Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  She felt his eyes on her, and felt as though the devil himself mocked her, read her thoughts, read her heart.

  A great attack of trembling seized her. Her blood seemed to freeze and then to simmer and boil; she nearly could not stand. What if she could not deceive him? She was afraid. She would falter! She would fail!

  “Genevieve!” Sir Guy commanded.

  They were all depending upon her; Genevieve would not let them down. Sir Guy prodded her gently and she stepped forward to bow gracefully and low.

  Four

  Courage came to her then, when she needed it most. Courage—or a pretense of it, at least. She knew that she had to be sweet and poised and welcoming, or else doom them all.

  “Edenby Castle and the estates of the Lord of Edenby,” she told Tristan, not daring to look at him, “are now yours, Lord Tristan. It is your own hospitality we offer you today.”

  There was a sharp roar that went up among the Lancastrians, and they began to dismount. Still all she could see of Tristan were his piercing dark eyes, falling on her enigmatically. Then they left her as swiftly as they had touched her, and he called out orders to his men.

  He had yet to say a word to her or to her party. Genevieve moistened her lips and took another step forward. “We’ve boar and pheasant, spiced eel, and casks of wine in the courtyard, milord. And an inner table that will accommodate fifteen of your number.”

  “Fifteen of my number, milady?” he inquired politely at last.

  She dipped what she hoped was a very humble curtsy. “There are six of us, Lord Tristan. My aunt and myself—” She paused for Edwyna to drop to a bow. “Sir Guy, Sir Humphrey, Michael, and Tamkin. Michael is—was—the head of my father’s fighting men. Tamkin has handled the estates and tenants, and Sir Guy has long handled our accounts. Sir Humphrey knows our castle’s strengths and weaknesses as no other man.”

  “Will I need a strong castle, do you think, milady?” Tristan inquired. He removed his helmet, then his gloves, and one of his men was quick to take them from him. She saw his face then: arresting, handsome—cold, proud. Watching him, she started to tremble.

  She took a step backward. He seemed imposingly tall as he stood there; and his expression, despite his polite words that hummed with mockery, was icy. When he smiled it seemed that his lip merely curled.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “Lady Genevieve? I’m not in the habit of repeating myself. Will I need a strong castle?”

  “Any man craves a strong castle, does he not?”

  “I shall rephrase it for you, milady. Is there a particular reason you feel I shall need a strong castle—soon?”

  “There is always the threat of attack from the sea,” she said demurely. “And I do believe Richard still sits upon the throne. I had thought you would want all the knowledge that we might give you.”

  “How kind of you. And perceptive.”

  “We seek peace.”

  “Ah. And mercy, I take it?”

  “Mercy is a quality revered by the angels,” she murmured sweetly in reply. “Why, a quality that you’ve already promised. Shall I show you the castle, milord?”

  “By all means.”

  He nodded curtly to the others, barely glancing their way. And yet Genevieve had the feeling he had swiftly memorized them all, that he would know every name, and understand every nuance of expression and movement should he later be asked.

  “The great hall, milord,” said Genevieve, sweeping her arm in a graceful arc. “The lords of our vicinity have always met here; we are isolated, as you know, hence they’ve often conferred on rule and settled their own disorders.” She smiled—hating it as she watched Tristan’s men walk in and defile her father’s hall. But as she watched them, free from helmets and face plates, she realized that they were men—young and old, handsome and scarred.

  She felt suddenly dizzy, longing to sit. They were all—men. Flesh and blood and human, as she had reminded Edwyna. To someone, they were sons, husbands, fathers, lovers.

  They should never have entered the castle. They had suddenly become real. It was best to fight an unknown enemy. Best when . . .

  “Milady?”

  Tristan was looking at her curiously. She realized suddenly that he was supporting her—her hand was held by his. He did not mock her for once, but watched her, curious but not condemning.

  Real, the men were real—and so was this handsome, loathsome Tristan de la Tere. She looked down quickly. Aye, she hated him. Despised him. But it was a pity that he had not gone away and left them alone! He was young and strong, and it was a pity that he must die.

  “Milady, are you ill?”

  Of course I am ill! she longed to spit out. Ill to see your group of thieving cutthroats invade my home!

  She smiled instead, withdrawing her hand quickly from his touch. “I am fine. If you’ll excuse me ... ?”

  She turned.

  “Sir Guy, will you be good enough to take my place? I’ll see that the meal is served.”

  She left the hall behind, sweeping through the stone archway that separated the hall from the kitchen. Once there, she leaned against the wall. Griswald, the absurdly slim cook, looked at her over a massive cauldron of boiling stew. “Feed them!” Genevieve cried. “Bring the wine, we must get started.”

  “Aye, lady, aye,” Griswald muttered. “The wine!” he called, passing down the order. He went for one of the great casks himself—then paused before passing her by. “We be with you, milady, you kin count on it.” She nodded, and took another breath. The afternoon loomed long ahead of her. She turned, and returned to the hall.

  A number of the Lancastrian knights had gathered around the fire, speaking in hushed tones. Genevieve could not follow all of the conversation, but she understood some to say that this was too polite a way to conquer an enemy. Others were commenting on the bounty of the table, and the value of property not destroyed.

  Their eyes fell on her as she entered the room. One of them, a stout fellow with small, greedy eyes, murmured something. Another guffawed loudly, and a third man’s speech told her that he thought they would have been better off to ram and raze the place—and share all of the bounty.

  Human? Their insulting leers restored her feeling of righteousness. Her eyes narrowed as she watched them, and then she turned, warmed by an unfamiliar sensation.

  Tristan was watching her. The servants were hurrying about, and he was already holding a cup. It dangled nonchalantly from his hand; his elbow leaned against the mantel and one foot rested on the stone below it. Sir Guy was talking to him. But he was watching her—and she had the uncanny feeling that he knew what she had heard, and what she was thinking.

  For a disturbingly long moment, it seemed that his eyes held hers. He was starting to look less severe, she thought. His hair was slightly tousled, and he laughed openly at something Sir Guy said. Genevieve was startled to realize just how attractive a man he was when his smile was true, amused, and devilish.

  Instinctively she touched her lips. Then she flushed furiously, remembering his words, his taunts.

  He was responsible for her father’s death. He had treated her atrociously, outrageously. This tall, arresting, laughing man deserved to be boiled in oil. He was autocratic, egotistical, and revoltingly arrogant. He had not really left behind the trappings of war: his sword was at his side, and he wore a dirk at his calf.

  He smiled at her across the space that divided them.

  Genevieve tore her eyes from his and walked toward the group. She noted that Edwyna was talking to one of the Lancastrians. A handsome young man—if an enemy could be called so—tall, trim, neatly dressed, and with a pleasant smile. So pleasant, Genevieve thought sickly, that he would be hard to kill. She closed her eyes quickly, and remembered the stout man who would have gladly ripped her to shreds, laughing all the while. How much better it was going to be to become the victors.

  She interrupted Sir Guy and his discourse on how to build stai
rways. “If you would care to sit, my lords, we may eat.”

  Very shortly they were arranged around the table. Genevieve was at the end—beside Tristan. Her people moved about the table serving; it might have been a party. Except that she couldn’t eat a thing. Poor Genevieve wandered on in a monologue on the food, discussing the best season for eel, the best fish to be caught from the sea.

  Tristan watched her, judging and absorbing. They were too close; his knee touched hers, and she felt feverish. And when his arm moved, she stared at the rippling muscle beneath his shirt; that, too, worked to unnerve her. She could see the pulse in his throat, and the skin of his cheek, just shaven and roughly masculine. She remembered his touch, no matter how hard she tried not to. Remembered . . . and knew that he knew what she was thinking, and tried not to blush, tried not to betray herself . . .

  She was off-balance, she thought miserably, but not he. She was supposed to be charming the man. He had already seized an intimacy that had left her in ashes, and he had expressed disappointment.

  Tristan wasn’t drinking nearly as much wine as she would have hoped. His tastes seemed to be moderate.

  “Boar,” she heard herself say, “is best when roasted slowly for hours and hours and—” She broke off. His mouth had formed its twisted grin, and his eyes were on hers.

  “You may cease your chattering, Lady Genevieve,” he said. “When you’ve something of interest to say, please do so.” He turned from her to address Sir Humphrey. “How many tenants have you, sir, to work the land? How many craftsmen?”

  Sir Humphrey cleared his throat and began a dissertation on the farmers, the household workers, the smiths and potters and other tradesmen. Tristan listened to him carefully. He asked intelligent questions about the quality of their wool, the number of cattle and cottages.

  Genevieve sipped her ale and pushed at the food on her plate. She jumped when she heard his voice again, close to her ear.

  “This is quite a turnaround, wouldn’t you say, Lady Genevieve?”

  “What?”

  “Several times, I offered you terms of surrender better than what you have received.” He lifted a hand to encompass the table full of his men. “Tomorrow I will disburse your jewels. I’ll see the accounts. I’ll take over residency here. You will have nothing, my lady. You might have spared yourself much pain had you surrendered earlier, but you chose to fight to the bitter end. Yet now you are the lady bountiful, insisting upon creeping into my bed, when most titled ladies go to sleep each night, praying for deliverance from the scourge of just such an infamous fate! I am curious, my lady. I would like some explanation.”

  Genevieve tried hard to keep her eyes level with his. She failed. She folded her hands in her lap, and stared down at them. Vaguely she noted that one of the hounds had left the fire and was scrounging around the table for scraps.

  “Given a choice between you and a number of your men, Lord Tristan, I find you—the lesser of evils. And as to the easier terms of surrender that I lost . . .” she shrugged. “I fought as long as I could. Before my surrender, I had not lost. But when there was no hope and you threatened no mercy, I thought that we should . . . try to make amends.”

  “Ahh,” he said slowly. “Then you’ve not forgotten your promise?”

  “My promise?” she murmured.

  “Aye. To be no victim—but as tender as a bride.”

  She stiffened, shaken by the intimacy of his voice, which left her breathless and weak. It was as if the strength in her had all faded to water, rippling away. She stared at him sharply, and she felt the intensity of his eyes, so dark—and mocking.

  “Brides are not always tender, my lord,” she said.

  “A loving bride,” he said, and she was stunned by the sudden bitterness in his tone. And then he turned again, as if he despised her, and made some joke to the young Lancastrian with the pleasant smile and laughing good looks.

  She was shaking again. Her palms were wet, and she attempted to dry them on her skirt. What was it with this man? she wondered in dismay. He seemed to despise her; he denied that he found her even truly appealing . . .

  And then he would tease her and laugh, and she would feel heat, a fire that arose, from him, igniting her. As if he would take her . . . more than take her.

  She didn’t need to understand him, she reminded herself sharply. She needed to entrap him.

  As the meal progressed, voices started to rise. The men had been at war for a long time; the wine was sweet, the food good. They were growing raucous. Genevieve saw Griswald, and she lifted a hand to him. “Many goblets are empty,” she warned him when he came to her service. “These men—celebrate their victory today,” she said, aware that Tristan was watching her again. A flush warmed her cheek. “Call for the juggler now, too, I think.” Griswald hurried away. The feel of Tristan’s eyes upon her was a demand she discovered she could not deny. She turned to face him again.

  “If there is some trick to this, lady,” he said lightly, “you will live to regret it deeply. When I am served fairly, I deal fairly. When I am betrayed, I do not forgive or forget.”

  Genevieve lifted her goblet and eyed him over the rim, praying that she would not betray herself.

  “Where could the trick be, my lord? You are the conqueror; you are the lord. All is yours to command.”

  “And you seem to accept it so ... easily,” Tristan murmured dryly. “Nor,” he said, catching her eyes, “have I seen a single man here determined to protect your honor. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

  Genevieve lowered her eyes, and used her elaborate three-pronged fork—another piece of her mother’s dowry—to play with a piece of mutton upon her plate.

  “Not so strange, milord,” she replied with what she hoped was negligent acceptance. “We’ve old men here, now. Artisans and craftsmen and farmers. Who would protest?”

  He raised a dark brow skeptically, and lifted his goblet toward Sir Guy. “Now there’s a young man I would swear should be concerned. Lady, I did turn down your magnanimous offer of marriage. He should he outraged, since when he looks at you, his eyes are those of a young calf——smitten or bewitched, I’d say. Entangled in a skein of gold. Yet he smiles and clasps my hand. The situation is most peculiar.”

  Genevieve smiled at him sweetly, only the glitter in her eyes giving a hint of her sarcasm. “You speak of Sir Guy? He was but a friend to my betrothed, whom your men slew. I’m sure ’tis hard for him to accept Axel’s death. Yet we are beaten. We would not see the people’s homes razed and our harvests trampled. Our people butchered—our women so abused that they might wish for death. And so we accept defeat. But I must ask you this—what if your Henry Tudor never reaches the throne?”

  “He will,” Tristan said simply.

  “Oh? Then we must assume he will defeat Richard in battle. And dispose of Richard. This succession is a tricky thing, isn’t it? There are five daughters left to us by Edward IV—though his sons have disappeared—”

  “Were murdered—by your Richard,” Tristan interrupted calmly.

  “No one is really sure that the boys are dead,” Genevieve said coolly. “Let’s do go on. King Edward also left a few nephews, I believe. Either could claim the throne. Edward, Earl of Warwick, might easily wear the Crown. Your Tudor’s branch is a bastard one, Lord Tristan.”

  Tristan chuckled. “Piety! From the lady who offers her own services so easily! Madam, the bastard part of Henry’s lineage is from a generation long past—and John of Gaunt married the lady who bore those Beaufort bastards. We who follow him are not bothered by the taint.”

  “But what if—Lord Tristan, I say only ‘if’—your Tudor should not reach the throne?”

  “Then, lady, I will hold this castle as you tried so hard to do. But I will not lose it.” His assurance made Genevieve long to claw at his implacable features.

  He caught her hand suddenly. She felt the power of his hold, and longed to break it. She felt the strange intensity of his eyes, and a quaking heat ripped t
hrough her.

  She must not fail! Genevieve forced herself to cruel memories of the dead.

  “All is mine to command?” he queried tersely.

  She frowned and said slowly, “Aye.”

  He smiled, slowly touching her cheek with his knuckles. His voice was strange, cool, almost uninterested. But not his words.

  “Then I command, Lady Genevieve, that you escort me to your chamber. It has been a long battle.”

  Her heart slammed hard against her chest, and panic filled her. “But my lord, I’ve entertainment planned. I—”

  “I seek only one kind of entertainment,” he told her. His eyes were upon her lazily, and he seemed to laugh inwardly at her panic. He leaned then to whisper to her, to watch her features. “That ‘entertainment’ which you were so insistent upon giving . . .”

  She looked around the room. The winter’s sun had fallen, but it was not yet dark. His men were drunk; but they were not yet disarmed. They were laughing heartily, demanding more wine, asking about sport.

  “Oh! How distressing. What is that hesitance of yours, milady? Do you wish to renege on your proposal?”

  “I—”

  He stood, pulling her up with him. And to her horror, he intended to make his speech. He banged his tankard on the table. The room went silent. All eyes came to him.

  “Good friends, we have sued for peace this day. It is not solved with a meal, nor shall you be denied the fruits of your valor. Tonight you may drink yourselves merry; what entertainment you may find is yours, but remember our agreement, and do not seek to take what is not offered.” He lifted Genevieve’s hand. “The Lady Genevieve is mine—when I choose to claim her, and when I don’t. She has ...” he paused just slightly, with a cynical grin, “offered this arrangement. What is specifically mine, I do not share. Tibald, Jon, you are on guard. I bid you all good evening.”