Until You

Chapter 3

Logan Hepburn came to court on the last day of the old year. He should have arrived a day earlier, he told his cousin, the Earl of Bothwell, but the weather had slowed him down. “I’ve come to wed with my lass,” he said with a grin.

Patrick Hepburn’s look was disturbed. “Why have you set your heart on this English girl, Logan? Are there not plenty of fine Scots lasses for you to choose from, cousin? This woman is not for you.”

Logan’s blue eyes were at once curious and wary. “You have seen her?” he said.

“Aye, and I will agree that she is fair and charming, Logan, but she is not for you, I fear,” the Earl of Bothwell said quietly.

Logan shifted his large frame in the too-small chair in which he was seated. “And why is Rosamund Bolton not the lass for me, cousin?” His tone was decidedly dangerous.

Patrick Hepburn sighed. He was annoyed by the position in which he found himself and troubled by his cousin’s insistence that he marry this Englishwoman. “Did you ever consider, Logan, that Rosamund Bolton might not want to marry you or any other man right now?” he asked the younger man.

“But I love her!” the laird of Claven’s Carn replied.

“It isn’t enough to just love a woman, Logan,” his cousin began.

“What has happened?” Logan demanded.

There was no help for it, the earl decided. Candor was the best route to take in this matter. “The lady has taken a lover, cousin. He is the Earl of Glenkirk, and their passion for each other is both public and palpable. You cannot possibly wed her now.”

“I will kill this Earl of Glenkirk!” Logan shouted, jumping from his chair. “I warned Rosamund that I should destroy any man who tried to take her from me! Where is she? Where is he?”

“Sit down, Logan,” his cousin ordered in a hard voice. “The Earl of Glenkirk is a cherished friend of the king’s. He is a widower with a grown son and grandchildren. He has not been to court in almost two decades, but the king invited him to Stirling this Christmas, and he actually came. He and Rosamund Bolton took one look at each other, and while I do not pretend to understand it, they were lovers that same night, I am told. They have contracted that rarest of conditions: love. You can do nothing about it, Logan. Their hearts are engaged, and that is an end to it.”

“She knew I wanted her for my wife,” the laird said, and he slumped again in the chair by the fire in his cousin’s apartments. Why did Rosamund not understand?

“Did she say she would wed you, Logan? Was there an agreement legal and binding between you?” the earl probed. “If there was, you are at least entitled to damages for her betrayal.”

“I told her I would come on St. Stephen’s Day to marry her,” he answered.

“And what did she reply?” the earl asked quietly.

Logan’s blue eyes grew thoughtful with his memories of that day. He and his clansmen had helped Rosamund entrap the thieves who had been pilfering her sheep. He had told her that while he was named for his mother’s family, Logan, his Christian name was Stephen, after the saint, and so he would come to wed her on St. Stephen’s Day, 26 December. She had sat there on her horse, and her amber eyes had looked directly at him when she said, “I will not marry you.” But she hadn’t meant it! She couldn’t have meant it. She was just being coquettish as all women were apt to be in situations like that.

“What did she reply?” his cousin repeated.

“She said no,” Logan told him. “But she was surely being coy.”

“Obviously she was not,” the earl told him tartly. “I have seen her since she arrived here at Stirling, Logan. She does not strike me as a woman who dissembles or who blows this way and that. And her passion for Patrick Leslie is startlingly pure, as is his for her. When you see them together you will understand.”

“You say he is an older man?” the laird asked his cousin.

“Aye,” the earl answered.

“Two of her husbands were older than she. While the second of them got children on her, they were but lasses. Is it possible, cousin, that she fears to wed with a young and vigorous man? Is that why she appears to fancy this graybeard lover?”

Patrick Hepburn laughed aloud. “Put such notions from you, Logan,” he advised. “While the Earl of Glenkirk has seen a half century, he cannot be considered a graybeard. He is handsome and vigorous. Indeed, he seems to be in his prime, and his devotion to Rosamund Bolton cannot be questioned. I would swear there was sorcery involved if I believed in such things, which I don’t.”

“I will not give her up!” the laird of Claven’s Carn said desperately. “I love her!”

“You have no choice, Logan! You have no other choice!” the Earl of Bothwell shouted angrily. “Now, your brothers have been importuning me for months to find you a wife. I have put them off, respecting your pursuit of this Englishwoman. I can no longer, as head of this clan branch, ignore my duty to Claven’s Carn. I will find you a suitable wife, Logan. And you will wed with her and get heirs on her for the sake of your family. Put Rosamund Bolton from your mind.”

“It is not my mind in which she has entrenched herself, Patrick. It is my heart,” the laird said sadly. “My brothers have sons. Let one of them take my place one day as laird. I will wed no one but Rosamund Bolton. Now, where is she?”

“I cannot permit you to instigate difficulty over this woman,” the Earl of Bothwell said. “If I bring her to you and she tells you that she does not wish to wed with you, will you give up this foolishness, Logan?”

“Bring her to me,” he said.

The Earl of Bothwell looked closely at his cousin. “What madness do you plan?”

“Bring her to me,” the laird repeated. “You may remain in the room to assure yourself that I plot no mischief, cousin.”

“Very well,” Patrick Hepburn said. “Tomorrow after the mass. Until then you will remain here in my apartments, Logan. I suspect it is better for us all that way. Will you agree?”

“I am content to stay here, cousin,” came the reply.

The Earl of Bothwell sent a message to the king informing him of his cousin’s arrival at Stirling and one to Rosamund informing her of the same thing and asking that she attend him in his apartments on the morrow after the morning mass. A page returned from the king acknowledging his missive and also saying that the lady of Friarsgate would come to speak with the earl, but as she was to accompany the queen riding, she would come before the main meal of the day.

“Tell the lady of Friarsgate that the time is suitable,” the earl told the page.

“Yes, my lord,” the child answered, then hurried off.

“The queen rides in her condition?” the laird asked.

“Her ladies ride. She travels in a padded cart,” the earl replied.

The following day Rosamund came to the Earl of Bothwell’s apartments. She was accompanied by her cousin Lord Cambridge. Patrick Hepburn felt a moment of sorrow for his young cousin, for the wench was exceedingly lovely. She wore a dark green velvet gown trimmed in rich brown beaver, the bodice embroidered with gold threads. Her little cap, which was set back on her head, allowed a glimpse of her rich auburn hair. The earl smiled to himself, for the woman had the lush sleek look of someone who was well loved. Aye, Logan had lost a prize, but lost her he had.

“You wished to see me, my lord Bothwell,” Rosamund said.

“ ’Tis my cousin Logan Hepburn who wishes to see you, madame,” he replied.

Rosamund paled slightly, but then she responded, “He is here?”

“He awaits you in the room beyond,” the earl said, pointing to a door.

“He knows, of course, for you will have told him,” she said quietly.

Bothwell nodded silently.

“And he is angry.” It was a statement.

“Did you expect he would be otherwise, madame?”

“I never agreed to wed him, my lord. I would have you know that, for I am not a woman to give her word and then take it back. My cousin will attest to my honesty.”

“She told him nay, though why I cannot fathom,” Tom said. “The lad is quite bonny as you Scots are wont to say. And he seems to have a passion for her.”

The earl could not refrain from the small smile that touched his lips. “We Hepburns do not take lightly to refusal, be it the surrender of a castle or the surrender of a lady’s heart, my lord. I am but the intermediary in this matter. The lady of Friarsgate and my cousin Logan must settle this themselves. Will you take a dram of whiskey with me while we wait for your relation and mine to resolve the difficulty between them?”

“I will,” Tom replied. He patted his cousin upon her shoulder. “Run along now, dear girl, and conclude this unpleasant business so both you and the laird can get on with your lives.” He gave her an encouraging nod.

Rosamund sighed. “Why could he not have just accepted my refusal?” she grumbled. She looked to the earl. “Have you settled on a wife for him? His brothers will want him to marry with all possible haste, my lord, and he should.”

“I have a prospect or two, madame, but he is stubborn. You will have to work hard to convince him that you will not marry him.”

“Then I shall, my lord, for God help me, I am so in love with Glenkirk I can barely stand to be away from him, even to keep the queen company,” Rosamund said.

The Earl of Bothwell nodded. “Go then, madame, and try to instill some sense of that truth into my cousin.”

Rosamund moved past Patrick Hepburn and opened the door to which she had been directed, stepping through into a small paneled room beyond and drawing the portal closed behind her. “Good morning, Logan,” she said softly. “Did you not believe me when I said I should not wed you?”

“Nay, I did not!” he said belligerently. “What is the matter with you, lass? I am a man of property, and I have offered you the honorable estate of marriage and my good name. You would bear my bairns and mother the next laird of Claven’s Carn, Rosamund. I should never take Friarsgate from you, if that is your fear. Philippa is its heiress. I have already told you that.” His wonderful blue eyes scanned her face for some sign of hope.

Rosamund sighed deeply. “You do not understand, Logan, and I wonder if you ever will,” she told him. He was a handsome man, but he was not complex in character.

“Understand what?” he demanded of her. “What is there to understand?”

“Me,” she replied. “You do not understand me, Logan, or how I feel, widowed for the third time in twenty-two years. I do not want another husband! At least not now. And if one day I again decide that I do want to marry, I will do the choosing! My uncle Henry shall not decide for me. Margaret Tudor shall not decide for me. No one shall decide for me but me! I have always done my duty. Done what was expected that the lady of Friarsgate do. Now I would do what I want to do.”

“And playing the whore to some ancient Highlander is your choice? If that is so, Rosamund, I question your judgment,” Logan said scathingly.

“Patrick Leslie has seen a half century, it is true,” she replied quietly, “but he is not old in any way. But most important to me, Logan Hepburn, is the fact that he loves me. Not once have you said you really loved me. You have told me the story of seeing me in Drumfie as a child and wanting me for a wife because I was such a pretty lass. You say you would give me your name and the honorable position of wife. You say you want me to bear your bairns. But not once have you said that you really loved me. You lust after me, I know. Well, Patrick does love me, and I him. Our eyes met that first time, and it was like being struck by lightning. We both knew in that instant, and neither of us has looked back since.”

“Of course I really love you, you daft woman!” Logan shouted. “Did you not know it?”

“How could I know? You did naught but babble about bairns,” she answered him.

“And you could not divine it, Rosamund?” he demanded of her. “There was more between us than just neighborly camaraderie.”

“There was nothing between us,” she said firmly. “How could there be? I do not really know you, Logan Hepburn. And what I do know I am not certain I even like. You are bold, my lord, and arrogant! You insinuated yourself into my wedding day with Owein Meredith. And then, when I was widowed of that good man, you informed me that I would wed with you, and bear your bairns. You do not ask, sir. You inform me of your wishes. Well, I will not have it! I am a free woman of property, and I have wed thrice to please others. Now I will please myself and Patrick Leslie. No others! Find yourself a wife, Logan! There must be one woman in Scotland who would please you besides me. It is your duty as lord of Claven’s Carn to sire an heir and the next generation to follow you and your brothers. You are a good man, and you deserve a woman who will love you. I love Patrick Leslie.”

“So you seek to be a countess?” he snarled cruelly.

“I do not seek marriage with the Earl of Glenkirk, Logan. He is no more capable of deserting Glenkirk than I am of deserting Friarsgate. But so you understand, he would have me if I would have him. But I will not. What I will have is my small bit of happiness before I must return to my duty as the lady of Friarsgate. I have found that happiness with the Earl of Glenkirk. Your duty as the lord of Claven’s Carn is to marry. I have heirs. I have done what I should. You have not.”

“My brothers have legitimate bairns,” Logan said stubbornly.

“But you are the direct line of descent at Claven’s Carn,” she reasoned with him. “It is your sons who should inherit. Do not be so damned difficult, Logan. You are behaving like a child who is hungry and given a bowl of porridge but wants meat instead. Eat your porridge, Logan. Eat it, and be happy.”

“I cannot be happy without you,” he insisted.

“Then you shall never be happy,” she told him. “Besides, it is not up to me to make you happy. Each of us must seek and find our own happiness. I have found mine. Go and find yours, Logan Hepburn. Now I shall bid you farewell.” She turned to leave.

“He cannot love you as I would,” Logan said bitterly.

Rosamund turned back, and her face was lit by a happiness he could not even conceive. “You have no idea how he loves me, but it pleaseth me right well,” she said.

“One day you shall have the good fortune to make the comparison, Rosamund, and then I shall be interested to hear what you say,” he told her.

She swallowed back the sharp retort that came to her lips and laughed instead. “Will you always be so overly proud, Logan?” she wondered aloud.

“A young man loves a woman differently than an old man. Your husband was old and your lover is old. I think you may fear a young man,” he said softly.

“I fear no man, Logan Hepburn, especially you,” she replied. Then she swept him a deep curtsy and left the room.

“Did you slay him, cousin?” Tom asked her humorously as she came forth into the Earl of Bothwell’s dayroom again. He was warm with the earl’s good whiskey.

“He is quite unharmed but for his pride,” Rosamund replied with a smile.

“And is he convinced you will not marry him?” Bothwell queried her.

“He is an enigma to me, my lord. I can make myself no plainer than I did, yet I think he still harbors the hope I will wed with him. My advice to you is to find him a very pretty and complaisant lass and marry him to her as quickly as you can. If he is allowed to persist in this futile pursuit of me, his brothers’ sons will inherit Claven’s Carn one day. But that is a matter for the Hepburns to decide. I thank you, my lord, for intervening in this concern between your cousin and me.” She curtsied to him. “I bid you good day. Coming, Tom?” She departed Bothwell’s apartments.

Lord Cambridge scrambled to his feet. “My thanks for the whiskey, my lord,” he said, and he followed after Rosamund.

When they had gone, Logan came forth from the little privy chamber where he and Rosamund had been speaking. He took the chair lately vacated by Thomas Bolton.

“Well,” the Earl of Bothwell said, “are you now satisfied that the lady of Friarsgate is a lost cause?”

“She says they will not marry,” Logan told his cousin. “There is yet hope for me when she has tired of this love affair and he goes back to his Highlands.”

“Have you no pride, cousin?” the earl said.

“I love her, but the fault here is mine, Patrick. I never convinced her of it. I assumed that she must know my devotion all these years bespoke my love for her, but I never convinced her of it, and women, it seems, must hear those words convincingly to believe them. How could I have been such a fool?”

“Did she say she loved you, Logan?” his cousin queried pointedly.

“Nay, but when she is quit of this passion she has for the Earl of Glenkirk she will return to Friarsgate. I will court her properly this time, Patrick, and she will love me. I know it!”

“There is no time, cousin,” the earl said. “You are past thirty now, and you must sire a legitimate heir. I have found a bride for you, and you will marry her before you leave Stirling. She is a distant cousin on your mother’s side. Her name is Jean Logan. She’s just sixteen. She is an only daughter, and her mother has birthed her father five sons, as well. It’s a good match for you. The lass has a generous gold dowry and a respectable trunkful of linens, silver, and other bridal gewgaws. The king has given his approval.”

“You went to the king without my permission?” Logan was outraged. “You had no right, Patrick! I’ll not have this lass! Nay! A thousand times nay!”

“I have every right, cousin, as clan chief, and as such I will sign the betrothal papers today. You have no excuses not to marry. Rosamund Bolton will not have you, and there is no other engaging your heart, Logan. You must marry for the sake of Claven’s Carn. Jeannie Logan is a good lass. Pretty, too. She will make you an admirable wife. She will make a good mother for your sons.”

Logan slumped forward, his head in his hands. “I will not lose her,” he said brokenly.

“You have already lost her to Glenkirk, cousin. Wed with little Jeannie Logan, and take your bride home. By this time next year you should have a son if you do your duty by your wife, and you will, I know,” the Earl of Bothwell told the younger man.

“But I cannot love this girl,” Logan protested.

“You will learn to love her, and if you don’t, you will not be so different from most men. We wed to sire bairns. Try to get along with the lass, treat her kindly, and all will be well,” the Earl of Bothwell advised the laird of Claven’s Carn.

“Let me see Rosamund with Glenkirk first. I must be certain before I marry another, Patrick.”

“Tonight, then. The king and queen are giving a masque, and the court is invited. You will see what we have all seen. The passion between Rosamund Bolton and Patrick Leslie is unique and unusual. I have never seen its like; nor has anyone else.”

“I will see for myself,” Logan said.

His cousin nodded in agreement. “And when you have seen it, you will allow me to set the date for your marriage?”

The laird of Claven’s Carn was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed and said, “Aye, I will, Patrick.”

“Good, good,” the earl murmured, pleased. “Your family will be content now and will cease importuning me over this matter. You will not be unhappy with my choice, Logan. The girl is gentle of spirit, and a virgin. Her father was planning to put her with the church when I asked him for the lass for you. She is convent bred, well mannered, and knows everything she should about housewifery. She will be an obedient wife, and because she is devout to the Holy Mother Church, she will bring order into your family and will raise your bairns to be equally pious. You are fortunate in this lass.”

Logan looked glum. A pious virgin. What more could a man ask for in a wife? he thought. He sighed again. “Is she at least pretty, Patrick?” he asked.

The earl chuckled, considering his cousin’s question a good sign. “Aye, she is quite pretty,” he repeated for the third time. “Her eyes are as bonnie a blue as are yours. Her hair is the color of wildflower honey. Not light, but not dark either. Her skin is unblemished, and she has all of her teeth. Her form is nicely rounded where it ought although her bubbies are small. Still, she is young, and with regular caressing she will fill out nicely. Your sons will nurse comfortably from her teats.”

“And when do you propose I meet this pious virgin with the small bosom, cousin?” Logan asked the earl.

“I will point her out to you tonight. She is among the queen’s ladies for her own safety, Logan, although how safe she is there I cannot guarantee. Let us set the wedding for Twelfth Night. After I am certain you have breached her, you may take her home.”

“You do not trust me, then,” the laird said with a sarcastic smile.

“It is a requirement of her father’s that the marriage be consummated immediately,” Bothwell soothed the laird. “Robert Logan is an old-fashioned man, cousin. He would see the bloodied sheet made public the morning after the marriage is celebrated. It is his right, and it gives Jeannie the protection she deserves. Surely you cannot object, for your motives are honest, laddie.”

“If I agree to the match, aye, my motives will be honorable,” Logan said.

“Then, in a few hours you will see Rosamund Bolton and Patrick Leslie together. Afterwards you will see wee Jeannie Logan, and the die will be cast. You will not regret wedding this lass. ’Tis a good decision you have made.”

“You and my family have forced me to it, Patrick. I do not do this thing willingly,” the laird said quietly.

“You cannot wait forever for the lovely lady of Friarsgate to decide she wants to be your wife, Logan. She has made it plain to you that she does not,” Bothwell said.

“Nay, what she has made plain is that I was an arrogant fool, and I will now pay for it,” came the distraught reply.

“Accept what fate has handed you, Logan,” the earl advised, “and make the best of it. You will be unhappy otherwise.”

Logan laughed bitterly. “Rosamund advised me in similar terms to do the same thing just a little while back,” he said.

“I begin to admire this lady myself, cousin,” Bothwell said. “She is wise beyond her years. If you will not heed me, then heed her.”

“I have no other choice,” Logan said. “Fear not, Patrick. I will not make this little lass unhappy. If I take her for my wife I will treat her with kindness and respect. It is not her fault that I am a fool and the lady of Friarsgate does not love me.”

“Good, good,” the earl said, relieved. He had painted Robert Logan a rosy picture of his only daughter’s life as mistress of Claven’s Carn. He didn’t want it any other way. The lass was a perfect choice for his cousin.

When evening came, the Earl of Bothwell, his cousin in his company, went to the Great Hall to join the rest of the court. The minstrel’s gallery was full, and music wafted throughout the chamber, which overflowed with revelers. Servingmen and wenches dashed back and forth with trays, bowls of food, and pitchers of wine and ale. The hall was decorated with holly and pine. Beeswax candles and tapers burned everywhere. The fireplaces, full with huge logs, burned bright. They found their way to a table and sat down, and the earl was greeted by many, and introduced his companion. Goblets of wine were set down before them. There were silver plates quickly filled with food and bread.

“There, at the table next to us,” the earl said softly to Logan.

The laird turned, and he felt his breath catch in his throat as he beheld Rosamund Bolton and her lover. They were totally absorbed in each other, and he had never seen her so beautiful as she was at that moment. Her face glowed with the open love she had for the man by her side. His expression as he gazed back at her was utterly adoring. “God’s blood!” Logan said under his breath. Then he turned back to his cousin. “Set the match with Jean Logan,” he said.

The Earl of Bothwell nodded quietly. “Now, laddie, look to the end of this table. Do you see the lass in the blue gown? That is Jean Logan. What do you think?”

Logan turned and looked quickly, for he did not wish to appear as if he were staring. The lassie had a sweet face and a quick smile when the young man by her side spoke to her. “She has an admirer,” he noted, “but, then, she is fair. She would. Tell me, Patrick, that her young heart is not involved with another. I would not take her away from someone who loved her.”

“She has been schooled for the convent since age eight. She is newly come to court under the queen’s protection. There is no one that I know of, cousin,” the earl said.

“Do you know her, Patrick?”

“I do. Her father and I are friends of long standing,” came the answer.

“Does the lass know of your plans, cousin?” the laird asked the earl.

“She has an inkling,” Bothwell responded. “She was told there was a possible match for her, and she was to come to court to meet the gentleman.”

“What if Rosamund Bolton had not fallen in love with another and had agreed to be my wife?” Logan queried.

“Then I should have found bonnie Jean another suitable husband,” the earl replied. “But I do not have to, do I, Logan?”

“Nay, you do not. She is pretty, she is young, and being convent bred undoubtedly amenable. If I cannot have Rosamund, this lass will do as well as any,” Logan said, resigned.

“ ’Tis not such a bad fate, cousin,” the earl noted.

“Come then, and introduce us, my lord,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said. “The sooner, the better, if you want me wedded and bedded on Twelfth Night. We should give the lass a little time to know the man she is to be shackled to for the rest of her life.” He arose from the table, the earl with him.

Together the two men walked to the end of the long board, and Patrick Hepburn stopped within the young girl’s gaze. She looked up, stood quickly, and curtsied to him.

“My lord Bothwell,” she said breathlessly, her curious gaze going to the earl’s companion. Her cheeks were pink, and her heart was beating rapidly.

“What, my bonnie Jean, it was Uncle Patrick the last time we met,” Bothwell said jovially. He tipped her small face up and gave her a quick kiss upon her lips. “You are being treated well in the queen’s household?”

“Oh, yes, Uncle Patrick!” she replied.

“Well, lassie, you’ll not be there much longer, for you are to be married. But, then, your father told you it might be so, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” came the soft answer. Her blush deepened.

“Then, allow me to present my cousin, whose mother, God assoil her good soul, was a member of your own clan. This is Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn, Jean. You will be married to him on Twelfth Night here at Stirling.”

“Mistress Jean,” Logan said, bowing over the girl’s little hand as he took it up and kissed it. The small hand trembled in his, and he immediately felt protective of her.

She blushed again, but she looked directly at him. “My lord.”

He smiled at her, thinking the blush charming. Poor little lass, she had no choice in the matter and knew not what she was getting into at all. And then in a flash he understood what Rosamund had been forced to endure. “We have little time in which to get to know each other, Mistress Jean,” he said to her.

“We will have a lifetime together, my lord,” she answered, surprising him. “Besides, many girls never meet their bridegrooms until they are standing at the altar.”

“Which,” he remarked, “can often be a shock.”

She giggled. “On both sides, my lord,” she replied quickly.

In that moment he decided he was going to like her. He could only hope that she would like him.

“I shall leave you two to become acquainted,” the Earl of Bothwell said to the pair, and he moved quickly off.

There was a long, awkward silence, and then the laird of Claven’s Carn took Jeannie’s hand and said, “Let us stroll away from the revelers and talk, mistress.”

“I should like that,” Jean Logan responded, moving by his side. She was very petite, and he towered over her.

“I would tell you, Mistress Jean, that I require honesty above all things, and so I must ask you if you are content to make this marriage with me.”

“I am, my lord,” she said. Her voice was soft, but it did not quiver.

“And your heart is not engaged by any other?” he asked her. “For if it is, I would not force you into a match.”

“My heart will be yours, my lord, and no other’s,” Jean Logan said honestly.

He nodded. “I have two brothers,” he began. “Claven’s Carn is in the borders. We are not rich, but we are comfortable. The house is snug, and it will be yours to rule.”

“Have you ever been wed before, my lord?” she asked.

“Never, Mistress Jean,” he answered her.

“Why not?” she wondered.

“It is a long story,” he said.

“I like stories,” she responded quietly.

He laughed. “I see that I shall be unable to hide anything from you, Mistress Jean. Very well. I have for many years sought the hand of an English neighbor. Her guardian would not consider a match, and after he had seen her wed to two husbands-for she was a child when those marriages were celebrated-I thought to have my chance with her. But the English king matched her with one of his own knights. It was a good marriage. There were children, and then her husband was killed in an accident. I sought her hand, but she would not have me. Since I am past thirty, my family appealed to Lord Bothwell to make a match for me, as we are kin. And so he has.”

“I think her a foolish lady, my lord,” Jeannie said softly, having stopped so she might look up at him when she said it. “I shall not be unhappy to be your wife at all.”

He smiled down at the young girl. It might have been far worse, he thought, and while he would always regret Rosamund, he was going to be a good husband to this sweet lassie. “Then I will certainly be content as well, Mistress Jean, and I think myself fortunate in having found you.” He bent down and kissed her lips softly. “To seal our bargain, lassie,” he told her.

She blushed again. “I have never been kissed before by a lover,” she told him naively.

“And now mine are the only lips your sweet ones shall know, Jean Logan,” he said to her. “I shall take you back now, and we will tell Lord Bothwell that we are content with this bargain.” He took her hand again, and they reentered the crush of guests in the hall. He sought out Bothwell telling him, “We are agreed, Mistress Jean and I, cousin. You may affix Twelfth Night as our wedding day.”

“Excellent!” the Earl of Bothwell declared. “Let us go and speak with the king now.” And he led them to where James Stewart sat observing his court.

“Well, my lord, and what have you come to say, for you are looking most arch this night?” the king remarked.

“I do not believe, highness, that you have met my cousin, Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn,” the earl began, “and this is his betrothed wife, Mistress Jean Logan, who is a relation on his mother’s side. They seek your highness’ permission to be wed here at Stirling on Twelfth Night Day.”

James Stewart’s dark eyebrows quirked. Was this not the man who desired the lovely lady of Friarsgate for a wife? He considered asking, but realized that if this was the man of whom he had heard, the sweet-faced lass by his side might not have known of her future husband’s lust for Rosamund Bolton. It mattered not. The Englishwoman was enamored of the Earl of Glenkirk, and this border lord was to wed another. “They have our permission,” the king said, “and the marriage may be celebrated in my chapel. The queen and I will serve as witness to this union.” Then he smiled at them, delighting in Jean Logan’s blue eyes, which grew round with her excitement. “Come here, lassie,” he said, “and give your king a kiss, now.” He held out his hand to her.

“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, rosy with her blushes. “Oh, sir!” And catching up the outstretched hand, she kissed it fervently. Then, releasing the hand, she curtsied deeply. “Thank you, my lord, for this great honor.”

“And you, Logan Hepburn? Are you satisfied with this matter?” the king probed. His look was sharp and very direct.

“I am advised by my cousin, the earl, and the rest of my small clan branch that it is past time for me to wed, my lord. Mistress Jean should make me a fine wife,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said politically.

The king smiled cynically. “May God and his Holy Mother bless you both, then, and give you many bairns,” he said. The impulsive laird had obviously seen the truth of Rosamund’s infatuation with Lord Leslie and given in to his family’s pleas. Well, the little lass was pretty and obviously well bred. She would probably suit Logan Hepburn far better than the lovely Englishwoman, although right now he undoubtedly did not realize it.

They were dismissed, and the trio made a final obeisance to the king and moved back into the crowd of courtiers.

James Stewart leaned over and murmured to his queen, “The laird of Claven’s Carn will be wed in our chapel Twelfth Night Day to a young cousin.”

“Who?” Margaret Tudor asked her husband.

“A little lass called Jean Logan,” the king replied quietly.

“I know her,” the queen said. “She has been among the women in my household for a fortnight. Bothwell brought her to me. A sweet child.”

“You will want your fair English friend to know,” the king advised softly.

“Aye, I will tell her. I wonder if she will care. She is so wrapped up in her passion for Lord Leslie that I doubt it,” Margaret Tudor said. “How she has changed from our days at my father’s court. She was so young and ingenuous then. Now she is proud and fierce in her determination to have her own way.”

“I imagine that you are not the girl you once were either, my queen,” the king said, amused by his wife’s astute observation of her old friend. “Many years have passed since you were together, Meg. A great deal has happened in each of your lives since that time.”

The queen nodded. “Aye, she has borne three daughters and lost another husband, while I have lost four bairns. But I will not lose this child, Jamie! I feel different this time! This bairn is strong. It virtually leaps in my womb.” She looked up at him, her pretty face both sure and hopeful.

“Aye,” the king told his wife. “This child will live, Meg. I know it.”

Relief flooded the queen’s face as she understood what he was saying to her. She took his hand up and kissed it ardently. “Thank you, Jamie! Thank you!”

“Now, lass, you will have the whole court saying that the queen is in love with her husband if you go on like that,” he said, gently disengaging himself from her grasp.

“But I do love you!” she protested. “I do, Jamie!”

“I know, Meg,” he replied. “And I love you, too.” He patted her cheek, then turned away to speak with a courtier who had been attempting to catch his royal eye.

The evening was coming to an end. The queen signaled to her little page, and he was immediately at her side. “Find the lady of Friarsgate and tell her that I would speak with her now in my privy chamber.”

“Aye, highness,” the child answered, and he hurried off.

The queen arose, and her ladies were instantly clustered about her. “Nay,” she said to them. “Stay and enjoy yourselves. I will be in my privy chamber and am not yet ready for bed. Remain here.” Then she glided off, moving silently across the chamber and down the corridor to her own apartments. Entering, she told her servingwoman, “The Lady of Friarsgate is coming. Send her to me when she arrives.”

“Aye, highness,” the servant said, curtsying.

Margaret Tudor entered her privy chamber, and after sitting down by the blazing fire in the fireplace, kicked off her shoes, wiggling her toes with pleasure. The door opened, and Rosamund entered. “Fetch us some wine,” the queen said, “and then come sit with me. I have some rather interesting news to impart.”

Rosamund did as she was bid, and then after seating herself opposite her old friend, she, too, kicked off her shoes. “Ahh, that is much better,” she said, and she took a sip of wine.

“Do you have any feelings for Logan Hepburn?” the queen queried her friend.

“Nay. What on earth do you mean, Meg? I still find him as arrogant and as irritating as I ever have. He is here at Stirling, you know. I saw him at Bothwell’s insistence. I told him I would not wed him. That I loved Patrick Leslie.”

“He is to be married Twelfth Night Day!” the queen exclaimed.

“Who is to be married?” Rosamund asked, puzzled.

“Logan Hepburn! He is to marry that sweet little Jean Logan who has been in my household these past few weeks.”

“That quiet little lass with the big blue eyes who hardly says a word?” Rosamund asked. “God’s blood! Bothwell did not wait long to propose that, although I suspect he had it planned all along.”

“Then you do not mind?” Margaret Tudor sounded disappointed.

“Nay, Meg, I do not mind. It is past time Logan Hepburn gave up this childish fantasy about me, and married. He needs an heir, and he has a duty to his family. Nay, I am pleased he has seen reason at long last.”

“You really are in love with Patrick Leslie, then?” the queen asked.

“I really am in love with him,” Rosamund replied.

“I hold myself responsible for what has happened to you,” the queen said. “If I had not invited you to visit me, you should never have met Patrick Leslie. Logan Hepburn might have even forced you to the altar, Rosamund! I have saved you once again, as I saved you from my brother all those years ago!”

Rosamund laughed. “It is true, Meg! Though until now I never thought of it that way. If I had not come to see you at this moment in time, I should not have met Patrick Leslie. But believe me when I tell you, Logan Hepburn would have never forced me to the altar. If I ever marry again, it will be for love alone, and the choice will be mine to make and no one else’s.”

“You remember Grandmother’s advice,” the queen chuckled.

“I do indeed, Meg. The Venerable Margaret was a great woman, and I admired her muchly.”

“I wonder what she would think of us today. I think she would approve of your exchanging Logan Hepburn for the Earl of Glenkirk, no matter he is an old man. She always considered a woman advancing her status in life a good thing. Will you marry Lord Leslie?”

“Nay,” Rosamund said quietly. “And before you ask, Meg, or attempt to interfere, let me explain. Patrick has a duty to Glenkirk. I have a duty to Friarsgate. Neither of us will eschew our duty. We both comprehend that, and we are content. This is the way it must be between us. I know you will not understand, but you must not meddle, Meg. Promise me that you will not involve yourself in this matter.”

The queen sighed. “I just want you to be happy,” she said.

“We are happy,” Rosamund told her.

“But one day you will part from each other,” Meg replied.

“I know,” Rosamund said. “That is what makes whatever time we have together all the sweeter, Meg. No one is ever happy constantly. I should rather have these days with the Earl of Glenkirk than with any other man. I should rather know this perfect happiness for even a short span in my life than to never know it at all. What memories we are making together. What dreams of the past we shall cherish when we are no longer with each other in the years to come.”

“You are far braver than I am, Rosamund, and I should have never thought it of you,” the queen said softly. She sighed. “I need the security of a marriage. I need to know that my husband is there for me even if he does stray now and again. You are really alone, and you are not afraid.”

“I think I have been alone my entire life until now,” Rosamund answered.

“But you wrote that Owein loved you,” the queen protested.

“Oh, he did, Meg, and I was so fortunate to have him as my husband. But Owein was raised to a life of service to his betters. He always stood slightly in awe of me as the lady of Friarsgate. He always deferred to me, bless him. Not once did he ever corrupt my authority. And he loved Friarsgate.”

“Did you love him, too?” the queen wondered. “He seemed like the right match for you back then when we were girls at my father’s court.”

“Aye, I learned to loved him, which is why I know what I have with Patrick Leslie is so much more. My love for the lord of Glenkirk is something that comes only rarely, Meg. That is why I will not let it go until I have to let it go.” She smiled. “What a serious conversation we are having, and all because you wanted to tell me that Logan Hepburn is to be wed in a few days. I wish him good fortune.”

“Wish the bride good fortune,” the queen said, and she chuckled. “She is certain to tell him if you do so, and you will have your own back on him for teasing you the day you wed with Owein. I am certain that he still loves you, Rosamund. This marriage is for his family’s sake.”

“All he could talk about was his need for an heir when he was with me. I felt like a prize mare or heifer. Yet when I spoke with him in Lord Bothwell’s apartments he said I should have understood that he loved me even if he didn’t say so,” Rosamund replied. She shook her head.

“How just like a man!” the queen exclaimed, and she laughed.

“Aye,” Rosamund agreed. “How just like a man.” Then she sipped her wine thoughtfully. “I hope he will be happy, for I am so happy myself I can but wish him the same.”

“You always had a good heart,” the queen said. “I am glad to have you with me again, Rosamund. Do you miss your Friarsgate as much as you ever did?” She smiled.

“Not as I did when I was a young girl,” Rosamund answered the queen. “It is my lasses, Meg, that I miss the most. Kate insisted after Owein’s death that I come to their court, and I could not disobey, but it was hard. Philippa, the eldest, knew that I was gone and missed me the most, though Maybel says she is like me, and is a good child. The two little ones, however, did not understand. I was almost a stranger to them when I returned.”

“And then my invitation came,” Margaret Tudor said.

“I might have refused you, Meg, but we were such good friends I could not. Besides, it is not as long a journey as going down into England,” Rosamund replied with a small smile.

“And my invitation was a convenient excuse to escape the laird of Claven’s Carn,” the queen said, laughing mischievously.

“Aye, it was,” Rosamund agreed, grinning. “The priest at Friarsgate is his kinsman, but he would not have forced the issue if I said nay. Still in all, it would have been difficult. Here at Stirling, Logan is overruled in his intentions by the Earl of Bothwell. I do not think Patrick Hepburn was pleased with the idea his cousin might marry an Englishwoman. When I told him he need not fear I would wed his cousin, I asked if he had a lass for Logan. He told me one or two, the devil, when all along he had the little Mistress Jean in mind.”

“He’s a clever man, this particular Hepburn,” Margaret Tudor noted. “He supported my husband even before the breach with the late king. Jamie never forgets those who are loyal to him. He was simply the Hepburn of Hailes until Jamie created him the first Hepburn Earl of Bothwell. He has risen high in the hierarchy of this kingdom, and he brings his family along with him, as is right and proper. My husband has a good friend in him. If he had asked Jamie for you for Logan Hepburn, Rosamund, you would have been wedded and bedded whether you would or nay.”

“But I am English!” Rosamund cried, shocked.

“That would have made no matter,” the queen told her. “If the Earl of Bothwell had desired it, it would have been so. Had you not fallen so publicly and passionately in love, Rosamund, you would not have escaped Logan Hepburn here at Stirling. Indeed, you would have been shoved directly into his arms.” She laughed softly. “But fate did indeed intervene to save you. I have never particularly believed in fate, but perhaps in light of all that has happened to you, I will now.”

Rosamund had gone pale, but now she laughed weakly. “Mayhap I, too, will believe in fate, as well, from now on, Meg.”

There was a discreet knock upon the door of the queen’s privy chamber.

“Come in,” the queen called, and the door opened to reveal one of the queen’s chamber women. “Yes, Jane, what is it?” Margaret Tudor asked.

“Little Mistress Logan would speak with you, madame. She says she will not take a great deal of your time,” Jane said.

Margaret Tudor’s blue eyes twinkled wickedly as she looked to Rosamund. “Tell Mistress Logan that she may come in, Jane,” she replied.

The chamber woman stepped aside, and Jean Logan entered the room. She curtsied deeply to the queen, but her eyes were surprised to see the queen’s companion.

“Madame, I have come to tell you that the king has given his permission for my marriage to Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn, to be celebrated on Twelfth Night Day. I hope that we may also have your highness’ permission and blessing.” Jeannie Logan stood before Margaret Tudor, her head modestly lowered, her hands folded neatly.

“This is sudden, child, isn’t it?” the queen said. “Tell me how this has all come about so quickly. I hope that you have not been forced to any imprudent decision.”

“Oh, nay, madame! I am more than content to marry the laird. I was to enter the convent, where I had been schooled, but Uncle Patrick… the Earl of Bothwell, madame… was seeking a good wife for his kinsman and asked my father for me. While I venerate our dear Lord and his Blessed Mother, I have no calling to the church. But my dower portion is not large, and none had asked for me. My father thought in that light that perhaps the convent was the place for me. When my father said my dower was slight, Uncle Patrick added a purse to it. At first my father protested, but Uncle Patrick said since I was his god-daughter and he had scarce seen me in the last few years, it seemed only right that he do it. Then he told my father what a fine man his kinsman was and how he had put his family and their welfare ahead of his own needs, but now he was ready to wed. My father could not refuse under such circumstances. Then Uncle Patrick told my father that his kinsman’s mother had been a member of the Clan Logan, but we are not closely related or within the forbidden bonds of consanguinity, and so the church has given us a dispensation to marry.”

“You already have the dispensation, my child?” the queen purred solicitously.

“Oh, yes! Uncle Patrick said his kinsman was eager to wed and so the sooner the better,” Jeannie Logan confided ingenuously.

“How fortunate you are to have your uncle Patrick,” the queen murmured. “The Earl of Bothwell has always been known for his kindness. But, my child, how rude of me. This is my friend, Lady Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate.”

“Oh, I know who she is,” Jeannie said innocently.

“Do you?” Rosamund answered her. “And who am I, Mistress Logan?”

“You are Lord Leslie’s-friend, my lady,” the girl replied.

“I am,” Rosamund admitted.

“And you shall be neighbors,” the queen said wickedly. “Friarsgate is just over the border in England. It is practically a stone’s throw from Claven’s Carn. Do you not know Logan Hepburn, Rosamund?”

“Slightly,” Rosamund responded through gritted teeth. “I believe he and his brothers were guests when my late husband and I were wed.” Had Meg not been a queen, Rosamund thought, she would have smacked her. “But, madame, it is late and in your delicate condition you need your rest.” She arose. “I shall leave you, taking Mistress Logan with me. Do give her your permission and blessing, for that is what she came for-didn’t you, Mistress Logan?”

“Aye, my lady,” Jeannie said.

“You have both, then, my child. My husband and I shall come and bear witness to your vows on Twelfth Night Day. And, Rosamund, you will come, too, with Lord Leslie?” The queen’s eyes were dancing with mischief.

“If you so command, madame,” Rosamund responded. “But your chapel is small, and Mistress Logan will want her family there.”

“Oh, no, my lady. My family is in the north and will not be here. I think it would be lovely to have a neighbor with us on our happy day. Please come!”

“Make your curtsy to the queen, Mistress Logan,” Rosamund said. “I will speak with Lord Leslie.” She practically pushed the girl from the queen’s little privy chamber, murmuring softly to Meg as she did, “I shall repay you in kind for this, you bad creature!”

“God bless you, my child,” the queen called, and grinning from ear to ear she closed the door into her anteroom behind them.