Promise of the Rose (37 page)

Now that he knew, of course, he would be more careful.

She would not have the opportunity to spy again, or do worse. And still she would be his wife, in fact and in deed, if nothing else. She would manage his household and see to all of his needs. He would give her children; she would bear them, raise them. Yes, she would be his wife in deed, but not in any other way—not in his heart. Never could such a woman have a place in his heart. And the worst of it was that just before he had discovered her treachery and her deception, he had been falling in love with her.

Stephen knew that sleep would elude him for most of this night. Now that the war no longer preoccupied him, it would be impossible to chase his treacherous wife from his thoughts. If only she had denied what she had done. If only …

He was a man who dealt in realities, so he must not yearn for what would not be. Tomorrow he was returning to Alnwick. Where once there was joy and comfort in the thought, no more. He settled down upon his pallet, fully clothed. He thought about the greeting he would receive the next day, thought about returning home to a woman who was a more dangerous adversary than any he had ever
met upon the battlefield because of the position she held in his home. God, he was tired. So sick and tired of politics and intrigue. How he yearned to return home to open arms and a real embrace. Instead, he would return to Alnwick, where Mary awaited him, his beautiful, traitorous wife.

He pressed his cheek into the straw. A lump rose suddenly in his throat. Dear God, if he faced the truth, he would admit that he felt like a boy of six again, alone and abandoned, confronting his very first bitter betrayal.

M
ary sat on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling over, her back straight, her shoulders erect, her hands clasped in her lap. She had finger-brushed her hair the best that she could and rebraided it, replacing her wimple. Unfortunately she had no clean gown to change into, but she had been able to wash herself somewhat with the water that was brought to her each day. She hoped she looked well. She tried to appear calm and dignified. In case Stephen should come to her directly.

He and his men had ridden into the bailey a few minutes ago. It was impossible not to hear them, they entered with such loud, animated conversation, with a fanfare of horns and happy cries and even some laughter. Mary had been waiting for Stephen to return, aware that it could be just a few days before he did, but her first reaction was dismay. She understood the tenor of the hubbub the returning knights were making well enough—they were victorious. Carlisle had fallen.

How could she not be saddened? She knew that this was only the beginning. Even if the Normans would be satisfied with just this addition to their territory, it could not stop
here. Malcolm had never intended to keep the peace anyway, and now he would seek revenge. And this time he was undoubtedly doubly furious, for one of the principals who had betrayed him was his daughter’s husband, and not just his daughter’s husband but his age-old enemy as well.

She would not think about Carlisle and the political future anymore. Not when her husband had just returned. Not when, even now, he might be climbing the stairs and walking towards her chamber. It was hard to breathe slowly, evenly. It was hard to be calm. What would happen when they next met? Mary trembled.

It had been a half sennight since she had been imprisoned in her room—since she and Stephen had fought so bitterly. Mary knew he was all right, unhurt by the battle, because she had been unable to restrain herself, and she had flown to the window slit to watch as the knights entered the bailey. She had spotted her husband at once, sitting his brown destrier tall and erect, his mail splashed with mud, his helm in the crook of his arm. Had he been wounded, he would not be mounted so. Mary was relieved.

She had brooded many long hours upon her feelings for her husband, upon her past relationship with him and upon the future that now lay in wait for them. Mary had never guessed that she could love such a man, but no matter how it hurt, she did. She was not pleased to love him; how could she be? He had betrayed her father and family for the sake of ruthless, greedy ambition. And he had betrayed her and their marriage. It was unforgivable. But forgive him, she would.

And her forgiveness had less to do with love than it had to do with practicality. She would remain his wife even if she hated him, even if she never forgave him, even if she denied him until he raped her and defied him until he beat her. But she did love him, God help her. So Mary was forgiving him all, and she could only hope that her sensible response to the insanity of the situation would be matched, in the near future, by the mellowing of his own temper and feelings.

And she was not prepared to speculate further. She was not prepared to analyze the extent of her own wants, her own needs, and her own secret longings. It would be enough if an enduring peace could be established between them. She
would do her best to continue to see to his comfort, and maybe, one day, he would understand her loyalty. Maybe, in time, he would forget that she had spied upon him, maybe he would one day believe her innocence. She must try to convince him of her innocence now as she had not even attempted to do before.

Mary stiffened as the door to her chamber was unbolted and unlocked. An eternity passed as the heavy door slid open. Disappointment seared her when she saw a servant on the threshold, not her husband. She blinked back a blinding tear, then realized that a big copper bathtub was being carried into the room. More important, Stephen was walking in behind the servants bearing the steaming water.

Mary was frozen. She regarded him uncertainly, fixedly. He did not look at her, entering with a tired, slow stride, his page already helping him out of his mail. Realizing how exhausted he was wrung a response from Mary that, given his recent antipathy towards her, she would have preferred to ignore. But it was impossible; her instinct was to rush to him and help him, soothe him.

She did not. Mary realized that she was not breathing, that her heart was hammering much too quickly, and she took a few steadying breaths. Stephen had shrugged out of the leather vest he wore beneath the armor. She realized that he was finally looking at her.

“Good day, madame,” he said, inclining his head.

“Good day, my lord.” she breathed.

Silence reigned. The page quickly stripped her husband, a job that belonged to Mary since she was present. Stephen had turned his back to her. As she knew very well that he had no modesty, it was an obvious rejection. Small but real, and it hurt. The tub was full, the servants gone. Stephen lowered himself into the bath, facing away from her, another sign that all was not yet well. Then he told the young squire that he might go. The boy obeyed and they were left alone.

Mary was uncertain. Stephen was obviously calm and rational. Yet she did not think he had forgotten her trespass, or forgiven her for it. Giving her his back, not once but twice, was significant. Perhaps it was a warning, a signal to her to keep her distance.

The last time she had helped him bathe flashed through Mary’s mind. Hopelessly she succumbed to intense yearning. She was quite sure that there would never be a repeat of such unabashed, open passion, such mutually flagrant need.

“Shall I help you, my lord?”

Stephen was in the midst of sponging himself with soap and water. He did not turn his head when he spoke. Although fatigue was evident in his tone, he said, “Perhaps another time.”

Mary could not move. She had not misread him at all. He had not forgotten anything, he had not forgiven anything. Mary almost sobbed but managed to muffle the sound of despair instead. This man was as far removed from the warm, ardent lover he had been before their fight as he could be.

She was uncertain. She decided to tend the fire, having nothing else to do. She jammed the poker at the dead wood, releasing some of her anger and frustration, but by no means enough of it. Clearly he was intent on avoiding her. But for how long? Recalling the impossibly high stakes—their future—she knew this situation could not continue. She must not allow it to continue in this vein.

Stephen had finished washing himself, and now he lunged to his feet. Mary turned, trembling. A second later he had wrapped his powerful, naked body in a blanket. He did not look at her.

Stephen began to dress. He did not speak. Mary was afraid to approach in order to help him, quite certain her efforts would be rejected yet again. He was making himself very clear. She could not keep her silence. “Will you shun me for the rest of our lives, my lord?”

“Shun you?” Stephen whirled. “I have no intention of shunning you, madame. But if you think to get a warm welcome from me, you have been mistaken.”

Her head came up, her nostrils flared. “You are still angry.”

He laughed, the sound harsh, unpleasant. “I am still angry, but do not fear. I am in complete control.” His gaze was open now, so open that she could see the anger in it, and it was hard and cold.

“I have been punished. But I have not apologized.” Knowing she was innocent of treachery made it difficult to continue. “I am sorry.”

He stared in some amount of incredulity. “How sincere you seem!”

“I
am
sorry!” Mary cried. “Stephen, I swear to you that I never intended to betray you to my father.”

He cocked his head. “Do you not think your avowal a bit untimely?”

“It may be untimely, but ’tis the truth.”

“I doubt you comprehend the meaning of the word ’truth,’ madame.”

Mary inhaled. “You are cruel.”

“Why do you seek to convince me now? Were you not spying?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you plot anew against me? Do you seek to soften me once again, in order to wield another blow?”

“No!”

“If I thought your regret sincere, ’twould be enough—I could not ask for more than genuine repentance. But no apology, sincere or not, is enough to undo my regrets, nor my anger. I do not take betrayal lightly, not from my wife, never from my wife.”

“But I swear I am telling you the truth—I never intended betrayal!”

“As you swore before God to honor and obey me?” He held up a hand; his eyes flashed waringly, dangerously.

Mary could not back down. “I did not break my vows.”

“I have had enough of this, madame,” Stephen said very tightly.

He was staring at her. Mary realized she was glaring at him through a veil of tears. She fought for composure.

“Your confinement is ended, if that is any help,” Stephen told her. “I expect you to join us downstairs for dinner. My bath is still warm. Why do you not take advantage of it?”

“How charitable you are.”

His own fists clenched, his eyes darkened even more. “Once I was very charitable towards you, or have you forgotten? You are lucky, madame, extremely lucky, that I
am ending your punishment, as light as it was, and that I am intent on keeping you as my wife, as deceitful as you are.”

Mary was quick to protest, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone. “You have no choice, my lord, and you know it. We are wed before God until death!”

“There are many ways to end a marriage such as ours,” Stephen remarked pointedly.

Mary was shaken, frightened and aghast. Surely she was misunderstanding—he could not be threatening her with—“What—what do you say, my lord?”

“I am suggesting that you tread cautiously, madame, if you wish to fare well with me.”

“Would you ask for an annulment?” she asked in horror.

“Did I say that? No, madame, I would never ask for an annulment. You have yet to give me my heir; need I remind you of that?”

Mary met his cool stare.

Then he smiled, but it was hardly pleasant. “Should there be another instance of treachery, madame, I will exile you. If I am generously disposed, it would be to Tetly, a personal manor of mine on the coast; if not, a convent in France.”

Mary was white. “And—if I should bear your heir?”

Stephen’s smile was cold and brief. “That would change nothing, madame; children are born to exiled wives every day, as you well know.” Stephen turned on his heel. “Do not keep us waiting.” He shut the door behind him.

Mary was still, but only for a moment. Then she picked up his helm, which lay on the chest beside her, and threw it furiously at the door. It made a resounding crash, which barely pleased her. She sank onto the chest, scattering his clothes and mail, shaking.

Dear God. She felt as if she were a hairsbreadth away from a fate almost as horrible as death, and perhaps as irrevocable. Exile. He had no feelings left for her, and he would exile her in an instant. That, too, seemed abundantly clear. Mary wanted to cry.

Mary cradled her abdomen with her hands. He had said he would exile her even if she was with child. His statement was proof that he still expected her to give him an heir. She was glad she had not said anything. She was likely with
child, for this month she’d had no flux. The secret she kept might very well prove to be the only weapon she had left, if ever she dared to use it. That was why she did not go to him and tell him what he would be glad to hear. And her restraint had nothing to do with ridiculous romanticism. Certainly now, after the past hour, she could not be such a fool to think that there would come a time of ease between them, a time of light and laughter, a time when she might bring him such joyous tidings in love, instead of undeclared war.