Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  Tristan gazed at Edwyna in return and she was quite certain that he wasn’t at all drunk. There was something shrewd in his gaze; he knew she had come to accost him, and coldly dared her to do so, although he greeted her warmly when the minstrel had stopped and other voices were chiming that he begin again.

  “You’re home, oh noble Lord of Edenby!” Edwyna said.

  “Ah, sweet Edwyna! Do I detect a barb? Jon, take care! The honeyed bride yet has claws!”

  “Edwyna—” Jon began.

  “I am glad to see you alive and well, Tristan,” Edwyna continued.

  “But of course he is alive and well, Edwyna!” proclaimed the Countess, as her elegant fingers slipped down to stroke Tristan’s chin. “So gallant a knight would easily beat down the bloody Irish!”

  Tristan’s smile slipped with some annoyance. “The ‘bloody’ Irish were fine men of poor conviction,” he said quietly.

  There seemed to be another set of fine lines about his eyes, Edwyna thought. And a slash across his hand was turning to a white scar. It was strange, she decided sadly, that a man so proficient in battle should hate it so.

  He was handsome, and he was hard—and he was the knight just returned from fierce warfare, yet she was also suddenly convinced that this blase attitude of his was false; that he really had no taste for this merriment, that instead he brooded. Like a man ... haunted.

  She lowered her voice slightly, but otherwise ignored those around her.

  “You have not seen Genevieve.”

  “Yes, I thought I’d do her that favor.”

  So darkly! So bitterly he spoke! For a moment Edwyna was at a loss, but the Countess’ elegant little fingers were dangling over his shoulder then. She knew that it meant nothing to Tristan. But she was suddenly so infuriated for Genevieve that she wanted to hurt him anyway—and she knew just where to strike.

  “I had merely thought you might be concerned,” she said lightly. “A child born at this point would surely die.”

  She reached him—oh, definitely!

  “Edwyna!” Jon admonished her harshly, but Tristan drew her attention, snatching her hands in a grip that could crush.

  “What has she done?”

  “Why, nothing, milord, but she knows that you are back.”

  He was on his feet, striding away, with shoulders squared. Someone called after him; he did not turn.

  “Edwyna, by God—” Jon threatened her.

  She turned on her husband and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper against his reproach for her. “Jon, it could be true if he does not see her. She was . . . wild!”

  He stared at her and she thought again how handsome he was and how lucky she was. And then his lips touched hers, and she knew that they were all right. If only she did not have to worry so about Genevieve.

  * * *

  Genevieve must have slept. When she opened her eyes again she felt a dull pain throbbing against her temples and then a fiercer pain that stabbed no real part of her body but seemed to tear against her heart. She had known, she had known she was nothing to him but a foe, to be broken and used—but somehow she had allowed herself to care anyway. And she couldn’t stop it now; couldn’t stop the pain or the feeling, nor could she cease to torment herself. Here she was, so swollen with his child that she could not face company, and there he was, out with others, not even bothering to tell her that he lived.

  She closed her eyes again, then opened them wide, not at all sure how she was aware that she was not alone, but looking instinctively to the doorway.

  He was there, just inside the door, with one foot upon a trunk, his elbow casually upon his knee, watching her. He was aware that she had wakened, yet he had not bothered to announce his appearance. At first she just returned that stare, dismayed by the assessment. His eyes were very dark and guarded. His shoulders seemed to strain against his royal blue tunic, and the masculine allure of the man seemed to command the very air around him. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and he looked both young and severe at once.

  And here she lay, after all these months, with no dignity about her. Hair free and tangled and tousled with sleep, the wool loose and ugly about her—her feet still bare. She felt grossly misshapen, and terribly at a disadvantage.

  Genevieve sat up abruptly, drawing her back to the bedpost and bracing her palms against the mattress.

  Oddly enough, it was at that very moment that she came to know how very much she loved him, how painfully and deeply she did care. Wrongly—without honor, it was true. And it hurt so badly because she had never felt so lost and alone, so perfectly aware that she was not loved in return. He had not even bothered to come to her—for he had surely found other interests, other women.

  “So. You are back.”

  Oh, she had not known that she could sound so bitterly cold herself! She saw him stiffen at the tone of her voice, and she thought, my God, I sound like a shrew—and I cannot help it. He didn’t reply. He walked over to the bed and she didn’t know which was stronger, the craving to burst into tears and plead for him to take her into his arms, or the trembling desire to strike out at him.

  She did neither. He sat on the bed and she inhaled, drawing into herself as much as possible, keeping her eyes open and level with his. Inside she trembled with awareness of his clean, manly scent, his face and features, and the bronze of his hands against the white-laced edge of his sleeves.

  “You’re well?” he said.

  “Nay, I’m horrid! I do not wish to be here, I—stop!”

  He was reaching beneath the hem of her blue wool, sliding his hands along the length of her legs, calves, and thigh, to reach the hard mound of her stomach. Outraged, she tried to stop him, but she should have learned that no one stopped Tristan when he was determined.

  Breathless, she grit her teeth to hold back her tears and glared at him in fury. He did not note her face though; he gazed upon her bare belly and moved his hands over it as he would.

  “Don’t!” she cried again, trembling.

  He looked at her at last. “The child is mine.”

  “The flesh is mine!”

  He smiled, and her heart caught at the sight of that smile, and then again she wondered with whom he had been smiling before, with whom had he laughed. And in all these months who had he charmed and seduced and touched and kissed and cared for?

  “I felt him kick.”

  “He doesn’t want you here, either!”

  “But I am here.”

  “A bit late for any real concern, I believe.”

  He drew his hands away at last and turned, rising from the bed. “I didn’t think that I would be the one you would be waiting for.”

  “You were the one who ordered my presence.”

  “But not the one you gave the passionate good-bye to in the chapel.”

  Good God, she had forgotten all about Guy. Forgotten that he had ridden with Tristan. Forgotten that he was a friend, that she should care desperately whether he had lived or died.

  “You’ve had no other visitors?”

  He spoke bitingly, mockingly. She answered in turn.

  “If I had them, milord, I would not know. They could not have gotten past your guards.”

  “The King’s guards, milady.”

  “ ’Tis often one and the same.”

  “It’s good to know where you’re sleeping.”

  “Why should you know, when I do not?”

  “Do you care?”

  His back was still to her; his voice was casual. But she could suddenly not answer, and at last he swung back to her, something so demanding about his expression that she longed for a place to hide. Why was he doing this to her? If he did not care, he should just leave her be.

  She lowered her eyes and tried to drag her gown back down over herself, and he laughed again, catching her hands then placing both of his own over her bare stomach again.

  And his touch was light and gentle. Palms against her, fingers stroking. She closed her eyes, thinking how grossly
distorted she was, how vulnerable he had made her, how he must be thinking that she was grotesque, ugly. She wished desperately that she could cover up, that she could at least be slim and trim so exposed.

  “He moved again. You’re wrong. He likes me, and he likes to be touched. He knows.”

  She opened her eyes. His head was bowed, but he was smiling still. And she trembled, admitting to herself that he gazed at her with a tender fascination now. He was making no attempt to humiliate her; he merely demanded, as was his way, to have what was his.

  “He kicks strongly . . .”

  There was pain in his voice. And a sudden, excruciating pain in his features. A tremor seared Genevieve’s heart, and her fingers moved against the sheets. She wanted to touch his face so badly, to ease away the pain she did not understand.

  She lifted her hand, but it fell flat at the sudden rapping at the door. Tristan pulled down her gown, smoothing it over her stomach, then reached for the covers, bringing them protectively over her.

  “What is it?” he called out.

  “Lord de la Tere! The King has been seeking you. He wants you in his privy chamber at once, Your grace.”

  Tristan stood. He felt her eyes on him, and returned her stare, then offered her a deep, mocking bow. She glared at him, pale, her eyes sparkling like crystals.

  “You’ll excuse me?”

  She did not reply. He left the room and closed the door behind him, then followed the liveried page down the twisting halls and corridors to the King’s privy chamber.

  What now? Tristan wondered. I will not go away again! I do not know how to be with her, but I do not know how to be without her. I must regain something that I have lost.

  He stepped on in. Henry awaited him behind his desk, tapping his fingers against it. Tristan twisted his jaw and clenched his teeth together. Don’t tell me I’m to ride again, I beg of you, Your Majesty!

  He bowed, inclining his head warily. “Sire?”

  “Tristan. I am grateful, you are aware, for your loyalty and service.”

  “Aye.” Cautiously.

  Henry stood. “I want you to marry Genevieve Llewelyn.”

  “Marry!” Tristan stared at him blankly.

  “Marry, Tristan. I’ve told you before—it’s a contract. Marry. Take her to wife.”

  Tristan shook his head. “I—I can’t—”

  “Well, you will. I’ve given you her holdings. I’ll add to that the Treveryll estates and you’ll be one of the most powerful men in the Kingdom.”

  “I—don’t seek further wealth.”

  “You will do it because I ask it of you.”

  “Why?” Tristan asked in a whisper. Marry. He couldn’t.

  “Tristan! It’s a contract! It’s a way of cementing family bonds and loyalties. She is going to have your child. She came from a family of steadfast Yorkists. The white rose and the red.”

  Tristan stared at him. A contract. It was a contract only. No, marriage was love and ...

  He didn’t dare think any further. He stared blankly as Henry picked up a pen and started writing, then looked at him again.

  “Tristan, I command this—as your King. If you won’t do it for my pleasure, I will have to take Edenby—and Genevieve—from you and give them elsewhere.”

  “She’s pregnant! With my child!”

  “Oh, many a man would happily claim your bastard for the sake of such a beauty and Edenby.”

  “Be damn—” Tristan began, and then he remembered he spoke to the King. Well he would be damned if anyone else was taking Edenby. Or Genevieve.

  “Henry—there is one difficulty. The lady will refuse to marry me.”

  Henry looked up. “Will she?”

  “Emphatically.”

  The King shrugged and went back to his work.

  “You’ll think of something, Tristan. Oh—I do think that this wedding should take place before the child is born. A boy stands to inherit, so you’ll want him to be legitimate issue.”

  Tristan kept staring, blankly.

  “That’s all,” Henry said.

  Tristan turned and left.

  The doors closed behind him. For a long while he stood in the hallway, unable to believe that Henry was forcing his hand. He thought long and hard about Lisette. She was dead. Nothing could change that.

  Genevieve would not want to marry him. But she had to do so, and then their child would be legitimate and she would be his undeniably. Forever. And if Guy so much as touched her, he’d have every right in the world to challenge him.

  He felt lightened suddenly. He smiled, and then he began to whistle as he stepped down the hall. Genevieve would see it his way. He had the perfect plan.

  Twenty-one

  “Don’t be absurd—I know her!” Tristan told Jon. “She will never agree!”

  He had gone to his friend first, finding him in the gallery playing chess with Lord Whiggin, Edwyna perched behind him to watch the game. Whiggin was a wonderful player, so Tristan had casually dropped a few hints to help Jon lose the game, and baffled, Jon had reproached Tristan. But as soon as he had risen, Tristan had looped an arm about his shoulder, excused himself to Edwyna, and muttered something to draw Jon out to the streets with him. Now they meandered along the docks. It was a clear, cold day, with just a hint of spring in the air. A mortar and pestle etched into a wooden sign indicated the chemist’s shop at their left; beside that was a barber-surgeon’s shop front and across an alley crowded with onlookers, where street urchins danced and a traveling minstrel sang the praises of the new Tudor King, there was an open forge, where the blast from the furnaces warmed the air.

  “I still say it is well worth the attempt,” Jon argued, rubbing his hands together. His fingers were cold despite his soft lambskin gauntlets, Edwyna’s gift to him at Christmastide. “There’s a tavern, let’s make our way to it, shall we? Some good ale might make the problem seem an easier one.”

  Ten minutes later they were in a private room with a warm fire burning and an awestruck wench assigned to serve them. Tristan sat with his legs stretched out to the fire, one ankle crossed over the other, fingers laced around his pewter pint mug, eyes brooding upon the blaze. Jon was the animated one, still trying to convince him that all he needed do was ask.

  “You tell her that you wish to put the past behind you. That for the sake of the child you must not tarry.”

  “Jon—she won’t do it, I know.”

  “Any woman in her predicament would surely long to marry the father of her child. The Church! Bring up the Church!”

  “Rather late, don’t you think? I’m quite sure she knows what I had to say to our good Father Thomas at Edenby.”

  Jon swallowed down a draught of ale, slammed the tankard down, and threw up his arms. “Tell her that the King commands it!”

  “Ah, but you don’t understand, my friend. One obeys a King that one honors for political purposes. Fathers obey kings; daughters obey fathers. They do so in fear of loss. But Genevieve has nothing to lose.”

  Jon stared at him blankly, then rose to open the door and hail the young serving wench to bring more ale. He called out, then as he waited he turned back to Tristan.

  “But your idea is madness!”

  “Nay, it is not! Bribe the priest, and it is done. It will be easy to bribe the priest once he believes that he is doing the King’s will!”

  The girl came through the door then, balancing a tray with heavy new tankards. She set the tray before Tristan, leaning over, pressing her breasts high against her bodice. She was a pretty lass, well endowed and pleasingly plump, with merry brown eyes and bright red cheeks. He smiled at her idly, aware that she probably was considering what sum she might ask him for her favors.

  Someday, Tristan mused, she would be fat! And those bright cheeks would fall to jowls ...

  And he was being cruel, he realized. At one time in his life he might have found her tempting for an evening; like as not, she knew a trade beyond that of serving ale well! It would have been no
thing more than a night of drunken revelry, a simple easing of natural needs . . . she was attractive enough.

  Yet all he could see when he looked at her now was a vast and unfavorable comparison to Genevieve. Just as it had been through all those long, long nights in Ireland, when he closed his eyes he saw her. Saw the beautifully slim construction of her face, the high cheekbones, the full lips defined and colored as if with an artist’s brush. Her back, sleek and dimpled and evocative. Her legs, long and supple and slightly muscular, divinely shaped.

  Genevieve . . .

  He thought of her now, and not of Lisette. And as the wench continued to eye him coyly, prating on about the foodstuffs the inn had to offer, he felt a tremor seize him most suddenly, and he had to admit to himself something he had begun to realize with coming home, something that had taken full root in his heart outside of Henry’s door, something that tore at him even now.

  He did not just desire her, he needed her. He was taken with her spirit, with her voice and her words, her tenderness to those she loved. He admired her tenacity and her loyalty to those gone before her. All this time and he had not broken her, for she was too fine to be broken.

  When he had returned from battle across the Irish Sea, it had not been to punish her that he had ignored her, but because he had not been able to still the raging war inside of him. It should not have been the gentle whisper of love that spoke to him now.

  “Your grace?”

  “What?” He shook his head slightly at the tavern maid, and Jon asked if Tristan were not hungry. He said surely. The wench promised him the sweetest food that could fill his mouth. She departed, and he stared at the fire grimly again.

  So you love her, fool. You would bury the past and love her; and it is not Henry’s command that you obey to marry her, but the dictates of your own desires. All this you have decided—when it seems possible that she would still plot against you, that she would dance most merrily at your deathbed. She met with Sir Guy in the chapel and he can be trusted just as far as he could be thrown in full armor! Idiot, don’t love her . . .