Promise of the Rose (52 page)

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.”

“And when, pray tell, were you going to tell me?” His tone had become dangerous.

“When you came to Tetly to visit me, as you promised.” Mary looked at him, her eyes huge and hurt. “But you never came.”

Stephen stared back at her.

Mary clenched her fists, long-hidden anger spilling forth. “Have you been well amused here at Court, my lord? Is the reason you did not come to me because you are enamored of another woman? Your latest lover, perhaps?”

“Your questions are impertinent,” Stephen said softly.

Mary blinked back more tears. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “I hate you. And it is a relief.”

“I do not care.” He paced forward to tower over her. “You see, Mary, I am glad you have conceived, but nothing more. It changes not what you have done, or what you are. As soon as you have recovered from the ordeal of the journey, I am sending you back to Tetly.
Nothing has changed.”

Mary choked on a sob and covered her face with her hands. It was as she had feared. Stephen had not forgotten, nor had he forgiven her, and he intended for her to bear his babe in exile.

Slowly he walked to the door and paused on the threshold without turning to face her.

Mary looked up. “Stephen,” she whispered. It was a plea.

He did look back, but reluctantly.

“Take me back. I love you. I need you. How I miss you.”

His jaw tightened. He turned and left the room.

   The household was asleep.

Except for Stephen, who knew sleep would never come to him that night. He stood alone in the hall before the dying fire. He was anguished.

It had not been easy, these past few months. He hated Court but, once delivering Malcolm’s three sons into Rufus’s care, he had chosen to stay. The decision had been a cold, calculated one. Although he did feel obligated to make certain the three boys were well cared for, he mostly wished to remain as far from his treacherous wife as was’ possible.

The distance that separated them, though, could not wipe away the memories. She remained a part of his mind. He could not shake her from his thoughts no matter how he tried. He woke up to her image, sometimes playful, sometimes serious, sometimes wanton and wicked. He went to sleep with her image. She haunted him far better than any ghost could.

Stephen stared at the fire, but he saw only Mary. Mary, his wife, who had become even more beautiful, as if she had not suffered at all during the long winter of her exile. Beautiful and so very pregnant. He could not tamp down the rush of choking emotions. Dear God—he had actually missed her.

These past few months he had thought that he hated her, and he had allowed his hatred to consume him, nourishing it, even relishing it. He knew that he would never be able to forgive her leaving him in a time of war, pledging her loyalty to her home and kin instead of him. The hatred was so welcome, because it eased the hurt. A hurt he must not, at all costs, feel.

But feel it, he did. The hurt consumed him, too.

But he had been lying to himself. He did not hate her after all.

For he had given her the greatest gift that he ever could, that day when he had given her the rose; he had given her his undying love. If only he could take it back. But he could not. A man such as he only loved once and forever.

It would not do. Stephen paced. He must be insane. Tonight he confronted feelings he did not want to face, much less to own, but he could not rid himself of them. Perversely, he did not even want to really be rid of them.

But how a man could miss a woman who had committed such treachery escaped all logic. How a man such as he, with such an iron will, could love such a woman, such a treacherous woman, defied all rationality. But now he understood the greatest mystery of the universe, too late. How obvious, how profound, it was. Love was not rational, could never be rational; its mere definition defied rationality. Love was sown not in the power of the mind, but in the power of the heart.

He must not cave in to his obsessive love, his obsessive need for her. He must not cave in to the burning desire.

If he gave in to his desire, he would lose, not just the battle, but the war. How well he knew that.

For no other woman could give him satisfaction; he had discovered that well in these past months of separation. There had been a few other women, all whores, women whose faces he did not remember and whose names he had forgotten, but the encounters had been brief, impersonal, and merely a physical outlet for his perfunctory lust. Nothing at all like being with Mary.

Stephen closed his eyes. He ached for her. Even now, knowing better, he was as hard as a rock, desperate for the release only she could give him. He was desperate for the release she would provide his loins, and desperate for so much more. In truth, was he not desperate for her love? A love she would never give him.

He would not go to her, he would not.

For if he did, even once, he would be lost.

How tempted he was.

She had not changed—he kept repeating that lifesaving litany to himself—thus he could not allow her back into his bed … and his life. She was too dangerous. She still
had power over him. That had not changed, either.

He knew that he had made the right decision. As soon as a physic pronounced her fit, he would send her back to Tetly. It was his only hope.

The only problem was, he did not know how he could stay away from her now that he had seen her again, now that she was there in his house, just up the stairs, asleep in his bed.

   While Stephen paced in front of the fire at Graystone, Henry lounged in a chair on the dais in the Great Hall at the White Tower. The hall was a shambles. It had been a long evening, with much entertainment and feasting. Most of the visitors lolled drunk on the benches of the endless table, a few copulated freely in the shadows with serving maids— and serving boys—and many snored from their places on the floor.

Beside Henry, his brother the King was finishing yet another liter of wine, as well as the explanation of his latest plans. William Rufus had decided that the time had come to put his beloved friend Duncan upon the throne of Scotland.

Henry quirked a brow. “Between you and me, dear brother, just between you and me, do you really think that if you succeed in putting Duncan on the throne, you can continue to control him?”

Rufus smiled and waved his hand languidly. “You must know the truth, brother of mine. Duncan loves me.”

Henry raised a brow. “I do hope it’s true.” He smiled. “What a merry coil. He pines for you, and you pine for another.”

Rufus was no longer smiling. He gave his brother an ugly glance.

Henry laughed. “It shall be interesting, shall it not, to see how Stephen treats his wife now that she has returned, and so pregnantly?”

It was Rufus’s turn to smile. “He is no longer infatuated with her. He despises her. He cannot even bear to speak of her. But of course, I knew he would tire of her soon. No woman has ever held his interest for long.”

“Fortunately for you,” Henry murmured. “Or so you must think.”

But Rufus had not heard. “So what think you of my plans?”

“I think it is no easy task to topple a King—and even harder to keep one in one’s power.”

“Donald Bane is barely Scotland’s King. There are many who resent him. No one likes Edmund, who rules by his side.”

“And you have promised Duncan, these many years, to see his fondest dreams made true.”

“I have never openly promised him anything,” Rufus said sharply. “You doubt I can control him.”

“Duncan has strong ambitions, and he is much like Malcolm, ruthless and determined. He has schemed after his father’s crown for some thirty years. He will not be as easy to manage as you wish him to be. If you need a puppy, why not launch young Edgar? His claim is legitimate. He is young enough that you can easily mold him.”

“I disagree.” Rufus no longer appeared drunk. He faced his brother with an unpleasant expression. “He is too young, he would need too much support, and he might very well turn to Stephen instead of me. No, I much prefer Duncan, who has ever been loyal. Can I count on you, dear brother?”

Henry leaned back in his chair. He had no wish to involve his army in another war in Scotland that would only strengthen his brother’s position there in England, as well as freeing him to concentrate on regaining the duchy of Normandy. “I have no need for more silver or more estates.”

“Everyone needs more silver and more estates.”

“Do you not have many nobles behind you? Have you not got the great Earl of Northumberland in your pocket? Stephen’s son, should it be a boy, will be Malcolm’s grandson. They surely envision a cozy relationship with Scotland right now. Why, Duncan will be the child’s uncle! Surely you do not need me!”

Rufus scowled. “As you have said, ’tis no easy thing to topple a King. You must help me, Henry. Your reward will be great. Perhaps I will take the other Scot princess from the convent and give her to you.”

“Now that Malcolm is dead, I hardly see how such an
alliance would interest me,” Henry said. “Especially with Duncan on the throne.”

“Tell me what does interest you, then.”

“I will think on it,” Henry said. “Carefully.” But his mind was made up already, and his answer was no. Let the other nobles weaken themselves in this war, let them sow the seeds of their own destruction. When all was finished, his army would be the strongest in the realm. And Henry did not mind waiting to realize his dreams, even if it meant a few more years. Patience was his forte. Hadn’t he coveted his brother’s crown for an entire lifetime?

   Mary had been sound asleep, but now she was wideawake. She did not know what had awakened her, some noise, perhaps, or a dream. She lay on her side, facing the fire that still blazed in the hearth. She recalled instantly where she was. At Gray stone, in Stephen’s chamber, in his bed. Yearning assailed her.

She heard the door to her chamber closing. Mary sat up abruptly, eyes wide. A man stood in the shadows facing her, unmoving, his identity obscured by the darkness. But Mary knew it was Stephen. There could only be one reason he had come.
“Stephen.”

He did not move, and when he spoke, his voice was low and ragged. “I yearn for you, Mary, the way a drunkard yearns for wine.”

Tears filled Mary’s eyes; she gripped the bedcovers. “I yearn for you, too, Stephen.”

He moved closer, into the glow of firelight. Mary saw the blaze in his eyes and gave a small, glad cry. She did not care that he only came to her to slake his desire, she did not. She held her arms out to him.

Stephen reached her in a single stride. The moment their hands touched, their bodies ignited in a burst of desire. For one brief moment Mary cradled his face in her palms, his beautiful, beloved face, reveling in the hunger she saw in his eyes. Stephen held her gaze, and between them there was a sizzling, wordless communication. Then he was kissing her.

He wrapped her in his arms and pushed her down on the bed, devouring her mouth with his. The kiss was open, wild, and wet. Mary’s mood and need matched his exactly, and she met him with equal ardor. It was a long time before their lips parted, and when they did, they were both gasping shamelessly for air.

Mary almost wept. She did not care what he said; his denials were forever after baseless. Any man who kissed in such a manner was consumed by far more than mere desire. She would gamble her future on it—indeed, she would gamble her wildest dreams.

They kissed again but soon broke apart, too impatient for such foreplay. Stephen paused only to run his hands over her swollen breasts, murmuring thick endearments, and to touch her hard, round belly with awe. Then she was on her side, and he was sliding deeply into her.

Mary chanted his name. She loved him so. She told him. She was out of control, completely abandoned, crying her pleasure for all the world to hear, proudly, not caring if it did.

Stephen took her as if he had not had a woman in a very long time. He held back nothing. And when he found his own release, he cried her name, too. Not once, but many times.

Mary burrowed into his arms. This was where she wanted to be, where she belonged. She loved Stephen so much that it physically hurt.

Tears rose hotly, despite her abject happiness to be with Stephen again.

Mary did not want to cry. Not here, not now.
She was happy.
Stephen had returned to her. She was happy. But she had relinquished all control over herself when she had welcomed Stephen into her embrace. Raw, powerful emotions, so carefully defended for so long, had been left naked and exposed, all barriers and shields recklessly laid down. Mary choked on a sob.

“Mary?” Stephen said.

His single word, her name, undid her. And once she started to weep in earnest, she soon found that she could not stop.

Stephen cradled her in his arms, his expression drawn. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, stricken.

“I-I’m s-sorry.” Mary wept even harder.

“’Twas a lie,” Stephen said hoarsely. “Your tears do affect me. Mary, I am not going to send you back.”

He was not going to send her back. The long winter of her exile was truly over. Stephen had truly come back to her. Real joy mingled with the pain she had thought firmly buried in some final place she might never see again.

For as she lay sobbing in Stephen’s arms, so much hurt throbbed within her breast. The pain of losing those she loved, the pain of her father’s rejection, the pain of her exile.