Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  “Stop it!” she hissed.

  Was he serious? she wondered sickly. She couldn’t tell by the way he looked at her, eyes as hard and deep as dark fire again, his pleasant tone marked with an unmistakable edge.

  “My people would revolt. They would find you—”

  “They’ll have no difficulty finding me. We are returning to Edenby. And I doubt that they’ll ever rise against me again. They are nicely subdued at this point, I dare say.”

  “What . . . are you talking about?” she asked with dismay.

  “Merely that Edenby is mine, Genevieve. We went in the night you left.” He smiled and started walking again, dragging her along. Horrible images filled her mind; images of Edenby. Dear God! How many of her people still lived? What of poor Edwyna? Of Anne? Of Tamkin—who had been in the room with her that terrible night? Dearest God! She shuddered to think of Edwyna, gentle Edwyna who had wanted nothing to do with treachery, left to pay the price.

  “Oh, God!” she wailed aloud, barely aware that the sound escaped her.

  He stopped once again, looking down at her upturned face with another cordial—and deathly—smile.

  “What now, my lady?” he mocked.

  She wrenched her arm from his hold, trembling yet determined at all costs never to let him know her fear. “What did you do in Edenby?” she demanded furiously. “Slaughter innocents who had no part or parcel in the war fought against you?”

  “Precisely,” he said coolly. He waved an encompassing arm. “The people of Edenby line the great walls—they hang from them, they rot in gibbets from them! Not a one was spared, my lady!”

  She backed away from him, again not knowing if he told the truth or not. He stepped forward, grasping her so tightly again that she cried out. He did not start walking but led her to one of the great mullioned windows that lined the wall.

  “See below, my dear Lady Genevieve?” he taunted, and she did see below. In a sheltered courtyard a whipping post had been set. Men in shackles were being dragged to it—to face lashes for some infractions against the new Tudor King. Genevieve tried to turn away; he forced her to remain there, lifting her chin so that she could not hide her eyes.

  “Tudor justice is careful—but strict. If you continue to plague me now, I might be tempted to see your garrulous spirit tamed a bit at the hands of these stout fellows before we take our leave!”

  “What difference does it make?” she demanded coldly. “A lash in their hands or one in yours? I dare say that the blows would be softer from those men! I’d prefer justice here!”

  “Really?” he inquired politely. “Just as you’d prefer the Tower—to being my prisoner.”

  “Aye, that I would!” she swore heatedly.

  “You’d never leave the Tower alive,” he warned her dryly.

  “A good headsman can allow one to leave this life easily!” she exclaimed, and to her horror panic tinged her voice. Which brought an honest rumble of laughter from his chest.

  “Ah, yes! I’d forgotten what an expert you were at death, Lady Genevieve!” he proclaimed.

  She smoothed her hands over her skirt, lowering her head. “If I’m to die, Lord Tristan,” she managed to say smoothly, “I’d do so here and now.”

  “Ah—but I’ve no intention of letting you die—yet,” he informed her softly. “And if anyone is going to take a whip to your hide, I do reserve that pleasure for myself! Nor do I believe you’re in any great hurry to depart this life. Let’s go—you waste time.”

  Waste time! she thought, panic rising in her breast again. Oh, God, yes! She needed to waste time, she needed to play for all the time that she could get!

  Did he intend to bring her to his quarters—and execute her? Or rape her first ... No, he seemed to hate her too much to really want her—even in violence. Yet if he felt it would hurt her . . .

  No, he wasn’t going to murder her now. He could do many, many things to her before taking her life. He seemed to be in a great hurry to reach Edenby—perhaps part of his revenge was forcing her to see what he had done to her home!

  She started to shiver as he pulled her along again. And then he stopped before a door, releasing his grip upon her arm to open it.

  Genevieve panicked. She was free and young and agile— and the palace halls stretched forever; she turned to bolt away. But after one step she screamed out in pain. Tristan’s other hand had been entangled in her hair all the while.

  She stared at him, while he used his grip upon her hair to turn her back to him. Trembling and clamping her teeth together with all her might, she met his eyes, trying to pull her hair from his grasp. If only it were bound! He did not release her; he pulled her closer to him with that golden chain.

  He didn’t appear at all perturbed—merely amused.

  “My lady,” he mocked her softly, holding her so tight against him that his whisper touched her cheek, “bear in mind that I shall never, never trust you again. That I shall never turn my back on you.”

  He shoved her into the room, then entered behind her. She stood still, afraid to look at him, and afraid not to do so. She braced herself, determined to await with courage whatever would come.

  But he totally ignored her, moving about the room, collecting his belongings. Genevieve continued to watch him, ready to spring away yet wondering dismally what good it would do her.

  She vaguely noted that his quarters here were private and rather grand. He did indeed stand high in the Tudor King’s eyes.

  His scabbard and sword lay on the bed. When he reached for them, she instinctively flinched. He smiled as he strapped the scabbard about his waist.

  “Dear, dear Lady Genevieve! You are jumpy, aren’t you.”

  She disdained to give him a reply, raising her chin a shade higher even as her heart leapt.

  He turned from her. She swallowed sharply and then lashed out at him.

  “Tell me! Damn you, tell me! What do you intend to—to do!”

  He paused, turned again, and stared at her, long and hard. And then he smiled, slowly. Shivers of remembrance tore at her. She remembered that smile so well, his wide, sensual mouth; his lips, hard upon hers—a brand she had already received, and not forgotten. That memory came to her now, robbing her of strength and courage.

  “Tell me!” she cried out again, fighting for courage.

  He shrugged. “Actually, milady, I’m not really quite sure yet—of everything, that is.”

  His tone froze any further words on her lips. He turned back and collected a slim leather satchel, then bowed slightly. “Shall we, my lady?”

  “Shall we what?” she snapped out harshly.

  “Why, take our leave, of course.”

  “Aye!” she whispered gladly, her heart racing again. They were going to leave this chamber, which his presence made so horribly small. There would be a modicum of safety for her again, for surely he would not dare harm her before a multitude of people!

  But was that true? He had already dragged her from the King’s solar ...

  He had her arm again as he opened the door this time. “My things are—” she began, but he interrupted her curtly.

  “Mary will retrieve your belongings and come along at a later time.”

  “Mary?” she murmured nervously.

  “Aye, Genevieve, I’ve seen your maid, of course. She is a gentle lass—not the type to anger the King. Or the new Lord of Edenby, for that matter. She’ll be along.”

  They were in the hallway again. Genevieve spun on him the best that she could. “What of Sir Humphrey?” she demanded, her voice growing a little shrill. “You didn’t—”

  “Slay him in the audience chamber?” Tristan suggested. “Nay—I did not.”

  “Then—”

  “Last answer to a question, Genevieve,” Tristan warned her, his eyes narrowing to truly advise her that his patience had come to an end. “He is an old knight, very loyal. And though he played a great part in it all, he touched something in my heart—aye, Genevieve, even that organ of ice
within me can be touched! Sir Humphrey has been warned that if he comes to Edenby, he will reside in the dungeons. He is a free man if he chooses to stay in London.”

  Genevieve lowered her head and followed him meekly for several moments as she absorbed the fact that at least Sir Humphrey would be allowed to live free and well. Tristan moved quickly, so quickly that before she was truly aware again they were outside in bright daylight. She saw a group of his men, easily recognizable by their crests and armor. They were mounted and waiting.

  Mounted! She thought with renewed hope. She could ride as well as she could walk! Once they entered the part of the country that she surely knew better than they, she could escape.

  “Where is my horse?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound bitterly resigned, and kept her head lowered.

  But he didn’t reply, and eventually she raised her eyes to him, startled to discover him watching her with a dry trace of amusement curling his lip and sparking his eyes.

  “Ah, lady! It is poor reasoning to attack a man and bury him—and then take him for a fool as well! Your horse, like your things, will come later. For this journey you will travel in a very certain style!”

  Before she knew it, she was off her feet again. He was carrying her down the muddy road—to deposit her ungraciously in a rickety carriage. She struggled for balance, to sit up. “Wait! I cannot ride in such a thing! It will make me ill! Let me out!” She pounded against the door and fought with the handle. It would not budge. Even as she bitterly banged against it, she heard the sharp crack of a whip. The carriage bolted, sending her flying against the other side. Her temple slammed hard against the opposing seat, and she cried out, rubbing it as she tried to right herself.

  It was ridiculous to attempt to stay upright. Tristan intended to waste no time again. The wheels of the carriage careened over every rock and gouge in the muddy road.

  And the pace continued, forcing Genevieve to think of nothing but the preservation of her flesh. It seemed forever before the carriage slowed somewhat, and then the journey became a monotonous one. Now she had time to speculate on her fate.

  Wretchedly, she pulled off the torn remnants of the headdress that had been so beautiful and elegant only that morning. He was going to take his time killing her, she thought dismally. He was waiting, moving slowly to assure himself that she would die a dozen times over before it really came to pass ...

  No! She would never give him that satisfaction. She would never let him see her frightened. Never! Though terror fills me! she vowed to herself, I will never let that Lancastrian son of Satan see that I am afraid.

  She clenched her fists. Believe it, with all your faith, and you will stay proud and untouched! she promised herself. The thought helped to calm her.

  Night had fallen, she realized at some point. Yet still they did not stop. Did his sense of fury extend to horses? she wondered acidly. And then she wondered what difference any of it made at all. Worn and exhausted, she curled herself in the far corner of the carriage and eventually fell into a fitful slumber.

  * * *

  She awoke slowly, with a horrible sense of confusion. At first she thought that she had been dreaming again. Dreaming that she had been running and had run straight into Tristan, and found herself sinking, falling, unable to run again, unable to fight against the dark, compelling magnetism of his eyes . . .

  And then she started, realizing that the honor was no dream, but truth. She was stuffed into a carriage, stiff and cramped. Light seeped in; it was morning again. The carriage had stopped.

  Genevieve suddenly realized that she very badly needed to take care of certain personal necessities. Just then the carriage door swung open. The bright light flooding in blinded her, and she put a hand over her eyes.

  “Good morning, Lady Genevieve,” Tristan greeted her with a low bow. “I do trust that you slept well?”

  She was so miserable that she couldn’t even rise to his taunt. “I have to get out, my lord,” she murmured bitterly.

  “Indeed you do,” he said simply, offering her a hand. She hesitated, then seeing little choice, accepted it. When her feet were on the ground, she almost fell, her legs were so cramped. His hands around her waist steadied her and sent warm currents of awareness through her limbs. She quickly stepped from his hold, eager to see what was around them.

  It seemed that they were passing through one of the great forests, filled with oaks and misted, secretive beauty. All was quiet except for the occasional cry of a morning bird—and the laughter of his men, who were ranged around a carefully laid fire and eating something that gave off a wonderful aroma.

  Was Tristan going to feed her, she wondered? Or was starving her to death part of his plan.

  “Let’s go, shall we?” he suggested.

  “Let’s go?” she repeated. “I have to be alone!”

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  “But ...” She stared at him with her dismay evident. Perhaps he had found one of the most cruel ways to torment her. Genevieve was both private and fastidious. She certainly could bear no one with her . . . now!

  “Please?” she whispered miserably.

  “The last time you said that, my lady,” Tristan reminded her coolly, “I awoke to find myself buried in rock.”

  “Where can I go? What could I possibly do to you?” she asked a little desperately.

  “I’m sure that you are full of vast resources!” he told her dryly. His dark gaze was unfathomable and his jaw was set so tightly that she was certain he meant to continue to refuse her. But then he sighed and said, “Come. We’ll go to the stream. But I warn you most strictly, make no attempt to run or disappear into the trees. Or you’ll never have a moment’s privacy again.”

  They started together through the forest for the stream. A morning mist still lay heavily upon the ground, and the sensation of walking here was a strange one, made stranger still by the touch of his hand upon her arm. She chanced a quick glance up at him, wondering if he had softened toward her at all. But when his eyes met hers they were sharp and dark; he smiled slowly, and she realized that he had lost none of the intensity of his feelings. Rather he was like a hawk, knowing that he circled his prey—and awaited the moment of final attack with a wicked satisfaction.

  The stream was a cool brook that rippled like a melody through the trees; its peace was oddly discordant with the leashed tension of his gaze. He released her. “There’s brush just ahead,” he told her curtly. “Return here immediately—or forever pay the price,” he warned softly.

  Moments later she looked forlornly about her. The forest was so rich and thick! It would be so easy to slip away!

  With her head bowed and her teeth clenched tightly together, she returned to him. He awaited her, a foot angled idly against a tree stump, his arms crossed over his chest. She ignored him and lowered herself to the edge of the water, anxious to wash her face and rinse her teeth.

  She was startled at his touch—then filled with alarm, certain that he meant to force her face into the stream and drown her there. Her eyes must have betrayed her emotion, for he laughed when he saw them and said, “I’m only trying to salvage this tangled mane here that you call hair! That’s all—for the time being at least.”

  “You needn’t!” she retorted. She didn’t want his touch; she didn’t want him so close beside her, she didn’t want to feel the strength that emanated from his hands, or to be aware of his clean, bracing, masculine scent.

  But she was very thirsty and so she forced herself to forget him and drink. After several moments she felt a tug on her hair.

  “That’s enough.”

  Tristan practically dragged her to her feet and back through the trees to the carriage. She stared down at the men by the fire with longing. Her stomach was knotted with hunger—and nauseated at the prospect of reentering the rickety carriage.

  “Couldn’t I stay out a moment longer?” she asked him, drawing herself up straight to ask the favor.

  He shook his head
. He seemed very irritated at that moment—as if she were a game of which he had suddenly grown bored. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

  He lifted her back into the carriage and closed the door. A moment later he returned with a wooden trencher—wild boar roasted upon the fire. It proved a little stringy and tough, but Genevieve was too hungry to care much.

  The carriage rolled into action while she was still eating, and their hard ride of the day before was repeated.

  Genevieve spent a long day with her own thoughts again, alternately wondering when he would pounce upon her and when and how she could possibly escape him. In the late afternoon she was brought some ale, not by Tristan, but by one of his men, a handsome polite lad named Roger de Treyne. He gave her renewed hope, as he seemed to feel some sympathy for her plight.

  It was Roger who came for her the next morning. She smiled sorrowfully at him and begged him to leave when he brought her to a stream again, telling him that she needed to bathe. She pleaded so prettily that he agreed, and when he was some distance away she stripped to her shift and moved into the water to enjoy it—and survey the opposite shore.

  The opposite shore . . .

  She could easily swim the distance. And Tristan would not be expecting such a move on her part. The trees were thick and dense, and one could hide within their shelter for hours. For days. For months, even.

  Genevieve turned around carefully. Roger was a fair distance from her; his back was most respectfully turned. Quietly she slipped beneath the water. She swam under its surface lest he hear her movements. Only when she saw the bank before her did she rise to gasp for breath and steal quietly up to the bank.

  But when she reached the top she let go a cry of shock. Tristan awaited her there, leaning comfortably and silently against a large oak.

  Surprise held her immobile as his dark eyes traveled slowly over her. She felt suddenly naked and very heated, aware that her linen shift was stuck to her body like a second skin, molding over her breasts and hips. Her hair was soaked and plastered all about her, and she knew she must surely look a little like some wild thing of the forest.