Mary chanted his name. She loved him so. She told him. She was out of control, completely abandoned, crying her pleasure for all the world to hear, proudly, not caring if it did.
Stephen took her as if he had not had a woman in a very long time. He held back nothing. And when he found his own release, he cried her name, too. Not once, but many times.
Mary burrowed into his arms. This was where she wanted to be, where she belonged. She loved Stephen so much that it physically hurt.
Tears rose hotly, despite her abject happiness to be with Stephen again.
Mary did not want to cry. Not here, not now.She was happy.Stephen had returned to her. She was happy. But she had relinquished all control over herself when she had welcomed Stephen into her embrace. Raw, powerful emotions, so carefully defended for so long, had been left naked and exposed, all barriers and shields recklessly laid down. Mary choked on a sob.
“Mary?” Stephen said.
His single word, her name, undid her. And once she started to weep in earnest, she soon found that she could not stop.
Stephen cradled her in his arms, his expression drawn. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, stricken.
“I-I’m s-sorry.” Mary wept even harder.
“’Twas a lie,” Stephen said hoarsely. “Your tears do affect me. Mary, I am not going to send you back.”
He was not going to send her back. The long winter of her exile was truly over. Stephen had truly come back to her. Real joy mingled with the pain she had thought firmly buried in some final place she might never see again.
For as she lay sobbing in Stephen’s arms, so much hurt throbbed within her breast. The pain of losing those she loved, the pain of her father’s rejection, the pain of her exile.
“Why do you cry thus?” he asked harshly. “I am sorry, so sorry, if I have hurt you so.”
She clung to him tightly. It was a long time before she could be coherent. “I have lost my mother, my father, my brother, and I almost l-lost y-you. And you ask me why I cry?”
Stephen was silent, trying to be strong, but in truth thoroughly undone. He continued to stroke her and hold her. Gruffly he said, “I am sorry Mary, I am sorry about Malcolm and Margaret and Edward. I wanted to punish you, but never did I wish to see you suffer so for the loss of those you love. I have always been sorry—there was just not the circumstance to tell you.”
She needed to tell him. “Malcolm disowned me. When I went to him and asked him to—to stop the war—he t-told me—he t-told me …” She could not continue. She collapsed against Stephen’s chest. She gripped him hard, as she would a lifeline.
“What did he tell you?” Stephen managed, ashen.
“That I—that I was not his daughter anymore. That his daughter was a brave Scottish lass, not one as I!”
Stephen cursed Malcolm and held his wife, rocking her. “You are a brave Scottish lass, Mary, the bravest I have ever known.” He tilted her tear-streaked face up to his. “Did you really go to him to ask him to stop the war?”
Mary looked at him. “I was not running away from you. I swear it, Stephen.”
Stephen pressed her head back to his chest and closed his eyes. Once again, he wanted to believe her. He supposed it was possible. If any woman had the daring and audacity to confront a King and attempt to dissuade him from war, that woman would be Mary. And did he have a choice? He had fought her for so long—he just could not continue to do so. He had fought his love for so long, but now he had identified it, realizing it would never leave him be. He could not be the cause of such suffering on her part. She needed him. She had needed him for some time. And he had not been there for her. Stephen was sick at the thought. Dear God, if he had known how he was hurting her, he would have never sent her away. If he had known how she suffered, he would have gone to her immediately. “It does not matter,” he finally said. “What matters is that you are my wife, and you carry my child, and that I cannot live apart from you.”
Mary stared, stunned. “You cannot live apart from me?”
“Not happily.”
“Stephen,” she whispered. “Does this mean you will forget the past?”
“I am not a man who can forget easily,” Stephen said honestly, gravely. “But I am giving us a third chance. We shall start over from this day, Mary.”
Mary blinked up at him, her tears finally subsiding. It seemed miraculous, as if Stephen himself was healing her, for the anguish, the real physical pain which had been searing her breast, had diminished to a dull throb, one she could very well live with. Indeed, there was genuine joy coming forth from somewhere deep in her soul, joy that threatened to displace much of the grief.
He gazed at her steadily. “Promise me, here and now, on the life of the child, that you will not imperil our marriage again. I must believe that I can trust you, Mary.”
“You can trust me. I will never disobey you again, Stephen,” Mary vowed.
And finally, Stephen’s expression eased. His mouth quirked. “I do not dare to hope for such respect, madame. Acting with care and circumspection is enough.”
And Mary smiled broadly, snuggling against him. She had won. Stephen was hers again.
