“She has suffered greatly, but I can find little wrong with her other than an extreme weakness, which is understandable. I prescribe a diet of raw eggs and ox blood, known to be particularly fortuitous in restoring the heart. In a day or two I expect that most of her humors will be restored to their natural state—if you follow my advice.”
Geoffrey nodded. Stephen said tersely, “How is she now?”
“She sleeps, but it is a healing sleep. And may I suggest, my lord, that you rest, too?”
Stephen nodded, thanking the physic. He turned and slowly went up the stairs, finally allowing himself to feel the full extent of his exhaustion. His jaw hardened. Mary was alive, she had not died … thank God … and if Rolfe continued to exercise the influence he was wont to have, they would be wed, not in three weeks, but in mere days.
But then what?
Geoffrey wondered what it was like to love a woman so much that he would willingly give up his own life in order to save hers. Briefly, oh so briefly, he succumbed to temptation, and could imagine the passion, the love, the friendship, and the dreams.
The sound of riders approaching at a gallop broke into his thoughts. Geoffrey became still, listening. The hour was not even seven. Rolfe and Brand had left only moments ago, and he wondered if it was possible that Rufus had learned of Mary’s whereabouts so soon.
He strode to the windows and saw five riders clattering into the courtyard, showing off the bold blue and gold colors of Essex. Geoffrey tensed. In their midst was Adele Beaufort.
At her knock, Geoffrey let her in. She was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, her cheeks red from the wind. She stared at Geoffrey for a brief moment; he in turn was as unsmiling. He remembered too well their single encounter. The moment stretched out between them.
“What brings you to Graystone, Lady Beaufort?” he at last asked. “Surely not the need for morning exercise?”
She pulled her hood from her head, lifting her raven tresses and letting them flow free to tease the back of her thighs. “Whatever could you mean, Lord de Warenne?” she said coolly, then she ignored him, moving briskly past him into the hall. He was aware of her thigh brushing his hip.
He followed. He watched her pause in the center of the hall, facing the stairs. He folded his arms. She tore her gaze from the stairwell. “Well? Is Stephen here?”
“He sleeps.”
She hesitated, her eyes searching his face. “And Mary?”
Geoffrey’s smile was wry and brief. “Ahh, so now we come to the purpose of this visit.”
She was stiff. “The whole world knows the princess almost drowned. Is she … alive?”
“She is very alive.”
Adele turned away, but not before he had seen her dismay.
Geoffrey strode the short distance separating them and gripped her arm, turning her to face him. She cried out. He had never manhandled a woman before, and was inwardly ashamed, but Adele was no ordinary woman. “How distraught you appear, Lady Beaufort!”
She glared but ceased struggling. Her heavy breasts rose and fell, hard.
“Did you hire the assassin?” Geoffrey demanded, giving her a rough shake. “Did you?”
“No!”
“Are you a murderess as well as a temptress?” he demanded, shaking her once again.
“No!”
He believed her. He released her, relieved.
She rubbed her arms, staring at him, her eyes black. “I admit I wish that Mary was gone, but she planned to escape—not to drown!”
“Were you involved in the escape plan?”
Her hesitation was minute. “She asked me to help her. And can you blame me?” she flung. “Can you blame me?”
He stared.
Tears welled in her eyes. “Stephen was mine for two years; for two years the world knew I belonged to Northumberland! And now what? Now what! I am a laughingstock with laughable prospects!”
