Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  He left them standing there together and hurried out. The night had grown chill. He wondered vaguely if she were cold; then he hoped bitterly that she was.

  But as he took the reins of the piebald from Matthew and thanked him and took his leave, he remembered the terror in his heart when he had come upon her that night, sleeping at the hearth, and he had thought her dead.

  He rode out of the walls, and he looked up at the rising moon. “I pray, lady, that no harm befalls you,” he whispered, and then he nudged the piebald into a fleeting gallop. Haste might make all the difference.

  Fourteen

  By the time darkness fell a second day, Genevieve was feeling truly wretched.

  One cramped, cold night in the open had been bearable. She had learned in that time though that she wasn’t so fond of darkness as she might have imagined. She had always loved the outdoors. But now she was not quite so fond of the forest. Last night she had lain beneath the tree she had climbed, and she had slept little. It had been colder than she had expected, and she had awakened long before dawn. She had begun to imagine that a branch was a snake, and soon she was afraid of every rustle and movement. Every whisper of the breeze, every soft fall of leaves. She thought of the wolves that sometimes prowled here and the bears that occasionally foraged in the lowlands.

  By morning she was thirsty, but by daylight she was on her own ground. She’d known where to find the brook, where to drink and bathe her face.

  But by midday, after walking all morning, she was famished and she had moved quickly enough that she was no longer familiar with her surroundings. She found berries and congratulated herself on her prowess, but the berries had only made her hungrier. In the end she was forced to realize that she was ill-equipped to deal with simple survival.

  She’d never thought much about food before. Now it was on her mind constantly. She reminded herself sharply that if she just managed another day, she would be with the Sisters of Good Hope, and they would be good hope for her indeed. She could stay with them until she felt it safe; then she could venture forth and leave the country—Henry’s country—for Brittany, where her mother had been born.

  Genevieve refused to think about discomfort; she had to keep walking. Darkness seemed to be falling very early. The tree branches overhead formed eerie shadows, as if they could reach down and touch her, brush her cheeks like spiders’ webs. Twigs snapped all around her. In spite of herself, Genevieve was frightened.

  But she kept going until she could hear the soft melody of a brook through the trees. Leaving the darkening trail, she hurried to it and drank thirstily

  This seemed as good a place as any to try to sleep and let the night pass. Not too close to the water, lest there be snakes; not too far from it, for it would be wonderful to wake beside it, to drink and bathe before she started out again.

  She leaned against a tree trunk, and again thought tortuously of food, Griswald’s bread, fresh and aromatic. His steak and kidney pie . . .

  Stop! She warned herself. Good God, she was healthy and well padded! One more night would not hurt her. One more desperate night spent to escape a fate ...

  Worse than death? She taunted herself wryly, and she breathed deeply before she could not bear some of her own thoughts. She ached with homesickness, and of all absurdities, sometimes the very man she longed so fervently to escape merged with thoughts of things that she would miss with all her heart, forever.

  From somewhere nearby, a branch snapped. Startled and wary, Genevieve pushed herself up and looked around. She almost called out, but caught herself.

  How foolish! she thought, her heart thumping. It could be a preying wolf, and if it were, the creature certainly wouldn’t heed her call! It could he a man ...

  A hermit perhaps, or a huntsman. A trapper—or did it matter? She didn’t dare trust a stranger in the woods. She closed her eyes, swallowing. If some filthy vagrant were ever to touch her in the way Tristan had, Genevieve might truly think her life not worth living.

  She held her breath, for a long while she heard nothing else.

  Then again, nearer, a branch crackled and snapped.

  Panic sent her heart shooting up to her throat. Silently she scanned the ground around herself. She saw a long heavy stick and reached for it. With her free hand, she reached into the pocket of her skirt for her elegant little dagger.

  If it was a wolf, she thought miserably, it was a big one. But wolves were really cowards, weren’t they? Hadn’t her father. told her that once? They usually hunted in packs, and they preferred smaller animals ...

  Maybe a big wolf would consider her a small enough animal!

  An owl suddenly let out a horrific shriek, swooping down almost on top of her head. Genevieve let out a long shriek herself and jumped to her feet, waving her arms madly above her head—and striking herself with her stick.

  Well, she told herself. It could have been worse! She could have sliced herself with the damn dagger!

  “Stupid owl!” she swore. And then . . .

  She could have sworn she heard a soft echo of laughter. She turned and spun about, straining to see through the darkness. There was nothing. Nothing but the whisper of the wind through the leaves and the gentle tumbling of the brook over the pebbles in its path.

  She sat down before the tree again and hugged her arms around her knees. She didn’t sleep; she dozed fitfully, to awake in cramped misery time and time again.

  Morning came at last, and with it light.

  She let out a long, long sigh of relief, since along with the light came fresh courage. Genevieve stretched and arched her back and looked around. She was completely alone. She smiled up at the sun streaking through the trees. It was bringing warmth already. It was casting shimmering rays upon the brook. Genevieve dropped her stick and her dagger, shed her cloak, and hurried toward the bank.

  The water was cold, but the cold felt good. She looked around herself again, oddly uncomfortable, as if the trees had eyes. But she saw no one.

  She struggled and dragged her gown over her head and tossed it over on top of her cloak. She hesitated, then pulled her shift off, too—modesty suggested she keep it on, but if she wasn’t cold now, she would be when she came out, and it seemed much smarter to keep the garment dry. Once she had cast it aside, she hurried into the water, gasping as the cold awoke her thoroughly. She laughed then because it felt so good against her flesh. It soothed the blisters on her poor feet. She wound her hair high to keep it dry, and kept on moving into the water—longing only for soap.

  At last she rose and started to walk to the bank, feeling revived and enlivened, and ready to start out again. Soon she would be near her destination. Soon—

  Genevieve stopped suddenly and let out a gasp. She was so stunned that she forgot her nakedness. For there, leaning comfortably against her tree, was Tristan, whittling away at a piece of wood. Beside him, the piebald grazed peacefully. He looked at her and smiled slowly, but his smile did not reach his eyes.

  “Good morning!” he called to her. “Did you sleep well, milady? Pleasant site for a bath, I do say.”

  Genevieve was riddled with dismay. Her heart beat in panic, and she despaired. He could not be there! But he was.

  Dropping his whittling, he bowed at her slightly. He hunched down near the ground, and in another second Genevieve saw that he had built a small fire. He even had a pan with him with which to cook.

  He was very well prepared—unlike Genevieve, who just stood there, naked, staring at him!

  Tristan looked at her again, and she thought that his casual greetings were the greatest lies that she had ever known: His expression assured her that he was just longing to throttle her.

  God help her—she never did think quickly enough in his presence. It didn’t occur to her that if she forded the stream, she would arrive on the other bank with nothing, absolutely nothing—not even a shift. It only crossed her mind that it was possible that the man could not swim. On that journey home from London, he had not swum a
fter her—he had come in a boat. It seemed like sound logic.

  She turned and raced quickly into the deeper water, and plunged heedlessly into it.

  She knew moments of elation, then joy, and an astounding sense of freedom. He did not come after her! Each stroke brought her closer and closer to the opposite shore. A few more strokes, and she would be there. Oh, she could see it! The other bank, seeming to reach out to her, seeming to offer the succor she so desperately needed. Ten feet, and she would reach it—

  She gasped, and then choked, and then thought that she was drowning for sure. He pounced upon her, and then wound his fingers through her hair. Suddenly she was flying through the water—as he towed her by her hair, using massive strokes with one arm and the powerful kicks of his legs.

  Mistaken again, she told herself dully—the man could swim.

  He dumped her, panting and gasping and entangled in the sodden mass of her own hair, on the bank. She looked up and saw with dismay what had caused his delay in reaching her.

  He, too, had chosen not to soak his clothing. He stalked past her with long strides to retrieve his shirt, watching her as he slipped it back on, then donning his leather tunic, wool hose, boots, and leggings. All that, and she had not yet managed to move.

  He came back silently to her, dropping her shift upon her back. “You are in my favorite state, milady,” he said, and surely the water was no colder than his voice. “But if I ever decide to kill you, I’d not have the means be pneumonia. Get dressed.”

  Shivering and miserable, Genevieve stood and turned her back to slip into the shift. She realized then that he was at her back. She started, but realized that he merely intended to help her back into her gown. When that was done, he wrapped her cloak around her. She sat, too miserable and exhausted to care about the state of her hair, and leaned against the tree. Silent.

  A second later something was pressed into her hands. It was a metal cup, warm to the touch, and something steamed from it, smelling wonderful. She looked at him uneasily. He had returned to the fire; his back was to her.

  “Warmed ale, nothing more. I noted that you did not seem to appreciate the wine.”

  “Insult to grave injury, milord.”

  “It was but a thank-you gift.”

  “For what I did not intend to give!”

  “Ah, but Genevieve! You offered so much so generously.”

  “Rotten, scurry-bastard!” she swore. He did not respond. She sipped at the ale, warm against the chill that had invaded her.

  “How—how did you find me?” she asked him wearily.

  He turned to her, then sat again himself, leaning against another tree close to his fire.

  “There seemed to be but one place you could go.” He waved the arm with the cup past the brook to the hill that rose above it. “You were almost there, milady. The convent lies just over that crest.”

  Genevieve was truly dismayed now. She was so close! If only she hadn’t stopped last night. “I almost made it.”

  She hadn’t realized that she had said the words out loud until he suddenly started laughing. She swerved her head quickly to stare at him again—and found honest laughter in his eyes. He was truly amused.

  “Nay, milady, you did not! I’d have accosted you last night except that you did not seem to need me. You defended yourself nicely against that vicious owl!”

  Now he laughed so hard that he had to set his cup down.

  She inhaled sharply. “You were there!”

  “All along!”

  “You bastard!” She was on her feet, furious. She’d been scared half to death—and it had been him.

  “You were afraid of wolves, I take it?” He grinned.

  “No. Wolf. Singular. And I had damned good reason to be!” she yelled at him. He started laughing again.

  She strode toward him, thunderous, angry—ready to douse his laughter with warm ale. But he was on his feet long before she could reach him, grasping for her wrist. “Oh, Genevieve! At this point, do you really think that would be wise?”

  There was a warning behind the laughter. A real warning. She bit her lip and stepped back. “No. No, it wouldn’t. I want the ale—it would be wasted upon you!”

  The fire sizzled suddenly; he hunched down again and Genevieve stared at the pan, seized suddenly with a rampant, nearly desperate hunger. Two beautiful fish were sizzling away in the pan, and upon the pack set by the fire, bread and a wedge of cheese had been set out.

  Genevieve was ravenous, and her hunger growled loudly within her. She turned her back, not wanting him to see her eyes, how sorely, how badly, she wanted her share of that fish. But he had heard that less-than-ladylike growl and was chuckling softly. She sank down into the soft moss at the base of her chosen tree and stared straight out before her.

  To her chagrin, he seemed willing to ignore her.

  “Perfect!” he proclaimed. She didn’t watch him—she heard him fix a plate with fish and bread and cheese, and she waited for him to bring it to her, as he had the ale. But he merely sat back against his tree again and began to eat.

  “This is better than the rabbit I caught last night.”

  She couldn’t help it. She turned on him.

  “You son of a bitch! You had a rabbit last night, while I was starving! You let me wait until morning when I was scared to death and—and—”

  “It probably did your sweet soul good, my love.”

  “Bastard!” she went on. He didn’t appear to notice. He ate his fish, licking his fingers.

  “Hungry?” he asked when she paused for breath.

  “Not!”

  “Good, I wouldn’t mind the other myself.”

  “Fine! I’m surprised that you haven’t starved me before now.”

  “So am I.”

  “You really do hate me.”

  “You are keenly observant!” he snapped, but then he paused, staring at her a long moment. His voice softened. “Actually, milady, I don’t know what I feel. I do know what the facts are, though. And you are mine—until I choose it to be otherwise.”

  Something about his tone gave her a breath of hope. She rose and crossed to him quietly, then knelt down beside him, seeking out his eyes. “Tristan, you could choose to release me now. The convent is just over the hill. Please, please! Tristan, I didn’t take anything with me. Just the clothing on my back—”

  “And the dagger.”

  “Nothing! I didn’t touch the jewels, I didn’t—”

  “I daresay that you didn’t have the time to think of them,” he answered her softly, his eyes fully on hers.

  “Does it matter?” she cried, pleading. “Tristan, I took nothing of value, there is just me—”

  He touched her then, reaching out a hand to cup her chin, his thumb halting her speech.

  “But you did, you see. To me.” He stroked the sopping mass of her hair and said, “This. This is grander than any jewel, Genevieve.”

  He drew his hand back, as if he had not intended his word. He looked at his plate, and his voice grew harsh.

  “I’m sorry, Genevieve. At this moment you are of value to me.” He looked up again—and she was amazed at the changes that could take place in him. His eyes looked black again—they had changed color with his mood.

  He set his plate down and pushed her impatiently from him. Finding another of his flat pewter plates in the leather sack, he prepared it for her, filling it with fish and bread and cheese.

  She shook her head miserably in denial, her eyes downcast.

  “Eat it! And eat slowly, or you’ll be sick.”

  She took the plate, and she began to eat, woodenly. But then she was so hungry that she began to gulp her food, forgetting all else. He stopped her, jerking the plate from her.

  “I told you—slowly.”

  She nodded, not returning his look, and he returned the plate. He walked away, and she heard him talking softly to the piebald horse. Genevieve wondered dismally if he had ever spoken to a woman as tenderly as he did that g
reat animal.

  She finished. Unbidden, she took her plate and his to the stream and cleaned them both, drying them upon her skirt. When she returned to the trees she found him carefully stamping out the fire.

  He took the plates and returned them and the mugs to his sack and tied the sack to the back of his saddle. Genevieve was close enough to the piebald for the horse to lean down its massive nose suddenly and nudge her. Taken off balance, Genevieve laughed and straightened herself and patted him on the nose that had just roughly moved her. He came closer, like a big puppy, longing for affection.

  “He likes you,” Tristan commented dryly.

  She cast him a quick glance. “Why shouldn’t he?” she retorted.

  She felt Tristan’s shrug. She ignored him and lightly scratched the horse’s chin. “Hello, young man!” she told him softly. And then she chanced a glance at Tristan again.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Pie.”

  “Pie,” she repeated. “My God, he’s so massive, and so tame!”

  “Like a pup,” Tristan said.

  “And he rides into battle, against shot and powder and swords,” Genevieve murmured.

  “So do men, milady, and many who must face cannon are in truth the most very tame of beasts. He is well trained, Pie here. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

  “I was not thinking along that line at all.”

  “Good. We’re heading back. Now. And don’t try to elude me again, Genevieve. There are beasts in this forest. More wolves than you might think.”

  “I’m surprised that you care.”

  “I don’t like my battle rewards mauled.”

  She didn’t reply. Pie chose that moment to snort and nuzzle her again. You liar! she thought. Pie is as gentle as any horse she had ever encountered, and her father’s stables had always been full.

  Tristan began to walk out of the trees, and Genevieve followed him. When they came to the path, Genevieve could see what she had not been able to discern in the darkness: The convent walls rose right above the road, not a half mile away. She was so close that she could almost touch freedom. Smell it, sense it, feel it.