Stephen quickly turned. He was no coward. To be afraid of his wife was the height of cowardice. He had always done what he must do. If she gave him cause, he would exile her immediately. And he would control himself in bed, so she would not guess how obsessed with her he had become. Hadn’t he learned, a long time ago, when a small boy held hostage at Court, how to chase his feelings into oblivion? Then it had been a matter of survival. Now it might be a matter of survival, too.
Mary did not pretend to sleep. As was customary, she lay naked beneath the blankets and furs of her bed, her hair unbound, uncovered, and brushed out. It shone in the flickering firelight. As Stephen had suggested, she had bathed before dinner, although not in his bath, which had been filthy. She had washed her hair as well as her body, knowing very well how Stephen had once admired it.
Mary cradled a pillow, thinking of Stephen anxiously. Would he sleep with her tonight? Would he try to make love to her? She did not think he would inconvenience himself and sleep on a pallet in the hall below, no matter how he might wish to avoid her. At dinner he had acted casually towards her, which indicated to her that he would indeed share their bed tonight. But she dared not guess if he would touch her.
How glad she was that she had not told him she had conceived. Then he would have every excuse to shun her, and he would likely assuage his lust elsewhere. Just the thought of him going to another woman made Mary rigid. She thought she could tolerate almost anything, but not that. Not his infidelity.
Her thoughts wandered to Stephen’s mother. She became wistful. She easily imagined how Lady Ceidre must have felt as a young girl, her father dead, her brothers dispossessed and in hiding, planning their rebellion, while falling in love with the enemy, a man married to her sister. It was a tragic story, one seemingly impossible to resolve. Yet there had been a glorious resolution. The bastard Saxon girl had become the Countess of Northumberland, wife to her lover, the mother of three strong sons and one beautiful daughter, powerful and elegant and beloved.
Mary could not help yearning for such a future, too. But she must be mad. It would be enough, she thought, to be in Stephen’s good graces. She would never receive that kind of love from him. But—her heart turned over—there would be children. Or at least a child. Perhaps their mutual love for that child would bring them closer together, perhaps one day he would become genuinely fond of her. Yet could that ever be enough?
Mary stiffened, hearing Stephen’s footsteps. All hopes, all deliberations upon what might be their future, fled in that instant. She was frozen, unmoving, not daring to breathe. The door groaned softly as he opened and closed it. Her shoulders were so stiff, they hurt. She listened to him disrobing. First his sword belt, which grated loudly as he laid it down. Other belts dropped to the floor without ceremony. Mary heard the soft whisper of fabric as he removed his tunics. She could visualize him standing bare-chested in his boots, braies, and hose. The boots thumped as they hit the floor. More fabric whispered teasingly.
What kind of woman am I? Mary wondered as he slid into the bed with her. His body did not touch hers, but she could not relax. Her own body was pulsing in acute awareness of him. How could he have such an effect upon her? Her life was a shambles, desperately in need of salvaging, yet she barely cared. Instead, she lay rigid, hoping he would touch her. Knowing he would not.
He did not. Long, slow, torturous minutes ticked by. Mary wondered if he thought her to be asleep. She did not think he would show her any consideration, not under the present circumstances. It became clear to Mary that he had no intention of touching her. Despite his words of earlier that day, he was in fact shunning her. Dear God, if they did not at least have passion, then they had nothing and mere was no hope! And no amount of desperate wishing was going to make him turn to her!
Mary was terrified. Could he have become indifferent to her, almost overnight? Could the treachery he had perceived have doused the brilliant fires of their passion?
She thought with frantic speed. Passion was a woman’s ancient weapon. For them, it could be another beginning, or at least one single form of intimacy, perhaps the only form, for them to share. Seduction was also a timeless method of reconciliation. And Stephen would not refuse her, would he? Could she not seduce him?
In an act of both desperation and bravery, Mary turned over to face him. He lay on his side, facing away from her. Dreading his rejection, Mary touched his shoulder.
He was as stiff as a board. “What are you doing?” he gritted.
There was no possible answer she could make, so Mary slid her hand down his thick bicep, then pressed the length of her body against his, her breasts to his back, her hips cupping his buttocks. And she touched her mouth to the sweet spot on his neck, just below his ear.
He jerked. “Cease, madame. I am warning you.”
His voice was raw. Mary was frozen, wondering if his tone was due to anger—or desire. “Stephen, I am your wife.”
He said nothing. But she could hear his harsh, uneven breathing.
Mary pressed closer, wanting to tell him that she loved him, sweeping her hand across his chest and down his abdomen. She gasped. The too ripe tip of him quivered against her hand. He was thick and swollen, slick and aroused. Exultation rushed through her. Regardless of the chasm between them, he desired her—and how.
“Stephen,” she whispered, but it sounded much like a moan. And as she spoke, her fingers curled around him. He inhaled once, hard and long.
“You are a witch,” he said harshly through clenched teeth.
She realized he was fighting her, and she could not understand why. “No, I am your wife,” she returned. Her own painful excitement made her unthinkably bold. She caressed him as he had taught her to do. He gasped with strangled pleasure. Mary began to shake. “Please, Stephen. Come into me, oh dear, please.”
“Damn you,” he said. But he rolled over with lightning swiftness, pinning her beneath him. Mary embraced him hard, spreading her thighs wide to accommodate him. His phallus nudged her, but he was frozen and unmoving over her.
Their gazes met. His was tortured.
“Why do you fight yourself?” she cried. “Why do you fight me? Come, darling, please!”
Stephen moved. Wordlessly he thrust into her, burying his hard length to the hilt. Mary gasped in pleasure. He withdrew slowly, his entire body shaking as he held himself in check. And very, very slowly he entered her again.
Mary wept. Never had she known such pleasure. Yet she sensed he was forcing an inexplicable kind of self-control upon himself, but why?
“Stephen,” she panted, “I cannot… stand… this.”
He moaned. And his control shattered. Mary cried out when he began to move, fast and hard and mindless. Mary threw her head back, exultant, sobbing her intense pleasure, instinctively realizing that she had won even though she barely understood the prize.
Stephen paused to kiss her. Mary wept. Stephen’s kiss was openmouthed, hot and devouring, and if he felt nothing for her out of bed, here, at least, he felt all. His kiss brought her to another stunning peak of ecstasy, startling them both.
Stephen’s growl came low and long in his throat. He forced himself into her deeper, more intimately, plunging with abandon, captive to his lust. Still Mary welcomed him.
