Promise of the Rose (9 page)

“You are not to worry,” Malcolm said. “Dear heart, why do you not go upstairs to rest?”

Although Margaret knew she would never rest this night, not with Mary missing, she nodded and obeyed. There was silence until she had left the hall.

“What are you planning to do?” Edward asked uneasily.

Malcolm smiled, and it was chilling. “I will do what must be done, my son. Harken well. There is a benefit to be had from this, and I intend to reap it.”

   The first few drops of rain began to fall, pattering steadily upon the battlements of Alnwick.

Inside, Mary paused in the open doorway of the Norman’s chamber. She had not considered refusing his summons, even though she was nearly paralyzed with fright at the thought of what might happen. He was wearing only his linen braies, and his lack of dress was all the confirmation she needed. Her face, paler than the costliest ivory, stung with sudden heat. Mary turned her gaze away from the sight of his hardened loins bursting against the fabric of his braies.

He regarded her without expression. The sound of the rain, now beating determinedly down upon the roof, filled the silence of the room.

Mary’s back was to the open doorway. She cast her gaze around wildly, her heart tripping. She had considered revealing herself to him. Though she had not had much time, less than an hour, to contemplate her dilemma, she had brooded over her alternatives as carefully as possible in the face of her growing panic.

And until the minute Mary had come to his chamber, confronted with her enemy and his obvious desire, she had harbored desperate hope. She would not accept her ruin, at least not meekly. She had been determined not to bend to his will in the ensuing contest, a contest in which her virtue and her pride were at stake. She would fight him. If she remained firm in her resolve and if she refused to allow herself to be seduced as she almost had earlier, and he had been speaking the truth of his aversion to violence, then he would not condescend to rape her.

But any hope she’d had died a sudden death. Facing him in the flesh, pinned beneath his glittering gaze, she did not believe him capable of desisting from brutality. She knew what her fate would be. For in the end it was better to be a martyr, accepting her own ruin, than to reveal herself to be the princess Mary and hand her captor such a priceless gift.

Outside, the wind roared, and for the first time that evening, thunder cracked almost directly overhead. Mary jumped.

Stephen said, “Do storms always make you this nervous, mademoiselle?”

Mary looked at him. Her jaw tightened. Lightning sliced across the sky, and for a moment the ink blackness outside the narrow slit became white. Mary turned her gaze away from the narrow window. “Be done with it.”

His brow rose.

He was studying her. Mary fought to keep her eyes on the casement window, watching the rain as it fell now in heavy, silvery torrents. It wasn’t an easy task. His presence was compelling, overwhelming. Her gaze sidled to the canopied bed. He stood in front of it in the middle of the room. The bed curtains had been pulled open, the furs and blankets folded aside.

The chamber was too warm, Mary thought. It was becoming difficult to breathe in a normal fashion. Despite the inclement weather, she wished the fire would die down to mere embers. She wished he would stop staring at her and she wished he would do something, anything, to end this torment, this suspense.

He finally moved. His strides were tightly controlled,
giving no hint of the impatience his body must be feeling, as he crossed the room. Thick rugs covered the stone floors, and his bare feet made no sound. He drew her into the chamber, closing the door behind them.

Mary lifted her gaze to his, wide-eyed, trembling. There was such finality in his action. She felt as if he had just slammed the door on her fate. Perhaps he had. Determined to remain mute for as long as he, she met his stare, hoping to appear fierce and uncowed.

He smiled.

There was such carnal intent in the curling of his lips that Mary staggered backwards. Stephen easily caught her. And instead of steadying her, he reeled her up against him. “There is no need to be afraid of me.”

“I am not afraid of you—Norman!” Mary gasped. But she was already in his embrace, and his chest was slick and damp against her rigid palms, an indication that he felt the heat, too, and his groin felt like the blunted tip of a sword thrusting against her abdomen. She tried vainly to push away from him.

“Do you think to insult me?” He was amused.

“Bastard,” she hissed, momentarily ceasing her struggle. She was panting. He was too strong. As she had thought, she was doomed.

“True enough,” he murmured. “I fear I cannot change the circumstance of my untimely birth. Do you really think to wound me with such words?”

“No, but you will wound me, will you not? A man such as you!”

One of his large hands swept down her back. She shivered. “Ahh, you are afraid. I know ’tis too much to ask you to trust me. I will not hurt you, mademoiselle, not after the first time; all women, even one as small as you, are made to accommodate a man, even one like me.”

Mary’s small breasts rose and fell harshly. His statement summoned up a recollection of his heated touch the day before—and an anticipation she was determined to deny. She would fight him, for martyr or not, that was her clear-cut duty. Her will must be stronger than her body. It
must.
Mary ground her teeth together. “I—will—fight—you.”

“I don’t think so.” His suggestive—and amused—smile flashed again. “Of course, we can end your dilemma easily enough. You need but speak two words—the name of your father.”

“No!” Mary wriggled against him. He forced her to become still instantly, gripping the firm mound of one of her buttocks. Mary was frozen. “Shall we test your resolve?” he murmured in her ear.

Mary could barely speak, due to the strategic placement of his fingers. “Be—done—with—it.”

For a moment he was unmoving. “An invitation I cannot refuse. Does such acquiescence signal your intention to remain tight-lipped, does it mean that you will forfeit your virginity instead of your identity?”

Mary stared. She had discerned a subtle change in his tone, which was no longer quite so casual; tension rippled beneath the surface of his words. His eyes had grown brighter, his nostrils flared, and his grip upon her had tightened. And still his manhood throbbed urgently against her. He was trying to hide it, but there was no mistaking the heightened pitch of his excitement now. Mary nodded once. She was incapable of speech.

Slowly he smiled. “At this point I should warn you, mademoiselle, my interest in the truth wans. If you will speak, speak now, before it is too late.”

Mary thought, dazed, that it was probably already too late. She realized her hand had found his hip. It was hard and free of fat, his skin warm even through the thin linen of his braies. His words sank in. She had to use great effort to remove her hand from his body. “I have nothing to say,” she said hoarsely.

“Indeed?” There was a catch to his voice. Abruptly he lifted Mary in his arms. Mary knew she must make some effort at resistance.

Their gazes locked. Her will died then and there. She had never known her body could be so hungry. She realized she was holding on to him instead of pushing him away. The blaze in his eyes made her grip tighten.

They were a step away from the bed. Unsmiling, he slid her onto the center of the mattress. Mary found herself on
her back, her gaze, like the rest of her, dominated by him.

“ ’Tis your last chance,” he said harshly, and she saw that his fists were clenched. “Tell me no lies.”

She was having trouble remembering the issues at stake. She whispered, “I-I am Mairi Sinclair.”

His lips curled. He leaned over her. His gaze slid over her flushed face, then lower, to her heaving breasts, and lower still, to the outline of her slender legs. “The time for words is over, demoiselle.”

She gripped the covers of the bed. She was oblivious to all existence. She had forgotten the stifling warmth in the room, did not hear the crackling tire, the sound of which mingled with the sound of the rain, blurring together into nothingness. Lightning brightened the night sky behind Stephen’s head, but she was unaware of that, too. All of her senses were focused on the man standing before her, and on the painful pulsing of her own body.

He slid onto the bed beside her and pulled her into a sitting position, his touch strong but gentle. He did not hurry; how well he masked any urgency he might be feeling. Mary made a sound low in her throat, one that sounded suspiciously like a moan. Their gazes locked. Without looking at what he was doing, he slowly slipped off the veil she had borrowed from Isobel, freeing her waist-length gold hair. His hands shook as his fingers navigated their way through the length of her hair, beginning at her scalp and ending in the curls at her hips. Deliberately he fanned the tresses out. Mary wondered if he was going to kiss her. Stephen smiled at her.

She could not move.

And then he ripped her clothing apart and tore her tunics and shift off of her body.

Mary screamed.

“I will take you naked,” he said as she tried to leap off of the bed. Mary screamed again, in fury. Stephen caught her, this time throwing her down upon the mattress. He flung the shreds of her clothing aside. Before Mary could scramble away from him, he was on top of her, pressing her down.

Only a thin layer of linen separated his engorged phallus from the tender flesh between her thighs. He throbbed
strongly against her, a hairsbreadth from being within her. “Who in God’s blood are you? You will reveal the truth, demoiselle, and you will do so now!”

Mary looked up at him, consumed with an answering rage. “So it will be rape after all!”

He laughed. When her hands came up, her fingers curled into claws, he caught her wrists, wrestling them down above her head, pinning her to the bed. He stroked his shaft against her. He stroked her until her anger died, but her pulse did not dim. To the contrary, it accelerated madly. Mary moaned helplessly.

His mouth came closer to hers, his breath feathering her face. His eyes were glittering dangerously now. “Your story has substance,” he said, low. “But that only proves what an adept liar you are. Know you this. I have been surrounded by intrigue and deceit my entire life. I have had much practice at ferreting out the good from the rotten. I do not believe you to be some barnyard bastard of the laird Sinclair. Every instinct I possess tells me you are far more than you claim.
Give your name to me now.
”

Mary met his gaze, goaded beyond all resistance.
“Never.”

His eyes widened incredulously. It was the first time that she had admitted she was lying—that she was not Mairi Sinclair—that there was a truth to be revealed. Indeed, the gauntlet had been thrown.

He smiled without mirth. Simultaneously he reached down between them, the back of his hand brushing the swollen, aching folds of her flesh. Mary cried out. A moment later she realized what his movement meant. He had ripped off his own braies, freeing himself. He was slick, and so was she. “We have yet to conclude our business, demoiselle.” His expression was hard, sweat streaked his high cheekbones. “Make your choice. You may give me your identity—or your virginity.”

Mary could not move, could not speak. It had become terribly hard to understand his words when he pulsed naked against her so purposefully, so urgently. She managed to breathe. Her hips twitched involuntarily, invitingly.

His hand cupped the globe of her breast. “Who?” he
whispered roughly, his gaze locked with hers. “Who are you, demoiselle?”

She struggled for sanity. “No,” she said, her whisper as rough as his. “No—never!”

His smile was mirthless, a minute baring of too white teeth. It was dangerous. Still smiling, he slowly lowered his head.

Mary was rigid and frozen. His tongue touched the distended tip of her nipple. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. He had freed one of her hands, and she fisted it to stop herself from grabbing him—from clinging. A moment later he had taken her breast into his mouth. Mary finally heard herself moan.

He lifted his head, his face close to hers. “Tell me who you are, tell me now. You do not want to forfeit your maidenhead, demoiselle, you do not. You are dangerously close to doing so.”

Mary could not respond. She knew an intense pleasure—and an intense need. Her fisted hand had raised itself, to settle slowly upon his bare, hard shoulder. Her fingers opened, curling against his skin. He flinched.

“Who are you?” he whispered. His voice was so rough and broken now, it was barely audible. His eyes had become wild. “Tell me who you are.”

Mary could not remember who she was. She stared at him blankly, at his eyes, at his mouth. She was making small, mewling cries. How she wanted his mouth.

He half-smiled and half-grimaced. He touched her breasts. Then his fingers slid lower and lower still. Mary cried out. He parted the moist folds shielding her virginity, manipulating her with his thumb. Mary’s head fell back and she was lost to all coherent thought. She began to whimper mindlessly.

“Give to me before it is too late!” he demanded. “Who are you?”

She would do anything he asked. Anything, if only he would continue to touch her. “Mary,” she whispered.

“God,” he cried, low and raw and agonized.

Mary felt something else then, something electric flaring hot and bright between them as he rubbed the heavy head of his shaft against her swollen lips, and she cried out. At
some point he had freed her other hand, and she gripped him fiercely.

“Mairi,” he moaned.

“Yes, please. Stephen!”

Their gazes locked, his wide and stark with agony and frustration. He was raised over her, his face close to hers, his eyes hotter than the sun, and he was rubbing the huge tip of his phallus against her again and again, as if he, too, were helpless in the face of his passion. Mary writhed in animal pleasure, whispering his name, sobbing his name.

“God help me,” he said. “I no longer care!”