“There is little to do at Alnwick in the long winter months, as you must know. I imagine he is amusing himself with all sorts of intrigues,” Henry said blandly.
Mary looked at him. He was cruel. She knew he was not referring to political intrigue. And suddenly she had had enough.
She was Stephen’s wife. This estrangement had gone on for far too long. If Stephen had taken another woman as his mistress, she would vent a fury such as he had never seen. She could imagine him entwined with Adele Beaufort. It was a horrible thought. She was his wife. If he had needs, he could sate himself on her.
“What of Adele Beaufort?”
“She married Ferrars in February,” Henry said with a grin. “Not that that stops her from her wicked pursuits.” His grin widened. “She has not left the Court, either.”
Mary’s bosom heaved. Was Henry insinuating that Adele and Stephen had resumed their relationship? Impulsively she leaned forward. “Take me with you when you leave. I wish to go to Court and join my husband there.”
Henry’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “How much gall you have! I cannot bring you with me, Mary, although it would almost be worth it to see the look on Stephen’s face when you arrived. But he has exiled you, and rightly so. If I were your husband, I would have put you away in a convent for the rest of your days.”
“But you are not my husband, are you?” Mary’s tone was tart.
“No.” Henry leaned close. “And your husband is not here.” He smiled at her. “The winter must have been long and hard for you.” “Not as long nor as hard as you would like,” Mary said coldly. “I am not interested in your attentions, my lord. Despite all that has passed, I love my husband and I shall remain faithful to him.”
“Even when I tell you he is not faithful to you?”
God, how those direct words hurt. “Even so.”
“I think I admire you, madame,” Henry said. He sat back in his chair with a sigh. But his eyes gleamed.
That night, Mary could not sleep. Henry’s words haunted her. She ached with hurt over Stephen’s infidelity. She kept imagining him with the beautiful, immoral Adele Beaufort, who must now be Adele le Ferrars. Mary tried to think of a way to escape Tetly and go to Court, to reclaim her husband and her position as his wife. But escape from Tetly was impossible. The only way out was through the front gates, and she was expressly forbidden past them. Had Henry come with a wagon, she would attempt to hide in it as it left, but he had not. Mary tossed in her bed, finally turning onto her side. The only thing she could do was to send a letter with Henry. Surely the self-serving prince would deliver a missive to Stephen for her.
Mary stiffened. Through the racket of the roaring wind and the distant thunder of the surf breaking on the shore, Mary thought she had heard the creak of a wood door. Henry had the only other chamber on this topmost floor, and by now he must be fast asleep. She strained to hear, and thought it came again. Surely Henry was asleep, and there was no one else on this floor to be creeping about. Mary’s pulse raced. But when the wind finally quieted for a moment, when there was only the soft, lulling sound of the waves beating the shore far below the keep at the base of the cliffs, she was reassured, for she heard nothing.
But only for a moment. In the next heartbeat Henry had slid into bed behind her with a chuckle, pressing his long, aroused body against hers, holding her close. Mary gasped in shock.
“Don’t be surprised, sweet,” Henry murmured, rubbing his distended groin against her bare buttocks. With one hand he fondled her full breasts. “I know you must yearn for a man.”
Mary could not reply. Henry, thank God, had yet to undress for bed, but she was stark naked. And—dear lord—it had been so very long since she had felt a man’s touch, and her own body was so starved that the feel of him had sent her pulses rioting. She loved Stephen, but Henry was a virile man, and her body knew it.
“You are hot,” Henry said thickly, squeezing her breast gently and toying with her nipple. “God, I knew it.” He kissed her neck.
Mary recovered her sanity. “Get out of my bed! Get out of my bed—this instant!”
“You want it,” he returned, rubbing himself lazily against her.
Mary closed her eyes, wishing it were Stephen lying there with her, then in the next breath cursing him for leaving her like this, so she might be in such a situation. And for one second, she allowed herself to feel the sensations stealing across her body. Then she took a deep breath—and jammed her elbow into Henry’s rib cage with all of her might.
He gasped. Mary scrambled to her hands and knees. Henry made an angry sound. He jerked her abruptly back down on her belly, hard.
Mary cried out as he came down on top of her, fumbling with his braies. “The babe, damn you! You’ll hurt my babe!”
Henry froze. An instant later he had lifted himself off of her, his hand on her protruding belly. He froze again.
Mary scrambled out from under him and off of the bed.
Henry sat up. “God’s blood,” he said, clearly shaken.
Mary stood before the fire, looking wildly around for a weapon. Her eyes settled upon the poker. She grabbed it and held it up threateningly.
Henry stared at her. His gaze focused instantly on her round, obviously pregnant belly. Then he looked at the vee between her thighs and at her quivering breasts. He sat up straighter. “There’s no need for that,” he said dryly. “Rape was never my intention.”
“It was not?” Mary asked, her voice high and cracked. She began to shake. She did not care what he said. The prince had almost raped her.
Henry’s answer was to slide from the bed and light a taper. He held it up, looking at her again. “Stephen doesn’t know.” His voice had changed, all the dryness gone—it was cold and hard. It was the voice of a displeased aristocrat.
