Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  A moment later Stephen was on the bed beside her, and Mary was in his arms.

  It was so natural to cling to him. He was strength and safety, power and integrity, he was life. She felt crazed by the intensity of her emotions, by the sum of them. How safe she felt, how secure, how right. The leather of his gambeson was smooth beneath her cheek. For a long moment they both held each other, neither moving or speaking. Until he said, soft and rough, into her ear, “I, for one, am more than glad to see you awake.”

  Mary slowly turned her head so she could gaze up at him. Could it be? Could this man have some small amount of tendre for her after all they had suffered together? After all she had done? Had he not risked his life for her?

  She recalled his desperation, the way he had breathed life back into her body.

  And he gazed into her eyes with unwavering intensity, as if he wished to glimpse into her soul.

  Mary’s chest tightened and she found herself meeting his regard openly. She had the overwhelming urge to open all of herself to him, completely.

  “How do you feel?” His tone was not quite steady, unlike the light within his eyes, which was so fierce. Mary thought that she detected a film of moisture there, but she could only assume it was from a speck of dust.

  “I am glad to be alive, my lord. I—I must thank you.”

  She felt his entire body tightening and he moved his mouth even closer to hers. Her body came to life when he spoke, his breath feathering her, tingles sweeping down her spine. “I would have more than thanks from you.”

  Mary was hoarse. “W-What would you h-have, my lord, of me?”

  “Do you truly not know?”

  Mary felt dizzy with the possibilities. She was faint, and unsure of what was happening between them. “You—you have more than my thanks,” she heard herself say.

  His gaze searched hers intently. “Do you bend to me now, finally. Mary?”

  Mary trembled. What bond were they forging, what pact? Did he understand her pledge; did she? “You have saved my life. I almost died. If not for you …” She cried out, unable to continue.

  His own grip upon her tightened. “You have nothing more to fear, mademoiselle,” he told her. “No harm will befall you; you have my word.”

  Mary gripped his leather gambeson. They were upon the verge of some new and great understanding, and she was both afraid and exultant. “Stephen,” she whispered, knowing that she had never called him by his given name before, “I am sorry. I am sorry for betraying you. I will never betray you again, my lord,” she said with fervor. “I give you my word.”

  He was still for a moment; he did not appear to even breathe. His gaze had become very dark and very fierce. “If you are finally speaking the truth, Mary, I would be well pleased.”

  “I am,” she whispered.

  His expression changed, became somehow primitive, and triumphant. “Do you finally come to me willingly as my wife?”

  Their regards locked again. Despite her weakened condition, Mary felt the fluttering of desire low in her belly. “Stephen,” she whispered faintly. A surge of emotion so intense it almost blacked her out overwhelmed her. Mary was stunned to realize that she loved this man. And then, in the next heartbeat, she was not stunned at all. “Yes,” she said softly.

  His eyes widened. A moment later he was bending closer and brushing his mouth gently over hers; in the next instant, there was little gentle about his kiss. Mary did not care. She loved him. She kissed him back.

  Eagerly their tongues mated. Mary pulled Stephen down on top of her, exulting at the feel of him, at his unmistakable reaction to her invitation. He was disturbingly hard and long against her thigh. Mary whimpered. She had almost died, and now, now she was overwhelmed with the urge to take him deep inside her, to cry out in abandon, in ecstasy, and to coax his seed to life. Nothing had ever been as important.

  Stephen was the one to break their kiss. He lifted his head, panting, his brow furrowed, his face grim. “Mary? If we do not stop now—”

  “No!” she cried, shifting so the ripe tip of him brushed the apex of her thighs. “No, my lord, you have saved my life—now let me give you life!”

  Stephen froze, only for an instant. Then he rolled over her, stroking his hands down her belly, stroking intimately between her thighs. Mary moaned in pure pleasure. She thrashed beneath him, panting.

  Her tunic was in the way. With a savage little cry Mary shoved her skirts up to her waist and pressed Stephen’s hand hard against her wet heat. He was startled; his eyes blazed. “For you, my lord,” Mary whispered, aware of being totally carnal in that instant and unable to help herself. “Only for you, my lord.”

  He cried out. A moment later he was sliding his huge shaft deep within her, in an act not just of penetration, but of possession.

  Mary sobbed her joy. She keened her ecstasy. Stephen gasped, sliding in and out of her, stroking her again and again with his massive manhood, until Mary knew a second, even greater ecstasy than before. With a harsh cry, he finally convulsed deep within her. The sounds of their heartbeats, uneven and rapid, mingled with their harsh, heavy breathing.

  Mary sighed.

  “I like your smile, mademoiselle,” Stephen whispered.

  Mary wondered if she looked as love-struck as she felt.

  “We shall do more than well, you and I,” Stephen said.

  Mary tensed. His words had a hard edge to them, as if a challenge, or a vow. She sat up, staring at his dark, handsome face. He was so somber now, as if unsure.

  “It will be so,” Mary whispered, but suddenly she was wistful and afraid, aware now more than ever of the immense past that loomed between them, one that went much further back than just the few weeks since he had captured her, a past consisting of countless battles in which their fathers had crossed swords with deadly intention, a past in which she herself had committed many acts of treachery against him. How Mary yearned then and there for the kind of relationship he had just alluded to, one far more successful than most, one without complications, one honest and real. A relationship that, for them, history and circumstance conspired against.

  And such a conspiracy did not bode well for them. But it was too late. Mary recognized that she had given her heart boldly away and that it would never be hers again. And she was stricken. Not only did the past and present conspire against them, so did many avid, ruthless players. Even if he did care about her, and she was truly beginning to believe that he did, what kind of future could they possibly have?

  Mary reached for him. “Someone tried to kill me.”

  “I know.”

  But before his words were even out, it struck Mary that Adele Beaufort had engineered the attempt on her life. No one else had known she would be on the wharves at that hour, that day.

  “What is it?”

  She raised her shocked gaze to his. “My lord,” she whispered, horrified, “only one person knew of my plans to escape!”

  “Adele Beaufort?”

  She was sick. She nodded dumbly.

  “Adele had help in arranging your escape. We cannot be sure that she was behind the attempt on your life. There are many factions against us, Mary.”

  Mary had been near tears; now she froze. “Who? Who is against our union, Stephen?”

  “Must you know?”

  Her temper flared. “I would know who is my friend and who is my foe, yes!”

  “Adele’s brother is furious that she has been cast aside. Montgomery fears that Northumberland’s power outstrips Shrewsbury. And Duncan—”

  “Duncan! Surely he would never try to harm me! He is my brother!”

  “He is your half brother, whom you have only just met, and he loves only himself and his ambition, Mary.”

  “Perhaps he has ambition, but that does not mean he would harm me!” The very idea was ludicrous, frightening.

  “His ambition is to rule Scotland, to be her king.”

  “No! He could not seek to depose my father!”

  “He
is not such a fool. He hopes to succeed your father. Why else has he remained at Court here for all these years, serving Rufus like some heathen slave? And he is Rufus’s choice.”

  Mary stared. Finally she shook her head, unable to decide how much to say to this man, her future husband. Aware that even now, so soon after her discovery of her own true feelings, and perhaps even his, politics threatened them. “No. Edward shall be Scotland’s next King. Father has decided, and it must be that way.”

  Stephen regarded her. “And Malcolm can do no wrong?”

  Mary jerked. “Let us not discuss Malcolm,” she finally said sharply.

  “Why not, Mary? Is he always right?” Suddenly Stephen’s tone had changed, suddenly he was angry.

  Mary’s heart beat too hard; she shook her head, refusing to answer. Unable to answer.

  Stephen stood abruptly. “We cannot take any more chances, Mary. Therefore you will remain here at Graystone for the next few days, where you will be safe, until our wedding.”

  “For the next few days? But our wedding is not for another three weeks!”

  “No,” Stephen said, leaning over her. “Our wedding date has been changed.”

  “Changed?”

  “The King has agreed. It is most unwise to delay now, in the light of all that has happened. As soon as you are capable of making your vows, we shall be wed.”

  Mary was wide-eyed. Her heart turned over in real pleasure. She could not help smiling. In a few days they would be wed—in a few days she would be his wife!

  It was not until Stephen had left that she realized that his own response had been far different from hers. He had not been smiling when he told her the unexpected news. In truth, he had been grim and uneasy, as if he expected disaster to strike in the very near future.

  “As soon as she can make her vows!”

  “That’s correct, dear brother, as soon as Princess Mary is well enough to stand for the mass and make her vows, they shall be wed.” Rufus smiled, not pleasantly. “Is there a reason such haste should upset you, Henry?”

  Prince Henry was furious. “You know I am against this union; I have said so from the first. I keep hoping you will see reason, and forbid them to join.”

  “Why do you think I agreed to the union in the first place?”

  “I cannot even begin to fathom why.”

  “So that Malcolm will be at rest when our armies swoop down upon him.” Rufus grinned. “It has occurred to me that he will be even more unsuspecting after the wedding.”

  “You have outdone yourself, brother,” Henry said softly, angrily. “What will you do, my lord, if ever the day comes that Northumberland turns to Scotland—against you?”

  “That day will never come.”

  “You are mad! For the sake of some worthless hills you give de Warenne enough power to make or break you!” Henry paced the King’s apartment. It was at times like these that he knew—he absolutely knew—that he should be England’s monarch. Never would he give a single noble such power. Never would he trust one of his vassals with such power. Given his brother’s stupidity, he could not help being sorry that Mary had not drowned. “Who tried to kill her?”

  “I do not know. Was it you, Henry?” Rufus asked blandly.

  Henry’s face reddened with the rush of blood that his renewed fury brought. “If I had been behind the murder attempt, you can be sure she would not be alive this day!”

  Rufus stood, walked to the window, and looked out upon London. “I believe you.”

  “So it was attempted murder?”

  “Contrary to some of the gossip now running rampant, it was.”

  Henry was suddenly smiling. “Was she really running away from de Warenne?”

  “You find that amusing?”

  “Very amusing.” He laughed. “By God, I’ll wager Stephen was enraged. Thai little chit daring to defy him—how I wish I could be privy to at least one of their conversations!”

  “Hmm. I imagine you would rather be privy to that little chit.”

  Henry eyed his brother. “Would such temptation be delivered to me, I would never refuse. And if de Warenne gave you the slightest encouragement, you would jump into his bed as quickly, would you not, Your Majesty?”

  Now it was Rufus’s turn to be furious. “Perhaps when he was a boy, but now such a man is hardly attractive. Hardly attractive,” the King repeated harshly. Yet he was lying, not just to his brother, but to himself. Unrequited lust was a dangerous thing, especially after so many years.

  “Perhaps Stephen will be so grateful, he will thank you as you would like,” Henry said, striding to the door and laughing. “But I do not think so, Will. I do not think so.” With a mocking bow, Henry left.

  Rufus stared after his brother, fists clenched. If Henry were not such a valuable military ally, with a host of Norman mercenaries at his beck and call, he would toss him in the dungeons and throw away the key. Sometimes he hated his brother so much that he was truly tempted to do so. But that was not relevant to his cause. So he would use his brother to the best advantage that he could, always taking care to remain one full step ahead of him. For Rufus understood his brother far better than Henry thought. The reason Henry was so furious over an alliance that hardly affected him now was that he dearly coveted England’s throne. But that, of course, would never be.

  Adele Beaufort lay sprawled flat on her stomach in bed, uncovered, her arms around a pillow, clad only in a short, thin cotton chemise. She was alone in the chamber, all of the other ladies partaking of the day’s last meal. Her eyes were closed, but she was not asleep, and her breathing was irregular.

  The scene from the other day with Geoffrey de Warenne replayed over and over in her mind, and each time her resolve rose anew. Never had she felt the consuming desire for anyone that she felt for him. These past few days he ignored her, pretending she did not exist, pretending that the afternoon they had shared in such utter abandon had never happened. But it had. And she would have him again, and soon. She must.

  She moaned softly, low, clutching the pillow harder, her body on fire. He was here, at the Tower; even now he was downstairs, with everyone else, dining. Adele’s knee came up and pressed into the bed, her shift baring her buttocks.

  Adele recalled everything he had done to her that afternoon, and everything she had done to him. She moaned softly, the fire creeping up her limbs. After such an encounter, she did not think she would ever be really satisfied by any other man.

  She heard footsteps and became still. They were heavy and male and they paused outside the door of her chamber. She did not open her eyes, but the throbbing of her body increased. She imagined Geoffrey entering, running his hands over her back and clasping her buttocks in prelude to impaling her with his massive cock.

  The door opened, without a knock. Adele squeezed the pillow harder, knowing he was staring at her.

  Slowly he closed the door. “Who has you so hot, you little bitch?”

  Adele moaned, the only response she was capable of, unable to stand the agony much longer.

  He approached. “Who?” he asked, pausing at the foot of the bed. “Who has you writhing alone in your bed? Do you even need me, Adele?”

  “Please,” she whispered, hating herself, hating him, fiercely.

  She heard the sound of loosening fabric as he undressed.

  “Please,” she whispered again, begging now.

  He laughed. The pallet buckled from his weight as he knelt between her thighs, his hands roaming up them and only stopping when they had grabbed handfuls of her buttocks. Adele spasmed, gasping.

  “Who has you like this?” He was getting angry, and he gripped her hard, making her cry out. “Who, dammit!”

  Adele spread her legs. “Geoffrey de Warenne,” she gasped.

  With a cry, he thrust into her. Adele bit her tongue to keep from screaming, instantly swept up into a violent climax. Shortly after, he followed, collapsing on top of her.

  She shoved him off, leaping to her feet. In one
stride she had reached her tunic and was pulling it on. She looked at the man lounging on her bed. “Get out of here!”

  Roger Beaufort sat up indolently. “I locked the door.” His smile was taunting. “Is this the gratitude you show me, darling?”

  “Get out,” she repeated furiously. She hated him, she always had, for it was he who had revealed to them both the depths of her immorality—a long time ago.

  Beaufort rose, dressed slowly, and sauntered past her. “You will never change,” he said into her ear. “And he only toys with you—for he has virtue—something you do not even remotely understand.”

  “And you do?” she queried with sarcasm. “Tell me, Roger, just when did you decide to murder Mary? Would it not have been enough for us if she had escaped?”

  He paled. Then he shoved his face to hers. “If you betray me, sister dear, I shall implicate you up to your ears. If I fall, you fall as well.”

  Adele jerked away from him. “Get out!”

  His smile was ugly. “Perhaps I shall even speak with the good archdeacon. I do not think even your body would attract him should he believe you capable of murder.”

  “Get out!”

  Chapter 16

  Mary was tense. Malcolm and Margaret had arrived in London yesterday; tomorrow she would be wed. Stephen had suggested she visit them at the King’s Tower, and as she could not refuse, they were on their way there now. Mary had almost refused. She had wanted to refuse. She did not want to face Malcolm, not now, the day before her wedding.

  Three days had passed since her near death, such a brief period of time, but she had been happy. Although Stephen spent much time at Court, he had attended her every day. They did not speak of what had happened the day they had consummated their union again but Mary believed that they had attained a new and wonderful understanding. She trusted him—how could she not? Brand had been a visitor, and he had told her how Stephen had risked his life to pull her from the river. He had risked his life for her and then given her back her life. Oh yes, she trusted him completely.

  And she had not dissembled when she had promised him that she would never betray him again. She recalled how moved he had been by her vow, and was certain that he trusted her as well.