She moved across the hall with Lord Grey and the Earl of Glenkirk following behind her. Reaching the throne where the queen sat, Elsbeth Hume curtsied low and said, “Your majesty, the Earl of Glenkirk would pay his respects to the lady of Friarsgate. May I have your permission to introduce them?”

Margaret Tudor, Queen of Scotland, smiled at Patrick Leslie and Andrew Grey. “You have our permission,” she said, wondering what it was the earl could possibly want. “We have not met, my lord earl. You have not been at court in my time here, have you?”

Patrick bowed with an elegant flourish. He might have been a Highlander, but he remembered his manners. “I have not, your highness,” he replied.

“What has brought you back to the court, then?” she queried.

“His majesty’s personal request, madame, although he has not yet seen fit to share his wishes with me,” the earl said. But whatever it was, Patrick considered, it was important to James Stewart or he would not have sent for the Earl of Glenkirk. The king knew how this earl felt about his court, or any other court for that matter. He did not share these thoughts with the queen, however.

“How intriguing,” the queen said. “I shall have to ask Jamie about this mystery you have provided me with, my lord.” Then she smiled at the earl. “You have our permission to make the acquaintance of our dearest friend, the lady of Friarsgate. Beth, you will make the introductions.” Then the queen turned away, her curiosity satisfied for the moment and her attention engaged elsewhere now.

“Lady Rosamund Bolton, Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, and my friend Lord Andrew Grey,” Elsbeth Hume said, making the introductions.

Rosamund held out her hand to be kissed, and her gaze met those of the two gentlemen. Lord Grey took her hand, saluted it, and murmured, “Lady Bolton.” But when Rosamund’s amber eyes met those of the Earl of Glenkirk, she was overcome with shock. The green eyes locked on to hers, and he was not a stranger! She had known him forever, and yet she had never before this day seen the man. She struggled to maintain control over herself while the most disturbing images bloomed in her head, and when his lips touched the back of her hand Rosamund felt as if she had been scorched by a bolt of lightning.

“Madame,” he said, his big hand yet holding hers. His voice was deep.

“My lord,” she managed to say. She felt as if they were a single entity. Her voice was soft.

It was patently obvious to their two companions that something extraordinary had just happened. And though neither Lord Grey nor Elsbeth Hume understood, they moved away discreetly, leaving Rosamund and the Earl of Glenkirk alone.

Patrick tucked the small hand still in his possession into the crook of his arm, saying as he did so, “Let us stroll, madame, and we will tell each other of ourselves.”

“There is naught to tell,” Rosamund began. She felt better now that they were speaking than she had in the odd silence that had enwrapped them previously.

“You are English,” he said, “but not from the south, for I understand you too well.”

She smiled now. “My home is in Cumbria, my lord.”

“And how did a lass from Cumbria come to be Margaret Tudor’s friend? A good enough friend to be invited to King James’ court?” he asked. He shortened his steps to match hers, for he was very tall, and she, while not as small as the queen, was petite.

“When my second husband died, he put me into the care of King Henry. Not he now upon England’s throne, but his father,” Rosamund explained. “I was just thirteen.”

“At thirteen you had outlived two husbands, madame? Are you so dangerous, then?” he asked, and she heard the humor in his voice.

“I am twenty-two now, my lord, and have buried three husbands,” she teased him.

He laughed aloud. “You have children, then.” It was a statement.

“Three daughters. Philippa, Banon, and Elizabeth,” Rosamund answered. “They were born to me and my third husband, Sir Owein Meredith. I was wed first at the age of three to a cousin who perished when I was five. I was married again at the age of six to Sir Hugh Cabot, an elderly knight chosen by my uncle, who wished to retain control over Friarsgate. Hugh, however, taught me how to be independent and cleverly thwarted my uncle Henry by placing me into the custody of the king when he died. My uncle was furious, for he sought to wed me to his second son, who was but five. It was the king’s mother, the Venerable Margaret, and your queen, Margaret Tudor, who chose my third husband for me. Owein was a good man, and we were content together.”

“How did he die?” the Earl of Glenkirk asked her.

“Owein loved Friarsgate every bit as much as if he had been born and bred there. He had a peculiar habit of climbing to the top of each tree in the orchards come harvest, so that no fruit was wasted. No one else had ever done it. Usually that fruit was left to rot, or to fall and be scavenged by the deer. But he would not have it. He thought it wasteful. He fell from the top of one of those trees and broke his neck. A branch gave way.” She sighed. “I had lost our only son several months before.”

“I lost my wife in childbed, but my son survived,” he told her. “He is now a grown man with a wife of his own.”

“He was your only child?” she asked.

“I had a daughter,” he replied shortly, and his tone indicated he did not at this time choose to discuss it further. They had reached the end of the Great Hall. “Let us go out and view the night sky,” he suggested. “It is very clear, and the stars are always their brightest over Stirling on a winter’s night.”

“We have no capes,” she answered, but she very much wanted to go.

The Earl of Glenkirk snapped his fingers at a passing servant.

The man stopped. “Yes, my lord?”

“Two warm cloaks for the lady and for me,” the earl ordered.

“At once, my lord, if you will wait here,” the servant responded, and he hurried off. They stood silently until he returned a few moments later with the required garments.

The Earl of Glenkirk took a long nut-brown wool cape lined in warm marten and draped it over Rosamund’s shoulders. He moved around before her and carefully fastened each of the polished brass frogs that closed the garb tightly. Then he gently drew up the fur-lined hood. Each time their eyes met, Rosamund had this incredible sense of dйjа vu. “There,” he said and then, turning, took the other cloak from the servant. When he had dressed himself, he thanked the servant and took Rosamund’s hand to lead her outside into the winter gardens.

It was very cold, but the air was still. Above them the night sky was ebony in color and dotted with stars that twinkled crystal, blue, and red. They walked in silence until the lights of the castle were but glittering gold points and they could no longer hear the murmur of the many voices within the hall. Then suddenly he stopped. He turned her so that she was facing him, pushing back the hood of her garment, taking her small face within the enclosure of his two big hands.

Rosamund’s heart began to hammer with her excitement. Each time their eyes met it was as if this very moment had happened before. She could not for the life of her look away from him, and when his dark head slowly descended, his lips brushing gently over hers several times as if tasting her, it was she who cupped his head in her palms, and drew him down to kiss him hungrily. She shuddered as their mouths met that first time. Or was it for the first time?

Finally he drew away, saying as he did, “I am hardly a young man, madame.”

“I know,” she replied.

“I have seen a half century,” he answered. “I could be your father.”

“But you are not my father, my lord,” Rosamund told him. “You are older than Owein Meredith, but younger than Hugh Cabot. We are drawn to each other, although I do not know why or how this is. I know that you feel it, too, for I have seen it in your eyes.” She reached out and gently caressed his cheek. “So here we are, my lord earl, and what are we to do?”

“Will you believe me when I tell you that I have never before felt with a woman as I do with you, madame?”

“My name is Rosamund,” she told him, nodding. “And like you, I have never felt quite this way before, my lord.”

“My name is Patrick,” he answered.

“Are we bewitched, Patrick?” she asked him.

“By whom or what?” he wondered aloud.

She shook her head. “I do not know. I am new here and know few.”

“As am I,” he replied. “I have not been to court since I returned to Scotland from San Lorenzo many years ago.”

“San Lorenzo?” She looked puzzled.

“It is a small duchy on the Mediterranean Sea. I was sent as the king’s first ambassador to set up a friendly port where our trading vessels might find safety, water, and supplies,” the earl explained.

“Then you have traveled, Patrick. I have never wanted to travel, for I love my home. I always hated going to court. But now, suddenly, I am ripe for adventure.” She smiled mischievously, and his heart contracted almost painfully.

He reached out again and enfolded her in his embrace. “I want to make love to you,” he said softly. He kissed her slowly, his mouth demanding yet gentle. “I cannot believe I would be so damned bold with someone I have only just met, and yet I feel as if we have known each other forever. And you feel it, too, Rosamund. I saw the surprise of recognition in your eyes earlier. I do not understand it, and yet it is happening.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I do not know what to do. Do you? Should we follow our instincts? Or should we decide this is some madness, and part from each other? You must decide for us, Patrick, for I am much too afraid to do so, and I have never before been a coward when facing life.”