Promise of the Rose (34 page)

He stepped into the tub and settled himself in it. Mary picked up the washcloth and looked at him. Her hand shook slightly. “Do as you will,” Stephen murmured.

Trying hard to think about giving her husband a bath, and not taking his invitation as literally as she would like to, Mary began washing his back. Stephen sighed in pleasure. When she had finished soaping and rinsing the hard expanse of muscle, flesh, and bone, Stephen turned slightly, his eyes glittering like jet. Mary tried not to tremble. And she tried to keep her eyes off of the water swirling about his hips and the part of his body that beckoned her so stubbornly. Stephen’s mouth had a hard line to it now. He leaned back. Mary knelt beside him, and dropping the rag, she used her hands to lather his chest with soap. Her palms slid over hard muscle and silken skin. Her husband was tense and unmoving. When her hand slid down his hard, flat
belly, stroking in circular motions, Stephen closed his eyes. His jaw was tight, his neck tightly corded, his expression strained. Mary looked down, then let go of her restraint. She plunged her hand into the water. She lathered his heavily distended penis.

Stephen groaned.

Mary did not remove her hand. Her mouth was close to his ear. “Is there aught else you wish from me, my lord?”

His laughter was low and rough. Before she knew it, he had lunged to his feet, sending water splashing all about them. A scant instant later Mary was flat on her back on the bed. And he straddled her, her skirts up to her waist, his hot, slick member pressing against her swollen skin. “Who teases whom, madame?” he murmured.

Mary was incapable of speech, incapable now of responding. She clutched his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, free now to act as she would, to give up all pretense at proper wifely behavior, to be the carnally insatiable wanton he had taught her to be, and she panted beneath him, spread and desperate. Stephen laughed in male exultation and thrust into her. Mary shouted her pleasure. Within moments they were thrashing together in hot, mindless abandon.

   Although Mary came down late to the dinner, it was a success.

The moment she arrived in the hall she saw that Stephen was relaxed and in good humor; upon seeing her, he sent her a very warm look. Mary blushed, and a quick glance around told her that the men-at-arms below the dais regarded them with knowing gazes and tolerant amusement. Mary imagined that they understood exactly why the lady had been late to dinner, for Stephen’s replete and satiated air could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was. Mary hoped her own appearance was more circumspect.

But if it was not, if the glowing love she was feeling from the top of her head to the tip of her toes showed, she did not care. She would no longer dwell on her morose thoughts, on Malcolm and his demands. There was no point. She had made her decision, and the right one it was, too. And then, as she came to take her seat beside Stephen, had she needed
any further proof, it was there before her on the table.

A single crimson rose in full bloom.

Mary paused, stunned. Dazed, she looked at Stephen, who smiled at her lazily. There was a promise in his eyes that was far more than sexual. “How did you find this?” She whispered the first words to pop into her head.

“ ’Tis a strange phenomenon, is it not? A rose in winter. ’Tis for you, madame, a gift from me.”

Mary felt like crying. She took her seat, but did not touch the rose. He had clipped the stem short, and it resembled the rose upon his shield exactly, right down to the thick, spikelike thorns.

“Actually, my mother grows roses, and I can only guess that last week’s warm weather fooled the plants into an early showing.”

Mary did not want to cry foolishly. What did this mean? She faced Stephen, seized with determination. She would decipher precisely what he meant by this profoundly romantic gesture, a gesture she would have never dreamed of being possible from him. “Stephen, you have cut the stem. This rose—it looks exactly like the one upon your arms.”

His smile was pleased. “I am in agreement, madame. I had hoped you would notice.”

“What does it mean? Your coat of arms.”

He leaned towards her, his gaze stroking her face. His tone was intense. “The sinister black field which all else rests upon is power, Mary, and a warning to all those who might war with us.”

Mary shivered.

“The white field above ’tis for purity, the gold for nobility.”

“And—the rose?”

“The red rose signifies passion, madame. I am surprised you should ask.”

Mary blushed. Her heart beat wildly. Power, purity, nobility—passion.

“The de Warennes are known for their power, their honor, their nobility, and their extreme passion for all causes dear to them,” Stephen said in a strained, low tone. His gaze held hers.

Mary was mesmerized. She knew she did not mistake what he said—or why he had given her the rose. He was giving her himself. “Stephen … thank you.”

Stephen stared. Mary could not look away for a long moment, his gaze was so intense. Then she reached for the rose. Quickly he reached out to restrain her. “But you must have a care,” he murmured, “that you do not harm yourself on the thorns.”

   Most mornings Stephen immersed himself in administrative matters with his steward in the hall, but not this day. He stood, staring unseeing into the hearth. Mary was occupied with her responsibilities as chatelaine; he knew she was in the pantries with the pantler. His retainers were all about their duties, as well. He had a rare moment, for he was completely alone.

There was a persistent pain in the back of his head. A throbbing he was not unfamiliar with. For many years now he had recognized that the megrim came during times of distress.

He had been married for four days. Four perfect days beyond his greatest expectations. If he did not know himself better, he would think himself a romantic fool, so pleased was he with his bride, so besotted. He could hardly believe he had found and given her a red rose, but he had. She had understood its meaning perfectly. She had been well pleased—he had seen it in her eyes.

He should have been completely happy. But he had the worst megrim he had yet to have, instead.

For the terrible question remained. Had Rolfe succeeded in turning the King from his plans to betray Malcolm and invade Carlisle? Or was he about to ride forth to war upon his bride’s home and family?

Jesu, how would she react if he went to battle with Malcolm? Would she understand that he did his duty to his King, as always? Would she support him, as was
her
duty?

She was his wife. Their relationship had changed since she had awakened after her near-drowning. There was no question that she had accepted her fate, had come to him willingly as his wife on the day of their wedding. She was
performing her duties at Alnwick with enthusiasm, and he was acutely aware that she sought to please him. God, but he was pleased. But did he have her loyalty first and foremost as he must have?

Mary was one of the proudest, most determined human beings he had ever met. Could the minx who had fought and defied him at every turn up until someone had tried to murder her actually change her loyalty and allegiance so swiftly and completely? Was she his wife in her heart as he was now her husband with his? Was she?

He did not know.

He was afraid to know.

And he was afraid of what the next few days would bring.

   The Earl and Countess of Northumberland arrived at Alnwick the following afternoon. Isobel was with them, and so was Geoffrey. Stephen was not at the keep when they arrived, so Mary went into the bailey to greet her parents-in-law properly. Warm, heartfelt greetings were exchanged by everyone. Mary was absurdly pleased to realize that she was not merely accepted by her husband’s family, but loved by them as well.

Mary then rushed upstairs to supervise the removal of her and Stephen’s belongings from the master’s chamber, wishing she had been notified a bit in advance of the earl and countess’s arrival. Shouts from the guards on the watch-tower, followed by the sound of a small cavalcade drumming over the drawbridge and into the bailey, told her that Stephen was home. With a warm smile, Mary went to the window slit and watched her husband slide from his destrier, handing the reins to his squire. He was up to his knees in mud; the last few days it had rained incessantly. Stephen would need a bath, But Mary was certain that he would not bathe until after dinner, that he would want to enjoy his family’s company first.

Some time later, having made sure that the lord’s chamber was swept clean and ready for the earl and his wife, Mary went downstairs. As she neared the hall below, it became clear that the earl and his sons were in an intense, yet
hushed conversation. She had not heard a single female voice as she descended, so quite naturally she felt as if she were intruding, and her steps slowed. As she rounded the corner she heard Geoffrey making a remark about the fortifications at Carlisle being ancient rubble in need of repair.

Mary had barely assimilated the fact that the topic they were bent on was Carlisle as she entered the hall. The three men seated at the table there instantly fell silent. She paused. Her smile, one reserved for her husband, died, and the greeting that had been on the tip of her tongue was forgotten. The three de Warenne men all turned to look at her. No one was smiling. Obviously she was intruding, and just as obviously they did not want her to overhear their discussion.

Mary stopped in her tracks halfway across the hall. For the first time since she had been wed, she felt like a Scot intruder, instead of the mistress of Alnwick and Stephen’s wife. She managed a frozen smile, one directed at her husband. “Good day, my lord.”

Stephen rose. Behind him, his father was sipping ale, and Geoffrey was drumming his fingers impatiently upon the table. Stephen came forward, but not to greet her. “My mother is in the solar with Isobel. Why don’t you join them?”

Mary’s mouth tightened. Her heart beat in hard, painful spurts. He, too, saw her sudden appearance as an unwelcome intrusion; he was dismissing her. Hurt rose hotly, achingly, in her breast as she looked up into her husband’s handsome face. He did not trust her.

He did not trust her, and they spoke about Carlisle’s defenses.

No, it could not be.

She stared at him for several heartbeats, waiting for a sign, any sign, that this private meeting was not as it appeared. But he only repeated his barely disguised command. “Why do you not join my mother in the solar, madame?”

She had bent herself over backwards these past few days to please him, accommodating his every inclination, offering him every form of comfort, and openly she had sworn
to obey and uphold him, but still he did not trust her. Mary felt sick.
He did not trust her, and they spoke of Carlisle!

With a curt nod, unable to speak and filled with dread, Mary turned abruptly and fled into the solar.

The countess looked up from the embroidery she held, her gaze concerned. Isobel raced over to Mary with a glad cry and began to tell her the latest news from the London Court. Mary nodded, pretending to listen, not hearing a word the child said. She tried telling herself that all was not as it appeared, that she was jumping to conclusions, and that her husband, in sending her from the room so he could speak with the men around him, was no different from most other men. Yet her silent words rang hollowly, and Mary did not believe them.

Carlisle. What did they plan? Could they be planning war? Could they?

It was not possible, Mary cried to herself in silence. For just that dawn Stephen had held her so tenderly after their lusty lovemaking, and his sleepy smile had spoken of love. Just yesterday he had given her the rose, his promise of undying love—or so she had thought. If he loved her, just a little, he would not make war with her family over Carlisle.

She had to find out their plans. Yet how could she eavesdrop without alerting the countess? Mary looked at Stephen’s mother and turned a guilty red, for the woman was regarding her somberly, making no attempt to wield her needle and thread, as if she comprehended what Mary intended. Mary felt like a lowly ’traitor, but she reminded herself that she was not about to betray anyone. She merely wanted to learn if her husband intended to war on her people or not. She had to know.

He must love me a little, she thought desperately.
Just a little.
In which case there would be no war—Stephen would refuse to participate.

“Excuse me, madame,” Mary said to the countess, “I am not feeling very well. I think I shall go upstairs to lie down.” How she hated deceiving her mother-in-law.

“Shall I have some fare sent up to you?” Lady Ceidre asked, standing now and watching Mary too closely, even gravely.

Mary had no appetite, and she declined. Then, nervously, she slipped from the solar.

As the women’s chamber opened directly upon the hall, she was once again interrupting the men’s conversation. They saw her instantly and all talk ceased. Mary ignored them, although her face burned with humiliation. She hurried from the hall. Only when she was halfway upstairs and she heard their voices resume did she pause, trembling, pressing against the wall.

And even as she did so, she was close to tears. She was newly wed and in love with her husband, but she was about to spy upon him.

She could not hear them well. Mary began inching silently downstairs. When she was on the second landing she could go no farther, for to turn the corner would be to reveal herself. But now she could hear their every word, and they were talking about all that she had feared—treachery against her father—an attack upon Carlisle.

“He summons every knight I can muster,” Geoffrey was saying.

“How do you stand with Anselm?” Stephen asked, his voice strangely toneless.

“We are enemies. He is far more zealous than I ever dreamed,” Geoffrey said grimly. “But Rufus needs Canterbury now more than ever. My spies say that the prince is so enraged with your wedding, he refuses to spend himself on this cause. While I have beggared myself to muster these men, as Canterbury’s treasury is dry.”