Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  When the door closed upon them for the night she wrenched from his hold, spinning with that ire to accost him.

  “You did that on purpose! It was cruel—and totally unnecessary! You had no cause, you had no right!”

  Tristan leaned against the door for a moment, watching her with no comment. Then he strode across the room, shedding his clothing as he moved. Genevieve stared after him with her anger rising like a fire storm—he would not even give her the courtesy of an answer.

  He sat and tossed off his boots and stripped away his hose, then rose, stretching. Naked muscle flexed and Genevieve tore her eyes from him to thump across to the chairs before the hearth, sitting there, her back to him.

  She heard him crawl into the bed. And she felt the tension crack between them like the blaze that snapped the logs in the hearth.

  At last he spoke to her, harshly.

  “Come to bed, Genevieve.”

  “Ah, yes! Where everyone assumes I will be!”

  He was silent for a moment, then asked sardonically, “And isn’t it where you do customarily lie?”

  Tears pricked her eyes and she knotted her fingers into the clawed armrests of the chair. Why did it suddenly hurt so? Perhaps because she had felt like the lady of the manor again this night, like a noblewoman gently born and gently bred.

  Aye, she had felt like a lady. Not like Tristan de la Tere’s whore.

  “Genevieve!”

  She wanted to tell him to go to hell and to burn there slowly for all eternity. But she was dangerously close to tears and feared that she would shed them if she spoke too long, with too much emotion. She sighed out her anger in a long breath and said only, “Leave me be, Tristan, I beg of you. Just this night.”

  His sudden, violent reaction was not at all what she expected. Her words had been but a whisper, and broken at that. He was upon his feet, like a panther, naked and wiry and powerful in his movement, reaching her while she leapt from the chair, gasping in alarm. He caught her arm, and she tried to wrench from him to little avail; he swirled her to him, lifting her from her feet, high against him, head tossed back and his eyes black.

  “Tonight, milady? Leave you be—tonight? That you might dream in peace?”

  “Tristan! I do not know what is wrong with you! Damn you, is it too much to ask—”

  She broke off, breathless, as she was slammed against the bed. She called him every manner of name in her vocabulary and kicked at him viciously when he came over her, finding a good mark in his nakedness. He grunted in pained surprise and then was furious. She tried to escape, but he held her firmly by the hair, and his fingers tore her gown.

  “Tristan—”

  His name was a growl and she clawed for his face. Silently, with a grim look, he secured her wrists.

  “Tristan!”

  It was a plea—for he frightened her, and yet she could not believe that he would really hurt her. He drew her arms high above her head, lowering himself carefully over her, dire in his wrath still but offering her no harm.

  “Tristan! Please! I but asked that you leave me be this night! I began no fight—”

  “You began everything, my love, but I shall finish it all for you!” he told her heatedly. “Tonight, of all nights, you will lie here with me. You will not dream of days gone past, of yesterday’s love, or dream of that boy’s hands. You—”

  “You mad Lancastrian bastard!” Genevieve hissed. She struggled fiercely against his hold and felt only his thighs tightening about her, his fingers grown more rigid on her wrists. “I was to marry his best friend—a boy that lies dead and buried in the chapel below! I never felt anything for Guy but friendship! It is not to dream of another’s touch that I would be left alone—it would be to dream of the beauties of a nunnery!”

  He started to laugh suddenly, and the sound was crude.

  “My love, I do not see you in a nunnery.”

  “Tristan—”

  “Nay, Genevieve, you fool! He feasts upon you with his eyes—”

  “He watches me in distress! This is less than honorable, to my eyes, and in the sight of those who loved me! And perhaps it might not have been so bad! You did not need to maul me before him, like property, like a mare, like a pup. And, dear God, you did not have to announce that I—”

  “That you are quite pregnant?” he interrupted bluntly.

  “It was cruel!”

  “It is the truth.”

  “And it is the truth, too, that you care less whether I am exhausted or nay! That you did it just to be cruel—”

  “Nay, Genevieve,” he said, abruptly weary. “It was not with cruelty that I spoke but with kindness. Sir Guy means trouble, lady. It is best for him to know beyond a doubt that you are mine. Perhaps, knowing that you are pregnant, he will not think to rescue you from this plight. Kindness again—for if he touches you, my love, he is dead.”

  She inhaled sharply, staring at him, for he had spoken no more in anger or in malice but in simple truth. Confused, she shook her head. “You are wrong! I do not dream of him, nor he of me. It is the ignominy, it is his horror at my situation—”

  “Now that, my love, is most amusing. Your situation is merely that which you offered yourself while the gallant Sir Guy was still in residence here. In fact, we sat together at the table that distant night, all three of us. And Sir Guy watched us walk the stairs together to this chamber and close the door.”

  “Tristan, you do not understand—”

  “Aye, but I do, Genevieve! I see that what was planned that night was not illicit but immoral, it was murder rather than seduction. Was it, perchance, young Guy—the gallant and horrified—who planned that attempt at murder?”

  “No!” Genevieve gasped, and she closed her eyes suddenly, going very rigid. “Tristan, really, all that I asked was that we not fight this war tonight, that—”

  “And all I asked was that you come to bed. Where you are now, milady.”

  He settled against her and in the flickering light of candles and fire, his face was a demon’s mask, his grin was a leer with his features shadowed and dangerously handsome, his teeth shockingly white against that darkness. And even as she stared at that grin of his she felt its cause, for her struggles had brought her bare flesh against his, and her rent gown gave way further with each breath that she took.

  “Tristan—”

  “Not tonight, milady? Aye, tonight, madam, more so than any other night. For sometime tomorrow he will try to come near you. And he will ask you if I made love to you during the darkness. You are dying to look him in the eye and deny it in all innocence, and that I will not allow you to do. Nay, milady, when he asked you, you will flush that beautiful shade of red that creeps over you now—because I have read every thought in your heart.”

  “You’ve not read a thing!” Genevieve protested, and yet she prayed suddenly that he could not read more, and she marveled again at whatever it was that flared between them. For no matter how angry she became, frustrated, furious or determined, she could also, all too easily, long for him—for the feel of his skin against hers, the pulse at his throat, and that harder pulse of his, strong against her bare thigh, insistent and insinuative and creating a quickening inside of her.

  His smile deepened as if he still read her thoughts. She went very still but failed to deter any of his motions. He stroked her cheek in a slow, tantalizing motion.

  “Ah, Genevieve, trust me! I do know much about you, for I seek to know it. Would that you were a book, ah, what eloquent words there would be to read, scripted in elegance, letters that curled and curved. I’d hunger for each sentence, I’d devour all the language that lay within. I’d seek out the heart and the soul, they that ever do lie within the gold-gilded pages and the velvet binding. Not that I would scorn the cover, ah, never, love, would I do that!”

  His hands upon her parted her gaping bodice, his palms, rough and urgent and tender, smoothed along her flesh, grazing her breasts and covering her midriff and waist, moving ever lower and rend
ing fabric with a strange music until there was nothing between them but a whisper of air.

  “Dream, would you, my love? For what?”

  Genevieve gasped out a startled sound as he moved suddenly, studying her form as one might indeed peruse some work of art.

  “Silk and velvet, my love. Did I say gilding? Nay, but gold here, solid and true, the most beauteous work, oh, this cover! So hypnotic, milady, that a man must read further whether he desired to or nay. He cannot escape the fascination of all that lies there. So I say, my lady, my love, that neither he nor any other could fill your dream as I am determined to fill your life. I adore this binding and this spine, and already the words, composed within carry a story that is partly my own ...” His voice trailed away, the reverence of his caress did not. His hands indeed adored her flesh, in a tender manner that traced the slight swelling of her abdomen and that greater, seductive swelling of her breasts. And she stared at him, trembling, aching, and whispered with amazement, “Truly—you are mad!”

  “Mad! Mad you accuse me! Ah, lady, mayhap this is true! Maddened with desire that knows no end, maddened with the need to burrow ever deeper into this book, learn the pages, test the matter well within!”

  “Tristan—”

  She tried to rise, and he but laced his arms around her, crushing her full and heavy breasts to his chest, her hips flush with his. He kissed her long and hard and when he was done she was falling, falling beneath him, palms hard against him to discover him, to seek to discover him, too.

  Read the man, that which she could, by sight and taste and touch; all that she could touch of the elusive dream. She found herself upon her stomach, feeling his kiss along her spine, from nape to the rounded flare of her hips. He taunted and teased again, telling her what was binding and what was the finest paper, where lay the sweetest phrases and the erotic words.

  She laughed . . . and laughed until her quest for breath left no room for laughter, until she stared into his eyes with her arms about his neck and sucked in a great gasp of air with shuddering wonder, as they told one splendid tale together. Laughter faded to cries and whispers, tremors of need became shudders of fulfillment, and even then they were bound together, for he held her close, chin upon her head, deep in thought, an arm locked about her waist and his fingers drawing gentle circles in that slight swell, where their child lay and grew.

  Genevieve did not sleep, but wondered that all could be disaster, and still he could not only make her writhe and arch and twist with aching need to his rhythm, but also . . .

  Make her laugh.

  * * *

  Morning came, and she woke with bright sunlight; the hall was alive, their guests had risen.

  She started to rise, the covers falling from her, and saw Tristan’s eyes were upon her. He gazed with a brilliant light upon the tousled tangle of her hair, where it lay over the rise of her breasts.

  In mild panic she strove to toss away the covers and rise, but his arm snaked out ere she could do so.

  “Tristan, nay—” she warned in alarm, but he was atop her and she was protesting that she could hear their company, that they must be up and—dressed!—and about.

  He shook his head most wickedly. “Nay, I’d have my mark well upon you. In kindness, you know—for the lad.”

  “Your ‘mark’ is upon me!” she retorted, but that wicked grin increased and he whispered, “Ah, milady, there is something radiant and telling about a fresh bedded maid—I’d not have him miss the signs!”

  “Tristan . . .”

  It was as far as she got.

  And when she was finally up and washed and dressed and trying to come down the stairs with him in some semblance of pride and dignity, she wanted to kick him in the absolute worst way.

  Because his words kept returning to her. And so naturally she blushed, wondering if the others could really tell or not. And thanks to that simple game he had played on her mind, it was probably painfully evident because all she could seem to do was blush.

  “Ah, yes, a radiant, radiant rose . . .” Tristan whispered when they gained the hall.

  And she did kick him. Discreetly, of course.

  “A red rose,” he warned her with a mocking smile. “A slightly thorny but wonderfully red, red rose.”

  Nineteen

  If it had not been for Guy, Genevieve would have enjoyed the stay of their guests immensely.

  Christmas was upon them, soft white snow continued to fall, and even under their clouded circumstances there was a great deal of merriment. Each night it seemed that Griswald prepared a finer feast, mummers and carolers came to the doors and musicians came to play in the halls.

  Lord Gifford and his party were to stay through Christmas Day. Genevieve was not sure of what passed between this particular guest and Tristan, but she became aware from things said here and there that Tristan was being summoned back to Court. Why, or when, she was not sure. And while the King’s men remained with them she did not ask, for certain questions brought out a cold and dry response from him. They were seldom alone together except for the nights, and the nights were something she had long since given up decrying.

  She enjoyed watching Tristan and Jon with Thomas Tidewell. They were all ready to tell some tale of one another as awkward youths, exposing one foible or another. The years melted away when they laughed, accusing one another of some reckless stunt.

  One such time came on Christmas Eve. It had been a grand day, with the hall opened to welcome people, the farmers and the merchants and craftsmen, their wives and their daughters. In memory of Christ’s giving, Tristan and the members of the household had bathed and dried the feet of the feeble and poor and needy, and handed out coins; and when that ritual had ended, with Father Thomas and Father Lang giving out blessings to the poor and rich alike, there had been dancing. Tess, barefoot and ecstatic, had danced about the room on Tristan’s arm, only to be swept from him by a bold and bellowing Tibald. Guy had thought to claim Genevieve, but Lord Gifford had rescued her from those too tight and passionate arms before Tristan could be aware of the event.

  She and Edwyna danced with many a farmer and shepherd, while Tristan and the King’s men held many a milkmaid. It was the custom of Edenby for the people to come together on this night. Punch was served in a giant wassail bowl, and it was a night when all men might eat, drink, and be merry.

  It seemed an especially fine night to Genevieve. She was weary yet awake with the excitement. Fathers Lang and Thomas had retired to the former’s rooms by the kitchen ell to discuss some theology, and the guests had trudged away home. Edwyna had retired with an exhausted little Anne. Genevieve hadn’t seen Guy in quite a while. In the great hall, before the hearth, were Jon, Thomas Tidewell, Tristan, and herself. She had thought to leave them alone, but when she began an awkward excuse Tristan caught her hand and drew her to him, and she somehow wound up resting between his knees, his hands playing idly upon her hair, while they all sat back, tired, and at ease.

  And in those moments Genevieve felt a strange tug at her heart, and she wished ardently that she might have known Tristan in a different life, years ago. Before that heinous crime had been done against him.

  “Ah, but you should have seen his face!” Thomas Tidewell was saying, grinning at Tristan. “But that was Tristan—ever determined to prove himself to his father. He just had to ride that great black stallion, and the animal did see fit to deposit him straight way in the trough!”

  Genevieve gazed up him as he stroked her cheek. “I was all of nine years old!” he protested. “And the younger son. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Your brother was quite amused,” Jon remembered.

  “Aye—as was the earl. The switching he gave you was heard halfway down to London.”

  “Now that I’d have enjoyed!” Genevieve teased, and he arched a brow to her.

  “I can just imagine, milady!”

  “It was well, though, for you did learn to train that horse,” Jon murmured.

&nb
sp; “Aye, and Pie is another like him.”

  “Genevieve knows all about Pie’s manners,” Tristan said, smiling.

  She lowered her eyes, amazed at the softness of the smile that crept to her lips, too; it did not seem possible that they could share amusement now over such things between them. She was so contented, like a kitten curled at his feet; soon she was drifting to sleep.

  She could not quite stifle a yawn when she said good-night to the others, and she leaned heavily upon Tristan’s arm until they reached the room. She barely made it to the bed, and she lay back exhaustedly, her eyes closing immediately.

  “Genevieve, you cannot sleep with your shoes on.”

  She heard his voice but dimly, yet heard within soft strains of tender amusement.

  “I cannot move,” she groaned.

  And he sat to take her shoes from her, rubbing her tired feet, the soles, toes, and heel, with such gentle dexterity that she smiled wistfully, her eyes still closed, and sighed with the sweetest refrain. She knew little else but that manipulation, and vaguely still that later he helped her from her gown and shift, and drew her against his warmth and comfort to sleep.

  She woke to sunshine—and Tess in the room, Tristan already up and dressed, and the wonderful smell of chocolate wafting on the air from a silver server set upon the table before the hearth.

  Genevieve pulled her hair from her eyes as she heard Tristan laughing to Tess and wishing her a fine Christmas. Genevieve almost climbed out of bed, but although she had been naked before Tess and naked before Tristan, she’d never appeared before both at once in such a state; so she curled more deeply into the covers. Tess left and the door closed, and when Tristan turned she smiled almost shyly and wished him God’s blessings for Christmas.

  He smiled in turn and did not come straight to her but paused by the table to pour a mug of chocolate. When he reached her it was to chide her to move her rump so that he might sit beside her, and when she laughed and did so he slid next to her, his one hand about her as he offered her the chocolate with the other.