Mary turned and marched back upstairs.
Stephen was not drunk. Far from it, for he was not a man inclined to overindulgence. He set the candle holder carefully aside. He had no intention of burning his own stable down.
“My lord?” the maid asked, breathless and unmoving.
Stephen was not exactly pleased. She was not to his taste. Her breasts were huge, her hips abundant. Once her softness might have pleased him. At the very least, he liked her hair. It was pale blond.
His lust was huge. This night, like the night before, he was unable to sleep, his manhood swollen and distended. Despite his better intentions, he had found himself fantasizing about his bride like an adolescent boy. He was a man used to assuaging his appetite when it was raised. He had never spent a moment in fantasy before, even as a lad. And he knew he could not spend another night like the one just passed.
And taking Mary to bed now was out of the question. She was his betrothed for all intents and purposes even if the betrothal had yet to formally take place. Such callous use of her would be the height of disrespect. She was no laird’s by-blow, no villein. She was of royal stock and blood, and she was his bride. He could not treat her in the manner he would a leman, not anymore. There was no privacy in any keep, much less Alnwick. Unless he tumbled her in the stables in the dead of night, one and all would know of their shared intimacy. The former was out of the question, the latter another kind of abuse he could not inflict upon her. One day she would be his countess; if he treated her with disdain, an example would be set.
Now he eyed the maid standing breathlessly before him. She was a poor substitute for the woman he desired. It did not matter. For it would be absurd to continue this way for a full month until he married Mary. What mattered was the fact that he was in great pain. When she had sat upon his lap in the great hall not too many moments ago, his shaft had raised itself against her buttocks like a pillar cleaving the sky.
Stephen motioned to her. A moment later he had her on her knees, and she was taking care of his huge pain.
Mary did not fall asleep until after dawn. She no longer brooded upon the dangerous game of war and treachery in which she was the most prominent pawn. She was furious and she was hurt, two emotions she had no right to. She could not stop herself from imagining Stephen with some faceless lowborn servant. She should not care what he did and with whom—but God help her, she did.
As the morning grayed, Isobel still blessedly asleep, Mary found herself faced with brutal facts. She had thought about this man numerous times since she had first seen him at Abemathy. It had been impossible not to recall him, stricken then as she was by his virility and his power. Despite the fact that he was her enemy, the attraction had been there from the first.
Mary decided it did not matter. Abemathy was long past. Tonight he had proved the depth ofhispassion forher.His passion for her was political. Mary promised herself that she would never forget it.
Mary slid from the bed. Even if he had complete mastery over her body, he must not ever have any mastery over her will. Never must she allow him to enslave her mind. Her body she now consigned to the realm of irrelevance. After all, as her mother would say, ’twas only flesh and blood. Her soul was another matter indeed.
Anger, both hot and bitter, remained. Mary wanted to strike back. There was one obvious way to use the current circumstances to her advantage. Had he not once accused her of spying? The time had come to take on that very role.
Determinedly Mary began her ablutions, thinking of how proud of her Malcolm would be. Mary finished washing and was leaving the chamber when Isobel was summarily awakened by her nurse. It was not yet prime; Mary slipped out as Isobel began impiously protesting that she had no wish to go to mass that mom.
She saw him the precise instant that she entered the hall. And he was bright-eyed, as if he had not been spending himself last night on another woman. Mary’s ire renewed itself. So did the unwelcome hurt.
Mary managed to ignore him, no easy task. Because the morning was chill, she went to the fire, not even greeting him, as if he did not exist. She wondered which woman he had lain with. She wondered when she would be presented with an opportunity to spy.
“If you hold your hands any closer, you will get burned,” he said softly, coming to stand directly behind her.
She stiffened. Like all maidens, she wore her hair unbound, and now he lifted the heavy mass, weaving it through his hands. “You have beautiful hair, mademoiselle,” he murmured. His tone was magically soft, mesmerizing.
She did not move, every sense she possessed scathingly aware of the heat of his body and the power of him behind her. She recalled his treachery last night.
His fingers brushed her nape. “Did you sleep well, mademoiselle?”
Mary jerked away to face him. “Do not touch me. And yes, I slept very well indeed,” she lied. She had barely slept at all.
He studied her. “Why are you so angry?”
“Angry? I?”
“Have I somehow offended you?”
Mary responded with her own burning question. “Didyousleep well last night, my lord?”
His gaze locked with hers. “In truth, no. And I am sure you can think why.”
“Oh, I know why!” He traced her cheek with one strong forefinger, and Mary batted his hand away.
His eyes glowed seductively. “Then you know that the only way in which I will sleep well, mademoiselle, is if you are in my bed with me, and we have both exhausted ourselves.”
That he should be so blunt made Mary speechless.
“You are so angry, Mary. Why? Because I did not do as I pleased last night?”
