by Brenda Joyce
Mary had been the only maiden present—women were not welcome at such events—and she had come in disguise. It had been a gathering of armies, after another attempt by Malcolm to invade and conquer Northumberland. She had been surrounded by much of the Scot army, all loyal to her father. Yet their numbers had been pitiful in comparison to the forces facing them—the most brutal in the land— that of the Earl of Northumberland. The man she could not remove her gaze from was bastard heir to the earl, Stephen de Warenne.
He had not noticed her then. She had been standing behind her brother, dressed as Edgar’s page, careful not to draw any attention to herself, she certainly did not want her own family to recognize her, for more than a scolding would come. Edgar had been an unwilling participant in her escapade, for he, too, knew how angry their father would be for this.
Mary had been mesmerized by the bastard heir, staring at him from around her brother’s shoulder. Once his gaze had connected with hers, a mere coincidence. The moment had lasted less than a heartbeat.
As she stared at Northumberland’s bastard now, Mary’s fists clenched. Her gaze was riveted on the man. He was one of her father’s worst enemies. She prayed his wound would cause him to die.
He did not appear to be at death’s door. Although he had to be weak from loss of blood and in great pain, he wore an expression similar to the one he had worn at Abemathy—hard and inscrutable. She knew he was ruthless: never had he showed the Scots any mercy. Was he incapable of feeling? Was he even immune to physical pain?
One large black tent had been erected in the open field, and the Northumberland banner already flew beside it. It was a striking flag, its field divided into three diagonal bands of black, white, and gold, in its center a short-stemmed, bloodred rose. Mary watched as a page dragged fur pallets inside the tent while the two knights supporting de Warenne helped him limp within. The tent flap closed behind them.
Mary collapsed. She was perspiring heavily, her mouth absolutely dry. This was worse, so much worse, than she had first thought. Stephen de Warenne was not just ruthless but a great military commander, exactly like his father, and his prowess was undisputed. He was also ambitious. The family’s astonishing rise to preeminence from a history of landlessness was well known, and the whole realm feared the ambition of all the de Warennes. What was he doing here? What disaster did he intend to unleash upon Scotland now?
Mary knew she must return to the keep and seek an audience with her father. Yet she was terrified of moving, for to be caught by these men would be a catastrophe. Nothing could be worse. Despite her fear, somehow she must dare to creep backwards, farther into the woods, until she could safely turn and run.
The camp was busy. The horses were being unsaddled and fed. A small, smokeless fire had been stoked. Broadswords, battle-axes, lances, and shields were placed carefully by the heavy leather saddles. Every indication told Mary that this was a serious war party. If she did not escape now while the knights were still preoccupied with setting up their camp, she would have to wait until they slept, and then there would be watchful guards posted. Mary positioned herself in a crouch, refusing to give in to her fear. A twig snapped as she shifted her weight, but no one heard it.
She let out a long breath, backing up a step, never taking her gaze from the camp. At that exact moment a breeze materialized, moving the branches of the big oak tree right above her head. Mary froze, praying.
Several of the knights nearest to the woods—and to her—turned, staring directly at the tree she had been hiding behind. They saw her at once. Mary did not need any more encouragement. She lifted her skirts and fled.
“Halt! Halt now, wench!”
She heard them crashing through the woods. She ran as hard as she could. Having been raised with six brothers, she was a good runner, fast for a girl, but she was unused to the clumsy clogs. Abruptly she tripped hard and went sprawling down in the grass.
“Oh ho!” shouted one of the men with lecherous laughter. Just as she gained her feet, he was upon her, his hand closing on the folds of her tunic at the nape of her neck. He jerked her back to him.
Mary screamed as he reeled her in, and when she was close enough, she tried to kick him in the groin. He easily evaded her, and both he and his companion laughed at her very real efforts of resistance.
He immobilized her, enfolding her in his arms. Mary writhed, but quickly she went still. There was no way to escape his hold. She fought to catch her breath.
“What’s this?” Her captor’s eyes widened as he got his first glimpse of her. His friend was startled into silence as well.
The veil had slipped, and they could clearly see her features. Mary was well aware that she was beautiful, for she had been told so many times. Indeed, traveling minstrels frequently sang about Princess Mary and her incomparable beauty. She had a pale, perfect complexion, a small, slightly upturned nose, high cheekbones, and an intriguingly heart-shaped face. Her eyes were almond-shaped and green, her mouth full and red.
Yet Mary knew that beauty of the flesh was unimportant. That concept had been drummed into her head by her mother since she was a child, so she had never cared one way or the other about her looks, until Doug had told her how beautiful he thought her to be just yesterday. And until now. Until she was caught by these two Norman knights whose intentions were obvious. Desperately she tried to think, her wide, catlike eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and fear.
“Ha!” the young knight laughed, pleasure transforming his countenance. “Look at this! Look at what I have found!”
“Ahh, Will, we found her—we found her,” his cohort responded. The other men in the camp had heard Mary’s screams and began to gather around the trio.
“Usually I don’t mind sharing, Guy, but not this time,” Will replied, tightening his hold on Mary’s arms.
But Mary wasn’t struggling. Wasting her energy was pointless, especially if she needed to conserve her strength in order to resist these men. The two knights began to argue over her fate, while another dozen knights ringed them, jeering and leering. Despair welled and her cheeks flamed. Unfortunately she understood Norman French perfectly and missed not one of the lecherous remarks. She thought rapidly. She would be raped like any common peasant unless she revealed her identity. But if she revealed her identity, she would be held hostage, at great cost to Malcolm and Scotland. Both outcomes were unacceptable. She must find a middle ground.
A flash of dull silver color caught Mary’s attention. She saw a knight emerging from the tent, striding towards them. Both Will and Guy fell into silence as the older man approached, elbowing through the circle of men. “What’s the ruckus?” His cool gray eyes fell on Mary. “You are disturbing Stephen. What have we here? Tonight’s entertainment?”
Mary had had enough. “I nae be amusement fer the likes a yae!” She had decided to continue her disguise for as long as possible, and she spoke in a heavily accented burr. “Norman pig!”
“Come now, girl, don’t you like Normans?” The older man was slightly amused.
“I hate ye all, damn ye to hell!” Mary spat. She was quaking inside, but she would never let them know it. Then her heart lurched. For behind the man, the tent flap moved again, this time to expose Stephen de Warenne.
He limped out, leaning heavily on a staff. His face was drawn in pain and gray in pallor, but his eyes were bright and keenly intelligent. They lanced the small group. “What passes?”
Mary inhaled. Although a stone’s throw separated them, he was bigger than she remembered, bigger and more powerful and more frightening. And he was close to being naked; he had shed his mail and most of his clothing. He wore only a short undertunic which just covered his groin, calf-high boots, and a cloth bandage, high up on one of his powerful thighs.
Intently he met her regard.
Mary swallowed. She had seen men’s legs bare before, of course, but Scotsmen, decently clad in knee-high kilts and tall leggings. Now she quickly looked away, her face already flaming at the male n
udity facing her.
“Will appears to have caught us tonight’s repast, Stephen,” the older man said.
Mary tensed, glancing up. Stephen’s gaze turned to one of inspection. He did not respond to Neale as his gaze slid down her slim body. Mary’s heart thudded. She did not like the way he was looking at her, and if he thought to cow her, he would not—even though she was cowed. She glared furiously back.
“Bring her to me, Neale,” Stephen ordered, and then he ducked and disappeared back into his tent.
Neale suddenly chortled, a sound at odds with his stem, battle-scarred face and cold, iron-gray eyes. “It appears that his lordship is not as badly off as it appears, and I do think he has settled your argument, lads.”
Mary was paralyzed by the meaning of Stephen de Warenne’s words. The old knight’s comment brought her to life. “No!” she cried. Then, remembering her disguise, she reverted to her burr. “Nae! Nae!”
Despite her protests, Neale grabbed her arm and propelled her towards the tent. Mary was a small, slender girl, but nevertheless she fought him every step of the way, digging in her heels, twisting, frantically trying to kick him. He ignored her, dragging her with him as easily as if she were a small child.
Laughter sounded. The men found her pathetic struggle and imminent fate amusing. Hot tears blurred her vision as she heard the coarse jests being bandied about. She could not help but understand what was being so crudely said. Graphic references were made about the sexual prowess and physical endowment of the man she was being brought to. “His lordship will probably kill her,” someone finally joked.
Terror seized her. And then it was too late. Neale was pushing her ahead of him into the tent.
Inside it was dark. Mary stumbled when Neale released her but caught herself before falling. She was trembling and out of breath as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. She finally saw him. Her enemy was half-sitting on the pallet of fur-lined blankets, propped up by his saddle. His presence seemed gigantic in the small tent, and a feeling of claustrophobia and imminent doom swept over her.
Stephen sat up straighter. “You may leave us, Neale.”
Neale turned. Mary cried out. “Nae! Do na gae!” But Neale was already gone. She whirled to face Stephen, panicked, slim hands raised. “Do nae touch me!”
“Come here.”
She froze. His words were soft, but unquestionably a command. The kind of command one automatically obeyed, but her feet did not move, and now her mind was frozen, too.
“Woman, come here, now.”
Mary searched his countenance. There was no innuendo in his tone to confirm that her fate was about to be a violent rape—an act that, according to all she had just heard, would most likely murder her. Nevertheless, she was shaking.
Her gaze found his again; he had been studying her, too, with growing impatience. “What do yae want with me?” she managed.
“What do you think I want?” he gritted. “You are a woman. I am in pain. Come here and tend my leg properly, now.”
Mary started and then relief flooded her. “Is that all yae want?” She was incredulous.
His jaw flexed. “I am used to instant obedience, woman. Come here and do what you have been trained to do.”
Mary knew she must obey, for his rising temper was obvious, but if she did not reach an agreement with him now, while she had some tiny portion of power, she never would. “I will gladly tend ye, if ye promise tae release me unharmed after.”
He was openly incredulous. “I command—and you make demands?”
She knew she had pushed him as far as she should, that she should not push him any further, but despite herself, she said, “Aye, I do.”
He smiled. It was a cold and dangerous smile that did not reach his dark, glittering eyes, and it was infinitely frightening. “Very few men have dared to disobey me, and even fewer have survived to see the light of another day.”
Mary inhaled, unable to turn her regard away from his, unable to even blink. Whatever power he possessed consumed her. Her knees had turned soft, threatening to give way. And something dangerous and terrible in its potency seemed to reverberate between them. “Do yae threaten me?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Only your sex spares you.”
She had not a doubt that if she were a boy, she would now be dead. He was her single most hated enemy, the enemy of her people, of her family, of her father, the King. Her situation was dire, but she must not give in to her growing panic. Mary stiffened her spine. If ever was the time for heroics, it was now. “Sae do ye agree tae my terms?”
He stared. “I think you are either the most stupid lass I have yet to meet, or the bravest.”
She stared back, hardly complimented and too frightened to be furious.
“You heal me and you shall be released.”
Mary gasped. She had attained what she sought, but she was certain she could not trust him, not as far as her youngest brother could spit. She had no choice, however. Grimly Mary came forward, determined now to see to his injury, to tend to him as quickly as was possible, praying she would be freed as he had promised so she could immediately reveal all that she had so far learned to her father. She tried to ignore his brilliant gaze, which never left her person. Swallowing, she knelt by his side. “What happened tae ye?”
“A maddened boor. My horse broke its leg just before the kill, leaving me in the creature’s path. I slew it, of course, but not before this.”
She did not reply. Her gaze was on his hard, dark-skinned, naked thigh. The bandage was already stained crimson. The wound was high, perilously close to his privates. For a moment her glance was drawn there, where she had no business looking—at the dark shadow between his legs. Heat suffused her. Her hands shook, and she clenched the folds of her skirt.
She saw only a blur of movement, and his huge hand was clamped around her small wrist. A scant second later, she was lying flat on his rock-hard chest, chin to chin with him. When he spoke, his breath touched her lips. “Why do you wait?”
Her gaze left his mouth and flew to his eyes. For the first time she saw the stark pain there. Something twisted in her heart, compassion she refused to entertain. She must not think of this man as human, or as being hurt and suffering. She must only remember him as an inhuman monster, one capable of single-handedly and cold-bloodedly killing her people to suit his aggressive nature.
She nodded, unable to speak, the feel of him warm and solid and disturbing beneath her breasts. He released her. Mary scrambled onto her knees at his side. She touched the bandage. Cautiously she began to unwrap it.
She winced. The wound was open, bleeding and ugly, but not too deep. Water and lye soap had been brought to clean the injury. “Twill hurt.”
He met her gaze, saying nothing. In the dim light his eyes seemed as jet black as his hair, and this close, they were unquestionably beautiful. She pursed her mouth, refusing to dwell upon such thoughts.
As she worked over him, trying not to hurt him, she was aware of his black regard boring into her, making her terribly warm and uncomfortable. She felt small and vulnerable next to him, dwarfed by the power he exuded even while hurt and momentarily at her mercy. It was a ludicrous notion. A man like this even briefly at her or anyone else’s mercy. He would never submit to another’s domination, not even while wrenched with pain, and especially not a woman’s.
The wound was finally clean. Mary paused, wetting her dry lips, looking at him. “It needs tae be stitched.”
“There’s a needle and thread and fresh linen behind you.”
Mary looked over and nodded. She picked up the needle, hesitating. “Perhaps yae want some wine.”
His brow lifted. “So you do have a heart beneath those pretty little breasts?”
She tensed. “I have nae heart fer yae!”
“Do it.”
What did she care if he suffered even more at her hands? Unfathomably angry, trembling with agitation, she picked up the needle. She had stitched up wounds before, but she woul
d never grow accustomed to the procedure. Her stomach roiled. She bent over him, working diligently and precisely, aware of his gaze on the top of her head, unable to forget his words. When she had finished she knotted the thread and cut it with her small, white teeth. She straightened, relieved that the surgery was over.
Mary expected to see him drained of all color, his face a mask of pain. Instead, his eyes were entirely lucid but brilliant, dangerously brilliant, holding hers. Quickly Mary picked up a fresh piece of linen, dropping her gaze.
She was greeted with a sight she did not want to see, had no right to see. She had moved his tunic aside to perform the surgery, exposing his heavy genitals, and now, now she quickly settled it back into place. Her face flamed, stinging. She pressed the linen to his leg, trying not to think. But those men were right. If he raped her, he would kill her. Her hands, small and delicate and white, contrasting sharply with his dark, powerful legs, trembled as she quickly tied the bandage.
The exact instant she was done, his hand cupped her face, forcing her chin up and her regard to his. “You dress like a hag, but act like a lady.”
Mary was frozen.
His gaze left her eyes, sliding over her features one by one, finally lingering on her lips. “No peasant woman I have ever seen has a face such as yours.”
She opened her mouth but found herself incapable of summoning a self-defense. Her stunned mind could drum up only one terrible image, and that was of her captor pressing her down beneath him on his pallet.
His hand left her face, but caught her own palm, turning it over. “Milk white, silk-soft.”
Terrified and mute, aware that she had not a single callus, she was drawn to his glittering gaze. She recognized the intensity there now even though she had never been faced with such an uninhibited display of male lust before.