Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  She sipped it and felt a great rush of warmth and comfort both from the potion and his arm and casual ease beside her. And yet for all that, a feeling of the greatest shyness swept over her and she kept her eyes lowered murmuring, “I should rise quickly. Surely it is near time for Christmas Mass.”

  “Not so near,” he murmured., and taking the chocolate from her he lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were on her as light as a summer’s sky, his hair was ever slightly tousled about his forehead, and a slow, lazy smile played about his lips. Never had he looked so handsome and tender.

  “We’ve some time,” he said lightly, and his smile played more fully across his features with amusement and ruefulness. “I’d not be outdone by the King, you see.”

  “Your pardon?” Genevieve murmured with some confusion.

  He left her once again and went to where his cloak lay upon the back of a chair. He came back to her with a small package wrapped in blue velvet, placing it into her hands.

  She did not open it but stared at him, her eyes grown wide. Again he sat by her side, opening the package of velvet when she could not, setting the clasp aside to reveal a menage of delicate gold filigree and sparkling gems. He drew them from their nest, straightening the piece, and she saw that it was a cap for the hair, intricate, glorious.

  “The gems,” he explained, “reminded me of your eyes—in all their moods and hues. Amethysts in mauve and sapphires in blue and diamonds for their glittering fire in passion and in anger.”

  Genevieve stared, her heart thundering. She could not speak, and did not know what to feel. Gladness? That he could think of her and such a beautiful thing all in one. Or shame . . . that she had proved herself so entertaining that he would think to reward her with material gain? Were it not that he had taken Edenby! That they had met as friends to become lovers! Were it not the first Christmas where her father lay rotting in his tomb alongside the man who would have made her his wife.

  “Genevieve?”

  She could not touch it. She kept her eyes low.

  “It is—beautiful.”

  He leaned across her feet suddenly, studying her, and though her eyes were low he might see them. Primly she smoothed the covers over her breasts.

  “Truly, Tristan. The gift is beautiful. But I—cannot accept it. I have nothing for you.”

  “Genevieve.”

  He touched her chin again, lifting it. She could not read what thoughts played through his mind then, but it seemed again that he had read hers.

  “I bought it in London, Genevieve. With rents collected from my estates in the north. I did not buy it to appease your anger, nor to pay for pleasure. I purchased it as a Christmas gift for a woman whose beauty it does so nicely complement. And that is all.”

  Tears stung her eyes with his words, and she blinked quickly to hide them from his gaze. He took the jeweled snood from her and knelt, straddled above her, to set it upon her head, and she laughed, telling him that her hair was too wild to do the piece justice.

  “Nay, I tend to like this mane of yours wild and disheveled,” he told her, sitting back to survey it. The gentle look of tenderness did not fade from his face, and suddenly Genevieve was glad again, and touched and warmed as if by fire.

  She looked quickly downward, her fingers nervously folding over the blue velvet packaging. “But I have nothing for you,” she whispered.

  To her surprise, he was suddenly standing. He strode to the hearth, fingers laced tautly behind his back. Genevieve watched after him with some surprise, for he was, in a way, abruptly gone from her, and she could not read him so easily as he discerned her heart from the shades of her eyes.

  “Tristan, I did not seek to offend you—”

  He turned quite suddenly, yet he was still distant from her; but not angry, merely living in another age, another place, in the darker resources of his mind, and struggling perhaps to speak lightly to her.

  “You have a gift now, madam.”

  “But I do not—”

  He inclined his head, nodding toward the growing slope of her belly beneath the sheeted swell of her breasts. And though his voice went suddenly harsh, she felt that he still meant no anger against her.

  “Would you give me a gift this Christmas, then milady? One that I would cherish, one that would allow me to sleep well in the night? If you would, Genevieve, swear to me only that you will care for yourself—and the child that we’ve created. Whether in your heart you call me friend—or your greatest foe. Swear to me only that you will guard your life, and your health, and that of the child.”

  She colored rapidly, knotting her fingers ever deeper in that velvet, for the only time they had ever really discussed the child was that first night of his return, when they had fought so bitterly and so strangely. She didn’t know what he felt; she could well imagine that she must remind him painfully at times of his former happiness. She thought what a wondrous time it must have been for them, young and so in love, with no black clouds between them, man and wife cherishing the babe that would be.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she was very afraid and dizzy and glad. Perhaps they were still enemies; perhaps time could never change that. The world was a treacherous place; and the life could change again. That was her hope, was it not? That some Yorkist would present a claim to the throne?

  She didn’t know. It was Christmas; her father and Axel lay buried in the chapel. She should still despise this man with all her heart, yet for all that lay between them and for all that haunted his past, he asked her now, with near a touch of whimsy, that she guard herself—and their child. He did not seem to hate her for living when his wife did not.

  “Genevieve?”

  She looked up at him at last, and again she was struck by his appearance so that she trembled. Aye, but what a child this would be, for he was so fine and gallant! She was afraid again to speak. I do not hate you! she longed to cry. I am merely afraid that I cannot hate you anymore. Yet I must somehow cling to honor beneath it all and remain your enemy, you who came and saw and wanted and took, who caused my father to lie dead below . . .

  She could not think of hating him at the moment. She shook her head slightly in confusion and whispered hoarsely

  “Milord, I do intend to keep my health. And ... that of the child.”

  Then she was frightened by her admission; she did not want to tell him that she could easily love the life within her, and too easily love her enemy So she jumped from the bed, carrying her covers along with her, laughing to cover her emotion.

  “That, milord,” she teased, curtsying as elegantly as she could in her gown of linens, “is no Christmas gift! You have given me jewels—”

  “Ah,” he returned, bowing to her, “but you give me jewels nightly, my love. I sleep entwined in that jewel, that golden mane. I told you once—I consider its value immense.”

  “Perhaps I could shear it—”

  “Perish the thought, milady.”

  “Well then,” she murmured softly, “perhaps I should just entangle it about you. Now.”

  With her words she dropped her sheet and stood before him, naked and proud and regally beautiful, and most sweetly uninhibited in his presence. Tristan was stunned and fascinated into silence, drawing raggedly for a breath.

  “Perhaps,” she murmured seductively, “I should come to you, with your gift, clad only in mine.”

  She walked to him, oh slowly! Seductive as a cat, hips swaying slightly, the pad of her feet so light she might have walked on air. And her hair, that crowning glory adorned in the caplet of jewels, was silk about her, floating, sailing, golden ecstasy that curled over her breasts and hips like nature’s grandest cloak.

  He could not move. Never before had she initiated so much as a touch, and seeing her thus enflamed his heart and his loins. Yet he could not lift a hand but only stare in amazement.

  One that she surely enjoyed, for there was a subtle and lazy smile about her lips, a sensual sway to her supple movement. S
he seemed as practiced as Eve, and a much richer temptation. She stopped, just feet away, her hands upon her hips, a taunting tilt to her chin and the devil’s own mystique in her eyes.

  She pressed herself against him then, on tiptoe, winding her arms about his neck, and leaning against him in such a way that she taunted his body from head to toe, and surely felt the hardened flagstaff of his arousal. But she was mischief incarnate, then, allowing him the full feel of her breasts, then spinning away. “Perhaps I need a bodice!” she declared, draping her hair demurely then about her chest, causing an evocative display of deepest cleavage between the creamy mounds. And she spun again, and her hair with her, a golden rainfall, taunting and teasing, covering and then laying bare all that was feminine and beautiful and all that quickened his senses until they thundered.

  “Perhaps—” she began in a purr, but broke off with a startled yelp because his inertia and silence were ended, he was before her, laughing like the lion triumphant, and sweeping her up and into his arms.

  “Perhaps, milady? Perhaps what?”

  “Oh, but, milord!” she squealed, feigning shock and horror. “You’re dressed—”

  “A matter easily remedied.”

  “I’d not have you take the trouble—”

  “Ah, but I could deny you nothing. And certainly not all of myselfl”

  With that he made a leap that brought them both gasping and laughing and hard down upon the bed. And her eyes glittered, still a rage of excitement, as she swept out her arms, carrying rich locks of her hair with her to wrap about his shoulders and neck. He buried his face within it, and then his kisses rained so fast and furious over her naked flesh that she discovered herself taunting him no more but pleading with him, knowing not what she said, simply asking him to fill the need within her.

  “You think it that simple, wench? Drive a man beyond the bounds of sanity and deny him the fruit of slow temptation? Nay!”

  “Tristan . . . have mercy!”

  “Nay, lady, ’tis not one of my finer qualities!”

  And with roving kisses and a wanderer’s heady touch, he brought her again and again to a delicious precipice, only to leave her anxious and waiting and pleading . . . and begin again. It was daylight but he spared her no intimacy, staring boldly where he would, resting his head upon her thigh, bringing her near delirium with the stroke of his kiss and the whisper of his touch, then laughing when she declared that she could go no further.

  Indeed she would, for most curiously, though she felt weak with the sensations he had wrought, she discovered that he would demand things of her still. When she whispered that he must disrobe, he told her that she must disrobe him; and to her great amazement she did just that, and to her greater amazement still she discovered she could truly be the wanton, covering his chest with the sultry flick of her tongue, sliding against him, lower, lower . . .

  Heed his urgings, explore with fascination and ardent administration all of him. And relish, savor . . . his words of urging and passion . . . the sharp, rasping sound of his breath as desire grew. His hands, rough upon her, dragging her to him, bringing them together.

  As they had never, never been before. So stunned and sated with it neither could talk, or move, but just lie . . .

  But then Genevieve did move with a little gasp of alarm because there was a sharp rapping on the door, and Jon called out to Tristan.

  Tristan laughed at Genevieve’s panic and grasped quickly on the floor for the lost covers, pulling them over them both as he bid Jon to enter. Genevieve flushed furiously but Jon merely stood in the open doorway, his hand upon it, and wished them both good Christmas, smiling and reminding them that the hour was late, that all the guests were assembled, that, ahem, they really should dress and rise.

  Tristan chuckled and held Genevieve against him despite her dismay and promised Jon that they would be right down.

  Neither Tristan nor Genevieve saw the man who stood behind Jon in the hallway, looking in, noting their closeness and dishabille.

  Neither of them saw him, or the murderous fury written across his features.

  The door closed and Genevieve leaped from the bed, tearing into one of her trunks for clothing. Tristan rose with an amused smile and dressed with a more casual calm. But after he had helped her with her shift and the tiny buttons and hooks on her gown, his smile faded and he held her shoulders closely, staring down into her eyes.

  “There’s one more gift I’d have of you, milady.”

  Wide-eyed, startled by his tone, Genevieve stared at him in silence, her beautiful features marred by a growing frown.

  “Tristan—”

  “I have to leave today, Genevieve. I am to return to Court with Lord Gifford and the others.”

  “What!” She tried very hard not to let the surprise or dismay show in her features.

  “I have to return to Court. Henry has summoned me. I do not wish to lock you in a tower room again, Genevieve. Swear to me that you’ll make no attempt to escape.”

  She lowered her eyes quickly, wondering why it hurt so badly, why she should feel such desolation that he should leave her. The morning . . . it was this wretched morning, it had been so exquisite and they had been so close and ...

  She was seeing things that were not there, and could not be there, and dear God—where had she lost her pride and dignity along with her freedom and honor?

  “Genevieve?”

  “Tristan, that is not fair!”

  “Genevieve, I do not want to set guards upon you day or night.”

  She tossed her head back, looking up at him with agony. “If I gave you my word, how could you trust it? I am still amazed that you dare sleep with me here. You swore that you would not!”

  “Perhaps I am mistaken to do so.”

  “Perhaps you are!”

  He tore from her suddenly, and she flinched. Then he spun to face her again so quickly, his unsheathed sword in his hand, the hilt outstretched.

  “Take it!” he roared to her.

  She could not. Dazed, alarmed, she stepped back, but he came closer once more, eyes black as pitch with emotion, tension straining the cords of his neck to tautness. He grabbed her, crushing her against him, and the smooth blade of the sword lay between them.

  “Take it, milady, take it now—if you would.”

  “Tristan, stop this!” she cried out, near tears.

  “Give me your word!” he thundered, his fingers around her wrist like steel, clamping so tightly, and she felt he was barely aware that he held her.

  “Take the sword, Genevieve, or give me your word.”

  “You have it! Let me go, Tristan, please, this—”

  “Before Almighty God, Genevieve.”

  “I swear it, before Almighty God, by all the saints! Just, please, Tristan, let me go, do not look at me so—”

  He released her, and turned his back to her, sliding his weapon back into the scabbard. He was silent, dark head bowed. Then he turned back to her and stretched out his hand, willing her with his eyes to take it.

  “Come, we are awaited.”

  She studied his eyes but could fathom nothing about the man. Hesitantly she gave him her hand, and they left the room together.

  * * *

  Even while the day wore on and Tristan remained within her reach, Genevieve felt the desolation of his leaving.

  He stood by her at Mass, while Father Thomas and Father Lang gave sermons. Genevieve continually felt that both these men, her friends, stared at them with condemning eyes.

  This is not my fault! she wanted to cry out. But perhaps she was beginning to feel that it was, for she was not taken against her will night after night—she had quite literally embraced the enemy to her bosom.

  She lowered her head for prayer, but did not pray. Edwyna had admitted to her once that Father Thomas had gone to Tristan, appalled by the relationship he shared with Genevieve. Father Thomas, it seemed, had demanded that Tristan either wed her or release her.

  And Tristan had me
rely reminded Father Thomas that he himself was not free of the sins of the flesh—a fact that everyone in Edenby knew, but no one discussed.

  That had been that. Tristan had no thought of marriage, now or ever. Which, Genevieve proclaimed, was to her liking. She’d had no choice but become his mistress. But she could not marry him. For marriage, she would have to vow to love him, to obey him. She would have to give the vows—and giving that vow would he the greatest disloyalty. He could take her chastity from her—he could not take her loyalty. That she still owed to her father, to Axel, to those who had died in defense of Edenby.

  And still she was wretched because she was frightened. Tristan had told her he would never marry anyone. She was certain that he believed her protestations and carried no delusions that she longed for marriage.

  But what would the future bring? It would be one thing to run by herself, to seek sanctuary, penniless. But not with an infant. What would she do when Tristan’s fancy turned and his fire for her ceased to burn? She did not want to be frightened; usually she could convince herself that she eagerly awaited that moment.

  But the heart was a fickle thing, more treacherous than any man. There was not just fear, but stark terror in the idea that she longed to cry because he was leaving. God help her! She would miss the passion, and the play, and the tender moments. And she would long for them to come again.

  “Genevieve, the service has ended!”

  He whispered the words to her and she nodded and rose from her knees. He told her that he had to meet with Jon in the counting room and asked her with a rueful grin if she would pack his clothes.

  Aye, she needed to gather his shirts and his good mended hose and join Edwyna, for the table would be heavy laden again today and the hall would be plentiful with guests before the men rode away.

  But Genevieve hovered behind in the chapel, staying behind one of the pillars when Father Thomas looked about and closed the doors. Once he was gone Genevieve walked to the tomb where her father lay beside her mother, in their sepulcher of stone. She touched that stone, and the tears that had seemed so hot and heavy behind her eyelids all morning now spilled soft and silent down her cheek. “Oh, father, dear father, I love you, I do not mean to dishonor you . . .”