Promise of the Rose (29 page)

She had almost drowned.
Mary stiffened, only peripherally aware of people standing over her. Sensations flooded her being sucked down into wet, black darkness, panic filling her breast, her lungs burning, burning … Oh, dear Lord, she had tried to escape, but instead of escaping, she had been pushed into the Thames—she had almost died.

Someone had tried to murder her.

“Mother, Mother, she is awake!” Isobel cried excitedly.

“Can you hear me?” the countess asked softly.

But how was it that she was not dead?
With frightening clarity, Mary recalled her last thoughts before losing consciousness.

And then she remembered. The scene was vivid, unshakable. Stephen holding her in his arms in the river, where she floated like a corpse, then Brand taking her to shore. Mary opened her eyes wide. How could she have such a memory? The perspective was all wrong—as if she were far above the ground, looking down upon the players in a singularly strange drama.

But it had been no play. Mary was certain that what she had seen had really happened—for now, like the acts performed by traveling players, the scene unfolded with frightening intensity and startling swiftness. Brand laying her upon the dock, Stephen being hauled from the water. And then he was upon her, pounding her back. Turning her over, begging her to breathe. And then he was breathing the air from his own lungs into hers. The memory grew darker, the images fuzzy. Mary could distinctly hear Brand telling Stephen that she was dead. But then she heard no more, and the recollection had blackened into nothingness.

The countess was smiling. “Hello, Princess. We have been hoping you would waken soon.”

Mary blinked at her, trembling. Had she really seen herself on the brink of death? Had her soul, perhaps, been winging its way towards Heaven? Had Stephen somehow called her back?

“You almost died, Lady Mary!” Isobel cried, taking Mary’s hands in hers and squeezing them with obvious delight that she was in fact alive.

“I almost died,” Mary echoed.

“Isobel, do not distress the princess,” Ceidre said sternly.

But Mary was sitting upright, clinging to hotel’s hands. “Did Stephen save me? Did Stephen breathe into my mouth?”

Both the countess and Isobel started. “But—how could you know such a thing?” Ceidre said. “Stephen said you were unconscious, unbreathing, near dead.”

Mary sank back onto the mattress, her heart pounding. She squeezed her eyes closed. Hot tears stung her lids.

She had almost died. Stephen had saved her. Stephen had given her back her life.

And as she could not explain to herself the strange memory of watching Stephen minister to her on the dock, she could not explain it to them. One thing was clear. That she lived was a miracle, and she owed Stephen far more than mere thanks.

“Isobel, bring me a chemise and cote,” the countess said. Isobel scurried to obey. “Raise your arms, dear; I will help you dress.”

Mary obeyed. As Stephen’s mother helped her to dress, she thought about how she had tried to drug Stephen. Either he was superhuman or he had known of her scheme. It was easy to feel horrible now for deceiving him, for such treachery. How could she have done such a thing?

“Are you all right, Mary?” the countess asked with concern.

Mary froze, speech escaping her. For standing in the doorway was the man consuming her thoughts.

The wintry light straying through the windows of the chamber was dismal, and Stephen was cloaked in it. His expression was impossible to determine. Mary’s heart thundered. She had the urge to cry out to him, in greeting, in gratitude, and in some nameless emotion she dared not identify. But she did not. Instead, she collapsed against the pillows, watching him.

The bedchamber was small, and he crossed it quickly and decisively, pausing at his mother’s side. His gaze held hers. “Good day, mademoiselle.”

Mary knew she must thank this man and apologize for her horrible betrayal of him. But still she could not speak. Nor could she look away; indeed, she was no longer aware of the countess or Isobel. Finally he said, “We have been waiting for you to awaken.”

Mary wet her lips, which were dry.

“Here,” Isobel said, instantly handing her a cup of water. The child smiled at her. “Drink this, lady.”

The countess straightened. “Come, Isobel, Stephen wishes a moment alone with his bride.”

Mary barely heard the countess’s words, did not even see as she and her daughter left the chamber, closing the door behind them. They stared at each other. He was grave, she was anxious and mute.

A moment later Stephen was on the bed beside her, and Mary was in his arms.

It was so natural to cling to him. He was strength and safety, power and integrity, he was life. She felt crazed by the intensity of her emotions, by the sum of them. How safe she felt, how secure, how right. The leather of his gambeson was smooth beneath her cheek. For a long moment they both
held each other, neither moving or speaking. Until he said, soft and rough, into her ear, “I, for one, am more than glad to see you awake.”

Mary slowly turned her head so she could gaze up at him. Could it be? Could this man have some small amount of tendre for her after all they had suffered together? After all she had done? Had he not risked his life for her?

She recalled his desperation, the way he had breathed life back into her body.

And he gazed into her eyes with unwavering intensity, as if he wished to glimpse into her soul.

Mary’s chest tightened and she found herself meeting his regard openly. She had the overwhelming urge to open all of herself to him, completely.

“How do you feel?” His tone was not quite steady, unlike the light within his eyes, which was so fierce. Mary thought that she detected a film of moisture there, but she could only assume it was from a speck of dust.

“I am glad to be alive, my lord. I—I must thank you.”

She felt his entire body tightening and he moved his mouth even closer to hers. Her body came to life when he spoke, his breath feathering her, tingles sweeping down her spine. “I would have more than thanks from you.”

Mary was hoarse. “W-What would you h-have, my lord, of me?”

“Do you truly not know?”

Mary felt dizzy with the possibilities. She was faint, and unsure of what was happening between them. “You—you have more than my thanks,” she heard herself say.

His gaze searched hers intently. “Do you bend to me now, finally. Mary?”

Mary trembled. What bond were they forging, what pact? Did he understand her pledge; did she? “You have saved my life. I almost died. If not for you …” She cried out, unable to continue.

His own grip upon her tightened. “You have nothing more to fear, mademoiselle,” he told her. “No harm will befall you; you have my word.”

Mary gripped his leather gambeson. They were upon the verge of some new and great understanding, and she was
both afraid and exultant. “Stephen,” she whispered, knowing that she had never called him by his given name before, “I am sorry. I am sorry for betraying you. I will never betray you again, my lord,” she said with fervor.
“I give you my word.”

He was still for a moment; he did not appear to even breathe. His gaze had become very dark and very fierce. “If you are finally speaking the truth, Mary, I would be well pleased.”

“I am,” she whispered.

His expression changed, became somehow primitive, and triumphant. “Do you finally come to me willingly as my wife?”

Their regards locked again. Despite her weakened condition, Mary felt the fluttering of desire low in her belly. “Stephen,” she whispered faintly. A surge of emotion so intense it almost blacked her out overwhelmed her. Mary was stunned to realize that she loved this man. And then, in the next heartbeat, she was not stunned at all. “Yes,” she said softly.

His eyes widened. A moment later he was bending closer and brushing his mouth gently over hers; in the next instant, there was little gentle about his kiss. Mary did not care. She loved him. She kissed him back.

Eagerly their tongues mated. Mary pulled Stephen down on top of her, exulting at the feel of him, at his unmistakable reaction to her invitation. He was disturbingly hard and long against her thigh. Mary whimpered. She had almost died, and now, now she was overwhelmed with the urge to take him deep inside her, to cry out in abandon, in ecstasy, and to coax his seed to life. Nothing had ever been as important.

Stephen was the one to break their kiss. He lifted his head, panting, his brow furrowed, his face grim. “Mary? If we do not stop now—”

“No!” she cried, shifting so the ripe tip of him brushed the apex of her thighs. “No, my lord, you have saved my life—now let me give you life!”

Stephen froze, only for an instant. Then he rolled over her, stroking his hands down her belly, stroking intimately
between her thighs. Mary moaned in pure pleasure. She thrashed beneath him, panting.

Her tunic was in the way. With a savage little cry Mary shoved her skirts up to her waist and pressed Stephen’s hand hard against her wet heat. He was startled; his eyes blazed. “For you, my lord,” Mary whispered, aware of being totally carnal in that instant and unable to help herself. “Only for you, my lord.”

He cried out. A moment later he was sliding his huge shaft deep within her, in an act not just of penetration, but of possession.

Mary sobbed her joy. She keened her ecstasy. Stephen gasped, sliding in and out of her, stroking her again and again with his massive manhood, until Mary knew a second, even greater ecstasy than before. With a harsh cry, he finally convulsed deep within her. The sounds of their heartbeats, uneven and rapid, mingled with their harsh, heavy breathing.

Mary sighed.

“I like your smile, mademoiselle,” Stephen whispered.

Mary wondered if she looked as love-struck as she felt.

“We shall do more than well, you and I,” Stephen said.

Mary tensed. His words had a hard edge to them, as if a challenge, or a vow. She sat up, staring at his dark, handsome face. He was so somber now, as if unsure.

“It will be so,” Mary whispered, but suddenly she was wistful and afraid, aware now more than ever of the immense past that loomed between them, one that went much further back than just the few weeks since he had captured her, a past consisting of countless battles in which their fathers had crossed swords with deadly intention, a past in which she herself had committed many acts of treachery against him. How Mary yearned then and there for the kind of relationship he had just alluded to, one far more successful than most, one without complications, one honest and real. A relationship that, for them, history and circumstance conspired against.

And such a conspiracy did not bode well for them. But it was too late. Mary recognized that she had given her heart boldly away and that it would never be hers again. And she was stricken. Not only did the past and present conspire
against them, so did many avid, ruthless players. Even if he did care about her, and she was truly beginning to believe that he did, what kind of future could they possibly have?

Mary reached for him.
“Someone tried to kill me.”

“I know.”

But before his words were even out, it struck Mary that Adele Beaufort had engineered the attempt on her life. No one else had known she would be on the wharves at that hour, that day.

“What is it?”

She raised her shocked gaze to his. “My lord,” she whispered, horrified, “only one person knew of my plans to escape!”

“Adele Beaufort?”

She was sick. She nodded dumbly.

“Adele had help in arranging your escape. We cannot be sure that she was behind the attempt on your life. There are many factions against us, Mary.”

Mary had been near tears; now she froze. “Who? Who is against our union, Stephen?”

“Must you know?”

Her temper flared. “I would know who is my friend and who is my foe, yes!”

“Adele’s brother is furious that she has been cast aside. Montgomery fears that Northumberland’s power outstrips Shrewsbury. And Duncan—”

“Duncan! Surely he would never try to harm me! He is my brother!”

“He is your half brother, whom you have only just met, and he loves only himself and his ambition, Mary.”

“Perhaps he has ambition, but that does not mean he would harm me!” The very idea was ludicrous, frightening.

“His ambition is to rule Scotland, to be her king.”

“No! He could not seek to depose my father!”

“He is not such a fool. He hopes to succeed your father. Why else has he remained at Court here for all these years, serving Rufus like some heathen slave? And he is Rufus’s choice.”

Mary stared. Finally she shook her head, unable to decide how much to say to this man, her future husband. Aware that
even now, so soon after her discovery of her own true feelings, and perhaps even his, politics threatened them. “No. Edward shall be Scotland’s next King. Father has decided, and it must be that way.”

Stephen regarded her. “And Malcolm can do no wrong?”

Mary jerked. “Let us not discuss Malcolm,” she finally said sharply.

“Why not, Mary? Is he always right?” Suddenly Stephen’s tone had changed, suddenly he was angry.

Mary’s heart beat too hard; she shook her head, refusing to answer. Unable to answer.

Stephen stood abruptly. “We cannot take any more chances, Mary. Therefore you will remain here at Graystone for the next few days, where you will be safe, until our wedding.”

“For the next few days? But our wedding is not for another three weeks!”

“No,” Stephen said, leaning over her. “Our wedding date has been changed.”

“Changed?”

“The King has agreed. It is most unwise to delay now, in the light of all that has happened. As soon as you are capable of making your vows, we shall be wed.”

Mary was wide-eyed. Her heart turned over in real pleasure. She could not help smiling. In a few days they would be wed—in a few days she would be his wife!

It was not until Stephen had left that she realized that his own response had been far different from hers. He had not been smiling when he told her the unexpected news. In truth, he had been grim and uneasy, as if he expected disaster to strike in the very near future.