Mary shivered again. The night had grown inky black, the wind whining, perhaps in prelude to another storm. It would never happen. Malcolm hated Stephen de Warenne, and ravished or not, he would never agree to the union.
Tears gathered hotly behind her lids. She pressed her cheek against the cool stone wall. Dear Jesus, what if she were already with child?
Mary’s distress increased. She closed her eyes, refusing to cry. She must pray she was not with child, she must not get with child, and she must not entertain an image of herself holding some swarthy newborn babe.
Mary’s heart beat harder. They were in a game much like chess. She must anticipate and forestall his next move. She knew what his next move would be. He would be merciless in his attempt to get his son upon her. If he did, Malcolm might be persuaded to give in to the alliance. Mary did not think her father would allow her to be stigmatized with a bastard child.
Mary hugged herself. Undoubtedly the bastard would visit her tonight, soon, and continue to do so until she became pregnant. Too well she recalled the feel of his unyielding body against hers, within hers. Would she be able to resist his lovemaking now, knowing the ultimate stakes?
Her nerves were stretched so taut, they felt as if they might snap. She felt as ifshemight snap. The sounds coming from the hall below did not soothe her, far from it. Apparently a group of traveling players had arrived at the keep just before dark and had gained admittance. They had been entertaining the lord and his retainers all evening with their fine voices, their lutes, and their merrymaking. Once or twice Mary had heard the deep nimble of Stephen’s laughter, and it made her furious.
He was not disaffected, oh no. To the contrary, he was well pleased with the turn of events.
Mary stood for a long time beside the parchment-shuttered window, embracing the cool stone wall. The hall below became quiet, and the knot of tension in Mary’s belly grew. Isobel returned to the room. She would not speak with Mary, still angry at being used. Mary was too upset to make an overture to the child. Isobel stripped off her clothes and slid into the bed, taking up all of it when they were to share.
The rain pounded more forcefully. Silence reigned in the keep. Isobel appeared to be sound asleep. Mary made no move to light the dying tapers. She listened to the fast, hard staccato drops of rain, a rhythm not unlike that of her heart. She tried to listen through the drumming beat, for the sound of his footsteps. There was only the rain.
Mary tried to envision her life as the mistress of some small, isolated northern keep, where pigs and sheep ran in the hall, and she imagined attending the holy day feasts, when all the great clans gathered, with her faceless husband at her side, and her heart sank. Pride was a sin, but she was not sure she could lose hers—the thought of such a marriage appalled her. It was far easier to imagine herself as the next Countess of Northumberland. In the next instant, she was appalled with herself.
Mary did not know for how long she stood at the window, consumed with dismay, with fear, with anger. It was all his fault; how she hated him.
Mary heard footsteps. Her body stiffened. She recognized the deceptively soft tread instantly. Her breath seemed to catch. Slowly Mary turned away from the arrow slit and gazed through the darkness at the indistinguishable door.
Too well she recalled the impossible rapture she had attained in his arms. Too well she recalled his every manipulative caress, his every deliberate touch. Too well she recalled the feel of him within her, hot, hard, and huge. She had become weak-kneed.
But he did not come.
Many long, interminable minutes passed. He did not come. He was not coming.
Mary swore that she was not disappointed. She did not move, unable to, not until she had recovered her scattered senses and control of her limbs. Finally she stumbled across the chamber, drained, to creep into the bed she would share with Isobel. She lay on the edge of the bed, the totality of her predicament overwhelming her. Monsters materialized in the night, monsters of loneliness, hopelessness, and fear. Monsters of desire. She rolled up on her side in a ball, pressing her legs tightly together, her fist to her mouth. How could she feel at once a child Isobel’s age, one lost and desperate to find her way home, and at the same time like a worldly wanton capable of dying of desire for a man?
Finally, softly, she sobbed.
Eventually Mary fell asleep in sheer exhaustion, her final thoughts of a shabby single-room keep, filled with pigs and sheep, and although he had no right being there, of her captor, Stephen de Warenne.
“You do not appear to have passed a good night, brother,” Brand remarked as he entered the Great Hall.
Stephen had not passed a good night; sleep had eluded him. He sat not at the long trestle table, but in a chair in front of the hearth. “Why are you not in the chapel with the others?” His tone was sour.
“I follow your example.” Brand grinned, coming to stand in front of him. He leaned one hip against the wall. “Besides, this morning I must return to London, as you know.”
“Say nothing about the princess,” Stephen instructed. “Later, if Rufus questions you, you can defend yourself by saying that you left before we learned of her identity.”
Brand nodded, grim. “It will be best for me to remain aloof. You send Geoffrey to Father, then, with the news of the princess’s capture?”
“Aye. He will travel with you.” Stephen dropped his head in his hands. Today he was physically tired, a very different feeling from the weariness he so often felt in his soul. But that weariness seemed to have grown overnight, as well.
He sighed. “Be careful,” he told his brother. Because Brand was one of the King’s household knights, it was important for him to remain loyal to his king—without jeopardizing Northumberland’s interests. He walked a treacherous tightrope—as all loyal men did. Thus he would have Brand pretend ignorance of what had passed these last few days. Geoffrey would inform their father of Mary’s capture, and Rolfe would proceed as he thought best.
“Do not worry,” Brand said, his wry facade gone. “Father will undoubtedly agree that marriage to the princess is far better for you than marriage to the Essex heiress. And if anyone can persuade the King, he can.”
“I have little worry on that score, although Rufus can be most difficult.” Stephen responded, his lips thinning as he thought about the King.
“What is wrong, Stephen?” Brand asked quietly, his blue eyes somber.
Stephen met his youngest brother’s gaze. “She will drive me to insanity,” he said just as softly.
“I thought so.” Brand smiled then, patting his arm. “Have no fear. In no time at all you will have her in your bed—as often as you choose.”
