Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  “True enough,” he murmured. “I fear I cannot change the circumstance of my untimely birth. Do you really think to wound me with such words?”

  “No, but you will wound me, will you not? A man such as you!”

  One of his large hands swept down her back. She shivered. “Ahh, you are afraid. I know ’tis too much to ask you to trust me. I will not hurt you, mademoiselle, not after the first time; all women, even one as small as you, are made to accommodate a man, even one like me.”

  Mary’s small breasts rose and fell harshly. His statement summoned up a recollection of his heated touch the day before—and an anticipation she was determined to deny. She would fight him, for martyr or not, that was her clear-cut duty. Her will must be stronger than her body. It must. Mary ground her teeth together. “I—will—fight—you.”

  “I don’t think so.” His suggestive—and amused—smile flashed again. “Of course, we can end your dilemma easily enough. You need but speak two words—the name of your father.”

  “No!” Mary wriggled against him. He forced her to become still instantly, gripping the firm mound of one of her buttocks. Mary was frozen. “Shall we test your resolve?” he murmured in her ear.

  Mary could barely speak, due to the strategic placement of his fingers. “Be—done—with—it.”

  For a moment he was unmoving. “An invitation I cannot refuse. Does such acquiescence signal your intention to remain tight-lipped, does it mean that you will forfeit your virginity instead of your identity?”

  Mary stared. She had discerned a subtle change in his tone, which was no longer quite so casual; tension rippled beneath the surface of his words. His eyes had grown brighter, his nostrils flared, and his grip upon her had tightened. And still his manhood throbbed urgently against her. He was trying to hide it, but there was no mistaking the heightened pitch of his excitement now. Mary nodded once. She was incapable of speech.

  Slowly he smiled. “At this point I should warn you, mademoiselle, my interest in the truth wans. If you will speak, speak now, before it is too late.”

  Mary thought, dazed, that it was probably already too late. She realized her hand had found his hip. It was hard and free of fat, his skin warm even through the thin linen of his braies. His words sank in. She had to use great effort to remove her hand from his body. “I have nothing to say,” she said hoarsely.

  “Indeed?” There was a catch to his voice. Abruptly he lifted Mary in his arms. Mary knew she must make some effort at resistance.

  Their gazes locked. Her will died then and there. She had never known her body could be so hungry. She realized she was holding on to him instead of pushing him away. The blaze in his eyes made her grip tighten.

  They were a step away from the bed. Unsmiling, he slid her onto the center of the mattress. Mary found herself on her back, her gaze, like the rest of her, dominated by him.

  “ ’Tis your last chance,” he said harshly, and she saw that his fists were clenched. “Tell me no lies.”

  She was having trouble remembering the issues at stake. She whispered, “I-I am Mairi Sinclair.”

  His lips curled. He leaned over her. His gaze slid over her flushed face, then lower, to her heaving breasts, and lower still, to the outline of her slender legs. “The time for words is over, demoiselle.”

  She gripped the covers of the bed. She was oblivious to all existence. She had forgotten the stifling warmth in the room, did not hear the crackling tire, the sound of which mingled with the sound of the rain, blurring together into nothingness. Lightning brightened the night sky behind Stephen’s head, but she was unaware of that, too. All of her senses were focused on the man standing before her, and on the painful pulsing of her own body.

  He slid onto the bed beside her and pulled her into a sitting position, his touch strong but gentle. He did not hurry; how well he masked any urgency he might be feeling. Mary made a sound low in her throat, one that sounded suspiciously like a moan. Their gazes locked. Without looking at what he was doing, he slowly slipped off the veil she had borrowed from Isobel, freeing her waist-length gold hair. His hands shook as his fingers navigated their way through the length of her hair, beginning at her scalp and ending in the curls at her hips. Deliberately he fanned the tresses out. Mary wondered if he was going to kiss her. Stephen smiled at her.

  She could not move.

  And then he ripped her clothing apart and tore her tunics and shift off of her body.

  Mary screamed.

  “I will take you naked,” he said as she tried to leap off of the bed. Mary screamed again, in fury. Stephen caught her, this time throwing her down upon the mattress. He flung the shreds of her clothing aside. Before Mary could scramble away from him, he was on top of her, pressing her down.

  Only a thin layer of linen separated his engorged phallus from the tender flesh between her thighs. He throbbed strongly against her, a hairsbreadth from being within her. “Who in God’s blood are you? You will reveal the truth, demoiselle, and you will do so now!”

  Mary looked up at him, consumed with an answering rage. “So it will be rape after all!”

  He laughed. When her hands came up, her fingers curled into claws, he caught her wrists, wrestling them down above her head, pinning her to the bed. He stroked his shaft against her. He stroked her until her anger died, but her pulse did not dim. To the contrary, it accelerated madly. Mary moaned helplessly.

  His mouth came closer to hers, his breath feathering her face. His eyes were glittering dangerously now. “Your story has substance,” he said, low. “But that only proves what an adept liar you are. Know you this. I have been surrounded by intrigue and deceit my entire life. I have had much practice at ferreting out the good from the rotten. I do not believe you to be some barnyard bastard of the laird Sinclair. Every instinct I possess tells me you are far more than you claim. Give your name to me now.”

  Mary met his gaze, goaded beyond all resistance. “Never.”

  His eyes widened incredulously. It was the first time that she had admitted she was lying—that she was not Mairi Sinclair—that there was a truth to be revealed. Indeed, the gauntlet had been thrown.

  He smiled without mirth. Simultaneously he reached down between them, the back of his hand brushing the swollen, aching folds of her flesh. Mary cried out. A moment later she realized what his movement meant. He had ripped off his own braies, freeing himself. He was slick, and so was she. “We have yet to conclude our business, demoiselle.” His expression was hard, sweat streaked his high cheekbones. “Make your choice. You may give me your identity—or your virginity.”

  Mary could not move, could not speak. It had become terribly hard to understand his words when he pulsed naked against her so purposefully, so urgently. She managed to breathe. Her hips twitched involuntarily, invitingly.

  His hand cupped the globe of her breast. “Who?” he whispered roughly, his gaze locked with hers. “Who are you, demoiselle?”

  She struggled for sanity. “No,” she said, her whisper as rough as his. “No—never!”

  His smile was mirthless, a minute baring of too white teeth. It was dangerous. Still smiling, he slowly lowered his head.

  Mary was rigid and frozen. His tongue touched the distended tip of her nipple. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. He had freed one of her hands, and she fisted it to stop herself from grabbing him—from clinging. A moment later he had taken her breast into his mouth. Mary finally heard herself moan.

  He lifted his head, his face close to hers. “Tell me who you are, tell me now. You do not want to forfeit your maidenhead, demoiselle, you do not. You are dangerously close to doing so.”

  Mary could not respond. She knew an intense pleasure—and an intense need. Her fisted hand had raised itself, to settle slowly upon his bare, hard shoulder. Her fingers opened, curling against his skin. He flinched.

  “Who are you?” he whispered. His voice was so rough and broken now, it was barely audible. His eyes had become wild. “Tell me who you ar
e.”

  Mary could not remember who she was. She stared at him blankly, at his eyes, at his mouth. She was making small, mewling cries. How she wanted his mouth.

  He half-smiled and half-grimaced. He touched her breasts. Then his fingers slid lower and lower still. Mary cried out. He parted the moist folds shielding her virginity, manipulating her with his thumb. Mary’s head fell back and she was lost to all coherent thought. She began to whimper mindlessly.

  “Give to me before it is too late!” he demanded. “Who are you?”

  She would do anything he asked. Anything, if only he would continue to touch her. “Mary,” she whispered.

  “God,” he cried, low and raw and agonized.

  Mary felt something else then, something electric flaring hot and bright between them as he rubbed the heavy head of his shaft against her swollen lips, and she cried out. At some point he had freed her other hand, and she gripped him fiercely.

  “Mairi,” he moaned.

  “Yes, please. Stephen!”

  Their gazes locked, his wide and stark with agony and frustration. He was raised over her, his face close to hers, his eyes hotter than the sun, and he was rubbing the huge tip of his phallus against her again and again, as if he, too, were helpless in the face of his passion. Mary writhed in animal pleasure, whispering his name, sobbing his name.

  “God help me,” he said. “I no longer care!”

  His mouth came down on hers. Mary’s cry of elation was cut off by his kiss. Eagerly she opened to him, wrapped in his strong embrace, sucking his tongue deep into her throat, urging him to come into her in every way. He made a deep, low, urgent sound, prodding more forcefully against her womanhood. Mary flung her legs around his hips, locking them tight. She rocked her loins against him. “Please,” she gasped.

  “Mairi,” he whispered, his arms tensing around her.

  He thrust into her. The pain lasted less than a heartbeat, for with it came an explosion of rapture so intense, she was stunned senseless. Her earthy moans filled the stone chamber, convulsions racked her body. In that moment, Mary died the most exquisite death and was totally reborn.

  Slowly she surfaced. She was limp, as if drugged, her limbs heavy, her body replete. She became aware of the storm outside. The wind howled, the rain pounded, and every few moments lightning outside brightened the night and the chamber she was in.

  Mary felt him. He was still on top of her, still inside her, still partially erect. Her dazed mind began to come to life.

  She became lucid. Lucid enough to feel bruised and worn, aching now from the invasion of his large body into her small one, and worse, much worse, lucid enough to feel horrified.

  What had she done?

  Stephen raised himself up slightly on his elbows, and their gazes collided. He saw the horror in hers. His jaw tightened. Before Mary could push him off, she felt him stirring to life inside her, lengthening, swelling. She tensed.

  “Later,” he said roughly. “Later you can entertain regrets.”

  Mary opened her mouth to protest. Then his lips covered hers, his hips moving, and she was lost.

  Chapter 5

  The sun was just rising when Stephen broke the night’s fast at prime. He was alone. His household was dutifully at mass in the family chapel with Father Bertold, a duty Stephen himself shirked this day. The woman calling herself Mairi was still asleep in his bed.

  Abruptly he pushed the slice of white bread he had been toying with away. What in God’s name had he done?

  She had not revealed herself. He had never dreamed she would choose ruin over confession. There was still not a single doubt in his mind that she was a highborn lady. He could have pressed her further, brought her to the edge without actually taking her, forced the truth from her innocent lips. But he had not. He had taken her instead, ceasing to care about the issue at stake.

  His jaw flexed. Why had he, a man of great experience and even greater self-discipline, acted like a beardless boy presented with his first courtesan?

  Briefly he closed his eyes, for the first time that morning aware of a pounding behind his temples. He had failed himself last night. He was afraid. Secretly afraid that he would fail himself again.

  For the woman calling herself Mairi was still in his chamber and still in his bed. Already he thought of the night to come. Already he anticipated their union. He could hardly think of anything else.

  But he must send her away. Now, before she truly endangered his marriage to Adele Beaufort. He must. His duty, as always, was to Northumberland, and a mistress who threatened his advantageous marriage threatened Northumberland itself.

  He was uneasy. He stared at the warm loaf of bread on the table before him. Mairi’s image came to him as she had been in his bed last night, with a passion that matched his own, a passion he had never witnessed before, not in any other woman—not even in himself. She had brought something out in him he had never allowed himself to acknowledge before. What was wrong with him?

  He could not regret what he had done, and he knew he would not send her away—not yet.

  But what price would he pay for such folly?

  Stephen quaffed his glass of ale. He told himself that in another night or two he would tire of her and send her on her way. Before any damage was done. He had no choice.

  Purposeful footsteps brought him abruptly back to the present. Stephen was glad to be diverted from his brooding. His brow rose slightly in surprise when he glimpsed his brother, Geoffrey. Geoffrey rarely had the time or inclination to come home to Northumberland. “What brings you so far north, brother?”

  Geoffrey regarded him with the faintest of smiles. “What greeting is this, after so much time has passed?” he asked drolly, striding across the hall, his long robes flowing about him. There was no mistaking his relationship to Brand. He was tall, muscular, and golden, a devastatingly handsome man whom women always turned to look at twice. Even now, entering the hall where he had spent his first childhood years, a place where his face was familiar and occasionally seen, he caused the serving maids to blush with interest. “Do I not deserve some display of affection?”

  Stephen did not blink. “I am not in the mood to display affection.”

  “So I have already noticed.” Geoffrey lithely climbed the dais and slid into the seat beside his brother. A dagger materialized in his hand, one too large and too pointed for the sole purpose of eating. He casually speared a slice of cold meat.

  “As always, you are astute,” Stephen remarked. “When did you arrive? Last night?”

  “At matins. What has you so somber? After the morning’s first mass, I had hoped to catch a few hours sleep, but alas, there was such noise emanating from your bedchamber, ’twas hopeless.” Geoffrey wiped the dagger clean and sheathed it in his heavy, plain belt. When he smiled, faint dimples showed, at odds with his mocking tone and gleaming eyes. “Your leman was most vocal. I would think you to be in high spirits this morning.”

  Stephen stared coldly, refusing to comment on that. “Is this a family visit, or something else?”

  Geoffrey’s smile was gone. “You know I have no time for family visits. I have news. The King is in his sickbed.” He held up his hand, a hand both tanned and callused, the hand of a man who was physically active and often out-of-doors. “ ’Tis not grave, the physics say, but he has appointed Anselm Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  Stephen was silent. Then, “The King must think himself at death’s door.”

  “He does.”

  “How does this affect you? And us?”

  Geoffrey’s fine nose flared. “He is a good man. ’Tis long overdue that our dear King appoint someone to follow in Lanfranc’s footsteps.”

  “And?”

  Geoffrey’s jaw clenched. “I gain an ally in my battles against the Crown’s attempts to bleed Canterbury, I hope.”

  “You hope?”

  Geoffrey’s tone held some small amount of self-derision. “Anselm is much like Lanfranc, a true and saintly man. We may seek
the same ends, but I’m not sure he approves of me.” His smile was twisted. “Perhaps I gain a new enemy.”

  Stephen looked at his too handsome brother. In some ways they were so alike, and in those ways Stephen understood his brother well. Geoffrey would do what he had to do, but wasn’t that the lot of a man? “Better a friend than a foe. See to it that he loves you as Lanfranc did.”

  Geoffrey looked at his older brother. Sadness showed for the barest instant in his eyes. “Lanfranc was more a father to me than our own father, as well you know. Despite my worldliness, he was forgiving—and understanding. In truth, I am now torn. I both seek and do not seek the day of Anselm’s election. In the beginning we will be friends, out of need to protect the see from the King, but in the end?” Geoffrey shrugged.

  “Anselm is a holy fool if he does not see the powerful ally that he has in you,” Stephen said abruptly.

  “Some men will not—cannot—compromise their morals.”

  Stephen looked at his brother’s face, trying to glimpse Geoffrey’s soul in his eyes; but Geoffrey would not meet his gaze. “You are not immoral.”

  “He has asked me why I am not ordained.”

  Stephen stared. It was hardly surprising that Anselm would want to know why his archdeacon had yet to make his final vows—Stephen had wondered about it himself. He believed, but could not be certain, that it was Geoffrey himself who delayed the event. And Stephen suspected he knew why. “And what did you reply?”

  Geoffrey raised his gaze. It was hooded. “That I am no Lanfranc.”

  Stephen was disappointed with the response, but he should have known that his brother would keep his own dark secrets. To break the tension, he smiled. “Thank God.”

  Geoffrey laughed, his mask back in place. Stephen joined him. The moment of tension—and frightening intimacy—had passed.

  “’Twas inevitable, was it not, that Rufus appoint a successor?” Stephen said, pouring them both ale. “How long could he keep the see vacant? No matter how he bleeds Canterbury’s coffers, the lack of an archbishop was too mighty a matter for even the King. Surely you have been prepared for this day.”