Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce

“Greetings, brother,” the handsome man said. But his dark blue gaze was centered wholely on Mary. The slow smile he finally gave her was devastating.
    “Might I assume your presence here is significant?” Stephen asked dryly. His tone changed. “And, Brand, she is mine.”
    Brand finally looked at his brother. He swept a mock bow. “Of course. I defer to the heir. And yes, I am an envoy from His Highness, as you have undoubtedly guessed.”
    Mary stiffened. Protesting Stephen’s casual statement of possession became irrelevant. It flashed through her mind that she was in a position to learn the enemy’s most secretplans, that she could very well be invaluable to her father during her forced stay here—if she became the spy her captor had already accused her of being.
    “All is well, Brand; relax.” Stephen placed his large hand on Mary’s rigid shoulder. “We will speak later. When must you return?”
    “Immediately.” Brand eyed Mary, again smiling, the curl of his lips almost mocking, with little or no trace of humor in his eyes. “What’s this? No introduction? Are you afraid she will prefer me? And do we not have enough maids here to please you, or have you already sampled them all?”
    Stephen ignored the obvious teasing. “Mademoiselle Mairi, this is my bigmouthed little brother, Brand, a captain of the King’s household troops. You may disregard his attempts at humor as they are quite dismal. Besides,
he
is the lover, not I.”
    Mary sincerely doubted Stephen’s last words. Both brothers were undoubtedly unrepentant predators when it came to the fair sex. Their looks were quite different, one so golden, the other so dark, but they were both striking, and no female would be immune to either one of them. Mary did not return Brand’s smile as she regarded him warily.
    Brand’s bold gaze turned questioning, moving from Mary to Stephen.
    “She is my guest,” Stephen said shortly, clearly dismissing any further inquiries.
    “How fortunate you are,” Brand murmured. Giving them both another last look, he walked a short distance away, in order to contemplate the fire.
    “I am
not
your guest,” Mary said angrily, unable to restrain herself and shaking off his hand. “Guests are not mistreated. Guests are free to come and go. Do you not speak the truth even with your brother?”
    The gaze Stephen leveled upon her was cold. “You accuse
me
of mispeaking the truth?”
    Mary flushed hotly, but recklessly refused to back down. “Yes, I do.”
    He raised his hand. Mary did not think he intended to strike her, but nevertheless she flinched. His forefinger slidover the curve of one cheek and lingered by the corner of her mouth. “Come now, demoiselle, ’tis you who plays a masquerade, is it not?”
    “No,” Mary croaked, pulling away, “I have explained my manner of dress. I have explained all. You must release me, at once.”
    “You are appearing desperate, demoiselle. State your true identity now, and
then
we shall discuss your freedom.”
    “After you have raped me!”
    Stephen glowered at her. “As I have previously stated, there will be no rape.”
    Her gaze locked with his. Why was it that she was within a hairsbreadth of believing him? Why was it that she was almost disappointed? Surely her dismay was in response to the sum of her predicament and not his avowal.
    Stephen revealed his teeth in a slow, wintry smile. “When I take you to bed, demoiselle, you will enjoy it.”
    Mary could not move, could not respond.
    “Yesterday you were fortunate. Today … today I grow tired of this game.”
    She found her voice, which was far too husky to please her. “ ’Tis no game.”
    His smile was colder than before, but his eyes were far brighter. “If you wish to spare your maidenhead, you will reveal yourself to me immediately.”
    She gasped.
    “I have never been able to resist wielding the final blow, demoiselle,” he added very softly, “when engaged in battle. The time for surrender