by Brenda Joyce
The Norman’s parting words echoed, a frightening refrain. If she understood him, he intended to assuage his lust on her if he thought her to be of no importance to anyone. Thus, if he did not learn the truth of her identity, she would be taken and used until he tired of her and discarded her. She would, in fact, be ruined. Doug would no longer want her. Of course, he was no fool and he would still marry her. After all, she was a princess with a great dowry.
She almost wept. The only thing worse would be if the Norman learned the truth. If he discovered that she was the daughter of Malcolm Canmore, she would be a hostage until her father paid whatever exorbitant ransom her captor demanded. She did not fool herself for an instant. The Norman would do his best to cripple her father. He would demand far more than gold and coin; he would demand land. Precious, priceless Scottish land. Land that Scottish blood had been spilled over again and again.
And after the ransom was paid—and her father would pay it—the border would once again be plunged into a fierce, bloody war. Two years’ fragile peace would disintegrate like the wisps of yesterday’s dreams.
She clenched her small fists, sucking in not just her breath but her courage. Her situation could not possibly be worse. Now she was fiercely glad she had not revealed her identity to him.
The Norman was a brute, she thought grimly—he had proved that beyond hearsay—but he was no fool. He had proved that, too. He had been quick to see through her careful, elaborate disguise, and he doubted the tale she had invented, a tale that was not unreasonable and might have fooled a lesser man. She would need every ounce of courage she had and then some; she would need all of her shrewd wits as well. She must not let him even guess who she was. For having met him, Mary realized the extent of his power and his will. If there was a way for him to discover the truth of her identity, the Norman would undoubtedly find it, and once he did, her father and Scotland—and she herself—would suffer the horrible consequences.
Just as her father used spies all the time, this man would certainly use them, too. By this evening there would be a crisis at Liddel over her disappearance. A Norman spy would eventually report this. Was her captor shrewd enough to guess the truth once he learned that Malcolm’s daughter was missing? How could he not comprehend her identity in such circumstances!
Mary closed her eyes. How could she keep her identity hidden yet still hold him at bay for any length of time? It seemed an impossible task. Escape was the only solution, but for the moment, that, too, was an impossibility.
She wiped her eyes. Tears solved nothing. She must ready herself for their next war of wits and wills. So far she had not done very well. And she did not want to repeat what had just passed between them—the encounter that had drained her so, yet left her feeling disturbed and agitated and so strangely ripe.
What had just passed between them. Mary made a choked sound, her mind flooding with fresh memories. To her horror, she could still feel his touch, his mouth on hers, his hard loins on hers, and her body began throbbing. She covered her face with her hands. Mary could no longer avoid her shame. It overwhelmed her.
Exhaustion overtook her. She would not brood upon the bastard heir anymore. She shifted to look longingly at the fur pallet. She could only guess whether the Norman would return to sleep there or not, and she was too fatigued now to think clearly. But it didn’t matter. She could not lie in his bed, even alone; the very idea was atrocious.
Mary sank down on the dirt floor, huddling into a small ball. Finally numbness settled upon her aching mind, but sleep eluded her. She drifted restlessly, listening to the sounds of the night and the camp, the nickering of horses, a hooting owl, the men talking quietly outside, until the last of their voices died down. As the human sounds faded, she tensed, waiting for inevitable footsteps—footsteps she was certain would come. She lay rigid for a long time, but they did not come—he did not come.
Mary awoke to find the Norman’s face close to her own. For one instant she did not move, dazed with sleep, gazing into glittering eyes that were not black but a rich maple brown. Then reality hit her with violent force and she jerked away from him.
He had been leaning over her, to touch his face almost to hers, but now he straightened. “I hope your story proves to be the truth, demoiselle.”
His meaning was not lost upon her. “Get away from me!”
“What frightens you so this mom, mademoiselle? Is it me you fear—or yourself?”
Mary found her tongue. “I do not fear myself. I fear big black Normans for whom rape is as casual a sport as hawking.”
He laughed. “I can assure you, mademoiselle, I have never participated in that particular act of violence, and I never will.” He added, very low, “I have never needed to, and when you join me in my bed, it will be with enthusiasm—the same kind of enthusiasm that was in evidence last night.”
His blunt reference to her appalling behavior yesterday infuriated Mary. “You will never see such enthusiasm from me again!”
He lifted a dark brow. “Do you challenge me?” His smile was genuine. “I enjoy challenges, demoiselle.”
She shook her head vehemently, her heart tripping. “You have no power over me.”
“To the contrary, I have an ancient power over you, mademoiselle, the power of a man over a woman.”
“I am not like other women.”
“No?” His teeth flashed. “You appeared to be a woman as any other last night, when you lay mewling beneath me, a woman both in my power and at my mercy. But if it makes you feel better, I will concede that you are far more interesting than all the women I have so far met. Far more interesting, far more intriguing, and—” he smiled again, his eyes suddenly warm “—far more beautiful.”
Mary fought the seduction that simmered in the intensity of his gaze. She bristled. “I do not mewl, Norman! And you may say whatever you like, you may think as you undoubtedly will, but it does not change what I feel, and what I feel for you is better left unsaid.”
He eyed her for a long moment, assessingly. “Beneath the anger there is much to explore, I think. Nevertheless, we are wasting not just words but time. We leave in a quarter hour. I suggest you take a few private moments to do what you must. This dispute can be concluded at Alnwick.”
De Warenne turned and limped away, moving remarkably well for a man who had recently suffered a gore wound. Mary stared after him, relieved that he was gone. Every encounter she survived—intact—seemed to her no small victory.
But she was also dismayed. Alnwick was the new seat of Northumberland. The earl, the bastard’s father, had spent some fifteen years completing it, and rumor held it to be an impenetrable fortress. If that was true, it meant that once she was imprisoned there, she had no hope of being rescued.
It flashed through Mary’s mind that by this morning, Malcolm and her brothers would be scouring the countryside looking for her. Perhaps she could be rescued before being imprisoned at Alnwick. She must be rescued first! It was her only hope.
What if she were to leave a sign for Malcolm? How could she do this?
Quickly she shoved aside the fur she had been covered with, trembling with excitement. Someone had brought her a bowl of water, and Mary quickly washed. She hurried from the tent and stopped.
Horses were being saddled, the camp packed up. Everyone appeared absorbed with their tasks. Mary saw her captor talking with another knight, his back to her.
Mary took a calming breath, praying that Stephen de Warenne would not notice her. But he suddenly turned to face her. Mary ignored him, hoping her sudden excitement did not show, walking to the woods. She was well aware that a knight trailed after her, obviously instructed to guard her. Her spirits dimmed somewhat, but not her determination. Mary disappeared behind a tree and some bushes to tend to some pressing needs. In the process she tore off a piece of her fine silk chemise, worn beneath both peasant tunics, one well laundered and bone white. Her hands were shaking so badly that it took several attempts to tie the bright piece of fabric
to a branch of the tree. When she had succeeded, she tore off several additional strips, stuffing them up her sleeves. She hurried around the bushes to where the knight stood, his back to her. Her hopes soared. Surely one of the Scots searching for her would find the flag she had left!
The knight escorted her back to the camp and her captor. The Norman was in conversation with the man who had captured her yesterday.
“Liddel?” Will was saying. “It should not be a problem, Stephen; after all, by tonight everyone will be well crocked from the wedding feast. I can find out what you want, my lord.” He flashed him a cocky smile.
Stephen smacked his shoulder. “Godspeed.” He smiled at Mary. “Is there a message you wish to give someone? Your beloved, perhaps?”
Mary was frozen, but only for an instant. “Do you have eyes on the back of your head like some misshapen monster?”
He was amused. “Did you really think to eavesdrop? If you wish to know my intentions, you need only ask, mademoiselle.”
“Why is he going to Liddel?”
“Do you have something to hide?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
He was toying with her, testing her, and she was justifiably anxious. “Why are you doing this?”
His amusement faded. “Because I cannot help myself.”
They stared at each other. His gaze was briefly penetrable, and Mary saw dark desire and even darker determination. He exerted a magnetism upon her that she was powerless against. She shuddered with a sudden foreboding she dared not comprehend. It was far safer to ignore whatever had passed between them, to pretend it did not exist, had never existed.
He broke the spell he had so effectively cast. “Come, we are leaving; you shall ride with me.”
Mary did not move.
He dropped the hand he had extended. “Is something wrong, Mairi?”
“I wish to ride with anyone else but you.”
He planted himself in front of her and stared down at her. “But I am not giving you a choice, mademoiselle.” He smiled slightly. “Besides, riding with me will be very entertaining.”
She understood the innuendo and could feel her face flame, but at least his frankness was something she could deal with. “You are so typically cocksure.”
He laughed. “Did I hear that remark from a lady’s lips?”
“I do not care what you think of me,” she gritted. “Where is your damn horse?”
He pointed, laughing again, his teeth flashing white.
Mary marched to the big brown destrier, his laughter echoing in her mind. She resolved to outwit him no matter what the cost, and when she did, she would fling her triumph in his face. Then she would be the one laughing.
Stephen lifted her into the saddle effortlessly, then swung up behind her with the grace of a much smaller man. Mary tried to ignore the feel of his body. She gripped the pommel tightly. It was going to be a very long day; of that she had no doubt.
They traveled northeast at a rapid trot, away from Carlisle, through rocky, rolling hills. September had swept much rain across the countryside, and the land was green and verdant. It was clear to Mary that he was intent on reaching Alnwick that day. Obviously whatever mission the Normans had been about had been accomplished. She brooded upon the possibilities. She was determined to learn what the Normans had been doing in the vicinity of Carlisle and Liddel.
And every hour that passed, Mary let a piece of her chemise slip from her sleeve and flutter to the ground.
Their pace did not let up until they stopped to water the horses at noon. By then they were surrounded by the harsh Northumbrian moors and an endless gray sky. Occasionally gulls wheeled above them. Mary thankfully slid to the ground, drained from having to endure the intimacy of sharing a saddle with her captor for so many endless hours. She thought that it was as close to hell as she might ever come.
No one was paying any attention to her. Around her the knights spoke in low tones, their mounts drinking deeply. Mary edged closer to a single gaunt tree. She sat down with a show of fatigue, and let slip another piece of chemise. When the knights had remounted and reassembled a few minutes later, she got to her feet and ambled back to the group. Stephen de Warenne rode his great destrier slowly towards her.
“Enjoying the scenery, demoiselle?”
She glared. “What is there to enjoy in this scene? Nothing surrounds me but ugliness.”
“Spoken like a true Scot.” His gaze pierced her. “Are you a true Scot, Mairi?”
She stilled. Was he the devil—and a reader of minds? Or had he guessed her identity? Her mother. Queen Margaret, was English. Margaret’s brother was Edgar Aethling, a great nephew of the Saxon King Edward the Confessor, and he had been heir to the throne of England before the Conquest. When Duke William the Bastard invaded England, Margaret’s widowed mother had fled to Scotland with her children, seeking refuge, afraid for her son’s life. Malcolm was smitten with Margaret at first sight, and when his first wife, Ingeborg, died, he married her almost immediately.
“I am a Scot through and through,” Mary said, meaning it.
“You do not speak like a Scot—except when you choose to. Your English is flawless, better even than mine.”
Of course her English was flawless, not just because her mother was English. Over the years Malcolm had anglicized his court in deference to his wife. “Perhaps Normans are too stupid and dim-witted to learn to speak English well.”
His jaw tightened. “Perhaps this Norman has been dim-witted, indeed.” He slid from his horse, giving her an enigmatic look. Mary did not like his words or his tone. She froze when, instead of lifting her into the saddle, he walked right past her.
He walked directly to the misshapen tree where she had been sitting. Mary’s heart skipped. He stooped and retrieved her piece of chemise. His strides were hard as he returned to her, clenching the silky fabric in his fist. “What a clever little minx you are.”
Mary stepped back.
His hand shot out, jerking her forward. “If you are so eager to shed your clothing, demoiselle, you need only say so.”
Mary could not summon up a suitable response, especially not in the face of his fury.
“For how long have you been leaving these signs, demoiselle? For how long?”
Chapter 3
“You’re hurting me!” Mary cried.
Stephen instantly released her. Mary backed away from him, nibbing her arms. “Did you really think you could take me prisoner without a fight?”
Stephen was regretting hurting her, but her words made him itch to shake her again. This child-woman was determined to fight him? “For how long?”
“Since this morning.”
Stephen was incredulous, stunned by her wit, her audacity, and her bravery. “I have greatly misjudged you,” he said harshly. Then he shouted. “Neale!”
The older man was at his side instantly. “My lord?”
Stephen did not remove his furious gaze from his captive. “This shrewd little minx has made fools of us all. She has been leaving a trail. Alert the men; we may have pursuit.”
Neale wheeled his destrier.
Stephen reached out and pulled Mary closer as she began to sidle away. Her body stiffened at the contact; he had to drag her with him. “Just whom were you alerting, demoiselle? Your lover? Your father?”
“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, yes, yes! And soon, so very soon, you shall be skewered by my father’s sword, Norman, for he is the greatest warrior in all of Scotland!”
Stephen halted. “Is he, indeed? Then surely I must know of him.”
She set her mouth mulishly.
“Your father is not this Sinclair of Dounreay as you so prettily insist, is he, demoiselle? Such an insignificant man would never attack me, and we both know it. So who are you expecting, Mairi? Is that even your name?”
She said nothing.
Very angry, he propelled her roughly towards his mount. Mary stumbled, then had to sk
ip to keep ahead of him and out of his reach. Stephen did not care. He abruptly caught her, and heaved her into the saddle as if she were a sack of grain. He leapt onto the destrier behind her, signaling his men. The cavalcade rode off at a fast canter.
Mary closed her eyes, giving in to a moment’s despair. She should not be distraught, she knew that; she should be elated. She had outfoxed the Norman with her trail of scraps. But she did not feel like gloating; she felt something close to terror. The bastard heir was enraged. Every instinct Mary had told her that there would be hell to pay for her small victory.
They rode harder now. Mary found herself frequently looking over her shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of her kinsmen upon the horizon. She saw nothing, and as every mile passed, her hopes sank a little bit more.
Where, oh where, was her father?
