The moment she arrived in the hall she saw that Stephen was relaxed and in good humor; upon seeing her, he sent her a very warm look. Mary blushed, and a quick glance around told her that the men-at-arms below the dais regarded them with knowing gazes and tolerant amusement. Mary imagined that they understood exactly why the lady had been late to dinner, for Stephen's replete and satiated air could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was. Mary hoped her own appearance was more circumspect.

But if it was not, if the glowing love she was feeling from the top of her head to the tip of her toes showed, she did not care. She would no longer dwell on her morose thoughts, on Malcolm and his demands. There was no point. She had made her decision, and the right one it was, too. And then, as she came to take her seat beside Stephen, had she needed any further proof, it was there before her on the table.

A single crimson rose in full bloom.

Mary paused, stunned. Dazed, she looked at Stephen, who smiled at her lazily. There was a promise in his eyes that was far more than sexual. "How did you find this?" She whispered the first words to pop into her head.

" Tis a strange phenomenon, is it not? A rose in winter. Tis for you, madame, a gift from me."

Mary felt like crying. She took her seat, but did not touch the rose. He had clipped the stem short, and it resembled the rose upon his shield exactly, right down to the thick, spikelike thorns.

"Actually, my mother grows roses, and I can only guess that last week's warm weather fooled the plants into an early showing."

Mary did not want to cry foolishly. What did this mean? She faced Stephen, seized with determination. She would decipher precisely what he meant by this profoundly romantic gesture, a gesture she would have never dreamed of being possible from him. "Stephen, you have cut the stem. This rose—it looks exactly like the one upon your arms."

His smile was pleased. "I am in agreement, madame. I had hoped you would notice."

"What does it mean? Your coat of arms."

He leaned towards her, his gaze stroking her face. His tone was intense. "The sinister black field which all else rests upon is power, Mary, and a warning to all those who might war with us."

Mary shivered.

"The white field above 'tis for purity, the gold for nobility."

"And—the rose?"

"The red rose signifies passion, madame. I am surprised you should ask."

Mary blushed. Her heart beat wildly. Power, purity, nobility—passion.

"The de Warennes are known for their power, their honor, their nobility, and their extreme passion for all causes dear to them," Stephen said in a strained, low tone. His gaze held hers.

Mary was mesmerized. She knew she did not mistake what he said—or why he had given her the rose. He was giving her himself. "Stephen… thank you."

Stephen stared. Mary could not look away for a long moment, his gaze was so intense. Then she reached for the rose. Quickly he reached out to restrain her. "But you must have a care," he murmured, "that you do not harm yourself on the thorns."