Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page A

Malcolm was smitten with Margaret at first sight, and when his first wife, Ingeborg, died, he married her almost immediately.
    “I am a Scot through and through,” Mary said, meaning it.
    “You do not speak like a Scot—except when you choose to. Your English is flawless, better even than mine.”
    Of course her English was flawless, not just because her mother was English. Over the years Malcolm had anglicized his court in deference to his wife. “Perhaps Normans are too stupid and dim-witted to learn to speak English well.”
    His jaw tightened. “Perhaps this Norman has been dim-witted, indeed.” He slid from his horse, giving her an enigmatic look. Mary did not like his words or his tone. She froze when, instead of lifting her into the saddle, he walked right past her.
    He walked directly to the misshapen tree where she had been sitting. Mary’s heart skipped. He stooped and retrieved her piece of chemise. His strides were hard as he returned to her, clenching the silky fabric in his fist. “What a clever little minx you are.”
    Mary stepped back.
    His hand shot out, jerking her forward. “If you are so eager to shed your clothing, demoiselle, you need only say so.”
    Mary could not summon up a suitable response, especially not in the face of his fury.
    “For how long have you been leaving these signs, demoiselle?
For how long
?”

Chapter 3

    “Y ou’re hurting me!” Mary cried.
    Stephen instantly released her. Mary backed away from him, nibbing her arms. “Did you really think you could take me prisoner without a fight?”
    Stephen was regretting hurting her, but her words made him itch to shake her again. This child-woman was determined to fight
him?
“For how long?”
    “Since this morning.”
    Stephen was incredulous, stunned by her wit, her audacity, and her bravery. “I have greatly misjudged you,” he said harshly. Then he shouted. “Neale!”
    The older man was at his side instantly. “My lord?”
    Stephen did not remove his furious gaze from his captive. “This shrewd little minx has made fools of us all. She has been leaving a trail. Alert the men; we may have pursuit.”
    Neale wheeled his destrier.
    Stephen reached out and pulled Mary closer as she began to sidle away. Her body stiffened at the contact; he had to drag her with him. “Just whom were you alerting, demoiselle? Your lover? Your father?”
    “Yes!” she cried. “Yes, yes, yes! And soon, so very soon, you shall be skewered by my father’s sword, Norman, for he is the greatest warrior in all of Scotland!”
    Stephen halted. “Is he, indeed? Then surely I must know of him.”
    She set her mouth mulishly.
    “Your father is not this Sinclair of Dounreay as you so prettily insist, is he, demoiselle? Such an insignificant man would never attack me, and we both know it. So who are you expecting, Mairi? Is that even your name?”
    She said nothing.
    Very angry, he propelled her roughly towards his mount. Mary stumbled, then had to skip to keep ahead of him and out of his reach. Stephen did not care. He abruptly caught her, and heaved her into the saddle as if she were a sack of grain. He leapt onto the destrier behind her, signaling his men. The cavalcade rode off at a fast canter.
    Mary closed her eyes, giving in to a moment’s despair. She should not be distraught, she knew that; she should be elated. She had outfoxed the Norman with her trail of scraps. But she did not feel like gloating; she felt something close to terror. The bastard heir was enraged. Every instinct Mary had told her that there would be hell to pay for her small victory.
    They rode harder now. Mary found herself frequently looking over her shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of her kinsmen upon the horizon. She saw nothing, and as every mile passed, her hopes sank a little bit more.
    Where, oh where, was her father?
    Now they climbed a long, gradual rise, and when at the summit, Stephen abruptly drew his mount to a halt, clamping her to his powerful, mailed