Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  The corners of his mouth lifted—an attractive, perfectly formed mouth, Mary could not help thinking—in an expression that could not be described as even the semblance of a smile; rather, it hinted at aggression and triumph and primitive satisfaction. Mary drew back, a second too late. He had already slipped her veil from her hair. As he leaned close, nuzzling her cheek, he said, “You hair is clean and it smells of flowers.” He straightened, staring. “I have little doubt that if I looked beneath your clothes, I would find skin as clean and as sweet-smelling.”

  Mary lurched to her feet. She did not get far. He gripped one wrist, jerking her immediately back down on her knees beside him. “Am I correct?”

  “Nae! Na’ at all! I swear tae yae—” Mary’s words were cut off when his hand snaked up her leg, beneath all of her clothing, a caress of hard, callused palm on soft, naked skin. Mary cried out, shocked at the violent sensation sweeping through her. She was staring down dumbly at the entire length of her bare leg, from where her wool socks ended at her calf to the very top of her thigh, which he had just exposed.

  “As I thought,” he said, and now there was a change in his tone, one Mary immediately recognized despite her inexperience, one that tightened every fiber of her being and made her pulse soar.

  “I… I can explain,” she whispered.

  “Soft, so soft, and clean,” he said, locking regards with her again. He did not cover up her nakedness. He did not remove his hand from her thigh, his fingertips perilously close to grazing the ripe plumpness at the apex there. Instead, nostrils flared now, he leaned close, his face—his lips—brushing her neck.

  Mary gasped. Her eyes fell closed, her body jolted as thoroughly by his kiss as if by a bolt of lightning. There was no air to be had in the cramped space of the tent. His mouth moved with growing fervor on the vulnerable underside of her neck. His thumb slipped through her pubic hair and up against the cleft of her flesh. Mary could not contain herself. She moaned. Her mind, once filled with hostility, was now dizzily blank, receptive to nothing but the stunning sensation he dealt her as deftly as he might a sword’s fatal blow.

  He crooned in her ear, his mouth against one lobe, his thumb against another, “So who are you, my lady? And more importantly, what are you, if not a spy?”

  Chapter 2

  Stephen de Warenne watched her wrench away from him with a cry of fright. Had he thrown icy water over her head, he could not have shocked her more. She did not get far. His grip was iron on her wrists. Casually he pulled her back to him, until her nose almost touched his.

  He was indifferent to women, with precisely two exceptions, but he was not immune to females he found attractive, and this one was probably as close to perfection as anyone would ever come—in face and form, at least. Despite the fact that she was no common wench—that undoubtedly she was an experienced courtesan sent to whore for him and spy upon him by his enemies, of whom he had a few—he was hardly indifferent to the entire length of her naked leg, now clamped between his, or the softness of her breasts, crushed against his chest, or the astounding beauty of her face, just inches from his own.

  Blood had long since surged to his phallus. He was heavy and impatient. Their position was so intimate that she could feel every inch of him, but wasn’t seduction her intention? Why else would such a woman be sent to him in such an elaborate disguise? He attributed her wide, frightened gaze to his having ascertained the truth.

  For a moment, despite his better intentions, he longed to take her, then and there, hard and fast, and be done with it. Answers could come later. But he was his father’s son and heir. Furthering the interests of Northumberland had been his overriding ambition since he had won his spurs at thirteen. His reputation as a keen and ruthless leader had been earned, not given. Answers could not wait. If his enemies knew he was there, the King’s plans were in jeopardy.

  “Wh-What?” Mary finally managed to gasp.

  “I think you heard me very well, demoiselle,” he said coldly. Because his blood was so overheated, he set her down on the pallet beside him while keeping a cautious grip on her wrist. Inherent politeness made him refer to her as if she were a lady when she was obviously the furthest thing from it, although to look at her, a man would never guess so. For some reason, he was disappointed that her angelic facade was only that, a facade. “Who has sent you here to spy upon me? Montgomery? Roger Beaufort? The King? Or is Prince Henry once again up to his infernal tricks?”

  She stared at him as if mesmerized. He was a hardened man, yet a pang of empathy swept him. She was young, very young. The courtesans he knew—and so frequently used—were older and widowed. This girl looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen, but again, looks deceived.

  “I am nae spy,” she gasped out.

  “Do not treat me as a fool,” he said coldly.

  “Yae promised tae release me!”

  “I am not yet healed.” He watched her absorb his statement. Instantly she understood his meaning, rage suffusing her features. He should not be surprised at how quick she was. Only a very clever woman would be sent to work her wiles upon him.

  “Yae deceived me!” she cried. “Yae made me believe yae’d let me gae after I tended tae yer wound!”

  “You believed what you chose to believe.” His patience was at an end. “Enough. I demand answers and I demand them now. Who are you and who sent you?”

  She shook her head, tears coming to her eyes, tears that could not, he told himself, affect him. He knew from many years of experience that, with very few exceptions, women were not to be trusted. This one was not one of those exceptions; indeed, she should be mistrusted more than most. She was young but no innocent and no child. Undoubtedly her fear and tears were theatrics.

  “I am nae spy.”

  Another thought had occurred to him. “Or did Malcolm Canmore send you?”

  She started. “Nae! He dinna! I dinna even know him! I am nae spy, I swear tae yae!”

  She was lying. He was certain of it. Just as he was certain now that Malcolm Canmore was behind this treachery. Newfound anger made him doubly grim. “I warn you, demoiselle, I have the means of forcing information from you, and once provoked, I am merciless.”

  “Please! I can explain tae yae. ’tis not what yae think!”

  “Then I suggest you do so now.”

  “I—I am a bastard. Me father is Sinclair o’ Dounreay Castle, me mother a dairymaid,” she blurted, fast.

  He did not raise a brow. Such a claim was only possible if she thought to dupe him, given her absurdly ill-fitting disguise. And it was possible that she was actually some laird’s by-blow. Yet he was certain that she was lying, and she would only be lying if she were a spy. “Eager now to volunteer information, demoiselle? Where is Dounreay?”

  “As far north as ye can gae.” She worried her hands in her lap, not meeting his eyes.

  It was an excellent lie. He would not be able to confirm her parentage in a timely manner, although confirm it, he would. He almost felt a grudging respect for her; she was no fool. And to come to him on such an errand took a great deal of courage. “As far north as you can go,” he repeated. “As far north as the Orkney Islands?”

  She smiled in relief. “Almost.”

  He sat very still, regarding her. It was the first time that she had smiled since he had laid his eyes upon her, and if he had thought her beautiful before, she was glorious now. The interrogation had distracted him from his carnal inclinations, but now his blood roiled and his shaft reared rock-hard against his short shift again. Grimly he probed on. “I see. And what brings you so far south to Carlisle?”

  She was flushing crimson, tearing her gaze from his loins. He could almost see her mind working. It was clear to him that she thought frantically for a plausible answer, which puzzled him. If she were as clever as he was becoming convinced that she was, she should have memorized her story far in advance of their meeting. Nor did he understand her blushes.

  “I am from Liddel. My mother was from
Liddel.”

  Stephen leaned back against his saddle, clapping his hands twice. “A memorable performance, demoiselle.”

  “Yae dinna believe me?!”

  “I do not believe a single word you have said.”

  She froze, her eyes huge and riveted to his.

  “You have ten seconds, demoiselle, to tell me all of the truth. If you fail to do so, you shall suffer the consequences as forewarned.”

  She gasped, pulling away from him. He knew her intentions the moment that she did. She lurched to her feet, intent on escape. Although there was nowhere for her to run to but into the arms of his men, Stephen responded as any red-blooded male would. Despite the pain that shot through him, he staggered to his feet, too. He caught her at once. She screamed.

  Without another thought, Stephen turned her in his arms and gripped the back of her head and covered her mouth with his.

  He had touched her intimately, but he had not really kissed her. Not in the manner he had wished to, from the moment he first gazed upon her extraordinary face. His kiss was openmouthed and thorough. His hands slid down her back, each palm cupping one of her buttocks. “Let’s try again, petite,” he said hoarsely, lifting her up against his raging erection. He moved his mouth down on hers.

  “Nae,” she began, but was cut off. His mouth opened hers quickly. Stephen plumbed her warmth with his tongue, each thrust becoming more and more forceful, more rapacious. Tentatively she met one, and the tips of their tongues touched.

  He could not help himself, his body surged even more wildly, more impossibly, in response to her—he wanted complete, instant surrender. He expected it. He needed it— now. But to his amazement, she suddenly pulled her face away from his. “No—we must not.”

  “Do not tease me now,” he gritted, catching her chin in one hand. He forced her mouth up to his again.

  She cried out in another halfhearted protest. She raised her small fists against his chest, then clutched his tunic. Stephen would have laughed with primitive elation except for the fact that he was too intent now to laugh about anything. Their mouths were fused, their tongues mated.

  Suddenly she tore her face away. She writhed frantically in his iron embrace, as if to escape, yet her every gyration, brushing his manhood, was as artful and agonizing as a whore’s purposeful caress. As an actress, she was superb. For it was almost as if she were not a seductress, as if, knowing the end was near, she was truly panicked. Despite his brief confusion, he could not stop himself now. He managed to reassure himself that she deliberately provoked his confusion to incite him even more wholly.

  Stephen had had enough of these games. He had no desire to spill his seed upon them both, which he feared he might actually do. He pushed her down on the pallet. She continued to play the unwilling woman, her fists bouncing pitifully off of him, making small, fearful sounds. He took her mouth again. When their loins touched as he settled himself upon her, she went still.

  Lightning appeared to have struck them both. “I cannot wait,” he whispered, words he had never whispered before.

  The eyes he gazed down into as he spoke were wide with emotions he could not identify. Her face was flushed pink and sheened with perspiration. She did not move. And her palms curled about his massive shoulders, gripping him tightly.

  Stephen spread her legs wide with his knees, beginning to shake fiercely. He was aware of the drops of sweat that rolled down his face and onto hers. He flicked her long tunic up to her waist, and for a single moment, was poised above her.

  Their gazes met, held. She opened her mouth but said nothing. Stephen looked at her breasts, heaving beneath her gown, her nipples tight and erect. He touched one. She closed her eyes and sobbed, the sound laden with anguish.

  He looked down at her and could no more help himself from touching her now than he had before. He slid his hand between her legs and found the folds of her flesh swollen and heavy with the pulse of her blood. She was as hot for him as he was for her, spy or not. This was no act. He thrust a finger into her.

  He froze. There was no mistaking the barrier he had come up against. He was shocked. She could not be a virgin—she was a whore sent to spy. But she was a virgin; it was a fact.

  And in the midst of confusion there was a sudden and sweeping sense of elation—she had never known a man; he would be the first.

  This far aroused, he had never denied himself. But he had never taken a virgin before—unlike many men he knew, rape had never excited him. And if she was a virgin, then she was no whore sent to spy upon him.

  Stephen’s mind reached these astounding conclusions in mere seconds. It was probably the hardest deed he had ever done, but he launched himself off of her. Dazed and panting, he lay unmoving on his stomach beside her, wishing that the fur pallet he was pressing himself into was much, much harder.

  Sanity returned swiftly despite the persistent ache in his loins. There were no virgin whores, no virgin spies. Was it possible that she had been telling him the truth? Was her father some northern laird, her mother a dairymaid? It was plausible, yet he doubted it. Her hands had never seen rough labor, but she was dressed as one who labored. If she was a bastard, she had been raised as a lady. This costume was a disguise. Why?

  Suddenly she moved. She slid from the pallet, as quick as a wild vixen. Stephen was even quicker, reaching out and grabbing her before she took a second step, without moving from the furs. His leg hurt too much now for such antics. The force of his grip caused her to fall in a heap at his side.

  Restraining a groan, he sat up and extended his hand to her. “Mademoiselle?”

  She was panting. Although he saw that she was furious, he allowed her to take his hand and he lifted her to her feet. It was a mistake. Immediately she drew back her fist and hit him with all of her strength in his jaw.

  He didn’t move, stunned speechless.

  “Norman bastard! You are a pig and a brute! And a liar!” she shrieked. She raised her fist to hit him again.

  This time Stephen reacted. He caught her wrist, pulling her forward. She wound up in his lap.

  “No!” she screamed, twisting to leap free of him.

  He held her in place. “You have deceived me, struck me, and maligned me,” he said harshly, shaking her once. She went still. “I thought you brave, but now I am beginning to think you very foolish—or mad.”

  She lifted her chin, a defiant gesture, despite the fact that her eyes were glazed with unshed tears. “I am not mad.”

  His jaw tightened. “You have lost your burr, demoiselle.”

  She paled. “When can I leave?”

  “You were not so eager to leave me—and my bed—a few moments ago.”

  She flushed. “No, I am eager to leave your bed—to leave you. This minute is not soon enough.”

  “Who’s the liar now?”

  “I speak the truth!”

  “I think not. Indeed, thus far you have not spoken a single word that is true. I ask you again, who are you and why are you here?”

  She swallowed, meeting him stare for stare. He felt her mind working. “Please unhand me,” she said huskily. “And I will tell you all.”

  Giving her a skeptical look, he did as she asked. She scooted to her feet and put the length of the tent between them, standing with her back to the exit, hugging herself defensively. Her posture made him see her as a child, not a woman, and he was suddenly ashamed of his behavior. By all the saints, he had treated her as he would a whore, and she was a young virgin, certainly not more than sixteen. Perhaps the real question wasn’t who was she, but what was she? Virgin or whore, villein or lady, child or woman? Spy or innocent? “You may begin with your name.”

  She wet her lips. “Mairi. Mairi Sinclair. My father is Rob Sinclair. My mother is dead, and she was a maid at Liddel.” She flinched from his gaze. “And you were right—these clothes are a disguise.”

  Tersely he said, “Were you sent to me to spy?”

  “No!” She was pale. “I was in disguise because I was m
eeting someone. A—A man.”

  And Stephen understood. “Ahh, I see now. A man.”

  Again her small chin lifted. “ ’Tis not what you think. The man was, I mean, he is my betrothed.”

  His stare was ice. “You have yet to explain your disguise.”

  “ ’Tis unseemly for a lady to tryst with a man, even when that man is to be her husband, and you know it well.”

  “And who is this paragon of manhood who lures you to an undoubted fall from grace?”

  She bit her lip. “What does it matter?”

  It shouldn’t matter, except for the fact that he intended to verify every word she said. “It matters.” He was not pleased to realize that he was peeved—perhaps even jealous—that this woman obviously coveted another man. “Do you love him?”

  She was furious. “That, Sir Norman, is none of your affair!”

  It wasn’t. He stood stiffly, finding his staff in order to lean upon it. Then he limped to her until he was towering over her. He had to admire her; she stood her ground. “To the contrary, demoiselle, you are now wholely my affair. And until I am satisfied, you shall be detained.”

  She lost the little color she had. “Until you are satisfied, I shall be detained! What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said grimly, “that I intend to unearth the truth, the entire truth, about you, and until I do, you are my guest.” He hobbled past her, raising the tent flap.

  “Your guest!” she cried after him. “You mean that I am your prisoner! But why? What have I done? I have done nothing, Norman!”

  He paused and turned. “To the contrary, demoiselle. You have whetted my very jaded appetite, and my even more jaded interest. If you are indeed of little import, I think we shall suit well, you and I, for a time, at least.”

  Mary stared after his back as he limped from the tent, leaving her alone. What did that last remark mean? Oh, dear God! She dared not delude herself. He suspected her deceit, intended to find the truth, and whether he did or not, she was in great jeopardy!

  She sank down on the hard dirt floor, limp and drained. Rolfe de Warenne, the Earl of Northumberland, was one of the most powerful lords in the realm, first having been an intimate adviser to King William the Bastard, and now an intimate adviser to the Bastard’s son, the rotten King William Rufus. The earl was also her father’s worst enemy, and by extension, so was this man, his bastard son and heir. Malcolm and Northumberland had clashed on too many occasions to count. The earl had been nothing but a penniless, landless knight when he had followed Duke William to England, though ’twas said he was the younger son of a great Poitevin family. Shortly after the invasion, he had been awarded a small fief in Northumberland; one that, today, reached Newcastle-on-Tyne in the south and the River Tweed in the north. Though the heart of Malcolm’s kingdom lay between the Moray Firth and the Firth of Forth, well north of the Tweed, the Kings of Scotland had long claimed the right to rule all of the territory south of Lothian as far as Rere Crossing. The de Warennes were interlopers. Malcolm had spent his entire adult life attempting to regain Scotland’s lost territory. The existing border between Scotland and Northumberland had been brutally and bloodily fought over for many years. Mary had delivered herself right into the hands of her father’s worst enemy.