Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce Page B

truth—that she was Malcolm’s daughter—he would not have taken her to his bed. Mary was certain of that. She reminded herself that her loss of virtue was insignificant, that she had consciously chosen to martyr herself instead of revealing herself.
    But what, she wondered with despair, awaited her now? When he tired of her and freed her, then what? It had been somehow easy to think of returning home to Doug before last night. How could she ever face Doug again? What if the Norman used her so mercilessly that he got her with child? Mary froze with the thought.
    She was diverted from her brooding. A light rapping upon the door reminded Mary that he said he would send her break-fast. She bid the serving maid to enter, and was surprised when his little sister, Isobel, skipped into the chamber as well.
    They had met yesterday. In her distress, Mary had barely paid attention to the child, answering her inquisitive questions automatically. Now, when the maid left, she found herself alone with the girl. For the first time she really looked at her. She was a beautiful child, one who promised to become a stunning woman.
    “Do you mind my company?” Isobel asked with a pretty smile.
    In truth, pleasant companionship would be refreshing. Mary sank into a chair, aware for the first time that day that she was exhausted and overwhelmed from all that had passed, not to mention a sleepless night. She was tired of thinking. “I do not mind. I could use some company.” In fact, she could use a friend. “Would you like to break the fast with me?” A hopeful note had crept into her tone.
    Smiling, Isobel came closer, shaking her head negatively. “I have eaten.” She inspected Mary openly. “But I will gladly keep you company.”
    Mary smiled.
    “You are very beautiful, my lady.”
    Mary took a bite of oven-warm bread. “Not half as much as you,” she said earnestly.
    Isobel tossed her head, looking pleased. “They say I am a great beauty. Do you think it’s true?”
    Mary’s eyes widened. “Real beauty comes from within,” she heard herself say, quoting her mother exactly. Then she grinned. “But you are indeed a great beauty. However, my mother has always said that vanity is a sin.”
    “Who is your mother? Is she very pious?”
    Mary started. Isobel gazed right into her eyes, unblinking. Mary wondered if she could possibly be trying to discover her identity, or if she was just succumbing to her natural curiosity. “How old are you, Isobel?”
    “Not much younger than you, I daresay,” Isobel said quickly. “I am ten.”
    Mary knew Isobel did not mean to insult her, but her size, which always made people assume her to be younger than her age, had always dismayed her. “I am
almost
seventeen. Far older than you.”
    “Old enough to be wed.”
    “I am a maid.” Mary thought about her captor for the first time since Isobel had entered her chamber.
    “You are so small, not much bigger than me, that from a distance, one would think you a child.”
    “And you are very tall for such a young girl.”
    “Undoubtedly my husband will be much shorter than I.” Isobel laughed at the idea. “But I do not care what he looks like, as long as he is powerful and strong.”
    Mary stared at Isobel as her earlier statement sank in, her heart jumping.
She and Isobel resembled each other.
    “Stephen is powerful and strong,” Isobel said rather coyly.
    Mary did not respond. She did not even hear Isobel. Her mind whirled. It was true. She and Isobel had similar appearances. Not only were they about the same height and size, they were both fair and long-haired. Mary thought that, in shadow and from a distance, a man would not be able to tell the two of them apart, not if Mary bound her small breasts and wore Isobel’s clothes.
    “Lady—is something wrong?”
    Mary was quivering with excitement and fear. She gazed blankly at Isobel. “I beg your pardon?”
It was her duty to escape.
    Isobel repeated the question, but Mary did not