Promise of the Rose (39 page)

He did not. Long, slow, torturous minutes ticked by. Mary wondered if he thought her to be asleep. She did not think he would show her any consideration, not under the present circumstances. It became clear to Mary that he had no intention of touching her. Despite his words of earlier that day, he was in fact shunning her. Dear God, if they did not at least have passion, then they had nothing and mere was no hope! And no amount of desperate wishing was going to make him turn to her!

Mary was terrified. Could he have become indifferent to her, almost overnight? Could the treachery he had perceived have doused the brilliant fires of their passion?

She thought with frantic speed. Passion was a woman’s ancient weapon. For them, it could be another beginning, or at least one single form of intimacy, perhaps the only form, for them to share. Seduction was also a timeless method of reconciliation. And Stephen would not refuse her, would he? Could she not seduce him?

In an act of both desperation and bravery, Mary turned over to face him. He lay on his side, facing away from her. Dreading his rejection, Mary touched his shoulder.

He was as stiff as a board. “What are you doing?” he gritted.

There was no possible answer she could make, so Mary slid her hand down his thick bicep, then pressed the length of her body against his, her breasts to his back, her hips cupping his buttocks. And she touched her mouth to the sweet spot on his neck, just below his ear.

He jerked. “Cease, madame. I am warning you.”

His voice was raw. Mary was frozen, wondering if his tone was due to anger—or desire. “Stephen, I am your wife.”

He said nothing. But she could hear his harsh, uneven breathing.

Mary pressed closer, wanting to tell him that she loved him, sweeping her hand across his chest and down his abdomen. She gasped. The too ripe tip of him quivered against her hand. He was thick and swollen, slick and aroused. Exultation rushed through her. Regardless of the chasm between them, he desired her—and how.

“Stephen,” she whispered, but it sounded much like a moan. And as she spoke, her fingers curled around him. He inhaled once, hard and long.

“You are a witch,” he said harshly through clenched teeth.

She realized he was fighting her, and she could not understand why. “No, I am your wife,” she returned. Her own painful excitement made her unthinkably bold. She caressed him as he had taught her to do. He gasped with strangled pleasure. Mary began to shake. “Please, Stephen. Come into me, oh dear, please.”

“Damn you,” he said. But he rolled over with lightning swiftness, pinning her beneath him. Mary embraced him hard, spreading her thighs wide to accommodate him. His phallus nudged her, but he was frozen and unmoving over her.

Their gazes met. His was tortured.

“Why do you fight yourself?” she cried. “Why do you fight me? Come, darling, please!”

Stephen moved. Wordlessly he thrust into her, burying his hard length to the hilt. Mary gasped in pleasure. He withdrew slowly, his entire body shaking as he held himself in check. And very, very slowly he entered her again.

Mary wept. Never had she known such pleasure. Yet she sensed he was forcing an inexplicable kind of self-control upon himself, but why?

“Stephen,” she panted, “I cannot… stand… this.”

He moaned. And his control shattered. Mary cried out when he began to move, fast and hard and mindless. Mary threw her head back, exultant, sobbing her intense pleasure,
instinctively realizing that she had won even though she barely understood the prize.

Stephen paused to kiss her. Mary wept. Stephen’s kiss was openmouthed, hot and devouring, and if he felt nothing for her out of bed, here, at least, he felt all. His kiss brought her to another stunning peak of ecstasy, startling them both.

Stephen’s growl came low and long in his throat. He forced himself into her deeper, more intimately, plunging with abandon, captive to his lust. Still Mary welcomed him.

Their passion spiraled out of control. The lovers wrestled upon the bed, across it, and nearly slid to the floor. He rose to his knees; she rose to hers. Again they kissed, their tongues mating now as their bodies just had. Lithely Stephen turned her away from him. She gripped the head of the bed. His hands splayed out over her wet, swollen heat. He whispered in her ear, an endearment, followed by something terribly graphic. It was too much for Mary. As he entered her from behind, filling her womb with his hot, potent seed, she keened wildly, ecstatically, wracked by violent pleasure. And when she had died and been reborn, she smiled to herself. There was hope after all.

   “Please do not turn from me, Stephen.”

Stephen lay upon his back, the covers up to his waist, one arm flung across his face. He had regained his sanity some time ago, but was reluctant to move his arm and regard her. He knew well enough that she could not discern his expression. Hadn’t he already revealed enough? He regretted every instance of the past hour, the way a drunkard does the previous night’s ale, with the full knowledge that there was no avoiding such self-destructive behavior again and again.

Slowly he removed his arm. Mary was sitting up unabashedly in bed beside him, her small breasts naked, her small nipples erect from the cold, her hair streaming over her shoulders, tinged with gold from the firelight. She looked as content as any kitten that had lapped up all the cream. Her tone in addressing him had been simple; her smile was not. It was suggestive, teasing, and satisfied all at once.

Stephen damned himself. The sight of her, and her expression, and the knowledge of how well matched they were, was even now causing his groin to stir. His worries had been justified. His passion had been out of bounds, and she knew it—and was more than pleased. In fact, the woman sitting beside him was adorable enough to pounce upon again—yet he knew, he damn well knew, there was nothing about her he should adore. “You look pleased, madame.” he said frostily.

“I am.” She was arch, still smiling. “You have pleased me.”

Stephen sat, dwarfing her. “I did not lie with you to please you.”

“No, you chose to suffer rather than to turn to me. Why? Because of some misplaced pride?”

“You ask far too many questions, madame. I am your lord. I need not answer a single one.”

She was hurt. “We have just shared a grand passion, but you will pretend it was nothing, will you not? So you can continue to castigate me for a treachery I swear I did not commit!”

“We shared nothing more than mutual lust,” he said harshly, telling himself that he must not believe her—he must not. The facts were clear. He would be mad to believe her in spite of the facts.

She was angry. “My lord,” she said, her tone too sweet, “I will have you know that I have seen men and women coupling, more than once. And I assure you their efforts were nothing—nothing—like ours! Do not think me a fool?”

“You have watched men and women coupling?” he echoed. Disbelief suddenly became unquenchable amusement. Of course Mary had; her curiosity was indomitable. “Madame, you tell me you have spied upon lovers and you do not even blush?”

“Well, I do have six brothers, Stephen, and it was impossible to restrain myself. I wondered time and again why they chased the women so. In truth, once faced with the act itself, I thought it all quite amusing, not anything else.”

He laughed despite himself, too easily imagining Mary lurking in the bushes and spying upon an amorous couple. Mary laughed with him. When he realized, he quickly
sobered. Then, to his dismay, she gave him a long, bold look. “I thought it all very amusing, the groping and the panting—until you taught me that there is nothing at all amusing about it.”

He forced himself to break glances with her, while his manhood stiffened involuntarily. “You may believe whatever it is you choose to believe, madame, and if you choose to believe our passion special, so be it. I want a son. I want a son from you, the sooner, the better. That is the sum of it.”

Mary stared at him unblinkingly. Then she dared to smile yet again, this time smugly. “If you say so, my lord. If you say so.”

And that morning she awoke him with her hands and her mouth, and afterwards she dared to challenge him with more of her sweet laughter.

   Mary knew that she was terribly lucky. For whatever reason, fate had decided to treat her well. For she and Stephen, it seemed, were well into a sturdy truce.

By night he made love to her, his passion belying his ridiculous words. He could not keep his hands from her, he gloried in her body; their passion was undeniable, and by no means ordinary. At night, in their chamber, in their bed, Mary knew sublime pleasure, supreme confidence, and sweet hope.

By day he was polite. In return, Mary was equally courteous. She was astute enough to know that he had not forgiven her, nor had he forgotten; he did not trust her yet. But he treated her in the manner in which most decent men treated their wives. That was enough. For now. It was the beginning they had needed, the beginning she had craved. In time, she dared to hope that he might send her an intimate look, a warm, lingering regard, as he had before. In time, there might even be more gifts, further proof of appreciation, and maybe even the seeds of his love. In time there might even be another rose.

Several days passed. Mary was in no rush. As long as Stephen continued to shower her with passion at night, as long as their exchanges were pleasant by day, their marriage was well on the road to recovery.

The one small blot upon it all was the fact of Mary’s pregnancy. She had not told him. Not yet. She could not help being anxious, both because she hated being dishonest and because she could guess what his reaction would be if he learned the truth himself. This time he would be right in accusing her of deceit. Of course, she would have to tell him soon, but she would wait another month. Her monthly time had always been undependable, so he would not be able to accuse her of trickery. Trickery it was, but Mary had no choice. Their marriage was not on a firm enough footing yet. Mary was determined that they retain their passion, for it was the only form of intimacy they shared. She sensed that if Stephen were to know that she was pregnant, he would immediately cease making love to her. As much as he gloried in her body, he disliked his own capitulation, and she knew it. He was not ready to admit that he needed her. Mary was not about to give him any reason to escape her bed and find his pleasure elsewhere.

Because all was going so well, Mary was very surprised when Stephen sought her out in the middle of the morning in the kitchens. To her knowledge, that was a place he had never entered even once in his entire life. She froze at the sight of him, as did every cook and maid, every skivvy and every lad. His expression was dark and grim. Foreboding claimed Mary. She shoved the meat pie she had been inspecting at the maid standing beside her and rushed towards her husband. “My lord? What is it?”

His smile was a parody of good cheer; indeed, it hinted at distaste. He took her arm, leading her outside. “You have a visitor, madame.”

“A visitor?” Mary was confused. “But who?”

He smiled again, this time very unpleasantly. “Your brother Edward.”

Mary froze. She drained of all color. “Edward?”

Stephen’s smile had transformed itself into a snarl. “Why are you surprised, my dear? Have you not been expecting just such a visit?”

All of her efforts at reconciliation were in dire jeopardy, and Mary knew it. Stephen stared at her as if she were a loathsome traitor. “No!” she cried, grabbing his sleeves.
“No! No! I have not summoned Edward! I do not know what this means!”

“If you have not summoned him and if you do not know what this means,” Stephen said coldly, “I am sure that in no time you will. He awaits you in the hall, madame wife.”

S
tephen escorted her out of the kitchens and across the backyard to the keep. Mary had to run to keep up with his long, determined strides. He gripped her hand so she could not balk. There was no question that he was angry, that he thought the worst. “Stephen! Stop! Please!”

They paused at the back door, used only by servants to carry hot food quickly into the hall, face-to-face. Mary was desperate and unable to believe her misfortune—Edward’s timing could not have been worse. Why could he have not come next month or the month after, when Stephen was convinced of her innocence, or when, at least, the instance of her eavesdropping was so far in the past as to be nearly forgotten? Mary thought her hope was not ill-placed, for she believed that within another month or so, he would be close to capitulation; that they would be sharing more than just heated passion, that they would be sharing trust. “Do you not wish to greet your brother, madame?”

“No!” The word was out of Mary’s mouth before she even thought it in her mind. And the instant she had spoken, she knew she could refuse to see Edward, and by doing so, regain so much more of Stephen’s trust. She should refuse
to see him. If she turned her back on her family, especially now, in such a blatant way, Stephen would have to accept the fact that her loyalty now belonged to him.