Promise of the Rose (5 page)

Stephen’s mind reached these astounding conclusions in mere seconds. It was probably the hardest deed he had ever done, but he launched himself off of her. Dazed and panting, he lay unmoving on his stomach beside her, wishing that the fur pallet he was pressing himself into was much, much harder.

Sanity returned swiftly despite the persistent ache in his loins. There were no virgin whores, no virgin spies. Was it possible that she had been telling him the truth? Was her father some northern laird, her mother a dairymaid? It was plausible, yet he doubted it. Her hands had never seen rough labor, but she was dressed as one who labored. If she was a bastard, she had been raised as a lady. This costume was a disguise. Why?

Suddenly she moved. She slid from the pallet, as quick as a wild vixen. Stephen was even quicker, reaching out and
grabbing her before she took a second step, without moving from the furs. His leg hurt too much now for such antics. The force of his grip caused her to fall in a heap at his side.

Restraining a groan, he sat up and extended his hand to her. “Mademoiselle?”

She was panting. Although he saw that she was furious, he allowed her to take his hand and he lifted her to her feet. It was a mistake. Immediately she drew back her fist and hit him with all of her strength in his jaw.

He didn’t move, stunned speechless.

“Norman bastard! You are a pig and a brute! And a liar!” she shrieked. She raised her fist to hit him again.

This time Stephen reacted. He caught her wrist, pulling her forward. She wound up in his lap.

“No!” she screamed, twisting to leap free of him.

He held her in place. “You have deceived me, struck me, and maligned me,” he said harshly, shaking her once. She went still. “I thought you brave, but now I am beginning to think you very foolish—or mad.”

She lifted her chin, a defiant gesture, despite the fact that her eyes were glazed with unshed tears. “I am not mad.”

His jaw tightened. “You have lost your burr, demoiselle.”

She paled. “When can I leave?”

“You were not so eager to leave me—and my bed—a few moments ago.”

She flushed. “No, I am eager to leave your bed—to leave you. This minute is not soon enough.”

“Who’s the liar now?”

“I speak the truth!”

“I think not. Indeed, thus far you have not spoken a single word that is true. I ask you again, who are you and why are you here?”

She swallowed, meeting him stare for stare. He felt her mind working. “Please unhand me,” she said huskily. “And I will tell you all.”

Giving her a skeptical look, he did as she asked. She scooted to her feet and put the length of the tent between them, standing with her back to the exit, hugging herself defensively. Her posture made him see her as a child, not
a woman, and he was suddenly ashamed of his behavior. By all the saints, he had treated her as he would a whore, and she was a young virgin, certainly not more than sixteen. Perhaps the real question wasn’t who was she, but
what
was she? Virgin or whore, villein or lady, child or woman? Spy or innocent? “You may begin with your name.”

She wet her lips. “Mairi. Mairi Sinclair. My father is Rob Sinclair. My mother is dead, and she was a maid at Liddel.” She flinched from his gaze. “And you were right—these clothes are a disguise.”

Tersely he said, “Were you sent to me to spy?”

“No!” She was pale. “I was in disguise because I was meeting someone. A—A man.”

And Stephen understood. “Ahh, I see now. A man.”

Again her small chin lifted. “ ’Tis not what you think. The man was, I mean, he is my betrothed.”

His stare was ice. “You have yet to explain your disguise.”

“ ’Tis unseemly for a lady to tryst with a man, even when that man is to be her husband, and you know it well.”

“And who is this paragon of manhood who lures you to an undoubted fall from grace?”

She bit her lip. “What does it matter?”

It shouldn’t matter, except for the fact that he intended to verify every word she said. “It matters.” He was not pleased to realize that he was peeved—perhaps even jealous—that this woman obviously coveted another man. “Do you love him?”

She was furious. “That, Sir Norman, is none of your affair!”

It wasn’t. He stood stiffly, finding his staff in order to lean upon it. Then he limped to her until he was towering over her. He had to admire her; she stood her ground. “To the contrary, demoiselle, you are now wholely my affair. And until I am satisfied, you shall be detained.”

She lost the little color she had.
“Until you are satisfied, I shall be detained!
What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said grimly, “that I intend to unearth the truth, the entire truth, about you, and until I do, you are my guest.” He hobbled past her, raising the tent flap.

“Your guest!” she cried after him. “You mean that I am your
prisoner!
But why? What have I done? I have done nothing, Norman!”

He paused and turned. “To the contrary, demoiselle. You have whetted my very jaded appetite, and my even more jaded interest. If you are indeed of little import, I think we shall suit well, you and I, for a time, at least.”

   Mary stared after his back as he limped from the tent, leaving her alone. What did that last remark mean? Oh, dear God! She dared not delude herself. He suspected her deceit, intended to find the truth, and whether he did or not, she was in great jeopardy!

She sank down on the hard dirt floor, limp and drained. Rolfe de Warenne, the Earl of Northumberland, was one of the most powerful lords in the realm, first having been an intimate adviser to King William the Bastard, and now an intimate adviser to the Bastard’s son, the rotten King William Rufus. The earl was also her father’s worst enemy, and by extension, so was this man, his bastard son and heir. Malcolm and Northumberland had clashed on too many occasions to count. The earl had been nothing but a penniless, landless knight when he had followed Duke William to England, though ’twas said he was the younger son of a great Poitevin family. Shortly after the invasion, he had been awarded a small fief in Northumberland; one that, today, reached Newcastle-on-Tyne in the south and the River Tweed in the north. Though the heart of Malcolm’s kingdom lay between the Moray Firth and the Firth of Forth, well north of the Tweed, the Kings of Scotland had long claimed the right to rule all of the territory south of Lothian as far as Rere Crossing. The de Warennes were interlopers. Malcolm had spent his entire adult life attempting to regain Scotland’s lost territory. The existing border between Scotland and Northumberland had been brutally and bloodily fought over for many years. Mary had delivered herself right into the hands of her father’s worst enemy.

The Norman’s parting words echoed, a frightening refrain. If she understood him, he intended to assuage his lust on her if he thought her to be of no importance to anyone. Thus,
if he did not learn the truth of her identity, she would be taken and used until he tired of her and discarded her. She would, in fact, be ruined. Doug would no longer want her. Of course, he was no fool and he would still marry her. After all, she was a princess with a great dowry.

She almost wept. The only thing worse would be if the Norman learned the truth. If he discovered that she was the daughter of Malcolm Canmore, she would be a hostage until her father paid whatever exorbitant ransom her captor demanded. She did not fool herself for an instant. The Norman would do his best to cripple her father. He would demand far more than gold and coin; he would demand land. Precious, priceless Scottish land. Land that Scottish blood had been spilled over again and again.

And after the ransom was paid—and her father would pay it—the border would once again be plunged into a fierce, bloody war. Two years’ fragile peace would disintegrate like the wisps of yesterday’s dreams.

She clenched her small fists, sucking in not just her breath but her courage. Her situation could not possibly be worse. Now she was fiercely glad she had not revealed her identity to him.

The Norman was a brute, she thought grimly—he had proved that beyond hearsay—but he was no fool. He had proved that, too. He had been quick to see through her careful, elaborate disguise, and he doubted the tale she had invented, a tale that was not unreasonable and might have fooled a lesser man. She would need every ounce of courage she had and then some; she would need all of her shrewd wits as well. She must not let him even guess who she was. For having met him, Mary realized the extent of his power and his will. If there was a way for him to discover the truth of her identity, the Norman would undoubtedly find it, and once he did, her father and Scotland—and she herself—would suffer the horrible consequences.

Just as her father used spies all the time, this man would certainly use them, too. By this evening there would be a crisis at Liddel over her disappearance. A Norman spy would eventually report this. Was her captor shrewd enough to guess the truth once he learned that Malcolm’s daughter
was missing? How could he not comprehend her identity in such circumstances!

Mary closed her eyes. How could she keep her identity hidden yet still hold him at bay for any length of time? It seemed an impossible task. Escape was the only solution, but for the moment, that, too, was an impossibility.

She wiped her eyes. Tears solved nothing. She must ready herself for their next war of wits and wills. So far she had not done very well. And she did not want to repeat what had just passed between them—the encounter that had drained her so, yet left her feeling disturbed and agitated and so strangely ripe.

What had just passed between them.
Mary made a choked sound, her mind flooding with fresh memories. To her horror, she could still feel his touch, his mouth on hers, his hard loins on hers, and her body began throbbing. She covered her face with her hands. Mary could no longer avoid her shame. It overwhelmed her.

Exhaustion overtook her. She would not brood upon the bastard heir anymore. She shifted to look longingly at the fur pallet. She could only guess whether the Norman would return to sleep there or not, and she was too fatigued now to think clearly. But it didn’t matter. She could not lie in his bed, even alone; the very idea was atrocious.

Mary sank down on the dirt floor, huddling into a small ball. Finally numbness settled upon her aching mind, but sleep eluded her. She drifted restlessly, listening to the sounds of the night and the camp, the nickering of horses, a hooting owl, the men talking quietly outside, until the last of their voices died down. As the human sounds faded, she tensed, waiting for inevitable footsteps—footsteps she was certain would come. She lay rigid for a long time, but they did not come—he did not come.

   Mary awoke to find the Norman’s face close to her own. For one instant she did not move, dazed with sleep, gazing into glittering eyes that were not black but a rich maple brown. Then reality hit her with violent force and she jerked away from him.

He had been leaning over her, to touch his face almost to hers, but now he straightened. “I hope your story proves to be the truth, demoiselle.”

His meaning was not lost upon her. “Get away from me!”

“What frightens you so this mom, mademoiselle? Is it me you fear—or yourself?”

Mary found her tongue. “I do not fear myself. I fear big black Normans for whom rape is as casual a sport as hawking.”

He laughed. “I can assure you, mademoiselle, I have never participated in that particular act of violence, and I never will.” He added, very low, “I have never needed to, and when you join me in my bed, it will be with enthusiasm—the same kind of enthusiasm that was in evidence last night.”

His blunt reference to her appalling behavior yesterday infuriated Mary. “You will never see such enthusiasm from me again!”

He lifted a dark brow. “Do you challenge me?” His smile was genuine. “I enjoy challenges, demoiselle.”

She shook her head vehemently, her heart tripping. “You have no power over me.”

“To the contrary, I have an ancient power over you, mademoiselle, the power of a man over a woman.”

“I am not like other women.”

“No?” His teeth flashed. “You appeared to be a woman as any other last night, when you lay mewling beneath me, a woman both in my power and at my mercy. But if it makes you feel better, I will concede that you are far more interesting than all the women I have so far met. Far more interesting, far more intriguing, and—” he smiled again, his eyes suddenly warm “—far more beautiful.”

Mary fought the seduction that simmered in the intensity of his gaze. She bristled. “I do not mewl, Norman! And you may say whatever you like, you may think as you undoubtedly will, but it does not change what I feel, and what I feel for you is better left unsaid.”

He eyed her for a long moment, assessingly. “Beneath the anger there is much to explore, I think. Nevertheless, we are wasting not just words but time. We leave in a quarter hour.
I suggest you take a few private moments to do what you must. This dispute can be concluded at Alnwick.”

De Warenne turned and limped away, moving remarkably well for a man who had recently suffered a gore wound. Mary stared after him, relieved that he was gone. Every encounter she survived—intact—seemed to her no small victory.

But she was also dismayed. Alnwick was the new seat of Northumberland. The earl, the bastard’s father, had spent some fifteen years completing it, and rumor held it to be an impenetrable fortress. If that was true, it meant that once she was imprisoned there, she had no hope of being rescued.

It flashed through Mary’s mind that by this morning, Malcolm and her brothers would be scouring the countryside looking for her. Perhaps she could be rescued before being imprisoned at Alnwick. She
must
be rescued first! It was her only hope.

What if she were to leave a sign for Malcolm? How could she do this?

Quickly she shoved aside the fur she had been covered with, trembling with excitement. Someone had brought her a bowl of water, and Mary quickly washed. She hurried from the tent and stopped.

Horses were being saddled, the camp packed up. Everyone appeared absorbed with their tasks. Mary saw her captor talking with another knight, his back to her.