Mary shivered.
“The white field above ’tis for purity, the gold for nobility.”
“And—the rose?”
“The red rose signifies passion, madame. I am surprised you should ask.”
Mary blushed. Her heart beat wildly. Power, purity, nobility—passion.
“The de Warennes are known for their power, their honor, their nobility, and their extreme passion for all causes dear to them,” Stephen said in a strained, low tone. His gaze held hers.
Mary was mesmerized. She knew she did not mistake what he said—or why he had given her the rose. He was giving her himself. “Stephen … thank you.”
Stephen stared. Mary could not look away for a long moment, his gaze was so intense. Then she reached for the rose. Quickly he reached out to restrain her. “But you must have a care,” he murmured, “that you do not harm yourself on the thorns.”
Most mornings Stephen immersed himself in administrative matters with his steward in the hall, but not this day. He stood, staring unseeing into the hearth. Mary was occupied with her responsibilities as chatelaine; he knew she was in the pantries with the pantler. His retainers were all about their duties, as well. He had a rare moment, for he was completely alone.
There was a persistent pain in the back of his head. A throbbing he was not unfamiliar with. For many years now he had recognized that the megrim came during times of distress.
He had been married for four days. Four perfect days beyond his greatest expectations. If he did not know himself better, he would think himself a romantic fool, so pleased was he with his bride, so besotted. He could hardly believe he had found and given her a red rose, but he had. She had understood its meaning perfectly. She had been well pleased—he had seen it in her eyes.
He should have been completely happy. But he had the worst megrim he had yet to have, instead.
For the terrible question remained. Had Rolfe succeeded in turning the King from his plans to betray Malcolm and invade Carlisle? Or was he about to ride forth to war upon his bride’s home and family?
Jesu, how would she react if he went to battle with Malcolm? Would she understand that he did his duty to his King, as always? Would she support him, as washerduty?
She was his wife. Their relationship had changed since she had awakened after her near-drowning. There was no question that she had accepted her fate, had come to him willingly as his wife on the day of their wedding. She was performing her duties at Alnwick with enthusiasm, and he was acutely aware that she sought to please him. God, but he was pleased. But did he have her loyalty first and foremost as he must have?
Mary was one of the proudest, most determined human beings he had ever met. Could the minx who had fought and defied him at every turn up until someone had tried to murder her actually change her loyalty and allegiance so swiftly and completely? Was she his wife in her heart as he was now her husband with his? Was she?
He did not know.
He was afraid to know.
And he was afraid of what the next few days would bring.
The Earl and Countess of Northumberland arrived at Alnwick the following afternoon. Isobel was with them, and so was Geoffrey. Stephen was not at the keep when they arrived, so Mary went into the bailey to greet her parents-in-law properly. Warm, heartfelt greetings were exchanged by everyone. Mary was absurdly pleased to realize that she was not merely accepted by her husband’s family, but loved by them as well.
Mary then rushed upstairs to supervise the removal of her and Stephen’s belongings from the master’s chamber, wishing she had been notified a bit in advance of the earl and countess’s arrival. Shouts from the guards on the watch-tower, followed by the sound of a small cavalcade drumming over the drawbridge and into the bailey, told her that Stephen was home. With a warm smile, Mary went to the window slit and watched her husband slide from his destrier, handing the reins to his squire. He was up to his knees in mud; the last few days it had rained incessantly. Stephen would need a bath, But Mary was certain that he would not bathe until after dinner, that he would want to enjoy his family’s company first.
Some time later, having made sure that the lord’s chamber was swept clean and ready for the earl and his wife, Mary went downstairs. As she neared the hall below, it became clear that the earl and his sons were in an intense, yet hushed conversation. She had not heard a single female voice as she descended, so quite naturally she felt as if she were intruding, and her steps slowed. As she rounded the corner she heard Geoffrey making a remark about the fortifications at Carlisle being ancient rubble in need of repair.
Mary had barely assimilated the fact that the topic they were bent on was Carlisle as she entered the hall. The three men seated at the table there instantly fell silent. She paused. Her smile, one reserved for her husband, died, and the greeting that had been on the tip of her tongue was forgotten. The three de Warenne men all turned to look at her. No one was smiling. Obviously she was intruding, and just as obviously they did not want her to overhear their discussion.
Mary stopped in her tracks halfway across the hall. For the first time since she had been wed, she felt like a Scot intruder, instead of the mistress of Alnwick and Stephen’s wife. She managed a frozen smile, one directed at her husband. “Good day, my lord.”
Stephen rose. Behind him, his father was sipping ale, and Geoffrey was drumming his fingers impatiently upon the table. Stephen came forward, but not to greet her. “My mother is in the solar with Isobel. Why don’t you join them?”
Mary’s mouth tightened. Her heart beat in hard, painful spurts. He, too, saw her sudden appearance as an unwelcome intrusion; he was dismissing her. Hurt rose hotly, achingly, in her breast as she looked up into her husband’s handsome face. He did not trust her.
He did not trust her, and they spoke about Carlisle’s defenses.
No, it could not be.
She stared at him for several heartbeats, waiting for a sign, any sign, that this private meeting was not as it appeared. But he only repeated his barely disguised command. “Why do you not join my mother in the solar, madame?”
She had bent herself over backwards these past few days to please him, accommodating his every inclination, offering him every form of comfort, and openly she had sworn to obey and uphold him, but still he did not trust her. Mary felt sick.He did not trust her, and they spoke of Carlisle!
