by Brenda Joyce
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.”
Mary recalled his soft tone and seductive words of earlier that day. She shifted uncomfortably. “Why do you tell me this?”
“So you might understand my son, the man who is to be your husband. So you can forgive him when he forgets himself.”
Mary did not respond. It would be too easy to become intimate with this woman, it would be too easy to like her. She did not want to like her. Her situation was difficult enough.
“When will you know if you are with child?”
Mary’s eyes widened. Her face burned. “My monthly time is not always exact.”
“That is too bad. If you carry my son’s child, you must tell me at once.”
Mary pursed her lips.
The countess studied her. “I think we should speak freely with one another, don’t you?” She smiled. “I am most pleased with this alliance. Princess. As is my husband, as is my son.” Lady Ceidre took her hand. “You are not pleased. You are miserable.”
Mary took a deep breath, close to tears, undone by her kind tone. “I… Is it so obvious?”
“It is very obvious. Is it Stephen? He does not please you?”
Mary closed her eyes. She must not entertain such a question. Very softly she said, “He is my enemy.”
The countess looked at her.
“You are all my enemies, madame,” Mary said in the same tone of voice.
“An alliance has been made. You would disobey your father, your King?”
Mary could not answer, for she could not admit that treachery was afoot as she still owed her loyalty to Malcolm. But dear God, the countess was as certain of the alliance as her son, and neither of them were dim-witted fools. Quite the opposite; they were both extraordinarily astute. What if they were both right, while she was wrong? What then?
Dear Jesus, if it came to marriage, if it truly did, what would she do?
Impatiently the Earl of Northumberland waited for his firstborn. Stephen had not been at the keep when the earl arrived. The father knew the son’s habits. Until the noon meal, he would sit with his steward and attend to administrative matters. After that he would tend what he must personally, whether it be an inspection of a tenant’s holdings or the drilling of his household knights. Rolfe was impatient because he saw Stephen so little. In truth, ever since he had sent him to William I’s court as a hostage so many years ago, their paths seemed destined to diverge instead of come together. When Stephen had been at Court, Rolfe had been forced to remain in the North, warring and securing his borders. When Stephen had returned home, Rolfe had been free to go to Court himself, to protect his interests from those who would see them destroyed.
He sighed. He had few regrets, but that he lacked time to spend with his oldest son was one of them.
Stephen s
trode into the hall.
Rolfe leapt to his feet, smiling. “Little did I think we would meet next on the threshold of your marriage to a princess,” Rolfe said in greeting.
Stephen’s serious expression vanished. “Rufus has agreed?”
“The King has agreed.”
Stephen’s smile was brilliant. “I owe you much thanks, Father.”
Rolfe felt almost as triumphant. “Rufus had no choice in the end. He must regain Normandy, and he knows it. There were probably many petty factors in his decision, including his current displeasure with Roger Beaufort. Who, by the way, is furious.”
“I have little doubt.” Stephen gestured and his father sat back down, Stephen beside him. “One and all are undoubtedly appalled and shocked at this alliance—including my little bride.” He grimaced slightly.
“A reluctant bride?”
“To say so is to put it mildly.”
“And how did you gain Malcolm’s consent?”
Stephen looked his father directly in the eye. “He could not refuse, not when I handed him his greatest desire. I pledged to see his eldest son upon his throne.”
Rolfe looked at Stephen. “And when I am dead, when Rufus asks you to support him in his quest to place Duncan—whom he has chosen—upon the throne, how will you act?”
“I am ever his loyal vassal,” Stephen said coolly. “No matter how I despise him.”
It was the first time Stephen had ever openly revealed his antagonistic feelings for their King, and Rolfe was surprised. For many years he had suspected that Stephen’s feelings ran deep, and had wondered what could have possibly caused such hostility.
“You will play a difficult game,” he warned his son.
“I realize that. But I made no offer that I did not brood carefully upon. Duncan is weak, far too weak to remain for long as Scotland’s King, and Edward is young. There will come a ripe time for young Ed. I did as I had to do.”
“I do not chastise you,” Rolfe said, and then he smiled. “You did well, Stephen.”
Stephen smiled, apparently pleased with the praise. “Thank you, Father.”
Rolfe continued, his tone brisk. “There are several minor conditions. Rufus has declared that the wedding must take place at Court.”