Mary opened her mouth to protest. Then his lips covered hers, his hips moving, and she was lost.
Chapter 5
The sun was just rising when Stephen broke the night’s fast at prime. He was alone. His household was dutifully at mass in the family chapel with Father Bertold, a duty Stephen himself shirked this day. The woman calling herself Mairi was still asleep in his bed.
Abruptly he pushed the slice of white bread he had been toying with away. What in God’s name had he done?
She had not revealed herself. He had never dreamed she would choose ruin over confession. There was still not a single doubt in his mind that she was a highborn lady. He could have pressed her further, brought her to the edge without actually taking her, forced the truth from her innocent lips. But he had not. He had taken her instead, ceasing to care about the issue at stake.
His jaw flexed. Why had he, a man of great experience and even greater self-discipline, acted like a beardless boy presented with his first courtesan?
Briefly he closed his eyes, for the first time that morning aware of a pounding behind his temples. He had failed himself last night. He was afraid. Secretly afraid that he would fail himself again.
For the woman calling herself Mairi was still in his chamber and still in his bed. Already he thought of the night to come. Already he anticipated their union. He could hardly think of anything else.
But he must send her away. Now, before she truly endangered his marriage to Adele Beaufort. Hemust.His duty, as always, was to Northumberland, and a mistress who threatened his advantageous marriage threatened Northumberland itself.
He was uneasy. He stared at the warm loaf of bread on the table before him. Mairi’s image came to him as she had been in his bed last night, with a passion that matched his own, a passion he had never witnessed before, not in any other woman—not even in himself. She had brought something out in him he had never allowed himself to acknowledge before. What was wrong with him?
He could not regret what he had done, and he knew he would not send her away—not yet.
But what price would he pay for such folly?
Stephen quaffed his glass of ale. He told himself that in another night or two he would tire of her and send her on her way. Before any damage was done. He had no choice.
Purposeful footsteps brought him abruptly back to the present. Stephen was glad to be diverted from his brooding. His brow rose slightly in surprise when he glimpsed his brother, Geoffrey. Geoffrey rarely had the time or inclination to come home to Northumberland. “What brings you so far north, brother?”
Geoffrey regarded him with the faintest of smiles. “What greeting is this, after so much time has passed?” he asked drolly, striding across the hall, his long robes flowing about him. There was no mistaking his relationship to Brand. He was tall, muscular, and golden, a devastatingly handsome man whom women always turned to look at twice. Even now, entering the hall where he had spent his first childhood years, a place where his face was familiar and occasionally seen, he caused the serving maids to blush with interest. “Do I not deserve some display of affection?”
Stephen did not blink. “I am not in the mood to display affection.”
“So I have already noticed.” Geoffrey lithely climbed the dais and slid into the seat beside his brother. A dagger materialized in his hand, one too large and too pointed for the sole purpose of eating. He casually speared a slice of cold meat.
“As always, you are astute,” Stephen remarked. “When did you arrive? Last night?”
“At matins. What has you so somber? After the morning’s first mass, I had hoped to catch a few hours sleep, but alas, there was such noise emanating from your bedchamber, ’twas hopeless.” Geoffrey wiped the dagger clean and sheathed it in his heavy, plain belt. When he smiled, faint dimples showed, at odds with his mocking tone and gleaming eyes. “Your leman was most vocal. I would think you to be in high spirits this morning.”
Stephen stared coldly, refusing to comment on that. “Is this a family visit, or something else?”
Geoffrey’s smile was gone. “You know I have no time for family visits. I have news. The King is in his sickbed.” He held up his hand, a hand both tanned and callused, the hand of a man who was physically active and often out-of-doors. “’Tis not grave, the physics say, but he has appointed Anselm Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Stephen was silent. Then, “The King must think himself at death’s door.”
“He does.”
“How does this affect you? And us?”
Geoffrey’s fine nose flared. “He is a good man. ’Tis long overdue that our dear King appoint someone to follow in Lanfranc’s footsteps.”
“And?”
Geoffrey’s jaw clenched. “I gain an ally in my battles against the Crown’s attempts to bleed Canterbury, I hope.”
“You hope?”
Geoffrey’s tone held some small amount of self-derision. “Anselm is much like Lanfranc, a true and saintly man. We may seek the same ends, but I’m not sure he approves of me.” His smile was twisted. “Perhaps I gain a new enemy.”
Stephen looked at his too handsome brother. In some ways they were so alike, and in those ways Stephen understood his brother well. Geoffrey would do what he had to do, but wasn’t that the lot of a man? “Better a friend than a foe. See to it that he loves you as Lanfranc did.”
