The sheets moved, and he was beside her. She felt all the wonderful heat of his naked body and all the strength in his arms as he pulled her against him, stroking her gently, tenderly.
Time passed, and he held her only.
“I’ll not marry you, Tristan!” she warned him, her voice catching as tears rose that she had to swallow down quickly.
“Sleep, Genevieve.”
Silence fell between them, until she was compelled to speak once again.
“I am glad that you were not killed, Tristan. I swear it. I was—anxious that you return alive. But I’ll not marry you.”
“Hush, Genevieve. Sleep.”
She fell silent.
He brushed a kiss against the web of her hair. And wondered. Someone had tried to kill him that night. And if he was not mistaken, there had been a shadow in the courtyard.
* * *
Tristan spent the next few days mostly in the company of the King and his ministers. Despite foreign affairs, in which the King wished Tristan’s opinions, Henry had also determined that Edenby might be granted a Royal Charter to form as a city rather than as a walled town and appendages. Tristan liked the idea; he thought it promoted growth and education and welfare for the artisans and farmers alike. Henry, he knew, was interested in having another city where certain of England’s goods might be transferred abroad—with the assurance he would receive all his royal taxes.
Genevieve still refused to appear publicly. Curiously, though, he enjoyed their time together—even the sharp barbs of her quick tongue. She intended to win—but he was determined to be the victor in this battle, and enjoy its fight. He did not trust her; beyond that he loved her, and he had missed her, and he was quite content to lie beside her and stroke her at night, laughing with pleasure each time he felt the movement within her.
She had her defenses, too, he knew. He did not mention marriage again; he simply set the mechanisms he needed into action. She took care to warn him now and then that she would not marry him—he could force her into being a concubine, but never a wife. Nor did he deny her accusations, but merely frowned, wondering where she had heard such tales.
He hadn’t been attracted to another woman since he had met her. Long before he had been able to admit in his traumatized heart that he was falling in love, he had known simply that she was all beauty and all magic—that anything else would pale in comparison. He’d barely seen another woman during the entire campaign.
There was one final trip he had to make. On a morning in mid-April he rose and kissed her where she slept still, curiously childlike in her blanket of golden tresses with her belly so distended. He stepped back ruefully, painfully, to tell her that he would be gone for a week or so.
He thought that something of misery danced through her eyes, but it was so quickly gone he resolved himself to the fact that she did despise him. The past remained alive in her heart.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he told her, and when she turned her back on him he was too tempted by the idea to plant a good smack against the rise of the rump to resist.
“Oh!” she cried, swinging back in outrage.
And like a satisfied alley cat, he simply smiled. “Fear not—I’ll be back in time for our wedding.”
He left her then, with no explanation because he could not explain it. He had not been home to Bedford Heath in nearly three years, and he knew he had to go back.
Jon and Thomas Tidewell rode with him. It was almost exactly as it had been that day all those long months ago when they had come home to find carnage and disaster.
But the day remained serene, and night fell sweetly. Tristan saw that the fields were being prepared for spring planting, that thatch-roofed cottages had risen again to grace the landscape. Men worked in the fields, and a farm wife came running out to greet him and tell him that he had been missed.
That night he ate in the hall with Jon and Thomas, and all his servants greeted him kindly. The guard and the people came, the priest and laymen, the tenants and the artisans and the soldiers. With his steward and the captain of the guard and Jon and Thomas he went over his business affairs, and before the fire in his beautiful manor house he sipped a fine wine.
Jon and Thomas did not want to leave him, but he sent them to bed.
And all night he saw her: sailing about the dining hall and the gallery; sitting, sewing, before the fire, letting her fingers play over the harp, turning cards at the table, and smiling with elation when she won a game. He heard her whisper, and he felt her caress.
He trudged to the nursery and to his bedroom. He lay down where he had lain, when they had laughed and played together. He did not sleep but spent the night staring into the darkness, remembering.
The next day there was a memorial service in the chapel, and Mass was said for the souls lost. Tristan looked over the beautiful effigies carved of his loved ones in his absence, and he understood fully how Genevieve had felt on Christmas Day.
The artists had caught something of Lisette. Her relief was neither stark nor plain; her eyes were closed, but it looked like they might open at any moment, and her lips were carved in the beautiful semblance of a smile, as if she knew some secret. Tristan believed fervently that she rested somewhere in Heaven, and perhaps she smiled so sweetly in stone because she was beyond earthly pain, as he could not be himself.
He had no lack of business to attend to in the next few days. Bedford Heath had prospered because Thomas had seen to it, but Thomas had been in Ireland with Tristan on his last journey, and so there were months of accounting to be caught up and numerous decisions to be made. Tristan had thought that he would never come back, and he knew that he did not want to stay here. But the land was his; the title was his, the wealth and the manor and the rents were his. He was going to marry Genevieve. He would leave heirs behind him, and perhaps his son or his grandson would return and find his happiness here.
The priest warned him that his manor was considered haunted; Tristan disdained that information. Would that it were! Would that his father could whisper advice to him, that his brother could bluster and laugh, that Lisette could reach out . . .
It was not haunted, but he was. By coming back, he had purged some of that feeling from his heart. He was glad of Henry’s order. He was going to marry again. Start over again. And here he had discovered in the gentle carving of Lisette’s face that it was all right to ... love again. He could not be a fool; his life could be forfeit. But Genevieve was going to be his wife, and he would tame her rather than break her and savor the fire until he dared to show the tenderness.
On the night that he rode back, he was later than he had planned. He saw the King briefly, then hurried toward the chamber where Genevieve awaited, his heart pounding out a staccato beat. Ah, but you are a ruthless fellow, he reminded himself. And you will succeed.
Jon and Edwyna met him in the hallway. Edwyna looked prettily flushed, and Tristan smiled secretively, aware that she had greeted her husband with tremendous—if quick—ardor. She caught his glance, and flushed again, and he laughed, and she began to whisper worriedly.
“Tristan, I’m sure she does not suspect! But she is so angry with you! I told her where you had gone, since you did not—” She cast him a reproachful glance. “But Tristan, her time has nearly come and she is distraught and therefore—”
“More shrewish than ever!” Tristan answered. “And you needn’t whisper. Has she dressed? Is she ready?”
Edwyna nodded unhappily. “I have told her that we are going into the City, that we will see no one with whom she is acquainted. I told her that the establishment is one of the King’s favorites and that he has asked you specifically to dine there.”
“Well then,” Tristan murmured. “Let’s get her, shall we?”
“Perhaps you should go alone,” Edwyna said.
“Edwyna!” Jon chastised her. “Will you quit acting like such a frightened little goose! She will suspect something.”
“You’d send me after that shrew
alone?” Tristan teased.
“Hmmph!” Edwyna protested. “Oh, I should not be a part of this!”
“But don’t you want your niece to be respectable and your great-nephew to be legal issue?” Tristan laughed.
“Oh, all right! Let’s go!” Edwyna said.
Together, they went for Genevieve.
“The two of you flirt and act like long-lost lovers,” Tristan warned them.
“I’ll just act drunk,” Jon offered.
Tristan opened the door to the chamber. He smiled as her head raised quickly from her work. She was dressed—and she looked beautiful. All his tenderness rose within him. Some of her hair was twisted into elegant braids that looped through the gold-jeweled headdress he had given her. Some of the rich golden tendrils were free and curled and waved beneath it like a train of shimmering gold. Her gown was girdled just below her breasts, and the great sweep of her fur-trimmed skirt hid much of her advanced pregnancy. She stood, and conflicting emotions raced through her eyes like stardust; they were blue and they were silver and then they were mauve, and she wavered slightly. Tristan liked to think that she considered approaching him, that she had missed him . . .
“Good evening, Genevieve.”
“Is it, milord?”
“Oh, do be pleasant!” Edwyna pouted from the doorway, her arms happily about her husband.
“Genevieve!”
Jon went to her, kissed her hands, complimented her appearance—and smoothed the way. Tristan strode forward and took her arm and said impatiently that they must be off.
“Are we taking a carriage?” Genevieve demanded stiffly at his side.
“Nay. I’ll not have you jolted. Your time is too close.”
They quickly traversed the hall. The Earl of Nottingham saw Tristan when they passed through the long gallery. Tristan waved and they hurried along, out of the steps to the palace, past the night guards, out to the great gates. Genevieve’s head was lowered, he saw, and her features flushed.
“You are well?” he asked anxiously.
“I am fine.”
“You are—embarrassed by your condition!”
Her face blazed. “Aye!”
“You needn’t be.”
“I’ll not marry you, Tristan.”
“Henry could give you to a fat, ugly old lord!” Tristan warned direly.
“That would serve you right!”
“Ah, but you would suffer nightly!”
Thomas stepped up behind them, and Genevieve flushed again because he had obviously heard their words.
“And he could have liverish lips and belch in bed!”
“Thomas, can’t you find a lady of your own to torture?” Genevieve wailed.
“Nay—for with Tristan as my liege, my time is lamentably limited!”
“When the babe is born,” Tristan retorted, “you can have all the time in the world, for you’ll have to return to the care of Bedford Heath. As soon as Genevieve can travel, we’re going back to Edenby.”
“Not ‘we,’ ” Genevieve protested sweetly. “I’ll belong to that fat lord with the liver lips.”
“What a fate!” Edwyna shuddered, and they all laughed, and walked again.
But Genevieve looked up at Tristan, and though her fingers trembled in his hand and a great desire welled up within her, she forced herself to remember the battles, the invasion—and the fact that he used her still.
“I will not marry you, Tristan. And you’ll not coax me into changing my mind by an elegant supper or special entertainment. I’ll never give you that satisfaction, I swear it.”
He merely smiled. Minutes later they came to a handsome building, made of stone. A liveried servant met them at the door, and Genevieve did not recognize the colors of the livery or the emblem emblazoned at the shoulder.
“Who owns this establishment?” she demanded.
“A friend of the King’s,” Tristan answered evasively, and they were ushered down a hall to a private dining room.
Genevieve paused at the table, a hand held against one of the massive, fine carved chairs as she looked about. Banners hung from the high ceiling, and the walls were paneled and decorated with various arms.
Tristan came to her, courteously taking her hand and pulling out her chair. “Sit, my love.”
“I’m not at all your love,” she retorted softly, “and I own to a great fear of sitting.”
“Ah, but you must! And have no fear—I’ll sit all the way at the other end of the table!”
She sat. Edwyna did the same, then the men. Instantly a host of servants—all in the same handsome livery of lime-green and black—came and went. Wine was poured, and they were offered a multitude of entrées, from candied eels to tender beef, from fish to fowl to rare, exotic fruits. The meal took time, and for all that there was to eat it seemed there was far more to drink, and Tristan, carefully watching Genevieve from his end of the table, was quite glad to see that she was nervous—and raised her cup frequently.
Edwyna kept up a steady chatter; Thomas and Jon laughed most frequently, too. Only Genevieve and Tristan were silent.
And then the time was upon them. Tristan nodded at Jon, and then came around for Genevieve, who commented to Edwyna that this place more resembled a private residence than any inn or tavern. Tristan grimaced over her head to Jon; he led her down the hall, but not to the door by which they had entered.
“Tristan, were we the King’s guests?” she asked. “You paid no one for the food or service! And I’ve seen no other guests—and you’re going the wrong way! This is not where we entered!”
But it was the door to the Bishop of Southgate’s private chapel. Tristan opened it and urged her in, and despite the wine she had consumed, Genevieve was too instantly aware.
How could she not be? The bishop himself awaited them at the altar with two young acolytes at his side.
“No!” Genevieve balked. “No! Tristan, I’ll not do this! Edwyna, I’ll not! It will not be legal! You can’t do this, you can’t do this!” She tried to twist from Tristan’s hold.
“Damnit, Edwyna, she didn’t drink enough!” Tristan grumbled.
“What did you want me to do?” Edwyna wailed. “I could not pour it down her throat!”
“Come on!” he swore to Genevieve.
She was simply incapable of losing a fight, gracefully or otherwise. Ranting and raving, she strove to kick him and pummel him with her fists.
“Genevieve, bound and gagged or on your own, you will marry me.”
“Dear, dear!” said the bishop coming forward. He was a gray-haired man with pleasant eyes and stern features. “Child, you’re expecting this man’s wee babe. The King wishes you to wed. Be reasonable—”
Genevieve was not listening. She took a swing at Tristan but missed and caught the bishop in the chin.
Tristan caught her flying fist and apologized to the bishop over the sound of her protests—growing tearful now.
“I will await you at the altar,” the bishop stated.
“Genevieve—” Edwyna tried to plead.
“You—whoreson!” Genevieve accused Tristan, her eyes wide as his arms clenched tight around and he lifted her, striding down the aisle. “Bastard, rat, scum—”
His hand clamped over her mouth. Thomas, Jon, and Edwyna followed uneasily behind them. Tristan stood before the altar with Genevieve locked in his arms, his hand clamped like steel over her mouth. His shirt was ripped, his hair was in his eyes, and he was panting. He smiled. “Proceed, please, Father. We are ready.”
And so the service began. The bishop read the marriage ceremony quickly—very quickly. Tristan was asked to swear the vows and he did most gravely.
Genevieve awaited her chance. Trembling, tears burning her eyes, she awaited. Tristan would have to move his hand for her to speak, and then.
“Genevieve Llewellyn . . .”
And he went on to state her parentage—returning her titles to her. “Do you . . .”
Never! Obey! Take to husband,
cherish, and love?
It was time to answer. Tristan would have to let her go. His hand slipped from her mouth and she inhaled to shout out her definite and absolute refusal.
“I do n—”
His mouth clamped down over hers—just like the day when she had tried to summon the nuns for help! Covering her lips, devouring her breath. She struggled, she twisted, she slammed her hands against him. Tristan merely motioned for the bishop to continue. The bishop cleared his throat and did so.
Genevieve could hear the words, but they grew dim. Stars and then blackness appeared before her—now she couldn’t hear words at all. She began to weaken.
He moved his all-consuming mouth from hers at last. She struggled for breath—and found herself receiving a host. Their wedding ceremony was complete down to the Mass now being said . . .
“No!” she gasped, and Tristan’s hand clamped over her mouth once again. And then, as she struggled both to breathe and free herself, she was suddenly set down rudely on her feet. She swayed, not certain that she could stand. Tristan caught her, and for a moment she could do nothing but stagger for balance and air.
Then she was suddenly wrenched about—led back down that aisle and out of the chapel and to a desk. And Tristan was signing papers that the others had already witnessed.
“I’ll not sign!” she shrieked, but ruthless fingers wound around hers, and protesting all the while she did sign.
“It’s not legal!” she swore, breaking free of Tristan at last.
He didn’t answer her. He was just staring at her. The bishop stepped forward, clearly angry.
“Milady, it is indeed legal! Why, I did hear you give your vow just as these other witnesses did. I assure you, my dear, you are most legally married.”
“Oh!” Tears rushed to her eyes. She felt the swollen bruises on her mouth and the steel of arms on her as if he held her still. “Oh! I hate you, and Edwyna and Jon—and Thomas! You had no right, you had no—”
She broke off suddenly, feeling something new—like the touch of a knife against the small of her back.
Lie Down in Roses Page 38
