Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  But when next he shifted the pain was a shock; choking and gasping, she longed to wrench him from her, but he held her steady. His voice held no trace of mockery.

  “Be calm, be easy . . .” he repeated the words, remaining still, allowing her to adjust to the burning shaft of himself inside her. Hot tears stung her eyes, but he continued to whisper little things, and he moved his palm over her breast again, then suckled it with his mouth, then kissed her lips with an all-consuming passion as he began to move slowly, fluidly.

  She would never know where the pain ended——and the sweet, driving rapture began. At first he seemed so alien—a presence that split her asunder, too hot, too thrusting, too deep and hard, to ever be absorbed. But her body did absorb him, melded and fused and writhed to his rhythm. His movements were at first long and slow, and then sped up, with a wild and wanton eroticism. The dulcet tones of a melody seemed to streak through her. She shivered and quaked, and felt the fluid motion of his body, its hardness next to hers, the bunch and tremor and play of his muscles, the pressure of his lean hips. A throbbing started in her, the thunder of his thrust increased, and she pressed her face against his shoulder, crying out. The throbbing, hungry need within her soared. A blinding, reckless beat swept through and around her, and she spun on clouds, tempestuously thrown to the heavens by the relentless crashing waves of the cliffside sea. Something seemed to ignite and explode, and for one glorious moment nothing else existed except for the sunsweet beauty of the sensation, drenching her and filling her. She was barely aware as he drove into her one last time with a shattering force; he groaned and relaxed as his seed spilled into her.

  Staring blankly into the darkness, Genevieve realized with a sudden and painful clarity that she had totally capitulated to him. Her pride, her fear—all seemed to crumble about her like a shower of broken glass. Here, tonight, she had lost the one real battle she had been given to fight.

  She turned from him, her shoulders covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and pressed her face into the pillow. A ragged sob escaped her and she tried to pull farther away; she could not, her hair was splayed beneath his body.

  She felt his thumb, grazing over her cheek.

  “You’re crying now?” he asked her.

  Careless of her hair, she wrenched furiously from his touch. “I believe that mine is quite a customary reaction to rape!”

  He started to laugh, and the sound increased her humiliation. “Lady, I hope you never learn the true meaning of the word.” For a moment he was silent.

  “You will certainly walk again,” he told her acidly. “I say it again: you have yet to know true cruelty—or the meaning of real atrocity. And though you did not perhaps leap into my arms, you did, my lady, do quite well—for a start—in the fulfillment of your promise.”

  “No ...” she protested feebly. “I hate you!”

  “Hmm. Well, dear Concubine, hate away. I’d say that we’ve begun.” He ran a finger along the length of her arm. She tried to shake him away.

  “Don’t! You’ve done your damage! Leave me alone!”

  Again his laughter filled the night, and now there was honest amusement in it, warm and lulling. She could not protest him when he forced her around to face him.

  “Nay, lady! Done my damage! Why we’ve just begun! I wouldn’t dream of denying you a true chance to prove your worth, and discover deeper delights!”

  “Delights! I scorn your touch—”

  “Always the liar, aren’t you, Genevieve? But we’ll see if we can’t cure you of that!”

  She instinctively lifted a hand to strike him; he caught it, still chuckling. And when he lowered his head to kiss her, dulcet tremors raked her spine; her flesh, attuned now to his, burned and trembled with anticipation.

  But he broke away from her, still amused. “A pity I’m in desperate need of sleep,” he told her, rising and reaching for his shirt. “But don’t despair—I’ll see that you’re not neglected.”

  Genevieve made a mad scramble for the covers, pulling them about herself and watching him with wary surprise. He had said that he needed sleep, yet he was dressing. Thank God! she assured herself quickly, yet she didn’t understand or trust his departure.

  “You’re—going to leave me alone?” she asked, lowering her head quickly at the hopeful tone of her words.

  “I told you—I need to sleep,” he said curtly, stepping into his breeches. “And lady, I’d never turn my back on you.”

  Carrying his boots, he headed for the door. Genevieve called out to him.

  “You—you mean that I may keep my own chamber? Alone?”

  He smiled. “Alone except for those times when I choose to occupy it.” He shrugged. “Aye, you may keep it. Unless, of course, I tire of torturing you. Then you may be ousted to a dungeon. I haven’t quite decided yet.”

  “Dear God,” Genevieve said slowly, her voice lowering to a growl as she began to understand her role in his life. “You are the most vile, most loathsome, most—”

  “Good-night, Genevieve,” he told her coolly, and left.

  She stared at the closed door for a long moment, then flew from the bed heedless of her nakedness.

  She hurled herself against the door; as she had expected, it was barred from the outside. Shaking suddenly from the cold, she slowly sank against it, folding her arms over her tender breasts. She became suddenly aware of the feel of him still about her body.

  Genevieve burst into a ragged fury of tears.

  Eleven

  Genevieve woke slowly, with a sense of discomfort. The fire had gone out in the hearth, and she was cold. But it was morning, and the sun streamed through the archers’ windows.

  Tears sprang to her eyes again as she remembered last night. She hugged her pillow to her breast and sank farther into the warm nest of the bed covering, wishing fervently that she could sleep again—and dream that Tristan de la Tere had never entered her life. Thinking of him brought a burning to her body, the deepest sense of shame she had ever known.

  Briefly she cried—but most of her tears were spent, for she had cried violently through so much of the night. Once he left, she had given herself over to sobbing—something that could only be done when she was alone. Never before him. She would never break before him ...

  Yet she had broken—last night.

  She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip, and vowed again not to fall. The battle had been lost last night; but not the war. She could not counter his brawn. But there were other ways to surrender. Perhaps he could force her to submit, but he couldn’t force her to care for him or even accept him. What was the body but a shell? she thought scornfully. But even in her current miserable state Genevieve could not persuade herself that she had merely submitted.

  She certainly wasn’t going to label what she had done.

  She didn’t want to wallow in self-pity; and as the sun steadily brightened the room, Genevieve cast off her despondency and decided to rise. Upon that point she paused again, for she felt sore and strange and somehow unable to function properly.

  “Stinking Lancastrian bastard!” she swore with soft fury. She knew she was in danger of sinking into tears again—which was exactly what she had determined not to do. She would never, never give him the pleasure of seeing her so broken. No matter what he threatened or did.

  She inhaled sharply, hugging her knees to her, and she knew that that wasn’t really true. She had told him that he could slay her, that he should send her to the Tower, to the block, to the hangman. That wasn’t true at all, and it was one lesson that came home to her painfully that morning. She didn’t want to die. She hated him, she despised him, for what he had done . . .

  And for what he had forced her to feel . . .

  But it was better than death. Better than feigning bravery while waiting the headsman’s blade.

  She stood and hurried across the cold floor to reach a trunk. She opened it quickly—half expecting to find that her things had been stolen and plundered. But they were not, and she
found a soft robe to wrap about herself, and when she had done that she frowned.

  It was late. Obviously very late, and no one had come to her. A little breath of hope swept to her lungs and she raced eagerly to the door, wondering if it had been unbolted with the morning.

  It had not.

  She stepped away from the door, squaring her shoulders. She swallowed back the bitter memory that she was his prisoner in her own home. She found new resolve and swore aloud that she would escape him. The Crown of England was such a shaky thing. There were still men on the Yorkist side with claims more credible than that of Henry Tudor! They would rise against him, just as he had risen against Richard.

  And the fratricidal war would go on—as it had been, she thought wearily. More noble heads would roll.

  She paused for a minute, inhaling deeply. For England, it would be best if the wars stopped here, if Henry Tudor proved himself a strong King and an effective ruler of the warring nobles. It would be best if the whole nation were to bind together and concentrate on the well-being of England’s people.

  A bitter smile crossed Genevieve’s lips. Peace would be such a good thing, but it was hard to wish for it with her whole heart and soul when she had lost everything in the last insurrection—when she was here in her own castle as his prisoner. Last night was still so close that she could inhale and breathe his aroma upon her own flesh; she recalled it all, painful moment by painful moment. I will not remain his prisoner, she thought. I will not, I will not . . .

  Genevieve had no plan, just enormous conviction. The words were all that she had, but she clung to them desperately. She had to remember who she was, that a cloak of pride and honor was all that remained that she could truly call her own.

  Genevieve went to the door and banged on it. She desperately wanted a bath. She couldn’t bear to feel herself, to feel him . . .

  No one came when she banged on the door, although she was certain that anyone in the hall below must have heard her. She turned around with a frown.

  Then her glance fell on her beautiful bed, with the draperies destroyed and the sheets . . .

  A foul oath escaped her and she lost her newly regained determination for a cool pride. In a whirl of fury she wrenched the covers from the bed, swearing, and stomping them beneath her feet.

  Finally her fury wore her out and she stopped, dangerously close to tears once again. She clenched her teeth, commanding herself to hold onto her anger: anger could give her the will to remain calm and patient until she found a chance to escape. If she could only convince him that she was totally untouched, really untouched, on the inside.

  She shivered. Who would help her if she defied him now? He had offered a certain mercy—conqueror’s mercy! she thought disdainfully—and been betrayed. Once a man had seen the deadly depths of his dark eyes and the strength of his vengeance, it seemed doubtful that he would go against the victor again . . .

  Genevieve spun suddenly, aware of footsteps and laughter in the hall. She ran to the door again and banged on it, demanding that it be opened. The footsteps faded. Whoever had been there was going away again.

  Puzzled, Genevieve stepped back. This was her castle! They were her servants! The men who were freemen had become so by her father’s good grace. Her eyes blazed and narrowed. She understood exactly what Tristan wanted her to understand—that she was an insignificant prisoner.

  Genevieve kicked the bed and was then silently sorry because her toe hurt horribly.

  He probably knew how desperately she wanted a bath! But he would let her suffer and agonize and wonder.

  She mulled over the prospect. Then she walked over to the door and let out a long, high-pitched scream, allowing it to fade only a second before shouting, “Fire!”

  The door opened so quickly that she surmised that a guard had been before it all the while. She reacted quickly, though. While he rushed into the room, she sailed serenely out.

  She was down the stairs before he missed her.

  The great hall was empty; she could hear voices coming from the counting room, but she ignored them and went straight to the bell pull. As dear old Griswald appeared from the kitchen, Genevieve gave out a glad little cry and gave him a hug, which he returned. Then the gruff old man stepped away, embarrassed at overstepping his class and his bounds. “Lady, you are well! And you stand before me! I had heard—”

  Griswald got no farther, for the guard had come rushing back down the stairs. Tristan and Jon emerged from the counting room, and the guard stopped short, turning a furious red beneath Tristan’s hard, condemning stare.

  Griswald—who loved her, Genevieve was certain!—turned around with amazing haste for his years and fled back toward the kitchen. Tristan spoke to the young guard.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked quietly. Genevieve was amazed and annoyed to feel like a piece of furniture, being discussed as if she were not there, or worse, as if she couldn’t understand the language.

  Or if it didn’t even matter.

  “The—uh—lady screamed, milord Tristan. High and terrible, and then I heard a shout of ‘fire’ and I rushed in to see to it and next thing I knew . . .”

  Tristan gazed at her, darkly, obscurely.

  “Should you hear such a scream again, Peter, you must allow the lady to burn.” With no expression he moved his eyes from Genevieve to the guard. “Is that understood?”

  Peter lowered his eyes, and Genevieve felt a molten fury spread throughout her. She realized dimly that she just could not accept the truth—that nothing moved him, nothing touched him, nothing swayed him. He meant not just to keep her in Edenby against her will—he meant for her chamber, that one small place, to be her prison.

  His eyes were on her again. He bowed slightly, in mockery, and actually offered an arm to her—to escort her back to her prison!

  She ignored him, her heart thudding furiously. She could not admit even to herself how desperately she wanted to feel the open air against her cheeks.

  She walked to the hearth; a cheery fire burned brightly here. She turned her back to him. She had to find courage. To show it, at the least. She rubbed her hands together, warming them, and spoke coolly over her shoulder.

  “I am sorry to disturb the victor grabbing at his spoils, my Lord Tristan, but I experienced a horrid thirst—and a near maddening desire for a bath.”

  “Genevieve.”

  It was a dry command. She was supposed to turn around. Her heart began to flutter. If only she could reach the door. If only she could fly. Like an eagle, like a hawk. Soar, far above them all in the sky, fly to freedom.

  She didn’t turn around. He repeated her name irritably and still she didn’t move. An oath suddenly exploded from him, and it was not without a certain kindling of fear that she heard his footsteps strike against stone as he approached her.

  “Tristan—!”

  It was Jon who spoke then. And in his voice Genevieve heard welcome tones of empathy.

  But Tristan was not to be stopped. He kept coming—and at the last moment of his approach, Genevieve lost her nerve and swung around.

  He put hands on her shoulders, and she fought back a gasp that rose to her lips. She lifted her chin and allowed scorn to burn from her eyes—but he returned that stare with eyes black as night. With his touch and his merciless gaze upon her, she quailed inwardly, terribly aware of his strength and his masculinity.

  “Will you come of your own accord . . .?”

  He did not bother to state the alternative, but it was there, louder in its lack of utterance than a spoken challenge. Genevieve felt courage flood back into her.

  “You’ve lackeys by the score to follow your commands, Lord Tristan. I shall never be one of them. You’ve your power and you’ve your might and you’re on the winning side—for the moment. But I shall never bow down before you. You may take your vengeance as slowly as you like. I shall fight you every inch of the way.”

  He watched her for a long moment, and a spark touched his eyes. Wh
ether it was respect, amusement, or the slow kindling of his temper, Genevieve did not know. For the duration of one heartbeat, she thought that he would give up his plans altogether—that the prospect of forgiving was tiresome. But no.

  “So be it,” he agreed softly, and stooped swiftly, grappling her slim form with little courtesy or care, and tossing her over his shoulder.

  Her reaction was far from ladylike. Incensed and despairing, she railed against him, spitting out the most heinous oaths, kicking, raging, and beating against him. With equal determination, he remained calm and stoic, merely turning and starting for the stairway. He raised his voice just slightly to be heard above her as he spoke to Jon.

  “Excuse me, Jon, will you? I shall be back presently. Nay, wait. Let’s just convene again in say . . . an hour’s time?”

  Genevieve had no idea if Jon replied or not; panic seized her, and she instantly began to wonder if fighting this thing out at every turn was such a good idea. Aye, she could be a tremendous thorn in his side, but at what price to herself?

  “Nay!” she cried, suddenly stiffening, leaving off her pitched battle and her oaths to plant her hand against his shoulders and try to strain against his form. “Nay, brave victor!” she cried, trying not to falter. “Don’t let your prisoner distract you from the running of your stolen estates!”

  She saw then that the wicked, gleaming spark in those night-dark eyes of his was amusement—and deadly challenge.

  “Oh, I believe that my stolen estates will withstand a minor interruption,” Tristan said. He curled his lip—and his smile assured her that if she meant to create trouble, he would gladly finish it with her.

  “I will walk!” The words nearly choked her. To her horror, Genevieve realized that the hall was beginning to fill—with Tristan’s men, with the servants, and even her own kindred. Edwyna was there, standing upon the stairway, stricken, her hand at her throat, her face ashen. And Tamkin, dear Tamkin, behind her on the stairs.