Henry quirked a brow. “Between you and me, dear brother, just between you and me, do you really think that if you succeed in putting Duncan on the throne, you can continue to control him?”
Rufus smiled and waved his hand languidly. “You must know the truth, brother of mine. Duncan loves me.”
Henry raised a brow. “I do hope it’s true.” He smiled. “What a merry coil. He pines for you, and you pine for another.”
Rufus was no longer smiling. He gave his brother an ugly glance.
Henry laughed. “It shall be interesting, shall it not, to see how Stephen treats his wife now that she has returned, and so pregnantly?”
It was Rufus’s turn to smile. “He is no longer infatuated with her. He despises her. He cannot even bear to speak of her. But of course, I knew he would tire of her soon. No woman has ever held his interest for long.”
“Fortunately for you,” Henry murmured. “Or so you must think.”
But Rufus had not heard. “So what think you of my plans?”
“I think it is no easy task to topple a King—and even harder to keep one in one’s power.”
“Donald Bane is barely Scotland’s King. There are many who resent him. No one likes Edmund, who rules by his side.”
“And you have promised Duncan, these many years, to see his fondest dreams made true.”
“I have never openly promised him anything,” Rufus said sharply. “You doubt I can control him.”
“Duncan has strong ambitions, and he is much like Malcolm, ruthless and determined. He has schemed after his father’s crown for some thirty years. He will not be as easy to manage as you wish him to be. If you need a puppy, why not launch young Edgar? His claim is legitimate. He is young enough that you can easily mold him.”
“I disagree.” Rufus no longer appeared drunk. He faced his brother with an unpleasant expression. “He is too young, he would need too much support, and he might very well turn to Stephen instead of me. No, I much prefer Duncan, who has ever been loyal. Can I count on you, dear brother?”
Henry leaned back in his chair. He had no wish to involve his army in another war in Scotland that would only strengthen his brother’s position there in England, as well as freeing him to concentrate on regaining the duchy of Normandy. “I have no need for more silver or more estates.”
“Everyone needs more silver and more estates.”
“Do you not have many nobles behind you? Have you not got the great Earl of Northumberland in your pocket? Stephen’s son, should it be a boy, will be Malcolm’s grandson. They surely envision a cozy relationship with Scotland right now. Why, Duncan will be the child’s uncle! Surely you do not need me!”
Rufus scowled. “As you have said, ’tis no easy thing to topple a King. You must help me, Henry. Your reward will be great. Perhaps I will take the other Scot princess from the convent and give her to you.”
“Now that Malcolm is dead, I hardly see how such an alliance would interest me,” Henry said. “Especially with Duncan on the throne.”
“Tell me what does interest you, then.”
“I will think on it,” Henry said. “Carefully.” But his mind was made up already, and his answer was no. Let the other nobles weaken themselves in this war, let them sow the seeds of their own destruction. When all was finished, his army would be the strongest in the realm. And Henry did not mind waiting to realize his dreams, even if it meant a few more years. Patience was his forte. Hadn’t he coveted his brother’s crown for an entire lifetime?
Mary had been sound asleep, but now she was wideawake. She did not know what had awakened her, some noise, perhaps, or a dream. She lay on her side, facing the fire that still blazed in the hearth. She recalled instantly where she was. At Gray stone, in Stephen’s chamber, in his bed. Yearning assailed her.
She heard the door to her chamber closing. Mary sat up abruptly, eyes wide. A man stood in the shadows facing her, unmoving, his identity obscured by the darkness. But Mary knew it was Stephen. There could only be one reason he had come.“Stephen.”
He did not move, and when he spoke, his voice was low and ragged. “I yearn for you, Mary, the way a drunkard yearns for wine.”
Tears filled Mary’s eyes; she gripped the bedcovers. “I yearn for you, too, Stephen.”
He moved closer, into the glow of firelight. Mary saw the blaze in his eyes and gave a small, glad cry. She did not care that he only came to her to slake his desire, she did not. She held her arms out to him.
Stephen reached her in a single stride. The moment their hands touched, their bodies ignited in a burst of desire. For one brief moment Mary cradled his face in her palms, his beautiful, beloved face, reveling in the hunger she saw in his eyes. Stephen held her gaze, and between them there was a sizzling, wordless communication. Then he was kissing her.
He wrapped her in his arms and pushed her down on the bed, devouring her mouth with his. The kiss was open, wild, and wet. Mary’s mood and need matched his exactly, and she met him with equal ardor. It was a long time before their lips parted, and when they did, they were both gasping shamelessly for air.
Mary almost wept. She did not care what he said; his denials were forever after baseless. Any man who kissed in such a manner was consumed by far more than mere desire. She would gamble her future on it—indeed, she would gamble her wildest dreams.
They kissed again but soon broke apart, too impatient for such foreplay. Stephen paused only to run his hands over her swollen breasts, murmuring thick endearments, and to touch her hard, round belly with awe. Then she was on her side, and he was sliding deeply into her.
