Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce Page B
Authors: Brenda Joyce
still partially erect. Her dazed mind began to come to life.
She became lucid. Lucid enough to feel bruised and worn, aching now from the invasion of his large body into her small one, and worse, much worse, lucid enough to feel horrified.
What had she done?
Stephen raised himself up slightly on his elbows, and their gazes collided. He saw the horror in hers. His jaw tightened.Before Mary could push him off, she felt him stirring to life inside her, lengthening, swelling. She tensed.
“Later,” he said roughly. “Later you can entertain regrets.”
Mary opened her mouth to protest. Then his lips covered hers, his hips moving, and she was lost.
Chapter 5
T he sun was just rising when Stephen broke the night’s fast at prime. He was alone. His household was dutifully at mass in the family chapel with Father Bertold, a duty Stephen himself shirked this day. The woman calling herself Mairi was still asleep in his bed.
Abruptly he pushed the slice of white bread he had been toying with away. What in God’s name had he done?
She had not revealed herself. He had never dreamed she would choose ruin over confession. There was still not a single doubt in his mind that she was a highborn lady. He could have pressed her further, brought her to the edge without actually taking her, forced the truth from her innocent lips. But he had not. He had taken her instead, ceasing to care about the issue at stake.
His jaw flexed. Why had he, a man of great experience and even greater self-discipline, acted like a beardless boy presented with his first courtesan?
Briefly he closed his eyes, for the first time that morning aware of a pounding behind his temples. He had failed himself last night. He was afraid. Secretly afraid that he would fail himself again.
For the woman calling herself Mairi was still in his chamber and still in his bed. Already he thought of the night to come. Already he anticipated their union. He could hardly think of anything else.
But he must send her away. Now, before she truly endangered his marriage to Adele Beaufort. He
must.
His duty, as always, was to Northumberland, and a mistress who threatened his advantageous marriage threatened Northumberland itself.
He was uneasy. He stared at the warm loaf of bread on the table before him. Mairi’s image came to him as she had been in his bed last night, with a passion that matched his own, a passion he had never witnessed before, not in any other woman—not even in himself. She had brought something out in him he had never allowed himself to acknowledge before. What was wrong with him?
He could not regret what he had done, and he knew he would not send her away—not yet.
But what price would he pay for such folly?
Stephen quaffed his glass of ale. He told himself that in another night or two he would tire of her and send her on her way. Before any damage was done. He had no choice.
Purposeful footsteps brought him abruptly back to the present. Stephen was glad to be diverted from his brooding. His brow rose slightly in surprise when he glimpsed his brother, Geoffrey. Geoffrey rarely had the time or inclination to come home to Northumberland. “What brings you so far north, brother?”
Geoffrey regarded him with the faintest of smiles. “What greeting is this, after so much time has passed?” he asked drolly, striding across the hall, his long robes flowing about him. There was no mistaking his relationship to Brand. He was tall, muscular, and golden, a devastatingly handsome man whom women always turned to look at twice. Even now, entering the hall where he had spent his first childhood years, a place where his face was familiar and occasionally seen, he caused the serving maids to blush with interest. “Do I not deserve some display of affection?”
Stephen did not blink. “I am not in the mood to display affection.”
“So I have already noticed.” Geoffrey lithely climbed the dais and slid into the seat beside his brother. A dagger
She became lucid. Lucid enough to feel bruised and worn, aching now from the invasion of his large body into her small one, and worse, much worse, lucid enough to feel horrified.
What had she done?
Stephen raised himself up slightly on his elbows, and their gazes collided. He saw the horror in hers. His jaw tightened.Before Mary could push him off, she felt him stirring to life inside her, lengthening, swelling. She tensed.
“Later,” he said roughly. “Later you can entertain regrets.”
Mary opened her mouth to protest. Then his lips covered hers, his hips moving, and she was lost.
Chapter 5
T he sun was just rising when Stephen broke the night’s fast at prime. He was alone. His household was dutifully at mass in the family chapel with Father Bertold, a duty Stephen himself shirked this day. The woman calling herself Mairi was still asleep in his bed.
Abruptly he pushed the slice of white bread he had been toying with away. What in God’s name had he done?
She had not revealed herself. He had never dreamed she would choose ruin over confession. There was still not a single doubt in his mind that she was a highborn lady. He could have pressed her further, brought her to the edge without actually taking her, forced the truth from her innocent lips. But he had not. He had taken her instead, ceasing to care about the issue at stake.
His jaw flexed. Why had he, a man of great experience and even greater self-discipline, acted like a beardless boy presented with his first courtesan?
Briefly he closed his eyes, for the first time that morning aware of a pounding behind his temples. He had failed himself last night. He was afraid. Secretly afraid that he would fail himself again.
For the woman calling herself Mairi was still in his chamber and still in his bed. Already he thought of the night to come. Already he anticipated their union. He could hardly think of anything else.
But he must send her away. Now, before she truly endangered his marriage to Adele Beaufort. He
must.
His duty, as always, was to Northumberland, and a mistress who threatened his advantageous marriage threatened Northumberland itself.
He was uneasy. He stared at the warm loaf of bread on the table before him. Mairi’s image came to him as she had been in his bed last night, with a passion that matched his own, a passion he had never witnessed before, not in any other woman—not even in himself. She had brought something out in him he had never allowed himself to acknowledge before. What was wrong with him?
He could not regret what he had done, and he knew he would not send her away—not yet.
But what price would he pay for such folly?
Stephen quaffed his glass of ale. He told himself that in another night or two he would tire of her and send her on her way. Before any damage was done. He had no choice.
Purposeful footsteps brought him abruptly back to the present. Stephen was glad to be diverted from his brooding. His brow rose slightly in surprise when he glimpsed his brother, Geoffrey. Geoffrey rarely had the time or inclination to come home to Northumberland. “What brings you so far north, brother?”
Geoffrey regarded him with the faintest of smiles. “What greeting is this, after so much time has passed?” he asked drolly, striding across the hall, his long robes flowing about him. There was no mistaking his relationship to Brand. He was tall, muscular, and golden, a devastatingly handsome man whom women always turned to look at twice. Even now, entering the hall where he had spent his first childhood years, a place where his face was familiar and occasionally seen, he caused the serving maids to blush with interest. “Do I not deserve some display of affection?”
Stephen did not blink. “I am not in the mood to display affection.”
“So I have already noticed.” Geoffrey lithely climbed the dais and slid into the seat beside his brother. A dagger