Promise of the Rose (57 page)

Stephen started. “You were at Abemalhy then?!”

She smiled slightly. “I rode with Edgar, disguised as his squire.”

“You minx,” Stephen said softly. “So that beautiful lad who kept staring at me was you!”

“Y-You saw me?”

He actually blushed. “I saw you. I was most uncomfortable, thinking myself attracted to a boy.”

“Oh, Stephen!” They gazed at each other, awed, each wondering privately if their love had been born that winter day in such a strange way, each deciding that it was so.

Stephen leaned forward to brush her mouth with his. “Enough conversation, dear heart. You must rest now quietly.” He was smiling, his expression so tender that it was remarkable.

But Mary’s pleasure died. She moaned, long and low, her face as white as death. For a very long moment she was wracked with pain. Finally it began to subside, and then it was gone. “S-Stephen,” she said huskily. “Please fetch the midwife to me.”

Stephen blanched himself. “Wait until I return, Mary. Just this once—do not do anything rash!”

   But patience again eluded Mary, or it eluded the child. When Stephen returned, the midwife beside him, he heard a baby’s mewling cries. His heart quickened, disbelief etched itself onto his face. He had, in part, been jesting—he had only been gone a few minutes. He flung open the door. Mary lay sprawled limply on the bed, but when she saw him, she smiled. The covers were thrown off of her, and between her legs a tiny, bloody newborn lay.

Stephen saw the blood and, having never witnessed a birth before, thought that he was about to lose his wife. He rushed to her frantically. She laughed softly, low and pleased. Startled, he looked at her. She entwined her arm with his. “I peeked, my lord.” Triumph filled her tone. “ ’Tis a boy.”

She turned to the midwife, who had already cut the babe’s cord and wrapped the small mite up. “Show his lordship his son.”

The midwife turned, her face creased in a smile, holding up the tiny, wide-eyed infant. “Got all his fingers and all his toes, yer lordship, an’ he’s a big boy, too, considerin’ he’s a bit early. An’ he’s wide-awake now, too!”

Stephen stared in shock. “My son?”

“Your son,” Mary said happily, drawing his befuddled gaze. “A stong, brave lad, eager to come into the world and greet his father. Give him the babe, mistress.”

Before Stephen could object, the tiny newborn was in his arms, hardly more than two handfuls for his oversized father. Stephen was surprised to see that the infant’s eyes were actually wide open—and focused on him. “Why, he’s looking at me,” he murmured, new, inexplicable feelings washing over him. Then he smiled tenderly. “Look, madame, see how alert he is.”

“Like his father,” Mary said softly. “Just like his father.”

And Stephen smiled at her, filled with a rush of pride. “For this, madame, you will know your every fondest dream.”

Mary cocked her head. “I already have my fondest dreams, Stephen, I have the babe and I have you. What more could there possibly be?”

   But there was more, of course.

Mary convalesced at Kinross. Stephen remained with her, leaving his own affairs in the hands of his steward and castellan. A month after their babe was born, whom they named Edward after Mary’s brother, they returned to Alnwick.

As they approached the looming keep, Mary sensed that something was afoot. Stephen rode beside her liner, and whenever he looked at her and his son, there was something else in his expression other than the tender warmth she had come to expect. The sparkle in his eyes was both secretive and satisfied; she could not decipher its precise meaning. But the man was up to some trick—and he was terribly pleased about it.

They were greeted at the keep by the entire family. Mary was in shock as Stephen helped her from the litter while a nurse held little Ned. The earl and countess rushed upon her, to kiss and embrace her and tell her how thrilled they were that she was safe and well and home. Then the Bishop of Ely
swept her up, whispering in her ear that he would baptize the boy, that no one else would have that honor. Brand kissed her smack on the lips, and Isobel oohed and aahed over the newborn babe.

And through all this pandemonium, Mary wept, because standing behind Stephen’s family was Edgar, Alexander, and Davie.

She held out her arms. Her brothers rushed forward, whooping. Characteristically they refused to hug her. Edgar lifted her up and twirled her in the air, Alexander socked her shoulder, and Davie demanded the right to hold Ned. Surrounded by the three boys, holding her son proudly, Mary looked at her husband. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

   Mary was exhausted. She crept into the chamber she shared with Stephen, grateful to be alone for this one minute. Her mind was filled to overflowing with wonderful, festive images of her family and Stephen’s family carousing during dinner in the hall below. It had been a grand homecoming, indeed.

Mary put the sleeping baby down in the cradle by the bed. Tears formed in her eyes. She felt such a rush of love for her son—and for her dear, beloved husband.

She knew now that this visit signified far more than a mere familial reunion. She was well aware of how brotherly Stephen was to Edgar, Alexander, and Davie, and she was grateful. There was a message that had been conveyed this day: Stephen had taken on the responsibility of her brothers’ welfare. And now she knew without being told that she had indeed failed to trust him. She knew in her heart that one day there would come a time when Stephen would act to fulfill the promise he had made to Malcolm; one day he would put Edgar upon the throne. She had no doubt.

Mary realized she was not alone. She turned and froze.

Standing in the doorway was Stephen, and he was holding out a rose.

A single, perfect, short-stemmed red rose.

Mary moved forward, almost afraid to touch it, to touch him. This big, powerful man offering her the gift of a red
rose was a sight too beautiful to behold. “Stephen,” she whispered, and this time the rush of love was so great, it was almost painful. Now she understood that without pain, there could never be such a grand and consuming love.

Stephen said softly, “It will not prick you again, my love, for its thorns have been shorn.”

Smiling through her tears, overwhelmed, Mary reached out and accepted the rose without feeling a single thorn.

“I always keep my word,” Stephen said.

She cradled the rose to her breast. “I know.”

“I intend to fulfill my pledge to your father, Mary. One day Edgar will be Scotland’s King.”

“I know that, too.” She began to cry. Stephen trusted her, and that was the greatest gift he could give her next to the gift of his love, and he had been giving her that without reserve since he had arrived at Kinross.

“You have all of me, Mary,” he said solemnly.

“I know that, too,” she whispered. Power, purity, nobility, passion—the promise of the rose. She rose up on her toes and kissed him. “Thank you, my lord.”

And he held her hard.

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