“Ahh, the wench of last night,” Geoffrey remarked with genuine interest, regarding them both. “You have never chosen better, Stephen. She is a beauty.”
Stephen tossed his brother a dark look over his shoulder. “I am in complete agreement with you.” There was no mistaking the territorial tone.
Mary clenched her fists, shaking. That he should discuss her as if she were not present infuriated her, almost as much as the fact that they had been so casually discussing her when they thought her to be absent. But what completely enraged her was what she had just discovered—that the arrogant Norman bastard was betrothed to another.
“He is not going to introduce us,” Geoffrey said pleasantly, causing her to look at him. The gleam in his intense eyes was not even remotely polite. “Undoubtedly he is afraid you will compare us and find him lacking.” Geoffrey smiled at her.
Mary glared at him. He did not fool her for an instant. He wore a prelate’s long, dark robes, but there was nothing holy about him. No man of God should have such a face, or such a gaze. He was unmistakably male, he was unmistakably powerful, and most important, he was a de Warenne, which made him the enemy as well. “I do not have to compare you both to find him lacking,” she snapped. Her gaze had already returned to Stephen.
Geoffrey started—and laughed.
Stephen was also amused. “You did not find me lacking last night, demoiselle.”
Mary turned crimson. “You prove yourself a brute at every turn, Norman,” she hissed, her fury knowing no bounds. “Only a beast would speak to me in public in such a way.”
She turned her back on him coldly. She had come downstairs because she was awake and unable to sleep, much less remain in bed as if awaiting the Norman’s pleasure. In fact, she had barely slept at all, only pretending to do so when he had finally given her the chance to rest. While he had slept deeply and soundlessly beside her.
Her shame knew no bounds. Her virtue had been intact when she had gone to him, and she had intended to resist him. Had he raped her, she would have more than just remnants of her pride left, but it had not come to that. Her resistance had been pitiful; he had seduced her effortlessly. While he slept and after he had left her bed, Mary was haunted by every detail of their encounter, no matter how she tried to shove such recollections aside. She did not want to face what he had brought her to in bed. It was impossible to dismiss.
Mary was excruciatingly aware of having failed her country and King, of having failed both of her parents, of having failed Doug, and of having failed herself.
She strove to derive what comfort she could from the fact that she had not lost the entire war—he still did not know that she was King Malcolm’s daughter. And he would never know, she vowed, even if it meant sharing his bed time and again. She tried not to think about that probability, dared not think about it. Instead, she must concentrate upon survival.
Mary felt Stephen’s eyes upon her, and her skin tingled. She found herself facing him again. His gaze was bright and intent; she flushed in spite of her rage.
Adele Beaufort.The fury surging through her was nothing like the anger she had entertained earlier.Adele Beaufort.Who was Adele Beaufort? They had spoken of her with some respect; apparently she was both beautiful and an heiress. Oh, how she wished she could tell him that she was King Malcolm’s daughter—that she was a princess and far more important than any English heiress!
Stephen spoke, drawing her complete attention. “You may call me whatever you wish just as you may choose to make the worst of this situation, mademoiselle, or you may make the best of it. It will not change my intentions; you succeed only in arousing my interest. I suggest you take advantage of the fact instead.”
“You have indeed gained what you sought,” Mary said unsteadily. “You are stronger than I, and obviously far more experienced. But that does not change my intentions. I will not be your mistress, regardless of what happened last night. I am your prisoner, and nothing more, forced to suffer your attentions. Mark that, Norman.”
“I prefer to mark actions, not words.”
His smugness was more than she could bear. “Then you should have marked all of my actions! I was not as willing as you wanted, Norman.”
He looked at her.
In case he failed to understand, she smiled. “You won only one battle last night. One that I consider much less significant than the battle over my identity. Indeed, I do believe I won the war.”
The blood rushed to Stephen’s face. Above him on the dais, apparently only pretending not to hear them, Geoffrey choked.
Mary trembled. But she could not stop now. Victory was so sweet. “Never,” she flung. “Never will you get the answers you seek—not from my lips.”
A very long moment passed while Stephen struggled for self-control, his jaw tense, his fists clenched, his face dark. Mary refused to cringe, although her heart pounded with real fear. Any other man would have long since beat her for her daring and her insolence. She regretted her brave words.
“Demoiselle,” Geoffrey said, already moving from the dais to stand beside Stephen. Mary saw that he had a tight hold on his brother’s arm. “Desist. My brother does not even beat his dogs, but I fear you push him too far.”
Before Mary could reply, Stephen barked, “No! Let her speak as she wills.” His smile was ruthless. “How you amaze me, demoiselle. But do not fear. I do not care that I have not mastered your mind, I care only that I have mastered your body. Beating is too good for you. I have far better, and far more entertaining, punishment in mind.”
Mary blanched.
“Mademoiselle?” he challenged.
For an instant she was frozen. She was remembering what it was like when he mastered her body, and she could imagine the exquisite torture he would inflict. Suddenly robbed of air, she was unable to summon up a reply.
“What do you hide?” Stephen demanded.
Mary said nothing. She was still consumed by his words.
