“I am more than pleased, Mary.”
She could not mistake his meaning, for the gleam in his eyes was overly familiar to her now. Her tone had grown husky. “Is there naught else I can get you, my lord? Or do for you?”
His look was piercing. “You may help me disrobe,” Stephen said, sitting down and taking off his muddy boots.
Although Mary had just spent two long days and three even longer nights in bed with her husband, pleasing him in every way that he might think of and then in some she had thought of, she was overcome with a strange combination of both nervousness and pleasure at being able to perform such a simple wifely task as helping him unclothe and take his bath. Of course, she had a very good idea of exactly how his bath would end, and was breathless with the anticipation.
Quickly she went to him and helped him shed his belts and tunics. Her pulse quickened as her hands moved over him; she would never become indifferent to the feel of him, to the sight of him. His broad shoulders, wide, hard chest, and flat abdomen were bared to her possessive gaze; when he moved, thick muscle flexed and long sinew rippled. “You are a fine man, mylord,” she heard herself say.
Stephen, clad only in braies, hose, and cross-garters, swiveled to meet her eyes. “I am glad you think so, madame.”
Mary’s heart beat harder. She knelt beside him and fumbled with the garters. It was impossible not to be aware of her husband’s aroused state. His hose and braies slid to the floor.
Kneeling, Mary looked up at him. He regarded her back steadily, then held out his hand to her. Mary stood and found herself held loosely in his arms. “You also please me, madame wife,” he said low.
She flushed with delight. “Do you not want your bath?” she asked as levelly as she could.
“My bath, and you.” Stephen sighed. “I do not know how you can keep me so excited, madame, but you do. A man my age should have been long since worn out. Have you given me a potion I do not know of?”
“No,” Mary said, smiling. “A love potion would undoubtedly kill us both.”
Stephen grinned, humored, and the effect was dazzling, taking Mary’s breath away. Stephen had a hard, serious look about him usually, but his smile bathed his face in soft, masculine beauty.
He stepped into the tub and settled himself in it. Mary picked up the washcloth and looked at him. Her hand shook slightly. “Do as you will,” Stephen murmured.
Trying hard to think about giving her husband a bath, and not taking his invitation as literally as she would like to, Mary began washing his back. Stephen sighed in pleasure. When she had finished soaping and rinsing the hard expanse of muscle, flesh, and bone, Stephen turned slightly, his eyes glittering like jet. Mary tried not to tremble. And she tried to keep her eyes off of the water swirling about his hips and the part of his body that beckoned her so stubbornly. Stephen’s mouth had a hard line to it now. He leaned back. Mary knelt beside him, and dropping the rag, she used her hands to lather his chest with soap. Her palms slid over hard muscle and silken skin. Her husband was tense and unmoving. When her hand slid down his hard, flat belly, stroking in circular motions, Stephen closed his eyes. His jaw was tight, his neck tightly corded, his expression strained. Mary looked down, then let go of her restraint. She plunged her hand into the water. She lathered his heavily distended penis.
Stephen groaned.
Mary did not remove her hand. Her mouth was close to his ear. “Is there aught else you wish from me, my lord?”
His laughter was low and rough. Before she knew it, he had lunged to his feet, sending water splashing all about them. A scant instant later Mary was flat on her back on the bed. And he straddled her, her skirts up to her waist, his hot, slick member pressing against her swollen skin. “Who teases whom, madame?” he murmured.
Mary was incapable of speech, incapable now of responding. She clutched his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, free now to act as she would, to give up all pretense at proper wifely behavior, to be the carnally insatiable wanton he had taught her to be, and she panted beneath him, spread and desperate. Stephen laughed in male exultation and thrust into her. Mary shouted her pleasure. Within moments they were thrashing together in hot, mindless abandon.
Although Mary came down late to the dinner, it was a success.
The moment she arrived in the hall she saw that Stephen was relaxed and in good humor; upon seeing her, he sent her a very warm look. Mary blushed, and a quick glance around told her that the men-at-arms below the dais regarded them with knowing gazes and tolerant amusement. Mary imagined that they understood exactly why the lady had been late to dinner, for Stephen’s replete and satiated air could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was. Mary hoped her own appearance was more circumspect.
But if it was not, if the glowing love she was feeling from the top of her head to the tip of her toes showed, she did not care. She would no longer dwell on her morose thoughts, on Malcolm and his demands. There was no point. She had made her decision, and the right one it was, too. And then, as she came to take her seat beside Stephen, had she needed any further proof, it was there before her on the table.
A single crimson rose in full bloom.
Mary paused, stunned. Dazed, she looked at Stephen, who smiled at her lazily. There was a promise in his eyes that was far more than sexual. “How did you find this?” She whispered the first words to pop into her head.
“’Tis a strange phenomenon, is it not? A rose in winter. ’Tis for you, madame, a gift from me.”
Mary felt like crying. She took her seat, but did not touch the rose. He had clipped the stem short, and it resembled the rose upon his shield exactly, right down to the thick, spikelike thorns.
“Actually, my mother grows roses, and I can only guess that last week’s warm weather fooled the plants into an early showing.”
Mary did not want to cry foolishly. What did this mean? She faced Stephen, seized with determination. She would decipher precisely what he meant by this profoundly romantic gesture, a gesture she would have never dreamed of being possible from him. “Stephen, you have cut the stem. This rose—it looks exactly like the one upon your arms.”
His smile was pleased. “I am in agreement, madame. I had hoped you would notice.”
“What does it mean? Your coat of arms.”
He leaned towards her, his gaze stroking her face. His tone was intense. “The sinister black field which all else rests upon is power, Mary, and a warning to all those who might war with us.”
