Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  Sir Humphrey looked as if he would choke. Michael rose. Genevieve felt herself tugged firmly along.

  “One moment!” she begged. He stopped instantly, looking at her with cool, cordial curiosity.

  “Aye?”

  “Let me see to the kitchen, that the evening goes on without us.”

  He released her hand and crossed his arms over his chest, smiling—or leering—she wasn’t sure. The firelight cast a shadow over his features, and his eyes gleamed wickedly.

  “Is that all? Then, most certainly, see to your duties. I’d not have my men deprived. I’d thought, perhaps, that you wished to back out—having seen that my men have no horns or talons and can be controlled.”

  She moistened her lips, but smiled easily and spoke with just a shade of huskiness. “No, no. I just wish—”

  “Go on, then. It occurred to me that you might consider me responsible for your father’s death. And sitting beside you, I had an odd feeling that you despised me. You are cold to my touch, my lady. But now that your offer has been accepted. I’d be highly disappointed should you change your mind.”

  How he mocked her! He knew that she despised him!

  She said smoothly, “I’ve had no change of mind. Excuse me. I’ll return straight away.” She hurried past the table. Michael and Tamkin were rising, professing exhaustion. The Lancastrian knights seemed too far gone in their laughter to care.

  Genevieve breathed a little sigh of relief and rushed through the archway, catching Griswald’s arm as he lifted another cask of the wine. “Griswald! Stay with them, and let no goblet sit empty. They must drink, quickly—now!”

  He nodded. She leaned against the wall again as he left the kitchen. How much time could she take? Seconds ticked by, and then minutes.

  Griswald came back in, looking anxious. “He is demanding to know where you are, milady.”

  She nodded and started back for the hall, squaring her shoulders, walking smoothly and assuredly. When she passed the table she again felt the stares of the men, and she flooded with color.

  Tristan had been speaking with the man with the easy smile—Jon, she thought his name was—but when he saw her he came to the foot of the stairs to meet her. With curious, speculative eyes upon her, he lifted her hand and set it upon his arm, holding it there with his own.

  It seemed that her vision blurred and all she saw was his hand, broad, strong with long fingers. She felt the warmth of his arm beneath his shirt sleeve, and the power of his muscle. She heard his even breathing—they were so close she even imagined that she could hear the beat of his heart.

  A beat about to be stifled forever.

  For a moment she thought of him as some sort of truly magnificent beast, like her father’s stallions, born and bred for battle, sleek and powerful. To see such a stallion killed would have hurt her; she was seeking to kill a man in his prime, with a look about him that sent tremors like nothing she had ever known careening down her spine.

  She shivered suddenly as they mounted the stairs.

  “You’re cold?” he asked her.

  “Nay . . . aye. I am not certain,” she murmured.

  Even his voice touched her. Rich and husky when he spoke low; thundering when he raised it. Had things been different. . . had she met him as her father’s friend—rather than his murderer!—she might well have found him appealing. She would have flirted with him, eager to tease Axel . . .

  She glanced at his chiseled face.

  But no. Somehow she knew that she would not have dared to tease with such a man. As friend or foe, he would have offered his strange sense of danger . . . and allure.

  No! Oh, no! What was wrong with her . . .

  She closed her eyes briefly. Thank heaven that the night would end it all! Tristan de la Tere would soon be dead.

  And it was out of her hands. Everyone in the castle had agreed it was their only chance to wrest a victory from this defeat.

  “Milady?” Tristan’s tone was droll with cynical courtesy.

  “Here . . .” she said, and stopped before the oaken door of her chamber.

  She felt his eyes upon her as she pushed the door inward. Dark eyes, fire eyes. Eyes that reached into her and made her shiver with a fear she had never known, with more than fear, with . . . something that she could not understand. As elusive as the raging tension about him, whether he moved or stood still.

  As unfathomable as the fire ... the flame he created, the trembling heat that assailed her again with his touch . . .

  With even the memory of that touch . . .

  She closed her eyes and prayed fervently that she had given Michael and Tamkin time enough to arrive.

  Five

  Tristan made no effort at pretense when he entered the chamber. He searched it thoroughly, glancing her way only once. She had known that he would search her chamber. She was nervous, yet he caught her faint smile before she lowered her head when he was done. So there was no one here; still he expected a trick, and he had to discover it.

  He clasped his hands idly behind his back as he regarded her private domain. It was impressive—as Edenby itself.

  The bed on its dais was in the center of the huge chamber. The draperies, caught back at the finely hewn posters, were rich brocade in summer shades of green and yellow. The bed frame was elaborately carved, and the headboard was an elegant work of art. A hunting scene was chiseled there—great horses, men with flying mantles and epaulets, and hawks and falcons that flew high with widespread wings to sight wild boar.

  Beyond the bed was a great hearth, pleasantly angled so that it formed a secluded corner in the room. It seemed an intimate, inviting place. Cross-legged chairs stood before the fireplace; here a lord might expound upon his thoughts to his lady, or merely enjoy a cup of mulled wine while gazing into the fire.

  The chamber walls had been whitewashed, and scenes like those on the Bayeux tapestry had been painted on the far wall. The windows here were narrow archers’ slits, but around them the stones were arched and fashioned to give an illusion of grace and beauty. Trunks lined the walls beneath the windows at various places, and there was a massive, carved oak wardrobe near the door. Near the wardrobe, at the center of the trunks that ranged along the wall, was a finely carved oak dressing table, neatly arrayed with silver combs, bone pins, and various attars. There was a washstand with a beautifully painted pitcher and bowl; the chairs about the room bore upholstered cushions.

  It seemed, Tristan thought dryly, that Genevieve of Edenby was accustomed to splendor. But then all of Edenby had spoken of opulence, and power. From the huge jutting bluff of rock to the inner defenses of mortar and limestone, Edenby was built to withstand the heaviest blows. Having passed from the fortifications into the keep, Tristan could begin to understand the obstinacy of these people in their refusal to surrender. Edenby was self-sufficient. Why the gatehouse at the entryway had walls sixteen feet thick—a tough obstacle to overcome, long before the keep itself could be reached. Besides the gatehouse and the keep there were a number of wooden structures: living quarters for the soldiers, houses and shops for the smiths and craftsmen, kitchens, and huge wells, built upon high mottes. There were seven defense towers skirting the stone walls, and another wall—of another stone, from a different date, Tristan was certain—encompassed acres of cottages and farm dwellings. He hadn’t seen much of the keep yet—just the great hall, and now the lady’s chamber—but he had seen enough to realize that it was built for both comfort and defense. Old Sir Humphrey told him that the chapel, adjoined to the great hall, was a picture of superb craftsmanship and beauty with high mullioned windows, great rising arches, red velvet trailers, a marble altar, and a great pulpit carved from one block of wood to portray St. George slaying the dragon.

  It was all his, Tristan thought suddenly. A feeling of incredible triumph coursed through his body. His reward, legally, when Henry ascended the throne.

  And just as the sensation receded, he was assailed by raw pain, so strong that had he bee
n alone, Tristan would have doubled over with the agony of it. How gladly he would have traded it all—Edenby and anything else that came his way—to go back in time! To be there to fight in defense of what had been his own, to save Lisette . . .

  He didn’t really want any of it. He hadn’t wanted to subjugate these people, he hadn’t wanted the death, he hadn’t wanted the damn fight. And suddenly, in a way, he found that Edenby did appeal to him. He could never go back north to the estates at Bedford Heath. He could not return to the place where Lisette had died.

  And so this fabulous fortress in the beautiful wilds, had become an enormous prize: a home, of sorts. He could live here. He could, perhaps, even find a certain peace here, eventually. Tristan had no doubt that Henry would win the coming battle. And he knew that the people would not hate him for long. People had an enormous capacity for adapting. He had not murdered Edgar—Edgar had died in battle, defending his beliefs. An honorable thing. And as to Edgar’s daughter . . .

  He clenched his teeth and turned to stare with sudden distaste at the woman who stood so quietly behind him. Her silver eyes promised battle and defiance, never tenderness; though her voice was laced with sweetness, her words had a biting edge. She was exceptionally beautiful; she moved with uncanny grace. She had not bound her hair, and it fell about her in a way that even now—when he was thinking that she could never be trusted—suggested the most delicious pleasure. She was nervous, he knew; for her fingers were clenched before her, the knuckles white. Yet her chin was high, and her pride appeared not at all touched, much less shattered. Smouldering fire lurked in the silver glitter of her long-lashed eyes. The cream of her alabaster complexion was touched with a high flame of color now; despite the defiance of her rigid stance, she was extremely self-conscious.

  He wanted to strike her, to slap the cool defiance and arrogance from her eyes; yet he also wanted to touch her with tenderness and passion. To explore her exceptional beauty and lose the pain of his heart in the heat of base sexual sensation. He wanted to discover if what he sensed were true: if a rich, wild, and verdant passion lay in her, waiting to be touched.

  It was a pity that he didn’t trust her, he thought suddenly. A pity that there was something about her so dual-edged. He had warned Jon to be on guard, and to send half the captains back out to their troops should trouble ensue. She was lightning, a magic he longed to touch, and he wondered what he would feel once she had shown her hand. He would want her still; but whether he would take her, he did not know himself. Aye, he did, he decided.

  Have you, milady—as you have so insisted—I will. One last chance I will give you now to renege and then our pact is sealed.

  “Do you find the chamber . . . hospitable?” she inquired.

  “Very,” Tristan said curtly. He moved to one of the chairs before the hearth and sat, with his elbows upon the claw-curved armrests, his hands folded together prayer-fashion. He tapped his forefingers lightly to his lips. The hearth was behind him; from this position he could survey both her and the door. He had bolted it from the inside, but as the chamber was empty, any trouble had to be coming from beyond. Wary, he continued to sit there, merely watching her through narrowed dark eyes. The longer he sat, the more tightly her folded hands seemed to clench. At last it seemed that her composure broke, and she spoke to him.

  “My Lord, surely you are eager to part with your vestments of war. How can you sit comfortably, with your sword still at your waist?”

  “My sword?” he inquired politely. He was so accustomed to it that he barely noticed the steel and sheath jutting out along his leg. He smiled at her. “I am used to it.”

  “But . . .”

  She paused, and he noted that she caught her lower lip between small pearly teeth, perplexed.

  “Does it bother you?” he asked her conversationally.

  “Aye,” she returned his smile very sweetly, yet did not come near him. It was as if she longed to flirt—to ignite his fire—but not to come near the flame.

  “Ummm . . . and why is that?”

  “Well, Lord Tristan,” she murmured lightly, her eyes wide with a guileless innocence, “a sword is a part of the battlefield; it speaks of blood and death and carnage. It’s the very weapon which might have killed—”

  “I did not kill your father, my lady,” he interrupted her dryly. “I’d have known if I faced the Lord of the Castle—which I did not. Never did I see his crest, so I am quite free of his blood.”

  “You came to fight him—”

  “Nay, I came for a meal! That would have been that! Then I but gave a request that he relinquish a worthless loyalty to a murderer of a king. He chose not to—and it was his choice. He was a knight who died in battle; that is the way of things, nothing more.”

  A flash of anger touched her eyes; the rose beauty of her lips was compressed to a white line. He raised a brow, wondering what had happened to the sweet humility she had been trying to offer him. He showed her a courteously questioning smile; her lashes fell, and when she spoke again it was in dulcet tones.

  “Milord, the sword makes me uneasy. As if you would draw it against me.”

  “I don’t make war against women.”

  “I am the Yorkist who carried on the battle,” she reminded him, stepping toward him as if she pleaded.

  “I do not intend to skewer you,” he said.

  “Then ...” She paused again, drawing a deep breath, and a touch of impatience tinged her next query. “Why do you sit so? You dragged me up here—”

  “Are you anxious, Lady Genevieve? Are you so very eager to give yourself to me?”

  “I am eager to get it over witch!” she snapped.

  “Milady, I beg your pardon?” He feigned a note of hurt and shock.

  “I—”

  “If you are not eager, milady, you are free to go.”

  “What?” she gasped, stunned by his words. Then she murmured, “I meant only that . . . that I am, quite naturally, a little uneasy; I ...” Her voice trailed away. Genevieve was more than a little uneasy. The more time that passed between them, the more terrified she became. She felt as if thunder rumbled around them, but the skies outside were entirely clear. He wasn’t doing what had been expected, and she was failing miserably. He was supposed to be enchanted, eager to shed his sword, and so ardent that he would fail to pay attention to the things around him. She had feared defending herself until he could be brought down; but he was coming nowhere near her. He was so cool . . .

  Yes, he was cool—while she felt that searing probe of his eyes in a thousand ways. They seemed to hold both humor and wariness—and a warning that raked along her spine and wound tightly like a coil in her abdomen. He was very real to her now: a hated enemy, but also a man. She was afraid that they would murder him, and equally afraid that they would not. She had to get him to disarm himself; the wounded who had regained the city after the battle had claimed that he could not be bested, that he was a winged Mercury with a sword.

  He smiled at her again, a distant, mocking smile, as if he were totally indifferent to her. He despised her, she realized, with a dangerously controlled hatred, leashed beneath a cordial demeanor.

  Yet it seemed he had not come with a destructive malice: he was giving her a chance to leave. She wished suddenly that he had been a monster, old and horrendous and cruel. She had to hate him. She wanted no decency from him, nor did she want to have to admit that he was enormously appealing.

  His midnight eyes were far too shrewd at this moment. She swallowed, forcing herself to picture how her father had died in her arms. She could not lose her nerve; she could not go running from the room: If she did, she would have betrayed her most loyal supporters. If she left, this Tristan de la Tere would soon discover Michael and Tamkin, and if rumor were true, they would surely be slain.

  “Where do those thoughts lead you?” he murmured suddenly. She realized that her face had given away her rapid flux of worry and emotion. He stood, and she stepped back slightly, shivering again a
t the ripple of muscle beneath his shirt.

  He would come to her again! She thought in panic. He would reach for her and wrench her to his side, and she would feel those lips burn against hers. She would feel his hand upon her, and she would tremble and shake and seem to melt like boiling oil. She would be too weak to stand, unable to fight. And even when it was over she would be branded by that kiss, burned and branded for all time ...

  But he did not approach her; instead he walked around the chair to lean against the mantel and gaze into the fire. “You’re a most intriguing character, Lady Genevieve,” he told her, his dark eyes riveting hers again so quickly that she almost cried out. “What motive lurks in your heart, I wonder?”

  She lowered her lashes. “Good will to my people, that is all,” she lied.

  He did move toward her then, and she had to steel herself. He touched her hair where it framed her cheek, and for a moment his eyes followed the movement of his fingers. He lifted a long lock of her hair and played it over his hand. And she somehow managed to remain still, though she thought she would go mad. His nearness sent great waves of heat to engulf her, as if her flesh and blood were seething with something explosive and disturbing. She noticed that his scent was clean and fresh, and that he was bathed and shaved. He stared into her eyes then, and for a moment she felt like his prisoner, as if his will alone could bind her.

  And then he dropped her hair as if he had lost interest again, and casually sauntered back to the fire, resting one booted foot against the low stone fender and casting an arm idly against the mantel.

  “So . . .” he murmured, staring at her quite frankly, “you intend to keep your promise?”

  “Promise . . . ?” she murmured blankly, and again he hiked a dark brow, and his lip curled slightly with amusement.

  “Your promise, Genevieve. To entertain and delight . . . and please me.”

  “Ah ... of course,” she murmured uneasily.

  He smiled. “You should be warned, milady. Well and truly warned. You’ll not break a promise to me,” he said softly.