As he had known it would, his control snapped. His hand arched out. There was a cracking sound as his open palm hit her face. Mary gasped as she fell back against the wall with a thud and then to the floor.
Stephen turned from her, panting, shaking, hating himself—but not as much as he hated her. “Do not,” he finally said, when he could speak, “offer me one single lie. There is not a word you could speak which I wish to hear.”
Mary pushed herself up with her hands into a sitting position on the cold stone floor. The room seemed to spin, and with it, Stephen’s huge, powerful form. Pain washed over her in waves. She managed to wonder if he had broken her jaw. It felt like it. She managed to wonder if it was truly over for them.
Stephen turned, looking at her. “I warned you. No—do not dare speak. When I tell you I do not wish to hear you, I mean it. I am sending you to Telly.”
Mary blinked at him. The pain washing over her was changing, taking on a different nature. He was sending her into exile. At least he would not kill her, for she had been unsure of what to expect when finally they met. It had taken no small amount of courage to remain in her chamber, awaiting him, instead of hiding in the sanctuary. He was not going to kill her, but she could not be relieved. Exile was a fate she dreaded as she would true death. For was it not the death of their marriage?
And he would not let her speak in her own defense. Mary wanted to speak, she must speak—but she was terrified of him now, afraid he was so out of control that he would hit her again, this time killing her and the child unintentionally. Or maybe his intent was there in his breast, dark and deadly and sinister, needing only the briefest pricking of a spur to be roused, a spur her desperate words would provide.
Mary started to cry again, as she so often did these past few days.
A series of images flashed through her mind. Malcolm cold and furious, telling her that she was not his daughter anymore. Edward leading her away, embracing her, comforting her. Her mother kneeling in the chapel at Edinburgh in prayer.
And they were all dead. It was too much, far too much for her to bear, but now, now there was even more, now there was this.
Her husband, the father of her unborn child, a man she had hated briefly and should hate still but could not, hated her. He hated her enough to send her away, undoubtedly forever. And if she was not careful, his hatred might move him to unwittingly murder her and their child.
“Your tears do not affect me,” Stephen said coldly. “You will never affect me again.”
Mary wanted to tell him about the child. Perhaps if she told him about the life blossoming within her, he would soften, maybe even love her again. She was desperate. She would do anything to make him love her again. But then he said, “After you bear me my heir, I will exile you to France.”
Mary was frozen, stunned. If she gave him a son, he would send her away to France. And that, she knew, would be irrevocable. Once she was locked away in France, she would never be able to reach out to him again, never be able to change his mind—for she would never see him again.
For just an instant, she was so sick, she thought she would retch.
Stephen paced to the door and paused. He half-turned to her. “I am too angry to even think of lying with you again at any time in the near future. But you are young. And my anger cannot possibly remain as it is. When the need visits me, I will visit you. I will have my son.” He faced her fully, loathing in his eyes.
Mary whimpered, her eyes closed tightly.And then he would send her away and it would truly be over for them.
Then Stephen said, harshly, “And once I have my son, there will be no more need.”
Mary watched him turn and walk away. Then she collapsed on the floor, moaning. But she was no longer aware of her bruised face, just the pain in her breast, the distress. Her heart had been ravaged. Tom into many tiny pieces, leaving only shattering pain.
Geoffrey came to escort Mary outside. Mary saw that he was aghast at the sight of her face. The side of her jaw was already swollen and mottling; soon it would be purple.
His disposition had been stern; now it eased fractionally. “Are you all right?” he asked, coming to take her arm.
Mary looked at him, her eyes again glazing over. “No, sir. I will never be right again.”
Geoffrey was grim. “He will never forget this, Mary, but in time, he will bend a little; in time, I think he will forgive.”
Mary closed her eyes briefly. “How I wish I believed you.” She opened them. “I did not run away from him, my lord. I did not. I only wanted to stop the war. I thought my father would listen to my pleas.” Tears flowed. “I love Stephen.” With great effort she managed to control her raging emotions. “Even after he has done something like this, I still love him. I have loved him for a very long time. Since Abernathy.”
Geoffrey was uncomfortable but intense. “Perhaps you should tell him that, Mary.”
“How can I? He refuses to believe me. And now he is so furious that I am afraid of him. I am not only afraid to speak to him, I am afraid to go near him.”
“You must let some time pass. The next time you see Stephen, you will surely be able to converse without fear of his brutality. It is not like him.”
“Of course,” Mary said dully, as another hot wave of anguish crested, then crashed upon her. Could she survive these next few minutes, much less these next few days?
If she wanted Stephen back, she would have to. She could not imagine when she would see Stephen again. She would have to do far more than survive these next few days. She might have to survive many months before having the chance to face him again—to face him and defend herself and win him back to her side.
And if it was more than a month or two from now that they again met, her pregnancy would be obvious. Undoubtedly he would be furious with her for not having told him of it. But if she told him now, he would send her away and not even come to “visit” her in her exile. Mary knew that once again her only hope for salvaging their relationship lay in their desire for each other. If that desire still existed on his part. She was not confident.
Mary was exhausted, from her encounter with her husband, the loss of her parents and brother, the many days she had spent caring for her mother as she lay dying, the audience with her father, and her mad escape from Alnwick. She was quite certain that she was unable to bear anything more. Geoffrey led her outside. Mary had to fight to control her ravaged emotions. Although she had good cause to cry, she did not want to be hysterically distraught while being forcibly removed from the abbey by Stephen, in front of his brother, his men, the monks, and the good abbot. Her pride was all that she had left.
