Promise of the Rose (17 page)

“She is in the solar—she will not come out,” Isobel cried. “Steph, what happened? Why has she been struck dumb?”

Stephen barely heard her, hurrying past his sister. He paused on the threshold of the solar, his gaze flying to Mary. She faced the window, unmoving, her small body held tense and still. His heart clenched. He understood well her feelings of betrayal and disbelief.

“Mary?” he said softly.

She flinched. Slowly she turned her head, her eyes glazed with tears she refused to shed, trembling. “Wh-What happened?”

Stephen hesitated. What would his stubborn little bride do when he told her of her fate? Stephen did not delude himself; he did not think she would melt into his arms. “We are going to be wed,” Stephen said gently. “You and I, in four weeks time.”

“Sweet Mother of God,” Mary gasped, collapsing.

Stephen caught her, cradling her in his arms. He had seen her shock, and her anguish. Understanding her as he did now, he was not angry. He was fiercely moved.

In his embrace, her breasts crushed beneath his chest, her thighs against his rigid loins, she went from being pliant with grief to rigid with denial. Her fingers curled, digging into his mail. She gazed up at him. “I do not believe this!”

“Your father and I have agreed,” Stephen said carefully.

“I do not believe you!” Mary pushed away from him, and he let her go. She faced him in horror, her bosom heaving. “ ’Tis a trick!”

“You were there.” He ached for her.

“ ’Tis a trick!” Mary cried again. “Malcolm hates you and your family more than he hates anyone other than your wretched King! He has railed against Northumberland ever since I can remember! He would never give me to you,
never
!”

Stephen could not be angry. It had been obvious to him for some time that Mary dearly worshiped her father. She saw him as a god, not as a scoundrel. She actually did not believe that Malcolm had consented to their union. And not only had he consented, he had done so for his own purposes, to fulfill his own ambitions; not once had he even asked after his daughter’s welfare. Stephen was a man who dealt in realities, but this time he wanted to spare her the truth.

Mary was shaking her head, as if in bewilderment. “Is it not a trick?” she begged.

Stephen wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her as he might Isobel. He found himself touching her cheek. “I am not tricking you, Mary.”

She did not jerk away. She was wide-eyed, misty-eyed.

He would hide the truth of her father’s real nature from her. He smiled kindly. “Malcolm wanted to kill me because of what I had done, but upon learning of your loss of virtue, he had no choice but to succumb.”

“He … did?” There was hope in her tone.

“You need not know all the details, for they are far too grand, but the alliance serves us both well in the end. This marriage will not be so reprehensible, Mary; in truth, once you come to accept it, it will be far from abhorrent for us both.”

She was unmoving. Stephen smiled another kind smile and leaned closer. He took her chin in his hand and bent to brush her mouth with his. It was a sweet kiss, nothing more, hardly intimate, but desire shafted him. As he hovered over her, his eyes turned black and all thoughts of kindness became obsolete.

He still touched her chin. The kiss had rekindled Mary, too. She swatted his hand away, then jumped back from him. “I do not need your pity, Norman!”

“I hardly pity you, mademoiselle.”

“And I do not need your kindness!” Tears filled her eyes. She directed a disparaging glance at his bulging loins. “I know exactly the kindness you intend!”

“Mary.” He tried to touch her again.

She shook him off, crying. “I thought to save my father a ransom by giving you my virtue, but it seems that instead, I handed you your greatest ambition. This changes nothing! This union serves you well—not me!” With that, she turned, tripped, and fled.

Stephen fought himself so as not to go after her. He, too, knew where his kindness would lead. How adept she was at dousing his compassion and arousing his anger. Nevertheless, a softness had been rekindled in his heart. It was a softness he had not yielded to in seventeen achingly long years.

Part Two
The Princess Bride

A
dele Beaufort saw him the instant he entered the hall. Quickly she looked away. The archdeacon of Canterbury seemed to part the crowd as he moved through it.

Adele had been at Court for several months now, since she had turned sixteen, and she much preferred it to the routine existence she had led at her stepbrother’s home in the heart of Kent or on one of her own estates in Essex. Currently the Court was in London at the Tower. Here there was never a dull moment; newcomers were always arriving, some with private messages for the King, others with petitions, and others just to curry favor with their sovereign. Here, amidst the gaiety and glamour, the intrigue and scandal, amongst the dashing courtiers and their bejeweled ladies, amongst the warlords and the courtesans, Adele felt at home. After she married Stephen de Warenne, she intended to spend most of her time at Court.

As usual, she was surrounded by admirers. A dozen men, some young, some old, some powerful, some not, vied for her attention. She rarely tired of their amusing anecdotes, the pretty flattery and the outrageous flirtation. When she chose to, she rewarded her favorites with a smile and a seductive
look. But Adele did not have to act coy to arouse men; no man could look at her and be immune to her dark, sensual beauty. She was well aware of it. She had been aware of it since she was twelve years old.

Sometimes she thought that her betrothed was immune to her appeal, though. They had conversed on exactly three occasions, but Stephen de Warenne had never flirted with her or flattered her, and if she had not seen him appraising her full breasts and long legs, exactly once, the very first time they had met, she would have wondered if he was indifferent to her. That one time had reassured her. Nevertheless, if she were not so sure of her allure, she would think he did not lust after her. And that was impossible.

Raising her fan—a gift from the King himself—so that only her large, dark eyes were visible, she stole another glance at the archdeacon of Canterbury.

She stared at him. Her pulse throbbed strongly now, in her throat, between her breasts, and between her legs in the folds of her femininity. Her face was warm and she used her fan more strenuously. He was the most striking man she had ever seen, and she had certainly seen her share. God, he was beautiful. His oval face was carved with precise perfection, his nose fine and straight, his eyes piercingly blue. His jaw was tight and hard, his cheekbones bold and high. And he was lightly tanned, so that his complexion was golden, not pasty white. Adele had noticed that when he entered the hall, all its occupants remarked him immediately—even the men.

His frame was tall and broad-shouldered and obviously lean. Adele wondered at his body, hidden as it was beneath his long robes.

He also reeked of strength. He was no pampered, soft, spoiled, and self-indulgent prelate. Indeed, his very history, a history that was well known, spoke more loudly than anything else could of his determination, brilliance, and ambition. Adele knew he had been sent to foster in the harsh Welsh marshes with Roger of Montgomery, long before he had become the Earl of Shrewsbury. Montgomery was one of King William I’s most able and most powerful generals, as was Rolfe de Warenne. In those years the two men had been not rivals but friends.

In choosing to send his second son to Wales, Rolfe was obviously choosing a territory as yet unconquered, torn by strife and rebellion. Geoffrey was not daunted. It was well known that he had won his spurs at thirteen—the same year that he had cast them aside and entered the cloister.

Adele, thinking about it, shivered. What young boy made such a choice?

His rise had been stunning, for he was the protégé of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was an appointee of the Conqueror and another friend of his father’s. But he could not have risen as he had if he had not been brilliant at his studies. Within three years he had earned a position among Lanfranc’s staff as one of his clerks. By the time of Lanfranc’s death, he was the archbishop’s most able and personal assistant. His appointment as archdeacon came just weeks before his mentor died.

Adele swallowed, then licked her dry lips. She shifted her weight uncomfortably. Most archdeacons were ordained priests, but not Geoffrey de Warenne. He was not such an oddity. The last Bishop of Carlisle had been unable to read or write in any language, much less Latin, and when he had died, he had refused the Sacraments. Many in the Church had been scandalized, as had many laymen. Some of these same clerics were disapproving of Geoffrey de Warenne, even though he was well learned and devout.

Adele was certain that he had taken the customary vows of chastity when he had joined the cloister. But was he celibate? It did not seem likely. For he also reeked of virility.

Adele was flushed. She knew she was only one of the many women present who watched him, coveted him, and found him fascinating. She did not care about the others—she had no rivals, not at Court, not anywhere. But the archdeacon had never given the slightest indication that he found her desirable. Adele wondered, not for the first time, if, like the King himself, Geoffrey’s virility was spent on boys.

Then she sighed. She would never find out. She was betrothed to his brother, Stephen de Warenne, one of the
greatest heirs in the land, and she would never jeopardize her forthcoming marriage.

Adele was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not realize that she was staring. Not until the archdeacon abruptly turned his head to fix her with his gaze. For one brief moment their glances held. A shadow crossed his face, perhaps annoyance, and he quickly turned away.

Adele was stunned and breathless. The meeting of their eyes had been so brief and was over so instantly that she almost thought she had imagined it. Now his back was turned solidly to her.

Adele’s heart slammed hard against her breastbone, and she gasped. She quickly raised her fan, attempting to compose herself.

“Are you all right, lady?” Henry Ferrars, Lord of Tutberry, asked, his eyes narrowed.

Adele wanted to kick herself for acting like a pubescent girl. She managed a rejoinder, but her mind was not on Ferrars or any of the men in her circle of admirers.

Geoffrey de Warenne had never spoken a single word to her, not even in a polite greeting. And since she had come to London several months ago, their paths had crossed a half dozen times, because of her betrothal to his brother. It occurred to her now that perhaps he purposely avoided her—perhaps he lusted after her like all the others.

Her stepbrother, Roger, as fair as she was dark, pushed into the throng surrounding her and pulled her aside. “Your thoughts are obvious.”

Adele shook him free. She fanned herself, to cool her blood. “Hello, my lord. How pleasant you are—as usual.”

Roger’s stare pinned her.

Adele fanned herself harder.

“What is he doing here?” Roger asked, again looking at Geoffrey. “I have heard he has been summoned. Too, that his brother came with him.”

Adele’s eyes widened and she froze.

“Not your beloved, so you can rest easy. He returned with Brand.”

Adele resumed fanning herself in relief. She preferred not having Stephen here at Court. Her gaze settled on the
archdeacon again, but at the look on his face her fan stilled once more.

“Something is afoot,” Roger said. His face was tight. “God’s blood! The King reveals nothing to me now! I must get back into his good graces!”

“Then you will just have to devote yourself to doing so, won’t you, Roger?”

“And what will you devote yourself to, sister dear, while my back is turned?”

Adele ignored him. She smiled at her stepbrother. “Soon you will not have to worry about Rolfe de Warenne’s power or his sons.” Her tone was husky. “Soon I will be his son’s wife and privy to every happenstance.”