Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  “Aye,” Edwyna managed to whisper.

  Meg exited with Anne. Jon, without taking his eyes from Edwyna, closed the door again and latched it.

  He came slowly toward her. His hands touched her face, and it seemed that the tension fell from them as he held her cheeks and gazed into her eyes.

  She didn’t move. He smiled slightly, and his hands came to her breast. “Your heart beats like a bird’s,” he told her.

  Still she could find no words. Her breath caught at the feel of his hand cupping her breast, strong and gentle. He smiled again and his fingers came to her throat, lightly stroking her flesh. Then his hands slipped beneath the fabric at her shoulders and pushed the gown downward until it fell from her, leaving her naked to his perusal. He stepped back, surveying her with a quick admiration, the speed of the pulse at his throat increasing with her own.

  Then he took a step forward again, taking her into his arms. His kiss was hungry and deep, and the warm pressure of his mouth made her delirious. The kiss was good and exciting, as thrilling as the hardness of his body next to her own naked flesh. He stroked her back gently, and she put her arms around him, her fingers lacing at his neck as she choked out a little cry of surrender and . . . desire.

  He lifted her and carried her to bed.

  His lips and hands moved over her. He whispered things she did not understand, yet they enflamed her. She knew that she moaned softly, yet with no protest.

  And by the time he came to her, divested of his own garments, naked and hard with his desire, she knew that this night would bring no punishment, and no pain.

  Just a pleasure greater than anything she had never known before in her life. A pleasure so intense that it was a little like dying—and being born again.

  * * *

  Genevieve nervously paced the long hallway at Windsor, occasionally glancing at Sir Humphrey. They had been here three days already and were still waiting—with numerous other supplicants—for an audience with the new King.

  It had taken long days and nights of hard travel to reach London, and they had difficulty finding lodgings. At last she had been given a room at Windsor with other ladies of family; Mary had been sent to share the servants’ quarters, Sir Humphrey was staying with an old friend, and her guards were lodged in a horse barn.

  London was full of refugees. The merchants were having a heyday, while King Henry VII, meantime, granted audiences with the generosity of a miser.

  Sir Humphrey, behind her, cleared his throat. “You mustn’t grow so distraught, Genevieve.”

  “Oh, I’m worried, Sir Humphrey!” she exclaimed, then lowered her voice so others about the hall wouldn’t hear her. “Perhaps we should have stayed at Edenby. Perhaps we should have waited and sent only a letter, vowing our acceptance of his rule.”

  Sir Humphrey shook his head, clutched her hands, and stood back from her.

  “Genevieve ... were I but a few years younger!” He smiled sheepishly. “You will enchant the King when he sees you! He will forgive us all, and you will have saved Edenby!”

  Genevieve truly was enchanting. She was dressed in silver satin today, a gown with fashionably puffed sleeves, and trimmed with exotic white fox. It had a graceful train and a low bodice. Her hair was free to float down her back like angels’ wings, and the small headdress she had chosen was fragile, composed of semiprecious stones and gossamer silk that hid none of the luster of her hair.

  If they could just get in to see the King!

  As if called by Sir Humphrey’s desperate prayer, a royal page came before them. “Lady Genevieve of Edenby?” he inquired, bowing slightly and precisely.

  “Aye?”

  “You may come before His Majesty now.”

  She smiled at Sir Humphrey, trying to wink with assurance, and started to follow the page. But a tap on the shoulder stopped her, and she turned around to cry out with startled surprise.

  Sir Guy was standing there. Handsome and unharmed—and wearing a very red rose by the brooch of his mantle.

  “Guy!” she gasped out.

  “Shush!” he warned her, pulling her quickly aside. “It’s a long story, Genevieve! But I had to see you, to tell you to take heart! I served Henry at the Battle of Bosworth Field.”

  “Henry!” she gasped put, stunned.

  “I had to—I did it for Edenby!” he told her. “I know that your audience before the King is now. Whatever he should say, accept. If aught goes wrong, I will plead with him. He will know that I stand by your side,” Guy grimaced, “and that I was loyal.”

  “Lady Genevieve!” The distraught voice of the page who had lost her called out. Guy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then hurried off into the crowd of milling supplicants.

  “I’m . . . here,” Genevieve said distractedly to the page. She smiled brilliantly, her poise somewhat collected but still shaken by Guy’s appearance. She willed herself to stand straight. She would plead for Edenby—but she would plead with pride.

  She was not alone before Henry. There were several other lords and ladies in the solar where he held his audiences. She was led to the back of the room, and from there surveyed the King.

  He was young, not unhandsome, with a slim face. His nose was long and prominent, his eyes small, dark, and shrewd.

  A council of ministers was ranged about him, and as people were introduced and brought before him, his counselors whispered, he weighed their words, and made judgments.

  Genevieve began to breathe more easily as she saw that this new King seemed to be dealing lightly with his subjects. A noble of Cornwall—an old knight, long a Yorkist supporter—was brought before him. The old man spoke eloquently, telling Henry that he had fought only where his vows had lain. But Richard was dead now, and he was glad to see the end of the wars. He would swear his loyalty now to Henry Tudor and keep that oath as ever he had kept that which he had given before.

  King Henry VII dealt gently with the old man, saying that his oath of allegiance and a “minor” fine—which seemed rather a large fine to Genevieve—would be necessary for peace to be sworn between them.

  Others came forward and were dealt with. Then Genevieve’s heart caught in her throat as she heard her own name called. She walked through the room to stand before the throne and the King, her chin held high. She knelt before him, then rose to meet his eyes, stunned by the interest and amusement she saw in them.

  “So you are Genevieve of Edenby,” he murmured. “Come to seek audience with us?”

  She felt acutely uneasy. His eyes were slimming over her as if they shed her of all her clothing within his mind and mused over her assets and possible worth with a special intent.

  “Aye, Your Grace,” she murmured, smiling humbly. “As did many fine and valiant lords, my father had sworn his loyalty to Richard III. And a sworn oath, Sire, must in all honor be kept. Yet with Richard’s death, so dies the oath. We of Edenby would gladly lay down our arms and sue for the peace that your Majesty so magnanimously seeks for his country.”

  Henry was smiling, as with some secret joke.

  “Lady Genevieve, you are very beautiful—and most gracious before us,” Henry said slowly, as she heaved a sigh of relief; things were going to go well. He smiled at her, and she felt a rash of release and joy. She would be hit with a great fine such as the Cornish lord had received, but Edenby could pay such a fine. And they would have peace.

  “Very beautiful,” he repeated, and she frowned as she noted that he glanced off into the crowd as a slightly lascivious smile crossed his lips.

  He gazed back at her, his small eyes once again surveying her form with sly amusement. He was a man, she thought uncomfortably, with a sense of humor even his closest followers sometimes found appalling. He was clearly enjoying himself at this moment. She felt suddenly as if she were lost and groping, and she didn’t understand why. Why didn’t he demand a fine from her? Was she supposed to say more?

  “Your Grace,” Genevieve murmured, “we do swear our loyalty to your realm . . .�
��

  “Yes,” he said at last with a long sigh. “But I am afraid, my lady, that it is not your position to do so.”

  “Your pardon, Sire?” she said, puzzled.

  He smiled. “Edenby laid down its arms days ago, Lady Genevieve.”

  “Pardon?” She gasped again, still confused, yet aware now that something was very wrong somewhere.

  The King was gazing past her toward the crowd once again. She heard footsteps, light against the velvet sweep on the aisle. She turned, frowning.

  Lightning swept through her—a firestorm of horror and disbelief.

  Tristan!

  She blinked. It could not be! Could not be! He was dead, dead and buried. She had slain him herself, she had seen the light go out of his eyes, out of his soul.

  He strode slowly toward her, not dressed for battle as she had seen him last, but in fine and elegant attire. His hose was royal blue, his tunic a shade to match, trimmed in fine ermine. His mantle was a brilliant red, and caught at his shoulder with an emerald brooch. He was smiling pleasantly, yet there was no warmth, no humor in that smile. It was cold and chilling and deathly and mocking.

  He towered before her, filling the whole room with his energy and power. Genevieve thought that she would faint.

  He bowed low to her. He stared into her eyes. She could only stare back as molten lightning ripped through her again. Her knees shook.

  Father Thomas had lied to her! Men could come back from the grave, for Lord Tristan had done so. As dark and vital as ever, as menacing, as strongly masculine and threatening. Staring at her, here, now. With those eyes dark as fire, blue as midnight. Eyes that taunted and reminded. She had forgotten nothing of him.

  He had forgotten nothing of her.

  “Lady,” he murmured, smiling briefly; then he directed his gaze to the King. “Your Highness.”

  “Ah, Tristan! This is the lady you seek?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. You’ve met, I see. Still I give you the Lady Genevieve, my sweet, beloved mistress.” His gaze raked Genevieve once again and bowed once again, most mockingly, before directing his next dry remark to the King again.

  “At the lady’s request, I assure you.”

  The room started to spin before Genevieve’s eyes. King Henry laughed as though he were part of a great and wonderful joke.

  “We are glad to have seen her, Tristan. I understand your insistence on my promise, for I could well have been tempted . . .” His voice trailed away with insinuation. The room seemed incredibly quiet, as if all eyes and all thoughts were on Genevieve. She realized with sickening clarity that she had never had a chance here—that explained the King’s bemused greeting.

  Tristan had exacted some kind of promise regarding her from the new King.

  She could barely breathe. How was it that even before Tristan had spoken, Edenby had no longer been hers?

  “Take her,” Henry said briefly, dismissing them.

  A mist reeled around her. He was alive. Tristan was alive, and standing behind her, and ready to claim her! It was her nightmare, the worst of all nightmares, come to life! If he claimed her, it would surely be to kill her, to execute her slowly for the treachery she had wrought . . .

  She felt his hand, like a hot iron shackle, wind about her arm. She gazed into his face, saw the chilling triumph and hatred in his eyes—wrenched furiously from him, racing forward to kneel before the King.

  “Your Grace!” she pleaded. “Place me in the Tower, if you would. Take me before your courts! Sire! Have mercy, for I offered no treason against you—only loyalty to the King my father had sworn allegiance to! Sire . . .”

  She heard Tristan’s soft laughter. He took a step forward, and tears of pain sprung to Genevieve’s eyes; he had trodden—purposely, she was sure, upon her hair.

  “She does this well, Sire, does she not? She pleads so prettily. Why, this is the same position she took before me—just seconds before I was treacherously attacked by her men.”

  “Your Grace!” Genevieve pleaded. “Surely you understand loyalty—”

  “Ah, but not a knife in the back, lady!”

  “Your Grace—”

  “My lady,” Henry interrupted her, bending low, and so fascinated by the silver beauty of her eyes and the golden flowing cloak of her hair that he would have gladly listened to her plea—and kept her at Court—had he not made a solemn vow to Tristan. “My lady, I fear that your fate is sealed. I, too, make promises and owe loyalty. You do understand. Now, go, lady. I have spoken. You are beneath the—guardianship?—of the Lord de la Tere.”

  She shook her head, unable to believe that the King could refuse her. That he had handed her over to Tristan like property—to be owned, used, to be discarded if he liked.

  A heavy hand rested on her shoulder, and she heard a mocking whisper searing the flesh at her throat and sending shudders throughout her limbs.

  “Genevieve, you make a fool of yourself before the multitude! Rise and walk out of here with me—or else you shall depart his Royal Grace and all this nobility like a wayward girl, cast over my shoulder with my handprint firmly established upon your treacherous but lovely and most noble derriere.”

  “No!” she grated desperately. Panic had assailed her, stark, animal panic. She made her first serious mistake. She rose quickly, bowed to the King—and tried to run.

  Laughter rose all around her.

  She did not take five steps before she was jerked back by the hair. Barely aware of what happened, she was spun about so suddenly that her head reeled, and her feet flew out from under her.

  Tears stung her eyes as she was crudely carried from the solar, jounced about like a sack of grain, with whispers and laughter surrounding her on all sides.

  It must be a nightmare! And she would awake. Tristan was dead. Good God, hadn’t his death haunted her again and again and again? He was dead!

  But he was not. His hold upon her was like steel. She was his prisoner—by royal decree.

  Nine

  Genevieve ought to have passed out; she should have allowed her trembling legs to give way and her shock to take her into oblivion. She should have remained in a sea of gray where nothing was real.

  Unfortunately, she was all too aware. And in those miserable moments, as she bounced along the halls of Windsor, Genevieve did not know if she were more mortified—or terrified. Great silences, followed by titters of uneasy laughter followed them all the way. They approached a group of women, who stood gossiping, unaware of Tristan’s long strides coming toward them; he made matters all the worse by bowing very politely, then speaking cordially, “Ladies, if you will excuse me ... ?”

  They parted swiftly. From her rear view Genevieve was able to see their mouths gaping—then shut to move with a wild speed again as they marveled over the form of their interruption.

  Shock kept her from reacting at first. She was so horrified to realize that he was alive—alive and very healthy—that she did not resist at first, or even speculate upon their destination or her immediate fate.

  But once they passed those gossiping ladies, something instinctive came to Genevieve’s defense. She grasped his mantle, struggling to rise against his shoulder and face him.

  He gazed at her, with sharp, narrowing eyes. For a moment her courage failed her. She would never forget the way he had looked at her the night she had struck the blow. Never forget the way that he had despised her and reviled her—and promised vengeance. Yet—there had to be some way to escape him. “Put me down,” she begged, keeping wary eyes upon him and faltering again. “I’ll—I’ll walk.” She hesitated. “Please.”

  She was somewhat startled when he stopped and allowed her to slide along his length until she was standing. She stared up into his eyes, and backed hurriedly away from him a step, trembling from that close contact. She lowered her eyes, then raised them again.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked him hoarsely.

  He planted his hands on his hips and tilted his head slightly to regard
her caustically. “That’s it, my lady? ‘Where are you taking me?’ Not, ‘Welcome back from the dead, Lord Tristan. It’s a pleasure to see you alive’?”

  “It most certainly isn’t a pleasure!” she snapped back without thinking.

  Pray . . . pray that I do die, he had warned her once.

  He laughed, dryly and bitterly, and gripped her upper arm to drag her down yet another hall. There seemed to be no one in this part of the palace; she realized that they had come to living quarters and that only a stray guest or a servant might be wandering about here. There would he no help for her, she thought with a sinking heart. Indeed nowhere would she find help. No one would defy the direct order of the King—not in so paltry a thing as aiding a belligerent heiress against the man the King had chosen to hand her to.

  Tristan walked very quickly, not releasing his hold. Genevieve gasped, hardly able to keep up with his long strides, especially while her mind and heart raced so desperately.

  But, oh! She was so blank! She was afraid to think, afraid to wonder, and she had to think . . .

  So far, think as she might, she had reached only. one sure conclusion—he was definitely alive and very real. He was enraged. And he had just been given leave to do with her what he would. She swallowed uneasily, jerking so hard upon his hold that he was forced to stop and stare at her again.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded again.

  “My quarters,” he said briefly.

  “What—are you going to do to me?”

  He smiled slowly, raising a brow. “I haven’t quite decided yet. I thought of boiling you in oil, then decided it would be too mild. Drawing and quartering occurred to me, but I dismissed that, too, as rather easy.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” she challenged him. “The King did not give you leave to murder me—”

  “‘Execute’ is the term. And, aye, it usually requires a royal signature. But not in this case, I think. Then of course there is simple torture. Umm, let’s see. Perhaps we could brand you, burn a warning of treachery onto one of those beautiful cheeks. Too quick! Let’s see, we could rip out your nails, one by one . . .”