Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  For one instant, his gaze wandered from her lush mouth to her heaving bosom. Her mantle had opened, and as she wore not one thing under her fine silk tunic, her nipples, large and erect, were clearly visible, as was every inch of her voluptuous figure. Geoffrey saw no sign of a pregnancy. “Are you with child?” He set her away abruptly.

  Instantly she was back in his arms. “We must meet!”

  Geoffrey gripped her wrists, forcing her to break her hold upon him. “No, Adele, it is over.”

  She inhaled. Then she twisted wildly. “I will kill you!”

  Geoffrey forced her against the wall while she struggled wildly, hissing and spitting like a cat. Finally he subdued her, but he was not pleased, for she had felt his rigid manhood and she was laughing, exultant. “You need me, darling, you cannot deny it!”

  Geoffrey did not want to be cruel, but she was toying with him when she spoke of a child, and he could not allow it. “I want only a woman’s body, Adele, and it need not be yours.”

  She choked in fury. “And I have only missed your big cock, you whoreson,” Adele cried.

  Geoffrey was too agitated to laugh. “You are always so ladylike, Adele.”

  She went still, panting. She finally looped her arms around him, groaning, pressing her own quivering body closer to his. “No, Geoff, you know that’s not the truth. Of course I have missed you,” she said huskily. “You are the only man for me, I swear it.”

  “I doubt it,” he said, very grim. He shrugged free of her. He had no wish to have someone walk in on them, alone and embracing—the repercussions would be vast. Especially now, if his spies were correct.

  Adele moved to him, a stalking, determined tigress, and one of her long, tapered nails skimmed his cheek. “No one is as good as you.”

  “It is over, Adele, over.”

  She hissed in displeasure. He caught her arm before her talon could claw down his cheek. “Is there someone else? Who?!” she cried.

  “There is no one else.”

  “I do not believe you!” Suddenly she seized his hard shaft. “Or maybe I do!”

  He batted her hand away. “Obviously you are not tired, and obviously you are not ill. I will have you escorted to the abbey. If you make a scene, Adele, we will both pay a terrible price. Accept that it is over.”

  “No. It will never be over!” And she smiled. She blazed with triumph.

  Geoffrey was touched with foreboding, and the skin at the nape of his neck tingled. “You are with child, aren’t you?”

  She laughed once, the sound husky and exultant. “It will be a boy. A gypsy told me so last week.” Staring at Geoffrey, she added, “Henry will be so pleased.”

  Geoffrey’s face was tight, his nostrils flared. His tone was dangerous. “Could it be mine?”

  She laughed with delight. She shrugged.

  He jumped on her. She had turned her back as if to leave, but he whirled her about. “Whose child is it?”

  “What do I get if I tell you?” she asked coyly.

  He had never hit a woman before. He almost hit her now. “When is the child due, Adele? Answer me, before I damn you to hell!”

  Adele blanched. “In seven months.”

  Geoffrey made a rapid calculation. “So it could be Ferrar’s—or it could be mine.”

  Adele watched him, both wary and excited.

  Geoffrey walked away from Adele, his shoulders rigid, his eyes arctic blue. He was shaking. Was he the father?

  And Adele was smiling.

  Geoffrey had no children. It was no surprise, considering that, although hardly celibate, he fought his sexual proclivities the best that he could. Still, he had had his first woman at the age of thirteen—would he not have created a child by now? It occurred to him that he might not have a potent seed. He had not brooded upon this before. In his position, a child would be a liability and an embarrassment. A child could wreck all that he had worked for, it could destroy his future.

  But … dear God, how he yearned for a child!

  Dear, dear God, how he hoped that the babe Adele carried was his!

  In spite of the fact that he could never claim the child openly and in spite of the consequences he might have to pay if ever the truth were revealed—he wanted this child to be his.

  Geoffrey looked at Adele. She was smiling and smug with satisfaction. He was furious. “You will be sorry if you continue to toy with me, Adele.”

  Her smile vanished. “ ’Tis yours. I know it.”

  “How can you be sure? I was in your bed every day for two weeks, but immediately after, you were married to Ferrars. How can you be sure?”

  “I am sure!”

  Geoffrey knew better than to believe her. It was impossible for her to be sure—wasn’t it? In this instance, either he or Ferrars could be the father, and the child’s actual birth date would prove nothing, for a child could be born early or late.

  And as Ferrars was also fair, unless the child’s looks were unmistakable, that also would prove nothing—and if it did, it would be many years from now when the child was well into adulthood.

  Adele had come to stand behind him, one of her hands upon his shoulder. “You are the father,” she said seductively. “I am sure of it. Your seed could only be powerful and potent, as you are.”

  Geoffrey hardly heard her. In that instant he realized that in all likelihood he would never know the truth. And it was also the moment when he realized that the child would bind him to Adele forever, in a way far more important than mere lust ever could.

  And for a moment, a moment of insanity, even knowing Adele as he did, he coveted her as his wife.

  “I will have you escorted to the abbot. If you wish, I will send him a brief missive.”

  “Geoffrey!”

  His gaze was opaque, unreadable. “The child changes nothing, Adele. ’Tis over between us.”

  “But I love you,” Adele cried. She flushed, the telltale color betraying her words as the truth.

  “Then I am sorry,” Geoffrey said. “Then I am truly sorry, sorrier than you will ever know.”

  Adele was not a woman who cried. It had been many years since she had shed tears of grief, and that had been when she was a ten-year-old child who had just learned that her parents had been killed by outlaws, leaving her orphaned. She did not cry two years later after her corruption by her stepbrother, Roger Beaufort, a corruption her wicked body had eagerly participated in. But that night, alone on a hard pallet in St. Augustine’s Abbey, she wept, brokenhearted.

  Now that she had said the words, she knew they were true. She loved him. He was powerful, pure, and good—unlike her. He was the epitome of manhood, and despite his lapse from celibacy, he was virtuous in a way Adele could hardly understand, but could somehow admire.

  For the first time in her life, Adele wished she were a virtuous woman. She wished she were someone else, someone worthy of Geoffrey de Warenne, a woman he might want not just in his bed, but as his wife. For the first time, she regretted her nature, her affairs, everything. But she could not regret him.

  She knew her child was his. It could not be Henry’s; every instinct she had told her that. It must be his! If not, she had truly lost him.

  Adele was suddenly dry-eyed. She had spent the past six years since her parents’ death alone, scheming in order to survive—and not just to survive, but to survive well. She had hardly ever lost a single battle in that span of time—she would not lose now.

  Geoffrey was not unmoved by the news of the child. Adele was determined. This separation could not be final. She wanted Geoffrey back. He belonged to her.

  There was time, she decided finally, wiping away her tears. As she had concluded long ago, ’twas fortunate that he was of the Church, so she had nothing to fear from another woman. And she did not fear his virtue. He still desired her, and she was an expert at seduction. Tomorrow she would try again. Tomorrow she would succeed. And if not tomorrow, then the day after that.

  She would never give up.

 
Adele was shown by the young deacon to the chamber where Geoffrey worked. Even though she was announced, Geoffrey did not move. He stood by one of the open windows, drenched in sunlight. His beautiful, golden profile was stark, ravaged.

  Adele was frozen. Something was terribly wrong.

  Geoffrey turned his head slightly towards her. His gaze was strangely flat. “What now, Adele?”

  He was weary, and Adele longed to hold him. Then she realized that he held a scroll in his hand. The scroll’s seal was broken. And it was unmistakable, for it was royal.

  Adele tensed, knowing that Geoffrey must have received another summons from the King, and knowing as she did how he had fought Rufus for control over many matters pertinent to both Crown and Church alike, she was afraid. How often she had wanted to warn him to cease his mad war against the Crown, but had refrained, not wanting him to comprehend the depth of her passion for him. “Geoffrey—what news do you have?”

  His mouth curled slightly. “Why, I have just attained all that I have dreamed of.”

  His tone was strangely mocking. The hairs upon Adele’s nape rose. “Darling,” she whispered, forgetting the open door, “what has passed?”

  Then his eyes glittered and his expression changed, his jaw flexing, as if a threshold had been crossed, a decision made. “The King has appointed me Bishop of Ely.”

  Adele gasped. A thrill swept over her. “Bishop of Ely!” she cried. “My God, that’s wonderful!”

  Geoffrey said nothing, standing tall, straight, and unmoving, his eyes brilliant but opaque.

  “But you and the King have been fighting for four years—ever since Lanfranc died,” Adele said. Her brow furrowed. “Why would Rufus appoint you to such a position of power and preeminence?”

  “Do you not see?” he asked dryly. “I am being bought, Adele. The King thinks to remove a prickly rose thorn from his side.”

  Adele looked at Geoffrey, proud and cold and indomitable, and shuddered. She was more than afraid. She knew him. From the next Bishop of Ely, the King would expect unwavering loyalty, but Geoffrey was not the kind of man to compromise his cause. And his cause was the Church.

  Adele’s fears increased. The subtle kind of warfare Geoffrey and the King had so far engaged in had been nothing compared to what would erupt if Geoffrey, once invested, continued upon his present course. ’Twould be suicide! “You must not do anything foolish once this appointment comes to pass! You must cease your mulish confrontation with the Crown!”

  Geoffrey regarded her. “What? Could it be that you have some fondness for me after all—outside of the bedchamber?”

  Adele shivered, his tone frightening her. And she could not help glancing at the open door, but no one lurked there who could overhear them. Still, Geoffrey was never so careless. “Of course I do.”

  His lifted brow spoke of pure skepticism.

  Adele’s fear grew. “Geoffrey, what is happening to you? Dear God, you have just received a great honor from the King, an appointment other men would die for, cheat for, steal and lie for—but you have attained it honestly! Yet you hardly seem pleased!”

  “I am pleased.” He smiled, but it was not mirthful. “How could I not be pleased?”

  Suddenly Adele realized that his appointment could be deterred, and Geoffrey had many enemies. He had said so himself. “You will have the appointment—will you not?”

  “Indeed I will. I have received another missive this morn, from Anselm, who returns on the morrow to ordain me. He promises his full support, which means that election by the cathedral chapter is assured. Investiture shall be a mere formality.”

  Adele could not breathe easier. She was thrilled with his appointment—God, how it suited him—but already he had changed. She was dismayed as well as overjoyed. For he seemed aloof, remote, distant.

  And the power she had seen in him from the first was magnified, emanating from him in cool, undulating waves.

  Adele trembled. Geoffrey de Warenne faced her from across the chamber in his long, dark robes and heavy gold cross, strikingly male, reeking of virility, blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful. She shook. He was one of the premier prelates in the realm, and one of the King’s most powerful vassals. He was the Bishop of Ely, and dear God, he was not quite twenty-three.

  Even she was awed.

  Chapter 26

  Mary did not want to face Stephen again at Court after all of the time that had passed. She wanted no large audience to witness their exchange. Prince Henry took her directly to the door at Graystone. Mary politely thanked him for his efforts on her behalf, and as politely invited him in. He grinned. “I would not miss this for the world, Mary.”

  Mary had hoped he would decline. She was angered once again, especially because he made no attempt to hide his anticipation of the scene that would surely follow. Mary had enough to worry about without having the enigmatic prince around.

  She was not feeling brave at all. Her heart was in her throat and she was sick to her stomach. It had taken two days to get to London. Because of her condition, she had ridden in a litter. During those two days she had not been able to eat or sleep. Fear consumed her. So much was at stake. Her future was at stake. She could imagine, with dread, what Stephen’s reaction upon seeing her would be. At the very best he would coldly order her to return to Tetly; at the worst, he would be enraged that she had defied him yet again.

  She could not, however, even begin to imagine what his response to her pregnancy might be. Although she had good reason to have denied him the news until now, he would hardly see it that way. She was regretting the deception with every breath she drew. What should be a joyous moment was one clogged with fear and dread.

  Mary pulled her cloak and cowl more closely about her, the prince at her side, and walked to the front door. It was late in the day, dusk was falling rapidly, and there was a strong chance that Stephen would be home. The large contingent Henry traveled in had made a commotion as it halted in the meadow across the road, so their advent was no surprise. The Earl of Northumberland stood in the open doorway, watching them approach. He smiled in greeting at Henry.

  His gaze slid back to her, unsmiling and searching. Although Mary hoped to hide her face—and identity—for as long as possible, she suspected that her small size gave her away.

  “What brings you here, Henry?” Rolfe asked.

  “I am delivering a surprise,” Henry said with a chuckle.

  Mary followed the two men inside. Her heart dropped to her feet. She wished to disappear. Standing facing them, his broad back to the hearth, was Stephen de Warenne.

  “A surprise?” Rolfe asked with skepticism.

  Henry only laughed.

  Stephen stared. Mary cringed. He knew. For disbelief clouded his features, warring with rage. He had known her instantly.

  “You bring her here?” he asked Henry incredulously, but his hard gaze was on Mary.

  Mary pushed her hood back, filled with despair. “Stephen, it was my idea.”

  Stephen either ignored her or did not hear her. He addressed the prince again. “You bring her here when you know how I feel about her?”

  “She has the most urgent need to see you,” Henry remarked dryly.

  Stephen advanced. Fury tightened his features. “I left you at Tetly, madame, for a reason. Surely you cannot have forgotten why?” He had raised his voice. It thundered.

  Mary managed to stand her ground. “Enough is enough, Stephen,” she said. She blinked back tears. “Could we have a private word, please?”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Stephen said coldly. “You are returning to Tetly at once. This minute, in fact, is not soon enough.”

  “No,” Mary whispered desperately.

  “Stephen, you had better hear what she has to say,” Henry said calmly, though there was no mistaking the command in his voice.

  Stephen wheeled, facing his friend, furious with him as well, but he visibly controlled his anger. Then, abruptly, he grabbed Mary’s arm. He made no effort to be ge
ntle, and his grip hurt. Mary cried out. Stephen half-dragged her to the stairs.

  “Have a care with her, Stephen,” Henry said sharply.

  Stephen did not pause, but his hold eased. Nevertheless, he did not release her, propelling her quickly up the short flight of stairs and into the first chamber on the floor. He slammed the door shut behind them.

  Nervously Mary backed away from him.

  “Your tears do not move me,” Stephen said. Mary wiped her eyes. “Will you never forgive me?”

  “No.”

  Mary sobbed plaintively, sorrowfully. She flung off her cloak. “Damn you,” she whispered.

  “You are getting fat,” Stephen said harshly.

  Mary blinked at him and molded her gown to her belly with her hands. In case he might still be in doubt, she turned sideways. Stephen stared.

  “Do not ask. If you dare to ask, I will kill you. The babe is yours. I have lain with no other man, and I never will,” Mary cried.

  Stephen did not move, did not speak. He did not seem capable of either speech or movement. He stared in shock at the profile of her protruding belly.

  Finally Mary dropped her hands and took a step over to the bed. She sank down on it in exhaustion. “Twill come, I think, in July.”

  Stephen recovered. His voice was strangely hoarse, though, when he spoke. “That means you conceived soon after we met Before we were wed. And you have known this entire time.”

  She looked at him directly. She would not let him cow her, not anymore. “I guessed immediately, as immediately as possible for a woman whose monthly times were never precise. I wanted to tell you before the war. I was saving the news for a special time.” Tears clouded her vision. “I wanted to bring you this news as a gift of love in a moment of love. Foolish me!”

  “And still you did not tell me at Dunfermline,” Stephen said, pale now. They both remembered how he had hit her and knocked her down in the abbey in rage.

  “I knew you would delight in finding another reason to fault me, to accuse me of disloyalty. I did not tell you. You made it clear that you would send me away to have the child—I could not accept that.”