Eighteen
“Oh, and we must see that Mildred—Tess’s mother—is brought here as soon as possible. She is quite alone now, and from what Tess tells me she will not survive the winter if something is not done,” Genevieve told Tamkin.
He scribbled another line onto the roster he wrote, nodding, then he looked to Genevieve. “Shall she work in the kitchen?”
Genevieve walked the small side hall above the chapel, tapping her steepled fingers to her chin. “Nay, I think not. Her health is fragile. But she spins the most wonderful thread—so Tess assures me. She can have a small room in the eastern wing and work in the solar, where she will have what light there is to help her.”
Tamkin scribbled on the paper again and Genevieve wandered over to the mullioned windows, looking outside into the courtyard.
The winter’s first snow had fallen that morning, and everything was beautiful. As glorious as a fairy-tale of ice palaces and kingdoms in spun-sugar clouds. The ground was soft white, and horses passed by with their harnesses jingling, tossing their manes and tails in glorious delight. The stable boys and grooms passed beneath her now and then, their woolen cloaks and mantles bathed in a sudden spray of white. Winter’s first snow . . .
She sighed suddenly, feeling her confinement deeply. Just an hour or so ago the men had ridden out, Jon and Tristan and young Roger de Treyne and Father Thomas and two of the falconers, to hunt the huge bucks moving closer to the coast for food. Genevieve had watched them from this window, wistfully, longing to go.
But she had not asked.
She’d gained a certain freedom, and she no longer felt so wretchedly idle. The castle was hers to roam, yet she knew that she was not fully trusted; guards were stationed at strategic places. She knew, without asking, that Tristan would not trust her upon a horse. When he had mentioned their outing this morning, she had watched him with her unspoken plea in her eyes; but, she had known his answer without his words.
The Sisters of Good Hope were too close, should she manage to elude him on horseback.
Genevieve sighed suddenly, leaning against the stone and holding back the drapery to stare into the snow, which she so longed to touch. Life was easier now, in the days since his return. She did cherish the change! Things had fallen into a pattern by silent agreement. Tamkin—still a prisoner like herself but invaluable in the running of the estates—worked with her frequently; in winter they saw to the welfare of the tenants and the farmers that the lords of the castle were bound to consider.
So much unsaid . . . Genevieve brooded. It seemed such a strange period of time, as if everything waited. And life was indeed she thought, strange. Not unpleasant. Mornings she spent as she had for years, daily supervising more and more of the domestic activities within the walls. Afternoons she spent with Edwyna and Anne, sewing, talking, laughing, playing, reading, or practicing upon her harp now that she was allowed to the music chamber once again. And when dusk came Annie was put to bed, Tristan and Jon returned from their business, and they took the evening meal together, often with Father Thomas and Tibald joining them, too.
And then . . .
Then, of course, she and Tristan were alone, and the nights were often like mercury dreams. They never spoke of the future, and he never mentioned the child, and therefore she was careful to keep silent herself. What plans she might have were not for him, and what he thought or felt now he gave her no clue. She knew that she grew passionately involved, yet she dared not scrutinize the feeling that grew within her, for she could not change the truth. He was the enemy; she was the conquered prize. She could never be more; she was simply a captive kept now in her own residence, and useful there—for the time.
But she was not unhappy! So for now, until this winter’s lethargy left her and she could fight the spell of the man as well as his power, she would bide her time as a part of it all. She seldom even blushed now when her servants looked at her curiously or when Father Thomas’ sorrowful gaze fell upon her. Only those closest to her knew about the child, for she carried it well. But everyone knew where she slept, for Tristan had never made a secret of it or of her dishonorable position here. Perhaps it was easy not to see much in the way of the things; nothing much in appearance had changed. No one had ever rifled her coffers or her trunks. She wore her own clothing and furs and jewels and surely appeared much as she ever had.
She simply did not leave the confines of the castle.
“Milady?”
Taken from her thoughts, Genevieve moved her cheek from the cool stone to glance quickly at Tamkin. He was on his feet, holding his quill tensely as he stared at her. He had been speaking to her, and she hadn’t heard a word.
“You’ve not been listening,” he said.
She smiled apologetically at the great bear of a man who had always been such a part of her life.
“Forgive me, Tamkin. What were you saying?”
He cleared his throat. “I asked that you-give a plea for me, milady, to—Lord de la Tere.” He shuffled from foot to foot, then murmured, “I stand unforgiven for my part in the events here. Others come and go now, while I—” He shrugged. “I am forgotten. I am returned to lock and key each night. Ah, milady! I was loyal to your father, and to his cause, yet now—I cannot change the course of events, bring King Richard back to life, or set a Yorkist king upon the throne! I would bow before the winds of history and give Henry his due—Henry and his nobility. I would swear my oath to Tristan de la Tere.”
Genevieve stared at him blankly for a moment and he continued, “Milady, please, if you would just speak on my behalf. . . ?”
“Tamkin,” she murmured uneasily, “I, too, am a prisoner here.”
“But a—cherished one, milady.”
She turned back to the window, blushing. Then she forgot Tamkin’s words because there was a sudden flurry of activity below. Grooms were rushing about, and the great gates were opening while a guard formed at them. Straining to see, Genevieve gasped, for there was a contingent of a dozen or so men on horseback with banners waving bearing down on the castle.
“Tamkin—!”
He rushed to her side and together they looked out.
“They carry the dragon! The dragon emblem, Cadwallader of Wales. My lady—they come from the King!”
They did indeed, Genevieve saw, as the men rode through the gates. She could hear trumpets blowing then, and as Tamkin had said, she could clearly see the Welsh dragon on the banners, as well as the leopard and lilies of England.
“My God!” Tamkin said suddenly.
“What is it?”
“There! It is Sir Guy! Is the man a foot—or a miracle? He returns here—”
“He changed sides,” Genevieve murmured, and her heart beat recklessly as she saw her old friend dismounting in the courtyard, tossing the reins to a groom. He looked upward, and though Genevieve was certain he could not see her behind the frames of the window, she could see him clearly—sandy-haired bright-eyed. It was good to see a friend, yet she was suddenly afraid of him, remembering the way that Tristan had mentioned his name. Nor was she certain that she wanted him here. Those who had remained behind had taken their punishments and learned to move into the new life. Guy was not a part of that now. He was indeed a part of the new order—the order that had taken over.
“Changed sides!” Tamkin snorted. “The traitor!”
Genevieve shrugged wearily. Traitor—or the only intelligent one among them? Guy was outside, free and well and apparently prospering. They were inside, prisoners, subject to the whim of Tristan de la Tere.
“The noble Sir Guy!” Tamkin swore sarcastically. “He who created the seeds of treachery comes to us with a smile upon his face, while you and I pay the price!”
“Tamkin, don’t be so certain that he plays the traitor—to us, at any rate. I understand that he rode with the Stanleys at the Battle of Bosworth Field—and the Stanleys quite suddenly chose for Henry. Perhaps Guy has come here to see what he can salvage for the rest of us. Please, Tamkin, don’t speak on it again—”
“Oh, I’ll not speak again. But be certain that I shall brood in my heart! Shouldn’t you be there, milady? ’Tis most certainly an envoy from the King—and no one to greet them.”
Genevieve stared at him, startled, and uncertain. “I—I’m not sure that it is my place—”
. “Then whose?”
Genevieve stiffened, suddenly wishing that she were locked back in her tower room, and not faced with this dilemma. “I—don’t know. Tristan’s, I suppose. In his absence, Jon’s.”
“And neither are here.”
“Edwyna—”
“Is ever gentle, ever shy, milady. Don’t leave them to be met and greeted by old Griswald.”
Genevieve stared through the glass and saw that the men would soon be at the doors.
And that Guy still stared upward anxiously. Suddenly she was equally anxious to see him, to assure him that she was well, that Edenby had survived far better than any of them might have expected. A wistful tear stung her eyes as she remembered the last day she had seen him, when he had ridden away to battle with such exuberance—coming to her first to profess his love.
A love she had spurned, she reminded herself. But back then she had still felt powerful and confident, and she had assured herself that she would be no man’s tool.
Nay, just his concubine . . . she ridiculed herself. And yet she felt that she could never, with Guy, have known the world that Tristan had shown her; Guy was simply not the man, not the power, that was Tristan. Well—perhaps she’d have never married dear Guy; but he was still a good friend.
“I—I’ll go,” she murmured to Tamkin. She gave him a quick, uneasy smile and fled to the landing, nodding absently to the guard there, then pausing.
“It seems we are visited by an envoy from the King. Perhaps you would be so good as to go to the kitchen and see that we are prepared to greet the party.”
The man looked startled, then he nodded in return. Genevieve hurried down the stairs. Edwyna was standing by the hearth with one hand to her throat, one atop Anne’s shoulders.
“Genevieve! Thank goodness! There you are. What shall we do?”
“Open the door,” Genevieve grinned. “Come, quickly, with me. Annie, darling, give me your hand.”
Genevieve opened the doors ere the man at the fore could reach it. She stood back, serenely, and the first of the men introduced himself as Jack Gifford, Earl of Pennington, servant of His Majesty, King Henry VII, come here with winter’s greeting for the Duke of Edenby and Earl of Bedford Heath.
Genevieve stepped aside, inviting him in, trying not to look over his shoulder for Guy. Jack Gifford called to a group of the party to await him in the courtyard until arrangements were made, then he entered through the doors with four men behind him.
One was Guy.
“Genevieve! Edwyna!”
Lord Gifford smiled and removed his gauntlets, content to watch as Sir Guy gave both the women and then the child fervent hugs.
Genevieve hugged Guy back, but then looked nervously to Jack Gifford, wondering at his reaction. He but smiled and lifted one of his gauntlets. “I understand that you know Sir Guy,” he said dryly, then bowing himself, “and you, miladies, are the daughter of Edgar Llewellyn, his sister, and his niece. I give you Father Geoffrey Lang, and Sirs Thomas Tidewell and Brian Leith.”
Genevieve greeted the new arrivals with a bowed head and a murmur and drew them nearer the comfort of the hearth, explaining that Tristan was out in the forest on the hunt. To her vast relief, Griswald appeared quickly with wine for their refreshment and assured her in a whisper that he had a large haunch of venison and several fine pheasants and pigeons to prepare for a meal. Genevieve bade the guests sit, and they did, and though she longed to ask Guy a million questions, she nervously kept her distance from him. She was clearly under scrutiny from the lot of them, though it seemed that Jack Gifford was a kindly enough man, watching her with gentle blue eyes while he spoke casually of the coming winter, and she and Edwyna spoke casually enough of the weather in return.
When the wine glasses were empty Genevieve hurried toward the kitchen. As she passed beneath the arch in the walls outside the kitchen, she was suddenly stopped, hailed from behind, and tenderly spun around. Guy stood before her, his hands on her shoulders and his body pressed tensely to her.
“Ah, Genevieve! Fret not, fear not! I’ve come for you!”
She stared at him in panic, then quickly whispered in return. “Oh, Guy, I am so glad to see you well! But you must let me go, quickly, please!”
He did not let her go. He pressed his lips fervently against hers and did not notice that she did not return his ardor. “Genevieve! This game we’ll play but a bit longer! Oh, my love! Has he treated you well?” He gazed at her anxiously then, and she suddenly felt a bit like a prized mare as he stepped back, holding her hands, looking her up and down.
“I am fine!” Genevieve hissed nervously, and then the blood drained from her face as she heard the great doors opening again and then Tristan’s voice as he greeted one of the newcomers with surprise and pleasure.
“Guy! Go quickly, please!”
He looked grim and not so self-assured, but he touched her cheek quickly. “Genevieve, we will be together soon. I tell you, I have plans!”
He moved back toward the hall and Genevieve gave out a vast sigh of relief before scampering quickly into the kitchen. Both Griswald and Meg were there, balancing more wine upon a tray, and Genevieve warned them that the others had returned from the hunt. Griswald nodded and added more pewter chalices to the tray. Uneasy and short of breath, Genevieve was glad to be able to follow Griswald back out.
Tristan and Jon were both speaking to the young man, Sir Thomas Tidewell, when Genevieve appeared in demure silence, her head bowed low. But when she dared to raise her eyes they came into direct contact with Tristan’s, and she almost stepped back with a cry they were so dark and curiously speculative upon her. Jack Gifford chose that moment to speak, telling Tristan how well and hospitably they had been greeted to his home.
“Ah, yes,” Tristan murmured, raising his chalice to Genevieve, his eyes upon her once again, his tone most casual. “The Lady Genevieve is to the manor bom—but then surely, Sir Guy has informed you of Edenby. It was his home, too. Rut London must offer far more of interest these days, does it not, Sir Guy?”
“London is a fascinating city,” Guy said evenly, and Tristan gave him an idle smile before turning his attention back to Jack Gifford. “Milord—you had business to discuss?”
“Gifts first, Tristan. From His Royal Majesty, Henry VII! Come outside, Tristan, and see!”
Tristan shrugged curiously; the men followed him and Jack backed out, and Genevieve discovered that her knees would no longer hold her; she sank back into one of the chairs.
“Oh, my God!” Edwyna wailed. “There will be trouble.”
“Mama?” Annie queried her, close to tears.
“I’ll take her up,” Edwyna murmured.
“Aunt Gen-veve?”
“Nothing for you to worry about, poppet!” Genevieve promised Anne, kissing her on top of the head. “I’ll bring her up!” she told Edwyna.
“Guy—here. Now. Oh, Genevieve—”
“Things will he all right,” Genevieve said.
“Tristan is furious,”
“He is perfectly mannerly.”
“He must know that Guy—”
“He knows only that Guy was here! He does not know that the plan to betray him that day came initially from Guy. And they have made their peace somehow, else Guy would not dare to be here!” She shushed quickly, grabbing Annie’s hand and standing when she heard the men entering again. Tristan was commenting that the “animal” was a splendid beast and that he was anxious to thank the King in person. Genevieve started to move quickly with Anne, but suddenly Tristan was blocking their way and she did not dare attempt to barge past him.
“Milady, where are you going?”
“Only to bring Anne up to bed.”
His brow was arched high and his eyes were cold. “Only?” he murmured. Then he looked past her and called, “Meg! will you take the little Lady Anne up to bed, please? I’m sure that my lady is quite anxious to talk with old friends.”
Genevieve could not say anything. Meg came rushing up from behind and held out her arms to the child. “Come with auld Meg, now, Annie.”
Anne tugged at Genevieve’s hand, pulling her down to plant a wet kiss on her cheek while Tristan stared at her. Tristan stepped aside, and Anne, happily ensconced in Meg’s arms, was taken up the stairs. Genevieve felt as if a chill wind blew within the hall, as if winter had truly taken root despite the warmth of the hearth.
“Tristan.” Jack Gifford cleared his throat. “If I may . . . ?”
“Oh, aye.” Still watching Genevieve, Tristan spoke to his guest, stepping farther away that Jack could come to her with a huge bundle packed in rough leather.
Genevieve looked at Jack blankly.
“It’s for you, milady,” Jack explained.
“For me? It really can’t be—”
“But it is. Quite expressly, from the King. May I open it for you?”
“Ah ... please.”
With practiced ease the man tossed out the bundle and displayed a coat of exquisite fur, not brown and not pale, but a color quite close to gold.
“Oh!” Genevieve murmured, unable to resist the urge to touch it. The fur was soft, as luxurious as silk, and she had never seen such a color. She looked at Lord Gifford in confusion murmuring, “What is it? I don’t understand . . . I—”
“It is, milady, a fine and rare sable, brought to His Majesty by the Swedish ambassador.”
“But—”
“He wished you to have it, milady, and to wear it in good health. He said that having seen you, he could imagine no one but you in the cloak. That it seemed fashioned for your coloring alone.”
Uncertainly, Genevieve stared past Gifford to Tristan. He came over to her, taking the cloak to set it around her shoulders.
“Tristan . . . ?”
“It is a Christmas gift from His Majesty. You must accept it.”
She lowered her eyes suddenly, amazed that Henry had remembered her, much less that he should send her this cloak.
He had, after all, attainted all of her property to hand over to Tristan.
“Well, now, Tristan, if we may . . . ?” Lord Gifford said, and Tristan excused himself to the others, going off with Gifford for the counting room.
Genevieve stared blankly after them; Jon lifted the cloak from her shoulders, telling her he would call Tess to bring it to her room.
She turned around and found Guy staring at her, his heart was so openly in his eyes. He started toward her, but young Thomas Tidewell interrupted.
“Milady, we’ve heard tell that you’ve a wondrous chapel here, and Father Lang has told me he would dearly love to see it—and perhaps meet your local priest?”
Genevieve quickly acquiesced. She did not know where to find Father Thomas, but would gladly show them the chapel.
* * *
Dinner that evening was acutely uncomfortable for Genevieve. The conversation flowed smoothly enough, and the company was kind. Lord Gifford was a fine ambassador for the King and a charming man. He spoke easily with Tristan about the fine horse Henry had sent him, and equally as easily to Genevieve about the gowns being worn by the future queen. Genevieve discovered him to be an ardent admirer of Chaucer as she was herself. All in all she should have enjoyed the conversation.
But Guy’s stare never left her.
And when the meal ended Tristan suggested that they should retire to the music room, and she and Edwyna were called upon to entertain, Genevieve upon her harp, Edwyna with the lute. Yet even that was difficult.
When the strains of song died away, Tristan came to her, placing his hands upon her shoulders with a proprietary air, and asking softly against her earlobe if she had seen to the sleeping arrangements for their guests. Reddening, she told him that the chambers all along the western corridor had been aired and freshened and that servants had brought their things in.
And Tristan took her hand in his, drawing her tight against him, smiling at the company in a most pleasant manner.
“ ’Tis time then, my love, for us to retire. Milords, you will excuse us. Genevieve tires so easily these days.”
She gazed up at him sharply, but he ignored her look, standing with his arms about her and a pleasant expression on his face. She felt a fury rising in her that he should so embarrass her before these men.
She did not fight him, however, knowing that any squirming on her part would but draw out the fighter in him—it was obvious he was making some point.
“The child she carries, milords,” he explained, “does seem to exhaust her.”
There were murmurs of surprise and concern; Genevieve didn’t really hear them, for she was longing to claw at Tristan’s eyes, fully aware that his words had been a taunt to Guy.
She felt ashamed; wanted to crawl beneath the stairway. She could not raise her eyes to her old friend, and indeed when Tristan caught her hand again to lead her to their chamber, she could barely see for the fury that seized her.
When the door closed upon them for the night she wrenched from his hold, spinning with that ire to accost him.
“You did that on purpose! It was cruel—and totally unnecessary! You had no cause, you had no right!”
Tristan leaned against the door for a moment, watching her with no comment. Then he strode across the room, shedding his clothing as he moved. Genevieve stared after him with her anger rising like a fire storm—he would not even give her the courtesy of an answer.
He sat and tossed off his boots and stripped away his hose, then rose, stretching. Naked muscle flexed and Genevieve tore her eyes from him to thump across to the chairs before the hearth, sitting there, her back to him.
She heard him crawl into the bed. And she felt the tension crack between them like the blaze that snapped the logs in the hearth.
At last he spoke to her, harshly.
“Come to bed, Genevieve.”
“Ah, yes! Where everyone assumes I will be!”
He was silent for a moment, then asked sardonically, “And isn’t it where you do customarily lie?”
Tears pricked her eyes and she knotted her fingers into the clawed armrests of the chair. Why did it suddenly hurt so? Perhaps because she had felt like the lady of the manor again this night, like a noblewoman gently born and gently bred.
Aye, she had felt like a lady. Not like Tristan de la Tere’s whore.
“Genevieve!”
She wanted to tell him to go to hell and to burn there slowly for all eternity. But she was dangerously close to tears and feared that she would shed them if she spoke too long, with too much emotion. She sighed out her anger in a long breath and said only, “Leave me be, Tristan, I beg of you. Just this night.”
His sudden, violent reaction was not at all what she expected. Her words had been but a whisper, and broken at that. He was upon his feet, like a panther, naked and wiry and powerful in his movement, reaching her while she leapt from the chair, gasping in alarm. He caught her arm, and she tried to wrench from him to little avail; he swirled her to him, lifting her from her feet, high against him, head tossed back and his eyes black.
“Tonight, milady? Leave you be—tonight? That you might dream in peace?”
“Tristan! I do not know what is wrong with you! Damn you, is it too much to ask—”
She broke off, breathless, as she was slammed against the bed. She called him every manner of name in her vocabulary and kicked at him viciously when he came over her, finding a good mark in his nakedness. He grunted in pained surprise and then was furious. She tried to escape, but he held her firmly by the hair, and his fingers tore her gown.
“Tristan—”
His name was a growl and she clawed for his face. Silently, with a grim look, he secured her wrists.
“Tristan!”
It was a plea—for he frightened her, and yet she could not believe that he would really hurt her. He drew her arms high above her head, lowering himself carefully over her, dire in his wrath still but offering her no harm.
“Tristan! Please! I but asked that you leave me be this night! I began no fight—”
“You began everything, my love, but I shall finish it all for you!” he told her heatedly. “Tonight, of all nights, you will lie here with me. You will not dream of days gone past, of yesterday’s love, or dream of that boy’s hands. You—”
“You mad Lancastrian bastard!” Genevieve hissed. She struggled fiercely against his hold and felt only his thighs tightening about her, his fingers grown more rigid on her wrists. “I was to marry his best friend—a boy that lies dead and buried in the chapel below! I never felt anything for Guy but friendship! It is not to dream of another’s touch that I would be left alone—it would be to dream of the beauties of a nunnery!”
He started to laugh suddenly, and the sound was crude.
“My love, I do not see you in a nunnery.”
“Tristan—”
“Nay, Genevieve, you fool! He feasts upon you with his eyes—”
“He watches me in distress! This is less than honorable, to my eyes, and in the sight of those who loved me! And perhaps it might not have been so bad! You did not need to maul me before him, like property, like a mare, like a pup. And, dear God, you did not have to announce that I—”
“That you are quite pregnant?” he interrupted bluntly.
“It was cruel!”
“It is the truth.”
“And it is the truth, too, that you care less whether I am exhausted or nay! That you did it just to be cruel—”
“Nay, Genevieve,” he said, abruptly weary. “It was not with cruelty that I spoke but with kindness. Sir Guy means trouble, lady. It is best for him to know beyond a doubt that you are mine. Perhaps, knowing that you are pregnant, he will not think to rescue you from this plight. Kindness again—for if he touches you, my love, he is dead.”
She inhaled sharply, staring at him, for he had spoken no more in anger or in malice but in simple truth. Confused, she shook her head. “You are wrong! I do not dream of him, nor he of me. It is the ignominy, it is his horror at my situation—”
“Now that, my love, is most amusing. Your situation is merely that which you offered yourself while the gallant Sir Guy was still in residence here. In fact, we sat together at the table that distant night, all three of us. And Sir Guy watched us walk the stairs together to this chamber and close the door.”
“Tristan, you do not understand—”
“Aye, but I do, Genevieve! I see that what was planned that night was not illicit but immoral, it was murder rather than seduction. Was it, perchance, young Guy—the gallant and horrified—who planned that attempt at murder?”
“No!” Genevieve gasped, and she closed her eyes suddenly, going very rigid. “Tristan, really, all that I asked was that we not fight this war tonight, that—”
“And all I asked was that you come to bed. Where you are now, milady.”
He settled against her and in the flickering light of candles and fire, his face was a demon’s mask, his grin was a leer with his features shadowed and dangerously handsome, his teeth shockingly white against that darkness. And even as she stared at that grin of his she felt its cause, for her struggles had brought her bare flesh against his, and her rent gown gave way further with each breath that she took.
“Tristan—”
“Not tonight, milady? Aye, tonight, madam, more so than any other night. For sometime tomorrow he will try to come near you. And he will ask you if I made love to you during the darkness. You are dying to look him in the eye and deny it in all innocence, and that I will not allow you to do. Nay, milady, when he asked you, you will flush that beautiful shade of red that creeps over you now—because I have read every thought in your heart.”
“You’ve not read a thing!” Genevieve protested, and yet she prayed suddenly that he could not read more, and she marveled again at whatever it was that flared between them. For no matter how angry she became, frustrated, furious or determined, she could also, all too easily, long for him—for the feel of his skin against hers, the pulse at his throat, and that harder pulse of his, strong against her bare thigh, insistent and insinuative and creating a quickening inside of her.
His smile deepened as if he still read her thoughts. She went very still but failed to deter any of his motions. He stroked her cheek in a slow, tantalizing motion.
“Ah, Genevieve, trust me! I do know much about you, for I seek to know it. Would that you were a book, ah, what eloquent words there would be to read, scripted in elegance, letters that curled and curved. I’d hunger for each sentence, I’d devour all the language that lay within. I’d seek out the heart and the soul, they that ever do lie within the gold-gilded pages and the velvet binding. Not that I would scorn the cover, ah, never, love, would I do that!”
His hands upon her parted her gaping bodice, his palms, rough and urgent and tender, smoothed along her flesh, grazing her breasts and covering her midriff and waist, moving ever lower and rending fabric with a strange music until there was nothing between them but a whisper of air.
“Dream, would you, my love? For what?”
Genevieve gasped out a startled sound as he moved suddenly, studying her form as one might indeed peruse some work of art.
“Silk and velvet, my love. Did I say gilding? Nay, but gold here, solid and true, the most beauteous work, oh, this cover! So hypnotic, milady, that a man must read further whether he desired to or nay. He cannot escape the fascination of all that lies there. So I say, my lady, my love, that neither he nor any other could fill your dream as I am determined to fill your life. I adore this binding and this spine, and already the words, composed within carry a story that is partly my own ...” His voice trailed away, the reverence of his caress did not. His hands indeed adored her flesh, in a tender manner that traced the slight swelling of her abdomen and that greater, seductive swelling of her breasts. And she stared at him, trembling, aching, and whispered with amazement, “Truly—you are mad!”
“Mad! Mad you accuse me! Ah, lady, mayhap this is true! Maddened with desire that knows no end, maddened with the need to burrow ever deeper into this book, learn the pages, test the matter well within!”
“Tristan—”
She tried to rise, and he but laced his arms around her, crushing her full and heavy breasts to his chest, her hips flush with his. He kissed her long and hard and when he was done she was falling, falling beneath him, palms hard against him to discover him, to seek to discover him, too.
Read the man, that which she could, by sight and taste and touch; all that she could touch of the elusive dream. She found herself upon her stomach, feeling his kiss along her spine, from nape to the rounded flare of her hips. He taunted and teased again, telling her what was binding and what was the finest paper, where lay the sweetest phrases and the erotic words.
She laughed . . . and laughed until her quest for breath left no room for laughter, until she stared into his eyes with her arms about his neck and sucked in a great gasp of air with shuddering wonder, as they told one splendid tale together. Laughter faded to cries and whispers, tremors of need became shudders of fulfillment, and even then they were bound together, for he held her close, chin upon her head, deep in thought, an arm locked about her waist and his fingers drawing gentle circles in that slight swell, where their child lay and grew.
Genevieve did not sleep, but wondered that all could be disaster, and still he could not only make her writhe and arch and twist with aching need to his rhythm, but also . . .
Make her laugh.
* * *
Morning came, and she woke with bright sunlight; the hall was alive, their guests had risen.
She started to rise, the covers falling from her, and saw Tristan’s eyes were upon her. He gazed with a brilliant light upon the tousled tangle of her hair, where it lay over the rise of her breasts.
In mild panic she strove to toss away the covers and rise, but his arm snaked out ere she could do so.
“Tristan, nay—” she warned in alarm, but he was atop her and she was protesting that she could hear their company, that they must be up and—dressed!—and about.
He shook his head most wickedly. “Nay, I’d have my mark well upon you. In kindness, you know—for the lad.”
“Your ‘mark’ is upon me!” she retorted, but that wicked grin increased and he whispered, “Ah, milady, there is something radiant and telling about a fresh bedded maid—I’d not have him miss the signs!”
“Tristan . . .”
It was as far as she got.
And when she was finally up and washed and dressed and trying to come down the stairs with him in some semblance of pride and dignity, she wanted to kick him in the absolute worst way.
Because his words kept returning to her. And so naturally she blushed, wondering if the others could really tell or not. And thanks to that simple game he had played on her mind, it was probably painfully evident because all she could seem to do was blush.
“Ah, yes, a radiant, radiant rose . . .” Tristan whispered when they gained the hall.
And she did kick him. Discreetly, of course.
“A red rose,” he warned her with a mocking smile. “A slightly thorny but wonderfully red, red rose.”