Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  Jon studied the figures and the listing of acres and land. He nodded. “I wonder what those people know of recent events.”

  Tristan sighed and pushed away from the desk to stretch his legs upon it. “I’ll ride out on the morrow and see these people. There are at least a hundred in these far-stretching lands.”

  Jon frowned uneasily. “I’d best come with you. And a small contingent of men. There could still be rebellion in these part.”

  “I’ll take Tibald—I need you here. I won’t be gone long. A day or two at most.”

  “Come back quickly,” Jon said. He hesitated again. “What Edenby needs is a new consistency, a return to normal living.”

  “A firm, guiding hand,” Tristan murmured. He thumped his legs back to the floor and filled a pewter goblet with wine from the flask at the edge of the desk. “Ah, yes! A return to day-to-day living! It’s all that a man asks, isn’t it, Jon, from the lowliest peasant to the highest king! Life! Health—happiness!” He raised his goblet.

  “I’m gravely worried about you!” Jon blurted out.

  “What?” Tristan retorted, surprised by the words.

  “Before God, Tristan! It is over! It has gone your way! Richard lies with the worms! Lisette, your family—they have been avenged. You hold Edenby. You’ve punished those who betrayed you! What haunts you now?”

  Tristan grew so angry that Jon expected a blow. Tristan exhaled slowly, watched Jon, then drained his goblet of wine.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Tristan, you even hold—her.”

  He smiled slowly, very slowly, settling back once again.

  “Aye, I hold her.”

  “And have not been near her these three days!”

  Tristan arched a brow. “You watch me so closely?”

  “I know you,” Jon said stubbornly.

  Tristan stared at him for a minute. Then he leaned toward him, and his smile was bitter.

  “I thought I should end it, Jon. To know vengeance, and then peace. Not to slay her, but to take from her, as she meant to take from me. Yet . . . it doesn’t end. I thought to quench a fever, yet the fever grows. I cannot release her. I cannot go to her.”

  Jon shook his head. He sought for an answer.

  “But she . . . she is yours,” he said softly. “If that is what causes the brooding, go to her. Have her, love her—”

  “Nay, never love, friend.”

  “Then ...” Jon was confused, but he managed a laugh. “Then, Tristan, it need not be love.” He leaned closer over the desk and helped himself to the wine. “Whatever it be, milord, have it! Before God—spare us who serve you well and have that lass!”

  Tristan stood abruptly.

  “What—” Jon began.

  Tristan grinned. “You said, my friend, ‘have that lass.’ I’m leaving tomorrow, so it had best be tonight.”

  He swirled, and Jon watched him go. He was still for a minute, then he helped himself to Tristan’s wine, and smiled. It really hadn’t been a bad night’s work.

  * * *

  Tristan wondered at himself as he mounted the stairs. Wondered at the sudden beating of his heart, at the ragged way that his breath rushed from his lungs, and back to them again. His pulse throbbed. This longing, lust, was a fever that never subsided, a hunger that was never satisfied.

  He’d stayed away because he hadn’t understood it, and he was nearly afraid of this driving thing. He could not let her go. He had taken what he thought he had wanted, and still he wanted more.

  He shook his head. And outside the door he nodded to the guard and slipped the bolt, and then he stood still, smiling suddenly. Tonight he did not care to seek answers. He only sought her.

  The door closed behind him. The room was dark and dim. No candles were lit, and the embers were low in the hearth. At first he did not see her. And then his body seemed to freeze, and his heart caught in his throat.

  Oh, God in heaven. She was there ... stretched out on the floor, her head over an arm, her fingers, elegant, long, white as death in the surreal dimness, dangling fragile before her.

  Her hair cloaked her. Gold and long and all about her like angel’s hair. In the way she lay, the way she stretched out, it was just like ...

  Like Lisette.

  He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling weak. Tremors of dark and deadly fear streaked through him. She was dead. The way that she lay, she was dead, she had taken her own life . . .

  Strength came to him, strength and a little madness. He strode across the distance in seconds, falling to his knees beside her, sweeping his arms about her to drag her into his arms.

  Her head fell back. There was no blood upon her throat. His hands were clean of it.

  Her eyes opened slowly and something beat inside of him. A pulse of relief, of shocking ecstasy. He wanted to laugh at himself and yet he could not. She had slept. She had come to the fire and slept, and even now that exhaustion stayed with her because her eyes opened so slowly and so softly and fell upon him like gentle violets, misted with confusion.

  “Tristan?” The puzzled whisper of his name touched a spark that sizzled down the length of his spine and he laughed softly, with just a touch of ragged harshness to the sound.

  “Who else, milady?”

  He stood with her. Instinctively, her arms tightened around his neck. He carried her to the bed and laid her there, and her eyes were closed again, her breathing came easily, and he thought that he had barely interrupted her sleep.

  He stripped silently in the darkness, then stretched beside her. He pulled at the silken bodice of her gown and when it parted he slipped his hands upon her flesh, tenderly, evocatively, and rose over her to take her lips in a kiss. Soft . . . gentle . . .

  She tasted sweet, as sweet as wine. He tasted her again, and smiled to himself, for indeed she tasted of fine, fine wine.

  Bordeaux.

  And perhaps even then she slept for she responded drowsily. Perhaps she dreamed of a different man, a different lord, coming to her in love, coming in the dark of night.

  She moaned, gently slipped her arms around him again, arched to press against him; his hands cupped and weighed her breasts. He freed her then of the constraint of clothes, held her, loved her, revered the perfection of her form, full breasts, exotic nipples, slim waist, flaring hips, and all so soft, so soft and warm, and like silk to his fingers . . .

  For eons he heard nothing, knew nothing, but that softness. The pulse of heartbeats rising. The whisper of her breath, growing ragged, the sounds that caught in her throat, gasps that found no true voice, deeper, sudden, sharp and sweet.

  And fever rose. Softness to tempest, tempest to splendor, eons passing . . . locked together. Knowing the release he had needed so desperately.

  Moments of peace when tension exploded in climax and brooding anger seeped into her along with the flood of his seed.

  Peace . . . so complete in the darkness that he breathed long, and then . . . held her against him. His hand, just beneath her breast, bringing her back against his chest, her hip curled to his, their legs entwined, her hair, that glorious cloak, swathed all about them both.

  Peace so great that he slept.

  * * *

  Tristan awoke at dawn in horror, for he had sworn to himself he would never sleep beside her. Just outside, light was beginning to streak through the remnants of night. Beautiful light. Shafts of crimson and gold.

  He bolted from the bed and dressed quickly. He tried to keep his gaze from her, but he could not. He stared down upon her.

  She was still curled on her side, naked and innocent in the morning light. In spite of himself, he dwelt on her beauty. Her skin was so fair, her breasts so perfectly shaped, firm, and crested in dusky crimson, hidden now, like shy maidens, peeping out from strands of that golden hair.

  Golden hair . . . skeins that fell over her, her shoulders, the curve of her hip, the roundness of her sleek, smooth bottom. Glowing tendrils of sunshine and splendor that fell rich and thick ove
r the bed, where he himself had lain. Wisping over her delicate features, the soft rose of her cheeks.

  She smiled in her sleep. Just the smallest curve of lips that were parted but a breath. A mouth still soft and damp and sensually alluring.

  He wanted to crawl back in beside her, and wake her—be it rudely, be it roughly. If he waited much longer, staring at her so, he realized with a harsh scowl, he would do just that. With a guttural oath he turned and dressed.

  He shook himself as he exited her chamber, nodding curtly to the guard, squaring his shoulders. Why was it that each time he availed himself of her passion he knew a greater tempest inside? A greater need. Why could he not feel himself shriven—free?

  In the hall he started shouting orders. Few were up yet—they would arise damn quickly. Tristan was anxious to be gone.

  Tibald appeared and quickly readied himself; the horses were assembled in the courtyard. Jon, hair tousled and apparently still half asleep, came to see him off, Edwyna at his side.

  She rushed to Tristan when he had mounted his horse.

  “Please, Tristan, may I see her? Just to bring her some books?”

  He hesitated, clenching his teeth together tightly. He looked over Edwyna’s head to Jon. “Bring Genevieve out for an hour each morning that I am gone. Let her walk, let her be with Edwyna.” He looked quickly back to Jon’s blue-eyed love; Edwyna kissed his hand and Tristan scowled, embarrassed by her gratitude.

  “Edwyna! Please, for the love of God—”

  “Thank you, Tristan.” There were tears in her eyes.

  “Just watch that niece of yours, Edwyna. She is sly.”

  “I’ll watch her!” Edwyna promised joyfullly.

  Tristan was suddenly irritated. He’d given in because of Edwyna, wide eyed, so pure, so sweetly innocent of malice. And so damned grateful for such a small favor. And because Jon delighted so in her company. Yet he wasn’t sure that Genevieve deserved the concession. He remembered the night, the sweetness of the night, life itself, bittersweet.

  Before he rode out he paused. He was angry with himself, but determined not to show it.

  “Ah, Jon! I’ve a request!” he said, holding back the piebald when the stallion was as anxious as he to be gone.

  “Name it,” Jon said.

  “See that Lady Genevieve is delivered a case of our best Bordeaux, will you?”

  “A case, Tristan?” Jon frowned.

  “Aye.”

  Jon shrugged. “As you say.”

  Tristan smiled as Edwyna handed up the stirrup cup. He drank deeply, cheerfully bade them farewell, and rode out, with Tibald and his contingent close on his heels.

  Thirteen

  Genevieve felt absurdly sheltered. She’d been dreaming, and the dream had been good. Soft and gentle and full of whispers. As if she had been cocooned in tenderness.

  Genevieve heard the commotion in the courtyard, but heard it dimly. It seemed that she had to fight past walls of cobwebs to wake up. Her head felt heavy, like lead. When she opened her eyes, the sun hurt them. For long moments she didn’t try to move. She accused herself of being a total fool for drinking so much red wine. Anyone—even Annie!—knew that gulping red wine would either make you sick or give you a horrendous headache.

  She sat up, clenching her temples between her palms, groaning, giving up, and crashing back to the mattress.

  Something was going on in the courtyard, she told herself dully. She couldn’t seem to rouse herself enough to care.

  She closed her eyes and wondered curiously at the sense of well-being that she had felt. Her fingers plucked at the coverings, and then she bolted up suddenly, staring across to the hearth, now cold and barren.

  She was naked and in her bed and she hadn’t been dreaming. She’d had the company she’d craved during the night.

  “Oh ...”

  She moaned aloud at the shooting pain that ripped through her head again. How could he! Damn him a thousand times over! Ignore her for days and then just happen to walk in when she was in a stupor. Of all the damnable, bloody nerve. The situation was intolerable.

  She heard a sound, loud and grating. The bolt was slipped. Genevieve made a dash to crawl deep and far beneath the covers and pull them to her chin. If it were he ... if he were back, she swore—swore before God the Almighty!—she’d not so humiliate herself again. She’d scratched his devil’s eyes out, she’d—

  Someone knocked, and it sounded to Genevieve as if the walls themselves were tumbling down. It wasn’t Tristan. Tristan did not knock.

  Ah ... the greatest insult to the greatest injury. The sunshiny, red-cheeked, cow-breasted sweet young thing called Tess was back. She bounced in, cheerful, and atrociously loud.

  “Good-morning, milady! I’ve brought you food—” She nodded her head, indicating the tray she carried. “—and I thought I’d ask you quickly if you’d like a bath. Perhaps you’d care to wash your hair, since the sun will dry it—”

  Genevieve forgot her rancor with the girl at those words. “The sun?” she interrupted eagerly.

  “Aye, milady, while you’re walking—”

  “Walking?” She almost bounded from the bed before remembering that she wasn’t dressed. “Tess, where am I walking to?”

  Her heart started to skitter and leap. Walking . . . was he letting her go then? Was he going to release her, send _her somewhere?

  “Walking, milady. The Lady Edwyna said that you might be with her for an hour, and that she was sure you missed the sunlight and the fresh air sorely. Here—”

  Tess moved on into the room to set the tray down. Genevieve frowned, curious and suspicious as to what had brought on this freedom and strange generosity.

  Tess turned to her. “Shall I call the boys with water?” Genevieve stared at her blankly for a moment. She started to reply, but then another rapping fell upon the door, and she was made viciously aware of her headache.

  What now? she thought. Her little domain had been as silent as the grave for day upon miserable day, and now it suddenly felt like the grand crossroads in London.

  “Yes?” she demanded sharply. The door opened, and in came young Roger de Treyne, the handsome Lancastrian who had shown her such sympathy on the long ride to Edenby. Several of Tristan’s men were behind him in the hallway. They had been laughing and talking, and suddenly went dead silent, staring at Genevieve, who was still lying in bed.

  Brilliant color flooded over her. Roger didn’t even speak; he just stared, transfixed.

  “What goes on here?” came a sharp voice.

  The speaker that sent the men stumbling away was Jon of Pleasance. Genevieve knew his voice. Then he, too, was at the door, frowning at Genevieve bundled in her tight wad of covers.

  He cleared his throat and tapped Roger on the shoulder. “Put it down, man, put the damn thing down!”

  Only then did Genevieve realize that Roger was carrying a large crate. She looked at Jon.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s from Tristan,” he said simply. “Roger! In the corner! Put the damn thing down now, and go on!”

  Roger did. He stepped into the chamber, set the crate in the corner, then turned and gave Genevieve a deep and appreciative bow. “Milady, it is wondrous joy to see you,” he said.

  “Good morrow to you, Roger,” she murmured.

  Jon cleared his throat. “Roger, Tristan does return.”

  “What? Oh!” Roger straightened quickly. “Milady,” he murmured to Genevieve, and he quickly took his leave. Genevieve watched him, angry in his behalf. Was Tristan such an ogre then that even his own men needed to fear him?

  Jon was still there, in the doorway. Genevieve turned her gaze to him. “What is going on? What is it? Tess said that—”

  “The crate is a gift from Tristan.” He hesitated. “A true gift—the contents came with us, milady, and not from Edenby. And aye, yes, I’ll be back with Edwyna for you in an hour—for an hour only, Genevieve. Is that time sufficient for you?”

  She smiled
at him. “To leave this room?” She laughed. “Jon, give me but five minutes, and I shall be ready!”

  “An hour, milady,” he grinned. He closed the door.

  Tess let out a sigh. “Oh, milady! He sends you gifts!”

  Genevieve looked at the girl and frowned. She gathered the covers about herself and climbed curiously from the bed. She hurried over to the crate and found the lid easy to open.

  It took her several seconds of staring to realize what the crate contained. Then she plucked out a bottle and stared at it, dead silent as color flooded through her again—far more brilliant than her earlier blush, her shame was mixed with blind fury this time.

  “Oh!” she screamed wrathfully, heedless of Tess, heedless of anything or anyone. She definitely had not dreamt the night, she hadn’t imagined any of her own part in it. And leave it to Tristan to mock her, to send a whole case of the deadly stuff that had done her in!

  “Milady!” Tess cried.

  The bottle had crashed against the wall. Crashed and shattered, and wine ran down the whitewash. “I will kill him!” Genevieve swore. “I swear it!” She stalked the room, with the bed coverings flowing behind her. “Damn him! Oh, God, damn him! To eons in hell! To fire and pitchforks and may he rot and—”

  “Milady, please!” Nearly in tears, Tess stood before her, as if she wanted to run but knew not where. As if she had been ordered to serve a demented witch.

  Genevieve stopped dead still and approached the girl.

  “Get him up here,” she said.

  “I can’t—”

  Genevieve gripped her by the shoulders.

  “You must! Tell him to come—now!”

  “Milady, I cannot! I—”

  “Do it!”

  Tess gave out a little scream and began to pound loudly on the door. It flew open; Jon was standing there.

  “What goes on here?” he demanded.

  Tess started to talk, but she was so incoherent that Jon pushed her on out and looked at Genevieve for some clarification. Genevieve came at him, all bundled up in linen and fur, her hair streaming behind her like some mighty, golden banner. She was flushed and her eyes glittered, a deep entrancing silver. Jon was too fascinated for a moment to realize that she was near hysteria.