Stephen had no intention of beating her. No matter how much trepidation she raised within him, her astounding sense of honor was admirable. If ever he might come to own her loyalty, he would be a very lucky man, indeed.
But he did not fool himself with misplaced hope. He thought it unlikely that he would ever see that day.
And for a bare moment, he was bitter. A woman like Mary could so ease his life. Why did the image of Mary with her arms outstretched, a smile on her face, awaiting him on the steps of Alnwick, continue to haunt him?
He told himself that he was becoming a soft and weak fool. He was a battle-hardened knight; one day he would be a ranking earl, one of the greatest lords in the realm. He had relied on himself since he was six; he could rely on himself until he was sixty. If his wife refused to give him succor, he should not even dwell on the lack thereof.
He did not want to become softhearted. In this world, only the strong survived. It did no good to crave her in such a manner. He had not thought about Adele Beaufort so foolishly when they had been betrothed. Indeed, he had not thought about her at all, just about her dowry.
Nor had Adele Beaufort created the kind of lust he was constantly afflicted with. Mary’s mere presence seemed to generate a heavy pulse between his legs. It was no easy thing. But tonight, and tomorrow, and for many days to come, even now, he would continue to ignore it.
He could look forward to one thing. Once married, his wife might be of little comfort to him outside of bed, but within it, she exceeded his wildest expectations.
No, he would not beat her. As he would tame a wild falcon, he would woo her with gentleness. Today he would buy her a gift and bring her a peace offering. This dispute had gone on long enough.
As he ventured among the merchants, he had the impulse to buy several items for his bride, especially a delicately carved wooden box so small it was almost useless except as an object to be looked upon, a brooch set with one large garnet in what was almost the shape of a heart, and a yard of fine Flanders wool in a brilliant hue of scarlet. Practicality ruled and he chose the wool, envisioning Mary clad in it.
But when it came time to leave, instead of mounting his horse, he turned around, went back, and bought the box and the brooch as well.
By the time Stephen returned to the Tower, it was almost nonce; he had spent several hours among the merchants, making his decisions. He hurried up the stairs to the chamber Mary shared with several other women, beginning to anticipate her surprise—and her delight—when he gave her the fine gifts.
Rufus had one of his sergeants guarding Mary day and night—but so did Stephen. He nodded to both men and rapped sharply on the door. Mary opened the door herself. Stephen was surprised to see that she was with Adele Beaufort, who sat upon one of the chamber’s three beds. Mary flushed with guilt when she saw him. What scheme was she up to now? Or was it distress he read in her green gaze?
“You seem dismayed to see me, demoiselle.”
“Of course I am dismayed,” she said, seeking as she did so often these days to annoy him. “How I have enjoyed being rid of my shadow.”
Since they had come to Court, he had hardly let her out of his sight; in fact, at night he slept upon a straw pallet in the corridor not far from her door. “Well can I imagine your joy.” He took her arm. She tensed, inhaling. The contact jolted him as well; already he grew stiff with lust he would not assuage until their wedding night. “What are you hiding, Mary?”
She refused to look at him. “Nothing. I… I am tired. Please—”
Adele came forward, her stride sinuous, hips swaying provocatively. “Good day, my lord,” she murmured in her husky voice.
Stephen did not return her smile. God’s blood, but was it possible that these two conspired against him? Every instinct he had said it was so.
Adele boldly touched his sleeve, and let her hand linger. “I have been explaining to your bride the order of the ceremony. She is not familiar with our Norman ways.”
Stephen stared at Adele, whose regard was decidedly seductive. “How very generous you are, Lady Beaufort, again.”
Adele shrugged, finally dropping her hand, turning to Mary. “I can see that Lord Stephen wishes a moment of privacy with you, Princess. Perhaps we can conclude our discussion another time.”
Mary looked from Stephen to Adele and back again. “Yes. Thank you.”
Adele swept from the room, brushing past Stephen as she did so. When he looked at Mary, he saw that she was very unhappy—even irate. “How interesting. The two of you have become such fast friends.”
Mary blanched, then found her tongue. “But we are hardly as friendly as you and she!”
Stephen took her hand, gripping it far harder than he intended. “Jealous,chère?”
“Of course not!” She tried to jerk free of him and failed.
Stephen was a heartbeat away from pulling her even closer, so she might understand the full extent of his frustration. But her glance was flickering over his obviously swollen loins, which his tunic could not hide, and that aroused him even further. He released her. He had no desire to torture himself now with what he could not have for another three weeks.
“What do you hide from me, demoiselle?”
She paled again. “I am not hiding anything from you! Adele spoke the truth! She has so kindly offered to help me prepare for the nuptials!” Tears had gathered in his bride’s eyes.
“I lived in the King’s household for nigh on ten years,” he told her. “I recognize intrigue easily enough when confronted with it. Adele Beaufort is like most of the ladies here, vain, selfish, and ambitious in the extreme. What do the two of you scheme, Mary?”
