by Brenda Joyce
Now they climbed a long, gradual rise, and when at the summit, Stephen abruptly drew his mount to a halt, clamping her to his powerful, mailed body. His words quelled any protest she might have made.
“You have lost, mademoiselle,” he stated. “For we are here. Look. Alnwick.”
Dread rushed over her and she was heedless of how harshly she gripped his thick forearm, cutting her fingertips on his chain mail. They had arrived—and she was lost. Ahead lay Alnwick—ahead lay her prison.
The sun was setting. Partly obscured by gloom, Alnwick’s stone walls appeared dark and unbreachable. The fortress lay on a huge natural motte with impenetrable man-made ditches surrounding it. The thick brown outer walls of the bailey were interspersed with watchtowers, tall and imposing; beyond them, the taller, crenellated tower of the keep could be seen, drenched in fading apricot-hued sunlight. Mary felt an acute dismay.
If she failed to escape—and escape was unlikely—and if she was not set free or ransomed, she would have little hope of ever seeing home and kin again, because no attack could be sustained for long against such a place as this, not even an attack by Malcolm.
They rode across a drawbridge and through a raised portcullis into the outer bailey, saluted by a dozen armed guards. There were a dozen buildings within—stables for the horses, shops for the keep’s craftsmen, quarters for excess knights, and pantries and supply sheds. People were everywhere—women with hens underarm for the cook pot, children herding pigs, carpenters working with their apprentices, farriers and grooms and horses, servants and bondsmen. An oxcart laden with barrels of wine had entered ahead of them; other carts were being unloaded near the wooden stairs at the entrance to the keep. The noise was deafening. Amidst the human cacophony was the barking of hounds, the squawking of hens, the whinnies of horses, the ringing of the smith’s anvil, and the banging of the carpenter’s hammer. There was scolding and laughter, terse shouted commands. Mary had never been inside such a large fortification before—it was larger than most Scottish villages and larger even than her home, the royal fortress at Edinburgh.
They reached the steps at the front of the keep, and the Norman easily swung her to the ground. Mary stumbled a little, her legs stiff from the day’s long ride. Stephen slipped to his feet beside her and began to guide her firmly to the stairs. Mary jerked her arm free. “Do not fear. There is obviously nowhere for me to run even if I wished to.”
“I am glad you have the sense to think so.”
“You would not be so pleased if you knew what I really think.”
“To the contrary, I would be very pleased if I knew your innermost thoughts.”
Mary looked away, goose bumps creeping up her arms. She feared his tenacity would be greater than hers.
They entered on the second floor into the Great Hall. Two large trestle tables dominated the room, at right angles to each other—one elevated and empty, where the earl would sit with his family, no doubt. A number of household knights and men-at-arms sat at the lower tables, partaking of a supper repast, served by kitchen wenches quick to evade the more amorous men and overseen by the keep’s chamberlain. Other retainers gambled, drank, and diced. Beautiful, vivid tapestries hung from all the walls, and a fire curled in a massive stone fireplace. Fresh rushes, sweetly scented with herbs, covered the floors. Mary realized with surprise that there was not a single hound in the place. Two large, carved, cushioned chairs sat in front of the hearth, identical to the two at the head of the elevated table. For a moment Mary froze, thinking the Earl of Northumberland was in residence as she spotted the back of a golden head in one of those chairs.
But it was a young man only a year or two older than herself who sat there alone. He rose to his feet with unusual grace when they entered and strolled towards them. He was golden-haired, blue-eyed, and very handsome, his fair skin tinged faintly golden from an excess of summer sun. “Greetings, brother,” the handsome man said. But his dark blue gaze was centered wholely on Mary. The slow smile he finally gave her was devastating.
“Might I assume your presence here is significant?” Stephen asked dryly. His tone changed. “And, Brand, she is mine.”
Brand finally looked at his brother. He swept a mock bow. “Of course. I defer to the heir. And yes, I am an envoy from His Highness, as you have undoubtedly guessed.”
Mary stiffened. Protesting Stephen’s casual statement of possession became irrelevant. It flashed through her mind that she was in a position to learn the enemy’s most secret plans, that she could very well be invaluable to her father during her forced stay here—if she became the spy her captor had already accused her of being.
“All is well, Brand; relax.” Stephen placed his large hand on Mary’s rigid shoulder. “We will speak later. When must you return?”
“Immediately.” Brand eyed Mary, again smiling, the curl of his lips almost mocking, with little or no trace of humor in his eyes. “What’s this? No introduction? Are you afraid she will prefer me? And do we not have enough maids here to please you, or have you already sampled them all?”
Stephen ignored the obvious teasing. “Mademoiselle Mairi, this is my bigmouthed little brother, Brand, a captain of the King’s household troops. You may disregard his attempts at humor as they are quite dismal. Besides, he is the lover, not I.”
Mary sincerely doubted Stephen’s last words. Both brothers were undoubtedly unrepentant predators when it came to the fair sex. Their looks were quite different, one so golden, the other so dark, but they were both striking, and no female would be immune to either one of them. Mary did not return Brand’s smile as she regarded him warily.
Brand’s bold gaze turned questioning, moving from Mary to Stephen.
“She is my guest,” Stephen said shortly, clearly dismissing any further inquiries.
“How fortunate you are,” Brand murmured. Giving them both another last look, he walked a short distance away, in order to contemplate the fire.
“I am not your guest,” Mary said angrily, unable to restrain herself and shaking off his hand. “Guests are not mistreated. Guests are free to come and go. Do you not speak the truth even with your brother?”
The gaze Stephen leveled upon her was cold. “You accuse me of mispeaking the truth?”
Mary flushed hotly, but recklessly refused to back down. “Yes, I do.”
He raised his hand. Mary did not think he intended to strike her, but nevertheless she flinched. His forefinger slid over the curve of one cheek and lingered by the corner of her mouth. “Come now, demoiselle, ’tis you who plays a masquerade, is it not?”
“No,” Mary croaked, pulling away, “I have explained my manner of dress. I have explained all. You must release me, at once.”
“You are appearing desperate, demoiselle. State your true identity now, and then we shall discuss your freedom.”
“After you have raped me!”
Stephen glowered at her. “As I have previously stated, there will be no rape.”
Her gaze locked with his. Why was it that she was within a hairsbreadth of believing him? Why was it that she was almost disappointed? Surely her dismay was in response to the sum of her predicament and not his avowal.
Stephen revealed his teeth in a slow, wintry smile. “When I take you to bed, demoiselle, you will enjoy it.”
Mary could not move, could not respond.
“Yesterday you were fortunate. Today … today I grow tired of this game.”
She found her voice, which was far too husky to please her. “ ’Tis no game.”
His smile was colder than before, but his eyes were far brighter. “If you wish to spare your maidenhead, you will reveal yourself to me immediately.”
She gasped.
“I have never been able to resist wielding the final blow, demoiselle,” he added very softly, “when engaged in battle. The time for surrender has come.”
“No,” Mary whispered. Heat unfurled like a stream of smoke in her frozen body.
“Yes,” he murmured s
eductively.
“But…” Her mind was dazed, making coherent thought difficult. “I thought you were going to send spies to Liddel to learn whether I am telling you the truth or not! Surely that takes time!”
“Obviously if you are of any import, you will tell me before I ruin your worth to another man.”
Her heart pounded. Their gazes remained fixed, the one upon the other. Mary was finding it difficult to breathe, to think. She only knew that she could not, must not, tell him who she was.
“My patience is at an end. If you are who you say you are, after this night you will be my mistress,” Stephen said flatly.
Silence fell like the blow of a sword between them. Mary was white. She gripped her hands together tightly, desperately trying to sort out the dilemma he had put her in. If she continued to insist that she was Mairi Sinclair, he would take her to his bed—very shortly. Images of him naked and aroused filled her, and she wasn’t sure if she felt anticipation or dismay. But she could not reveal her true identity to him, she could not. She spoke through dry, stiff lips. “I am Mairi Sinclair.”
His response was immediate. “My chamber is the first one upstairs. Go and await my pleasure there.”
Her jaw clenched. Her breasts heaved. She did not move, nor did she remove her gaze from his.
“Go and await my pleasure there,” he commanded again, low.
Their gazes clashed, held, locked. It occurred to Mary that, faced with her doom, she was crazy to war with this man. She could not win. She should give in, surrender as he had insisted she do, reveal herself to him. Hazy, passionate images flooded her mind, of an amorous couple, twisting and entwined. Of her and Stephen de Warenne … She could not betray and beggar her father, her King, whom she loved and worshiped more than anyone.
Mary squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and slowly she turned her back on him.
For an instant Stephen did not move, watching her as she walked to the twisting spiral staircase. Then he snapped his fingers, pointing. One of his men-at-arms materialized from across the hall, to escort Mary to his chamber. Both brothers watched her go, the hall eerily silent.
Then someone guffawed. Laughter followed and conversation resumed. One of the knights slapped a maid sharply on her rump as she refilled his wine, causing her to squeal and jump and spill some from the flagon. Dice rolled, bets were wagered.
Brand turned to Stephen with a raised brow. “What is this? An unwilling maid?” He was droll. “Is that why she fascinates you so? My oldest brother does not lust, he merely takes when moved to do so.”
Stephen walked to the dais, climbed it, and sat down at the table. The chamberlain materialized at his elbow with a vessel of red wine from Burgundy. Stephen nodded to him and he poured his lord a drink. “She is an uncanny woman, Brand, and it is her deception which intrigues me.”
Brand slid into the chair beside him. “Indeed?” He was skeptical. “ ’Tis not her exquisite face?”
Stephen was exasperated. “So I am human after all. What difference does it make? She will reveal herself this eve, and I will not have to make good my threat.”
“If she is as you suspect, a lady of some worth,” Brand said, “she will bend before the deed is done. No lady will give away her virginity for naught.”
“Yes,” Stephen said as a maid came and laid trenchers of meats, pasties, and cheeses on the table. “Bring food and wine to the guest who waits in my chamber,” he said to the blushing girl.
“And will you spare her your attentions even then?” Brand asked with cool doubt.
“I will have to, will I not?” His expression was hard, his gaze unfathomable. She would bend, revealing herself to him as some lady of importance—and he would send her on her merry way, although perhaps he would be a bit richer afterwards from the ransom.
“Do not do anything foolish,” Brand warned, no mockery in his tone now. “Remember what you have just said.”
“Thank you, little brother, for your confidence.”
Brand shrugged. “The King is anxious to know what you have learned.”
Stephen lowered his voice. “Carlisle can be taken. But we end the peace.”
“He is not interested in the peace, Stephen, he is interested in securing the North so he may turn his attention elsewhere.”
Stephen grunted, already knowing this.
“You shall give me a full report?”
“On the morrow,” Stephen said with a sigh.
Brand nodded, picked up his cup of mead, and leaned back in his chair. His mouth curled. “I bring you tidings.”
Stephen helped himself to a large slice of bread. “From Father?”
“No, from Adele Beaufort.”
Stephen said nothing.
Brand fingered his eating knife. “She sends you her warmest regards.”
Stephen said, “And I send her mine.”
Brand shifted to face him directly, all blandness gone. “But not in the manner that you shall send your regards to little Mairi this night, if you find that she is in truth little Mairi.”
“Enough.”
“You do not know Lady Beaufort. You have barely spoken to her. I, however, have had much opportunity to observe her since she has come to Court. She is no ordinary woman, Stephen. The lady you wed in three months time will be most unhappy if she hears you have installed a beautiful mistress in your chamber.”
“Do not fear,” Stephen replied harshly. “I have no intention of jeopardizing my relations with Adele Beaufort.”
Stephen stepped out onto the ramparts. There were only a few watchmen on the towers, and he was as alone as he could possibly be. He stalked to the northernmost wall and stared out over its crenellated edge. It was a nightly ritual when he was at Alnwick, to stand thus and gaze upon his domain.
As far as the eye could see, the land belonged to his father, Rolfe de Warenne, and one day it would be his. Ancient Northumbria. Stephen felt a fierce rush of pride and possessiveness. His father had come to England with his overlord, William, the Duke of Normandy, and fought by his side at Hastings twenty-seven years ago. He had been the landless younger son of a Norman comte, seeking the spoils of invasion in a new land. He had been the Conqueror’s most trusted military commander from previous campaigns in Maine and Anjou, and his reputation had grown after Hastings. Soon he had been awarded Aelfgar for his loyalty and military prowess. With the Conqueror’s permission and encouragement, Rolfe had gradually pushed his borders north and west until they encompassed all the territory that was now theirs. And with it, all the power.
Stephen was very aware that one day all the power of Northumberland would be his. He had been born a bastard—his parents had not been able to marry until his father’s first wife had died—but he had been made his father’s heir. It was a vast responsibility, a heavy burden, one he had assumed the very day he had been sent to foster at the King’s court at the tender age of six. But he had never questioned his duty to his father and Northumberland, not then, not now, and not in all the years in between. A man did what he must, always. He had learned that lesson the same day he had ridden away from home with the King’s men, not returning for nearly a decade. Marrying the Essex heiress, Adele Beaufort, was merely another duty he would bear.
They had been betrothed for two and a half years, and they were finally to be wed this Christmastide now that she was sixteen. Rolfe had wanted the union to take place two years ago, but Adele’s guardian would not hear of it. She would bring Stephen a large estate in Essex and, more importantly, much silver coin. Coin was something his family always needed. Unlike most of the King’s other great magnates, Northumberland carried the huge military burden of maintaining England’s northernmost defenses, one that was costly in the extreme.
On the one hand, Stephen’s marriage to Adele Beaufort would make Northumberland dangerously independent, something the King could not be pleased about. But the King was desperate for revenue himself, determined as he was to wage his own wars against his older bro
ther Robert in order to reunite Normandy with England. The King did not need the additional expense of subsidizing Northumberland in its wars with Scotland. So he allowed this match between the two powerful houses of Essex and Northumberland.
Stephen realized that his thoughts had generated a pulsating tension within him. It was his duty to keep the North secure, and for two long years he had walked a tightrope to maintain a fragile peace, responding to every incitement by the border reivers blow for blow, yet knowing he must not strike back so fully that he would shatter the reigning truce. It had been no easy task.
He was tired.
He looked forward to his marriage, for Adele’s dowry would ease the burden generated by constant warfare that was forever upon his back.
Brand’s warning words mocked him. Goddamn it, he was a deliberate man, neither impulsive or rash, but there had been nothing deliberate or careful about his decision to take the woman calling herself Mairi his prisoner. She had intrigued him with her beauty and her deceit, and he had abducted her. He had hoped to discover her to be of little value, so that he could take her to his bed. He still hoped, even while he doubted it.
No man in his position would jeopardize marriage to an heiress for another woman, no matter how desirable she might be. And he had no intention of doing so. A brief liaison, if he was fortunate enough to have it come to that, did not jeopardize his alliance with the Beauforts. But she could not remain in his chamber. In sending her there, he had again acted rashly, for it was a dangerous breach of etiquette. Adele Beaufort would be justifiably furious should she learn he kept a woman in his room. As soon as their next confrontation was waged, he would remove her from his bedchamber.
His jaw clenched. And he would solve the mystery she presented. When faced with imminent ruin, he had not a doubt that she would confess her deception. She would confess her deception, revealing herself to be a highborn lady, and he would send her upon her way, no worse for wear, as he had sworn to do. Stephen could not imagine letting her go without bedding her, but if she revealed herself to be highborn, he would. And in three months, he would wed the Essex heiress.
