Twenty-three
“Thomas, if you’ll not take me, I swear that I’ll find a way to go myself!”
Genevieve wasn’t sure that she sounded imperious but she meant to be as persuasive as possible. Jon had managed to evade her and give her vague promises, and so tonight she had determined to accost Thomas.
It hadn’t been difficult, she thought dryly. She’d had only to look in the hall to find him. It seemed that when she was not with Jon and Edwyna, Thomas hounded her footsteps. And when Thomas was nowhere to be seen, she could count on her aunt and Jon to be lurking somewhere near.
Katherine was soundly sleeping, in a cradle given graciously to Genevieve by Elizabeth of York. Thomas was in a mellow mood—created by warm mulled wine that Genevieve had carefully tended over the fire herself. She needed to strike now and not be deterred.
Thomas cast her an uneasy, skeptical gaze, idly shuffling a boot over the stone before the hearth. He finished his wine and nervously set the cup down upon the mantel, lacing his fingers behind his back.
Genevieve looked as determined as she had been when she had held out against Tristan’s cannons at the siege of Edenby.
She was like a mythical warrioress, thought Thomas, with that hair flowing behind her like a golden banner and flashing eyes that defied description. She was everything that a man could desire in a woman—soft and yet fierce. Determined and alive with spirit, yet so feminine that one was instantly touched. The little Lady Katherine was barely five weeks old, yet already her mother was as trim as a sylph and as seductive in appearance as she was in the lilting tones of her voice.
What was it that drove Tristan so hard he could not see the bounty that was his? Why, still, did the dark moods drive him, why did he need to cause her this suffering? Thomas reminded himself that she had once tried to kill Tristan—but he had slain many an admirable man himself in warfare. If that had been the root of the problem, Tristan should have forgiven her by now. The most curious thing was that Tristan loved her—of this, Thomas was certain.
“Thomas!” She was quite close to tears, to desperation, he thought. “I know that I am watched day and night, but I have escaped such situations before. Please, please, Thomas! He has been gone nearly three weeks.”
Thomas grinned ruefully. “And he will be gone again, milady. He inherited an earldom; he was created the Duke of Edenby by our new King, and he is His Majesty’s subject. You deceive yourself cruelly if you think he will never again be called to do battle against some pretender.”
Genevieve walked over to stare down into the cradle. “I know that he will be called. But why, Thomas, did he have to go back to Bedford Heath again? You manage the estates as his steward, and you do miraculously well.”
Thomas shrugged unhappily. He couldn’t avoid her stare.
“Come on, Thomas, please! You owe me, sir! You were part and parcel of dragging me off to marry him!”
He groaned softly. “Genevieve, he went back because even some of his most trusted men, guards who are educated and level in their thinking, are growing convinced that his manor is haunted.”
“Haunted!”
“Yes, well . . .” Thomas lifted his hands uncomfortably. “It was the scene of tremendous bloodshed and ...”
“Please, Thomas?”
“I’m not at all sure—”
“Did he tell you that you could not bring me?”
“Nay—no one thought you would demand to go!” Thomas reproached her. “And truly, Genevieve, how can you? What of Katherine? Do you intend to leave her with a nursemaid? She is so tiny still?”
Genevieve breathed in and out sharply. “I can leave her with Edwyna and Mary. Mary says she knows the perfect young wet nurse, a carpenter’s daughter who has milk aplenty to feed her own and mine.”
Genevieve’s return to their spacious chamber at Court had been improved by some curious surprises; Mary had come to serve her, summoned by Tristan. Even more touching had been the appearance of Sir Humphrey, who had told her that he had met with Tristan in Henry’s chambers at Tristan’s request and that he had been pardoned and forgiven. But these things did not quell her urge to go to Tristan and risk his anger. If she were to be his wife, she would not be cast aside!
Thomas watched her for a moment and sighed. Which would be better—explaining to Tristan that she had eluded him and ridden alone? Or explaining to Tristan that he lacked the strength of will to fight her?
Maybe she should come to Bedford Heath. It might be good for both of them.
He threw his hands up in the air.
“All right.”
“Oh, Thomas, really?”
Her smile was dazzling. She raced across the room, threw her arms around him, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Thomas smiled, taking her hands in his and thinking, my God, if she looks at Tristan so, it is no wonder that he is so deeply in love.
“We leave right after sunup. You’ll ride in a coach.”
“Thank you, Thomas!”
* * *
In the end Jon and Edwyna decided to accompany them. Jon thought the whole scheme a grave mistake but would not let them go without him. Genevieve brought Mary along to help with Katherine, and they set out in something of a party atmosphere, the women inside the coach and the men riding ahead. It wasn’t a leased vehicle, Genevieve discovered, but her husband’s, with the single coat of arms of Bedford Heath blazoned on the doors. Jon explained that since the holdings were so close to London, the family maintained a coach in the City.
It was a beautiful, comfortable conveyance, and for the start of the trip Genevieve, Edwyna, Mary, and the baby were able to make something of an outing of it. It was spring, and the land was beautiful. As they left the bustle of London behind they saw farmers at work in their fields sowing seeds. Wildflowers covered the heaths and meadows, and the air was alive with butterflies and bees.
For a time Jon rode in the coach, his horse tethered to the rear, and for a time Thomas joined them likewise. They stopped for lunch at an inn, where the cream and the bread were fresh and the trout had been caught in the stream just moments before their arrival.
Back on the road sitting tensely beside Genevieve, Thomas said, “Here begin the outlands of Bedford Heath, milady.”
Night began to fall, and suddenly the holiday mood was gone. Nervously Genevieve held Katherine to her chest, crooning softly to her. Night came swiftly. She could see little of the land but she could tell that it was vast. And as they rode they came upon more and more buildings. Farm cottages, where cooking fires sent warmth and light into the night. A cluster of homes and shops. The great stone walls of several manors rose in the distance, beautiful and dazzling with light at the windows, created not with the harsh gray slate and stone of Edenby, but with artistic brick and mortar.
Thomas cleared his throat suddenly and pointed across a vast drive and courtyard. “Tristan’s house,” he murmured. “He didn’t stand to inherit, you know. His brother would have received the title and the bulk of the land. He had this place built about five years after the Battle of Tewkesberry.”
The coach pulled up at last before a graceful staircase leading to massive, carved doors. Thomas leapt from the coach and adjusted the footstep and helped Genevieve alight. While the others followed, Genevieve stepped back and stared upward at the large, graceful building. It was not quite castle, not quite manor, but a beautiful combination of both.
Then she frowned suddenly, for through paned windows on the second floor she could see a shadow moving about. She shook her head slightly, wondering why a shadow should disturb her. There were surely people within the manor, any number of them. Tristan should be within.
Then she realized that the shadow bothered her because it seemed to move furtively and that a pinpoint of light seemed to move with the shadow.
“Genevieve!”
Edwyna was calling to her. Genevieve turned to see that the great doors had opened and that servants had come to help. Thomas was speaking to a portly man in handsome livery, and younger lads were coming to take their trunks.
Genevieve started up the steps, nervous now that she was here. Yet it seemed she had little reason to fear her husband’s reaction to her arrival—he was not there.
While Jon gave the portly man at the door a ferocious hug, Thomas laughed, introducing him to Genevieve and Edwyna as Gaylord. Jon promised Genevieve that Gaylord would see to everything that she might need. Gaylord, he said, had seen them all through many a scrape as children. Genevieve smiled at the lot of them, glad of the closeness, and instantly warmed to Gaylord, though she was aware of his careful scrutiny of her. He asked for the baby, and Genevieve started. Jon assured her that Gaylord had held them all as babies. To Genevieve’s pleased surprise, her daughter liked old Gaylord and cooed with delight as he began to carry her in.
Genevieve’s hem snagged at the door and she paused with a slight sound; Thomas chuckled and came back to loosen her hem. She found herself staring over his head and into the night, and then feeling a strange quickening of fear assail her.
Beyond the manor, right behind a group of outbuildings, the forests began. And where the oaks began to tangle together, Genevieve saw another shadow. It carried a lantern, a small pinpoint of light, and moved most furtively.
“Thomas!”
“What?”
But the light was gone, disappeared into the trees. “I thought I saw . . . never mind.” She decided not to say anything. If people were already murmuring that the manor was haunted, she probably shouldn’t mention a shadow. At least not to anyone but Tristan. “Thomas, where is Tristan?”
“Still out settling a land dispute,” Thomas murmured unhappily.
“He’ll be back tonight?”
“Late, so Gaylord tells me. Which is quite fine by me! I shall have my head chewed off and spit out for this, you know. Come on, now. See the manor, as you are here.”
He took her arm and led her to a grand, paneled entry. Off to the left was a dining hall and gallery; to the right were the great hall and the offices and kitchens. He led her to the great hall and she gasped at its splendor. Window seats with plush cushions were in abundance, and bright rugs from exotic lands warmed the floors. Tapestries and draperies elegantly adorned the walls, and great chairs lined the arched stone that surrounded the hearth.
“And he—hates this place!” she murmured.
Gaylord, studying Katherine before the light of the fire, gazed up at her unhappily. Katherine started to cry and Genevieve thought that the baby was hungry and fretful—it had not been easy to care for her properly in the coach. She smiled and took her child back from Gaylord.
“Good sir, perhaps you could show me where I might... bring my child.”
“Milady,” Gaylord said most respectfully. But she saw him glance at Thomas over her head as if for help, and she realized that Gaylord thought that Tristan might not want her here.
“Gaylord, I need a place to feed my baby,” she said flatly, with the subtle tones of strong authority she had spent a lifetime learning.
He was up quickly, nodding to a boy in the back, directing her eyes toward the staircase. “I shall take you—”
“Nay, Gaylord, I shall do it. His lordship is probably going to hang me as it is,” Thomas sighed.
“Thank you,” Genevieve murmured. She smiled at Edwyna and Jon, and thought that they looked a little white, too. Jon wished her good-night, and she longed to call him a coward—he intended to be safely in bed with his wife before Tristan could return. But could she blame him? This was none of Jon’s doing.
The second story of the manor was as elegant as the first. The rooms and hallways were separated by stylish arches, and a multitude of portraits hung on the wall. Thomas pointed out the library and a music room, all part of the master suite. Then he paused and pushed open a set of doors with heavy brass handles. Her heart fluttering, Genevieve preceded him in.
She stood there, surveying the elegant rugs on the floors and the rich, warming draperies at the windows. The bed was huge, with four heavy posters carved in a simple acorn style. Heavy damask hangings were gathered at each post, and only the lightest white gossamer trailed around the bed. It was not a feminine room, nor too masculine, but rather adorned to be pleasing to a man and a woman together. It was commonly the custom for married couples in such a household—even those who had wed by choice—to maintain separate personal quarters. But Lisette and Tristan had always been together, Genevieve surmised, with a tug at her heart.
“I’ll send Mary up, and a lad with your things,” Thomas offered. “Would you like a bath?”
Genevieve nodded. Aye, she wanted a bath! She wanted to feel fresh and she wanted to fill the water with perfumed oil. She wanted to know that her skin was soft and sleek, and enticing to the man who had turned from her.
Thomas started to leave her. Genevieve raised her eyes and they fell on the windows again. They were beautiful; each pane along the edge of the arches had been stained a royal blue. But she had realized suddenly that here, exactly here, was where she had seen the shadow and the light moving so furtively from below.
“Thomas! Wait. Are you quite sure that—Tristan is not here?”
“Well of course I am sure,” Thomas replied somewhat impatiently. “Gaylord would not be mistaken. Why?”
She smiled uneasily and patted Katherine’s back. “I’m sorry, Thomas. Never mind.”
As soon as he was gone, Genevieve lay down with Katherine. While her baby nursed she continued to look around the room. It was so lovely, so warm, so inviting. She tried to imagine Lisette, and though she could not picture a face, she could sense the woman—graceful and supple, moving with a whisper of silk; a breath of gentle beauty where she sat at the dressing table. Genevieve thought again of the shadow and the light, and felt a chill. Then she dismissed it. She did not believe in evil spirits coming back to plague the living. Moreover Lisette had been good. Genevieve was convinced that the gentle woman would understand her, and be her friend, and certainly wish her no harm.
In time Katherine slept. Mary appeared, and boys came with a fine brass tub and buckets of hot water. Genevieve bathed long and nervously, praying that the steam would ease her spirit. What could Tristan do? she asked herself again and again. Send her away? Perhaps he would not be pleased to see her here, but surely he would want to hold his daughter.
Mary brushed her hair until it shone and curled and waved down her back. Genevieve instinctively clad herself in white, a nightdress of softest silk, with sheer laced overlays and pearled epaulets. Mary called down for the boys, and the bath was taken away and the room quickly righted. Then Gaylord came to show Mary her room in the servants’ quarters above, and Genevieve was alone again.
She glanced at her beloved daughter, sleeping so sweetly upon the bed. She bit her lip. She had not thought to ask, and apparently neither Gaylord or any other member of the household staff had thought of finding a cradle for Katherine. She had not been expected of course, as Genevieve had not.
There was another arched doorway at the rear of the room and Genevieve stared at it a moment, wondering if it might not lead to a nursery. Alone, she had always been content to sleep with Katherine beside her. But tonight she wanted Tristan to have no distractions.
She carefully picked up the baby and started curiously for the arch, aware that any bedding would need to be changed, but Tristan’s staff were quick and capable here. Yet even as she thought this there was a tap at the door, and she hurried to it, anxious that Katherine not awaken now—the hour was growing late.
Thomas was standing there, grinning a little ruefully, a tray with wine and glasses in his hand. “I thought you might want something to ... for the wait,” he said, and she smiled because he knew how nervous she was.
“Thank you, Thomas, thank you, and come in. Please. I need your help!” Genevieve whispered.
Curious, Thomas followed her, setting the tray down on a table. Genevieve beckoned him toward the door, and he stopped suddenly unwilling to go farther.
“Thomas, is this a nursery?”
He didn’t answer right away. Genevieve frowned, and tried the door. It slid open. “Thomas, bring a light, please.” She stepped into the shadowy darkness, wondering if he would follow her or not. In a second he did, carrying a lantern.
“Genevieve—”
She had seen the cradle and she cried out with soft delight. Someone had prepared things for Katherine. She could smell the cleanliness of the sheets that lay in the fine new piece of furniture. And there was a table nearby, chairs, a trunk, all sorts of accommodations for a wee one.
Carefully, tenderly, she set Katherine into the cradle. Then she turned to see Thomas behind her, holding the light. The shadows fell over his face, betraying his ashen coloring.
“Thomas—”
“Step back, Genevieve.” He inclined his head downward, indicating the floor.
She stepped back and looked down and saw the stain, large and dark, nearly beneath the cradle.
“She died here,” Thomas said dully. “And Tristan found her here. I suppose that someone prepared this tonight for Katherine, but I don’t know, perhaps you shouldn’t . . .”
Genevieve found herself sweeping to her knees, touching the floor, feeling pain streak through her for the unknown woman who had once lived here, who died atop the cradle where her child would have lain. She looked at Thomas, and she must have appeared stricken, for Thomas strode to her quickly, kneeling down beside her, lifting her chin.
“Genevieve, I do not know what to say to ease—”
“Perhaps, Thomas, you had best think of something quickly!”
The voice came from the archway, harsh and menacing. Genevieve’s eyes riveted to the doorway and she rose with a slight gasp. Tristan was home.
He was plainly clad in tight fawn breeches and knee-high boots, a flowing white shirt, and rugged leather jerkin. He leaned against that archway in a casual stance, yet Genevieve did not think that she had ever seen such murderous fury in his eyes. He moved with the silent, supple grace of a cat, coming toward them, staring at Thomas, with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Thomas stood, facing Tristan.
“Draw your sword then, my lord! I have served you well these many years—and your doubt of me is a keen insult indeed. You know full well that there is nothing deceitful here.”
Tristan paused in the center of the room, and his gaze flicked to Genevieve. Then he sat down in one of the great chairs, observing them still with the glitter of hell’s fire in his eyes, though he lifted a hand nonchalantly indicating Genevieve’s dress.
“Are you accustomed to visiting my wife so?”
“Nay, I am not!” Thomas charged him heatedly. “I came merely to explain—”
“You have no need to explain me to her!” Tristan thundered suddenly.
Genevieve wanted to cry out; she could feel the violence brewing between them on the air, and she could not believe that Tristan could turn against Thomas.
“If milord—” Thomas spat out the title with chill formality, “you so wish to believe—”
“Stop it, Thomas!” Genevieve cried out, ignoring Tristan. Her heart sank and numbness filled her, but whatever she said, whatever wrath she brought down on herself, she couldn’t allow the two of them to go on like that. “Don’t you see, he isn’t angry with you. He simply cannot forgive me—for not being Lisette!”
“Genevieve!” Tristan bellowed, his eyes narrowing.
She strode over to him, maintaining an arm’s distance. “I am sorry, Tristan! But, God knows I—”
He rose suddenly, and in spite of herself Genevieve backed away, clenching her fingers tightly behind her back. His wrath was now directed at her, and not Thomas. He looked to his friend and still spoke curtly.
“What is she doing here?”
“She’s your wife. She demanded to be brought. What could I do?”
Tristan stared at Genevieve again. She circled behind the cradle, anguished that nothing she could say mattered to him. “You lost a child,” she said coolly. “But you have another, and if she is not the result of the alliance of your choice, it was your own doing, and you do owe her some consideration!”
He hadn’t seen Katherine. Genevieve realized that he glared at her white-lipped, as if she had gone completely mad. She cried out as he came to the cradle and plucked Katherine from her nest of bedding without hesitance, swirling around to leave both Genevieve and Thomas staring after him.
“Tristan! She was tired, she was sleeping!” With a quick glance at Thomas, Genevieve raced after Tristan. She paused, knotting her fists at her sides, seeing him before the windows, the baby safe and still asleep, against his shoulder.
He didn’t turn to look at them. “Thomas, if you’ll excuse us, please . . .?” he said coldly.
Thomas hesitated, casting Genevieve an uneasy glance. But he had no right to remain, to come between a man and his wife. He turned stiffly on his heels, and departed.
“What, in God’s name, are you doing here?” he demanded in a hoarse breath when the door had closed.
Genevieve stared at his back blankly. Than her eyes fell to what should have been the seductive skirt of her soft sheer gown with hem done in pearls. She felt like laughing, and like crying.
“I really don’t know,” she said in soft but bitter return. His back remained to her, stiff and untouchable. She swung around, fighting tears and hurrying to the wine that Thomas had brought her. Silence reigned while she sipped it—along with a growing tension. Genevieve feared the glass would break in her fingers. She lashed out at him again.
“For God’s sake, Tristan! Have pity on your daughter! The cradle is not tainted! Please . . .!”
For a second he remained there, stiff and straight. Then he strode back through the archway. Genevieve felt his coldness assail her, and she hurried over to the fire, anxious for warmth. She rubbed her hands together, then turned and cried out softly again, for he was back, watching her with such a brooding tension that she suddenly longed for escape.
His eyes did not leave her as he walked over to the table and poured himself wine. He drank it like ale in one swallow.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated hoarsely.
She didn’t answer him. He could see a pulse beating against the soft flesh of her throat. And he could see far more. Her breasts, still enlarged, round and straining against the fabric of the nearly sheer bodice.
And the fire ... behind her. It caught the rich and lustrous hues and strands of her hair so that it seemed to cascade like a glowing halo about her.
Every nuance of her form was outlined. The flare of her hips, the graceful, sultry curves, vital and beseeching to all in him that had longed for her.
She shouldn’t be here; she shouldn’t have come. He could not help his mood here; he was not free from the past.
He did not believe Lisette could come back—for by God, he would have ridden through the very gates of hell to drag her back.
He did not believe Bedford was haunted, yet he was wary of something, and he could not bear Genevieve here. Perhaps he was afraid for her.
He’d sworn to God that he’d not touch her in force again. But neither could he resist her. Not in the tumult that he felt, seeing her in this room. He ached for her with a gnawing desire, a frantic pulse from deep in the core of his being. With a bitter smile, he set down his glass to accost her one last time.
“I repeat myself, milady! What are you doing here?” And he strode to her, aware of the brimming fire in her eyes. She did not speak; the sweet aroma of her scent and the subtle perfume of roses engulfed him, and he jerked her suddenly into his arms, forcefully taking her lips, plundering her mouth with no thought to resistance or denial. And when her arms came against his chest, he laughed, oh, bitter still, and caught her to him, near quaking at the feel of her flesh pressed so close, so long denied him. “It seems to me, milady, you’ve come for just one thing, and I could not well deprive you of it!”
“Tristan!” Genevieve shrieked, near tears as her feet roughly left the floor. He carried her across the room on long, hard strides and tossed her on the bed. Oh, how she had dreamed of a sweet reunion! Whispered words before the fire, his gentle caress. But this lover was a ruthless one, determined rather than tender, and she was frightened of him, for she barely knew him.
“Tristan!” She struggled to rise, but his hands were upon her, and her seductive white gown was tangled to the waist. He held her, fumbling with his own apparel, and ere she knew it she felt the smooth weight and hardness of his body against hers, ablaze with purpose. She stared at the taut rigor of his features and the driven chill in his eyes, torn and bewildered that there should be no mercy within him.
“This is why you came here?” he demanded curtly. “I can fathom no other reason.”
“Tristan! Nay! Not—like this!”
He seemed not to hear her, and perhaps he did not, for she realized that in this place demons haunted the man. She tried to strike out, to little effect. His lips were hot on her throat, his hands rough against her tender breasts. And then she felt him, strong and hot, an alien shaft piercing into her. She screamed because she had not expected the pain. She hadn’t known herself what care she would need the first time after Katherine’s birth.
The sound of her cry, brimming with pain, tore into him. He wanted her with every vital thing within him, but he did not wish to hurt her. He drew from her, abruptly. For seconds she lay there like a wounded doe, eyes wet and shimmering, breasts rising and falling. She didn’t move, not to draw a cover against him, not to sweep her skirts down.
And then she bounded from the bed and knelt before the fire, hugging her knees to her chest. He could see her shoulders shake and he could not bear it.
“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.