Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  There was no pleasure in the thought. Not anymore.

  Stephen was irritated to find that once again Mairi had disobeyed him; she was not awaiting him in his chamber as he had told her to do. He stripped down to his braies, the heavy muscles in his back rippling, his arms thick with sinew, every tendon defined, his biceps bulging with each slight movement, his stomach flat and rock-hard. His was a knight’s well-used body, one honed by years of practice with sword and lance, and years of combat.

  Stephen was more than annoyed. He was disturbed by his moment of self-doubt, and perplexed by the confusion he had suddenly felt in regard to his marriage to Adele Beaufort. How could his prisoner, beauty or not, raise such alien emotions in him?

  He was angry. It was safer to be angry with her. Already his blood boiled, and she had yet to enter the chamber. For the first time, Stephen wondered if he could exert the self-control necessary to deny himself her body, which he must do once she unmasked herself. He reminded himself that he had no choice.

  His sister entered without knocking. Her rude interruption into such disturbing thoughts was welcome, although he was not pleased that she should glimpse him in his state of undress. “Knock, Isobel,” he warned, turning away from her and shrugging on his undertunic. She was a very precocious ten, and even more astute. He was afraid that one day she would discover him in some pursuit not fit for any lady’s eyes, much less such a young one.

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “Why?”

  Stephen bit back his smile. He had yet to see Isobel since his return. She had been up to some mischief in the bailey, no doubt, for she was inclined towards perpetual trouble-making. “Because ’tis polite.” He tried to scowl. “What greeting is this?”

  She beamed and ran into his arms. He held her briefly and set her down, unable to restrain a rush of pride. She was everyone’s darting, certainly his. His little sister was a clever thing, already too gorgeous and not yet betrothed. Stephen knew Rolfe was biding his time, but soon he would find her a husband and make another powerful alliance for the de Warennes. Stephen thought, but was not sure, that their father intended to wed her to the King’s younger brother, Henry Beauclerc. The prince had little land but much silver, for his father, the Conqueror, had given Normandy to his oldest son, Robert, and England to William Rufus, leaving his youngest son only great wealth. Stephen knew him well from the long years he had fostered in the Conqueror’s household, still he was not sure he approved of the match.

  He gazed at her with affection. “Where have you been this evening?”

  “Oh, around,” she said mysteriously, but her smile was quick and angelic. “Why should I knock? You’re alone. I listened at the door to make certain.”

  His eyes went wide. She stepped back, giggling. “I’m not a baby anymore, Steph,” she said haughtily. She was the only one who dared bastardize his name. “I know what you do at night with the maids.”

  He could not believe it. He didn’t know whether to laugh at her or scold her. “Just what is it you think I do with the maids, wench?”

  She gave him a knowing look. “Father says if there is one more bastard born on Alnwick, he’s taking a whip to you as if you were a boy of twelve!” She was gleeful.

  “Oh, he does,” he managed, choking on laughter and despair. “You still haven’t answered my question, Isobel.”

  “Do I seem stupid? You make babies, Steph, and the maids like it, I know, for I’ve heard them talking about you.”

  This time he went still. “You’ve heard them talking …” He sputtered. “And what, pray tell, Big Ears, do they say?”

  “Well—” she rolled her dark blue eyes “—they say ’tis big and strong and very randy … but sometimes quick, too quick … and sometimes—”

  Stephen was scandalized. “Enough!” He pounced on her, but she dodged him with a laugh. “I hope you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he growled. “And I intend to tell Mother that you are eavesdropping—on the servants, no less!”

  Isobel looked hurt, well and truly hurt. “Mother will send me to Father Bertold,” she quavered. Her large, luminous eyes held his, as soft and innocent as a fawn’s. “I promise not to listen anymore, really I do. Don’t tell Mother.”

  He sighed, exasperated. She was a handful, had always been a handful, and one day would undoubtedly rule her husband with no contest. “I won’t tell this time,” he said. “But, Isobel, don’t test me.”

  She bit her lip, serious now. They both knew she could only manipulate him so far. “Why is Mairi a prisoner?”

  “Ah. So you’ve met the mysterious Mairi. I prefer to think of her as my guest.”

  “She says she is your prisoner—and that you must release her at once.”

  “Did she send you to me with such a message, Isobel?”

  “I only know what she told me.” Isobel was wide-eyed and expectant.

  Stephen was very exasperated with his guest again. Did she think to maneuver him through his sister? Could she be so shrewd? “Where is she?”

  “In the women’s solar. Why have you frightened her so?”

  “Your curiosity into the affairs of others will one day be your downfall, Isobel. If you are wise, you will mark my words and fight your inclination.”

  Isobel was disappointed but undaunted. “Does that mean you aren’t going to tell me what you’ve done to her?”

  “I have done nothing to her,” he said, then added, “yet.”

  Isobel blinked, fascinated.

  “Go and send Mairi to me.” He leveled a hard gaze on his sister. “And then you may join Brand downstairs.” He did not want her snooping outside his chamber door.

  Isobel nodded, still wide-eyed, and ran off. Unsmiling, Stephen shrugged off his undertunic. It was time to make good his intentions—it was time to make Mairi Sinclair reveal the truth about herself.

  Chapter 4

  The heavy wooden door of the Liddel keep swung open to admit a group of men. They were soaked with rain and covered with mud, for outside it was storming fiercely, the sky black, the wind howling. Thunder boomed and lightning lit up the sky. Queen Margaret sat by the fire in the smoke-stained hall, motionless and despairing, unfinished embroidery at her feet. At the first sound of their entrance, she leapt up. “What news?”

  Malcolm entered ahead of the other men, flinging off his sodden mantle, a servant unable to catch it before it fell into the muddy rushes on the floor. Immediately he strode to his wife. “We have not found her, Margaret.”

  Margaret made a sound of fear, clutching for his hands.

  Four men, all wet and weary, trekked into the hall behind him. Malcolm and Margaret’s three eldest sons, excluding Ethelred, a priest, were removing their dripping outerwear and reaching for cups of warm wine which servants hastily brought forth. The fourth man paused to stand and stare blindly into the hearth’s roaring flames, a puddle forming at his feet. He made no move to shed his soaking cloak.

  “You have found something,” Margaret cried, clutching Malcolm’s hand. “You are hiding something from me!”

  “We have only speculation, nothing more,” Malcolm said grimly. But his face was flushed darkly, telling Margaret that he was furious and barely able to contain his anger.

  “What is it? What have you found? Mary cannot have just disappeared!”

  Edmund whirled. Tall and lean, he was the image of his craggy-faced father. “Show her,” he demanded. “So we may know for sure.”

  Edward, the oldest brother, grabbed his arm and jerked him back. “Leave Mother alone,” he warned. “There is no sense alarming her further.”

  “You will get nowhere with this attitude,” Edmund scowled. He was a year younger than Edward and of them all, he most resembled Malcolm. “Do you want to find Mary or not?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Stop it!” Margaret cried, her usual calm completely shattered. “How dare you fight now! Malcolm! Tell me!”

  Malcolm gripped her hands. “There were Norman
soldiers here yesterday, Margaret, not a mile from Liddel.”

  Margaret gasped. “You don’t think …?”

  “Show her, Father,” Edmund demanded. “Ask her if it belongs to Mary.”

  Edward shoved past Edgar and hit Edmund with his fist in the shoulder, but Edmund was bigger, and the blow only unbalanced him slightly. Immediately Edgar came to Edward’s aid, ready to jump upon Edmund, until a roar from Malcolm ceased the fisticuffs.

  Malcolm withdrew a piece of wet, white cloth from his belt. Edward made a sound of protest. Edgar, hardly a year older than Mary, was ashen. Malcolm ignored his sons, carefully unfolding the scrap, watching his wife. “Could this be a piece of Mary’s shift?”

  Margaret’s eyes widened and she gasped. “Where did you find that?”

  “Where the Normans had their camp,” Malcolm said grimly.

  Margaret swayed.

  Malcolm and Edward caught her at the same time, steadying her. “Do not fear, Mother,” Edward said soothingly, but his jaw was tight. “We shall find her and return her to you in no time at all.”

  “Just the time it takes to find the whoreson bastard,” Edgar said darkly, glancing quickly at the silent man who still stood staring into the flames. Because of the proximity of his and Mary’s ages, he was closest to her of all the siblings. As children, he and Mary had been as inseparable as possible for a brother and sister. Even now, when Edgar was not fighting, he could usually be found with Mary. “If they have hurt her…”

  “I will kill them all, every last treacherous Norman!” Malcolm roared. “Every last one!”

  “Let’s go now, Father,” Edgar urged. His green eyes blazed. “If we ride through the night, we can be at Alnwick by dawn.”

  “Alnwick?” Margaret asked. “’Twas Northumberland?”

  “His troops were seen in the area this morning,” Malcolm replied harshly. “’Twas the bastard whelp, not the damned father, who is still at his wretched King’s court. And who else would dare to abduct our daughter—who else?” Recently, with the earl away so often, Stephen de Warenne had become the thorn in Malcolm’s side.

  Margaret was as white as death. “My poor Mary, dear Lord Jesus, protect her,” she moaned, praying not for the first time, and not for the last. “Please see her returned to us unharmed!”

  “ ’Tis my fault,” the man standing in front of the hearth said abruptly, turning to face them. His russet hair flamed in the firelight. “Had I not been detained, I would have been with her. and never would I have let her fall into de Warenne’s hands.”

  The agony the young man felt was etched in the lines of fatigue on his face. Margaret hurried to him, intent on comforting him despite her own pain. “ ’Tis not your fault, Doug. Mary knows better than to wander outside these walls, or any walls, alone.” Tears filled her eyes. “How we have warned her time and again to behave as befits a princess, not an orphan of the burgh. If it is anyone’s fault, it is mine, for failing to rein in her spirit.”

  “It is not your fault, Margaret,” Malcolm said, his tone softening. “Mary is to blame, and when I get my hands on her, she will not sit down for a week.” He was angry again. “How could she be such a fool!” He turned to face Doug Mackinnon. “And you are equally to blame, for enticing her to a rendezvous as you did. I will deal with you after I have dealt with her.”

  Doug said nothing, but his mouth was tensely drawn.

  “Malcolm, we must know for sure where she is,” Margaret cried.

  “Do not fear, Mother,” Edward consoled, taking her hand. “We are certain ’twas Northumberland’s bastard heir. We found two more pieces of linen before it became too dark to continue to follow the trail, and obviously they were heading northeast. Who else but our Mary would be so bold as to leave these little flags for us? At the very least, her spirit remains unbroken.”

  Margaret sank into her chair. Her heart was pounding too rapidly and she felt faint. “I must send for Maude,” she murmured, referring to her pious younger daughter, already a novice at the Abbey of Dunfermline. “I need Maude, Malcolm!” But the sore truth was that she needed Mary; how she needed to know that her darling, headstrong Mary was unhurt.

  Malcolm took her hands. “I will send a man tonight; she will be here with you on the morrow.”

  Margaret gazed at him gratefully. He was a hard man, even a difficult man, but she knew ’twas no easy thing to be King of the Scots. She had never blamed him for his faults. And he had yet to let her down, not once in their long marriage. She knew that Maudie would be with her on the morrow, and that if anyone could rescue Mary, it was her husband.

  “We are wasting time,” Edgar cried. “We know it was de Warenne, so let us besiege him immediately!”

  “Do not be such a fool,” Edmund said. “We cannot see in the dark, and there is no rushing a siege—if a siege is indeed called for.” His tone was skeptical.

  “You would leave Mary there to rot, wouldn’t you?” Edgar cried.

  “I did not say that,” Edmund said coldly.

  “No one is leaving Mary to rot,” Edward stated, directing an ice-cold glance at Edmund.

  “Stop it! I cannot stand this bickering, not now!”

  Everyone turned to look at Margaret.

  “There will be no war!” she cried, standing. Rarely did she give commands, and never did she interfere in matters politic, but now she shook with the force of her determination. “Malcolm—you will pay whatever ransom it is that Rolfe de Warenne demands. You must!”

  “You are not to worry,” Malcolm said. “Dear heart, why do you not go upstairs to rest?”

  Although Margaret knew she would never rest this night, not with Mary missing, she nodded and obeyed. There was silence until she had left the hall.

  “What are you planning to do?” Edward asked uneasily.

  Malcolm smiled, and it was chilling. “I will do what must be done, my son. Harken well. There is a benefit to be had from this, and I intend to reap it.”

  The first few drops of rain began to fall, pattering steadily upon the battlements of Alnwick.

  Inside, Mary paused in the open doorway of the Norman’s chamber. She had not considered refusing his summons, even though she was nearly paralyzed with fright at the thought of what might happen. He was wearing only his linen braies, and his lack of dress was all the confirmation she needed. Her face, paler than the costliest ivory, stung with sudden heat. Mary turned her gaze away from the sight of his hardened loins bursting against the fabric of his braies.

  He regarded her without expression. The sound of the rain, now beating determinedly down upon the roof, filled the silence of the room.

  Mary’s back was to the open doorway. She cast her gaze around wildly, her heart tripping. She had considered revealing herself to him. Though she had not had much time, less than an hour, to contemplate her dilemma, she had brooded over her alternatives as carefully as possible in the face of her growing panic.

  And until the minute Mary had come to his chamber, confronted with her enemy and his obvious desire, she had harbored desperate hope. She would not accept her ruin, at least not meekly. She had been determined not to bend to his will in the ensuing contest, a contest in which her virtue and her pride were at stake. She would fight him. If she remained firm in her resolve and if she refused to allow herself to be seduced as she almost had earlier, and he had been speaking the truth of his aversion to violence, then he would not condescend to rape her.

  But any hope she’d had died a sudden death. Facing him in the flesh, pinned beneath his glittering gaze, she did not believe him capable of desisting from brutality. She knew what her fate would be. For in the end it was better to be a martyr, accepting her own ruin, than to reveal herself to be the princess Mary and hand her captor such a priceless gift.

  Outside, the wind roared, and for the first time that evening, thunder cracked almost directly overhead. Mary jumped.

  Stephen said, “Do storms always make you this nervous, mademoiselle?”

/>   Mary looked at him. Her jaw tightened. Lightning sliced across the sky, and for a moment the ink blackness outside the narrow slit became white. Mary turned her gaze away from the narrow window. “Be done with it.”

  His brow rose.

  He was studying her. Mary fought to keep her eyes on the casement window, watching the rain as it fell now in heavy, silvery torrents. It wasn’t an easy task. His presence was compelling, overwhelming. Her gaze sidled to the canopied bed. He stood in front of it in the middle of the room. The bed curtains had been pulled open, the furs and blankets folded aside.

  The chamber was too warm, Mary thought. It was becoming difficult to breathe in a normal fashion. Despite the inclement weather, she wished the fire would die down to mere embers. She wished he would stop staring at her and she wished he would do something, anything, to end this torment, this suspense.

  He finally moved. His strides were tightly controlled, giving no hint of the impatience his body must be feeling, as he crossed the room. Thick rugs covered the stone floors, and his bare feet made no sound. He drew her into the chamber, closing the door behind them.

  Mary lifted her gaze to his, wide-eyed, trembling. There was such finality in his action. She felt as if he had just slammed the door on her fate. Perhaps he had. Determined to remain mute for as long as he, she met his stare, hoping to appear fierce and uncowed.

  He smiled.

  There was such carnal intent in the curling of his lips that Mary staggered backwards. Stephen easily caught her. And instead of steadying her, he reeled her up against him. “There is no need to be afraid of me.”

  “I am not afraid of you—Norman!” Mary gasped. But she was already in his embrace, and his chest was slick and damp against her rigid palms, an indication that he felt the heat, too, and his groin felt like the blunted tip of a sword thrusting against her abdomen. She tried vainly to push away from him.

  “Do you think to insult me?” He was amused.

  “Bastard,” she hissed, momentarily ceasing her struggle. She was panting. He was too strong. As she had thought, she was doomed.