Yet as equally as he was drawn, she repelled him. She was cold and proud and stubborn. She held her head high; her eyes bore no light of pleading. Yet how had Lisette looked that night, meeting her butchers? Pleading for her life. Begging. Beseeching any small mercy. But finding none.
Tristan laughed harshly. He was the wrong man to be taken by any woman, no matter how fair. “Lady, just what is it you can offer?”
“Myself,” she said simply.
“Yourself?” he queried, taking a few steps. Amusement twisted the hard line of his jaw; he stopped to face her again. “Lady, tomorrow we shall ram your gates, and take then what we wish.”
He thought he saw a gleam as sharp as his sword in her eyes, but her lashes lowered quickly, and he was startled as she drew in a deep, shaky breath. A little sob escaped her. “There is nothing else I have to offer—except to end the bloodshed. And for tomorrow, milord, there is a portent for rivers of blood. You will come in to ravage, and so we will again be forced to fight. To the death. Yet if you were to take me as your wife, the castle would be yours in the eyes of all my men.”
“Take you to wife, milady?” he queried incredulously, and he almost spat on the ground. She was a Yorkist. Smug, insolent little Yorkist, convinced of her own beauty and allure! Not to mention deadly. So she had carried on the battle! He could not forget the cries of his dying men. “I’ve no desire for a wife.”
She did not raise her head, so he did not see the glint of fury that touched her eyes.
“I am the Lady of Edenby,” she said coolly. “Nothing can change that—”
“I beg to differ,” Tristan interrupted politely. “When the Tudor sits upon his throne, he shall do so with a stroke of a quill.”
“Nay, only my head upon a block can do such a thing. Would your Tudor King dare go so far? Is he then determined to murder all who oppose him? The axmen and hangsmen of England will be busy, for a certainty!”
Tristan smiled slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is war, my lady. I am but a soldier of the King—who will attaint your property and title. You are—no one, milady.” He offered the last mockingly.
“You serve a pretender! Richard is King!”
“Have it as you will, my lady. We are remote here; there will be no clerics of the court to argue for you, no one left when it is over to come to your defense. I care not if you hold half of England; I will take this castle, and I will be its lord.” He spoke lightly, then his voice deepened with a startling fury. “And I will take no woman as a wife, madam, no matter how rich, no matter how fine and fair. So barter yourself no further!”
Genevieve’s head lowered quickly; about her the night seemed to seethe with friction. She appeared ready to pounce upon him, hawklike, with her nails for talons. As she waited the air was alive with a fascinating tension.
At last she spoke—but not with the venom he had expected.
“Then not as wife,” she said softly. “As mistress, concubine, or whore.” She stared at him, her smile as sweet as a summer rose. “You are the conquerors, are you not?”
Tristan arched a brow high, musing on this ploy of hers. What in God’s name was she after? She feigned humility; there was none, in truth, about her. She was proud, yet she lowered her eyes from his. Ah, lady! he thought, were you but a tavern strumpet, I’d take your offer swift and sweet, for never have I known so quick and urgent and fierce a longing! It was as if the sight of her were a drug, a potent invader of the blood and soul. He would have to have her to ever forget her.
Yet she was the enemy, he reminded himself, and one whom he could not trust.
“Lady,” he spoke harshly. “I’m not sure I want you. Perhaps there is someone more . . . alluring within the castle to be offered?”
“What?” she burst out. Her eyes were slivers of diamond-bright fury. Had they been lances, they’d have pierced his heart a thousand times.
“I don’t find you particularly appealing.”
“I find you loath—” she began, but she cut herself off, looking to the ground again. “Lord de la Tere, we talk of peace. We talk of men who will defy you every step of the way unless they believe that I have determined for peace! Another fight within the walls, and Edenby will be nothing but a sea of blood! Are you dim-witted? Don’t you see why I have come here tonight?”
“Magnanimous, aren’t you?” he murmured. “The great lady—so quick to shed the sanctity of marriage for the honorless position of whore.”
She didn’t flinch; she stared at him with the moon’s silver glitter in her eyes and allowed herself the pleasure of a cool, scathing retort. “Lord Tristan, were circumstances different, I would not sully my family lineage in marriage to you!”
He laughed, for his family name was a fine one, and the superior claim of the lady of Edenby was rather amusing, under the circumstances.
“That works out well then, does it not? You’d not wish to sully your name. I’ve no wish to ever call a woman wife—especially not an arrogant, foolish girl who cannot admit defeat. But yet, I pray, explain why you would come to me offering yourself even as a concubine, for surely such a thing must be an abomination to your good name, too.”
She paused slightly and raised a hand. She had dressed to entrance him, he realized. The white garment moved with her, flowing, and-displaying a hint of the mounds of her breasts, and the deep valley between them. The fabric clung to her, and displayed all that was beautifully young and beautifully female about her form.
Her hand fluttered back to her side. “I am desperate,” she said simply. It was, Tristan thought, the first honest statement that she had given him.
He sighed. “To tell the truth, milady, I’ve little taste for murder or plunder—or rape. I prefer my women willing and tender. Passionate in their desire for me, as I for them. Obviously you are aware of your beauty—else you would not think to barter so. Yet, to me, it would mean little. There are many beautiful women in the world. And among them are those who who do not think of ‘duty,’ or of ‘sacrifice,’ but of pleasure to be shared in the arms of a man.”
At last, it seemed, he had drawn a flush from her. Scarlet color stained her breast and cheeks. Yet, if she were angry, she did not display it. She gave him another smile, hesitant but full of sensual beauty.
“I’ve—I’ve watched you, Lord Tristan. From the ramparts. I’m quite certain that I can—be all that you wish.”
“And not a despised enemy?” he queried skeptically.
“Not.”
He turned from her suddenly, flicking his mantle past his shoulder and staring out at the bluffs far below to the night-dark sea. Then he spun back to her.
“Keep yourself, lady. If peace can be arranged, it shall come to pass. Your coffers shall go to my men, and the castle will be mine, but no more will die. And I will hold my men in check. Your ladies will be pleased; your whores will be rich.” He started down the bluff, and was stunned to hear her call him back. “Lord Tristan!”
He turned to her cry. She was following him, anxiety now in her eyes. Her breasts heaved with no thought of enticement; she touched his arm, then stared at her hand upon it and quickly drew away, panting slightly as she spoke.
“I—I—”
“What?” He demanded curtly. Damn you, leave me! he thought. Go away! You will quickly become an obsession with me. Something that I must have, even while I hate you and all that you stand for. Aye, hate even the fever, the feeling you create . . .
“It—it will not do! Not as you say! My people will protest if I am thrown from the castle. Please, for the love of God! I must greet you, and you—you must come to me! We ... you and I ... we must appear as friends. As more than friends.”
He cocked his head, querying her. “Milady, spell it out. Clearly. What are you saying?”
“I beg you . . . to come to me.”
“Clearer,” he taunted her.
“As a lover!”
“I am the conqueror—but you’d have me be your lover—in w
hat was your own castle?”
“Aye!”
For a moment he closed his eyes; he thought of his wife, so beautiful, so sweet, so loving.
Everything about him tensed in a fire-torn agony. He’d taken women since! Where was the difference here? Ah, but he had no interest in martyred virgins! Yet the sight of her had touched him fiercely; for all her golden beauty and cool elegance, there was also something raw and exciting about her. Something that hinted of a deep sensuality and a seething passion and spirit. He shrugged. Maybe she was no innocent virgin, maybe she had known numerous lovers. She was the strangest cross between angelic innocence, golden purity, and throbbing allure. If one were to touch her, she would come alive in tempest, great and startling in comparison to the restraint she feigned now.
The greatest ladies had been known to bed their own grooms. Perhaps it was easy for her to come to him because she was already well versed in the ways of the bedchamber.
Tristan felt the heat again, soaring. She did that. She beckoned, she seduced, on a level that was primal, where the body was scorched and no thought could take hold in the mind. She had invaded his senses. He could, perhaps, forget that she was a Yorkist. Whores, he had learned, were alike in the dark. “Please?” she whispered fervently, and again her tone entered him, and brought him to feel pity.
She made no sense. She must be watched, carefully and warily. Yet how could he, a man who still heard the echoes of screams for mercy in his dreams, refuse to grant a request that could lead to a peaceful negotiation? To ... mercy.
And then there was the desire. The haunting desire that she created. He wanted no part of it! It was there, nonetheless.
He threw up his hands. “Lady, this is lunacy.”
She did not reply.
“Did you hear?” he demanded harshly.
“I heard.”
“I granted you mercy with no thought of barter!”
“Don’t you understand? It would not be enough! Yet if they saw us together, they would know that I have surrendered completely, and thus they would surrender, too.”
“Lady, then have it as you would! One whore is the same as another.”
She surveyed him, regal and calm. He sighed.
“None will be harmed, no vengeance taken.” His voice went suddenly ragged. “But I mean it—I do not want a wife! Nor will the cost be any less great to you; the castle is in my hands—gold and jewels and foodstuffs and land will be divided among my men.”
“When will you come?” she asked him. She was relieved, he noted. Liar, witch—what are you planning? he wondered.
“At noon. And my men are hungry. If you would be the chatelaine, have a feast waiting—wine and food.”
She nodded. “We will be waiting, Lord Tristan.”
He started down the bluff again, but felt her watching him. He turned. The moon had caught her hair, and her eyes. A glitter, silver like that orb in the sky, touched them in a misted beauty. And yet he didn’t trust her—he had caught her unaware, and he knew that she despised him with a vengeance.
No matter. She was welcome to despise him to his dying day.
“What is your name?” he called to her.
“Genevieve,” she told him, “Lord Tristan.”
It was that last retort which stopped him. Now, with her plea granted, her voice became so scathing and sarcastic that he thought at first he must have imagined the rich force of contempt that chilled its sweetness.
Anger raced through him, deep and dark and compelling. She played a dangerous game—and he knew it well.
And still . . . he wanted her. Despite it all, despite logic and sense, he wanted her. Knowing that she was treacherous, knowing that she was a lie.
He was suddenly back beside her, as contemptuous as she, and determined to shake her.
She did not fall back, though he thought that she longed to. He stood right before her, close enough to see those mauve and silver eyes in the moonlight, to feel her, the rush of her breath, the beat of her heart. And as she stared up at him he smiled, for he saw the furious pulse that strummed rampantly against the creamy length of her throat. He kept that smile in place, pleasant, easy, while cold and brutal anger held him.
She knew no humility, she would receive mercy when she did not know how to ask it. She played upon emotions and desires while . . .
Lisette had died.
Was it all anger? Was it something else? His heart felt frozen, his body ached and yearned. He was his own man, stronger than she. Stronger than the silken web she tried to weave about him. He would break her, break her web, and find the truth, he promised himself.
And so his mocking smile spread.
“I’ve never purchased without sampling the merchandise.”
And then he seized her, holding her in anger, in pain; he was on fire and as cold as ice. He tilted her chin and seared her lips with his own.
He heard a sound deep in her throat, he felt her body stiffen, felt panic surge through her. Her heart took flight like a bird, her breath all but halted.
Her lips were as sweet as wine, but they hardened instinctively against his assault. No hungry lover here, he surmised, yet he gave no quarter, ignoring protest. Against his force her lips parted, and his tongue swept and ravaged and plundered the whole of her mouth with a blatant, searing intimacy.
She fought his touch. His hand was now cupped about her breast, and he could feel her panicked heartbeat. Further . . . he sampled and explored. And shuddered, heat coiling and sizzling inside of him. Her breast was full and firm, and she was beautifully formed, slim and curved, her waist a man’s handspan, her hips seductive beneath.
A strangled cry escaped her at last. She stirred and tensed rigidly, as if she would spring on him, scratching, seething.
She did not. She remained rigid, but did not fight. The hand that moved to force his away fluttered and fell.
He pushed her away from him to prove her lie, to save his own soul. She trembled visibly; her eyes were glazed and her lips damp and swollen. She stared at him, totally shaken.
“Second thoughts, milady?” He forced a chill into his voice.
She rallied quickly. “Nay, none at all, milord.”
Still that pulse at her throat throbbed. Her fingers, laced before her, shook. Her eyes fell.
He stared at her for a moment in the moonlight, forcing himself to observe her with cold objectivity. Her hair was such a stunning, crowning glory, a cloak like a golden sunrise against the night. Yet if it were clipped away . . .
She would still possess an uncanny beauty. Her skin was unmarred, soft and fragrant as rose petals. Her features were delicate but majestic. Her mouth was finely shaped and defined, with a hint of fullness. And her eyes ... They could not be described as blue or as gray. At times they had appeared the softest mauve; at times they had gleamed with the silver glint of a sword.
“Well, then . . . I suppose you shall do—as well as any.”
Such a tremor rattled through her that he almost laughed. The lady was definitely outraged. But if she was outraged, he was afire.
He turned from her, convinced that at least for now she had no intent to stab him in the back.
“Good evening, Lady Genevieve,” he said. Fifteen feet from her he stopped and turned around, unable to resist one final taunt.
“Milady?”
“Milord?”
“Your attitude . . . it isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
Even in the darkness he could see her furious blush.
“It will improve?” he asked mockingly.
She hesitated, then spoke softly. Like a whisper of silk on the breeze. Seductive. Her voice rising against him and inside of him.
Like an obsession.
“I promise, Lord Tristan,” she returned with a whisper of husky silk, “that I will ... please you.”
She lifted a hand, then blended back into the night.
He watched her disappear and vowed silently that he would be both cautious and wary.
And that she would keep her promise—at all costs.
Three
In her chamber high above the great banqueting hall, Genevieve paced with a fury that sent her long white gown trailing like quicksilver and her hair like gold dust. Her hands rose and fell frequently, as did her voice.
“Oh, how dare he? How dare he! He was as cold as the rock, as casual—as despicable, as cruel as all his lot! I could barely stand there. I longed to rip his eyes out, to slit his throat then and there, to pitch him out upon the rocks. Oh, I could do it myself, Edwyna, I swear that I could! Skewer him straight through on a sword! We might well have been rid of him tonight, I was so—”
“Humiliated?” Edwyna suggested.
“And—degraded!” Genevieve clenched her fists tightly at her sides and swallowed sharply. Humiliated, degraded—and burning! She hadn’t told Edwyna of his touch, of that last, acute misery! But she hadn’t forgotten it! It would stay with her forever: the feel of his lips, the shock of his strength, the masculinity of his scent, the pressure of his large, powerful hand upon her. Each image was ingrained upon her memory. She would never forget his face as long as she lived. Handsome; cruel. Fire; ice.
Stop thinking about it, she told herself—but she couldn’t; and when she remembered, she shivered, and felt like ice and fire herself. She longed to touch her lips, to rub them hard, to erase the deed, erase the memory.
“I could have slain him myself!” she swore again, but it was a whisper, desperate to her own ears. She was afraid of her enemy.
“And where would we have been then? Nay, this plan is frightening as it is. I’m worried. If he gave you decent terms—”
“Decent terms!” Genevieve flared with renewed fury. “Terms! He takes the castle, our land, and our people. And me. What ‘terms’ are those?”
Edwyna sighed with a small, soft shudder. “If only we had opened our gates to him that first day. If only Edgar—” A look at Genevieve’s lovely, tormented features caused her to break off. Genevieve finished for her.
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