Promise of the Rose (4 page)

She opened her mouth but found herself incapable of summoning a self-defense. Her stunned mind could drum up only one terrible image, and that was of her captor pressing her down beneath him on his pallet.

His hand left her face, but caught her own palm, turning it over. “Milk white, silk-soft.”

Terrified and mute, aware that she had not a single callus, she was drawn to his glittering gaze. She recognized the intensity there now even though she had never been faced
with such an uninhibited display of male lust before.

The corners of his mouth lifted—an attractive, perfectly formed mouth, Mary could not help thinking—in an expression that could not be described as even the semblance of a smile; rather, it hinted at aggression and triumph and primitive satisfaction. Mary drew back, a second too late. He had already slipped her veil from her hair. As he leaned close, nuzzling her cheek, he said, “You hair is clean and it smells of flowers.” He straightened, staring. “I have little doubt that if I looked beneath your clothes, I would find skin as clean and as sweet-smelling.”

Mary lurched to her feet. She did not get far. He gripped one wrist, jerking her immediately back down on her knees beside him. “Am I correct?”

“Nae! Na’ at all! I swear tae yae—” Mary’s words were cut off when his hand snaked up her leg, beneath all of her clothing, a caress of hard, callused palm on soft, naked skin. Mary cried out, shocked at the violent sensation sweeping through her. She was staring down dumbly at the entire length of her bare leg, from where her wool socks ended at her calf to the very top of her thigh, which he had just exposed.

“As I thought,” he said, and now there was a change in his tone, one Mary immediately recognized despite her inexperience, one that tightened every fiber of her being and made her pulse soar.

“I… I can explain,” she whispered.

“Soft, so soft, and clean,” he said, locking regards with her again. He did not cover up her nakedness. He did not remove his hand from her thigh, his fingertips perilously close to grazing the ripe plumpness at the apex there. Instead, nostrils flared now, he leaned close, his face—his lips—brushing her neck.

Mary gasped. Her eyes fell closed, her body jolted as thoroughly by his kiss as if by a bolt of lightning. There was no air to be had in the cramped space of the tent. His mouth moved with growing fervor on the vulnerable underside of her neck. His thumb slipped through her pubic hair and up against the cleft of her flesh. Mary could not contain herself. She moaned. Her mind, once filled with hostility, was now
dizzily blank, receptive to nothing but the stunning sensation he dealt her as deftly as he might a sword’s fatal blow.

He crooned in her ear, his mouth against one lobe, his thumb against another, “So who are you, my lady? And more importantly, what are you, if not a spy?”

S
tephen de Warenne watched her wrench away from him with a cry of fright. Had he thrown icy water over her head, he could not have shocked her more. She did not get far. His grip was iron on her wrists. Casually he pulled her back to him, until her nose almost touched his.

He was indifferent to women, with precisely two exceptions, but he was not immune to females he found attractive, and this one was probably as close to perfection as anyone would ever come—in face and form, at least. Despite the fact that she was no common wench—that undoubtedly she was an experienced courtesan sent to whore for him and spy upon him by his enemies, of whom he had a few—he was hardly indifferent to the entire length of her naked leg, now clamped between his, or the softness of her breasts, crushed against his chest, or the astounding beauty of her face, just inches from his own.

Blood had long since surged to his phallus. He was heavy and impatient. Their position was so intimate that she could feel every inch of him, but wasn’t seduction her intention? Why else would such a woman be sent to him in such an
elaborate disguise? He attributed her wide, frightened gaze to his having ascertained the truth.

For a moment, despite his better intentions, he longed to take her, then and there, hard and fast, and be done with it. Answers could come later. But he was his father’s son and heir. Furthering the interests of Northumberland had been his overriding ambition since he had won his spurs at thirteen. His reputation as a keen and ruthless leader had been earned, not given. Answers could not wait. If his enemies knew he was there, the King’s plans were in jeopardy.

“Wh-What?” Mary finally managed to gasp.

“I think you heard me very well, demoiselle,” he said coldly. Because his blood was so overheated, he set her down on the pallet beside him while keeping a cautious grip on her wrist. Inherent politeness made him refer to her as if she were a lady when she was obviously the furthest thing from it, although to look at her, a man would never guess so. For some reason, he was disappointed that her angelic facade was only that, a facade. “Who has sent you here to spy upon me? Montgomery? Roger Beaufort? The King? Or is Prince Henry once again up to his infernal tricks?”

She stared at him as if mesmerized. He was a hardened man, yet a pang of empathy swept him. She was young, very young. The courtesans he knew—and so frequently used—were older and widowed. This girl looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen, but again, looks deceived.

“I am nae spy,” she gasped out.

“Do not treat me as a fool,” he said coldly.

“Yae promised tae release me!”

“I am not yet healed.” He watched her absorb his statement. Instantly she understood his meaning, rage suffusing her features. He should not be surprised at how quick she was. Only a very clever woman would be sent to work her wiles upon him.

“Yae deceived me!” she cried. “Yae made me believe yae’d let me gae after I tended tae yer wound!”

“You believed what you chose to believe.” His patience was at an end. “Enough. I demand answers and I demand them now. Who are you and who sent you?”

She shook her head, tears coming to her eyes, tears that could not, he told himself, affect him. He knew from many years of experience that, with very few exceptions, women were not to be trusted. This one was not one of those exceptions; indeed, she should be mistrusted more than most. She was young but no innocent and no child. Undoubtedly her fear and tears were theatrics.

“I am nae spy.”

Another thought had occurred to him. “Or did Malcolm Canmore send you?”

She started. “Nae! He dinna! I dinna even know him! I am nae spy, I swear tae yae!”

She was lying. He was certain of it. Just as he was certain now that Malcolm Canmore was behind this treachery. Newfound anger made him doubly grim. “I warn you, demoiselle, I have the means of forcing information from you, and once provoked, I am merciless.”

“Please! I can explain tae yae. ’tis not what yae think!”

“Then I suggest you do so now.”

“I—I am a bastard. Me father is Sinclair o’ Dounreay Castle, me mother a dairymaid,” she blurted, fast.

He did not raise a brow. Such a claim was only possible if she thought to dupe him, given her absurdly ill-fitting disguise. And it was possible that she was actually some laird’s by-blow. Yet he was certain that she was lying, and she would only be lying if she were a spy. “Eager now to volunteer information, demoiselle? Where is Dounreay?”

“As far north as ye can gae.” She worried her hands in her lap, not meeting his eyes.

It was an excellent lie. He would not be able to confirm her parentage in a timely manner, although confirm it, he would. He almost felt a grudging respect for her; she was no fool. And to come to him on such an errand took a great deal of courage. “As far north as you can go,” he repeated. “As far north as the Orkney Islands?”

She smiled in relief. “Almost.”

He sat very still, regarding her. It was the first time that she had smiled since he had laid his eyes upon her, and if he had thought her beautiful before, she was glorious
now. The interrogation had distracted him from his carnal inclinations, but now his blood roiled and his shaft reared rock-hard against his short shift again. Grimly he probed on. “I see. And what brings you so far south to Carlisle?”

She was flushing crimson, tearing her gaze from his loins. He could almost see her mind working. It was clear to him that she thought frantically for a plausible answer, which puzzled him. If she were as clever as he was becoming convinced that she was, she should have memorized her story far in advance of their meeting. Nor did he understand her blushes.

“I am from Liddel. My mother was from Liddel.”

Stephen leaned back against his saddle, clapping his hands twice. “A memorable performance, demoiselle.”

“Yae dinna believe me?!”

“I do not believe a single word you have said.”

She froze, her eyes huge and riveted to his.

“You have ten seconds, demoiselle, to tell me all of the truth. If you fail to do so, you shall suffer the consequences as forewarned.”

She gasped, pulling away from him. He knew her intentions the moment that she did. She lurched to her feet, intent on escape. Although there was nowhere for her to run to but into the arms of his men, Stephen responded as any red-blooded male would. Despite the pain that shot through him, he staggered to his feet, too. He caught her at once. She screamed.

Without another thought, Stephen turned her in his arms and gripped the back of her head and covered her mouth with his.

He had touched her intimately, but he had not really kissed her. Not in the manner he had wished to, from the moment he first gazed upon her extraordinary face. His kiss was openmouthed and thorough. His hands slid down her back, each palm cupping one of her buttocks. “Let’s try again,
petite,”
he said hoarsely, lifting her up against his raging erection. He moved his mouth down on hers.

“Nae,” she began, but was cut off. His mouth opened hers quickly. Stephen plumbed her warmth with his tongue,
each thrust becoming more and more forceful, more rapacious. Tentatively she met one, and the tips of their tongues touched.

He could not help himself, his body surged even more wildly, more impossibly, in response to her—he wanted complete, instant surrender. He expected it. He needed it— now. But to his amazement, she suddenly pulled her face away from his. “No—we must not.”

“Do not tease me now,” he gritted, catching her chin in one hand. He forced her mouth up to his again.

She cried out in another halfhearted protest. She raised her small fists against his chest, then clutched his tunic. Stephen would have laughed with primitive elation except for the fact that he was too intent now to laugh about anything. Their mouths were fused, their tongues mated.

Suddenly she tore her face away. She writhed frantically in his iron embrace, as if to escape, yet her every gyration, brushing his manhood, was as artful and agonizing as a whore’s purposeful caress. As an actress, she was superb. For it was almost as if she were not a seductress, as if, knowing the end was near, she was truly panicked. Despite his brief confusion, he could not stop himself now. He managed to reassure himself that she deliberately provoked his confusion to incite him even more wholly.

Stephen had had enough of these games. He had no desire to spill his seed upon them both, which he feared he might actually do. He pushed her down on the pallet. She continued to play the unwilling woman, her fists bouncing pitifully off of him, making small, fearful sounds. He took her mouth again. When their loins touched as he settled himself upon her, she went still.

Lightning appeared to have struck them both. “I cannot wait,” he whispered, words he had never whispered before.

The eyes he gazed down into as he spoke were wide with emotions he could not identify. Her face was flushed pink and sheened with perspiration. She did not move. And her palms curled about his massive shoulders, gripping him tightly.

Stephen spread her legs wide with his knees, beginning to shake fiercely. He was aware of the drops of sweat that
rolled down his face and onto hers. He flicked her long tunic up to her waist, and for a single moment, was poised above her.

Their gazes met, held. She opened her mouth but said nothing. Stephen looked at her breasts, heaving beneath her gown, her nipples tight and erect. He touched one. She closed her eyes and sobbed, the sound laden with anguish.

He looked down at her and could no more help himself from touching her now than he had before. He slid his hand between her legs and found the folds of her flesh swollen and heavy with the pulse of her blood. She was as hot for him as he was for her, spy or not. This was no act. He thrust a finger into her.

He froze. There was no mistaking the barrier he had come up against. He was shocked. She could not be a virgin—she was a whore sent to spy. But she was a virgin; it was a fact.

And in the midst of confusion there was a sudden and sweeping sense of elation—she had never known a man; he would be the first.

This far aroused, he had never denied himself. But he had never taken a virgin before—unlike many men he knew, rape had never excited him. And if she was a virgin, then she was no whore sent to spy upon him.