Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  “And I do not need your kindness!” Tears filled her eyes. She directed a disparaging glance at his bulging loins. “I know exactly the kindness you intend!”

  “Mary.” He tried to touch her again.

  She shook him off, crying. “I thought to save my father a ransom by giving you my virtue, but it seems that instead, I handed you your greatest ambition. This changes nothing! This union serves you well—not me!” With that, she turned, tripped, and fled.

  Stephen fought himself so as not to go after her. He, too, knew where his kindness would lead. How adept she was at dousing his compassion and arousing his anger. Nevertheless, a softness had been rekindled in his heart. It was a softness he had not yielded to in seventeen achingly long years.

  Part Two

  The Princess Bride

  Chapter 9

  Adele Beaufort saw him the instant he entered the hall. Quickly she looked away. The archdeacon of Canterbury seemed to part the crowd as he moved through it.

  Adele had been at Court for several months now, since she had turned sixteen, and she much preferred it to the routine existence she had led at her stepbrother’s home in the heart of Kent or on one of her own estates in Essex. Currently the Court was in London at the Tower. Here there was never a dull moment; newcomers were always arriving, some with private messages for the King, others with petitions, and others just to curry favor with their sovereign. Here, amidst the gaiety and glamour, the intrigue and scandal, amongst the dashing courtiers and their bejeweled ladies, amongst the warlords and the courtesans, Adele felt at home. After she married Stephen de Warenne, she intended to spend most of her time at Court.

  As usual, she was surrounded by admirers. A dozen men, some young, some old, some powerful, some not, vied for her attention. She rarely tired of their amusing anecdotes, the pretty flattery and the outrageous flirtation. When she chose to, she rewarded her favorites with a smile and a seductive look. But Adele did not have to act coy to arouse men; no man could look at her and be immune to her dark, sensual beauty. She was well aware of it. She had been aware of it since she was twelve years old.

  Sometimes she thought that her betrothed was immune to her appeal, though. They had conversed on exactly three occasions, but Stephen de Warenne had never flirted with her or flattered her, and if she had not seen him appraising her full breasts and long legs, exactly once, the very first time they had met, she would have wondered if he was indifferent to her. That one time had reassured her. Nevertheless, if she were not so sure of her allure, she would think he did not lust after her. And that was impossible.

  Raising her fan—a gift from the King himself—so that only her large, dark eyes were visible, she stole another glance at the archdeacon of Canterbury.

  She stared at him. Her pulse throbbed strongly now, in her throat, between her breasts, and between her legs in the folds of her femininity. Her face was warm and she used her fan more strenuously. He was the most striking man she had ever seen, and she had certainly seen her share. God, he was beautiful. His oval face was carved with precise perfection, his nose fine and straight, his eyes piercingly blue. His jaw was tight and hard, his cheekbones bold and high. And he was lightly tanned, so that his complexion was golden, not pasty white. Adele had noticed that when he entered the hall, all its occupants remarked him immediately—even the men.

  His frame was tall and broad-shouldered and obviously lean. Adele wondered at his body, hidden as it was beneath his long robes.

  He also reeked of strength. He was no pampered, soft, spoiled, and self-indulgent prelate. Indeed, his very history, a history that was well known, spoke more loudly than anything else could of his determination, brilliance, and ambition. Adele knew he had been sent to foster in the harsh Welsh marshes with Roger of Montgomery, long before he had become the Earl of Shrewsbury. Montgomery was one of King William I’s most able and most powerful generals, as was Rolfe de Warenne. In those years the two men had been not rivals but friends.

  In choosing to send his second son to Wales, Rolfe was obviously choosing a territory as yet unconquered, torn by strife and rebellion. Geoffrey was not daunted. It was well known that he had won his spurs at thirteen—the same year that he had cast them aside and entered the cloister.

  Adele, thinking about it, shivered. What young boy made such a choice?

  His rise had been stunning, for he was the protégé of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was an appointee of the Conqueror and another friend of his father’s. But he could not have risen as he had if he had not been brilliant at his studies. Within three years he had earned a position among Lanfranc’s staff as one of his clerks. By the time of Lanfranc’s death, he was the archbishop’s most able and personal assistant. His appointment as archdeacon came just weeks before his mentor died.

  Adele swallowed, then licked her dry lips. She shifted her weight uncomfortably. Most archdeacons were ordained priests, but not Geoffrey de Warenne. He was not such an oddity. The last Bishop of Carlisle had been unable to read or write in any language, much less Latin, and when he had died, he had refused the Sacraments. Many in the Church had been scandalized, as had many laymen. Some of these same clerics were disapproving of Geoffrey de Warenne, even though he was well learned and devout.

  Adele was certain that he had taken the customary vows of chastity when he had joined the cloister. But was he celibate? It did not seem likely. For he also reeked of virility.

  Adele was flushed. She knew she was only one of the many women present who watched him, coveted him, and found him fascinating. She did not care about the others—she had no rivals, not at Court, not anywhere. But the archdeacon had never given the slightest indication that he found her desirable. Adele wondered, not for the first time, if, like the King himself, Geoffrey’s virility was spent on boys.

  Then she sighed. She would never find out. She was betrothed to his brother, Stephen de Warenne, one of the greatest heirs in the land, and she would never jeopardize her forthcoming marriage.

  Adele was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not realize that she was staring. Not until the archdeacon abruptly turned his head to fix her with his gaze. For one brief moment their glances held. A shadow crossed his face, perhaps annoyance, and he quickly turned away.

  Adele was stunned and breathless. The meeting of their eyes had been so brief and was over so instantly that she almost thought she had imagined it. Now his back was turned solidly to her.

  Adele’s heart slammed hard against her breastbone, and she gasped. She quickly raised her fan, attempting to compose herself.

  “Are you all right, lady?” Henry Ferrars, Lord of Tutberry, asked, his eyes narrowed.

  Adele wanted to kick herself for acting like a pubescent girl. She managed a rejoinder, but her mind was not on Ferrars or any of the men in her circle of admirers.

  Geoffrey de Warenne had never spoken a single word to her, not even in a polite greeting. And since she had come to London several months ago, their paths had crossed a half dozen times, because of her betrothal to his brother. It occurred to her now that perhaps he purposely avoided her—perhaps he lusted after her like all the others.

  Her stepbrother, Roger, as fair as she was dark, pushed into the throng surrounding her and pulled her aside. “Your thoughts are obvious.”

  Adele shook him free. She fanned herself, to cool her blood. “Hello, my lord. How pleasant you are—as usual.”

  Roger’s stare pinned her.

  Adele fanned herself harder.

  “What is he doing here?” Roger asked, again looking at Geoffrey. “I have heard he has been summoned. Too, that his brother came with him.”

  Adele’s eyes widened and she froze.

  “Not your beloved, so you can rest easy. He returned with Brand.”

  Adele resumed fanning herself in relief. She preferred not having Stephen here at Court. Her gaze settled on the archdeacon again, but at the look on his face her fan stilled once more.

  “Something is afoot,
” Roger said. His face was tight. “God’s blood! The King reveals nothing to me now! I must get back into his good graces!”

  “Then you will just have to devote yourself to doing so, won’t you, Roger?”

  “And what will you devote yourself to, sister dear, while my back is turned?”

  Adele ignored him. She smiled at her stepbrother. “Soon you will not have to worry about Rolfe de Warenne’s power or his sons.” Her tone was husky. “Soon I will be his son’s wife and privy to every happenstance.”

  His dark gaze held hers. Suddenly his hand snaked out and gripped her elbow, yanking her fully against him. It was so crowded, busy, and noisy in the hall that no one noticed, and if someone had, Roger Beaufort, Earl of Kent, would not have cared. “But will I be able to trust you, darling?”

  Adele was furious. Her black eyes blazed and she jerked herself free of her brother’s grasp. “Time will tell, won’t it?”

  An ugly expression crossed his face. “We don’t have time, Adele. Every instinct I possess tells me something is afoot. Why is the cleric here? Why has he been summoned for a private audience with the King? Why was the other brother sent to the North? Does another war loom—one I am left out of?”

  Adele was frozen once more.

  Roger was grim. “You appear fascinated with him.” Their gazes locked. She knew he was not speaking of her betrothed. “Are you not?”

  Adele’s pulse was rioting. “Every woman in this room is fascinated with the archdeacon.”

  Roger said, “But every woman is not like you.”

  Adele raised her fan, hiding her expression. Only her gleaming eyes were visible. “I will find out what passes, brother dear.”

  “Have a care,” Roger warned softly. “Do nothing indiscreet.”

  And Adele threw back her head, exposing her long, lovely throat, and laughed. “I am never indiscreet, my dear, as you should know better than anyone.”

  Geoffrey informed the King’s ushers of his presence—although by now Rufus was undoubtedly aware of it, for the King had more spies lurking about than anyone—and went to find himself a seat at the table in the hall to wait for the royal summons. There was no seat to be had. Geoffrey was tired from the long, hard ride, and he worked his way to a solitary corner, in no mood for light, much less probing, conversation. His appearance at Court had already raised much speculation; most of the world knew he came only when summoned, and then to do battle with the Crown. As he was weary, his thoughts turned to the night to come. Rolfe had several small manors in Essex, and one was just across the Thames. Geoffrey intended to spend the night there instead of returning directly to Canterbury.

  His second but more important reason for being in London was to speak with his father and inform him of all that had passed at Alnwick, an urgent necessity now that Stephen had arranged for a marriage to Princess Mary. Geoffrey intended to speak with Rolfe before retiring to Essex that evening. He had already sent the earl a private message.

  He thought of a warm, soft bed. A moment later a woman backed into him.

  She stumbled and he caught her automatically. Even as he lifted her, for one moment her soft body pressing against his lean one, he knew who it was. He didn’t have to see her to know. But he felt her, smelled her, and being as virile as his brothers, he responded in kind. She turned around in his arms. Seeing him, she gave a small cry of surprise, which he did not, for a moment, believe.

  For one more beat he held her. Up close, she was more alluring man from afar. Her skin was tawny and dark, from Mediterranean forebears, perhaps, her brows thick black wings above her almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth was full and large, and above the right corner was a dark mole. She was very tall, her eyes almost level with his, and she had a lush, full-breasted body, which she showed to her advantage in a thin silk surcote that fit her like fine hose. Geoffrey released Adele Beaufort, the woman his brother was still officially betrothed to.

  “Thank you,” she said throatily. Her scent was not just strong but musky. It brought forth images of hot nights, sweaty limbs, and sex. “You saved me from a twisted ankle.”

  He did not return her smile. “Did I?”

  His doubting tone brought a flush to her olive skin. “The floors are very hard, my lord. Surely I would have hurt myself if you had not caught me.”

  He crossed his arms and eyed her, leaning his back against the wall. From this distance he saw that her large nipples were raised against her red silk gown. Would he never be able to control his body? But what man could when confronted by Adele Beaufort? She was the reincarnation of Eve, all that was female, unholy temptation, pure provocation to sweet, sweet sin. He said nothing, immersed in very base thoughts.

  She smiled, touched his arm very briefly. “ ’Tis a surprise to see you here, my lord.”

  He cocked a brow.

  She seemed to sway closer, her smile infinitely seductive. “Are you on Church business, my lord?” She touched him again.

  “Do the affairs of God interest you, Lady Beaufort?”

  Her lashes fluttered. “All affairs interest me, my lord.”

  He took a deep breath. How easily he could imagine her affairs. It was a very good thing that Stephen was not wedding this one. And he was determined to stay away from her, too, before he gave in to his damnable need. “If you would excuse me.” He turned abruptly. Although he fought his virility in a never-ending battle, in the end he always lost. The sooner he returned to Canterbury, the better. He would immerse himself for a single night in the ripe body of a very lusty widow. Tarn was open, honest, and kind. She was no dark seductress, she had no guile, she made no demands.

  But Adele Beaufort gripped his wrist, her long nails almost but not quite clawing his skin. “Wait!”

  His jaw clenched, he turned.

  “Have you word, then, from Stephen?”

  “How would I have word from Stephen, madame?”

  “Were you not in the North?”

  His smile was cold. “You appear well informed, my lady.”

  She flushed. “ ’Tis no secret that Brand was in the North, and as the two of you arrived together … I merely thought…”

  He cocked his brow again.

  “In truth…” Her voice trembled, her breasts heaved. Geoffrey damned himself for not looking away. “Perhaps a private moment… You might… We might… I must repent my sins.”

  Geoffrey’s smile was twisted. He knew without having to be told exactly what sins she spoke of. His loins were very thick beneath his robes. Adele was the kind of woman to kindle sinful thoughts. “You do not appear penitent, Lady Beaufort. You appear in dire need of saving.” And so was he.

  “Do you—do you wish to save me?”

  “Lady Beaufort, I do not think we understand one another.”

  “Then we must communicate more thoroughly,” she whispered, and her hand stroked his arm from the elbow to the wrist.

  He was frozen, rock-hard with lust, so close to an imminent explosion. There was no mistaking her meaning. And, dear Lord God, all women were forbidden him, but this one, a purposeful temptress, truly seeking his downfall, was far worse than any other—and far more tempting. For he could only imagine what it would be like to spend himself on her exquisite body.

  His smile was twisted when he finally managed to summon it. “You know where the chapel is, and Father Gerard would be most willing, I am sure, to hear your confession if you truly wish to repent your sins.”

  Her gaze locked with his. The tip of her tongue wet her lips. It was not a nervous gesture, and Geoffrey knew it. “I do. I do. Would you hear my confession?”

  His smile vanished. He could also imagine what her confession would be. He felt close to succumbing to her seduction. “I do not hear confessions, Lady Beaufort,” he said harshly. He was furious, with her, and as always, with himself.

  She saw his anger. Her eyes gleamed wildly. Before Geoffrey could go, she moved closer, blocking his way. The hard tips of her breasts actually brushed his chest. “I
was only trying to thank you for saving me from a fall, my lord.”

  He laughed harshly, facing her. He did not move away, could not. Heat steamed between them. She still gripped his forearm. “We both know that I have not saved you, madame, although I would that I could. And we both know that you hardly wish to thank me. I will not be seduced, madame.”

  Her black eyes flashed. “You mistake me.”

  “I do not mistake you, Lady Beaufort. That would be impossible.”

  As seductive as she had been, she was now enraged. “Apparently I have mistaken you!”

  He did not answer, for her words were a complete lie—she had recognized him from the first, recognized his huge, misplaced lust, recognized that in a way, they were exactly the same.

  And then her next words made him forget himself completely. “I mistook you for a man, despite your robes! But you are no man, are you? You are no man, you are one of those others, one of those boy-lovers!”

  Geoffrey forgot that they were in a public place. He caught her wrists and had her up against him a scant instant later. Her dark eyes widened when she felt his engorged manhood, then they turned to smoke.

  The obvious invitation issued there brought him to his senses. He released her, stepping back from her. His smile was twisted and harsh. “Never doubt my manhood again.”

  “In truth,” she whispered, “I never did!”

  But Geoffrey had already shoved past her. Behind him, he heard her cry his name. His strides lengthened, as did his determination. But he was shaken.

  Not an hour later, the Earl of Northumberland was ushered into the King’s chamber after having had a very private meeting with his son, Geoffrey. He was an older version of both Geoffrey and Brand, all hues of bronze and gold except for vivid too-blue eyes. Like all of his sons, he exuded an unmistakable virility, and women ran after him hoping to entice him into their beds. He ignored them—he was still extremely fond of his wife.

  His aura of power was unmistakable. It was the power of a King-maker, indeed, he was called such behind his back, both by friend and foe alike. He found the nickname somewhat amusing, but secretly it pleased him. Once he had been nothing but a mercenary knight, and he would never forget those times.