Promise of the Rose (20 page)

Mary decided it did not matter. Abemathy was long past. Tonight he had proved the depth of
his
passion for
her.
His passion for her was political. Mary promised herself that she would never forget it.

Mary slid from the bed. Even if he had complete mastery
over her body, he must not ever have any mastery over her will. Never must she allow him to enslave her mind. Her body she now consigned to the realm of irrelevance. After all, as her mother would say, ’twas only flesh and blood. Her soul was another matter indeed.

Anger, both hot and bitter, remained. Mary wanted to strike back. There was one obvious way to use the current circumstances to her advantage. Had he not once accused her of spying? The time had come to take on that very role.

Determinedly Mary began her ablutions, thinking of how proud of her Malcolm would be. Mary finished washing and was leaving the chamber when Isobel was summarily awakened by her nurse. It was not yet prime; Mary slipped out as Isobel began impiously protesting that she had no wish to go to mass that mom.

She saw him the precise instant that she entered the hall. And he was bright-eyed, as if he had not been spending himself last night on another woman. Mary’s ire renewed itself. So did the unwelcome hurt.

Mary managed to ignore him, no easy task. Because the morning was chill, she went to the fire, not even greeting him, as if he did not exist. She wondered which woman he had lain with. She wondered when she would be presented with an opportunity to spy.

“If you hold your hands any closer, you will get burned,” he said softly, coming to stand directly behind her.

She stiffened. Like all maidens, she wore her hair unbound, and now he lifted the heavy mass, weaving it through his hands. “You have beautiful hair, mademoiselle,” he murmured. His tone was magically soft, mesmerizing.

She did not move, every sense she possessed scathingly aware of the heat of his body and the power of him behind her. She recalled his treachery last night.

His fingers brushed her nape. “Did you sleep well, mademoiselle?”

Mary jerked away to face him. “Do not touch me. And yes, I slept very well indeed,” she lied. She had barely slept at all.

He studied her. “Why are you so angry?”

“Angry? I?”

“Have I somehow offended you?”

Mary responded with her own burning question. “Did
you
sleep well last night, my lord?”

His gaze locked with hers. “In truth, no. And I am sure you can think why.”

“Oh, I know why!” He traced her cheek with one strong forefinger, and Mary batted his hand away.

His eyes glowed seductively. “Then you know that the only way in which I will sleep well, mademoiselle, is if you are in my bed with me, and we have both exhausted ourselves.”

That he should be so blunt made Mary speechless.

“You are so angry, Mary. Why? Because I did not do as I pleased last night?”

“But you did do as you pleased, did you not?” she heard herself accusing him.

He was mildly nonplussed. “I most certainly did not. Had I done so, you would not be up and about at this hour, mademoiselle, for you would be unable to leave our bed.”

She went red. For just an instant she imagined him taking her so completely, so thoroughly, that she would have to rest abed all day. Then she recalled that today there was a maid somewhere about Alnwick in just those circumstances. She was so livid, words escaped her.

“Soon,” he said softly, “after we are wed, neither one of us will suffer from restless nights again.”

“You are a hypocrite,” Mary cried, unable to restrain herself and throwing all caution aside.

His expression lost some of its softness. “Indeed?”

“Indeed!” She saw that he was growing angry but did not care. “I came downstairs last night just before matins.” She stopped. His anger was gone—he was smiling, pleased.

“So you came looking for me,” he said, taking her hands in his.

Mary tried to pull them free and failed. “Not for the reason you are thinking!”

He was amused and skeptical. “Come,
chère,
do not tell me that you sought me out at the midnight hour in order to converse?”

It sounded ludicrous. Mary flushed again. “I did!”

Suddenly his smile vanished. “Ahh. now I begin to understand where you have been leading.”

Again Mary tried to pull her palms free of his, but it was hopeless.

“You are indeed angry this mom, Mary,” he said, whisper-soft. “You came looking for me, but I was nowhere to be seen.”

Mary no longer struggled. Her small bosom heaved. “And we both know why, so do not deny it!”

He stared. “I do not deny it. But what would you have me do? My body was hot and hard—for you.”

“Please!” Again she tried to struggle free; again it was futile. His words drummed up vivid images of him, fully aroused, that she did not wish to entertain. “I am sure you did not spare me a single thought while you spent yourself on your winsome friend!”

“She was barely winsome, and if you must know, I thought of nothing but you—even while I spent myself on her.”

Mary was frozen. He was a sorcerer. Because as angry, hurt, and jealous as she was, she was also warm, too warm, her pulse pounding insistently, disturbingly. How could he do this to her under these circumstances? “I was but upstairs,” she finally said, and she heard how wounded she sounded.

His eyes widened. “Mademoiselle, you are to be my wife. ’Tis out of the question that I would use you as I would my leman.”

Mary almost gaped.

His voice was low, firm, even urgent. “Do you not think I considered it? Do you really think some overripe villein can compare to one such as you? Do you know how many times I almost went up those stairs in spite of myself? But my will is stronger than that.” Suddenly he released her hands to cup her face. Mary was incapable of movement. “I was discreet. Every single man in this hall was asleep. I did not intend you to know. Still, I am glad you are jealous.”

She opened her mouth, to deny it, but not a single sound came out.

His expression was harsh. “You ask the impossible, mademoiselle, but I will do as you ask.”

She blinked. She was feeling very warm and very dazed. “Wh-What is that?” Her whisper was a croak.

“I will deny myself until our wedding night, as it upsets you so.”

Mary reeled. He caught her, and she was in his arms. “Did you understand what I just said?” he suddenly demanded. Mary was hardly shocked to realize that he was impassioned, too. She put her hands on his chest, but whether to push him away or cling, she did not know. As it turned out, she gripped him. “Y-Yes, I-I understand.”

His expression was almost savage. “Are you pleased?”

Mary stared, still stunned by the swift pace and unbelievable conclusion of their dialogue. She began to nod.

“Good! I would have you pleased—always, by me.” Abruptly he lowered his head, his mouth taking hers.

Mary’s mind was chanting an incredible refrain. This man had just promised to practice celibacy until their wedding. In fact, he had promised her fidelity. Celibacy … fidelity … The refrain lingered as her mouth opened, as he sucked her lips and then plumbed her warm depths, as their tongues finally touched. Stephen drew back, panting. “But I shall undoubtedly lose my head every time you come near,” he warned. Then he smiled. It lit up his dark eyes.

In another era, Mary thought with sudden desperation, such a marriage would have been successful. Or even in this era, given different circumstances. But it could not be. For there would be no marriage—the betrothal was a ruse. But… Stephen seemed so certain, and he was not the kind of man to be easily duped. “What were the terms of this marriage?” she heard herself ask in a low, strained voice.

Stephen started. His smile was gone. “ ’Tis not enough for you to know that your father and I found cause to unite our families?”

“No. I must know the terms, I must.”

Stephen stared at her. Carefully he said, “Do you not remember that we discussed this yesterday?”

Mary had to fight for words, she had to fight to steady her voice. “Please, my lord, I would know what my father gains in giving my hand to you—other than—” she swallowed “—our child.”

Stephen was silent. Their gazes were locked, his dark and somber, hers glazed with unshed tears. Finally, gravely, he said, “Mademoiselle, you ask about matters politic.”

“This is very important to me.”

“I know, Mary. I know far more than you think. Trust me. I shall soon be your husband; I will take care of you from this day forth, I and no one else. Malcolm has agreed to the alliance; leave it at that.”

“I cannot,” she whispered. “I must know exactly what was said.”

Stephen regarded her. Very quietly he asked, “Will you by my loyal wife, Mary?”

Mary froze. She knew she must tell him one word, yes. Her heart beat with frightening intensity. She had never been one to lie, and found she could not do so now. Not about this, not to him.

She said nothing.

His face was dark, his words bitter. “I have just promised you fidelity. I have promised to take care of you. But you do not reconcile yourself to your duty. You do not reconcile yourself to me.”

She was torn. There was something in Stephen’s manner, in his eyes, that made her want to promise him all that he demanded, but surely that was insane. Surely he was enslaving her mind, as she had sworn he must not do. Because in the end there would not be a marriage—she was certain of it.

He gripped her chin, lifting it. “You will wed me, warm my bed, bear my sons, keep my household, and tend my people when they are sick? You will give me succor and comfort?
You will give me loyalty
?”

Mary whimpered. Faced with him now, like this, Mary was suddenly not sure of her own answer. But how could that be? Where her loyalty lay was clear—it had not changed.

His eyes flashed. “
I must know
!”

She shook her head, her eyes beginning to sting.

“Swear to me upon what you hold dear, swear to me upon the life of your father, that you shall do your duty towards me as I have stated,” Stephen commanded. “Swear it now!”

Mary inhaled. “I—I cannot.”

He released her. She realized he trembled. “You cannot give me your word, or will not?”

“No,” Mary said. “I c-cannot.”

“And you dare to ask me of politic secrets,” he said coldly. “You have one last chance, demoiselle.” A vein throbbed in his temple.
“Will you be loyal to me, first and last, above all others?”

She dared not answer. But she said, “No.”

His eyes widened.

“I am loyal to Scotland,” Mary whispered, and she became aware that she was crying. The most recent image of her father’s hate-filled face came to her mind. How proud of her he would be. While she, she was repulsed.

“Even after we are wed?”

Mary prayed that they would not be wed. “Yes, even after we are wed.”

   The Earl and Countess of Northumberland arrived later that day.

Mary was in the women’s solar when she became aware of their arrival. The women there rushed out to greet Alnwick’s mistress, Isobel leading the charge, crying out with delight. Mary made no move to follow, her absence unremarked. She was alone in the solar, a feeling of dismay rising in her breast. She had no wish to meet Stephen’s parents, not now, not ever. Especially she had no wish to meet the earl, a very personal enemy of her father’s.

But she had no choice in the matter. Some time later, when the pandemonium in the hall had ceased, a woman appeared in the doorway. Mary had not a single doubt that she was the countess. Automatically she rose to her feet.

Stephen’s mother was a tall woman of indeterminate age, still possessed of a fine figure and still quite handsome. Her yellow velvet surcote was magnificent, elaborately embroidered along the hem and sleeves with multicolored threads, a gold girdle encasing her narrow waist, heavily encrusted with jewels. Her veil was the finest of silks, in shades of crimson and gold. A strand of red rubies on a gold circlet kept it in place, the stones winking on her forehead. She was
one of the most imposing women Mary had ever remarked, but not because of her dress. There was strength to be found in her countenance, and her eyes were filled with razor-sharp intelligence. She regarded Mary intently.

Mary wondered if she hated her and was dismayed because of the alliance. “Madame,” Mary murmured.

The countess lifted a brow. Mary was conscious of being studied from the top of her golden head to the tips of the blue slippers she wore. Behind Lady Ceidre, half a dozen ladies, the countess’s entourage, also regarded her with open curiosity and tittering excitement. “Come forward, Princess,” the countess said. It was a command, said softly but imperiously.

Mary did as she was asked.

“I wish to welcome you into our family,” the countess said, her tone softening as she took both of Mary’s hands.

Mary realized she approved. “Thank you.” She spoke stiffly.

“I wish to be alone with my son’s bride,” the countess said. Her ladies, smiling and whispering, disappeared.

“Come, let us sit and get acquainted,” Lady Ceidre said. She took Mary’s arm and led her to a pair of chairs. “You need not be afraid of me.”

“I am not,” Mary replied as they took their seats. In truth, she was uneasy. But not because the countess was formidable, but because she had the insane wish that they could be as a real mother-in-law and bride.

“I hope Stephen has treated you well.”

Mary lowered her eyes, aware of the countess’s unwavering regard.

“Both he and his brothers are so like their father. I am sorry if his lust overruled him when you first met.” Mary’s color heightened. “Still, they all know well enough how to treat a lady. I hope he has played the gentleman since then.”

Mary thought of his astonishing promise to remain celibate. Something twisted inside her. “I… Yes, he has.”

The countess smiled, pleased. “Of course,” she continued, “he was raised at Court, a terribly decadent Court, where ambition, intrigue, and desire ruled the day—as it still does. He had to become hard very young.” Her tone changed; the
sadness was unmistakable. “But do not be fooled. There is a softness within, and I am sure a woman like you can bring it forth.”