Promise of the Rose (10 page)

His mouth came down on hers. Mary’s cry of elation was cut off by his kiss. Eagerly she opened to him, wrapped in his strong embrace, sucking his tongue deep into her throat, urging him to come into her in every way. He made a deep, low, urgent sound, prodding more forcefully against her womanhood. Mary flung her legs around his hips, locking them tight. She rocked her loins against him.
“Please,”
she gasped.

“Mairi,” he whispered, his arms tensing around her.

He thrust into her. The pain lasted less than a heartbeat, for with it came an explosion of rapture so intense, she was stunned senseless. Her earthy moans filled the stone chamber, convulsions racked her body. In that moment, Mary died the most exquisite death and was totally reborn.

Slowly she surfaced. She was limp, as if drugged, her limbs heavy, her body replete. She became aware of the storm outside. The wind howled, the rain pounded, and every few moments lightning outside brightened the night and the chamber she was in.

Mary felt him. He was still on top of her, still inside her, still partially erect. Her dazed mind began to come to life.

She became lucid. Lucid enough to feel bruised and worn, aching now from the invasion of his large body into her small one, and worse, much worse, lucid enough to feel horrified.

What had she done?

Stephen raised himself up slightly on his elbows, and their gazes collided. He saw the horror in hers. His jaw tightened.
Before Mary could push him off, she felt him stirring to life inside her, lengthening, swelling. She tensed.

“Later,” he said roughly. “Later you can entertain regrets.”

Mary opened her mouth to protest. Then his lips covered hers, his hips moving, and she was lost.

T
he sun was just rising when Stephen broke the night’s fast at prime. He was alone. His household was dutifully at mass in the family chapel with Father Bertold, a duty Stephen himself shirked this day. The woman calling herself Mairi was still asleep in his bed.

Abruptly he pushed the slice of white bread he had been toying with away. What in God’s name had he done?

She had not revealed herself. He had never dreamed she would choose ruin over confession. There was still not a single doubt in his mind that she was a highborn lady. He could have pressed her further, brought her to the edge without actually taking her, forced the truth from her innocent lips. But he had not. He had taken her instead, ceasing to care about the issue at stake.

His jaw flexed. Why had he, a man of great experience and even greater self-discipline, acted like a beardless boy presented with his first courtesan?

Briefly he closed his eyes, for the first time that morning aware of a pounding behind his temples. He had failed himself last night. He was afraid. Secretly afraid that he would fail himself again.

For the woman calling herself Mairi was still in his chamber and still in his bed. Already he thought of the night to come. Already he anticipated their union. He could hardly think of anything else.

But he must send her away. Now, before she truly endangered his marriage to Adele Beaufort. He
must.
His duty, as always, was to Northumberland, and a mistress who threatened his advantageous marriage threatened Northumberland itself.

He was uneasy. He stared at the warm loaf of bread on the table before him. Mairi’s image came to him as she had been in his bed last night, with a passion that matched his own, a passion he had never witnessed before, not in any other woman—not even in himself. She had brought something out in him he had never allowed himself to acknowledge before. What was wrong with him?

He could not regret what he had done, and he knew he would not send her away—not yet.

But what price would he pay for such folly?

Stephen quaffed his glass of ale. He told himself that in another night or two he would tire of her and send her on her way. Before any damage was done. He had no choice.

Purposeful footsteps brought him abruptly back to the present. Stephen was glad to be diverted from his brooding. His brow rose slightly in surprise when he glimpsed his brother, Geoffrey. Geoffrey rarely had the time or inclination to come home to Northumberland. “What brings you so far north, brother?”

Geoffrey regarded him with the faintest of smiles. “What greeting is this, after so much time has passed?” he asked drolly, striding across the hall, his long robes flowing about him. There was no mistaking his relationship to Brand. He was tall, muscular, and golden, a devastatingly handsome man whom women always turned to look at twice. Even now, entering the hall where he had spent his first childhood years, a place where his face was familiar and occasionally seen, he caused the serving maids to blush with interest. “Do I not deserve some display of affection?”

Stephen did not blink. “I am not in the mood to display affection.”

“So I have already noticed.” Geoffrey lithely climbed the dais and slid into the seat beside his brother. A dagger materialized in his hand, one too large and too pointed for the sole purpose of eating. He casually speared a slice of cold meat.

“As always, you are astute,” Stephen remarked. “When did you arrive? Last night?”

“At matins. What has you so somber? After the morning’s first mass, I had hoped to catch a few hours sleep, but alas, there was such noise emanating from your bedchamber, ’twas hopeless.” Geoffrey wiped the dagger clean and sheathed it in his heavy, plain belt. When he smiled, faint dimples showed, at odds with his mocking tone and gleaming eyes. “Your leman was most vocal. I would think you to be in high spirits this morning.”

Stephen stared coldly, refusing to comment on that. “Is this a family visit, or something else?”

Geoffrey’s smile was gone. “You know I have no time for family visits. I have news. The King is in his sickbed.” He held up his hand, a hand both tanned and callused, the hand of a man who was physically active and often out-of-doors. “ ’Tis not grave, the physics say, but he has appointed Anselm Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Stephen was silent. Then, “The King must think himself at death’s door.”

“He does.”

“How does this affect you? And us?”

Geoffrey’s fine nose flared. “He is a good man. ’Tis long overdue that our dear King appoint someone to follow in Lanfranc’s footsteps.”

“And?”

Geoffrey’s jaw clenched. “I gain an ally in my battles against the Crown’s attempts to bleed Canterbury, I hope.”

“You hope?”

Geoffrey’s tone held some small amount of self-derision. “Anselm is much like Lanfranc, a true and saintly man. We may seek the same ends, but I’m not sure he approves of me.” His smile was twisted. “Perhaps I gain a new enemy.”

Stephen looked at his too handsome brother. In some ways they were so alike, and in those ways Stephen understood his brother well. Geoffrey would do what he had to do, but wasn’t that the lot of a man? “Better a friend than a foe. See to it that he loves you as Lanfranc did.”

Geoffrey looked at his older brother. Sadness showed for the barest instant in his eyes. “Lanfranc was more a father to me than our own father, as well you know. Despite my worldliness, he was forgiving—and understanding. In truth, I am now torn. I both seek and do not seek the day of Anselm’s election. In the beginning we will be friends, out of need to protect the see from the King, but in the end?” Geoffrey shrugged.

“Anselm is a holy fool if he does not see the powerful ally that he has in you,” Stephen said abruptly.

“Some men will not—
can
not—compromise their morals.”

Stephen looked at his brother’s face, trying to glimpse Geoffrey’s soul in his eyes; but Geoffrey would not meet his gaze. “You are not immoral.”

“He has asked me why I am not ordained.”

Stephen stared. It was hardly surprising that Anselm would want to know why his archdeacon had yet to make his final vows—Stephen had wondered about it himself. He believed, but could not be certain, that it was Geoffrey himself who delayed the event. And Stephen suspected he knew why. “And what did you reply?”

Geoffrey raised his gaze. It was hooded. “That I am no Lanfranc.”

Stephen was disappointed with the response, but he should have known that his brother would keep his own dark secrets. To break the tension, he smiled. “Thank God.”

Geoffrey laughed, his mask back in place. Stephen joined him. The moment of tension—and frightening intimacy—had passed.

“’Twas inevitable, was it not, that Rufus appoint a successor?” Stephen said, pouring them both ale. “How long could he keep the see vacant? No matter how he bleeds Canterbury’s coffers, the lack of an archbishop was too
mighty a matter for even the King. Surely you have been prepared for this day.”

Geoffrey folded his arms and looked at his brother, his eyes glittering. “In the past three and a half years since Lanfranc’s death, I have prepared for this day, by administering the see to the best of my ability, with the help of my able, and loyal, staff, and by guarding its coffers in a losing battle.” His face was hard. “Anselm will find his ship easy to navigate, but the course he must steer is fraught with peril. Too, I think that Anselm will be far more fanatical in his dealings with the King than anyone anticipates.”

Stephen looked at his brother, the Archdeacon of Canterbury. He had been awarded the appointment by his mentor, the Archbishop Lanfranc, when Lanfranc was on his deathbed four years ago. But even before his appointment, he had been Lanfranc’s most trusted personal assistant. With the death of his friend and mentor, he had continued his duties, the first being to administer the see until a successor took office. Not only had he done so, he also had to fight the King in a constant hidden battle over control of ecclesiastical revenues.

“I have other news as well,” Geoffrey said. “I have been summoned to Court. My spies have told me I am to be asked for a precise accounting of my holdings, especially of the knights and men-at-arms in my service.” Then he flushed. “Rather—an accounting of the see’s holdings.”

This was news. It could pertain to the new archbishop, or it could not. Stephen raised an eyebrow at the news and replied, “And I was sent to Carlisle to ascertain if it is ripe for the taking.”

“Is it ripe?” Geoffrey asked, drumming his long fingers upon the scarred table.

“Yes.”

“Well, for the moment you can rest assured that Rufus thinks not of invasion but of repentance for his sins,” Geoffrey murmured.

“Perhaps his fear that he lies dying will change whatever his plans were,” Stephen said darkly. “We have maintained such a fragile peace for such a short time. I hate to see it ended, especially by us.”

“Even if the King decides against invasion,” Geoffrey said, “and you can be sure that Father is doing his best to turn him from this purpose, undoubtedly that scoundrel Malcolm will break the peace. He is a barbarian; he will not change his ways.”

Geoffrey was right. Stephen knew it was only a matter of time before that precious peace was broken, one way or another. Malcolm Canmore had sworn fealty to William Rufus at Abernathy two years ago, but that would not stop him from treachery. It never did. It was inevitable that sooner or later Malcolm would invade Northumberland. His last invasion, while not successful, had still inflicted much damage upon Stephen’s northernmost manors. Those manors had lost their harvest, and last winter Stephen had been forced to use sparse coin to import extra stores so his northern vassals would not starve. Some of his mercenaries had yet to be paid in full for that campaign. His marriage to Adele Beaufort would solve that particular problem, as well as many others. Suddenly Stephen found himself thinking not about war and peace but about his captive. Why on earth had she continued to defy him until it was too late?

“So who is the vocal wench?” Geoffrey asked, as if he could read Stephen’s mind. His tone was openly teasing now.

Despite himself, Stephen flushed. Had his thoughts been so visible? “She is my mistress and we shall leave it at that.”

“Your mistress!” Geoffrey mocked incredulity. “Shame on you, my lord, for taking a mistress upon the eve of your wedding. Shall I determine your penance?”

“Thank you, no.”

Geoffrey’s tone became serious. “I am surprised you have brought a leman here, brother. Tread softly. News travels far too quickly, especially news with the potential to destroy. You would not want to wreck your alliance with the Essex heiress. Lady Beaufort does not strike me as an understanding—or forgiving—woman.”

“First Brand, now you,” Stephen said with real anger. Geoffrey’s words were an unpleasant reminder of the quandary he had fallen in. “I am not a stupid boy to be
chastised thus. Lady Beaufort will stand with me at the altar this Christmastide.”

At that moment, before Geoffrey could reply, a noise made both brothers turn towards the stairs. Stephen started as his captive stumbled around the corner and froze, staring at him. Apparently she had lost her balance as she hung on to the wall on the bottom steps, eavesdropping. She regarded only him, and if looks could kill, he would now be dead.