Geoffrey was unthinking, at last. With a groan of pure pleasure, he pushed her down on her back. “My turn,” he rasped, laughing deep in his throat.
He spread her thighs wide, spread her hot, wet lips. As she had done to him, he licked her throbbing flesh. She screamed, clenching fistfuls of his hair. He laved her mercilessly. He licked every recess, every fold. He sucked and teased. He had one goal now, and that was to be a slave to animal desire—and to enslave her with him.
When he rose up over her, she was sobbing. With a savage cry he thrust into her. She screamed again, her nails raking down his back.
A long time later they were both spent. The sun had risen high into the sky and was just beginning its descent. They lay in sheer exhaustion, in the dirt and leaves, unmoving.
Adele finally stirred, raising herself up on one elbow. Greedily she inspected every inch of his perfect body with her eyes. He had one arm flung over his face, so she could not determine if he slept or merely rested. She sighed. No man had ever taken her to such heights of ecstasy before.
She began to smile. This was only the beginning. She was as certain of that as she had ever been of anything in her entire life. This was only the beginning for them both. Now, now she could be glad that he was of the Church. For even after she one day married as she must, he would never belong to another woman. He would only belong to her. It was a promise she made to them both.
Chapter 15
Duncan’s mood was extremely foul. Who had beaten him in wielding the blow against Mary, only to so badly bungle the attempt upon her life?
Gossip blazed among the lords and ladies of the Court already, as it had ever since sunrise. Some said that the princess had attempted an escape from the Tower, others said she had been abducted, but no matter the reason she was outside the walls, all agreed that no one fell into the River Thames without a solid push.
Though apparently, no one had seen that event. Duncan had been discreetly interviewing the watchmen, but they had only witnessed Stephen’s determined rescue of the princess from the river’s murky depths, and the incredible manner in which he had summoned her back from her death.
Duncan was livid. Was de Warenne always in the right place at the right time? If the bastard heir had not been about the wharves at dawn, Mary would now be dead, and he, Duncan, would be innocent of the bloody deed.
Duncan could guess, like everyone else, who it was who had the largest stake in preventing the union of Scotland and Northumberland easily enough. The next question was, would the other party—or parties—try again, this time successfully?
He doubted it. The de Warennes were on alert. No murderer would be given even half a chance to send Mary into the everafter now. Justifiably he was furious. For he would not be given a chance, either. And Duncan would not be so foolish to try and kill Mary under such circumstance.
No, he must postpone his scheme, at least before the wedding, at least for now. Perhaps he must even change the means. But the end remained the same. He could not allow a union between his little sister and Stephen de Warenne.
Mary first became aware of the voices. Soft murmurs that were so faint as to be inaudible. She thought she was dreaming. Then she realized that the raw hollowness in her lungs was no dream. The voices grew louder, becoming distinct from one another. Suddenly Mary recognized the firm tones of the Countess of Northumberland and the high, childish ones of her daughter, Isobel, and she was fully awake. Comprehension dawned.
She had almost drowned.Mary stiffened, only peripherally aware of people standing over her. Sensations flooded her being sucked down into wet, black darkness, panic filling her breast, her lungs burning, burning … Oh, dear Lord, she had tried to escape, but instead of escaping, she had been pushed into the Thames—she had almost died.
Someone had tried to murder her.
“Mother, Mother, she is awake!” Isobel cried excitedly.
“Can you hear me?” the countess asked softly.
But how was it that she was not dead?With frightening clarity, Mary recalled her last thoughts before losing consciousness.
And then she remembered. The scene was vivid, unshakable. Stephen holding her in his arms in the river, where she floated like a corpse, then Brand taking her to shore. Mary opened her eyes wide. How could she have such a memory? The perspective was all wrong—as if she were far above the ground, looking down upon the players in a singularly strange drama.
But it had been no play. Mary was certain that what she had seen had really happened—for now, like the acts performed by traveling players, the scene unfolded with frightening intensity and startling swiftness. Brand laying her upon the dock, Stephen being hauled from the water. And then he was upon her, pounding her back. Turning her over, begging her to breathe. And then he was breathing the air from his own lungs into hers. The memory grew darker, the images fuzzy. Mary could distinctly hear Brand telling Stephen that she was dead. But then she heard no more, and the recollection had blackened into nothingness.
The countess was smiling. “Hello, Princess. We have been hoping you would waken soon.”
Mary blinked at her, trembling. Had she really seen herself on the brink of death? Had her soul, perhaps, been winging its way towards Heaven? Had Stephen somehow called her back?
“You almost died, Lady Mary!” Isobel cried, taking Mary’s hands in hers and squeezing them with obvious delight that she was in fact alive.
“I almost died,” Mary echoed.
“Isobel, do not distress the princess,” Ceidre said sternly.
But Mary was sitting upright, clinging to hotel’s hands. “Did Stephen save me? Did Stephen breathe into my mouth?”
Both the countess and Isobel started. “But—how could you know such a thing?” Ceidre said. “Stephen said you were unconscious, unbreathing, near dead.”
Mary sank back onto the mattress, her heart pounding. She squeezed her eyes closed. Hot tears stung her lids.
