“Father?” Mary whispered in abject disbelief.
“Enough!” Stephen snapped, livid. He gestured at Geoffrey hard. “Take her back. Take her back, now.”
“No!” Mary cried, but it was too late. Geoffrey was galloping away.
Stephen was shaken. Recollections of his own captivity flashed through his mind. Firmly he shoved them away. Now was not the time to dwell upon the bitter past. Not in the midst of a war of wits with Malcolm over the prize of his daughter. “Do not let your hatred steer you, Canmore. There is much to be gained, and you know it. An alliance between our families can mean peace.”
“You offer me peace. Hah! There will never be peace, not until I regain what is rightfully mine!”
Stephen knew he spoke about Northumberland, not about his daughter. “You have spent some thirty years trying to conquer this land, land given by another Conqueror to my family, land we hold now without dispute. You will never seize Northumberland from us, and you must face the fact. You are old. Your sons are young, but do you really think they can achieve what you have failed to do?”
Malcolm almost smiled. “What a silver tongue you have.”
“The best you can hope for, before you die, is to know that one day one of your line will inherit a land that once, many generations ago, was ruled by ancient Scot Kings.” Stephen added, “And think about what is also dearest to you, and on the might of Northumberland.”
Malcolm did not hesitate, which told Stephen that the shrewd King had already guessed where he was leading. “What do you offer?” Malcolm demanded. “Other than peace and your patrimony for my grandson?”
For some men, that might have been enough, but not for Malcolm, as Stephen had already known. The time had come to reveal his hand and set in motion the dangerous course it would take him on. “I promise you the might of Northumberland.” Stephen smiled then. “For your eldest son. I will swear upon whatever you may choose that, when you are dead, I shall see him crowned Scotland’s King.”
Stephen’s thoughts were spinning as he rode through the barbican and into the bailey. He had pledged upon a holy relic, a small pouch containing true slivers of the holy cross, which Malcolm carried in his sword hilt, to use his power to make Malcolm’s eldest son, presumably Edward, Scotland’s King. The pledge had been made in the presence of Malcolm’s three sons and his brothers, all of whom were witnesses, and all of whom had afterwards been sworn to secrecy.
Stephen could not be sure that his father would have made the same pledge. As much as Stephen disliked the thought of Rolfe’s death, it was inevitable that one day he himself would become Northumberland’s earl. He had every right, then, to choose policies he would act upon in that future time. And though Malcolm was not young, for he was sixty, he had the heart and soul of a man in his prime. Barring an unfortunate accident, Stephen thought that the Scot King might live for many more years. Any actions he might have to take to fulfill his oath would not be anytime soon.
Stephen dismounted, his thoughts turning to Mary. He was far more concerned about her than he was about the promise he had made to make Edward Scotland’s future King.
He trembled with suppressed rage. How could Malcolm not have shown the slightest concern for his daughter? Mary’s white, shocked face haunted him.
Stephen entered the keep, several of his men just ahead of him. His loyal knights were smiling and elated because of his success. Although his pledge was a secret, his forthcoming marriage was not. Hearing them, the ladies came hurrying out of the solar, Isobel first. Stephen said, “Where is Mary?”
“She is in the solar—she will not come out,” Isobel cried. “Steph, what happened? Why has she been struck dumb?”
Stephen barely heard her, hurrying past his sister. He paused on the threshold of the solar, his gaze flying to Mary. She faced the window, unmoving, her small body held tense and still. His heart clenched. He understood well her feelings of betrayal and disbelief.
“Mary?” he said softly.
She flinched. Slowly she turned her head, her eyes glazed with tears she refused to shed, trembling. “Wh-What happened?”
Stephen hesitated. What would his stubborn little bride do when he told her of her fate? Stephen did not delude himself; he did not think she would melt into his arms. “We are going to be wed,” Stephen said gently. “You and I, in four weeks time.”
“Sweet Mother of God,” Mary gasped, collapsing.
Stephen caught her, cradling her in his arms. He had seen her shock, and her anguish. Understanding her as he did now, he was not angry. He was fiercely moved.
In his embrace, her breasts crushed beneath his chest, her thighs against his rigid loins, she went from being pliant with grief to rigid with denial. Her fingers curled, digging into his mail. She gazed up at him. “I do not believe this!”
“Your father and I have agreed,” Stephen said carefully.
“I do not believe you!” Mary pushed away from him, and he let her go. She faced him in horror, her bosom heaving. “’Tis a trick!”
“You were there.” He ached for her.
“’Tis a trick!” Mary cried again. “Malcolm hates you and your family more than he hates anyone other than your wretched King! He has railed against Northumberland ever since I can remember! He would never give me to you,never!”
Stephen could not be angry. It had been obvious to him for some time that Mary dearly worshiped her father. She saw him as a god, not as a scoundrel. She actually did not believe that Malcolm had consented to their union. And not only had he consented, he had done so for his own purposes, to fulfill his own ambitions; not once had he even asked after his daughter’s welfare. Stephen was a man who dealt in realities, but this time he wanted to spare her the truth.
Mary was shaking her head, as if in bewilderment. “Is it not a trick?” she begged.
Stephen wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her as he might Isobel. He found himself touching her cheek. “I am not tricking you, Mary.”
