Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  “Genevieve—”

  “Keep away from me, Tristan!”

  He stretched out an arm to her, smiling, and said softly, “Genevieve, take my hand.”

  “Tristan, you are mad!”

  “Nay, milady, not mad. Merely—sorry.”

  “What?” She gazed at him, startled and still. He took a step toward her and it looked again as if she had determined to fly, but he caught her hand and drew her against him, slipping his arms around her.

  Her head fell back and she stared at him, her eyes glazed with tears, exhausted and despairing and wary.

  “Tristan, you needn’t hate me or—or strike me or—”

  “I am sorry, Genevieve. Please, I pray you, forgive me.”

  Her eyes grew wide, but she was still tense, ready for some trick. And why not, he thought bitterly—for she hardly knew him. Damned if he’d leave again, even at the King’s bidding!

  “If you but let me slip through the rock—”

  “I cannot and you know that.”

  “By God, Tristan, you are so angry, and it is not my—I did not—I mean—”

  “Shush, Genevieve.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes once again and in confusion she tried to speak. “I swear, Tristan, I did not mean to kill—”

  “I know, Genevieve.”

  Tristan suddenly became aware of Jon, who had caught up and stood panting behind them. They were all silent beneath the gray sky. Genevieve continued to stare at him warily.

  Jon said, “It grows cold out here, Tristan. Fiercely cold.”

  Tristan nodded without turning around, his eyes still upon Genevieve’s. He dipped to pick her up, and her arms encircled his neck. Still their eyes held each other’s until Tristan started back up the path.

  “I can never cease to wish for freedom,” she whispered as they came back to the parapet.

  He did not reply to her, and she spoke again.

  “What—” She paused, swallowing painfully. “Where do we go from here? Our battle has no end.”

  She seemed so young then. So very young, and so very lost. And tender, with her arms soft around him, her eyes wide, and the lashes still dampened with her tears.

  “Perhaps a truce then,” he suggested.

  She did not look right or left as he came to the courtyard and across it and to the doors of the keep. They entered, and Edwyna let out a little gasp, rushing toward them. Tristan kept moving up the stairs to her chamber; he opened the door with a shove.

  The master had returned. In the hearth a fire burned brightly. Cradling her against him still, he sat down before it, aware of how she trembled.

  And he just held her. Against his body, against his warmth. Feeling her shake and shiver and inhale in jagged gasps that were the remainder of her sobs.

  “Tristan—”

  “Shhush, be easy. I’ll not hurt you again, I swear it.”

  Slowly the tension eased. She rested soft against him, in the cocoon of his arms, and he knew that she slept. He set his cheek against the top of her hair, felt its angel silkiness against his flesh, and closed his eyes. He had wanted her so badly. Now he felt nothing but tenderness.

  In time he stood and laid her carefully upon the bed, loosening her cloak, then bringing the covers warmly over her. He smiled crookedly, ran his fingers over her cheek, and left her to sleep. He did not bolt the door.

  Tess was coming up the stairs. She greeted him with a bob and a profuse show of welcome. Tristan responded not unkindly, and told the girl to leave the Lady Genevieve to rest for the afternoon, and to see that she was brought a warm bath before the evening meal.

  “She will dine in the chamber?” Tess asked.

  “She will dine with us below, if she so desires.”

  Tristan hurried on down the stairs. Jon and Edwyna were before the hearth, staring at him, wary and trying to pretend that they were not.

  Tristan warmed his hands before the fire, looked at Jon, and smiled.

  “Well I’m quite certain that you’ve a long accounting for me on the events taking place in my absence. Shall we, Jon?”

  He politely indicated the counting room.

  Tristan grinned and called to Griswald for some ale in the counting room and whistled as he preceded Jon to their work.

  * * *

  Genevieve awoke with a start. She thought at first, with some confusion, that Tristan had returned only in a dream, but then she felt the grit and sand upon her, and she knew for certain that he had indeed returned.

  Returned . . .

  She bolted up, curious at her surroundings, having to look around to assure herself that she was no longer within the tower room. She was not; she lay within her own chamber, and she had slept more peacefully here today than she had in many weeks.

  She hugged her knees to her chest, shivering as she thought of his initial reaction, and wondering with some awe at the vast change that had come over him at the cliffs. Good God, she did not know what to feel. Her shivering ceased, and a curious warmth swept through her as she thought of his soothing words, of the fact that he, Tristan de la Tere, relentless as steel, had sworn out an apology to her and offered with a strange tenderness the olive branch of peace.

  She felt suddenly giddy and hot, and pressed her cool palms to her flushed cheeks. She had been tired, sick, and wretched for so long. She had lain awake nights wondering where he was and what he was doing.

  And now she was glad of his return. She was more than glad, she thought with a certain shame; she was nearly giddy with the pleasure of it. Elated now, oh, aye! Elated with his return. She was so glad of his return—and his determination that they find some small oasis of truce.

  She warmed further, remembering his arms about her, remembering the blue of his eyes when he had looked into hers, smiling out his strange tenderness, giving her his gentle promise that he’d not hurt her again.

  She swallowed suddenly, sharply, thinking that to be a promise that he could not keep. She was hurt; neither of them could change that. She was afraid to think of the future, no matter how blithely she spoke of it to Jon and Edwyna. She hadn’t dared think yet that the miserable sickness that tore at her each morning was the beginning of life. And when she did she found herself feeling weak, and being ridiculously assured that she would have a strong and noble child, striking if it resembled its father . . . noble bastard though it might be. There was really little else to think. Except to wonder what would happen when he tired of her, of lust and revenge... When he returned one day with a bride sanctioned by the King, a woman to increase his position and wealth through her title or possessions.

  Genevieve determined in a sudden fever not to dwell upon her fascination with the man who was the cause of all of her misery. She sprang from the bed, shaking her hair, wishing that she might wash it and cleanse away the gritty feeling of the sand. As she stood upon the dais she gazed curiously at the door, and with a sudden flurry of hope she raced toward it.

  To her amazement, it opened. She closed it again and stood there trembling. He had said that there would be a truce.

  She could run, she thought.

  Run ... and risk being dragged back—once more.

  Or she could accept this matter of truce as it had been given and fulfill her part of it. And she was so tired! So weary of the fruitless attempts. He had proven time and time again that she could not escape him.

  She started back into the room, biting hard upon her thumbnail.

  “Milady!”

  The soft call and a rap upon the door interrupted her thoughts. The door opened and young Tess stood there—cheery as ever:

  “Did I waken you, milady?”

  Genevieve shook her head.

  “Nay, Tess.”

  “Ah, good, for I was told not to do so, yet the time grows late. I’ve told the kitchen boys to bring the tub and the water, as I knew you’d want to dress for dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Her heart thumped hard against her chest.

  “Aye, milady!�
�� Tess gave her a smile as big as sunshine, and Genevieve thought regretfully of all the rancor she had so often felt for the girl. Tess seemed as pleased as she for the freedom suddenly granted her charge.

  “Downstairs, milady, in the great hall. You’re to take your rightly place at that table. Oh, milady . . . !”

  Genevieve laughed and she actually hugged Tess and Tess hugged her back, as happy as a pup.

  Then Tess left her and called for the boys, and Genevieve stepped back upon the dais, awaiting the water and the bath that she had craved. She told herself primly that it was pathetic to find such pleasure in things that had been her birthright.

  But she could not listen to that voice; she could only be happy. The future still loomed dismally before her, but tomorrow would come whether she found happiness in the moment or not. For the moment she wanted peace. And whether one admitted it or not, she wanted Tristan.

  * * *

  Tristan came into the hall at dusk, having ridden the distance of the wall with Jon.

  He wondered how he would find her—defiant and cool or simply proud? Or perhaps she would have ignored the chance to be in the hall entirely, preferring to stay away. He strode in, and was suddenly still.

  Genevieve stood by the fire, staring into it with pensive eyes. She was dressed in royal blue, with golden trim and an edge of fur about her wrists and hem and breast. Edwyna sat by the hearth, serene as ever, with her tapestry before her.

  Both women turned. Tristan saw only one.

  He sought her eyes, and they seemed neither silver or mauve but a color to match that of her gown. The firelight played upon her and caught all the highlights in her hair, making it dazzle with greater glory than the blaze itself.

  And she smiled. Hesitantly, tremulously.

  For the life of him, he could not move. He could not bring one foot before the other to reach the hearth.

  Tristan found motion at last. He lowered his eyes from Genevieve’s and hurried toward the fire, drawing off his gauntlets to stretch out his hands to the warmth of the flame.

  “There are all manner of wares being bartered and sold,” he said. “Winter brings the peddlers here for warmth.”

  “Ah, yes! But surely not such a selection of goods as you’ve recently seen in London!” Edwyna proclaimed.

  And Tristan laughed and said aye, London was brimming with goods—trade was already increasing again, and there was a new manner of gown being worn, having just crossed the Channel from France.

  Edwyna pounced upon Tristan with questions about the City. He suggested that they sit down to dinner, where he would answer all that he could for her. Griswald appeared to announce happily that everything awaited Tristan’s leisure; he smiled almost shyly at Genevieve, announcing that he’d prepared all “milady’s favorites.” Genevieve blushed slightly and gazed at Tristan.

  He offered her his arm and she took it. And at the table he took the place reserved for the lord of the castle, and sat her in the seat reserved for the rightful lady.

  Tristan knew that the delicacies served that night were none compared with those at Henry’s Court; yet they tasted far better to his lips. The wine was sweeter than any he had known in ages, and the conversation flowed smoothly.

  Genevieve was quiet but responsive. Tristan did most of the talking, telling Edwyna about fashions and Jon about the meeting of Lords in Parliament, the battle in Norwich, and the state of things about the City. They talked about Sir Thomas Tidewell, and Jon eagerly asked about his old friend.

  And then Tristan looked at Genevieve.

  “I saw an old friend of yours, too, milady.”

  “Sir Humphrey?” she queried softly.

  “Nay, I did not see him, though I heard that he is well. The friend I speak of is Sir Guy.”

  Her hand lowered nervously to her wine glass. “Sir Guy? He was in—London?”

  “Aye.”

  “In the—Tower?” she asked painfully.

  “Oh, nay—he, too, fares very well. He changed sides, so it seemed, at the last minute and battled bravely for Henry.”

  “He—what?” Genevieve gasped out.

  Tristan leaned back, watching her. A startling jealousy raced through him, keen and sharp.

  “He fought for the King—King Henry, that is.”

  “That’s not possible!”

  “But he did.”

  Her eyes lowered, and he wondered what she thought. Edwyna anxiously changed the subject, and though Genevieve’s reactions stayed with Tristan a long time, he eventually ceased musing over them, since they could not matter much now.

  They stayed a long time at the table that night, all aware perhaps that they had reached a peculiar milestone. None of them mentioned Genevieve’s condition, nor Tristan’s reaction, not any of the events of the day. They seemed like any two young couples, enjoying each other’s company.

  Somewhere through that conversation Tristan looked across at Genevieve through the soft haze of the candlelight. Her eyes were on his then, curious, and though she quickly looked downward at his gaze, he had seen the seductive beauty in them, and everything about him quickened. He waited for what seemed like a proper amount of time, then rose, stretching out a hand to her, apologizing to Jon and Edwyna with a mention that he was tired from his journey.

  And he tensed then, wondering if she would refuse his hand, wearily hoping that they needn’t endure another battle this night.

  She did not fight him. She accepted his hand, and he felt her fingers trembling as they walked up the stairs and into the room.

  Genevieve stood by the closed door as Tristan crossed to the fire which burned brightly in anticipation of their arrival. He sat and pulled off his boots and watched the fire. Then he was staring at her and her heart quickened because he was so very handsome, because she could not help the loneliness she felt, the ache inside at missing him, and the hungers he had awakened within her.

  He stood again and came to her. And he did not speak, but touched her hair, then drew her to him, and took her lips with the lightest touch. Then his hands were upon her gown, drawing the strings from her bodice, and with that touch she began to quiver because the excitement rose in a liquid rush, spreading heat throughout her. She did not demur as he slid the gown from her shoulders.

  As his lips touched her shoulders.

  As he knelt, drawing his hands so lightly over her breast, then taking her nipple into his mouth, and tugging at it gently.

  She threw her head back, swallowing at the cascade of sensation that swept through her, bracing herself against his shoulders. She realized suddenly that he was looking at her face.

  “Does that hurt you?”

  And she shook her head, flushing. “Nay,” she said softly. She shook her head again. “Nay!”

  And in sudden shame and emotion, she slipped her arms around his neck, burying her head against his shoulder. He inhaled, sharply, raggedly, and was on his feet, staring down at her.

  “Thank God, lady, for I could die with the wanting of you tonight!”

  He carried her to the bed, and made love to her with such tenderness and passion that in the end Genevieve was certain that it had been just a little bit like dying . . . and finding Paradise.

  Eighteen

  “Oh, and we must see that Mildred—Tess’s mother—is brought here as soon as possible. She is quite alone now, and from what Tess tells me she will not survive the winter if something is not done,” Genevieve told Tamkin.

  He scribbled another line onto the roster he wrote, nodding, then he looked to Genevieve. “Shall she work in the kitchen?”

  Genevieve walked the small side hall above the chapel, tapping her steepled fingers to her chin. “Nay, I think not. Her health is fragile. But she spins the most wonderful thread—so Tess assures me. She can have a small room in the eastern wing and work in the solar, where she will have what light there is to help her.”

  Tamkin scribbled on the paper again and Genevieve wandered over to the mullioned windo
ws, looking outside into the courtyard.

  The winter’s first snow had fallen that morning, and everything was beautiful. As glorious as a fairy-tale of ice palaces and kingdoms in spun-sugar clouds. The ground was soft white, and horses passed by with their harnesses jingling, tossing their manes and tails in glorious delight. The stable boys and grooms passed beneath her now and then, their woolen cloaks and mantles bathed in a sudden spray of white. Winter’s first snow . . .

  She sighed suddenly, feeling her confinement deeply. Just an hour or so ago the men had ridden out, Jon and Tristan and young Roger de Treyne and Father Thomas and two of the falconers, to hunt the huge bucks moving closer to the coast for food. Genevieve had watched them from this window, wistfully, longing to go.

  But she had not asked.

  She’d gained a certain freedom, and she no longer felt so wretchedly idle. The castle was hers to roam, yet she knew that she was not fully trusted; guards were stationed at strategic places. She knew, without asking, that Tristan would not trust her upon a horse. When he had mentioned their outing this morning, she had watched him with her unspoken plea in her eyes; but, she had known his answer without his words.

  The Sisters of Good Hope were too close, should she manage to elude him on horseback.

  Genevieve sighed suddenly, leaning against the stone and holding back the drapery to stare into the snow, which she so longed to touch. Life was easier now, in the days since his return. She did cherish the change! Things had fallen into a pattern by silent agreement. Tamkin—still a prisoner like herself but invaluable in the running of the estates—worked with her frequently; in winter they saw to the welfare of the tenants and the farmers that the lords of the castle were bound to consider.

  So much unsaid . . . Genevieve brooded. It seemed such a strange period of time, as if everything waited. And life was indeed she thought, strange. Not unpleasant. Mornings she spent as she had for years, daily supervising more and more of the domestic activities within the walls. Afternoons she spent with Edwyna and Anne, sewing, talking, laughing, playing, reading, or practicing upon her harp now that she was allowed to the music chamber once again. And when dusk came Annie was put to bed, Tristan and Jon returned from their business, and they took the evening meal together, often with Father Thomas and Tibald joining them, too.