Nine
Genevieve ought to have passed out; she should have allowed her trembling legs to give way and her shock to take her into oblivion. She should have remained in a sea of gray where nothing was real.
Unfortunately, she was all too aware. And in those miserable moments, as she bounced along the halls of Windsor, Genevieve did not know if she were more mortified—or terrified. Great silences, followed by titters of uneasy laughter followed them all the way. They approached a group of women, who stood gossiping, unaware of Tristan’s long strides coming toward them; he made matters all the worse by bowing very politely, then speaking cordially, “Ladies, if you will excuse me ... ?”
They parted swiftly. From her rear view Genevieve was able to see their mouths gaping—then shut to move with a wild speed again as they marveled over the form of their interruption.
Shock kept her from reacting at first. She was so horrified to realize that he was alive—alive and very healthy—that she did not resist at first, or even speculate upon their destination or her immediate fate.
But once they passed those gossiping ladies, something instinctive came to Genevieve’s defense. She grasped his mantle, struggling to rise against his shoulder and face him.
He gazed at her, with sharp, narrowing eyes. For a moment her courage failed her. She would never forget the way he had looked at her the night she had struck the blow. Never forget the way that he had despised her and reviled her—and promised vengeance. Yet—there had to be some way to escape him. “Put me down,” she begged, keeping wary eyes upon him and faltering again. “I’ll—I’ll walk.” She hesitated. “Please.”
She was somewhat startled when he stopped and allowed her to slide along his length until she was standing. She stared up into his eyes, and backed hurriedly away from him a step, trembling from that close contact. She lowered her eyes, then raised them again.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked him hoarsely.
He planted his hands on his hips and tilted his head slightly to regard her caustically. “That’s it, my lady? ‘Where are you taking me?’ Not, ‘Welcome back from the dead, Lord Tristan. It’s a pleasure to see you alive’?”
“It most certainly isn’t a pleasure!” she snapped back without thinking.
Pray . . . pray that I do die, he had warned her once.
He laughed, dryly and bitterly, and gripped her upper arm to drag her down yet another hall. There seemed to be no one in this part of the palace; she realized that they had come to living quarters and that only a stray guest or a servant might be wandering about here. There would he no help for her, she thought with a sinking heart. Indeed nowhere would she find help. No one would defy the direct order of the King—not in so paltry a thing as aiding a belligerent heiress against the man the King had chosen to hand her to.
Tristan walked very quickly, not releasing his hold. Genevieve gasped, hardly able to keep up with his long strides, especially while her mind and heart raced so desperately.
But, oh! She was so blank! She was afraid to think, afraid to wonder, and she had to think . . .
So far, think as she might, she had reached only. one sure conclusion—he was definitely alive and very real. He was enraged. And he had just been given leave to do with her what he would. She swallowed uneasily, jerking so hard upon his hold that he was forced to stop and stare at her again.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded again.
“My quarters,” he said briefly.
“What—are you going to do to me?”
He smiled slowly, raising a brow. “I haven’t quite decided yet. I thought of boiling you in oil, then decided it would be too mild. Drawing and quartering occurred to me, but I dismissed that, too, as rather easy.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she challenged him. “The King did not give you leave to murder me—”
“‘Execute’ is the term. And, aye, it usually requires a royal signature. But not in this case, I think. Then of course there is simple torture. Umm, let’s see. Perhaps we could brand you, burn a warning of treachery onto one of those beautiful cheeks. Too quick! Let’s see, we could rip out your nails, one by one . . .”
“Stop it!” she hissed.
Was he serious? she wondered sickly. She couldn’t tell by the way he looked at her, eyes as hard and deep as dark fire again, his pleasant tone marked with an unmistakable edge.
“My people would revolt. They would find you—”
“They’ll have no difficulty finding me. We are returning to Edenby. And I doubt that they’ll ever rise against me again. They are nicely subdued at this point, I dare say.”
“What . . . are you talking about?” she asked with dismay.
“Merely that Edenby is mine, Genevieve. We went in the night you left.” He smiled and started walking again, dragging her along. Horrible images filled her mind; images of Edenby. Dear God! How many of her people still lived? What of poor Edwyna? Of Anne? Of Tamkin—who had been in the room with her that terrible night? Dearest God! She shuddered to think of Edwyna, gentle Edwyna who had wanted nothing to do with treachery, left to pay the price.
“Oh, God!” she wailed aloud, barely aware that the sound escaped her.
He stopped once again, looking down at her upturned face with another cordial—and deathly—smile.
“What now, my lady?” he mocked.
She wrenched her arm from his hold, trembling yet determined at all costs never to let him know her fear. “What did you do in Edenby?” she demanded furiously. “Slaughter innocents who had no part or parcel in the war fought against you?”
“Precisely,” he said coolly. He waved an encompassing arm. “The people of Edenby line the great walls—they hang from them, they rot in gibbets from them! Not a one was spared, my lady!”
She backed away from him, again not knowing if he told the truth or not. He stepped forward, grasping her so tightly again that she cried out. He did not start walking but led her to one of the great mullioned windows that lined the wall.
“See below, my dear Lady Genevieve?” he taunted, and she did see below. In a sheltered courtyard a whipping post had been set. Men in shackles were being dragged to it—to face lashes for some infractions against the new Tudor King. Genevieve tried to turn away; he forced her to remain there, lifting her chin so that she could not hide her eyes.
“Tudor justice is careful—but strict. If you continue to plague me now, I might be tempted to see your garrulous spirit tamed a bit at the hands of these stout fellows before we take our leave!”
“What difference does it make?” she demanded coldly. “A lash in their hands or one in yours? I dare say that the blows would be softer from those men! I’d prefer justice here!”
“Really?” he inquired politely. “Just as you’d prefer the Tower—to being my prisoner.”
“Aye, that I would!” she swore heatedly.
“You’d never leave the Tower alive,” he warned her dryly.
“A good headsman can allow one to leave this life easily!” she exclaimed, and to her horror panic tinged her voice. Which brought an honest rumble of laughter from his chest.
“Ah, yes! I’d forgotten what an expert you were at death, Lady Genevieve!” he proclaimed.
She smoothed her hands over her skirt, lowering her head. “If I’m to die, Lord Tristan,” she managed to say smoothly, “I’d do so here and now.”
“Ah—but I’ve no intention of letting you die—yet,” he informed her softly. “And if anyone is going to take a whip to your hide, I do reserve that pleasure for myself! Nor do I believe you’re in any great hurry to depart this life. Let’s go—you waste time.”
Waste time! she thought, panic rising in her breast again. Oh, God, yes! She needed to waste time, she needed to play for all the time that she could get!
Did he intend to bring her to his quarters—and execute her? Or rape her first ... No, he seemed to hate her too much to really want her—even in violence. Yet if he felt it would hurt her . . .
No, he wasn’t going to murder her now. He could do many, many things to her before taking her life. He seemed to be in a great hurry to reach Edenby—perhaps part of his revenge was forcing her to see what he had done to her home!
She started to shiver as he pulled her along again. And then he stopped before a door, releasing his grip upon her arm to open it.
Genevieve panicked. She was free and young and agile— and the palace halls stretched forever; she turned to bolt away. But after one step she screamed out in pain. Tristan’s other hand had been entangled in her hair all the while.
She stared at him, while he used his grip upon her hair to turn her back to him. Trembling and clamping her teeth together with all her might, she met his eyes, trying to pull her hair from his grasp. If only it were bound! He did not release her; he pulled her closer to him with that golden chain.
He didn’t appear at all perturbed—merely amused.
“My lady,” he mocked her softly, holding her so tight against him that his whisper touched her cheek, “bear in mind that I shall never, never trust you again. That I shall never turn my back on you.”
He shoved her into the room, then entered behind her. She stood still, afraid to look at him, and afraid not to do so. She braced herself, determined to await with courage whatever would come.
But he totally ignored her, moving about the room, collecting his belongings. Genevieve continued to watch him, ready to spring away yet wondering dismally what good it would do her.
She vaguely noted that his quarters here were private and rather grand. He did indeed stand high in the Tudor King’s eyes.
His scabbard and sword lay on the bed. When he reached for them, she instinctively flinched. He smiled as he strapped the scabbard about his waist.
“Dear, dear Lady Genevieve! You are jumpy, aren’t you.”
She disdained to give him a reply, raising her chin a shade higher even as her heart leapt.
He turned from her. She swallowed sharply and then lashed out at him.
“Tell me! Damn you, tell me! What do you intend to—to do!”
He paused, turned again, and stared at her, long and hard. And then he smiled, slowly. Shivers of remembrance tore at her. She remembered that smile so well, his wide, sensual mouth; his lips, hard upon hers—a brand she had already received, and not forgotten. That memory came to her now, robbing her of strength and courage.
“Tell me!” she cried out again, fighting for courage.
He shrugged. “Actually, milady, I’m not really quite sure yet—of everything, that is.”
His tone froze any further words on her lips. He turned back and collected a slim leather satchel, then bowed slightly. “Shall we, my lady?”
“Shall we what?” she snapped out harshly.
“Why, take our leave, of course.”
“Aye!” she whispered gladly, her heart racing again. They were going to leave this chamber, which his presence made so horribly small. There would be a modicum of safety for her again, for surely he would not dare harm her before a multitude of people!
But was that true? He had already dragged her from the King’s solar ...
He had her arm again as he opened the door this time. “My things are—” she began, but he interrupted her curtly.
“Mary will retrieve your belongings and come along at a later time.”
“Mary?” she murmured nervously.
“Aye, Genevieve, I’ve seen your maid, of course. She is a gentle lass—not the type to anger the King. Or the new Lord of Edenby, for that matter. She’ll be along.”
They were in the hallway again. Genevieve spun on him the best that she could. “What of Sir Humphrey?” she demanded, her voice growing a little shrill. “You didn’t—”
“Slay him in the audience chamber?” Tristan suggested. “Nay—I did not.”
“Then—”
“Last answer to a question, Genevieve,” Tristan warned her, his eyes narrowing to truly advise her that his patience had come to an end. “He is an old knight, very loyal. And though he played a great part in it all, he touched something in my heart—aye, Genevieve, even that organ of ice within me can be touched! Sir Humphrey has been warned that if he comes to Edenby, he will reside in the dungeons. He is a free man if he chooses to stay in London.”
Genevieve lowered her head and followed him meekly for several moments as she absorbed the fact that at least Sir Humphrey would be allowed to live free and well. Tristan moved quickly, so quickly that before she was truly aware again they were outside in bright daylight. She saw a group of his men, easily recognizable by their crests and armor. They were mounted and waiting.
Mounted! She thought with renewed hope. She could ride as well as she could walk! Once they entered the part of the country that she surely knew better than they, she could escape.
“Where is my horse?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound bitterly resigned, and kept her head lowered.
But he didn’t reply, and eventually she raised her eyes to him, startled to discover him watching her with a dry trace of amusement curling his lip and sparking his eyes.
“Ah, lady! It is poor reasoning to attack a man and bury him—and then take him for a fool as well! Your horse, like your things, will come later. For this journey you will travel in a very certain style!”
Before she knew it, she was off her feet again. He was carrying her down the muddy road—to deposit her ungraciously in a rickety carriage. She struggled for balance, to sit up. “Wait! I cannot ride in such a thing! It will make me ill! Let me out!” She pounded against the door and fought with the handle. It would not budge. Even as she bitterly banged against it, she heard the sharp crack of a whip. The carriage bolted, sending her flying against the other side. Her temple slammed hard against the opposing seat, and she cried out, rubbing it as she tried to right herself.
It was ridiculous to attempt to stay upright. Tristan intended to waste no time again. The wheels of the carriage careened over every rock and gouge in the muddy road.
And the pace continued, forcing Genevieve to think of nothing but the preservation of her flesh. It seemed forever before the carriage slowed somewhat, and then the journey became a monotonous one. Now she had time to speculate on her fate.
Wretchedly, she pulled off the torn remnants of the headdress that had been so beautiful and elegant only that morning. He was going to take his time killing her, she thought dismally. He was waiting, moving slowly to assure himself that she would die a dozen times over before it really came to pass ...
No! She would never give him that satisfaction. She would never let him see her frightened. Never! Though terror fills me! she vowed to herself, I will never let that Lancastrian son of Satan see that I am afraid.
She clenched her fists. Believe it, with all your faith, and you will stay proud and untouched! she promised herself. The thought helped to calm her.
Night had fallen, she realized at some point. Yet still they did not stop. Did his sense of fury extend to horses? she wondered acidly. And then she wondered what difference any of it made at all. Worn and exhausted, she curled herself in the far corner of the carriage and eventually fell into a fitful slumber.
* * *
She awoke slowly, with a horrible sense of confusion. At first she thought that she had been dreaming again. Dreaming that she had been running and had run straight into Tristan, and found herself sinking, falling, unable to run again, unable to fight against the dark, compelling magnetism of his eyes . . .
And then she started, realizing that the honor was no dream, but truth. She was stuffed into a carriage, stiff and cramped. Light seeped in; it was morning again. The carriage had stopped.
Genevieve suddenly realized that she very badly needed to take care of certain personal necessities. Just then the carriage door swung open. The bright light flooding in blinded her, and she put a hand over her eyes.
“Good morning, Lady Genevieve,” Tristan greeted her with a low bow. “I do trust that you slept well?”
She was so miserable that she couldn’t even rise to his taunt. “I have to get out, my lord,” she murmured bitterly.
“Indeed you do,” he said simply, offering her a hand. She hesitated, then seeing little choice, accepted it. When her feet were on the ground, she almost fell, her legs were so cramped. His hands around her waist steadied her and sent warm currents of awareness through her limbs. She quickly stepped from his hold, eager to see what was around them.
It seemed that they were passing through one of the great forests, filled with oaks and misted, secretive beauty. All was quiet except for the occasional cry of a morning bird—and the laughter of his men, who were ranged around a carefully laid fire and eating something that gave off a wonderful aroma.
Was Tristan going to feed her, she wondered? Or was starving her to death part of his plan.
“Let’s go, shall we?” he suggested.
“Let’s go?” she repeated. “I have to be alone!”
He shook his head. “Never.”
“But ...” She stared at him with her dismay evident. Perhaps he had found one of the most cruel ways to torment her. Genevieve was both private and fastidious. She certainly could bear no one with her . . . now!
“Please?” she whispered miserably.
“The last time you said that, my lady,” Tristan reminded her coolly, “I awoke to find myself buried in rock.”
“Where can I go? What could I possibly do to you?” she asked a little desperately.
“I’m sure that you are full of vast resources!” he told her dryly. His dark gaze was unfathomable and his jaw was set so tightly that she was certain he meant to continue to refuse her. But then he sighed and said, “Come. We’ll go to the stream. But I warn you most strictly, make no attempt to run or disappear into the trees. Or you’ll never have a moment’s privacy again.”
They started together through the forest for the stream. A morning mist still lay heavily upon the ground, and the sensation of walking here was a strange one, made stranger still by the touch of his hand upon her arm. She chanced a quick glance up at him, wondering if he had softened toward her at all. But when his eyes met hers they were sharp and dark; he smiled slowly, and she realized that he had lost none of the intensity of his feelings. Rather he was like a hawk, knowing that he circled his prey—and awaited the moment of final attack with a wicked satisfaction.
The stream was a cool brook that rippled like a melody through the trees; its peace was oddly discordant with the leashed tension of his gaze. He released her. “There’s brush just ahead,” he told her curtly. “Return here immediately—or forever pay the price,” he warned softly.
Moments later she looked forlornly about her. The forest was so rich and thick! It would be so easy to slip away!
With her head bowed and her teeth clenched tightly together, she returned to him. He awaited her, a foot angled idly against a tree stump, his arms crossed over his chest. She ignored him and lowered herself to the edge of the water, anxious to wash her face and rinse her teeth.
She was startled at his touch—then filled with alarm, certain that he meant to force her face into the stream and drown her there. Her eyes must have betrayed her emotion, for he laughed when he saw them and said, “I’m only trying to salvage this tangled mane here that you call hair! That’s all—for the time being at least.”
“You needn’t!” she retorted. She didn’t want his touch; she didn’t want him so close beside her, she didn’t want to feel the strength that emanated from his hands, or to be aware of his clean, bracing, masculine scent.
But she was very thirsty and so she forced herself to forget him and drink. After several moments she felt a tug on her hair.
“That’s enough.”
Tristan practically dragged her to her feet and back through the trees to the carriage. She stared down at the men by the fire with longing. Her stomach was knotted with hunger—and nauseated at the prospect of reentering the rickety carriage.
“Couldn’t I stay out a moment longer?” she asked him, drawing herself up straight to ask the favor.
He shook his head. He seemed very irritated at that moment—as if she were a game of which he had suddenly grown bored. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”
He lifted her back into the carriage and closed the door. A moment later he returned with a wooden trencher—wild boar roasted upon the fire. It proved a little stringy and tough, but Genevieve was too hungry to care much.
The carriage rolled into action while she was still eating, and their hard ride of the day before was repeated.
Genevieve spent a long day with her own thoughts again, alternately wondering when he would pounce upon her and when and how she could possibly escape him. In the late afternoon she was brought some ale, not by Tristan, but by one of his men, a handsome polite lad named Roger de Treyne. He gave her renewed hope, as he seemed to feel some sympathy for her plight.
It was Roger who came for her the next morning. She smiled sorrowfully at him and begged him to leave when he brought her to a stream again, telling him that she needed to bathe. She pleaded so prettily that he agreed, and when he was some distance away she stripped to her shift and moved into the water to enjoy it—and survey the opposite shore.
The opposite shore . . .
She could easily swim the distance. And Tristan would not be expecting such a move on her part. The trees were thick and dense, and one could hide within their shelter for hours. For days. For months, even.
Genevieve turned around carefully. Roger was a fair distance from her; his back was most respectfully turned. Quietly she slipped beneath the water. She swam under its surface lest he hear her movements. Only when she saw the bank before her did she rise to gasp for breath and steal quietly up to the bank.
But when she reached the top she let go a cry of shock. Tristan awaited her there, leaning comfortably and silently against a large oak.
Surprise held her immobile as his dark eyes traveled slowly over her. She felt suddenly naked and very heated, aware that her linen shift was stuck to her body like a second skin, molding over her breasts and hips. Her hair was soaked and plastered all about her, and she knew she must surely look a little like some wild thing of the forest.
But he was curiously aloof—and merely tossed her his mantle to cover herself as she shivered beneath his stare.
“Don’t think to seduce my men into aiding you in an escape, Genevieve,” he said coolly. “I selected those who came with me on this ride very carefully. They all spent time in the dungeons at Edenby—at your command.”
“You’re—you’re dry,” she commented, her teeth chattering.
He smiled and directed her vision to a small raft drawn up to the shore down the bank. “Shall we go back?” he asked her.
A few thrusts of the single oar brought them back. Tristan reached for his mantle and tossed Genevieve the gown she had abandoned.
Genevieve struggled back into her gown. He waited, then took her arm again to propel her toward the road and her rickety carriage. She felt his touch like a chain about her. Dismay and discouragement settled over her, and a rising sense of panic. Oh, God, he was like a hawk, like a great cat, playing so skillfully with his prey!
She spun on him, finding that all her courage and poise were about to break.
“Do it!” she charged him. “Do it! Strangle me, shoot me, rip my flesh ragged! Get it over with!”
He smiled rather pleasantly. “And deny myself the ultimate joy of waiting? Nay, my lady, Edenby was my downfall. It will be yours.”
“It won’t!” she seethed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ll not move! I’ll—”
He shrugged, and dipped to pitch her over his shoulder. She pounded against him with a wild fury, clawing and scratching—at that moment determined to hurt him, to force him into action.
She had no effect upon him. Moments later she was being tossed back into the carriage. Like a captured wild animal, she dove for the floor. He was there. “Haven’t you anything better to do than torment a woman!” she demanded, in scathing tones that she was sure would offend his pride.
“Actually, at this moment, my time is quite free,” he assured her. “And of course, you, Lady Genevieve, are certainly not just any woman.”
The carriage closed despite her shrill protests.
The next day, it was Tristan who came for her. She didn’t say a word to him and moved along stiffly.
But after she had washed her face, she felt a new rising of alarm again, for when she turned to him he hoarsely ordered her to get to her knees.
This was it ...
Whatever it was. Would he slay her, maim her, cut her?
“No . . .” she gasped out. She didn’t want to be afraid. She didn’t want to falter.
He made an impatient sound and his hands came to her shoulders forcing her down. It was horrible . . . she couldn’t see him, she didn’t know . . . She braced herself—waiting a knife to slit through her throat. She was stunned to feel his thighs, hard and heated beneath his hose, at her back.
And his fingers—pulling at her hair with little gentleness as he raked a comb through it.
Kneeling there and shaking, she couldn’t protest the treatment, but remained as still as she could. No words passed between them for the long time he took, and when he was done with the mass of tresses he curtly told her that she could rise.
She rose and stared at him. He returned her gaze. She was still trembling so that she was afraid that she would fall. He reached for her and seemed startled at the way she shook. He arched a brow with interest and she lowered her eyes quickly.
“I—I thought . . .” she began.
“You thought what?”
“That you were going to—to—”
“Slay you—from behind?”
“I—yes.”
He was silent for a moment. More weary than taunting when he murmured, “Nay, lady, knives in the back are your field of expertise, not mine.”
“Sir, I did not expect you to care about the state of a captive enemy’s hair.”
“Then you were gravely mistaken. That hair is a treasure, and it is mine.”
She didn’t know what to think or feel; she fled from him toward the carriage. For once, she entered that particular prison without his help.
They reached Edenby in the late afternoon of the next day, when the sun was falling and shadows were long and all was still bathed in a glow of softest crimson and gold.
Roused from lethargy in her continual habitat in the corner of the carriage, Genevieve started, aware that they were there as she heard Tristan shouting to the man at the gatehouse.
Her heart sank with fresh despair. It was true: he had taken Edenby. Somehow, her heart had fought against that reality. She could not see out of the carriage, but images filled her eyes of her people, her guards, her farmers and craftsmen, hanging from ropes and gibbets from the castle walls. With dark despair, she began to wonder about Edwyna again. And Tamkin. And little Anne! Surely not even Tristan would have hurt a child . . .
The carriage moved past the gates. She could feel the direction. Then it came to a halt. The door was opened, and Tristan was there. Smiling with vast amusement, his eyes deep and dark with the fire of the lanterns about them.
“Edenby, Genevieve.” He reached for her and lifted her high, whispering as she slid against the length of his body to stand. “Your time has indeed come, my lady.”
She wrenched away from his hold, watching him in dismay. He chuckled devilishly and caught her wrist with a grip that brought her spinning back to him.
“Have you no pleas tonight, my lady?” he mocked. “Aren’t you going to beg mercy—or better yet, to amuse me—and save your poor people from my wrath—and the honor of a Lancastrian rule?”
“I’ll never plead!” she snapped to him, but her knees were shaking. The men who had ridden with them were fading away through the bailey; she looked about herself, wondering if there wasn’t some help somewhere . . .
There was not. They were alone before the doors to the great hall. What lay within? Lancastrian louts, defiling all that had been hers?
“Will you walk in? Or shall I carry you? I’m very sorry, but our business will have to wait awhile as I’ve pressing affairs to attend to here.”
She turned and headed for the doors, then paused.
“Oh, excuse me. Am I going the right way? Or should I be heading for the dungeons?”
“Later, perhaps,” he replied idly. Then she saw his white smile slash across the hard bronze contours of his face again. “I’ve waited for tonight for a long time. Eons, milady.” He bowed, the knight, the master of chivalry. He spat out an order from between clenched teeth. “Move!”
God, what his voice could do to her! Soft, harsh, soft again. What fear it could elicit; and a liquid heat that made her feel she would, at last, faint and take her refuge in oblivion!
She turned and bolted. If she could reach the rear gate, she could climb to the cliff and escape—either across the rocks or by the sea.
It was a futile attempt and she had known it would be—but what could she do but fight it out?
He caught her by the train of her dress this time and merely sighed as he tossed her over his shoulder. She twisted furiously, trying to bite and kick and claw. It was useless. She was almost in tears as they entered the keep. For herself—and for the horror she was convinced she would find inside the banqueting hall.
“Tristan!” a voice interrupted Genevieve’s desperate thoughts.
It was the young and handsome Lancastrian who greeted him, grinning his amusement at the wild burden his friend carried. With a struggle, Genevieve at last wound herself in a position to see his face; he threw her an amused glance, then addressed his leader.
“All’s well enough here—”
“What have you done with my aunt?” Genevieve cried angrily.
“Let me deposit the lady,” Tristan said dryly, “and I’ll-meet with you in the counting room.”
“Wait!” Genevieve shouted. Perhaps she had betrayed this man, but he seemed to have a semblance of a heart. “Please! What has happened to—”
“Edwyna sits by the fire,” he told her gently, and they entered the hall. And sure enough, Edwyna was there—very pale and with a look of misery in her eyes. She appeared otherwise very well and healthy; regally attired and as elegant as ever.
“Edwyna!” Genevieve gasped.
Edwyna started to race for her. She was caught by Tristan’s young friend—gently secured by his arms about her waist. “No, Edwyna,” he told her very softly. “You cannot interfere.”
Stunned, Genevieve continued to stare at her aunt while Tristan headed for the winding stairway. Edwyna’s eyes followed her as far as possible—large and blue and liquid with concern.
“She alive!” Genevieve gasped out.
“Of course she’s alive,” Tristan said irritably. “Your aunt is no back-biting tigress!”
Did that mean that Edwyna was alive, while she, Genevieve, would not be? Genevieve started to struggle again. He swore softly and set her to her feet, winding his hand into her hair to keep her immobile. They reached the door to her chamber and she realized dismally that he was lifting an outer bolt that had never been there before.
Tristan pushed her inside, and she staggered to keep her balance. Then he stood, towering, at the door, and addressed her sarcastically.
“I truly am sorry to leave you so, but alas! There are things that must be attended to! Bathe, my lady, at your leisure—find comfort, for I swear I will return at the first available moment.”
Smiling, bowing, he left her.
She heard the bolt slide tight across the door.
* * *
Jon and Tibald awaited Tristan in the counting room. Both appeared pleasantly relaxed—and quite happy with life, which pleased Tristan because he knew it meant that the takeover had indeed been smooth.
He took the seat behind the desk to listen to their reports. Tibald told him that the majority of the old guard remained in the dungeons—they couldn’t yet risk releasing them. But the farmers and craftsmen were at their work; the servants were at times a little sullen, but no one had offered a protest against the new order.
“I had the man Tamkin in the dungeon,” Jon informed Tristan dryly. “But I have him sequestered here now in one of the towers. He knows the rents and the land allotments, and is most capable with the grain and mill reports. I know that he battled with you that night, yet it was not my place to take measures. against him.” Jon shrugged. “He trembles daily as it is—awaiting your return.”
“Umm,” Tristan murmured dryly, taking a long draught of the ale that had been brought him.
“What will you do?” Jon asked curiously.
“I don’t know yet,” Tristan replied thoughtfully. “Something must be done to instill a respect for authority. I don’t know ... perhaps a flogging. The man will live—yet the people will see that they cannot oppose us.” He exhaled, and flexed and unflexed his fingers. They had ridden hard and he was tired—and he still had Genevieve to deal with.
Nor did he quite know yet what he wanted from her—or what he intended to do with her. He was sure of only one thing: in the long days of travel he had become aware, with a damning need, of the desire she created in him, a hunger like nothing he had known before, taunting his flesh, filling his soul. She is just a woman! he told himself now, as he had many times before.
Yet that only increased his bitterness at her betrayal. Had she been a man, he would have given her a sword with which to fight—and by God, she would have lain dead when it was over. That justice was not to be, for she was a woman—one he desired with a heady fascination.
She was his right, he thought dryly. And this night she would come to know it. Whatever the future held was to be seen. This night, this night was black and white. She had invited him to her bedchamber. She had begged that he come there. Well, by God, tonight she would have him there—welcome or no.
“I believe anything else can wait until morning,” he said with a long sigh. “Jon, is there a chamber where I might sleep?”
Jon gazed at him quizzically. “I had thought—”
“Oh, I plan to visit the Lady Genevieve,” he said dryly. “But I’d never sleep beside her! My life would be worthless!”
Jon grinned. “The master chamber is down the hall. I’ll see that it is quickly prepared.”
Jon and Tibald rose. But before they could leave the room, there was a flurry at the door. Tristan had begun to stand, but he was knocked back to his chair by the Lady Edwyna, who was now placing her slender hands upon his knees and beseeching him with tear-stained eyes.
“Don’t slay her! My lord, I beg you! She is young—she had no choice! Oh, I swear it distressed her so—she had no choice, can’t you see? She but fought an enemy! I know . . . I—Jon has told me about your wife. But surely, Lord Tristan, you are above such atrocities yourself! Please, Lord Tristan—”
“Edwyna!” He caught her face between his hands and stared into her huge, brilliant blue eyes, aware then of what so entranced Jon. He was angry with Jon for having spoken of his tragedy. “I have no intention of slaying a woman, Lady Edwyna,” he said a little harshly. His glance flew to Jon, who looked uneasy. “But I warn you that the story of my life is not to be the stuff of idle chatter!” He stared again at Edwyna. “You may rest easy—she will not die. But she is a prisoner in this castle and will remain so. That no amount of tender tears can change.”
Edwyna lowered her head. Her voice trembled. “I thank you,” she murmured.
“Edwyna!” Jon said sharply. She rose and joined him at the door, looking back to Tristan. “My lord, I have not been a prisoner here. Why should—”
“You are not a prisoner, my lady,” Tristan said flatly, “because you have apparently proven yourself quite resigned to the situation—and trustworthy now. Demonstrate otherwise and you will find your life quite different.”
“But, my lord, surely—” Edwyna began.
“Jon, Tibald, Lady Edwyna, good-night,” Tristan said firmly. He raised a brow to Jon.
Jon clamped a tight arm about Edwya and led her quickly from the room. Tibald grinned, shaking his head, and left the counting room.
Tristan thoughtfully finished his ale, then decided that he had indeed waited long enough. The longer he sat here, the more his anger flared. He closed his eyes and called to mind a vision of her at his knees, begging; then another vision of Genevieve standing before him with the poker dripping his blood.
He stood resolutely.
It was time to remind the lady of the warning he’d given her—not to make a promise that she didn’t fully intend to keep.