Promise of the Rose (33 page)

“You must spy for me, Mary,” Malcolm said. His eyes were brilliant.

Mary felt faintness come over her. She clutched the table. “You ask me to spy? You ask me to spy upon my husband and his people?”

“You must! For nothing has changed. The Normans hate me, and I, them. Northumberland still encroaches upon me, Rufus still seeks Scottish soil. You must remember who you are. You are a princess of Scotland first, de Warenne’s wife second. No opportunity could be more perfect. Why do you think I allowed you to marry him in the first place?”

Mary could not look at her father another moment. And not because of the tears that blinded her. “This is my wedding,” she whispered.

“And you are a beautiful bride,” Malcolm said, patting her shoulder. “Wipe your tears, your groom approaches. Remember, Mary, who you are and where your duties lie.”

Part Three
Into the Darkness

T
hree days later they returned to Alnwick.

The past few days had passed too quickly, in a haze of torrid lovemaking and sated bliss. The newlyweds had not left their bedchamber. Mary had no time to think or reflect—nor had she wanted to. Stephen was a demanding lover, voracious and insatiable, but never selfish or cruel, and Mary found herself his equal when it came to the passion he aroused in her. She had no will to deny him anything, and quickly learned how to entice him. If she was not pregnant before, she imagined that after these two days, she must certainly be carrying his child.

Alnwick loomed ahead of them. The daylong journey had brought with it the unwelcome intrusion of cold, frightening reality. Under normal circumstances, if Stephen were not a de Warenne and if she were not a Scott princess, she would be thrilled to be adjourning to her new home and to her new life as Stephen’s wife. If circumstances were different, she would be filled with eagerness and excitement, the future beckoning bright and full of promise. But the circumstances were what they were—her husband was Northumberland’s
heir, she was Malcolm’s daughter—and instead, Mary was torn with foreboding.

How she wanted to begin the lifetime that now belonged to her and Stephen; how afraid she was of what the future might bring. Now, in the light of a new day, Malcolm’s words haunted her, a terrible reminder of the reality that their marriage was doomed by who they were.

She had not had a single moment to dwell upon what her father had asked of her at her wedding feast. Today’s long journey encouraged a reflection and remembrance she was desperate to avoid. Yet she could not. Not now, and no longer.
Malcolm had asked her to spy for him. To spy upon her husband.
Mary was in shock.

The whole reason he had arranged the marriage to begin with was to plant her as a spy in Northumberland’s midst.

Mary was not just shocked, she was devastated, and she was furious.

Was this the man she had loved and worshiped her entire life? The man who had laughed at her boyish antics while her mother scolded? The man who had been so proud of her wit and beauty as she grew older? Was this the great Scot King?

How could he do this to her?

For there was no question that she still loved her country and her kin—her marriage did not, could not, change that. There was no question that she wished to see Scotland remain whole and independent. She could not, would not, wish to see Northumberland make further inroads across the treacherous borders.

But there was also no question that she would refuse to do as her father wished. She had made her vows before God, and she had meant them. Her duty was to her husband first, before anyone or anything else—even before her duty to her father or her country. But sweet, merciful Jesus, now that she fully understood Malcolm’s intentions, now that she understood that there was no alliance, how would she survive? How would her marriage survive?

Obviously Malcolm intended treachery against Northumberland—against her husband. It was only a matter of time before the fragile peace was broken. Despite having given
her allegiance to Stephen, how would she feel when he rode forth to battle her father? Oh, why could there not be peace!

Mary was heartsick. Bile left a sickening aftertaste in her mouth. Malcolm’s horrible demands remained with her, echoing in her mind. How could he think to use her so, and in so doing, to destroy any chance she had for happiness?

“We are home, Mary,” Stephen said quietly, breaking into her thoughts.

Although Mary had been thoroughly absorbed by her own thoughts, she had been peripherally aware of Stephen’s presence all that day. He had ridden by her side, but he said little. He had appeared as grim as she, as if he knew the crazy circles her mind ran in, as if he knew what Malcolm had asked of her.

She looked at him and compelled herself to recall the wondrous splendor of the past few days. Although she had probably engaged in a dozen different intimate acts, although she had slept in his arms repeatedly, he was still a stranger. She forced a smile to her lips. She must not let him see that she was disturbed, she did not want him to know of the turmoil she was in. And God forbid he should ever find out what Malcolm had asked of her. “Home,” she echoed, pain overshadowing any joy she might have been feeling otherwise. She turned to her husband, strong, urgent feelings washing over her. “I am going to be a good wife to you, Stephen. I promise you.” She was trembling.

His gaze searched hers carefully, as if he sensed that a different substance lay behind her words, a substance he wished to find. “Is something bothering you, Mary?”

Mary shook her head in denial, unable to speak further, and turned to gaze upon the impenetrable fortress of Alnwick. It was a gray day, and the heavy shadows overhead made the dark stones of the walls and keep appear black and depressing. Mary knew that it was only her own thoughts, really, that cast her new home in such a forbidding light. It was not an omen, foretelling a bleak, tragic future.

The moment they arrived in the bailey, Stephen was met by Neale Baldwin and quickly engaged in a conversation involving Alnwick’s current affairs. Mary excused herself, aware of Stephen’s glance lingering upon her even as Neale carried on about the sickness killing dozens of sheep, and she fled up the steps and into the keep, servants rushing to follow after her. Mary raced upstairs to the chamber they would use while the earl and countess remained in London. She immediately ordered Stephen’s belongings unpacked, had a fire stoked, and sent for spiced wine. She asked that a bath be drawn for him as well, then she flew downstairs to see what preparations were being made in the kitchens for their meal. It was chaos, of course, due to Stephen’s sudden arrival at such a late hour. Mary calmed the distraught master cook, and quickly they arrived at a simple but pleasing dinner menu. As she rushed from the kitchens, Mary caught the arm of a servant girl and instructed her to add fresh herbs to the rushes in the hall. Then, her skirts in hand, she flew back up the stairs.

She was out of breath. The bath, a big copper tub, was being filled with steaming hot water, carried up pailful by pailful by two brawny lads. Mary glanced around the room, saw that the fire was in full blaze, that the wine sat upon the chest, and that fresh clothes had been laid out for her husband. She smiled, pleased with herself. Being a wife was no easy thing, and it was not a role she had ever yearned after, or even studied, but now she was glad to have had her mother’s behavior to emulate. She wondered what else she might do to please her husband, then saw that he stood in the doorway, looking somewhat bemused.

His warm regard, the soft, slight tilting of his mouth which suggested a smile, and his powerful presence all made Mary flush. She curtsied slightly in response to him, aware of the quickening of her heart. She imagined she appeared a mess, after the long journey and her rush to see to his comfort, not at all like a princess but more like one of the serving women below. Hastily Mary tried to tuck the errant strands of her hair back in her wimple. Stephen strode forward, unbuckling his sword belt. Mary leaped to take it from him.

His smile broadened and reached his eyes. “You cannot handle my sword, madame, not one as small as you.” He placed the long, heavy, scarred weapon on a chest within easy reach of the bed.

“Can I not, my lord?”

His gaze swung to her, wide with surprise.

Mary could not believe what she had said, but she held his regard, and added huskily,
“Have
I not, my lord?”

“Yes, madame, you have, and adeptly, I might add.”

Mary was breathless. “You have taught me boldness, I fear.”

“I like your boldness, madame, at least the boldness we are now discussing.” His glance left her, moved around the room, no longer chill and dark, then over Mary, slowly and warmly. “Perhaps I should have taken you to wife sooner.”

Mary smiled in real pleasure. “I am glad if you are pleased, my lord.”

“I am more than pleased, Mary.”

She could not mistake his meaning, for the gleam in his eyes was overly familiar to her now. Her tone had grown husky. “Is there naught else I can get you, my lord? Or do for you?”

His look was piercing. “You may help me disrobe,” Stephen said, sitting down and taking off his muddy boots.

Although Mary had just spent two long days and three even longer nights in bed with her husband, pleasing him in every way that he might think of and then in some she had thought of, she was overcome with a strange combination of both nervousness and pleasure at being able to perform such a simple wifely task as helping him unclothe and take his bath. Of course, she had a very good idea of exactly how his bath would end, and was breathless with the anticipation.

Quickly she went to him and helped him shed his belts and tunics. Her pulse quickened as her hands moved over him; she would never become indifferent to the feel of him, to the sight of him. His broad shoulders, wide, hard chest, and flat abdomen were bared to her possessive gaze; when
he moved, thick muscle flexed and long sinew rippled. “You are a fine man, mylord,” she heard herself say.

Stephen, clad only in braies, hose, and cross-garters, swiveled to meet her eyes. “I am glad you think so, madame.”

Mary’s heart beat harder. She knelt beside him and fumbled with the garters. It was impossible not to be aware of her husband’s aroused state. His hose and braies slid to the floor.

Kneeling, Mary looked up at him. He regarded her back steadily, then held out his hand to her. Mary stood and found herself held loosely in his arms. “You also please me, madame wife,” he said low.

She flushed with delight. “Do you not want your bath?” she asked as levelly as she could.

“My bath, and you.” Stephen sighed. “I do not know how you can keep me so excited, madame, but you do. A man my age should have been long since worn out. Have you given me a potion I do not know of?”

“No,” Mary said, smiling. “A love potion would undoubtedly kill us both.”

Stephen grinned, humored, and the effect was dazzling, taking Mary’s breath away. Stephen had a hard, serious look about him usually, but his smile bathed his face in soft, masculine beauty.