“On the morrow,” Stephen said with a sigh.
Brand nodded, picked up his cup of mead, and leaned back in his chair. His mouth curled. “I bring you tidings.”
Stephen helped himself to a large slice of bread. “From Father?”
“No, from Adele Beaufort.”
Stephen said nothing.
Brand fingered his eating knife. “She sends you her warmest regards.”
Stephen said, “And I send her mine.”
Brand shifted to face him directly, all blandness gone. “But not in the manner that you shall send your regards to little Mairi this night, if you find that she is in truth little Mairi.”
“Enough.”
“You do not know Lady Beaufort. You have barely spoken to her. I, however, have had much opportunity to observe her since she has come to Court. She is no ordinary woman, Stephen. The lady you wed in three months time will be most unhappy if she hears you have installed a beautiful mistress in your chamber.”
“Do not fear,” Stephen replied harshly. “I have no intention of jeopardizing my relations with Adele Beaufort.”
Stephen stepped out onto the ramparts. There were only a few watchmen on the towers, and he was as alone as he could possibly be. He stalked to the northernmost wall and stared out over its crenellated edge. It was a nightly ritual when he was at Alnwick, to stand thus and gaze upon his domain.
As far as the eye could see, the land belonged to his father, Rolfe de Warenne, and one day it would be his. Ancient Northumbria. Stephen felt a fierce rush of pride and possessiveness. His father had come to England with his overlord, William, the Duke of Normandy, and fought by his side at Hastings twenty-seven years ago. He had been the landless younger son of a Norman comte, seeking the spoils of invasion in a new land. He had been the Conqueror’s most trusted military commander from previous campaigns in Maine and Anjou, and his reputation had grown after Hastings. Soon he had been awarded Aelfgar for his loyalty and military prowess. With the Conqueror’s permission and encouragement, Rolfe had gradually pushed his borders north and west until they encompassed all the territory that was now theirs. And with it, all the power.
Stephen was very aware that one day all the power of Northumberland would be his. He had been born a bastard—his parents had not been able to marry until his father’s first wife had died—but he had been made his father’s heir. It was a vast responsibility, a heavy burden, one he had assumed the very day he had been sent to foster at the King’s court at the tender age of six. But he had never questioned his duty to his father and Northumberland, not then, not now, and not in all the years in between. A man did what he must, always. He had learned that lesson the same day he had ridden away from home with the King’s men, not returning for nearly a decade. Marrying the Essex heiress, Adele Beaufort, was merely another duty he would bear.
They had been betrothed for two and a half years, and they were finally to be wed this Christmastide now that she was sixteen. Rolfe had wanted the union to take place two years ago, but Adele’s guardian would not hear of it. She would bring Stephen a large estate in Essex and, more importantly, much silver coin. Coin was something his family always needed. Unlike most of the King’s other great magnates, Northumberland carried the huge military burden of maintaining England’s northernmost defenses, one that was costly in the extreme.
On the one hand, Stephen’s marriage to Adele Beaufort would make Northumberland dangerously independent, something the King could not be pleased about. But the King was desperate for revenue himself, determined as he was to wage his own wars against his older brother Robert in order to reunite Normandy with England. The King did not need the additional expense of subsidizing Northumberland in its wars with Scotland. So he allowed this match between the two powerful houses of Essex and Northumberland.
Stephen realized that his thoughts had generated a pulsating tension within him. It was his duty to keep the North secure, and for two long years he had walked a tightrope to maintain a fragile peace, responding to every incitement by the border reivers blow for blow, yet knowing he must not strike back so fully that he would shatter the reigning truce. It had been no easy task.
He was tired.
He looked forward to his marriage, for Adele’s dowry would ease the burden generated by constant warfare that was forever upon his back.
Brand’s warning words mocked him. Goddamn it, he was a deliberate man, neither impulsive or rash, but there had been nothing deliberate or careful about his decision to take the woman calling herself Mairi his prisoner. She had intrigued him with her beauty and her deceit, and he had abducted her. He had hoped to discover her to be of little value, so that he could take her to his bed. He still hoped, even while he doubted it.
No man in his position would jeopardize marriage to an heiress for another woman, no matter how desirable she might be. And he had no intention of doing so. A brief liaison, if he was fortunate enough to have it come to that, did not jeopardize his alliance with the Beauforts. But she could not remain in his chamber. In sending her there, he had again acted rashly, for it was a dangerous breach of etiquette. Adele Beaufort would be justifiably furious should she learn he kept a woman in his room. As soon as their next confrontation was waged, he would remove her from his bedchamber.
His jaw clenched. And he would solve the mystery she presented. When faced with imminent ruin, he had not a doubt that she would confess her deception. She would confess her deception, revealing herself to be a highborn lady, and he would send her upon her way, no worse for wear, as he had sworn to do. Stephen could not imagine letting her go without bedding her, but if she revealed herself to be highborn, he would. And in three months, he would wed the Essex heiress.
There was no pleasure in the thought. Not anymore.
Stephen was irritated to find that once again Mairi had disobeyed him; she was not awaiting him in his chamber as he had told her to do. He stripped down to his braies, the heavy muscles in his back rippling, his arms thick with sinew, every tendon defined, his biceps bulging with each slight movement, his stomach flat and rock-hard. His was a knight’s well-used body, one honed by years of practice with sword and lance, and years of combat.
Stephen was more than annoyed. He was disturbed by his moment of self-doubt, and perplexed by the confusion he had suddenly felt in regard to his marriage to Adele Beaufort. How could his prisoner, beauty or not, raise such alien emotions in him?
He was angry. It was safer to be angry with her. Already his blood boiled, and she had yet to enter the chamber. For the first time, Stephen wondered if he could exert the self-control necessary to deny himself her body, which he must do once she unmasked herself. He reminded himself that he had no choice.
His sister entered without knocking. Her rude interruption into such disturbing thoughts was welcome, although he was not pleased that she should glimpse him in his state of undress. “Knock, Isobel,” he warned, turning away from her and shrugging on his undertunic. She was a very precocious ten, and even more astute. He was afraid that one day she would discover him in some pursuit not fit for any lady’s eyes, much less such a young one.
She stuck her tongue out at him. “Why?”
Stephen bit back his smile. He had yet to see Isobel since his return. She had been up to some mischief in the bailey, no doubt, for she was inclined towards perpetual trouble-making. “Because ’tis polite.” He tried to scowl. “What greeting is this?”
She beamed and ran into his arms. He held her briefly and set her down, unable to restrain a rush of pride. She was everyone’s darting, certainly his. His little sister was a clever thing, already too gorgeous and not yet betrothed. Stephen knew Rolfe was biding his time, but soon he would find her a husband and make another powerful alliance for the de Warennes. Stephen thought, but was not sure, that their father intended to wed her to the King’s younger brother, Henry Beauclerc. The prince had little land but much silver, for his father, the Conqueror, had given Normandy to his oldest son, Robert, and England to William Rufus, leaving his youngest son only great wealth. Stephen knew him well from the long years he had fostered in the Conqueror’s household, still he was not sure he approved of the match.
