyle, the carefree young woman who had gladdened the hearts of a hardened, jaded regiment in Portugal. She had lost her innocence. And yet it clung about her still like an almost visible aura.

Chapter 12

Lily had found it a difficult evening, Neville knew. She did not play cards—poor Lily, it was yet another absent accomplishment that his friends and neighbors had discovered in her. And while she might have found congenial company with Hal and Richard or even perhaps with Charles or Paul—he had noticed without surprise that she was always more comfortable with men than with women—she had been taken under the wing of Lady Leigh and Mrs. Cannadine, who had proceeded to discover all the other attributes of a lady she simply did not possess. Then she had been borne off by Lauren to the music room, where all the young ladies except Lily had proceeded to display their accomplishments at the pianoforte.

They had been absolutely fascinated, Lady Leigh had assured Neville later in the evening, to learn that Lady Kilbourne had often been forced to sleep on the hard ground under the stars in the Peninsula, surrounded by a thousand men. His lordship's dear wife simply must be prevailed upon to tell them more about her shocking experiences.

It had often been considerably more than a thousand, Neville thought with inner amusement, and wondered if the ladies, clearly titillated by such scandalous information concerning his countess, realized that sometimes there was safety in numbers.

He was restless after everyone had retired to bed. Being alone again with Lily during the morning, talking and strolling with her, holding her hand, had reawakened the hunger he had been trying to deny for her companionship, for the intimacy of marriage with her. Not just sexual intimacy—though there was that too, he admitted—but emotional closeness, the cleaving of mind to mind and heart to heart. It was something, he realized, that he had never particularly craved with Lauren. With her he would have been content with the comfortable friendship and affection they had always shared. But not with Lily.

He fought the temptation to go into her room to check on her, something he had not done since that day at the cottage. He was afraid he might try to find an excuse to stay.

But suddenly he leaned closer to the window of his bedchamber, through which he had been idly gazing. He braced his hands on the windowsill. Yes, it was Lily down there. Did he even need to doubt the evidence of his own eyes? Who else would be leaving the house at this time of night? Her cloak was billowing out behind her as she hurried in the direction of the valley path—and her hair too. It was loose down her back.

It seemed strange to him at first that she had chosen to go out alone in the middle of the night when she had been frightened in the forest in the middle of the day. But only at first. He understood soon enough that if Lily had demons to fight, she would not cower away from them but would face them head-on. Besides, her peace and serenity had always been drawn from the outdoors and from the solitude she had seemed able to find even in the midst of a teeming army.

He should leave her alone.

He should leave her to find whatever comfort for her unhappiness she was capable of finding on the beach beneath the stars.

Yet he ached for her. He ached to be a part of her life, of her world. He longed to share himself with her as he had never done with any other woman. And he longed for her trust, for her willingness to share herself with him.

He longed for her forgiveness, though he knew that to her there seemed nothing to forgive. He longed to be able to atone.

He should leave her be.

But sometimes selfishness was hard to fight. And perhaps it was not entirely selfishness that drew him to go out after her. Perhaps away from the house, in the beauty of a moonlit night, he could meet her on a different level from any they had yet discovered here at Newbury. Perhaps some of the restraints that had kept them very much apart since her arrival—and especially since that one afternoon—could be brushed aside. Their morning encounter had held out a certain promise. Perhaps…

Perhaps he was merely looking for some excuse—any excuse—for doing what he knew he was going to do anyway. He was already in his dressing room, pulling on the riding clothes his valet had set out for the morning.

He was going out after her.

If nothing else, he could watch out for her safety, make sure that she came to no harm.

***

Lily had been to the beach since the afternoon of the picnic once in the pouring rain of early morning. She had been scolded roundly on her return by Dolly, who had predicted darkly that her ladyship would catch her death of cold even if she had worn a borrowed cloak with the hood up. Lily had been to the beach, but she had never again turned up the valley to the pool and the cottage.

It was definitely one of the beautiful places of this earth, and she had spoiled it by panicking when she had been kissed. She had refused to trust beauty and peace and kindness, and she had been punished as a result. She had found herself unable since that afternoon to forge any of the contentment for herself that she had almost always been able to find in the changing surroundings and conditions in which she had lived her life. She had become fearful. She had started to imagine men—or perhaps women—in dark cloaks stalking her. She did not like such weakness in herself.

The evening had been a great trial to her. It was not that the number of guests had overwhelmed her. Nor was it that anyone had been unkind or even openly disapproving. It was not even that she had felt out of place. It was just that finally, after a week at Newbury Abbey, Lily had come to a terrible realization: that this evening was the pattern of many evenings to come. And the days she had lived through would be repeated over and over down the years.

Perhaps she would adjust. Perhaps no future week would be quite as difficult as this one had been. But something had gone permanently from her life—some hope, some dream.

Fear had taken their place.

Fear of an unknown man. Or perhaps not unknown. The Duke of Portfrey was always watching her indoors. Why not outdoors too when she wished to be alone? Or perhaps it was not the duke. Perhaps it was—Lauren. She came every day to the abbey and invariably attached herself to Lily, being attentive to her, solicitous of her well-being, eager to teach her what she did not know and do for her what she could not do. She was all graciousness and kindness. She was quite the opposite of what she should be, surely. There was something not quite right in her cheerful acceptance of her situation. Just thinking of her gave Lily the shudders. Perhaps it was Lauren who felt it necessary to keep an eye on her even when she was alone. Perhaps in some fiendish way Lauren was trying to make her so uncomfortable in company and so terrified when alone that she would simply go away.

And perhaps, Lily thought, giving herself a mental shake, it was no one at all, male or female, known or unknown.

Fear, she had realized while she stood at the window of her bedchamber gazing longingly out, was the one thing she could not allow to rule her. It would be the ultimate destroyer. She had given in to it once, choosing life and prostitution over torture and death. In many ways she had forgiven herself for that choice. As Neville had said to her—and as her father had taught her—it was a soldier's duty to remain alive in captivity and to escape as soon as he was able. It had been war in which she had been caught up. But the war was over for her now. She was in England. She was at home. She would not allow nameless terrors to consume her.