by Brenda Joyce
Geoffrey folded his arms and looked at his brother, his eyes glittering. “In the past three and a half years since Lanfranc’s death, I have prepared for this day, by administering the see to the best of my ability, with the help of my able, and loyal, staff, and by guarding its coffers in a losing battle.” His face was hard. “Anselm will find his ship easy to navigate, but the course he must steer is fraught with peril. Too, I think that Anselm will be far more fanatical in his dealings with the King than anyone anticipates.”
Stephen looked at his brother, the Archdeacon of Canterbury. He had been awarded the appointment by his mentor, the Archbishop Lanfranc, when Lanfranc was on his deathbed four years ago. But even before his appointment, he had been Lanfranc’s most trusted personal assistant. With the death of his friend and mentor, he had continued his duties, the first being to administer the see until a successor took office. Not only had he done so, he also had to fight the King in a constant hidden battle over control of ecclesiastical revenues.
“I have other news as well,” Geoffrey said. “I have been summoned to Court. My spies have told me I am to be asked for a precise accounting of my holdings, especially of the knights and men-at-arms in my service.” Then he flushed. “Rather—an accounting of the see’s holdings.”
This was news. It could pertain to the new archbishop, or it could not. Stephen raised an eyebrow at the news and replied, “And I was sent to Carlisle to ascertain if it is ripe for the taking.”
“Is it ripe?” Geoffrey asked, drumming his long fingers upon the scarred table.
“Yes.”
“Well, for the moment you can rest assured that Rufus thinks not of invasion but of repentance for his sins,” Geoffrey murmured.
“Perhaps his fear that he lies dying will change whatever his plans were,” Stephen said darkly. “We have maintained such a fragile peace for such a short time. I hate to see it ended, especially by us.”
“Even if the King decides against invasion,” Geoffrey said, “and you can be sure that Father is doing his best to turn him from this purpose, undoubtedly that scoundrel Malcolm will break the peace. He is a barbarian; he will not change his ways.”
Geoffrey was right. Stephen knew it was only a matter of time before that precious peace was broken, one way or another. Malcolm Canmore had sworn fealty to William Rufus at Abernathy two years ago, but that would not stop him from treachery. It never did. It was inevitable that sooner or later Malcolm would invade Northumberland. His last invasion, while not successful, had still inflicted much damage upon Stephen’s northernmost manors. Those manors had lost their harvest, and last winter Stephen had been forced to use sparse coin to import extra stores so his northern vassals would not starve. Some of his mercenaries had yet to be paid in full for that campaign. His marriage to Adele Beaufort would solve that particular problem, as well as many others. Suddenly Stephen found himself thinking not about war and peace but about his captive. Why on earth had she continued to defy him until it was too late?
“So who is the vocal wench?” Geoffrey asked, as if he could read Stephen’s mind. His tone was openly teasing now.
Despite himself, Stephen flushed. Had his thoughts been so visible? “She is my mistress and we shall leave it at that.”
“Your mistress!” Geoffrey mocked incredulity. “Shame on you, my lord, for taking a mistress upon the eve of your wedding. Shall I determine your penance?”
“Thank you, no.”
Geoffrey’s tone became serious. “I am surprised you have brought a leman here, brother. Tread softly. News travels far too quickly, especially news with the potential to destroy. You would not want to wreck your alliance with the Essex heiress. Lady Beaufort does not strike me as an understanding—or forgiving—woman.”
“First Brand, now you,” Stephen said with real anger. Geoffrey’s words were an unpleasant reminder of the quandary he had fallen in. “I am not a stupid boy to be chastised thus. Lady Beaufort will stand with me at the altar this Christmastide.”
At that moment, before Geoffrey could reply, a noise made both brothers turn towards the stairs. Stephen started as his captive stumbled around the corner and froze, staring at him. Apparently she had lost her balance as she hung on to the wall on the bottom steps, eavesdropping. She regarded only him, and if looks could kill, he would now be dead.
Slowly he smiled. He found himself on his feet. He was aware of the rushing of his blood, not just through his veins, but to his loins. He found that he could recall the past night in instant, vivid detail. He recalled her defiance; he recalled her surrender. He was far from sated. “Were you spying upon my brother and me, mademoiselle?” He stepped down from the dais.
She straightened, her back against the wall. “No.”
Stephen still smiled, a smile he had worn upon many occasions when facing a particularly dangerous enemy. He paused in front of her. Their gazes clashed.
“Ahh, the wench of last night,” Geoffrey remarked with genuine interest, regarding them both. “You have never chosen better, Stephen. She is a beauty.”
Stephen tossed his brother a dark look over his shoulder. “I am in complete agreement with you.” There was no mistaking the territorial tone.
Mary clenched her fists, shaking. That he should discuss her as if she were not present infuriated her, almost as much as the fact that they had been so casually discussing her when they thought her to be absent. But what completely enraged her was what she had just discovered—that the arrogant Norman bastard was betrothed to another.
“He is not going to introduce us,” Geoffrey said pleasantly, causing her to look at him. The gleam in his intense eyes was not even remotely polite. “Undoubtedly he is afraid you will compare us and find him lacking.” Geoffrey smiled at her.
Mary glared at him. He did not fool her for an instant. He wore a prelate’s long, dark robes, but there was nothing holy about him. No man of God should have such a face, or such a gaze. He was unmistakably male, he was unmistakably powerful, and most important, he was a de Warenne, which made him the enemy as well. “I do not have to compare you both to find him lacking,” she snapped. Her gaze had already returned to Stephen.
Geoffrey started—and laughed.
Stephen was also amused. “You did not find me lacking last night, demoiselle.”
Mary turned crimson. “You prove yourself a brute at every turn, Norman,” she hissed, her fury knowing no bounds. “Only a beast would speak to me in public in such a way.”
She turned her back on him coldly. She had come downstairs because she was awake and unable to sleep, much less remain in bed as if awaiting the Norman’s pleasure. In fact, she had barely slept at all, only pretending to do so when he had finally given her the chance to rest. While he had slept deeply and soundlessly beside her.
Her shame knew no bounds. Her virtue had been intact when she had gone to him, and she had intended to resist him. Had he raped her, she would have more than just remnants of her pride left, but it had not come to that. Her resistance had been pitiful; he had seduced her effortlessly. While he slept and after he had left her bed, Mary was haunted by every detail of their encounter, no matter how she tried to shove such recollections aside. She did not want to face what he had brought her to in bed. It was impossible to dismiss.
Mary was excruciatingly aware of having failed her country and King, of having failed both of her parents, of having failed Doug, and of having failed herself.
She strove to derive what comfort she could from the fact that she had not lost the entire war—he still did not know that she was King Malcolm’s daughter. And he would never know, she vowed, even if it meant sharing his bed time and again. She tried not to think about that probability, dared not think about it. Instead, she must concentrate upon survival.
Mary felt Stephen’s eyes upon her, and her skin tingled. She found herself facing him again. His gaze was bright and intent; she flushed in spite of her rage.
Adele Beaufort. The fury surging through h
er was nothing like the anger she had entertained earlier. Adele Beaufort. Who was Adele Beaufort? They had spoken of her with some respect; apparently she was both beautiful and an heiress. Oh, how she wished she could tell him that she was King Malcolm’s daughter—that she was a princess and far more important than any English heiress!
Stephen spoke, drawing her complete attention. “You may call me whatever you wish just as you may choose to make the worst of this situation, mademoiselle, or you may make the best of it. It will not change my intentions; you succeed only in arousing my interest. I suggest you take advantage of the fact instead.”
“You have indeed gained what you sought,” Mary said unsteadily. “You are stronger than I, and obviously far more experienced. But that does not change my intentions. I will not be your mistress, regardless of what happened last night. I am your prisoner, and nothing more, forced to suffer your attentions. Mark that, Norman.”
“I prefer to mark actions, not words.”
His smugness was more than she could bear. “Then you should have marked all of my actions! I was not as willing as you wanted, Norman.”
He looked at her.
In case he failed to understand, she smiled. “You won only one battle last night. One that I consider much less significant than the battle over my identity. Indeed, I do believe I won the war.”
The blood rushed to Stephen’s face. Above him on the dais, apparently only pretending not to hear them, Geoffrey choked.
Mary trembled. But she could not stop now. Victory was so sweet. “Never,” she flung. “Never will you get the answers you seek—not from my lips.”
A very long moment passed while Stephen struggled for self-control, his jaw tense, his fists clenched, his face dark. Mary refused to cringe, although her heart pounded with real fear. Any other man would have long since beat her for her daring and her insolence. She regretted her brave words.
“Demoiselle,” Geoffrey said, already moving from the dais to stand beside Stephen. Mary saw that he had a tight hold on his brother’s arm. “Desist. My brother does not even beat his dogs, but I fear you push him too far.”
Before Mary could reply, Stephen barked, “No! Let her speak as she wills.” His smile was ruthless. “How you amaze me, demoiselle. But do not fear. I do not care that I have not mastered your mind, I care only that I have mastered your body. Beating is too good for you. I have far better, and far more entertaining, punishment in mind.”
Mary blanched.
“Mademoiselle?” he challenged.
For an instant she was frozen. She was remembering what it was like when he mastered her body, and she could imagine the exquisite torture he would inflict. Suddenly robbed of air, she was unable to summon up a reply.
“What do you hide?” Stephen demanded.
Mary said nothing. She was still consumed by his words.
But Stephen had regained complete control. He looked at his brother. “Wipe that smirk from your face, Geoff. This lady has refused to reveal her identity, choosing instead to give me her maidenhead. Undoubtedly some border lord is about to seek vengeance. I have other duties to attend to, as you know.”
Geoffrey was startled. “You are not thoughtless. You are not rash.”
Stephen did not respond to him. Abruptly he held out his hand to Mary. “A truce, mademoiselle. I declare a truce.”
His tone was firm with authority. Worse was his gaze, which had become soft and seductive, perhaps with memory. Although he was unsmiling, he was undeniably attractive, much more so than either one of his brothers. Mary stared at his hand. It flitted through her mind that she could accept his offer of peace, and cease all defiance. That she could accept him.
As if sensing her thoughts, Stephen stepped closer, a second later catching her palm in his. “Give to me, mademoiselle,” he coaxed. “Instead of fighting me when you are going to lose, why not bend? There is much to be said for anticipation. Even now, I anticipate being in your arms again—and I believe you share the same feeling. I am going to pleasure you regardless of your willful pride, and we both know it.”
“I believe you are trying to seduce me even now!”
Stephen straightened, his height and breadth overpowering. “And if I am? What upsets you so? That you find me as desirable as I find you? If you bend to me, you will more than enjoy your stay at Alnwick.”
“I desire you, it’s true,” Mary said slowly through stiff lips, hating admitting it, even to herself, “but I do hate you more. Whoreson bastard!”
His grip tightened; he almost smiled. “I much prefer the sound of my given name coming from your lips.”
There was no mistaking to what he was referring. “Do you prefer the sound of your name coming from my lips—or from Adele Beaufort’s?” Mary hissed.
Stephen froze. Then, “She has never spoken my name with the relish that you have.”
“Oh?” She was shaking, as much in hurt as in rage. “So she is too good for you to abuse? You only abuse maids you abduct, sirrah? Even when they are not as they seem? Or is it because I am a Scot? Is that why you took my maidenhead without a care for the consequences? I am a Scot, but your heiress is an Englishwoman!”
Red tinged his cheekbones. “I did not abuse you, so cease with your abominable hypocrisy. And what is done is done. I do not regret my actions. I am sorry, though, for the price you must bear. When the time comes, demoiselle, I will provide for you. You need not worry on that score.”
She drew back as if he had slapped her. Already he referred to the time when he would grow tired of her and send her away. Tears stung. “And I should be relieved that you will not toss me aside penniless? Oh, how noble you are!”
Mary turned to flee. His grip clamped down on her wrist and she was jerked around to face him. Very low, he said, “You might remember that a man cannot mate alone, and you were as willing a wench as any I have ever taken to my bed. More so, in fact.”
Mary cried out inarticulately and tried to yank her arm free. She failed.
“You could have revealed yourself to me,” he said, his eyes black and blazing. “You were a partner to the deed, demoiselle, and you may choose to forget it, but I do not.”
“I am returning upstairs. I am no longer hungry,” Mary said with great dignity. The truth burned. She had been a willing partner to his passion, no matter that her ambition had been only to continue her deceit. She refused to give in to the rising tears which had no rightful place in this bitter confrontation. “But I am very tired. If you would excuse me?”
Stephen stared at her. Finally he said, “Go then, to the women’s solar. I will send your break-fast to you. And remember, demoiselle, I wish a truce, but I alone cannot achieve the peace.”
Chapter 6
Mary contemplated disobeying him yet again. But in the end she rushed into the solar as if it were her refuge. Closing the door, she leaned upon it, out of breath. Her mind spun. All she could think of was their recent encounter, the one last night, and the one that would occur this evening.
She did hate him. He had ruined her uncaringly; he had said he did not believe her to be Mairi Sinclair, yet he had continued his lovemaking, taking it to its final conclusion. He was ruthless, vain, and self-serving. Mary knew without a doubt that he would never ravish his English bride, he would not even ravish the daughter of an insignificant English knight. The difference was that she was a barbarian Scot.
A barbarian Scot, yes, but a princess, Mary reminded herself. Had he known the truth—that she was Malcolm’s daughter—he would not have taken her to his bed. Mary was certain of that. She reminded herself that her loss of virtue was insignificant, that she had consciously chosen to martyr herself instead of revealing herself.
But what, she wondered with despair, awaited her now? When he tired of her and freed her, then what? It had been somehow easy to think of returning home to Doug before last night. How could she ever face Doug again? What if the Norman used her so mercilessly that he got her with child? Mary froze with
the thought.
She was diverted from her brooding. A light rapping upon the door reminded Mary that he said he would send her break-fast. She bid the serving maid to enter, and was surprised when his little sister, Isobel, skipped into the chamber as well.
They had met yesterday. In her distress, Mary had barely paid attention to the child, answering her inquisitive questions automatically. Now, when the maid left, she found herself alone with the girl. For the first time she really looked at her. She was a beautiful child, one who promised to become a stunning woman.
“Do you mind my company?” Isobel asked with a pretty smile.
In truth, pleasant companionship would be refreshing. Mary sank into a chair, aware for the first time that day that she was exhausted and overwhelmed from all that had passed, not to mention a sleepless night. She was tired of thinking. “I do not mind. I could use some company.” In fact, she could use a friend. “Would you like to break the fast with me?” A hopeful note had crept into her tone.
Smiling, Isobel came closer, shaking her head negatively. “I have eaten.” She inspected Mary openly. “But I will gladly keep you company.”
Mary smiled.
“You are very beautiful, my lady.”
Mary took a bite of oven-warm bread. “Not half as much as you,” she said earnestly.
Isobel tossed her head, looking pleased. “They say I am a great beauty. Do you think it’s true?”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Real beauty comes from within,” she heard herself say, quoting her mother exactly. Then she grinned. “But you are indeed a great beauty. However, my mother has always said that vanity is a sin.”
“Who is your mother? Is she very pious?”
Mary started. Isobel gazed right into her eyes, unblinking. Mary wondered if she could possibly be trying to discover her identity, or if she was just succumbing to her natural curiosity. “How old are you, Isobel?”
“Not much younger than you, I daresay,” Isobel said quickly. “I am ten.”
