She had almost died. Stephen had saved her. Stephen had given her back her life.
And as she could not explain to herself the strange memory of watching Stephen minister to her on the dock, she could not explain it to them. One thing was clear. That she lived was a miracle, and she owed Stephen far more than mere thanks.
“Isobel, bring me a chemise and cote,” the countess said. Isobel scurried to obey. “Raise your arms, dear; I will help you dress.”
Mary obeyed. As Stephen’s mother helped her to dress, she thought about how she had tried to drug Stephen. Either he was superhuman or he had known of her scheme. It was easy to feel horrible now for deceiving him, for such treachery. How could she have done such a thing?
“Are you all right, Mary?” the countess asked with concern.
Mary froze, speech escaping her. For standing in the doorway was the man consuming her thoughts.
The wintry light straying through the windows of the chamber was dismal, and Stephen was cloaked in it. His expression was impossible to determine. Mary’s heart thundered. She had the urge to cry out to him, in greeting, in gratitude, and in some nameless emotion she dared not identify. But she did not. Instead, she collapsed against the pillows, watching him.
The bedchamber was small, and he crossed it quickly and decisively, pausing at his mother’s side. His gaze held hers. “Good day, mademoiselle.”
Mary knew she must thank this man and apologize for her horrible betrayal of him. But still she could not speak. Nor could she look away; indeed, she was no longer aware of the countess or Isobel. Finally he said, “We have been waiting for you to awaken.”
Mary wet her lips, which were dry.
“Here,” Isobel said, instantly handing her a cup of water. The child smiled at her. “Drink this, lady.”
The countess straightened. “Come, Isobel, Stephen wishes a moment alone with his bride.”
Mary barely heard the countess’s words, did not even see as she and her daughter left the chamber, closing the door behind them. They stared at each other. He was grave, she was anxious and mute.
A moment later Stephen was on the bed beside her, and Mary was in his arms.
It was so natural to cling to him. He was strength and safety, power and integrity, he was life. She felt crazed by the intensity of her emotions, by the sum of them. How safe she felt, how secure, how right. The leather of his gambeson was smooth beneath her cheek. For a long moment they both held each other, neither moving or speaking. Until he said, soft and rough, into her ear, “I, for one, am more than glad to see you awake.”
Mary slowly turned her head so she could gaze up at him. Could it be? Could this man have some small amount of tendre for her after all they had suffered together? After all she had done? Had he not risked his life for her?
She recalled his desperation, the way he had breathed life back into her body.
And he gazed into her eyes with unwavering intensity, as if he wished to glimpse into her soul.
Mary’s chest tightened and she found herself meeting his regard openly. She had the overwhelming urge to open all of herself to him, completely.
“How do you feel?” His tone was not quite steady, unlike the light within his eyes, which was so fierce. Mary thought that she detected a film of moisture there, but she could only assume it was from a speck of dust.
“I am glad to be alive, my lord. I—I must thank you.”
She felt his entire body tightening and he moved his mouth even closer to hers. Her body came to life when he spoke, his breath feathering her, tingles sweeping down her spine. “I would have more than thanks from you.”
Mary was hoarse. “W-What would you h-have, my lord, of me?”
“Do you truly not know?”
Mary felt dizzy with the possibilities. She was faint, and unsure of what was happening between them. “You—you have more than my thanks,” she heard herself say.
His gaze searched hers intently. “Do you bend to me now, finally. Mary?”
Mary trembled. What bond were they forging, what pact? Did he understand her pledge; did she? “You have saved my life. I almost died. If not for you …” She cried out, unable to continue.
His own grip upon her tightened. “You have nothing more to fear, mademoiselle,” he told her. “No harm will befall you; you have my word.”
Mary gripped his leather gambeson. They were upon the verge of some new and great understanding, and she was both afraid and exultant. “Stephen,” she whispered, knowing that she had never called him by his given name before, “I am sorry. I am sorry for betraying you. I will never betray you again, my lord,” she said with fervor.“I give you my word.”
He was still for a moment; he did not appear to even breathe. His gaze had become very dark and very fierce. “If you are finally speaking the truth, Mary, I would be well pleased.”
