Bertrice Small - Until You

“I will keep your secret, cousin. I will help you create this subterfuge, and then I will return to Friarsgate with your authority to watch over your daughters for you. Edmund guards your lands, and he is an amusing companion, although he will persist in beating me at chess. It is not quite the winter I had envisioned, but you are my beloved Rosamund, and I will do it. When must we leave?”

“Not until after Twelfth Night,” she said.

“And Logan Hepburn? What of him? What am I to say when he comes calling? What if he comes here to court before you escape?”

“I shall cross that bridge if we come to it,” she said. “And if he comes to Friarsgate seeking me, you will tell him I went off with a lover, and ’tis all you know,” Rosamund instructed her cousin. “I will not be bullied by that wild borderer!”

“He’s in love with you, cousin,” her companion said.

“He wants a son of me,” she replied. “I will not be his broodmare, Tom. Let him get his son on another!”

“His family may force him to it now, dear girl. What will happen when you and Lord Leslie part and you decide that you want Logan Hepburn after all?” he asked her candidly.

“Then I shall allow him to become my lover,” she answered pertly. “If he indeed does love me for myself and not my fecundity, he will be content with that, Tom.”

“You have changed, my darling, since Owein’s death,” he told her. “Once you were a sweet innocent, but now you have become a willful wildcat. I love you nonetheless, however, and I do understand.”

“Then you are probably the only one who does, Tom, and I am grateful for it,” she responded softly. “Thank you for being the best friend I have ever had or ever will have!”

He shook his head at her. “Lord Leslie will not hurt you, I know. ’Tis you, I fear, who may hurt yourself. Do not lose your common sense, Rosamund. Enjoy this idyll you are about to embark upon, but keep a clear head, I beg you.”

“I will, dear Tom,” she promised. “I am in love, but I am not a fool. And Patrick, I suspect, will protect me from myself.”

“But who, I wonder,” he said quietly, “will protect Glenkirk?”

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.