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  “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 f
or 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.”