“That is only the half of it,” Stephen muttered. “Did you notice how she hates me?”
“She does not hate you in bed, I daresay.”
“For some reason, that thought hardly eases me.”
“She will come to accept you with her mind as well. She will have no choice.”
“But her sense of honor is a man’s! Never have I heard a woman speak as she has—she thinks she has failed her King!”
“I heard,” Brand admitted. “’Tis most unusual, I admit.”
A shadow passed across Stephen’s face. “I am tired of fighting secret battles, brother. I am sick to death of intrigue. Last night it struck me—I choose to wed not a helpmeet, but a hate-filled enemy.”
“When she makes her vows, Stephen, that will change.”
“Will it?” he asked. “Or will she forever be a viper in our midst?”
“Would you change your mind?” Brand asked quietly.
Stephen threw back his head with a harsh, bitter sound. “Oh, no! I value the peace she might one day bring far more than the wealth of Adele Beaufort’s dowry. But God’s blood, Brand, I am tired.”
Brand’s gaze was sympathetic. “You are father’s heir,” he said at last. “’Tis your duty to do what you must do, and marrying the Scot princess is the greatest alliance you can make for Northumberland.” He left unspoken the chastisement—that being tired or sore of heart had little to do with duty.
“I know well that you are right,” Stephen said at last. But his smile was feeble and flitting. He had not voiced his darkest fears. That if Mary clung to her sense of duty, she would forever be his unwilling wife. Too well he recalled what it was like to be at the mercy of powerful men and unkind circumstance—too well he recalled being powerless and a prisoner.
Mary awoke after the sunrise. Isobel was gone, undoubtedly rousing early in order to attend the morning mass in the family chapel with the rest of the household. Mary felt a twinge of guilt. She needed God’s help, and it would not do her any good to miss any more masses.
She could not abide another moment in the chamber. She could not abide being alone with the kind of thoughts she had entertained last night. Mary had slept in her clothes, and now she performed her ablutions as quickly as possible, using a pitcher of water left for that purpose, and brushed out her hair. As she prepared to descend the stairs, she heard many voices below, as the family and retainers entered the hall to break the night’s fast.
Mary lifted her chin, her eyes flashing. Some sleep had done her a world of good. It would be good, too, to face her captor, even to be challenged. It would be far better than remaining alone in the chamber, dwelling upon a dark and dreary future, or the bloody war that would decide her fate.
Mary slipped from the room and down the stairs. Her captor was not yet at the table, although many vassals were. He stood in front of the hearth, a fireplace so oversized that its mantel was level with his chin. Upon hearing her, he abruptly turned, his dark gaze pinning her to the wall. She paused, unable not to stare back. Tension throbbed in her.
He stalked towards her. He wore tightly fitting black hose and calf-high boots with spurs, a dark brown cote, and a black surcote over that. Both tunics had small embroidered bands in black and gold at the hem, sleeves, and throat. While his clothing was made of finely woven, expensive wool, it was exceedingly plain. His belt was thick, heavy, black leather, the gold buckle studded with a few precious stones his only adornment. She had realized for some time that he cared little about his appearance. Yet his garments did not detract from it; to the contrary. One was aware not of the clothes, but only of the man.
He paused in front of her. “Good day, mademoiselle. I am relieved that you have decided to join us for the break-fast.”
“I do not like confinement,” Mary said tersely.
“No one likes confinement.” He took her arm. Mary stepped away from contact with him and walked with him towards the table. “You were not confined. Why did you refuse to come downstairs last night to sup?”
Mary tensed. He was displeased, but subduing it beneath a veneer of civility. “I haven’t been hungry, Norman, and can you blame me?”
He stared. For a long moment he did not speak. “I see a night of rest has hardly thwarted your spirit.”
“Did you think a single night might make me change my mind?”
“I had hoped you would see the inevitability of our union.”
“There is nothing inevitable about it!” Mary snapped.
He had paused. “Are you certain?”
Mary felt her cheeks sting. His gaze had slid over her, quite frankly undressing her. He had taken her arm, and his large, warm hand closed over her wrist firmly. The air between them throbbed.
“No man, or woman, can defy fate,” Stephen said softly.
Mary twisted once, sharply, to free herself, but failed. “You are not my fate. How arrogant you are to think yourself my fate!”
