Promise of the Rose (13 page)

“You have truly outdone yourself this time, brother,” Brand remarked.

Anger began to seep into Stephen’s veins. “What a fool she must think me. What a fool I have been.” It flashed through his mind that she had indeed been the victor in their battle of wills and wits. He had not been able to seduce the truth out of her, which had been his ambition when he took her to bed. He had not intended to take her virginity, yet he had, unable to stop himself from completing what he had begun.

Stephen’s anger died. He had lost that one battle, both with himself and with her, but he had hardly lost the war.
For a man must pay the price for a lady’s virtue.
There might yet be a way to turn this to his advantage.

“What could she have hoped to gain?” Brand asked, puzzled. “Did she really think to deceive you for any amount of time? If she had told you the truth, you would not have lain with her and you would have ransomed her back to Malcolm.”

Stephen knew that Brand thought he spoke the truth, but Stephen was not so sure. If he had discovered her identity, would he have kept his word, left her untouched and freed her? He was not a man who gave his word lightly—always before it had been inviolable. Perhaps this time the temptation the princess offered would have been far greater than he could resist—in more ways than one.

Stephen turned his thoughts to the immediate future. “Malcolm will seek vengeance.”

“He will seek your head,” Geoffrey said bluntly. “And rightly so. Apparently
you
are the one to bring another war down about our heads, not Malcolm and not King Rufus.”

“Not necessarily,” Stephen said. A strange smile, both hard and determined, changed his expression. His eyes were narrowed, focused not on those around him, but on the
distant future. The peace was so dear. It did not have to be destroyed. If he could head off Malcolm, and convince him to acquiesce, and of course, convince Rufus …

Stephen turned abruptly, striding for the stairs. In the next second he recalled that Main—no.
Princess Mary
—had left the tower with his sister. A premonition of disaster filled him. He had not one doubt, not now, knowing of her royal blood, that she was intent on escaping. The stakes had changed. They were far more precious than he had dreamed. She was now the crucial pawn in a war that had outlasted generations. Mary was a great prize could he but win her. A prize that promised hope, and peace.

And he would win the prize. He would take the princess Mary to wife.

She must not escape. He wheeled, running to the door. At that precise moment, Isobel flew through it, weeping copiously. And Stephen knew it was too late.

He grabbed his sister. “Where is she?”

At his harsh, fury-filled tone, Isobel covered her face with her hands and sobbed harder.

“Do not indulge in theatrics now, Isobel!” Stephen said.
“Where is she?”

Isobel dropped her hands, wide-eyed and tearless. “’Twas not my fault,” she cried, looking from Stephen to the others. “She was following me, and when I turned around, she was gone! I’ve looked everywhere,” she howled, and then she covered her face again, with more tearful shudders and moans.

“Raise the alarm,” Stephen ordered. Geoffrey was already rushing up the stairs to the ramparts to sound the horn. Stephen hurried through the hall. Brand and Will on his heels, Isobel chasing after him. “You stay here!” he snapped.

“Am I in trouble?”

Stephen did not answer; he was already out the door. “I think you are in a great deal of trouble,” Brand said harshly. “Go to your room Isobel, and await Stephen there.” He followed his brother outside; Isobel fled up the stairs.

His men had already gathered. Stephen gave crisp orders and they began to search the bailey. All work was temporarily suspended, all of the keep’s inhabitants assembled and
questioned. No one had seen the prisoner in the bailey, much less escaping the castle’s gates. It had already occurred to Stephen why his captive princess was so invisible. As she was clad in Isobel’s clothes, no one had paid any attention to her, thinking her to be his sister. Stephen hurried to the barbican. One thought filled his mind.
She had outwitted him
—
again.

Within a matter of minutes Stephen had learned that an empty wagon had left the keep not more than half an hour ago, and that prior to that, Isobel had been remarked loitering nearby.

Stephen was already calling for his horse. He ordered the search to continue within the bailey, although he had little doubt that the clever princess was long gone. He galloped beneath the raised portcullis and down the drawbridge, his steed sending clods of dirt flying from its powerful hooves, a dozen knights behind him—in case they should ride into the midst of Malcolm’s men. Above their heads the banner of the rose proudly waved.

She had outwitted him, not once but numerous times. Grudgingly he had to admit that her efforts were admirable. Her sense of honor was more fitting a man. But did she truly think she could escape Alnwick, escape him? Men cringed to confront his wrath, yet she dared to do worse, she dared to provoke it.

His admiration congealed. She was every bit a royal offspring, for only such bloodlines could explain her peerless pride and boundless bravery. Yet with the surge of admiration, there was apprehension. He could not help but compare her to her father. Malcolm was one of the most wily—and treacherous—men he knew. Stephen did not like the thought that Princess Mary was far more like her father than any man or woman should be. A tingle of foreboding ran down his spine.

Such a premonition was best ignored. For it did not suit his purposes.

Within a few minutes Stephen had overtaken the wagon and its lumbering oxen. The carter pulled up at the sound of his galloping approach, visibly frightened. “My lord, what have I done?”

Stephen ignored him, riding his massive stallion over to the wagon and reaching down for the sack. He yanked it from the cart.

She lay huddled in a ball. Quickly she sat up. The defiance he had come to expect blazed in her eyes, but he also saw misty tears of defeat. Despite himself, the hard edge of his anger lost its knifelike sharpness. For one instant, she appeared a helpless and frightened child. For one instant, he felt a strange softness for her.

In the next instant it was gone. She was no child. He had only to recall her sensuous body and her uncanny nature to know that. This sweet facade was only that—there was nothing innocent or helpless about her. Another tingle of foreboding raced down his spine. Would he have to be on guard with her forever after this day?

“Did you hope to beget a war, demoiselle?” he asked coldly.

Mary stiffened.

Stephen jumped from his horse and lined her from the wagon. She cried out, jerking against his brief embrace. Stephen set her down and apart instantly. Still, the feeling of her flesh lingered. There were many facets to his satisfaction, to the victory he must score. His blood was hot with more than anger.

The driver was screeching now that he knew nothing of this circumstance. Stephen ordered him to return to the keep. With alacrity, the carter obeyed.

The wagon moved away. The knights were mounted behind Stephen in a semicircle; Geoffrey held Stephen’s destrier. One and all were quiet, so quiet that Stephen and Mary might have been alone. The endless moor stretched away from them in a ragged pattern of gray and green. The sky above was darkening rapidly. A hawk circled overhead, and a breeze lifted Stephen’s cloak and the trailing curls of Mary’s blond hair. A vast silence settled upon them.

Stephen stared down his prisoner. With some satisfaction, he saw that she was afraid. Yet despite her creeping tears, she stood straight and so proudly; her nobility was unmistakable. “You should be afraid of me.”

“It was my duty to escape.”

“Of course it was,
Princess.”

She started, becoming deathly white.

“The carter did not know I was there,” Mary finally said hoarsely. Her eyes were huge, riveted upon his face.

“You would be wiser to defend yourself, not him,” Stephen said. He smiled, but it was chilling. “Princess?”

She inhaled. “It was my duty to escape—just as it was my duty to deceive you.”

“Was it your duty to give me your maidenhead?” Stephen did not care that all of his men heard him; it was his intention that the whole realm know that Mary had slept in his bed.

Her breasts heaved. She was red. “Far better to lose my virtue than to become your hostage.”

His brow lifted. “You sacrificed your virtue to save your father a ransom?” He was incredulous.

“I know you!” Mary cried, her fists clenched but shaking. “You would cripple him, would you not? You would demand far more than silver—you would demand land!”

He stared. “Indeed I shall demand far more than silver coin.”

“When?” Mary demanded, but a tear trickled down her cheek. “When will you ask this ransom? When will I go home?”

“Malcolm and I must meet.”

Mary nodded, the single fat tear rolling to her chin.

Stephen almost flicked his finger against her smooth skin to wipe away the lonely tear. The urge disturbed him, made him uneasy. It was very clear that she was distraught by her predicament and that she wished to leave him. Last night had not made her yearn for him. Undoubtedly she would reject any effort he made to soothe her. He hesitated, torn. He told himself he must be wary of this child-woman. Finally he said, unsteadily, “You need not cry, mademoiselle. In the end, there will be much to be gained for both of us from this circumstance.”

Mary raised her fist and rubbed her wet cheek, the gesture absurdly childlike, increasing Stephen’s discomfort. “No,” she whispered, “you will gain, not me and mine. For I have failed. I have failed my country, my King.”

He was astounded yet again. “Spoken like a man! A woman is not expected to best a man, mademoiselle. In fact, you have played a man’s game, a game in which you could not possibly understand all of the consequences, a game you could not possibly win. ’Twas most unwise.”

“I understand the game well enough.” Mary raised her chin, her mouth pursed. “I did as I had to do. I am Scotland’s daughter.”

Something in him became fierce. “You are amazing, mademoiselle,” he murmured. And he thought of the son she would give him, shrewd and strong and proud. Then, “Come, let us return, and let us begin again.” He held out his hand.

She glared at him through her tears. She did not give him her hand. “We begin nothing! My father will kill you! And I shall dance on your grave!”

Stephen realized that he still held out his hand. He flushed dully and let his gauntleted arm fall to his side. “Malcom might try, but if I were you, I would do my best to dissuade him, for your father is no longer young, and I am in my prime.”

She lost all her color. “You would cross swords with my father?”

He regretted his words. Not for the first time, he wondered at her love for such a scoundrel. “Only if forced to do so.”

“Jesu,” Mary moaned. “I can see the two of you when you meet to discuss the ransom!” Mary took a step towards him. “Do not kill my father. Please!”

It was only correct that she be loyal to Malcolm, but Stephen was inexplicably angry with her now for that loyalty, especially as she had just rejected him in no uncertain terms. Of course, it did not matter one whit whether she hated him or not; hateful wives abounded in this life. “Perhaps you might use pretty words and pretty manners to convince me? Perhaps you might act as a woman should?”

She blanched. “Knowing who I am—you wish me to warm your bed again?!”

“I did not say that, demoiselle. Perhaps ’tis you who wishes for another encounter like the one last night.”

At first Mary did not respond, but her face was pinched, her eyes huge. “How I wish now that I were more like my sister, Maude,” she whispered.

All the strange sympathy, even mixed-up as it was with anger, fled. “I did not know that Malcolm had another daughter,” Stephen said sharply. Another daughter could change everything. Mary could become a political sacrifice as long as Maude was there to take her place in Malcolm’s plans. Stephen wondered if he dare force Mary to the altar should Malcolm refuse to sanction the alliance.

“She is a novice in the Abbey at Dunfermline. She is very pious, very good.” Mary’s voice trailed off. But she added, “Unlike me.”

“Do not berate yourself; it is not becoming,” Stephen said sharply.

But Mary gasped. “Oh, dear Mother of God! How could I have been so thoughtless! They will betroth her to Doug, will they not? And it is me,
me,
that they will send to a convent!”

“Do you cry for your lover now?” He was furious. There was no mistaking his jealousy. His hands gripped her shoulders, his face came close to hers. “After the night we have passed?”

She shook her head. “No! No! I am not such a hypocrite!” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, in order to hold back sobs. “To be locked away in a convent, surely I will die!”

Stephen’s hold eased. “You are not going to be locked away in any convent, mademoiselle.”

Suddenly her gaze beseeched his.

“You are going to be my wife,” Stephen said. And he smiled. “My princess bride.”