Until You (9 page)

L
ogan 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.

“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 for 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.