Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  That she had lied. That her love, admitted so painfully, had been nothing but a lie.

  “Tristan!”

  There was such pain to her cry, such agony, that it gave him pause. He faltered. He wanted so desperately to believe her. To reach out and hold her. To love her tenderly and bathe away the tears and hold her to him in naked tenderness . . .

  Nay! Again and again she deceived him! With beauty and grace and evocative allure. What fool of a man could fall not once but again and again to the drumbeat in his loins and ragged tempest in his heart.

  “Lady, you’ve played the traitor against me one time too many! ”

  “Tristan, I did not!”

  “Then what?” he perched beside her. She cringed when he reached for her shoulders, wrenching her up to face him. He shook her and her head fell back and he was met by those incredible eyes with their lying glitter of tears once again. “Then what?”

  She laughed, and she cried, and she laughed again.

  She could accuse Guy—and he would slay Guy. Yet not even that would save her from this awful wrath, for he would merely think that she had conspired with Guy.

  There was no help for her.

  “Tristan, please—”

  “Tell me, Genevieve!”

  “I—cannot.”

  He hurtled her away from him and she lay upon the pillow, dazed. And then Katherine began to cry, fretful and hungry.

  And with that cry Genevieve felt her breasts sting, heavy with her daughter’s delayed meal. She was so weary! She could barely turn, barely force herself to face Tristan to rise to go to her daughter.

  But Tristan was up. Like a tiger, his energy was restive and explosive. Distraught, Genevieve still assumed that he would take the babe from her cradle and bring Katherine to her.

  He did pluck her from the cradle. And then he started for the door.

  Genevieve lost her inertia. She sat up, then sprang up in growing alarm, for he was opening the door with their daughter in his arms.

  “Tristan!” She raced for him, and paused when he turned to her with incredibly cold eyes. Tears streaming down her cheeks; she did not try to touch him, but reached out her arms in beseechment.

  “Tristan, what are you doing?”

  “Lady, you are not fit to raise her.”

  “She’s my child!”

  “And mine, madam.”

  “Tristan! Good God! You could not be so cruel! Oh, please, God, have mercy, you cannot take her from me!”

  He stood, ruthless and unrelenting. She could not see for her tears. She fell on her knees before him, her head bowed. “Oh, my God, Tristan, please, do with me what you will, but don’t—don’t take her from me!” Her voice broke—and she was broken.

  And Tristan stared down at her, at the beautiful blond head bowed before him. More than anything he wanted to believe! He wanted some miraculous excuse that would prove her innocent. He wanted to cradle her into his arms—he loved her with all his heart and wanted her more than ever. It was as if a part of him were being slowly severed away.

  His eyes misted and he could barely see. Her fragrance cascaded around him. She was a cloud of golden beauty, pleading at his feet.

  Katherine sobbed loudly.

  Tristan inhaled, clenching his teeth tightly together. He reached down for his wife’s hands and drew her to her feet.

  He returned his squalling daughter to her arms and heard her fervent, broken words of gratitude.

  For a moment he stood there. He watched as Genevieve brought the babe to the bed, and lay with her. He watched the baby latch onto her mother’s swollen breast, and tremors shook over him with the tender beauty of a sight that had never failed to touch him.

  Then he turned and left, slamming the door shut with a finality more chilling to Genevieve than any words he had ever spoken.

  Twenty-five

  “A toast!” Mr. Crowley, master goldsmith, cried out, raising his glass. “A toast to the city of Edenby. And to her founder, my friends, our liege lord, his grace Tristan de la Tere!”

  There was a pleasant shower of accolades as the merchants and artisans in the hallway raised their libations in salute. Tristan, seated at the head of the long table in the great hall, stretched out his legs and shoved the last of the papers toward Sir Humphrey, smiling. He had decided that gentleman would be the best choice for mayor. Sir Humphrey had a manor right on the boundary line of the new city; the people knew him and they loved him. He had been a fighter and he had worked among them. He was liked and he was respected.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Tristan said. He lifted his own glass. “And may we all prosper!”

  Griswald appeared, and the sound of that old man clearing his throat seemed a cue. The citizens of the newly founded city of Edenby set down their various tankards and glasses and began to file from the hall.

  All but Sir Humphrey, who hovered by the fire. Tristan ignored him, lifting a booted foot to set upon the chair beside him and stretching out to sit with more casual comfort in his chair. He lifted his glass idly and drained it, warily awaiting Sir Humphrey’s next comments—which he was sure would be some plea on Genevieve’s behalf.

  It was.

  “You have done well here, Tristan.”

  “I thank you, sir.”

  “And you have shown great mercy to your vanquished enemies. You have returned my home to me. Tamkin is quite pleased with being your official steward, a free man now to work for you at his choice. The Lady Edwyna and Jon are blessed with rare happiness. All that—”

  “All that I will listen to has been said,” Tristan interrupted impatiently. Go no further, old man! he thought broodingly. He scowled and poured himself more wine. Talk, talk, talk! What could be said? Three times in the fortnight since they had been home he’d gone to see Genevieve. Three times he had stayed near the door, arms crossed rigidly over his chest lest he fall to the desire to reach for her. Three times he had asked her for some explanation.

  And three times she had bowed her head in silence.

  So the Lady of Edenby was his prisoner once more, confined to her room, and Tristan had taken up residence in the master’s chamber.

  Yet he often wondered bitterly if his life were not far more wretched than Genevieve’s, for he had barely slept. He paced, and he ached, and he wanted her. He dreamed of holding her. Yet it was not surrender that he wanted, but love—and love had betrayed him again and again.

  He stared into his wine and mused with simmering heartache and anger that she had been in his blood like an obsessive fever since he had first set eyes upon her.

  He slammed his wine glass down so suddenly that the fragile crystal threatened to shatter. He threw his feet to the floor and stood, determined to be free of her.

  Ignoring Sir Humphrey he strode to the bottom of the staircase. “Jon! Jon! Come down here, will you!”

  A moment later Jon came down the stairs eying Tristan curiously—for he had not heard so light a tone in his voice for a long while.

  “Come, Jon! Young Mister Piers has opened an inn just at the new city limit. Let’s go and drink his ale and start him on a fine opening of trade!” He turned to Sir Humphrey. “Would you join us, sir?”

  “Nay, I think not,” Sir Humphrey said sadly.

  “Tristan—” Jon began.

  And Tristan slipped a comradely arm about his shoulder. “I’ve a yearning to get drunk. Wonderfully, rip-roaring drunk.”

  “Drown your sorrows,” Jon muttered heatedly.

  “Drown them, nay! Merely saturate and drench them, Jon. Find solace in some ale—and mayhap in a willing and eager young wench, who knows? Come!”

  Tristan waved idly to Sir Humphrey and called out to Matthew for their horses.

  Jon followed hastily. Seemed ’twould be one of those nights when it would be best to stay close to Tristan and temper his mood where he could.

  He glanced at Sir Humphrey. “Tell my wife, for me, sir, if you would, that I am desperately trying to catch the tiger
’s tail.”

  Sir Humphrey nodded. Tristan’s long strides were already taking him out; Jon followed him quickly.

  * * *

  “If you’ll not talk to Tristan, I still cannot see why you will not talk to me!” Edwyna complained, exasperated. Genevieve was pacing again, like a wild creature in a cage. Edwyna sat with little Katherine on her lap, thinking of what a beauty the child would grow to be—with Tristan’s coloring and her mother’s delicate features. She watched the baby with a special, glowing wonder now, for she believed that she would give Jon—and Anne!—the baby they so wanted before the fall harvests were in. And she argued blindly with Genevieve because she could not bear to see both her niece and Tristan so wounded and terribly at odds.

  “I can’t talk to you, Edwyna,” Genevieve said with a soft sigh. “You would think it your duty to tell him—”

  “I am your aunt! Flesh and blood!”

  Genevieve smiled a little wanly, and paused to look at Edwyna directly. “And, nay, I am sorry, I cannot trust you in this, for you’ll insist upon doing what you think is right. You cannot help me, but you can cause great calamity.”

  “Genevieve! Don’t you understand?” Edwyna began.

  “Aye, I understand,” Genevieve said wearily, and she ceased her pacing to curl up at the foot of her bed. “He thinks that I went to Bedford Heath to find some such evidence against him. I did not, though, Edwyna, I swear it!” She laid her head back on the bed, close to tears, and disgusted with herself for her lack of strength. But she was not only heartsick and desperate—she was tormented by morning sickness again. She wondered what this new pregnancy would mean to Tristan—if anything.

  Oh, it had to mean something! They could not go on like this, could they? She shivered and hugged her arms to her chest. Edwyna had told her that he and Jon had ridden off together. That he had been imbibing large quantities of wine and was in a wild mood. Had he truly finished with her, then? What did men want of their wives but heirs? Possibly this child would be a boy—and then he wouldn’t need to care if he ever came near her again . . .

  “Genevieve, I swear by God most holy I’ll not betray you in this!” Edwyna promised her softly. “You have to speak on it, you are eating away at your soul and sanity in here!”

  “I’m going to have another child,” she blurted out.

  Edwyna was silent for several seconds. “He will be pleased, of course. But . . .”

  “It will not make him forgive me,” Genevieve finished bitterly on a little note between a cry and a laugh. “Oh, God, Edwyna! What—”

  “Tell me,” Edwyna said serenely.

  “Edwyna, you’ll go to hell if you’re lying to me, you know!” Genevieve promised her severely. “Honestly, it could make matters all the worse.”

  “Let me hear it, please.”

  And so Genevieve, glad to be able to talk about it, told Edwyna about seeing Guy at Bedford Heath and how she had planned to accost him herself. “Edwyna, can you understand? He was father’s man, he was Axel’s friend. I could not let him be killed if I could save him!”

  “Please, go on,” Edwyna said grimly.

  “Well, at Court he came to my room. And he started on and on about how he loved me and how he had solved everything. He started telling me about these letters he had stolen. And so ...”

  “And so you decided to steal them back. But the guard got suspicious and chased you—and found them.”

  Genevieve nodded unhappily.

  “Tell him!” Edwyna exclaimed in a fair temper.

  “I can’t! He’ll merely think that I was in league with Guy!”

  “You should have told him from the time that you saw Sir Guy on his property.”

  “Maybe,” Genevieve said dispiritedly. She moved back to her bed and sat. “Maybe. But still, oh, I don’t know! I—”

  Genevieve broke off, staring open-mouthed at her door—which had just opened. To her utter amazement, the object of her conversation stood before her.

  Sir Guy. In a black cloak and cap, with even his hose dark, and his velvet shirt a dusky gray beneath it. He stood there for a moment, poised, his sandy hair curling over his forehead in minor disarray. He smiled slowly at Genevieve.

  “I’ve come for you, love. I’ve come to rescue you.”

  Seconds passed in which she was too stunned to speak. Her mind seemed to work so slowly!

  Her hand fluttered to her throat. How had he got in? Young Roger de Treyne was supposed to be her guardian. Where had Roger gone?

  Fear and anger rose in Genevieve. “Guy,” she said coldly, “what are you doing here? Didn’t it occur to you that I might have talked to Tristan? I am sure you heard that I had an evening’s excursion through Traitor’s Gate.”

  From the chair Edwyna made a little sound, and Genevieve realized that Edwyna was seeing things much more quickly than she. Understanding. Knowing the import of Guy being able to stand there—inside Genevieve’s door.

  “I was sorry,” Guy whispered. “Ah, Genevieve, what a fool thing you did! But you didn’t give my name to your husband. Else he’d not be gone without you now—and you’d not be awaiting me here.”

  “I’m not awaiting you!” Genevieve cried out, jumping up. “I nearly lost my head over you, Guy!”

  He strode to her quickly, and though Genevieve backed away he caught her to him. “Come on, Genevieve! We’ve got to go now!”

  His touch hurt. His hold on her was a painful grip, and she felt a rising panic. “Guy! I do not want to go with you! I am Tristan’s wife! I—”

  She broke off because he shook her with such cruel vigor that she had to gasp for air and then stare at him, incredulous again.

  “Guy!”

  “I love you, Genevieve! I wanted you—”

  “Guy, you were my friend! You were Axel’s friend! I never loved you, you couldn’t have presumed—”

  Next she broke off because he was laughing. And because his eyes were filled with terrible malice. “Genevieve, you are with me or against me! Edenby was to be mine—”

  “What?” she retorted, straining against his grip. He wasn’t a weak man; he was practiced at arms, and his power was almost as great as Tristan’s. Desperately she looked over his head to Edwyna. Edwyna was sitting very still, her eyes wide, her hand protectively covering little Katherine’s head. Edwyna shook her head slightly, and Genevieve felt a new rush of trembling fear. She understood the look in Edwyna’s eyes. Go carefully—this man will hurt you. Hurt—all of us.

  “Guy! I was never to marry you—”

  “So much, Genevieve. I’d lie awake nights and imagine how it would be here. I’d lie on the bed and you’d stand before me and toss your clothes aside and crawl atop me—”

  “Guy! I was never promised to you! I loved Axel—”

  “Are you coming with me, Genevieve? I wanted Edenby, I wanted Edenby badly. And still one day I might have it. We’ll meet up with other Yorkists in Ireland. One day they’ll rise against Henry. And perhaps then we’ll come back here. Perhaps they’ll allow me to hack Tristan de la Tere’s head from his body.”

  “Oh, Guy! Don’t you understand! I love him! I will not go anywhere with you! Go! Quickly. Before he comes home. Before the guards discover you! Listen! I love him. Freely. I—”

  She screamed, crashing to the floor, when he hit her. She gathered herself up again, stunned. And he took a step toward her, staring down at her in a maddened wrath.

  “You will come with me. Willingly. You little bitch, I will have you—‘til I tire of you and your arrogant ways! Little fool! ’Twas no Lancastrian knight killed Axel on the battlefield! I killed him! And I killed old Edgar.”

  “Oh, my God!” Genevieve breathed.

  He smiled charmingly. “And I’ll kill again and again, Genevieve. I’ll kill you—rather than leave you to him. I’d much rather you come along with me.”

  Genevieve took a deep breath and screamed as loudly as she could.

  He kicked her in the ribs. Edwyna chose th
at moment to leap from the chair, but before she could reach the door a stranger with a drawn knife appeared to block her way. Edwyna backed up into the room, sheltering the baby against her chest. She spun to Guy, her lips quivering. “Where, where—”

  “Oh, little Anne? Why she is fine. Locked in with Mary and that other little serving slut.”

  “Sir Humphrey?” Edwyna asked, wetting her lips.

  “Bleeding on the floor,” Guy said distastefully. “And that old man Griswald ... well, he might live. The rest of the mewling servants here were easily cowed. A number of them are in the tower. And that de Treyne lad, well he fought but we caught him from the rear, eh, Filbert?”

  “From the rear,” the man at the doorway grinned.

  “There are a host of guards outside these walls—” Genevieve threatened, but Guy seemed undisturbed.

  “We’ll be gone before they can be summoned. Edwyna, give me the brat.”

  “Nay!” Edwyna screamed and tried to race from Guy. Genevieve rose to her feet, swaying but determined. She lunged at Guy like a she-cat but he turned with a snarl and slapped her hard to the floor again. His hands fell on the baby. Edwyna screamed again, but the man at the door left his stance to rip at her hair, jerking her backward, and Katherine fell into Guy’s arms. The baby cried now, aware of the tumult in the room.

  Genevieve scrambled to her feet again, crying out and pouncing toward Guy. But he managed to stop her with a few subtle words.

  “I’ll slit her throat, Genevieve, and I’d most gladly slit the throat of his child. She should have never filled your belly. Now, my grand Lady Genevieve! You’ll put on your cloak and go outside and you’ll sweetly ask the stable boy for your cloak.”

  “I am a prisoner here!” Genevieve spat out at him, yet she was in terror, for he held her squalling child, and she had little doubt that he would do as he threatened. Oh, God! She had never imagined the truth! Her father had not died in battle—he had been slain by his own man! And Axel, dear Axel. Oh, God, Guy had been murderous and unscrupulous and insane all along—and they’d never seen it!