Mary looked up to see Malcolm smiling at both her and Stephen, standing beside them on the dais. Stephen stood, unperturbed, even smiling himself. “Of course.” His glance stroked Mary. “I will be back in a few minutes, madame.”
Mary’s chest was tight, her heart pounding. He kissed her hand, his mouth lingering, his breath feathering her flesh.
As Stephen stepped off of the dais, instantly surrounded by well-wishing, raucous males, Malcolm slipped into his seat. He put his arm around Mary. Mary firmly shoved her ungenteel thoughts out of her mind. She was thrilled that her father had come to sit beside her and wish her well.
“You seem very pleased, daughter, with this union.”
“Oh, Father, I am. Although at first I fought it and was disappointed with the union, I have now accepted Stephen with all my heart.”
“’Tis a good thing for you to accept what must be, Mary,” Malcolm said, no longer smiling. He studied her closely.
Mary tensed, touched with a finger of foreboding. She did not care for the look in her father’s eye. “Father? Is it possible that now that Stephen and I are wed, there might truly be peace upon the border?”
His expression was impossibly hard. “How quickly you forget!”
“Forget what?” she asked. “Blood and death?”
“How quickly you forget who you are, Mary.”
“Am I not Stephen’s wife?”
“You are my daughter. You will always be my daughter, and that can never change.”
Had his exact words been spoken in a different context, in a different manner, Mary would have been thrilled. Instead, she was held in the grip of gut-wrenching tension. “Of course, Father. That will never change.”
“You are still Scotland’s daughter.”
Mary gripped the table, finding it difficult to breathe. “Yes, I am that, too.”
Malcolm smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I am depending on you, Mary.”
“Depending on me?” she echoed, a hollowness forming in her heart and in her very soul.
“I am depending on your loyalty.”
“What are you saying?” she cried, on her feet.
Malcolm stood, too. “What I am saying is that you belong to Scotland before you belong to de Warenne.”
Mary’s nails clawed into the wooden table. This could not be happening, it could not! Her father could not be saying such a thing—and surely he would not continue in such a vein!
“You must, of course, be a good wife, a dutiful wife. But you must not forsake me, you must not forsake Scotland.”
Tears were blurring her vision. She could not speak, not even in denial, so filled with despair, with horror, was she.
“You must spy for me, Mary,” Malcolm said. His eyes were brilliant.
Mary felt faintness come over her. She clutched the table. “You ask me to spy? You ask me to spy upon my husband and his people?”
“You must! For nothing has changed. The Normans hate me, and I, them. Northumberland still encroaches upon me, Rufus still seeks Scottish soil. You must remember who you are. You are a princess of Scotland first, de Warenne’s wife second. No opportunity could be more perfect. Why do you think I allowed you to marry him in the first place?”
Mary could not look at her father another moment. And not because of the tears that blinded her. “This is my wedding,” she whispered.
“And you are a beautiful bride,” Malcolm said, patting her shoulder. “Wipe your tears, your groom approaches. Remember, Mary, who you are and where your duties lie.”
Part Three
Into the Darkness
