Page 2 of This Heart of Mine (O’Malley Saga #4)

“What the hell d’ye mean by ‘marry without delay,’ Father?”

Alexander Gordon glowered down from his great height upon his bedridden father, but the Earl of BrocCairn was not intimidated by his son’s look. It was a look he’d often worn upon his own face in his younger days when someone more powerful than he was dictating to him. God, he thought, looking up at Alex, he looks just like I once did. He has the same height and lanky frame, a face that looks as if it was hewn from rock, and my black hair. Why, up until I had this damned accident, we were often taken for brothers.

Angus Gordon sighed deeply. He hated admitting his own weakness, but gritting his teeth, he said, “It should be clear to ye, Alex, that I will not survive to see the spring. Each day I find myself growing weaker, unable to do even the simplest things for myself. Hell, man! I can’t even stand to piss! I don’t want to live like this, and the physician from Aberdeen says I will get no better. I know I’m dying.”

“Damnation!”

The younger man shifted his feet, obviously made quite uncomfortable by his father’s bluntness.

“I will be dead within a few weeks, Alex, and ye’re my only male heir,”

continued the Earl of BrocCairn. “Wi’ yer mother and brother, Nigel, gone in last year’s epidemic, I have no one but ye and yer sister. I would rather not pass Dun Broc on to Annabella and her weak-willed husband who does not bear my name. Ye have a betrothed wife, Alex. Marry her! Get me a grandson on her body!”

“God’s foot, Father! A little English girl I haven’t seen in years? A child barely half grown, let alone capable of mothering a bairn of her own! Yer illness has addled yer wits!”

Alexander Gordon’s voice was full of pity.

“Aye,”

his father retorted sharply, “ye’ve not seen the lass since the day of yer betrothal. Whose fault was that, my son? Are ye aware of how long ago it took place? Almost ten years have passed, and de Marisco’s lass is full grown now and ripe for wedding. Ye have but to claim her!”

“Is there another, perhaps, who has captured yer heart?”

Angus Gordon went on suddenly. “If there is, I’d not force this match upon ye, for I want ye to be happy with yer wife, Alex, as I was with mine. Yer mother was the love of my life, and as sad as I am to be leaving ye, I’ll be glad to be wi’ her again. It’s been a long year since my Isabelle left me.”

His voice trailed off sadly.

Alex could feel unbidden tears pricking the back of his eyelids, and he fought to prevent them from overflowing his eyes. “There’s no lass, Father,”

he said quietly. “Ye know it.”

“Then go to England and wed wi’ the girl I chose for ye. She is yers for the asking, and both Adam de Marisco and I always hoped to unite our families by this marriage. It is my dying wish, Alex. I would not take ye from another, but if there is truly no other, then ye must honor this betrothal to my friend’s daughter. Ye’ve never before objected to it. Do this final thing for me, my beloved son.”

In the last of the icy, howling winds of winter that roared about the dull gray stone turrets of Dun Broc , Alexander Gordon heard again the voice of his dead father importuning his speedy marriage. Seated at the high board in the Great Hall of his castle, he looked at his brother-in-law, Ian Grant, and knew he had no other choice but to marry. He had but lately overheard one of his nephews saying to the other, “Papa says that one day this will all be mine. I will be the earl.”

The innocent, yet prideful words spoken by his sister’s eldest child had suddenly brought home to Alex his father’s desperate dying wish. A Grant the next lord of BrocCairn? Never!

Alex understood why his father had made an English match for him. The English queen was, despite her age, a maiden, and no issue of hers would inherit the throne of England. It was her cousin, and his, young James Stewart, the king of Scotland, who would one day rule England.

Although Alex had spent as little time at the Scottish court as possible, even he could see Jamie Stewart’s eagerness to have his inheritance and flee south to a more civilized clime. The English nobility were less fractious than their Scots counterparts. The English kings had the kind of longevity a royal Stewart could not seem to count upon. Not one Scots king since the time of the first James Stewart had lived longer than forty years, and not one had died a natural death. The current Jamie must wish as would any normal man for a long life, but Scotland was not the place for it. When he inherited the throne of England and went south to claim it, those who went with him, and those already married to good English connections, would be the ones to prosper. That was why Angus Gordon had made an English match for his son.

Alex sat back in his chair and watched Ian Grant through narrowed eyes. Ian was a nice-enough fellow, but it was high time he made his own way. He had grown soft living at Dun Broc with all its small comforts. It was past time for him to return to his own holding in the glen below—a holding that he badly neglected—and made something of it. Forced back there, Alex thought with a wicked smile, his sister Annabella would be sure to ride her spouse hard to improve her lot.

“I’ll be leaving for England in a few weeks’ time,”

Alex began.

“Why on earth are ye going there?”

demanded his sister, stuffing a piece of pigeon pasty into her mouth. Bella had grown plump of late, Alex noted. Was she breeding again, or was it simply too much good living?

“I’m going to claim my bride, Bella. It’s high time I married and started a family. It was our father’s dying wish.”

Annabella Grant choked on her mouthful of pasty, looking stunned at her elder brother’s surprising revelation, but before she could swallow and speak, her husband was actually taking the initiative and speaking for them.

“Marry? Ye’re near thirty, man! If ye must wed, then why not wi’ a good Scots family? Why would ye blend yer blood with that of a damned Sassenach?”

“Because I was betrothed to the girl ten years ago, Ian, and there’s no one in Scotland I care enough to wed. Honor demands that I keep my word. Besides, she is the daughter of one of Father’s old friends.”

“Who?”

Annabella had finally recovered enough to ask.

“A man by the name of Adam de Marisco. Father, it seems, spent time in France as a youth. Although de Marisco had an English father, his mother was French. It was at the home of her second husband, a chateau called Archambault , that Father and Adam de Marisco met. They were both boys at the time, but there seems to have been a correspondence of many years’ standing between them after that. Ten years ago—it was the summer that Ian was courting ye, Bella, and ye’d no time for anything else—Father and I went south to England for a short time. There I was formally betrothed to de Marisco’s daughter who was then just a wee lass of five. I can barely remember the ceremony myself, and I remember less of the lass except that she was strong.”

“Strong?”

Bella looked puzzled.

“She was the littlest, yet she was the leader of all the bairns.”

“So.”

Bella sniffed. “Because of a dying wish made by a sentimental old man, ye’re going to get on yer horse and ride down to England to claim yer bride, are ye? Why this de Marisco man has probably forgotten all about ye and that silly betrothal! They’ll set the dogs on ye!”

“Och, brother, marry if ye must, but marry a good highland lass,”

she went on. “Oh, I’ll admit I thought to see my oldest laddie in yer place here at Dun Broc one day, Alex, but if that’s not to be ’tis not to be. Just don’t make a fool of yerself over something long forgot.”

“Aye,”

put in Ian Grant. “Don’t make a fool of yerself before the Sassenachs, brother.”

Alex felt a bolt of irritation shoot through him. He loved his sister, but though Annabella was five years his junior, she had been born an old woman, and her husband was not much better. Neither he nor Bella had ever left the vicinity in which they had lived all their lives. They were two ingrown people who knew nothing of the outside world, and they were content to remain exactly as they had always been.

“Father has been in correspondence with Lord de Marisco without cease all these years, Bella,”

Alex explained patiently. “There are two boxes in the library. One contains the letters they wrote to each other. I have recently browsed through them. Their friendship remained strong, as was mine, with de Marisco’s stepson, the Earl of Lynmouth, my betrothed’s half brother. Remember, we studied together in Paris? The other box contains miniatures of the de Marisco lass, painted each year immediately after her birthday. The betrothal is quite secure, Bella, and now with Father gone I must marry without delay. I think it’s time that ye take yer sons and go home, sister. Dun Broc will be very much unsettled while I am away for I have already given orders that it be cleaned and freshened from towers to dungeons. The countess’s chambers will be redecorated for my bride. Yer own house must stand greatly in need of yer sure touch, Bella. Ye’ve not been there in over a year.”

“Are ye sending me from my home?”

His sister looked aggrieved.

“No, sister, I am sending ye to yer home. Dun Broc ceased to be yer home the day ye married Ian Grant, and my castle can only have one mistress: my wife. I am sure that yer husband misses his own house as well, eh, Ian?”

Ian Grant thought about the damp pile of dark gray stones in the glen that was called Grantholm , and he shuddered. There was never enough money to make all the repairs it needed, nor enough wood to heat it, and it had a ghost that wailed and threw crockery when annoyed. Ian thought that perhaps a bog would be preferable, but then he caught his brother-in-law’s fierce look and stammered, “Oh, a-aye! ’Twill be good to get home a-a-again, Alex. I-indeed i-it w-will!”

Bella threw her husband a disgusted look. Ian was such a cowardly worm where Alex was concerned. Sometimes she questioned why she had ever married him, but immediately laughed inwardly, knowing the answer to that. No one! No one, she was certain, could love a woman the way her Ian did. It was his one talent.

She rounded on her brother. “So!”

she snarled angrily. “I am no longer welcome in the house of my birth. I would have never guessed that ye felt that way, Alex, for ye hid it well from our parents. Our mother would shed bitter tears to see it, and our father would turn in his tomb if he but knew.”

“Mother wouldn’t let ye stay more than a week at a time before she died, Bella, and Father would have thrown ye out a month after that, but he was too ill to do so, and ’twas not my place then.”

Alex’s voice was filled with amusement. Her guilt tactics might work well on Ian, but the new earl was made of stronger stuff. “Ye’re always welcome as a guest to Dun Broc , but I’ll not have ye moving in on me so that yer weak-willed husband and yer snot-nosed sons can lord it over my inheritance. Father would have lived a long life had it not been for that hunting accident, and I am a young man yet, sister. I’ll have an heir within a year of the wedding ye can be sure, and another son for every year of the first five I’m wed. They’ll be plenty of Gordons for Dun Broc! We’ve held this small scrap of Highland territory for over three hundred years, and we’ll hold it another three hundred! The Grants will have to be content with Grantholm , unless, of course, Ian, ye’re of a mind to go to court and serve Jamie Stewart.”

Ian Grant looked mightily uncomfortable, as Alex had known he would. Alex often wondered what it was about him that bound his ambitious sister to this rather cowardly fellow. He shrugged.

Annabella glared at her brother, and he smiled back at her. She was a pretty woman with dark brown hair and sharp gray-blue eyes. In face, form, and coloring she reminded him of their mother though she had not their mother’s sweetness of nature. “So,”

she said archly, “so yer off to claim yer bride. I can only hope the lass is willing, brother dear.”

“Willing?”

He looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “She’s betrothed to me, Bella. Her father is willing, and that is the important thing. The lass has no choice in this matter.”

His sister began to laugh softly. “Oh, Alex,”

she said to him, “how much ye’ve got to learn. How the lass feels is most important. This is the sixteenth century, brother! She may be betrothed to ye, but if she’s nae willing …”

Bella laughed again. “What’s her name?” she asked.

“Velvet,”

he replied, still puzzled by his sister’s laughter as well as her mocking words.

“Velvet,”

repeated Bella. “ ’Tis a soft cloth, a most biddable fabric. I can only hope yer lass is the same, brother.”

“What is it ye hint at, sister?”

he demanded irritably.

“I don’t hint, Alex, I say it plainly. Ye know nothing of women! Nothing at all!”

“Christ’s bloody bones, woman!”

he exploded at her, and Ian Grant sat back so hard he came near to tipping his chair over. “Christ! I bedded my first wench when I was barely twelve! Not know women, indeed! Ye’re daft, Bella! Pure daft!”

“Oh, ye know how to bed a lass, ’tis true, Alex,”

she shouted back at him, “but bedding a woman and knowing how to love one are two very different things! I just hope that yer Velvet is a patient lass and can teach ye that!”

Bella stood up, her dark skirts swirling about her legs. “Come, Ian! We’ve a great deal of packing to do over the next few days!” Then she strode from the room, her husband following quickly in her wake.

With an impatient snort, Alex got up and stamped from the hall. Behind him the servants smiled conspiratorily at each other. They could barely wait to spread the news that the young earl was going to get married at long, long last. Oh, they, too, might have wished the bride to be a good Scots lass, but then new blood was always good for an old family like the Gordons of Dun Broc. Still, there would be many a broken heart in the district, for Alexander Gordon had always been generous with his favors as the many bairns with Gordon features attested to. The servants wondered if he’d continue that custom or if he’d be true to his wife. Only time would tell, but none of them thought that the earl was the sort of man to confine himself to one woman.

Alex hurried to his library to open the box containing the miniatures. He was eager to see what the girl looked like. Though he had been bold in his speech to Annabella with regard to marrying the little English lass, what did he actually know about her? And whose fault was that, for he’d not given the child a thought in ten years’ time. It discomfited him to realize that he was nervous. He hoped that the miniatures would give him some small advantage.

With clumsy fingers he yanked the lid open to reveal a tray lined in heavy black silk and fitted with oval indentations. Within each oval was a small miniature enclosed in a gilt frame. He picked up the first of the tiny paintings and, turning it over, saw written upon its back the words: Velvet de Marisco, aged 5, 1578 A.D. Turning the miniature back over, he stared at the child’s face. It was an adorable one, still baby-round, with dimples at either corner of the mouth.

Alex smiled suddenly, remembering how the child had shyly hidden behind her beautiful mother’s skirts until he had lured her out to sit upon his lap, his bait a fat sugarplum. She had thanked him in a soft, lisping voice, her eyes round and curious, before slipping from his knee and hurrying back to her mother. Later, however, he remembered seeing her playing with her cousins, ruling them all with a mixture of charm and temper, stamping her little kid-shod feet, her curls flying. A curious little minx, he had thought, amused.

Returning the miniature to its place, he picked up the next one in line and read the legend on the back. Velvet de Marisco, aged 6, 1579 A.D. The tiny paintings were obviously arranged by Velvet’s age and the year. The last miniature in the top tray showed Velvet at age nine, and it was here he could note the beginning of a difference. The infant plumpness was fully gone from her face, and her hair, which had been so dark when she had been a wee girl, was somewhat lighter, as were her eyes.

Alex lifted the first tray out of the box, suddenly impatient to view the last miniature, painted almost a full year ago after the girl’s fourteenth birthday. Seeing it, his mouth dropped open and he caught his breath, though not so much from surprise, for it had been obvious from the beginning that Velvet de Marisco would be a beauty. What he found so marvelous was the strong character in her face. It was a proud young face that clearly stated: I know who I am; and when her natural beauty was added—the fair skin with the wild-rose cheeks, the auburn hair, the clear, unwavering green eyes—the effect was somewhat overwhelming!

What kind of a lass was this? Alex wondered. He longed to hear her voice in speech and raised in laughter—and, he was startled to realize, in passion too. Was she educated? Was she a good rider? Did she enjoy music? He found he was anxious to know all these things and more, things that he could not even put into words yet. The correspondence between his father and Adam de Marisco had told him little, for once the two men had accomplished their goal of matching their children, they seemed to have lost interest in the entire situation. Here and there was a mention of Velvet, but not enough for Alex to learn the sort of person she might be.

He groaned to himself. Why had he not visited England since their betrothal? He might have taken the opportunity to get to know Velvet gradually, and she might even have fallen in love with him, or, at the very least, learned to like him.

Alex shook his head to clear it. The girl was betrothed to him and would be his wife whether they liked each other or not. It was proper that a father matched his daughter to suit himself, and that the daughter did her parent’s bidding unquestioningly. Once she was his wife Velvet would bear his children uncomplainingly, and do his bidding without question as she had done her father’s. That was a woman’s lot. Women needed a tight rein or else they ran wild. God only knew his sister, Annabella, was proof of that. He need have no regrets that he had neglected Velvet. It was enough they were betrothed.

Oh, he had visited Italy and France where the men often made fools of themselves over the women they loved; but that was not a Scotsman’s way. A woman was made for a man’s comfort: to bear his bairns so that his name might not die, to give him pleasure, and to warm his backside on a frosty night. His own mother had been a sweet and biddable woman who had openly adored his father and willingly done all that Angus Gordon had asked. With such an example to follow Alex wondered why Bella was so headstrong, but then that was Ian Grant’s fault. If his brother-in-law had taken a switch to Bella’s backside at the beginning of their marriage, she’d not be so forward today.

Alex didn’t intend to make that mistake with his young wife once they were wed. He didn’t actually hold with beating a woman, for he considered himself a civilized man; but he fully intended to impress upon his bride immediately at the start of their union that it was he would be master here at Dun Broc, and in every other aspect of their married life. He would never be ruled by his woman.

His amber-gold eyes strayed to the miniature he now held in his hand. Damn, but she was a beauty! This latest portrait showed dark auburn curls tumbling about soft shoulders and a budding young bosom. He smiled to himself. Her beauty was just another advantage to be enjoyed. He would write to Adam de Marisco tonight and send the message south tomorrow with one of his own people. He would follow his own messenger within the next few weeks since there was no use in delaying. The lass would be fifteen on the first of May, and although at the time of the betrothal the wedding had been set for the summer of Velvet’s sixteenth year, that would now have to be changed. His father’s untimely death made it imperative that he marry immediately. He needed a son and heir now! It was past time to claim that which had been promised to him that sunny English summer of 1578. Alex smiled with self-satisfaction at the thought of the lovely girl who would soon grace his house, while about the towers of Dun Broc the last snowflakes of winter capered madly in the wild wind in silent celebration of what was to come.

The prospective bride was not nearly so welcoming of her proposed future. To begin with she could not even remember having a betrothed husband, since she had been so young when the match was formally made, the contracts signed, and the event celebrated. Staring at her beleaguered Uncle Conn, her mother’s youngest brother, she angrily shouted her frustration with the topsy-turvy muddle her complacent life had suddenly become when the messenger from Dun Broc had arrived.

“Betrothed husband? What betrothed husband? I do not understand this at all, Uncle! I have no betrothed husband!”

Velvet de Marisco looked furiously at Lord Bliss as if he were personally responsible for her high dudgeon.

Aiden St. Michael put a restraining hand on her husband’s velvet-clad arm. “Let me, Conn,”

she pleaded softly.

He was openly relieved to have her take over. Velvet in a temper was far too much for him to handle.

“Velvet dearest,”

said Lady Bliss quietly, “perhaps you do not remember the incident, but I want you to think back. Think hard. When you were barely five years old, your parents betrothed you to the heir of the Earl of BrocCairn. The earl was an old friend of your papa’s from his childhood, and the two of them thought it would be a wonderful thing if their families could be joined by blood. It was the summer that your grandparents came from France with practically all of your French relatives. Willow went into premature labor during the celebration and delivered your nephew, Henry, right here at Queen’s Malvern. A few days later at the christening the Earl of BrocCairn was the baby’s godfather, and you were allowed to carry the holy oil. Don’t you remember? They say it was such a lovely family party!”

“Were you and Uncle Conn married then?”

said Velvet. “Were you at this party?”

A shadow passed over Aiden’s face for a moment, but then smiling, she said, “Yes, Velvet, Conn and I were married then, but we were not able to come to your betrothal party. Your mother often spoke of it, however. Try and remember.”

Velvet furrowed her brow in genuine concentration. “I do remember Henry being born and carrying the oil, and that Grandmère and Grandpère were here. But, Aunt Aiden, I remember no betrothal! It cannot be true! Mama has always said that I should never marry without love!”

“I am quite sure the new earl will love you, Velvet,”

said her uncle helpfully, and his wife bit her lip to prevent her laughter.

“But I may not love him!”

came the explosion. “Oh, why are Mama and Papa not here now? They have been gone over two years! They must come home soon, Uncle! I shall marry no one until they do! And even then I shall marry no one unless I am in love!”

With a flounce of her silk skirts, Velvet stamped from the room.

“Oh, Lord.”

Aiden St. Michael sighed, “Your sister Skye would be away. What are we to do, Conn? I don’t have to tell you what your niece is like when she sets her mind against something. Why did Adam and Skye plan such a long voyage, before Velvet was settled in her own home?”

“They didn’t plan the trip, my love. They were asked by Her Majesty to undertake this voyage in order to ascertain the possibility of England’s opening trade with the Grand Mughal. The Portuguese have a very strong grip on India right now, and its riches are beyond belief. Why should only the Portuguese, and the Spanish, who control them, profit? They are rich enough!”

“But why not send one of the large trading companies? Why the O’Malley-Small fleet?”

Aiden was curious for she was descended from a family of London merchants.

“There were several reasons, I suspect,”

Conn replied. “For one thing the O’Malley-Small shipping company is small and wealthy, but holds no official position with Her Majesty, so they won’t arouse the Portuguese’s suspicions. Also, the fact that Skye is a member of the old faith may be an advantage since the Jesuits are strongly involved in the Portuguese colony in India and have even insinuated themselves in the Grand Mughal’s court.”

“I still don’t understand why Skye and Adam had to go. Robbie Small has been doing all the voyaging for years now.”

Conn smiled at his sweet wife. “Robbie is growing old, and my sister had been landlocked since her return to England,”

he said. “Up until they came home from France, Skye always lived near the sea, but a condition of her return was that she must live here in the heartland of England. The queen, wily wench that she is, would never again allow my sister to be a threat to her. Still, when this voyage was proposed, Her Majesty insisted that Skye go. Bess must have needed her badly,”

Conn chuckled.

“More than likely the queen felt such a voyage with a beautiful noblewoman in evidence wouldn’t be considered threatening by the Portuguese, or even taken seriously,”

Aiden remarked wisely.

“By God, you could be right!”

Conn said. “Ah, William Cecil and the queen are a clever pair. But then Skye probably knew their motives but cared not as long as she could feel a deck beneath her feet again and smell the salt breeze in her nostrils. Besides, my sister always loved a good adventure, O’Malley that she is.”

“Her absence, however,”

noted Lady Bliss, “leaves us with the problem of her wayward daughter. What are we to do, Conn?”

“Go after Velvet, my love, while I think this thing out,”

Conn said, pouring himself a healthy dollop of good Archambault Burgundy, then lowering himself into a large comfortable chair by the fire so that he might consider this thorny new development. He didn’t even hear Aiden close the door behind her as she hurried off to find Velvet.

Lord Bliss ran a big hand through his hair and sighed. When his sister, Skye, and her husband, Adam de Marisco, had asked him to keep an eye on their only beloved child more than two years ago, it had seemed a simple enough thing. He knew that although Velvet was spoilt and headstrong she would be safe here on her parents’ estate. She had, in fact, spent most of her life at Queen’s Malvern , except for several long summers in France at her father’s chateau, Belle Fleurs. It hadn’t even been necessary for Conn to bring Velvet into his own home, the lands of which bordered those of Queen’s Malvern. The child had stayed on in her own house with Dame Cecily, Robbie Small’s sister, her nursemaid, and all the servants who had known her since babyhood. Everything had run smoothly until that blasted letter had arrived!

Conn swallowed the remaining wine in his goblet, then absently twirled the bejeweled gilt cup in his hands as he puzzled out what to do next. He was a big, bluff man with midnight black hair and gray-green eyes. Born an O’Malley of Innisfana, he had come to England with his sister almost fifteen years ago. As the youngest O’Malley of them all, he had been wise enough to realize that there was nothing for him in Ireland. So with no more than his extraordinary good looks, his charm, and a quick wit to recommend him, he had arrived at Elizabeth Tudor’s court. These small assets had been enough, however, to earn him the queen’s favor, for Bess Tudor appreciated a handsome man with a silvery tongue. Conn had been appointed to the queen’s own personal guard, the Gentlemen Pensioners , and from there he had begun his climb up the social ladder. The little share of gold he received from his elder brothers’ privateering ventures was invested in his clever sister Skye’s trading company. Soon he was a wealthy man.

Money and his position in the Gentlemen Pensioners overcame the drawback of his Irish heritage in the minds of the members of court. Conn held the queen’s favor so strongly that even when he addressed her as “Bess”

he was never reprimanded. He was charming and roguish without being unscrupulous. He was considered a very eligible fellow and actually had his pick of any number of lovely young ladies and restive matrons. But Conn, rather like a large bumblebee, spent a great deal of his time flitting from flower to flower rather than settling down.

Overconfidence, however, has brought many a man down, and suddenly Conn O’Malley found himself in the center of a rather naughty scandal involving a noble lady, her twin daughters, and an ambassador’s wife. With the injured gentlemen involved both demanding the queen’s justice, Elizabeth Tudor had no choice but to send “the handsomest man at court,”

as Conn was known, from her charmed circle. Before she did so, however, she tempered her judgment with a final kindness. She married Conn to a royal ward, Mistress Aiden St. Michael.

Aiden was at court as a maid of honor, having been placed in the queen’s custody at her father’s death. When Elizabeth Tudor wanted a bride for her favorite, she had remembered that Aiden’s lands bordered those of Queen’s Malvern , the estate to which she had exiled Conn’s sister, Skye, and her husband, Adam.

The St. Michaels were not of the bluest blood, nor were they considered of first-class eligibility in the marriage market. Aiden’s great-grandfather had been a wealthy London merchant who had done a great personal favor for Henry VII, and had been rewarded with a title and estate for his troubles. Three generations later Aiden St. Michael was all that was left of her family, and the one condition that her dying father, Lord Bliss, had begged of the queen was that the bridegroom she eventually chose for his daughter would take over his name. The queen had agreed, for it was not an unusual request, and as far as Conn O’Malley was concerned, it was a reasonable one. There were, after all, shiploads of O’Malleys. Conn would not be missed at all, and he would have a title in the bargain.

Aiden St. Michael was not a great beauty. She was taller than the average woman, and somewhat bigger boned. Her skin was fair, and she had copper-colored hair and gray eyes. She was educated far beyond most girls of her day, even more than her bridegroom. But Aiden was bright and amusing, and she loved Conn O’Malley with her whole heart. Their early years together had been difficult, but now they lived the kind of life Conn had always dreamed of living. They were wealthy and the parents of a fine family.

Life had gotten too comfortable for them, he thought somewhat wryly. So comfortable that when they had agreed to look after his niece, he had believed that it wouldn’t disturb their peaceful existence. Conn grinned to himself. He really should have known better. Velvet was, after all, Skye’s daughter, and hadn’t his big sister been the hell-raiser of all time?

He shifted himself in the chair. The message addressed to Lord de Marisco had arrived only yesterday. Dame Cecily had brought it to him herself, for, having recognized the seal of BrocCairn, she suspected that it was an important communiqué. The old woman well remembered Velvet’s betrothal ten years before and how worried Skye had been about it. Skye, remembering her own childhood betrothal, which had culminated in a disastrous first marriage for her, hadn’t wanted to risk the chance that her daughter would suffer as she had. Still, Adam had wanted it so very much, and he had promised his wife that should Velvet and young Gordon not suit once she was grown, the match would be called off. Velvet was, he reminded his wife, his only child, his beloved daughter. Skye had at last agreed, for she loved her husband and knew he would never hurt Velvet.

Conn had debated about opening the missive addressed to his brother-in-law. Adam was probably still some months from returning, and the communiqué might be important. Conn felt that Adam would certainly understand. Breaking the seal Conn opened the parchment. Quickly scanning the message, he was shocked to learn that both the old earl, his wife, and his second son were all deceased. He was equally disconcerted to learn that Alexander Gordon, now twenty-eight, wished to marry Velvet as quickly as possible so that he might sire a male heir, there being no others in his family to carry on the Gordon of BrocCairn name. The letter was almost brusque in its tone.

Astounded by this turn of events, Conn nonetheless understood the gentleman’s position. Still, he didn’t feel he had the right to force Velvet into marriage with a virtual stranger. He was not her parent, and at that thought he heaved a mighty sigh of relief. He knew his sister’s feelings on the subject, and he also knew that Adam would not want his only child married off willy-nilly despite the official betrothal agreement. It was not Conn’s responsibility, and yet it was.

The earl would be arriving from Dun Broc within the next few weeks, but Adam and Skye were most inaccessible. The earl was within his rights to press for an immediate wedding, the betrothal having been officially celebrated. It was all very neat and quite legal. The only thing not considered or taken into account in the situation was Mistress Velvet de Marisco, a most unwilling bride.

“Uncle Conn?”

Velvet had slipped quietly back into the room, and, coming across the floor, she settled herself into his lap as she had done so often when she was just a wee girl. He noted that she was no longer so wee, for she stood five feet nine inches tall in her stockinged feet.

“Ah, Velvet lass. Now don’t go trying to wheedle me, poppet. I’m in a quandary about what to do as it is.”

“But I don’t want to get married, Uncle Conn! I want to stay at Queen’s Malvern with Mama and Papa.”

Her reasoning still sounded like that of a protected child.

“All girls marry eventually, Velvet. You’re going to be fifteen in a week, sweeting. Remember that your mama was first married at fifteen. ’Tis no great thing.”

“Mama hated her first husband!”

Velvet said explosively. “She says he was a horrible beast, and that is why I should never marry without love! Mama promised me, Uncle Conn! I will not marry without love, and I will not marry without my parents here!”

Conn shifted his niece in his lap so that he might look at her. God’s bones! he thought, startled. Her logic was childish, but she certainly didn’t look like a child! When had she gotten so beautiful? She had always been a pretty little girl, but the face now before him was incredible in its perfection. There was no sweetness about it as there was with his sister’s face. Velvet’s was elegant and oval in shape; her forehead and sharply sculpted cheekbones high; her nose her father’s long Norman one; her well-spaced eyes almost almond-shaped and green. They were marvelous eyes with sooty lashes so thick that they tangled amongst themselves; eyes that threatened to snare any man foolish enough to gaze into them too deeply.

Velvet’s chin was small and square, Conn noted. Her mouth was wide and sensual like her father’s, but she had Skye’s fair skin. He marveled at her hair, for though she had been dark as a child, it had become a deep rich auburn as she grew older. Her French grandmama allowed that her own mama had had auburn hair. Velvet’s hair was a luxuriant mop full of long, silky tresses that was greatly admired and envied by her cousins. Conn decided that though she had the family features she frankly looked more like herself than like either of her parents. He was also suddenly very discomfited to notice that she had developed a rather lush female form for all he still thought of her as a child.

“I’m sure your mother never meant for you to marry without love, Velvet. As I remember the marriage agreement, you were not to wed until you were sixteen. But the earl, because of the deaths of his father and brother, must marry quickly now and beget heirs,”

Conn explained.

“Marry? Beget heirs? Uncle, I haven’t even been to court yet! I know that Mama meant for me to have a little time at court before I married. I’ve never been anywhere or done anything in my entire life! My whole world has been here at Queen’s Malvern , or at Belle Fleurs , or at my grandparents’ chateau at Archambault. My whole social life has consisted of family parties. I’ve never been to London, nor have I even seen Paris! I will not be rushed willy-nilly into marriage before I have had a chance of doing these things! This wild Scotsman will not carry me off to that cold, wet land of his to imprison me in some damned dank castle simply to have babies! I won’t go! I won’t! You cannot let him take me! We must wait until Mama and Papa get back. It won’t be long now, I’m sure!”

Her young voice was edged with panic.