Free Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce Page A

rot,” Edward stated, directing an ice-cold glance at Edmund.
    “Stop it! I cannot stand this bickering, not now!”
    Everyone turned to look at Margaret.
    “There will be no war!” she cried, standing. Rarely did she give commands, and never did she interfere in matters politic, but now she shook with the force of her determination. “Malcolm—you will pay whatever ransom it is that Rolfe de Warenne demands. You must!”
    “You are not to worry,” Malcolm said. “Dear heart, why do you not go upstairs to rest?”
    Although Margaret knew she would never rest this night, not with Mary missing, she nodded and obeyed. There was silence until she had left the hall.
    “What are you planning to do?” Edward asked uneasily.
    Malcolm smiled, and it was chilling. “I will do what must be done, my son. Harken well. There is a benefit to be had from this, and I intend to reap it.”
       The first few drops of rain began to fall, pattering steadily upon the battlements of Alnwick.
    Inside, Mary paused in the open doorway of the Norman’s chamber. She had not considered refusing his summons, even though she was nearly paralyzed with fright at the thought of what might happen. He was wearing only his linen braies, and his lack of dress was all the confirmation she needed. Her face, paler than the costliest ivory, stung with sudden heat. Mary turned her gaze away from the sight of his hardened loins bursting against the fabric of his braies.
    He regarded her without expression. The sound of the rain, now beating determinedly down upon the roof, filled the silence of the room.
    Mary’s back was to the open doorway. She cast her gaze around wildly, her heart tripping. She had considered revealing herself to him. Though she had not had much time, less than an hour, to contemplate her dilemma, she had brooded over her alternatives as carefully as possible in the face of her growing panic.
    And until the minute Mary had come to his chamber, confronted with her enemy and his obvious desire, she had harbored desperate hope. She would not accept her ruin, at least not meekly. She had been determined not to bend to his will in the ensuing contest, a contest in which her virtue and her pride were at stake. She would fight him. If she remained firm in her resolve and if she refused to allow herself to be seduced as she almost had earlier, and he had been speaking the truth of his aversion to violence, then he would not condescend to rape her.
    But any hope she’d had died a sudden death. Facing him in the flesh, pinned beneath his glittering gaze, she did not believe him capable of desisting from brutality. She knew what her fate would be. For in the end it was better to be a martyr, accepting her own ruin, than to reveal herself to be the princess Mary and hand her captor such a priceless gift.
    Outside, the wind roared, and for the first time that evening, thunder cracked almost directly overhead. Mary jumped.
    Stephen said, “Do storms always make you this nervous, mademoiselle?”
    Mary looked at him. Her jaw tightened. Lightning sliced across the sky, and for a moment the ink blackness outside the narrow slit became white. Mary turned her gaze away from the narrow window. “Be done with it.”
    His brow rose.
    He was studying her. Mary fought to keep her eyes on the casement window, watching the rain as it fell now in heavy, silvery torrents. It wasn’t an easy task. His presence was compelling, overwhelming. Her gaze sidled to the canopied bed. He stood in front of it in the middle of the room. The bed curtains had been pulled open, the furs and blankets folded aside.
    The chamber was too warm, Mary thought. It was becoming difficult to breathe in a normal fashion. Despite the inclement weather, she wished the fire would die down to mere embers. She wished he would stop staring at her and she wished he would do something, anything, to end this torment, this suspense.
    He finally moved. His strides were tightly