Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce

not think about it. Instead, she must concentrate upon survival.
    Mary felt Stephen’s eyes upon her, and her skin tingled. She found herself facing him again. His gaze was bright and intent; she flushed in spite of her rage.
    Adele Beaufort.
The fury surging through her was nothing like the anger she had entertained earlier.
Adele Beaufort.
Who was Adele Beaufort? They had spoken of her with some respect; apparently she was both beautiful and an heiress. Oh, how she wished she could tell him that she was King Malcolm’s daughter—that she was a princess and far more important than any English heiress!
    Stephen spoke, drawing her complete attention. “You may call me whatever you wish just as you may choose to make the worst of this situation, mademoiselle, or you may make the best of it. It will not change my intentions; you succeed only in arousing my interest. I suggest you take advantage of the fact instead.”
    “You have indeed gained what you sought,” Mary said unsteadily. “You are stronger than I, and obviously far more experienced. But that does not change my intentions. I will not be your mistress, regardless of what happened last night. I am your prisoner, and nothing more, forced to suffer your attentions. Mark that, Norman.”
    “I prefer to mark actions, not words.”
    His smugness was more than she could bear. “Then you should have marked all of my actions! I was not as willing as you wanted, Norman.”
    He looked at her.
    In case he failed to understand, she smiled. “You won only one battle last night. One that I consider much less significant than the battle over my identity. Indeed, I do believe I won the war.”
    The blood rushed to Stephen’s face. Above him on the dais, apparently only pretending not to hear them, Geoffrey choked.
    Mary trembled. But she could not stop now. Victory was so sweet. “Never,” she flung. “Never will you get the answers you seek—not from my lips.”
    A very long moment passed while Stephen struggled for self-control, his jaw tense, his fists clenched, his face dark. Mary refused to cringe, although her heart pounded with real fear. Any other man would have long since beat her for her daring and her insolence. She regretted her brave words.
    “Demoiselle,” Geoffrey said, already moving from the dais to stand beside Stephen. Mary saw that he had a tight hold on his brother’s arm. “Desist. My brother does not even beat his dogs, but I fear you push him too far.”
    Before Mary could reply, Stephen barked, “No! Let her speak as she wills.” His smile was ruthless. “How you amaze me, demoiselle. But do not fear. I do not care that I have not mastered your mind, I care only that I have mastered your body. Beating is too good for you. I have far better, and far more entertaining, punishment in mind.”
    Mary blanched.
    “Mademoiselle?” he challenged.
    For an instant she was frozen. She was remembering what it was like when he mastered her body, and she could imagine the exquisite torture he would inflict. Suddenly robbed of air, she was unable to summon up a reply.
    “What do you hide?” Stephen demanded.
    Mary said nothing. She was still consumed by his words.
    But Stephen had regained complete control. He looked at his brother. “Wipe that smirk from your face, Geoff. This lady has refused to reveal her identity, choosing instead to give me her maidenhead. Undoubtedly some border lord is about to seek vengeance. I have other duties to attend to, as you know.”
    Geoffrey was startled. “You are not thoughtless. You are not rash.”
    Stephen did not respond to him. Abruptly he held out his hand to Mary. “A truce, mademoiselle. I declare a truce.”
    His tone was firm with authority. Worse was his gaze, which had become soft and seductive, perhaps with memory. Although he was unsmiling, he was undeniably attractive, much more so than either one of his brothers. Mary stared at his hand. It flitted through her mind that she could accept his