Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online

mademoiselle.”
    “Why is he going to Liddel?”
    “Do you have something to hide?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Then you have nothing to fear.”
    He was toying with her, testing her, and she was justifiably anxious. “Why are you doing this?”
    His amusement faded. “Because I cannot help myself.”
    They stared at each other. His gaze was briefly penetrable, and Mary saw dark desire and even darker determination. He exerted a magnetism upon her that she was powerless against. She shuddered with a sudden foreboding she dared not comprehend. It was far safer to ignore whatever had passed between them, to pretend it did not exist, had never existed.
    He broke the spell he had so effectively cast. “Come, we are leaving; you shall ride with me.”
    Mary did not move.
    He dropped the hand he had extended. “Is something wrong, Mairi?”
    “I wish to ride with anyone else but you.”
    He planted himself in front of her and stared down at her. “But I am not giving you a choice, mademoiselle.”He smiled slightly. “Besides, riding with me will be very entertaining.”
    She understood the innuendo and could feel her face flame, but at least his frankness was something she could deal with. “You are so typically cocksure.”
    He laughed. “Did I hear that remark from a lady’s lips?”
    “I do not care what you think of me,” she gritted. “Where is your damn horse?”
    He pointed, laughing again, his teeth flashing white.
    Mary marched to the big brown destrier, his laughter echoing in her mind. She resolved to outwit him no matter what the cost, and when she did, she would fling her triumph in his face. Then she would be the one laughing.
    Stephen lifted her into the saddle effortlessly, then swung up behind her with the grace of a much smaller man. Mary tried to ignore the feel of his body. She gripped the pommel tightly. It was going to be a very long day; of that she had no doubt.
    They traveled northeast at a rapid trot, away from Carlisle, through rocky, rolling hills. September had swept much rain across the countryside, and the land was green and verdant. It was clear to Mary that he was intent on reaching Alnwick that day. Obviously whatever mission the Normans had been about had been accomplished. She brooded upon the possibilities. She was determined to learn what the Normans had been doing in the vicinity of Carlisle and Liddel.
    And every hour that passed, Mary let a piece of her chemise slip from her sleeve and flutter to the ground.
    Their pace did not let up until they stopped to water the horses at noon. By then they were surrounded by the harsh Northumbrian moors and an endless gray sky. Occasionally gulls wheeled above them. Mary thankfully slid to the ground, drained from having to endure the intimacy of sharing a saddle with her captor for so many endless hours. She thought that it was as close to hell as she might ever come.
    No one was paying any attention to her. Around her the knights spoke in low tones, their mounts drinking deeply. Mary edged closer to a single gaunt tree. She sat down witha show of fatigue, and let slip another piece of chemise. When the knights had remounted and reassembled a few minutes later, she got to her feet and ambled back to the group. Stephen de Warenne rode his great destrier slowly towards her.
    “Enjoying the scenery, demoiselle?”
    She glared. “What is there to enjoy in this scene? Nothing surrounds me but ugliness.”
    “Spoken like a true Scot.” His gaze pierced her. “Are you a true Scot, Mairi?”
    She stilled. Was he the devil—and a reader of minds? Or had he guessed her identity? Her mother. Queen Margaret, was English. Margaret’s brother was Edgar Aethling, a great nephew of the Saxon King Edward the Confessor, and he had been heir to the throne of England before the Conquest. When Duke William the Bastard invaded England, Margaret’s widowed mother had fled to Scotland with her children, seeking refuge, afraid for her son’s life.