“Genevieve, why did you come?”
His voice was broken, like a cry or a whisper. And to Genevieve, still stunned by the hurt done her, it seemed an echo of all her own pain.
“You’ve hated me so long . . .” he murmured.
She cast back her head with an hysterical little shriek, and then she started to laugh softly, and her laughter was spiked with her tears. “I’ve hated you because—I love you. Hated and hated because I could not stand to love you. I am here . . . because I love you.”
The words wrapped around him like shimmering rays of sunlight, like the softness of a white cloud. He could not believe them, but he had to savor them, and dared not think of anything else or analyze . . .
He had to go to her, to touch her, with tenderness and the greatest care, and he had to bury himself within her, lose the tension and the cares in the sweet web of her hair and the enthralling heat of her body. Bury himself deep within. her, his shaft and his heart and his soul. Her voice, those words . . . like a silver thread they came to him, and entangled him, and drew him to her.
He rose, coming to the hearth, bending down beside her. Sweeping her gently into the all-encompassing strength of his arms. He kissed her forehead and her cheeks and he murmured things that were incoherent. And she clung to him, sobbing like a lost child. Then she began to whisper, and to whimper.
He stood at last, with his precious bundle in his arms. And when he carried her back she trembled still, and he promised that he would love her so long and tenderly that she would not feel the least touch of pain.
And that he did. Savoring each stroke, drinking in her flesh, taking her so far into the heady pulse of desire with the caress of his kiss and touch and tongue that she writhed in his arms, and came to him in fever, slick and wanton, a tempest of sensuality.
Came to him, bound to him, and filled his needs. Like a fire against a chill, like the crystal cool beauty of a spring against the heat. She refreshed him and gave to him, and he was suddenly whole again. No torments rose to haunt him, no thoughts, no past deeds. She was a soft and fragrant rose against the dust and dirt and death of the battlefield. She was everything in his arms, she was life.
And she loved him.
Twenty-four
There was a farm house in the near distance; fields with their earth fresh from the plow stretched out far and wide. In the pastureland newborn colts frolicked and played, kicking up their heels, racing like the wind, their tails high. Closer by, daffodils grew in great quantity, and the land seemed gold with them.
Above, the gnarled fingers of an old oak stretched out like webbing across the blue sky. Genevieve could hear the gentle melody of the tiny mill brook bubbling in the background, its melody delightful.
She sighed with contentment, clutching Tristan’s fingers where they lay idly upon her shoulder and planting tiny kisses upon them individually. Then she chose to nibble upon them, and tease the calloused tips with lazy darts of her tongue.
“Uh-hum!”
He cleared his throat, body stiffening, and she gazed at him. Her head lay in his lap and against one raised knee; his back rested against the hardy spine of the oak. He smiled at her ruefully, tracing a damp finger over her lips and warning, “Milady, your heartless seduction can hardly, in all decency, be handled properly where we lie.”
She flushed and reached to touch his cheek, smiling. “Do I seduce his lordship?”
“Aye. Be careful, lest you discover just what arousing a lord can reach,” he returned, and she laughed again, springing to her feet, scampering down to the water to cool her feet. She shrieked gaily when he charged up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and telling her she was a heartless hussy to abuse his senses so. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him, dazzled by the feeling that spread through, fascinated by the tender care in his eyes . . . warmed and dizzied by the love she gave—and received.
He took her hand and they walked along the brook in companionable silence. In the days since Genevieve had come they had talked endlessly. Before the fire in the bedchamber Genevieve had tried to explain how she had never wanted to kill him. How she had sworn to her father that she would keep up the battle. She had told him how she had come to love him, bit by bit, and how the longing for him had made her ever more eager to escape.
“I didn’t think that you could ever love me,” she had said.
And he held her tenderly, saying that he hadn’t wanted to love her, he had been afraid, and then so hungry for her, bewitched by her, that he dared not let down a guard.
And walking hand in hand through Bedford, Tristan had spoken about Lisette. For the first time the words had tumbled from him easily, and he was ever more able to put her to rest with each word spoken. He had talked about his father and his brother, and he’d even described that day they had ridden home, laughing about Thomas’ sweet, productive, ugly, but much-beloved wife. She, too, had been slain.
Tristan pulled her hand suddenly and they came into the shelter of a little copse. He dragged her down beside him and gave her a long lover’s kiss, then smiled into her eyes with a sigh. “We should head back. I’m sure Katherine is quite fretful by now.”
But he didn’t rise. He leaned upon an elbow on the soft damp ground and watched her. He was both tense and curious, but in a gentle way, and seeing him beside her so, chewing idly upon a blade of grass, Genevieve was again swept on a tide of her feelings. She loved him so much. The laughter that came so easily to his eyes now. The youth about him. He was so striking a man, and the power that had once been anathema to her was now stirring. Beyond the passion now, she had his heart, and it was an overwhelming gift.
She smiled, Tristan saw, her eyes going soft, and he could not help but feel a little stab of jealousy.
“Did you love him so much?” he asked softly.
“I loved him,” she murmured, and her lashes swept over her cheeks. “Oh, Tristan! You would have liked him well. Axel was ever slow to judge and quick to listen. He had been to Oxford and he had been to Eton, and he loved poetry and music and language! He—he did not want the fight. He warned father that we should cede—that most of the nobility, English and Welsh, would keep clear of the battle. But father was a warrior, you see, and would keep his sworn loyalty. And Axel would be loyal to father. He was a brave man, bright and gentle and dear. Aye, I loved him.” Her lashes raised suddenly, and she smiled ruefully at Tristan. “But never as I love you,” she whispered. “I never felt the . . .”
“Lust?” Tristan suggested, and she blushed crimson.
“Nay, you scurvy knave! ’Tis not what ladies feel!”
“Oh, but it is. And I love my lusty lady, I swear that I do.”
“You have no manners, milord!” Genevieve protested in mock horror.
“Manners, madam?” He caught her fingers and tenderly kissed her palm. “It has nothing to do with manners, I am merely a happy man. I would not be jealous of that poor boy slain in a fray that was not of his making.”
“Jealous. Hmmph.”
Tristan suddenly leaned over, anxious. “Genevieve, I swear my heart was haunted long but you have cleansed it. Lisette—”
“Oh, Tristan!” She touched his cheek. The breeze wafted above them and the trees swayed and the still brook gave out its melody. She thought she had never known such happiness. “Tristan,” she told him earnestly, “believe me. I am not jealous of your past! I am glad of the love you shared with her.”
He smiled and kissed her, and the heat of the kiss was such that Genevieve gave him a serious tap on the rump and when he rose above her, roaring in mock indignation, she managed to roll from his touch. “Nay, sir! You have more in way of explanation!” She teased at first, then grew serious, for the matter had wounded her deeply. “I hear tell that little Katherine might well have a dozen sisters and brothers over in Eire!”
“What?”
“So the rumor goes!”
“What?” Tristan stood, dragging her to her feet and stari
ng at her quite seriously. “That’s a lie! By the time I sailed the Irish Sea, I was so besotten with my lusting little Welsh wench that I could not go near another.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Aye, and it is! Where did you hear otherwise?”
Where had she? And then she remembered—Guy. Guy had warned her about Tristan’s behavior.
She lowered her eyes quickly, a little spasm of fear taking root in her heart. Tristan had slowly forgiven all those who had played treacherously against him. Even dear old Sir Humphrey now had leave to return to his home in Edenby.
But Tristan hated Guy. Genevieve was convinced that if the knight did not have Henry’s protection, Tristan would have challenged him and slain him long ere now.
She looked up quickly, hating herself for lying but knowing that she must. She smiled. “I don’t remember. It was rumor, my love, and rumor that tore at my heart.”
He cradled her close against his chest. “Tear at thy heart no longer love, for my life lies in its tender recesses.”
“Oh, Tristan.” She looped her arms about his neck and kissed him, and though she longed to stay beneath the trees, she sighed and spoke, her tone muffled against his chest. “We must get back to Katherine.”
“Aye, love, come then.”
They hurried back through the brook and over the pebbles. By the old oak they donned their shoes; Tristan paused, looking out over the landscape.
“I am grateful that you came.” He gazed her way with sly humor in his eyes. “For more than the immediate gratification of lust!”
“Tristan—”
He laughed and hugged her. “Nay, but it is beautiful to me again, Genevieve. I never thought that it could be.” He sighed. “We must return, though. I am very anxious to see Edenby granted a city charter. I just wish . . . well, I wish I could have solved something here. Lisette does not haunt these halls, nor does my father, but something is not right. Jon and I were attacked one night in the street in London—”
Genevieve let out a little shriek. “Tristan! You never told me.”
He shrugged ruefully. “At the time I did not think that you would care. But—” He paused, watching her eyes turn their extraordinary violet color with her concern. He thought to tell her that the assailants were not mere thieves and that it had troubled him since; then he thought that he would not. It would only worry her.
“It was nothing, Genevieve. Rabble, quickly silenced. I don’t know why I mentioned it now. Just . . . well, I wish I could have proven this ‘haunting’ was a trick of flesh-and-blood. Ah, well. Thomas will remain now and eventually the culprit will be caught. It frustrates me though not to solve my own dilemmas.”
Genevieve hesitated, wondering whether or not to mention the shadows she had seen the night of her arrival. She had seen nothing since—and she didn’t want Tristan thinking that she might believe in the ghosts.
Tristan whistled, and Pie—who had been munching springy grass in the copse nearby—trotted obediently to them. Tristan lifted Genevieve up into the saddle, then swung high behind her. She leaned against him as they rode with the breeze to return to the manor, savoring the heat of his chest and the beat of his heart.
Pie was taken at the steps to the manor by a young groom. Tristan caught Genevieve’s hand and they hurried up the steps together. The door opened, and Edwyna—with a loudly squalling Katherine in her hands—accosted them quickly.
“Oh, thank God! Genevieve!” she remonstrated, but with a smile. “This one is hungry, and her temper is even worse than yours!”
“I have no temper,” Genevieve said with a little sniff as she took her daughter, nuzzling against her little neck, delighting in her baby scent. Katherine instantly whimpered and nuzzled her mother in return, seeking out her food supply.
“I’ll take her up,” Genevieve told Tristan quickly.
He smiled, the contented husband. “I’ll be there soon,” he promised, and thanked Edwyna for looking after their daughter and giving them precious moments of complete freedom.
Genevieve, halfway down the hall and nearing the stairway, paused when he suddenly called her back.
“Milady, have Mary gather your things tonight. We’ll travel back to Court tomorrow.”
Genevieve nodded and hurried on up the stairs. Katherine was growing more and more insistent.
The room was nicely warm. Candles gleamed from their sconces, and everything was in readiness for their return. The draperies on the bed had been drawn, and clean linen lain for the baby. Mary knew that Genevieve loved to lie down to nurse, and rest, and watch her baby’s face in one. Crooning to her infant, Genevieve started to loosen her gown, walking toward the bed. Then she stopped suddenly, drawn to the windows by a curious speck of moving light just beyond the house.
She moved close to the window to watch, frowning. In the copse of trees nearest the manor she saw the light wavering—and a pair of shadows meeting in some secret tryst. She pressed closer to the window, squinting to see better. Katherine let out a cry, and Genevieve fumbled to bring the baby to her breast while not ceasing to stare out the window.
There were two figures. One man meeting another in the shadow of the trees. Something was exchanged. The one man seemed to hand over documents—the other seemed to receive some payment. They lingered together another moment, then parted.
Genevieve was stunned. She pushed away from the wall, opening her mouth to call to Tristan—
But then she paused. One of the men came out of the trees leading a horse. He was elegantly dressed; she saw the reflection of a gold medal against the rich velvet of his shirt. She couldn’t see his face. But his manner . . . his walk . . . the way he swung with easy grace upon the horse . . . she knew. Just as she knew the horse—a roan gelding with one solid white leg. The horse had come from her father’s stables. It had been ridden out to the Battle of Bosworth Field by Sir Guy.
Her cry died in her throat. What was he doing? She should tell Tristan, but she couldn’t, Tristan was unreasonable where Guy was concerned, and he would use any excuse to rid his world of Sir Guy.
Genevieve bit her lip. She owed Guy something for his care of her and his past loyalty. She couldn’t tell Tristan. She would have to accost Guy herself and demand to know what was going on.
Worried, she lay down at last with Katherine. In time the baby fell asleep, and Genevieve moved her to her cradle. Then Mary came in, and they packed. When that was done, Tristan came up.
Genevieve could have spoken then—but then she was in his arms, and she hadn’t said a word. And for good or ill, it quickly became too late to speak.
* * *
They had barely returned to Court before Genevieve had her chance to accost Guy, or rather Guy to accost her, as it came to pass. Their first night back among Henry’s retinue, the King summoned Tristan for a meeting with the Lord Mayor of London. Anne was in Genevieve’s chamber for some time, playing with her little cousin—Anne was entranced with Katherine. She told Genevieve that her mother had said that Tristan had given Genevieve a baby. Perhaps, Anne said, she might ask Tristan if he would give Edwyna one, too. Genevieve laughed and suggested that it might be much better if Anne asked Jon to give Edwyna a baby.
Mary came to take Anne to her mother. and stepfather and on to bed. Genevieve stood over her daughter’s cradle, cooing softly to her, when the door opened suddenly.
Genevieve swung around with a smile, certain that it was Tristan. It was not. Guy stood there. He quickly glanced into the hall, then closed the door behind him.
“Genevieve!”
“Guy! I want to talk to you! What—”
“Genevieve!”
She could not finish. He rushed to her and wrenched her into his arms, running his fingers over her hair and holding her tightly. She tried to push him away, growing desperate, afraid to shout lest someone come. How had he gotten in? And then she knew of course. Tristan no longer had her watched day and night.
“Guy! Stop it! If Tristan finds yo
u here, he’ll kill you!”
“He won’t come. He is with the King, and I have men who will warn me of his approach. Trust me, my love, I shall not get into a tussle with him now and destroy all my hard work. Genevieve, Genevieve, the time is right. I have laid my plans well, and he shall crash to a swift downfall.”
“Guy, please, cease this—”
“We’ll be together at last.”
“Guy! Stop this madness! Guy, he is my husband. That is our child. All wrongs have been redressed in this. And now! You are going to tell me—”
“Don’t you see, love?” Guy shook his sandy head with a charming, rueful smile. Genevieve thought fleetingly of the way things had once been. Of the days when she and Axel and Guy had ridden to the hunt, when they had laughed in her father’s hall, when they had all been so wonderfully young and innocent of the wars. “It will not matter that you’ve married him! When he is dead, it will not matter. When that noble head is sprung upon the block, he will stand between us no more!”
Horrified, Genevieve drew back. “Tristan! His head upon the block! Never. Oh, Guy, what have you done? Tell me! I saw you, you know. I saw you at Bedford Heath! Guy—”
He started to laugh and he flung himself back upon the bed and stared at her lasciviously.
“Documents, Genevieve! Oh, bless these fratricidal Plantagenet heirs! Edward and Richard and Henry—and then Edward and Richard all over again. My God, they used the same names over and over again, generation after generation.”
“Guy! What are you saying—”
He pounced up upon an elbow excitedly. “Letters, Genevieve, of conspiracy.” He laughed again, so pleased with himself. “It was so easy to hire my spy! A clever man, really. His brother was killed in Tristan’s spree of vengeance, after the debacle at Bedford Heath. He was quite glad to take my money—and become the ‘ghost’ of Bedford Heath. He was serving in the kitchens, you see, so he had easy access to the place. And lo and behold—imagine! A complete correspondence with half a dozen Plantagenet heirs! Addressed to the Earl of Bedford Heath and signed by the Earl of Warwick and others! Genevieve, don’t you see? It’s perfect! These letters were from a past generation, when Edward would be king, but seen now they make it appear that the Earl of Bedford Heath—the noble Tristan de la Tere!—is plotting treason against the King with his Yorkist contenders! Once I have discovered how to bring these letters carefully to light, Tristan will be no more, milady. You’ll be free. And the King will give me Edenby—and you.” He sprang to his feet and slipped his arms around her with such fervent joy and vigor that Genevieve, stunned by his information, could barely control him.
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