Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  But he was curiously aloof—and merely tossed her his mantle to cover herself as she shivered beneath his stare.

  “Don’t think to seduce my men into aiding you in an escape, Genevieve,” he said coolly. “I selected those who came with me on this ride very carefully. They all spent time in the dungeons at Edenby—at your command.”

  “You’re—you’re dry,” she commented, her teeth chattering.

  He smiled and directed her vision to a small raft drawn up to the shore down the bank. “Shall we go back?” he asked her.

  A few thrusts of the single oar brought them back. Tristan reached for his mantle and tossed Genevieve the gown she had abandoned.

  Genevieve struggled back into her gown. He waited, then took her arm again to propel her toward the road and her rickety carriage. She felt his touch like a chain about her. Dismay and discouragement settled over her, and a rising sense of panic. Oh, God, he was like a hawk, like a great cat, playing so skillfully with his prey!

  She spun on him, finding that all her courage and poise were about to break.

  “Do it!” she charged him. “Do it! Strangle me, shoot me, rip my flesh ragged! Get it over with!”

  He smiled rather pleasantly. “And deny myself the ultimate joy of waiting? Nay, my lady, Edenby was my downfall. It will be yours.”

  “It won’t!” she seethed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ll not move! I’ll—”

  He shrugged, and dipped to pitch her over his shoulder. She pounded against him with a wild fury, clawing and scratching—at that moment determined to hurt him, to force him into action.

  She had no effect upon him. Moments later she was being tossed back into the carriage. Like a captured wild animal, she dove for the floor. He was there. “Haven’t you anything better to do than torment a woman!” she demanded, in scathing tones that she was sure would offend his pride.

  “Actually, at this moment, my time is quite free,” he assured her. “And of course, you, Lady Genevieve, are certainly not just any woman.”

  The carriage closed despite her shrill protests.

  The next day, it was Tristan who came for her. She didn’t say a word to him and moved along stiffly.

  But after she had washed her face, she felt a new rising of alarm again, for when she turned to him he hoarsely ordered her to get to her knees.

  This was it ...

  Whatever it was. Would he slay her, maim her, cut her?

  “No . . .” she gasped out. She didn’t want to be afraid. She didn’t want to falter.

  He made an impatient sound and his hands came to her shoulders forcing her down. It was horrible . . . she couldn’t see him, she didn’t know . . . She braced herself—waiting a knife to slit through her throat. She was stunned to feel his thighs, hard and heated beneath his hose, at her back.

  And his fingers—pulling at her hair with little gentleness as he raked a comb through it.

  Kneeling there and shaking, she couldn’t protest the treatment, but remained as still as she could. No words passed between them for the long time he took, and when he was done with the mass of tresses he curtly told her that she could rise.

  She rose and stared at him. He returned her gaze. She was still trembling so that she was afraid that she would fall. He reached for her and seemed startled at the way she shook. He arched a brow with interest and she lowered her eyes quickly.

  “I—I thought . . .” she began.

  “You thought what?”

  “That you were going to—to—”

  “Slay you—from behind?”

  “I—yes.”

  He was silent for a moment. More weary than taunting when he murmured, “Nay, lady, knives in the back are your field of expertise, not mine.”

  “Sir, I did not expect you to care about the state of a captive enemy’s hair.”

  “Then you were gravely mistaken. That hair is a treasure, and it is mine.”

  She didn’t know what to think or feel; she fled from him toward the carriage. For once, she entered that particular prison without his help.

  They reached Edenby in the late afternoon of the next day, when the sun was falling and shadows were long and all was still bathed in a glow of softest crimson and gold.

  Roused from lethargy in her continual habitat in the corner of the carriage, Genevieve started, aware that they were there as she heard Tristan shouting to the man at the gatehouse.

  Her heart sank with fresh despair. It was true: he had taken Edenby. Somehow, her heart had fought against that reality. She could not see out of the carriage, but images filled her eyes of her people, her guards, her farmers and craftsmen, hanging from ropes and gibbets from the castle walls. With dark despair, she began to wonder about Edwyna again. And Tamkin. And little Anne! Surely not even Tristan would have hurt a child . . .

  The carriage moved past the gates. She could feel the direction. Then it came to a halt. The door was opened, and Tristan was there. Smiling with vast amusement, his eyes deep and dark with the fire of the lanterns about them.

  “Edenby, Genevieve.” He reached for her and lifted her high, whispering as she slid against the length of his body to stand. “Your time has indeed come, my lady.”

  She wrenched away from his hold, watching him in dismay. He chuckled devilishly and caught her wrist with a grip that brought her spinning back to him.

  “Have you no pleas tonight, my lady?” he mocked. “Aren’t you going to beg mercy—or better yet, to amuse me—and save your poor people from my wrath—and the honor of a Lancastrian rule?”

  “I’ll never plead!” she snapped to him, but her knees were shaking. The men who had ridden with them were fading away through the bailey; she looked about herself, wondering if there wasn’t some help somewhere . . .

  There was not. They were alone before the doors to the great hall. What lay within? Lancastrian louts, defiling all that had been hers?

  “Will you walk in? Or shall I carry you? I’m very sorry, but our business will have to wait awhile as I’ve pressing affairs to attend to here.”

  She turned and headed for the doors, then paused.

  “Oh, excuse me. Am I going the right way? Or should I be heading for the dungeons?”

  “Later, perhaps,” he replied idly. Then she saw his white smile slash across the hard bronze contours of his face again. “I’ve waited for tonight for a long time. Eons, milady.” He bowed, the knight, the master of chivalry. He spat out an order from between clenched teeth. “Move!”

  God, what his voice could do to her! Soft, harsh, soft again. What fear it could elicit; and a liquid heat that made her feel she would, at last, faint and take her refuge in oblivion!

  She turned and bolted. If she could reach the rear gate, she could climb to the cliff and escape—either across the rocks or by the sea.

  It was a futile attempt and she had known it would be—but what could she do but fight it out?

  He caught her by the train of her dress this time and merely sighed as he tossed her over his shoulder. She twisted furiously, trying to bite and kick and claw. It was useless. She was almost in tears as they entered the keep. For herself—and for the horror she was convinced she would find inside the banqueting hall.

  “Tristan!” a voice interrupted Genevieve’s desperate thoughts.

  It was the young and handsome Lancastrian who greeted him, grinning his amusement at the wild burden his friend carried. With a struggle, Genevieve at last wound herself in a position to see his face; he threw her an amused glance, then addressed his leader.

  “All’s well enough here—”

  “What have you done with my aunt?” Genevieve cried angrily.

  “Let me deposit the lady,” Tristan said dryly, “and I’ll-meet with you in the counting room.”

  “Wait!” Genevieve shouted. Perhaps she had betrayed this man, but he seemed to have a semblance of a heart. “Please! What has happened to—”

  “Edwyna sits by the fire,” he told her gently, and
they entered the hall. And sure enough, Edwyna was there—very pale and with a look of misery in her eyes. She appeared otherwise very well and healthy; regally attired and as elegant as ever.

  “Edwyna!” Genevieve gasped.

  Edwyna started to race for her. She was caught by Tristan’s young friend—gently secured by his arms about her waist. “No, Edwyna,” he told her very softly. “You cannot interfere.”

  Stunned, Genevieve continued to stare at her aunt while Tristan headed for the winding stairway. Edwyna’s eyes followed her as far as possible—large and blue and liquid with concern.

  “She alive!” Genevieve gasped out.

  “Of course she’s alive,” Tristan said irritably. “Your aunt is no back-biting tigress!”

  Did that mean that Edwyna was alive, while she, Genevieve, would not be? Genevieve started to struggle again. He swore softly and set her to her feet, winding his hand into her hair to keep her immobile. They reached the door to her chamber and she realized dismally that he was lifting an outer bolt that had never been there before.

  Tristan pushed her inside, and she staggered to keep her balance. Then he stood, towering, at the door, and addressed her sarcastically.

  “I truly am sorry to leave you so, but alas! There are things that must be attended to! Bathe, my lady, at your leisure—find comfort, for I swear I will return at the first available moment.”

  Smiling, bowing, he left her.

  She heard the bolt slide tight across the door.

  * * *

  Jon and Tibald awaited Tristan in the counting room. Both appeared pleasantly relaxed—and quite happy with life, which pleased Tristan because he knew it meant that the takeover had indeed been smooth.

  He took the seat behind the desk to listen to their reports. Tibald told him that the majority of the old guard remained in the dungeons—they couldn’t yet risk releasing them. But the farmers and craftsmen were at their work; the servants were at times a little sullen, but no one had offered a protest against the new order.

  “I had the man Tamkin in the dungeon,” Jon informed Tristan dryly. “But I have him sequestered here now in one of the towers. He knows the rents and the land allotments, and is most capable with the grain and mill reports. I know that he battled with you that night, yet it was not my place to take measures. against him.” Jon shrugged. “He trembles daily as it is—awaiting your return.”

  “Umm,” Tristan murmured dryly, taking a long draught of the ale that had been brought him.

  “What will you do?” Jon asked curiously.

  “I don’t know yet,” Tristan replied thoughtfully. “Something must be done to instill a respect for authority. I don’t know ... perhaps a flogging. The man will live—yet the people will see that they cannot oppose us.” He exhaled, and flexed and unflexed his fingers. They had ridden hard and he was tired—and he still had Genevieve to deal with.

  Nor did he quite know yet what he wanted from her—or what he intended to do with her. He was sure of only one thing: in the long days of travel he had become aware, with a damning need, of the desire she created in him, a hunger like nothing he had known before, taunting his flesh, filling his soul. She is just a woman! he told himself now, as he had many times before.

  Yet that only increased his bitterness at her betrayal. Had she been a man, he would have given her a sword with which to fight—and by God, she would have lain dead when it was over. That justice was not to be, for she was a woman—one he desired with a heady fascination.

  She was his right, he thought dryly. And this night she would come to know it. Whatever the future held was to be seen. This night, this night was black and white. She had invited him to her bedchamber. She had begged that he come there. Well, by God, tonight she would have him there—welcome or no.

  “I believe anything else can wait until morning,” he said with a long sigh. “Jon, is there a chamber where I might sleep?”

  Jon gazed at him quizzically. “I had thought—”

  “Oh, I plan to visit the Lady Genevieve,” he said dryly. “But I’d never sleep beside her! My life would be worthless!”

  Jon grinned. “The master chamber is down the hall. I’ll see that it is quickly prepared.”

  Jon and Tibald rose. But before they could leave the room, there was a flurry at the door. Tristan had begun to stand, but he was knocked back to his chair by the Lady Edwyna, who was now placing her slender hands upon his knees and beseeching him with tear-stained eyes.

  “Don’t slay her! My lord, I beg you! She is young—she had no choice! Oh, I swear it distressed her so—she had no choice, can’t you see? She but fought an enemy! I know . . . I—Jon has told me about your wife. But surely, Lord Tristan, you are above such atrocities yourself! Please, Lord Tristan—”

  “Edwyna!” He caught her face between his hands and stared into her huge, brilliant blue eyes, aware then of what so entranced Jon. He was angry with Jon for having spoken of his tragedy. “I have no intention of slaying a woman, Lady Edwyna,” he said a little harshly. His glance flew to Jon, who looked uneasy. “But I warn you that the story of my life is not to be the stuff of idle chatter!” He stared again at Edwyna. “You may rest easy—she will not die. But she is a prisoner in this castle and will remain so. That no amount of tender tears can change.”

  Edwyna lowered her head. Her voice trembled. “I thank you,” she murmured.

  “Edwyna!” Jon said sharply. She rose and joined him at the door, looking back to Tristan. “My lord, I have not been a prisoner here. Why should—”

  “You are not a prisoner, my lady,” Tristan said flatly, “because you have apparently proven yourself quite resigned to the situation—and trustworthy now. Demonstrate otherwise and you will find your life quite different.”

  “But, my lord, surely—” Edwyna began.

  “Jon, Tibald, Lady Edwyna, good-night,” Tristan said firmly. He raised a brow to Jon.

  Jon clamped a tight arm about Edwya and led her quickly from the room. Tibald grinned, shaking his head, and left the counting room.

  Tristan thoughtfully finished his ale, then decided that he had indeed waited long enough. The longer he sat here, the more his anger flared. He closed his eyes and called to mind a vision of her at his knees, begging; then another vision of Genevieve standing before him with the poker dripping his blood.

  He stood resolutely.

  It was time to remind the lady of the warning he’d given her—not to make a promise that she didn’t fully intend to keep.

  Ten

  Genevieve paced about her chamber, near panic. Once—it seemed a lifetime ago!—she had vowed that she would never be afraid of a Lancastrian whether peasant or king.

  But that was before she had seen Tristan at court. So deadly calm, his eyes black glittering pits of burning hell, his soft words carrying a threat that made her shiver even now with the memory.

  Wildly, for the hundredth time, she tried the door; tears of weary frustration rose to her eyes. It did not budge.

  She moved back into the chamber, stepping up to the dais and regarding the tub of bathwater before the fire. The tub had been there, hot and steamy and awaiting her, as if someone had known they would arrive that night. Maybe someone had known. Perhaps Tristan had sent a rider on ahead.

  She had bathed quickly, with terror gripping her at any sound from below. She had not intended to be caught by him in the tub. So she had washed in a frenzy.

  But—as he had so curtly told her—he had been busy. He had not come. She had leapt from the tub and dressed in the fine blue velvet that someone had left out for her. And now she paced, barely conscious that she continually pulled at the strings of her low-cut bodice, trying to cover herself more effectively.

  She paused, closing her eyes, praying for courage. Did he intend to murder her himself tonight? Perhaps with the very poker she had used against him?

  Oh, damn him! He truly knew how to draw out torture and vengeance. Better that he had claimed her head at
Court, when she retained some semblance of fatalistic courage, than to drag her back all that distance and leave her to these hours of gnawing fear.

  Genevieve opened her eyes, and they fell on the tapestry across the room that covered the windows—merely archers’ slits, and very narrow. She was slim and agile; it was possible that she could squeeze through and leap to the parapet beneath. She could also break a leg, she reminded herself. But what was the threat of a broken leg in comparison to the vengeance that awaited at the hands of Tristan de la Tere?

  She crossed the room to the windows, tearing desperately at the tapestry of her father’s hunt. It fell to the ground, and she looked at the slit with rising dismay. It was higher from the ground than she had thought, and narrower. But still . . . if she twisted and flattened herself, clearing her shoulders and then her hips ...

  She turned around again and spotted the stool before her dressing table. She raced for it, and breathing raggedly, she dragged it to the wall beneath the window. She hopped up on it and pulled herself up, shivering as she looked below. The parapet seemed a long distance away.

  It was then that the door to the chamber slammed inward. The sound itself churned new terror in Genevieve’s heart; the stool beneath her fell away, but she hung on to the window. She twisted instinctively and saw Tristan, implacable, observing her efforts from the doorway. His sword was at his side, as always, and his hands were upon his hips. His silhouette nearly filled the doorway; the arch barely seemed to top his head, and his mantle floated about him. He appeared majestic—and totally ruthless.

  Genevieve let out a moan and clawed desperately at the stone. Her moment of reckoning had come.

  She pushed herself frantically—she was almost through! But hands like steel clamped her around the waist; she was dragged down and cast to the floor. She landed hard and gasped for breath, brushing the hair from her eyes.

  Genevieve’s terrified vision fell upon Tristan’s boots, planted wide apart. She scooted backward, then along the wall, to put distance between them. Then she forced her eyes to move upward, to the tops of his boots, to his thigh muscles bulging against the tight leather of his breeches, to the hem of his tunic. Clenching her teeth and swallowing briefly—and offering up a last plaintive prayer—she forced her eyes up the lean sector of his hips and the forbidding breadth of his chest to meet his eyes, willing her own to be wide and defiant and scornful.