Page 20 of This Heart of Mine (O’Malley Saga #4)

James Stewart, the sixth of his name and king of Scotland, glared at his cousin, the Earl of BrocCairn, saying, “Ye’ve got to take her back to England, Alex! What in hell possessed ye, anyway?”

“I do not have to take her back, Jamie. We’re married,”

replied the earl sullenly.

The king’s face grew mottled with his anger. They were always arguing with him, these nobles of his! It made no difference that, thanks to his grandfather, he was related to half of Scotland. Even blood ties made no difference here. Scotland’s nobility were headstrong and determined to defy their rulers.

“Dammit, Alex, don’t ye realize the seriousness of what ye’ve done?”

he growled. “Ye’ve kidnapped one of Elizabeth Tudor’s Maids of Honor! Her entire family is in an uproar and are demanding her return. More important, my cousin England is demanding that you bring her back.”

“Since when have Scotland’s rulers obeyed England’s orders?”

mocked the Earl of BrocCairn.

“Scotland will one day inherit England, Alex, and I would be welcomed by the English when that day comes. I look to my future. I have no desire to engage England in even a small war. Particularly over a wench, however pretty,”

he amended with a small smile toward Velvet.

Her green eyes twinkled back at him, and she said, “I am only too happy to obey the queen’s order, Your Majesty, and to return home.”

“Did ye truly marry this rogue, Mistress de Marisco?”

“Nay, sire.”

“Christ’s bones!”

The oath exploded forcefully from Alex’s angry mouth. “Ye’re wed wi’ me well and true, Velvet!”

He turned back to the king. “She’s twice wed to me. Once by handfast admission, and the second time by a parson of yer new kirk.”

“I most certainly don’t accept your handfast marriage,”

Velvet snapped. “And since we are both members of the holy Catholic church, I do not accept a ceremony performed by a preacher of the Calvinist faith.”

“Just where was the ceremony performed?”

demanded the king.

“At Hermitage,”

replied Bothwell, and he smiled blandly.

“At Hermitage?”

The king looked somewhat surprised. “Why in hell at Hermitage?”

“Ye could hardly expect me to allow Alex to bed her without the proprieties, Jamie.”

drawled Bothwell. “Yer advisors, including yer sour-faced chaplain, are always accusing me of being immoral, but even a reprobate like myself recognizes a respectable virgin.”

The king laughed in spite of himself. “I’m surprised ye were able to get a man of God to step into Hermitage , Francis.”

“Only the very ignorant or, worse, the very superstitious, believe the gossip that I’m a warlock, Jamie,”

came Francis Stewart-Hepburn’s disconcerting reply. The Earl of Bothwell knew full well that his cousin, the king, was secretly terrified of him and believed everything detrimental that was said about him. On the other hand, James admired the man they called the Border lord, “the Uncrowned King of Scotland,”

for Francis Stewart-Hepburn was everything James Stewart wished he could be.

“Ye delight in the damned controversy that always swirls about ye,”

muttered the king, and Bothwell smiled, amused by his royal cousin’s sudden astuteness.

James looked at Alex. “Take her back to London, Alex. I will nae accept a refusal from ye in this matter! The Earl of Lynmouth and a party of the queen’s own Gentlemen Pensioners will be waiting for ye just over the border to escort ye back to my cousin England’s court. The queen says that ye’re welcome back despite yer rather wild behavior.”

The king chuckled in spite of himself. “Dammit, Alex, ye behaved just like an ancient Scot. Bride-stealing is no longer the fashion.”

“Yer majesty sets the fashion, and I’m told ye seek a bride,”

commented Alex. “I only sought to emulate yer good example.”

“Ha!”

The king snorted. “Ye sought to have yer own way, cousin. Ye wanted the lass now, and so ye took her! Nay, dinna deny it, for I know ye well! Ye’ve ever been a stubborn man, even when we were lads together.”

Velvet stood quietly watching the three men. For a moment they had forgotten her, and she was frankly relieved. They were cousins, and there was a definite family resemblance amongst them. The king and BrocCairn had the amber-gold eyes of the Stewarts; Bothwell and James had the auburn hair of their clan. All three had the Stewart nose. There, however, the resemblance ended, for although the king was a total Stewart in face and form, Bothwell was obviously more a Hepburn and Alex more a Gordon. The two earls had strong, determined faces, whereas the king’s features bespoke a weakness that even Velvet could see.

“Let us stay a few days here at court, Jamie,”

Alex pleaded. “Velvet is exhausted wi’ all our traveling.”

“And would ye like that, Mistress de Marisco?”

The king looked sharply at her.

To refuse would have been ungracious and Velvet knew it. She smiled sweetly at James Stewart and replied, “Aye, Your Majesty. I should very much like to stay for a few days before my return to England.”

“Very well, Mistress de Marisco, ye shall have yer visit wi’ us.”

Having gotten his way, the king was feeling more gracious now.

“Dammit, Jamie, she’s Lady Gordon now. Whether she is willing to recognize it or not, surely ye must. Unless, of course, ye’re saying that the new kirk is nae Scotland’s church. I am certain some of the earls would be quite fascinated by this recent change of heart of yers. Do ye lean back toward the old and true faith then?”

Alex smiled wolfishly at the king.

Bothwell hid a grin. Here was a man after his own heart! He suspected that whatever church Alex had been raised in made no difference to him at all, but he would play on the king’s fears in order to get his own way. He smothered his laughter for he had done exactly the same thing on many an occasion when dealing with their cousin James. Fear was Jamie Stewart’s sharp spur.

The king shot Bothwell an angry look, for he had heard his low chuckle. Then he looked to his cousin of BrocCairn, saying, “Ye’ve developed unpleasant habits the few days ye’ve been in Francis’s company, Alex. Remember that I am yer king.”

“I nae forget it, Jamie, but ye canna have it both ways. If ye’re to have any credibility wi’ yer English cousin, ye’ll have to tell her that Velvet and I were married legally and lawfully, else ye deny yer own church and a law that goes back centuries. I dinna think ye will want to do that, cousin. If ye do, ye’ll have all the ranting preachers of fire and brimstone tearing yer kingdom apart with the earls joining in as they did in yer mother’s time.”

“You’re not married to me until we are wed in our own church,”

Velvet interrupted.

Alex shot her a quelling look. “Hush yer mouth, lass! This is politics we’re talking of, nae religion. Ye can rest assured that I’ll wed ye a third time in our own church. Yer family will hae it no other way, I’ve nae a doubt. In the meantime, however, ye’re my wife in the eyes of both Scotland’s church and Scotland’s law, and ye’ll behave as such.”

“Indeed, my lord? Am I to suppose you’ll use force if I do not?”

Her glance was pure defiance.

“If ye do not, I will take great pleasure in beating yer bottom, fetching as I find it, until sitting is the farthest thing from yer clever mind. Mark me well, Velvet! I dinna jest wi’ ye.”

Alex’s black look matched her own in spirit.

The king and Bothwell looked at one another, their previous disagreements momentarily forgotten in light of the battle between the bride and groom. Each was delighted in his own way by BrocCairn and Velvet.

“When I tell my brothers how you’ve abused me, Alex Gordon …”

she began.

“They’ll undoubtedly either cheer me or challenge me, Velvet, but I think the former rather than the latter,”

he replied dryly.

“Now, lass,”

said Lord Bothwell, grinning, “I think ye’ve certainly won this round in yer ongoing battle wi’ Alex. However, ye’re going to go back to England in a few days’ time. Be gracious in victory. Ye two are going to have to learn how to get along sooner or later.”

“When she accepts the fact that I am the master,”

blustered Alex.

“Master, is it?”

Velvet shrieked. “Why, you pompous idiot! Do I look like a horse or a dog to you that you would master me? I am a woman, Alexander Gordon! I have a damned good brain and I am as well educated as you are for all your French university. I will be respected by you for my intelligence or, believe me, your life will be one long hell, I promise you!”

Her eyes blazed green fire at him.

“Is this how yer mother speaks to yer father?”

he demanded, outraged. Both had again forgotten the king and Bothwell.

“My father respects my mother as well as loves her. Their marriage has been a partnership of love, trust, and mutual admiration. I will accept no less in my own marriage. If you had waited until my parents returned home from India, you would have understood that by knowing me better. But no! You had to carry me off like some Border plunderer!”

She glowered at him. “Now, having taken my innocence, you’re bound to wed with me in our own faith, but mark me, Alex. I will be no man’s slave or brood mare!”

She drew herself up to her full height and, with an unflinching gaze, stared proudly at him.

“Christ almighty!”

swore the king. “I can only hope the lass I wed is not as fiery as ye are, Lady Gordon! I am of a mind to have a quieter life than my cousin Alex is likely to have.”

“Your Majesty appears to me to be a gentleman of breeding and sensibility,”

Velvet said softly. “I doubt were I your wife that I should have to resort to violence as I very well may have to do with my wild Highland husband.”

She gave him a dazzling smile, and James was again enchanted by her.

Bothwell laughed, shaking his head, and remarked, “Well, Alex, I suspect that the next move is going to be up to ye. Think well first is my advice. Dinna act rashly wi’ such a hot-tempered lass.”

Realizing that he had been bested in this bout with Velvet, Alex smiled good-naturedly, saying, “I’m not of a mind to hae my brains bashed in today, Francis, and I can see that her ladyship has a dangerous look in her eye.”

“Why, my lord,”

said Velvet sweetly, “violence is not my habit at all. Is not the Gordon motto ‘By Courage Not Craft’?”

“That is the motto of the main branch of the family, the Gordons of Huntley,”

he answered her, “but we Gordons of BrocCairn have our own motto. It is ‘Defend or Die.’ We keep what we take, Velvet.”

His meaning was boldly plain.

“Enough!”

said the king, whose head was beginning to ache with the argument between these two.

With a charming blush, Velvet curtsied to James. “Your pardon, my liege. You must think that Alex and I know not how to communicate other than by shouting. I promise you that I am far better bred than that.”

The king was once more charmed by this lovely young girl. “I think my court will be a livelier place for yer presence, Lady Gordon. Will ye join us for the evening meal?”

“I should be honored, sire.”

The dining room at Holyrood Palace where James Stewart was in residence was not particularly large. The room was paneled with a coffered oak ceiling. Upon the walls were beautiful French tapestries, some of which had been brought from France by James’s grandmother, Mary of Guise. Others she had worked during her years in Scotland, and later her daughter, Mary, Queen of Scots had taken them up. The scenes depicted upon the tapestries were pastoral in style. There was a large fireplace in the room, and it now burned with pine and aspen logs.

The king’s high board ran almost the width of the room, the side tables taking up the rest of the floor. There was a small center space between the tables where the servants were able to squeeze in and out with the dishes. It was a great deal less sophisticated than the Tudor court, but there was a warmth about it that was lacking, Velvet decided, at the English court.

Alex and Velvet had been seated with the king as his personal guests and the new Lady Gordon found herself the center of many curious looks. She was a little uncomfortable at being the subject of such close scrutiny. Gentlemen, she knew, were always interested in a pretty face, the ladies in her clothes. She was sorry she had none of her own gowns to wear, for they were the height of fashion. Instead, she had on another borrowed gown from Lord Bothwell’s treasure room, and only that because Francis understood enough about women to know that Velvet would want to wear something attractive when meeting the king for the first time. Alex had argued with her saying that Jamie wouldn’t care if she appeared before him in her riding clothes, but Bothwell had interceded for her, and she was now more grateful than ever. In her tawny orange gown with its heavy gold embroidery she felt the equal of any woman at the Scottish court even if she was bare of jewelry.

“Well, Lady Gordon”

said James, turning to her, a haunch of venison in his hand, “what think ye of my court when compared to that of my cousin England?”

“One cannot possibly compare them, sire. I mean no offense, but the queen’s court is possibly the most elegant in the world. Even the French have not such a court! Still, I am not certain that I do not prefer yours, for although it’s not as sophisticated, its informality offers charm and warmth. When we return to Scotland next year, I shall enjoy being a part of your court.”

“Ye’ll be one of its shining stars, madame,”

James complimented her.

“We’ll nae be able to come to court until Velvet has borne me several bairns, Jamie,”

said Alex. “I would take no chances wi’ her health.”

“My mother bore eight children with no difficulty,”

Velvet said sweetly. “She took sea voyages and even rode while she carried my brothers and sisters. I am sure I shall be as hardy.”

“Eight bairns!”

The king was impressed. “How many lived to adulthood, Lady Gordon?”

“Seven, sire. My half brother, John Southwood, died before his second birthday in the same epidemic of white throat that took his father, the Earl of Lynmouth.”

“How many sons did yer mother bear?”

the king asked.

“Five, sire.”

“Ye’ll be a good breeder, I’ve nae a doubt, Lady Gordon,”

the king approved.

“Aye.”

Alex smiled. “I’ll see to it with great pleasure, Jamie.”

Velvet also smiled across the king at her husband, but when James’s attention was attracted by someone else, she mouthed the word beast at the Earl of BrocCairn. Alex grinned back. He was anxious to leave Holyrood and get back to Bothwell’s town house where he might take his wife to bed. She drove him wild with lust, a condition he had never before experienced. He could feel his blood begin to rise at the sight of men like Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk; George Gordon, the Earl of Huntley, who was a kinsman of his; and the handsome Lord Home as they gazed upon his wife with undisguised admiration. He wanted to take her to Dun Broc where she would be safe from such hot eyes.

She sensed his jealousy and mischievously set out to enrage him even further. When the meal was over, the tables were cleared from the room, and in the little minstrel’s gallery above the musicians began to play for dancing. The king led Velvet to the floor first and danced a slow and stately pavane with her. This first decorous dance, however, was followed by a galliard, the waltzlike lavolta, and a coranto jig. The Earl of BrocCairn could not get near his bride, for she was clearly the most popular woman in the room. Her cheeks were flushed a soft rose from her exertion, her green eyes sparkled merrily, and her neat chignon had come loose in the middle of the lavolta. Now her auburn hair tumbled in a devilishly attractive fashion about her shoulders as she laughed happily up at Lord Home. Francis’s warning hand on Alex’s arm only just prevented him from challenging Lord Home, for Sandy Home was boldly leaning over the lovely Lady Gordon and ogling her exposed bosom.

“Easy, man! Ye’ll make a fool of yerself,”

Bothwell cautioned. “Sandy means no harm. The lass seeks to provoke ye, or don’t ye see it?”

“I know she does it deliberately, Francis, but I canna help it! I love the wench, and, worse, she knows it.”

“She’s still young, Alex, and like any thoroughbred she is headstrong. Be gentle wi’ her. Women like a man who is gentle.”

“How can I be gentle when I want to strangle her?”

Alex asked.

Bothwell laughed. “I’ve never met a woman who could drive me that far,” he said.

“I dinna know whether to hope ye will, so ye’ll know my agony, or hope ye never do, so ye won’t know such pain, Francis.”

For a moment a sad look passed over the Earl of Bothwell’s handsome face. He had a wretchedly unhappy marriage, and he and his wife did not live together. It had been a match of powerful families, not one of love. He sighed. “I have already met a woman who makes me feel hungry wi’ love, Alex,”

he said, “but she is a decent woman and does not suspect the depth of my feelings. She must not, for she is happy in her own marriage.”

The Earl of BrocCairn stared, surprised by his cousin’s words. Then Bothwell shook himself as a wet dog might, and Alex realized that the Border lord was embarrassed to have confided in anyone something so personal. To ease Francis’s chagrin he changed the subject. “What do I do to reclaim my wayward lass without causing a scene?”

Bothwell’s good humor restored, he grinned and said, “Let me aid ye, Alex.”

Then, stepping out onto the floor, he intercepted George Gordon, the powerful Earl of Huntley, who was dancing with Velvet.

“Gi’e over, Geordie,”

he said good-naturedly. “Alex wants to take his lass home to bed now, and who can blame him, eh?”

He grinned engagingly.

George Gordon chuckled. “Aye, I see yer point, Francis.”

He let his eyes run boldly and approvingly over Velvet. “We Gordons are a hot-blooded bunch.”

Kissing Velvet on the cheek, he said graciously, “Good night, fair cousin. Ye’re a lovely addition to the family!”

Then he handed her over to Lord Bothwell, who led her off toward her husband.

“But I don’t want to go,”

she protested softly.

“Aye,”

Bothwell drawled, and his blue eyes danced with mischief. “Ye’d much rather stay here and drive poor Alex wild wi’ jealousy. Ah, ye’re a wicked lass, Velvet, but ye’re still an innocent. A little more whiskey, another hour or two, and half the men in the hall would brave Alex for a taste of yer pretty lips. Do ye really want to cause a brawl, lass?”

Velvet shook her head. “Nay,”

she admitted.

“Then smile prettily at the poor, besotted man ye’ve wed, and he’ll be yer slave, I promise,”

Bothwell teased her.

She made a little moue with her mouth. “He’s worse than a mule,”

she muttered.

“And ye’re no better!”

he said quickly.

“Francis! ’Tis not so!”

She pouted prettily, and he chuckled.

“Aye, Velvet, it is. Both ye and Alex are determined to have yer own way. Ye’re selfish. One of ye has to grow up if the other is going to.”

She sighed. “I know you’re right, but, dammit, Francis, why must it always be the woman who gives in?”

“Because possibly women are a gentler and more patient sex.”

Velvet laughed. “I’m not sure that I’m either, Francis. All I know is that when Alex grows stubborn and pompous with me, I want to smack him! He simply infuriates me with his old-fashioned ideas. He refuses to even consider change.”

“Gi’e him time, Velvet. He expected a sweet, young thing who was anxiously awaiting his arrival; a lass who would come meekly back to Scotland glad that he wed wi’ her, who would eagerly bear his bairns without complaint.”

She looked at him, amused. “I know, and instead he got a wench who ran from him instead of to him. If I was such a disappointment, why was he so determined to marry me, Francis?”

“Pride for one thing,”

came Bothwell’s reply. Then he stopped and looked down at her. “Love for another, Velvet. Do ye doubt it, lass?”