Stephen’s hold eased. “You are not going to be locked away in any convent, mademoiselle.”
Suddenly her gaze beseeched his.
“You are going to be my wife,” Stephen said. And he smiled. “My princess bride.”
Chapter 7
“What?!” Mary cried, disbelieving.
“I am going to take you to wife, Mary.”
Mary backed away from him, her eyes wide with horror. “No! Never!”
He stared at her, his face hard with displeasure, his gauntleted fists on his hips. “You have no say in the matter, demoiselle.”
“No, I do not, but Malcolm does!” Mary cried.
“That’s correct. ’Tis a matter for Malcolm and me to decide.”
She was filled with panic, hysteria. “Malcolm will never,never,give me to you. Hehatesthe Normans, hehatesNorthumberland!”
Stephen was as still as stone. Then he said, after a long pause, “Perhaps when you are calmer, you will be more rational. We can discuss this union at Alnwick.” He turned, dismissing her, but not before she saw how furious he was.
“No!” And fool that she was, Mary ran after him, tripping in her haste, grabbing the hem of his tunic. Stephen stopped abruptly, and Mary careened into him. She did not care. Righting herself, she demanded wildly, “And when he refuses you? Then what? Then what will you do?”
He was clearly making a great effort to control his rage; he was shaking, not touching her. “He will not refuse me, not once he understands you might be carrying my child.”
“I am to marry Doug!”
“I doubt he will wish to have you, demoiselle, in your ravished state.” His anger spilled forth, twisting his features. “No one will have you in your ravished state, unless you wish to be the wife of some impoverished laird, the mistress of a crumbling shack filled with sheep and pigs!”
Mary felt as if he had struck her physically—so awful was the truth. “Then so be it,” she whispered.
He gripped the bodice of her tunic, dragging her close. “You would prefer a life of drudgery to what I offer you? One day you would be the Countess of Northumberland!”
“Never,” she cried into his face. “I will never be your wife, I promise you, for Malcolm will reject your suit. He will! Hehatesyou!”
“Then I shall wed you anyway,chère.”
Mary froze. Then her heart began to work again, pumping in huge and painful bursts. “I hate you!”
“I do not care,” he said, clipped, his face dark. He turned his back on her abruptly. His strides long and hard, he moved towards his horse. He gestured once at Geoffrey, who leaped from his mount and went to Mary, taking a hold of her arm. Mary came to life. She writhed like a crazed vixen caught in a snare, but Geoffrey was unaffected. Stephen leapt upon his stallion. Mary ceased struggling, panting and desperate and out of breath. But she would have the last word.
“You are exactly as they say!” Mary shouted. “You have a care for no one other than yourself, a care for nothing other than your own power! Your ambition is a fearsome thing!”
He whipped his stallion around to face her, so brutally that the beast reared. His jaw was clenched hard, and the skin stretched across it had turned white. He spurred his destrier forward, coming dangerously close to treading over her slippered feet. But Mary did not move, in one of the bravest displays of her life—for she was quaking. Even Geoffrey, who held her tightly, stiffened and pulled her farther back and more closely up against him. The big brown stallion danced, its huge, iron-shod hooves just inches from her toes.
“And my fearsome ambition is to wed with you,” Stephen said harshly, his eyes glittering. “A union that will take place, Princess, regardless of your distaste.”
Mary had nothing left in her, she collapsed back against Geoffrey, her face stark white, her eyes never leaving Stephen’s enraged face.
He yanked on his stallion’s reins, whirling the beast around. He lifted his hand in a terse signal to his men, and a moment later Mary found herself astride Geoffrey’s mount in the midst of the thundering cavalcade, imprisoned once again.
Several hours had passed since her failed escape. Mary had been sent to the women’s solar the moment Stephen had returned her to Alnwick. Despite that confinement, she was well aware that shortly after her recapture on the moors, despite the encroaching night, a group of knights had left the keep, displaying the proud Northumberland banner. Mary had not a single doubt that these men had been sent on a mission that involved her fate.
Had they been sent to Scotland, to Malcolm? Sometime this night, would he be apprised of her whereabouts, and asked to give her in marriage to his age-old enemy?
Was her fate to become Stephen de Warenne’s wife?
