by Brenda Joyce
After they had left, Stephen began to pace in silence, casting frequent glances towards the stairs. “What keeps the physic? He has been up there for a quarter hour.”
Geoffrey went over to him. “I am sure all is well, Stephen.”
Stephen stared at his brother. Briefly he revealed his torment. “She almost died.”
“But she did not. Brand told us what happened. You gave her back her life, brother.” Geoffrey hesitated. “One day, I am sure, she will be grateful.”
“I do not want her gratitude,” Stephen said without thinking. Then he blushed furiously. “What a fool I am! There is no hope! She despises me, and after we are wed—if we are wed—she will hate me even more for warring upon her land and her kin!”
Geoffrey hesitated, grave, for any response he might make could hardly suffice. “I will pray for you both, Stephen. Maybe, in time, there will be peace, both for the border and for you and your bride.”
Stephen’s expression was dubious.
Both men turned at the sound of the physic’s voice. “My lords, I have good news indeed,” he said, entering the hall.
“She is well?”
“She has suffered greatly, but I can find little wrong with her other than an extreme weakness, which is understandable. I prescribe a diet of raw eggs and ox blood, known to be particularly fortuitous in restoring the heart. In a day or two I expect that most of her humors will be restored to their natural state—if you follow my advice.”
Geoffrey nodded. Stephen said tersely, “How is she now?”
“She sleeps, but it is a healing sleep. And may I suggest, my lord, that you rest, too?”
Stephen nodded, thanking the physic. He turned and slowly went up the stairs, finally allowing himself to feel the full extent of his exhaustion. His jaw hardened. Mary was alive, she had not died … thank God … and if Rolfe continued to exercise the influence he was wont to have, they would be wed, not in three weeks, but in mere days.
But then what?
Geoffrey wondered what it was like to love a woman so much that he would willingly give up his own life in order to save hers. Briefly, oh so briefly, he succumbed to temptation, and could imagine the passion, the love, the friendship, and the dreams.
The sound of riders approaching at a gallop broke into his thoughts. Geoffrey became still, listening. The hour was not even seven. Rolfe and Brand had left only moments ago, and he wondered if it was possible that Rufus had learned of Mary’s whereabouts so soon.
He strode to the windows and saw five riders clattering into the courtyard, showing off the bold blue and gold colors of Essex. Geoffrey tensed. In their midst was Adele Beaufort.
At her knock, Geoffrey let her in. She was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, her cheeks red from the wind. She stared at Geoffrey for a brief moment; he in turn was as unsmiling. He remembered too well their single encounter. The moment stretched out between them.
“What brings you to Graystone, Lady Beaufort?” he at last asked. “Surely not the need for morning exercise?”
She pulled her hood from her head, lifting her raven tresses and letting them flow free to tease the back of her thighs. “Whatever could you mean, Lord de Warenne?” she said coolly, then she ignored him, moving briskly past him into the hall. He was aware of her thigh brushing his hip.
He followed. He watched her pause in the center of the hall, facing the stairs. He folded his arms. She tore her gaze from the stairwell. “Well? Is Stephen here?”
“He sleeps.”
She hesitated, her eyes searching his face. “And Mary?”
Geoffrey’s smile was wry and brief. “Ahh, so now we come to the purpose of this visit.”
She was stiff. “The whole world knows the princess almost drowned. Is she … alive?”
“She is very alive.”
Adele turned away, but not before he had seen her dismay.
Geoffrey strode the short distance separating them and gripped her arm, turning her to face him. She cried out. He had never manhandled a woman before, and was inwardly ashamed, but Adele was no ordinary woman. “How distraught you appear, Lady Beaufort!”
She glared but ceased struggling. Her heavy breasts rose and fell, hard.
“Did you hire the assassin?” Geoffrey demanded, giving her a rough shake. “Did you?”
“No!”
“Are you a murderess as well as a temptress?” he demanded, shaking her once again.
“No!”
He believed her. He released her, relieved.
She rubbed her arms, staring at him, her eyes black. “I admit I wish that Mary was gone, but she planned to escape—not to drown!”
“Were you involved in the escape plan?”
Her hesitation was minute. “She asked me to help her. And can you blame me?” she flung. “Can you blame me?”
He stared.
Tears welled in her eyes. “Stephen was mine for two years; for two years the world knew I belonged to Northumberland! And now what? Now what! I am a laughingstock with laughable prospects!”
He softened. “You cannot be at a loss for suitors, Lady Beaufort.”
“But none is Stephen de Warenne, heir to the Earl of Northumberland!”
How well he understood her ambition; it was so like his. “I am sure you will make a good match.”
“Good, yes.” She was bitter. “But great? No.”
He did not realize that he had moved closer to her. “Is it the loss of Northumberland that moves you so closely to tears—or the loss of my brother?”
She blinked. “Why do you ask?”
His jaw was tight. So was every inch of the rest of his body, including his loins. “I need to know.”
She gazed into his eyes. “You want me, don’t you?”
He swallowed. God, he did! “Even mere wanting is wrong.”
“No,” she breathed, advancing. “ ’Tis not wrong—for us, ’tis so right!”
Suddenly he could not help himself, and her face was in his hands. “Did you lust for Stephen as you do for me?”
“No! Never!” she cried. “How I wish you were the eldest! Somehow I would get rid of Mary, for I would never let her have you! And then it would be you I wed, you! And you would not be sorry!”
“You go too far.” But he did not release her stunning face. It flashed through his mind that she might be capable of murder. But the thought was brief. For he was overwhelmed with a dark, primal fear, a foreboding.
Adele was not like the widow Tarn. Her pull was far greater, and far more dangerous. And with that lure there was the threat of complications, complications he sensed but had yet to understand.
“Admit that you want me,” Adele was whispering.
Geoffrey looked at her upturned face, gripped in his large hands. His thumbs moved slightly along her jaw, stroking her silken skin. She was wicked. He wanted to be wicked with her. “I want you.”
“I want you, too, dear God, I do! So badly at night that…” She trailed off, her full lips parted and quivering, ripe for his kiss.
He was mesmerized. “Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely.
She took one of his hands, squeezed it, then brought it down between them. Geoffrey was frozen. She pressed his palm even lower, against the swell of her femininity. He could feel her blood beating against his hand. “At night I touch myself, dreaming that it is you. When I cry out, ’tis your name I speak.”
He groaned. Of its own volition, his hand cupped her sex, ignoring the thin silk that sheathed her. He imagined what she did to herself, imagined what he might do to her. For the first time he faced the depth of his lust. He wanted to rut with her in a mindless, animal-like frenzy. The extent of his own carnality shocked him. Just once, he wanted to let go of all thought and allow his body to do as it willed. He wanted to sink into utter depravity with her. Just once.
He was only a man, and a weak one at that. She would not be the first woman he had taken, but she might very well be the last. For if he soon received the kind of ap
pointment the King had hinted at, he must make his final vows, committing himself irrevocably to God. Vows he would never break.
Geoffrey gripped her hand. Her eyes widened. His mouth carved itself into a harsh smile. “Let us fall from grace together, Adele. Today. Now.”
She gasped. He was pulling her with him across the hall and outside. She had to run to keep up with him as they crossed the courtyard, passing the stables. He was aware of nothing and no one other than the woman at his side, and his sinister intent.
“Where are you taking me?” she cried hoarsely.
“To the woods,” he said shortly, panting. His uneven breathing had little to do with the rapid pace he had set for them.
Finally they were sheltered by thick stands of trees. Geoffrey turned to face Adele, already pulling at his braided belt. It dropped to the ground, the gold cross that hanged from it glinting dully in the daylight amidst fall’s crimson leaves. He did not take his eyes from her face. She appeared mesmerized. He stripped off his robes. She whimpered when she saw his straining phallus.
“Lady Beaufort?” he queried, restraining his impatience with a superhuman effort. “Your clothing. I want you naked.”
She came to life. Her laughter rang out wickedly as she pulled off her cote and surcote. Geoffrey started when he saw she wore no chemise. She laughed again, displaying herself proudly, standing broad-shouldered and full-breasted, her black hair waving in the wind. She preened without shame.
Adele held her arms out to him. “Come,” she whispered. “We have only just begun, you and I. I have never been more sure of anything. You are hard, hurting. Come to me, my lord. Let me ease the pain.”
He pulled her against him. Their mouths met in a wild fusion. She tore her lips away. Before he could protest, she was slithering down his body. On her knees, she nibbled his navel, rubbing her breasts against his sex. Then her head descended, and with her tongue, she began to lick him in slow, sure strokes. Finally she took him deep into her mouth.
Geoffrey was unthinking, at last. With a groan of pure pleasure, he pushed her down on her back. “My turn,” he rasped, laughing deep in his throat.
He spread her thighs wide, spread her hot, wet lips. As she had done to him, he licked her throbbing flesh. She screamed, clenching fistfuls of his hair. He laved her mercilessly. He licked every recess, every fold. He sucked and teased. He had one goal now, and that was to be a slave to animal desire—and to enslave her with him.
When he rose up over her, she was sobbing. With a savage cry he thrust into her. She screamed again, her nails raking down his back.
A long time later they were both spent. The sun had risen high into the sky and was just beginning its descent. They lay in sheer exhaustion, in the dirt and leaves, unmoving.
Adele finally stirred, raising herself up on one elbow. Greedily she inspected every inch of his perfect body with her eyes. He had one arm flung over his face, so she could not determine if he slept or merely rested. She sighed. No man had ever taken her to such heights of ecstasy before.
She began to smile. This was only the beginning. She was as certain of that as she had ever been of anything in her entire life. This was only the beginning for them both. Now, now she could be glad that he was of the Church. For even after she one day married as she must, he would never belong to another woman. He would only belong to her. It was a promise she made to them both.
Chapter 15
Duncan’s mood was extremely foul. Who had beaten him in wielding the blow against Mary, only to so badly bungle the attempt upon her life?
Gossip blazed among the lords and ladies of the Court already, as it had ever since sunrise. Some said that the princess had attempted an escape from the Tower, others said she had been abducted, but no matter the reason she was outside the walls, all agreed that no one fell into the River Thames without a solid push.
Though apparently, no one had seen that event. Duncan had been discreetly interviewing the watchmen, but they had only witnessed Stephen’s determined rescue of the princess from the river’s murky depths, and the incredible manner in which he had summoned her back from her death.
Duncan was livid. Was de Warenne always in the right place at the right time? If the bastard heir had not been about the wharves at dawn, Mary would now be dead, and he, Duncan, would be innocent of the bloody deed.
Duncan could guess, like everyone else, who it was who had the largest stake in preventing the union of Scotland and Northumberland easily enough. The next question was, would the other party—or parties—try again, this time successfully?
He doubted it. The de Warennes were on alert. No murderer would be given even half a chance to send Mary into the everafter now. Justifiably he was furious. For he would not be given a chance, either. And Duncan would not be so foolish to try and kill Mary under such circumstance.
No, he must postpone his scheme, at least before the wedding, at least for now. Perhaps he must even change the means. But the end remained the same. He could not allow a union between his little sister and Stephen de Warenne.
Mary first became aware of the voices. Soft murmurs that were so faint as to be inaudible. She thought she was dreaming. Then she realized that the raw hollowness in her lungs was no dream. The voices grew louder, becoming distinct from one another. Suddenly Mary recognized the firm tones of the Countess of Northumberland and the high, childish ones of her daughter, Isobel, and she was fully awake. Comprehension dawned.
She had almost drowned. Mary stiffened, only peripherally aware of people standing over her. Sensations flooded her being sucked down into wet, black darkness, panic filling her breast, her lungs burning, burning … Oh, dear Lord, she had tried to escape, but instead of escaping, she had been pushed into the Thames—she had almost died.
Someone had tried to murder her.
“Mother, Mother, she is awake!” Isobel cried excitedly.
“Can you hear me?” the countess asked softly.
But how was it that she was not dead? With frightening clarity, Mary recalled her last thoughts before losing consciousness.
And then she remembered. The scene was vivid, unshakable. Stephen holding her in his arms in the river, where she floated like a corpse, then Brand taking her to shore. Mary opened her eyes wide. How could she have such a memory? The perspective was all wrong—as if she were far above the ground, looking down upon the players in a singularly strange drama.
But it had been no play. Mary was certain that what she had seen had really happened—for now, like the acts performed by traveling players, the scene unfolded with frightening intensity and startling swiftness. Brand laying her upon the dock, Stephen being hauled from the water. And then he was upon her, pounding her back. Turning her over, begging her to breathe. And then he was breathing the air from his own lungs into hers. The memory grew darker, the images fuzzy. Mary could distinctly hear Brand telling Stephen that she was dead. But then she heard no more, and the recollection had blackened into nothingness.
The countess was smiling. “Hello, Princess. We have been hoping you would waken soon.”
Mary blinked at her, trembling. Had she really seen herself on the brink of death? Had her soul, perhaps, been winging its way towards Heaven? Had Stephen somehow called her back?
“You almost died, Lady Mary!” Isobel cried, taking Mary’s hands in hers and squeezing them with obvious delight that she was in fact alive.
“I almost died,” Mary echoed.
“Isobel, do not distress the princess,” Ceidre said sternly.
But Mary was sitting upright, clinging to hotel’s hands. “Did Stephen save me? Did Stephen breathe into my mouth?”
Both the countess and Isobel started. “But—how could you know such a thing?” Ceidre said. “Stephen said you were unconscious, unbreathing, near dead.”
Mary sank back onto the mattress, her heart pounding. She squeezed her eyes closed. Hot tears stung her lids.
She had almost died. Stephen had saved her. Stephen had
given her back her life.
And as she could not explain to herself the strange memory of watching Stephen minister to her on the dock, she could not explain it to them. One thing was clear. That she lived was a miracle, and she owed Stephen far more than mere thanks.
“Isobel, bring me a chemise and cote,” the countess said. Isobel scurried to obey. “Raise your arms, dear; I will help you dress.”
Mary obeyed. As Stephen’s mother helped her to dress, she thought about how she had tried to drug Stephen. Either he was superhuman or he had known of her scheme. It was easy to feel horrible now for deceiving him, for such treachery. How could she have done such a thing?
“Are you all right, Mary?” the countess asked with concern.
Mary froze, speech escaping her. For standing in the doorway was the man consuming her thoughts.
The wintry light straying through the windows of the chamber was dismal, and Stephen was cloaked in it. His expression was impossible to determine. Mary’s heart thundered. She had the urge to cry out to him, in greeting, in gratitude, and in some nameless emotion she dared not identify. But she did not. Instead, she collapsed against the pillows, watching him.
The bedchamber was small, and he crossed it quickly and decisively, pausing at his mother’s side. His gaze held hers. “Good day, mademoiselle.”
Mary knew she must thank this man and apologize for her horrible betrayal of him. But still she could not speak. Nor could she look away; indeed, she was no longer aware of the countess or Isobel. Finally he said, “We have been waiting for you to awaken.”
Mary wet her lips, which were dry.
“Here,” Isobel said, instantly handing her a cup of water. The child smiled at her. “Drink this, lady.”
The countess straightened. “Come, Isobel, Stephen wishes a moment alone with his bride.”
Mary barely heard the countess’s words, did not even see as she and her daughter left the chamber, closing the door behind them. They stared at each other. He was grave, she was anxious and mute.
