“I will not. Think, Malcolm Canmore,think!Do not let your passions interfere with your wisdom. We can unite our families to both of our benefits!”
Malcolm panted heavily.
Stephen, his arms in agony, feeling as if they were wrenched fully from their sockets, slipped his shield back on his shoulder, not even flinching from the instant screaming pain. He did not wipe the sweat from his brow and his temples, either, nor did he labor to catch his breath.
“Even now,” Stephen said, “honor demands that I wed your daughter.”
Malcolm was not surprised by his admission, nor had Stephen expected him to be. Obviously he had already assumed his daughter to be ruined. “She is betrothed,” Malcolm finally said heavily, still breathless.
A savage satisfaction stirred within Stephen. That Malcolm would now discuss the issue was a victory—another one. “Betrothals are made, they can be unmade,” Stephen said.
“Father,” Malcolm’s oldest son, Edward cried, spurring his mount forward, his face flushed with anger, “before this goes any further, let us see Mary, so we might know that she is unharmed—and alive!”
Silently Stephen applauded the young man for his concern for his sister. “Do you wish to see your daughter?” he asked Malcolm.
Malcolm nodded curtly. “Send for her.”
Stephen did not have to say a word; he merely glanced over his shoulder. Geoffrey had already turned and was cantering towards the drawbridge, which began to lower to admit him.
The silence thickened, lengthened, became endless. Horses stomped restlessly, nickered. Saddle leather creaked. A breeze whispered about their heads. Stephen held Malcolm’s stare, aware of how much the other man hated him—and how much he was enjoying this confrontation.
Stephen shot a glance at Brand and then over his shoulder. There was no sign of Geoffrey and Mary. Where were they? His impatience turned to apprehension. Had the clever minx decided to use the furor to escape?
“Perhaps she is dead!”
Stephen’s gaze riveted to the youth who had spoken, a slim boy hardly older than Mary, pale with tension and distress. “Your sister is not dead.”
The youth fixed him with a look of wrath. “You bastard, I would kill you myself!”
His oldest brother placed a restraining hand upon the boy’s arm.
“Here they come!” Brand cried, relief in his tone.
Stephen shifted in the saddle. Geoffrey rode towards them at a gallop, Mary behind him, her long gold hair waving like a banner. He pulled up his mount abruptly, causing the animal to rear. Geoffrey kept a firm hold on Mary, who was white with fright and wide-eyed. Stephen knew her fright had nothing to do with the mad gallop from the keep.
“I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said shortly. “I had some difficulty finding her—she was not in the solar, but on the walls.”
Stephen’s gaze pinned her, but she was looking only at her father. “Father!” she cried. Then she stared at Stephen, appearing dazed. “You did not kill him,” she whispered.
Malcolm spoke, not that Stephen intended a reply. “Daughter, you do not appear hurt. Are you virgin?”
It did not seem possible, but Mary, already white, blanched even more.
“Daughter?” Malcolm’s gaze was hard.
Stephen was furious. “Did you bring her here to see that she is unharmed—or to humiliate her?”
Malcolm moved his mount closer to Mary. “Well?”
“No,” she said, so softly it was hardly audible. Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes.
Malcolm turned to face Stephen, smiling in a hard, dangerous way. “Mackinnon brings me vast support. What do you bring?”
For a moment Stephen was so taken aback, he could not speak. His voice harsh, he said, “She may be with my child.” He found himself looking not at Malcolm, but at Mary.
She sat unmoving behind Geoffrey, her face a mask of shock and horror.
Malcolm was cool. “There is always the cloister.”
