Mary was uncertain. Stephen was obviously calm and rational. Yet she did not think he had forgotten her trespass, or forgiven her for it. Giving her his back, not once but twice, was significant. Perhaps it was a warning, a signal to her to keep her distance.
The last time she had helped him bathe flashed through Mary’s mind. Hopelessly she succumbed to intense yearning. She was quite sure that there would never be a repeat of such unabashed, open passion, such mutually flagrant need.
“Shall I help you, my lord?”
Stephen was in the midst of sponging himself with soap and water. He did not turn his head when he spoke. Although fatigue was evident in his tone, he said, “Perhaps another time.”
Mary could not move. She had not misread him at all. He had not forgotten anything, he had not forgiven anything. Mary almost sobbed but managed to muffle the sound of despair instead. This man was as far removed from the warm, ardent lover he had been before their fight as he could be.
She was uncertain. She decided to tend the fire, having nothing else to do. She jammed the poker at the dead wood, releasing some of her anger and frustration, but by no means enough of it. Clearly he was intent on avoiding her. But for how long? Recalling the impossibly high stakes—their future—she knew this situation could not continue. She must not allow it to continue in this vein.
Stephen had finished washing himself, and now he lunged to his feet. Mary turned, trembling. A second later he had wrapped his powerful, naked body in a blanket. He did not look at her.
Stephen began to dress. He did not speak. Mary was afraid to approach in order to help him, quite certain her efforts would be rejected yet again. He was making himself very clear. She could not keep her silence. “Will you shun me for the rest of our lives, my lord?”
“Shun you?” Stephen whirled. “I have no intention of shunning you, madame. But if you think to get a warm welcome from me, you have been mistaken.”
Her head came up, her nostrils flared. “You are still angry.”
He laughed, the sound harsh, unpleasant. “I am still angry, but do not fear. I am in complete control.” His gaze was open now, so open that she could see the anger in it, and it was hard and cold.
“I have been punished. But I have not apologized.” Knowing she was innocent of treachery made it difficult to continue. “I am sorry.”
He stared in some amount of incredulity. “How sincere you seem!”
“Iamsorry!” Mary cried. “Stephen, I swear to you that I never intended to betray you to my father.”
He cocked his head. “Do you not think your avowal a bit untimely?”
“It may be untimely, but ’tis the truth.”
“I doubt you comprehend the meaning of the word ’truth,’ madame.”
Mary inhaled. “You are cruel.”
“Why do you seek to convince me now? Were you not spying?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you plot anew against me? Do you seek to soften me once again, in order to wield another blow?”
“No!”
“If I thought your regret sincere, ’twould be enough—I could not ask for more than genuine repentance. But no apology, sincere or not, is enough to undo my regrets, nor my anger. I do not take betrayal lightly, not from my wife, never from my wife.”
“But I swear I am telling you the truth—I never intended betrayal!”
“As you swore before God to honor and obey me?” He held up a hand; his eyes flashed waringly, dangerously.
Mary could not back down. “I did not break my vows.”
“I have had enough of this, madame,” Stephen said very tightly.
He was staring at her. Mary realized she was glaring at him through a veil of tears. She fought for composure.
“Your confinement is ended, if that is any help,” Stephen told her. “I expect you to join us downstairs for dinner. My bath is still warm. Why do you not take advantage of it?”
“How charitable you are.”
