“There’s a needle and thread and fresh linen behind you.”
Mary looked over and nodded. She picked up the needle, hesitating. “Perhaps yae want some wine.”
His brow lifted. “So you do have a heart beneath those pretty little breasts?”
She tensed. “I have nae heart fer yae!”
“Do it.”
What did she care if he suffered even more at her hands? Unfathomably angry, trembling with agitation, she picked up the needle. She had stitched up wounds before, but she would never grow accustomed to the procedure. Her stomach roiled. She bent over him, working diligently and precisely, aware of his gaze on the top of her head, unable to forget his words. When she had finished she knotted the thread and cut it with her small, white teeth. She straightened, relieved that the surgery was over.
Mary expected to see him drained of all color, his face a mask of pain. Instead, his eyes were entirely lucid but brilliant, dangerously brilliant, holding hers. Quickly Mary picked up a fresh piece of linen, dropping her gaze.
She was greeted with a sight she did not want to see, had no right to see. She had moved his tunic aside to perform the surgery, exposing his heavy genitals, and now, now she quickly settled it back into place. Her face flamed, stinging. She pressed the linen to his leg, trying not to think. But those men were right. If he raped her, he would kill her. Her hands, small and delicate and white, contrasting sharply with his dark, powerful legs, trembled as she quickly tied the bandage.
The exact instant she was done, his hand cupped her face, forcing her chin up and her regard to his. “You dress like a hag, but act like a lady.”
Mary was frozen.
His gaze left her eyes, sliding over her features one by one, finally lingering on her lips. “No peasant woman I have ever seen has a face such as yours.”
She opened her mouth but found herself incapable of summoning a self-defense. Her stunned mind could drum up only one terrible image, and that was of her captor pressing her down beneath him on his pallet.
His hand left her face, but caught her own palm, turning it over. “Milk white, silk-soft.”
Terrified and mute, aware that she had not a single callus, she was drawn to his glittering gaze. She recognized the intensity there now even though she had never been faced with such an uninhibited display of male lust before.
The corners of his mouth lifted—an attractive, perfectly formed mouth, Mary could not help thinking—in an expression that could not be described as even the semblance of a smile; rather, it hinted at aggression and triumph and primitive satisfaction. Mary drew back, a second too late. He had already slipped her veil from her hair. As he leaned close, nuzzling her cheek, he said, “You hair is clean and it smells of flowers.” He straightened, staring. “I have little doubt that if I looked beneath your clothes, I would find skin as clean and as sweet-smelling.”
Mary lurched to her feet. She did not get far. He gripped one wrist, jerking her immediately back down on her knees beside him. “Am I correct?”
“Nae! Na’ at all! I swear tae yae—” Mary’s words were cut off when his hand snaked up her leg, beneath all of her clothing, a caress of hard, callused palm on soft, naked skin. Mary cried out, shocked at the violent sensation sweeping through her. She was staring down dumbly at the entire length of her bare leg, from where her wool socks ended at her calf to the very top of her thigh, which he had just exposed.
“As I thought,” he said, and now there was a change in his tone, one Mary immediately recognized despite her inexperience, one that tightened every fiber of her being and made her pulse soar.
“I… I can explain,” she whispered.
“Soft, so soft, and clean,” he said, locking regards with her again. He did not cover up her nakedness. He did not remove his hand from her thigh, his fingertips perilously close to grazing the ripe plumpness at the apex there. Instead, nostrils flared now, he leaned close, his face—his lips—brushing her neck.
Mary gasped. Her eyes fell closed, her body jolted as thoroughly by his kiss as if by a bolt of lightning. There was no air to be had in the cramped space of the tent. His mouth moved with growing fervor on the vulnerable underside of her neck. His thumb slipped through her pubic hair and up against the cleft of her flesh. Mary could not contain herself. She moaned. Her mind, once filled with hostility, was now dizzily blank, receptive to nothing but the stunning sensation he dealt her as deftly as he might a sword’s fatal blow.
He crooned in her ear, his mouth against one lobe, his thumb against another, “So who are you, my lady? And more importantly, what are you, if not a spy?”
Chapter 2
Stephen de Warenne watched her wrench away from him with a cry of fright. Had he thrown icy water over her head, he could not have shocked her more. She did not get far. His grip was iron on her wrists. Casually he pulled her back to him, until her nose almost touched his.
He was indifferent to women, with precisely two exceptions, but he was not immune to females he found attractive, and this one was probably as close to perfection as anyone would ever come—in face and form, at least. Despite the fact that she was no common wench—that undoubtedly she was an experienced courtesan sent to whore for him and spy upon him by his enemies, of whom he had a few—he was hardly indifferent to the entire length of her naked leg, now clamped between his, or the softness of her breasts, crushed against his chest, or the astounding beauty of her face, just inches from his own.
Blood had long since surged to his phallus. He was heavy and impatient. Their position was so intimate that she could feel every inch of him, but wasn’t seduction her intention? Why else would such a woman be sent to him in such an elaborate disguise? He attributed her wide, frightened gaze to his having ascertained the truth.
For a moment, despite his better intentions, he longed to take her, then and there, hard and fast, and be done with it. Answers could come later. But he was his father’s son and heir. Furthering the interests of Northumberland had been his overriding ambition since he had won his spurs at thirteen. His reputation as a keen and ruthless leader had been earned, not given. Answers could not wait. If his enemies knew he was there, the King’s plans were in jeopardy.
“Wh-What?” Mary finally managed to gasp.
“I think you heard me very well, demoiselle,” he said coldly. Because his blood was so overheated, he set her down on the pallet beside him while keeping a cautious grip on her wrist. Inherent politeness made him refer to her as if she were a lady when she was obviously the furthest thing from it, although to look at her, a man would never guess so. For some reason, he was disappointed that her angelic facade was only that, a facade. “Who has sent you here to spy upon me? Montgomery? Roger Beaufort? The King? Or is Prince Henry once again up to his infernal tricks?”
She stared at him as if mesmerized. He was a hardened man, yet a pang of empathy swept him. She was young, very young. The courtesans he knew—and so frequently used—were older and widowed. This girl looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen, but again, looks deceived.
