“A young man loves a woman differently than an old man. Your husband was old and your lover is old. I think you may fear a young man,” he said softly.

“I fear no man, Logan Hepburn, especially you,” she replied. Then she swept him a deep curtsy and left the room.

“Did you slay him, cousin?” Tom asked her humorously as she came forth into the Earl of Bothwell’s dayroom again. He was warm with the earl’s good whiskey.

“He is quite unharmed but for his pride,” Rosamund replied with a smile.

“And is he convinced you will not marry him?” Bothwell queried her.

“He is an enigma to me, my lord. I can make myself no plainer than I did, yet I think he still harbors the hope I will wed with him. My advice to you is to find him a very pretty and complaisant lass and marry him to her as quickly as you can. If he is allowed to persist in this futile pursuit of me, his brothers’ sons will inherit Claven’s Carn one day. But that is a matter for the Hepburns to decide. I thank you, my lord, for intervening in this concern between your cousin and me.” She curtsied to him. “I bid you good day. Coming, Tom?” She departed Bothwell’s apartments.

Lord Cambridge scrambled to his feet. “My thanks for the whiskey, my lord,” he said, and he followed after Rosamund.

When they had gone, Logan came forth from the little privy chamber where he and Rosamund had been speaking. He took the chair lately vacated by Thomas Bolton.

“Well,” the Earl of Bothwell said, “are you now satisfied that the lady of Friarsgate is a lost cause?”

“She says they will not marry,” Logan told his cousin. “There is yet hope for me when she has tired of this love affair and he goes back to his Highlands.”

“Have you no pride, cousin?” the earl said.

“I love her, but the fault here is mine, Patrick. I never convinced her of it. I assumed that she must know my devotion all these years bespoke my love for her, but I never convinced her of it, and women, it seems, must hear those words convincingly to believe them. How could I have been such a fool?”

“Did she say she loved you, Logan?” his cousin queried pointedly.

“Nay, but when she is quit of this passion she has for the Earl of Glenkirk she will return to Friarsgate. I will court her properly this time, Patrick, and she will love me. I know it!”

“There is no time, cousin,” the earl said. “You are past thirty now, and you must sire a legitimate heir. I have found a bride for you, and you will marry her before you leave Stirling. She is a distant cousin on your mother’s side. Her name is Jean Logan. She’s just sixteen. She is an only daughter, and her mother has birthed her father five sons, as well. It’s a good match for you. The lass has a generous gold dowry and a respectable trunkful of linens, silver, and other bridal gewgaws. The king has given his approval.”

“You went to the king without my permission?” Logan was outraged. “You had no right, Patrick! I’ll not have this lass! Nay! A thousand times nay!”

“I have every right, cousin, as clan chief, and as such I will sign the betrothal papers today. You have no excuses not to marry. Rosamund Bolton will not have you, and there is no other engaging your heart, Logan. You must marry for the sake of Claven’s Carn. Jeannie Logan is a good lass. Pretty, too. She will make you an admirable wife. She will make a good mother for your sons.”

Logan slumped forward, his head in his hands. “I will not lose her,” he said brokenly.

“You have already lost her to Glenkirk, cousin. Wed with little Jeannie Logan, and take your bride home. By this time next year you should have a son if you do your duty by your wife, and you will, I know,” the Earl of Bothwell told the younger man.

“But I cannot love this girl,” Logan protested.

“You will learn to love her, and if you don’t, you will not be so different from most men. We wed to sire bairns. Try to get along with the lass, treat her kindly, and all will be well,” the Earl of Bothwell advised the laird of Claven’s Carn.

“Let me see Rosamund with Glenkirk first. I must be certain before I marry another, Patrick.”

“Tonight, then. The king and queen are giving a masque, and the court is invited. You will see what we have all seen. The passion between Rosamund Bolton and Patrick Leslie is unique and unusual. I have never seen its like; nor has anyone else.”

“I will see for myself,” Logan said.

His cousin nodded in agreement. “And when you have seen it, you will allow me to set the date for your marriage?”

The laird of Claven’s Carn was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed and said, “Aye, I will, Patrick.”

“Good, good,” the earl murmured, pleased. “Your family will be content now and will cease importuning me over this matter. You will not be unhappy with my choice, Logan. The girl is gentle of spirit, and a virgin. Her father was planning to put her with the church when I asked him for the lass for you. She is convent bred, well mannered, and knows everything she should about housewifery. She will be an obedient wife, and because she is devout to the Holy Mother Church, she will bring order into your family and will raise your bairns to be equally pious. You are fortunate in this lass.”

Logan looked glum. A pious virgin. What more could a man ask for in a wife? he thought. He sighed again. “Is she at least pretty, Patrick?” he asked.

The earl chuckled, considering his cousin’s question a good sign. “Aye, she is quite pretty,” he repeated for the third time. “Her eyes are as bonnie a blue as are yours. Her hair is the color of wildflower honey. Not light, but not dark either. Her skin is unblemished, and she has all of her teeth. Her form is nicely rounded where it ought although her bubbies are small. Still, she is young, and with regular caressing she will fill out nicely. Your sons will nurse comfortably from her teats.”

“And when do you propose I meet this pious virgin with the small bosom, cousin?” Logan asked the earl.

“I will point her out to you tonight. She is among the queen’s ladies for her own safety, Logan, although how safe she is there I cannot guarantee. Let us set the wedding for Twelfth Night. After I am certain you have breached her, you may take her home.”

“You do not trust me, then,” the laird said with a sarcastic smile.

“It is a requirement of her father’s that the marriage be consummated immediately,” Bothwell soothed the laird. “Robert Logan is an old-fashioned man, cousin. He would see the bloodied sheet made public the morning after the marriage is celebrated. It is his right, and it gives Jeannie the protection she deserves. Surely you cannot object, for your motives are honest, laddie.”

“If I agree to the match, aye, my motives will be honorable,” Logan said.

“Then, in a few hours you will see Rosamund Bolton and Patrick Leslie together. Afterwards you will see wee Jeannie Logan, and the die will be cast. You will not regret wedding this lass. ’Tis a good decision you have made.”

“You and my family have forced me to it, Patrick. I do not do this thing willingly,” the laird said quietly.

“You cannot wait forever for the lovely lady of Friarsgate to decide she wants to be your wife, Logan. She has made it plain to you that she does not,” Bothwell said.

“Nay, what she has made plain is that I was an arrogant fool, and I will now pay for it,” came the distraught reply.

“Accept what fate has handed you, Logan,” the earl advised, “and make the best of it. You will be unhappy otherwise.”

Logan laughed bitterly. “Rosamund advised me in similar terms to do the same thing just a little while back,” he said.

“I begin to admire this lady myself, cousin,” Bothwell said. “She is wise beyond her years. If you will not heed me, then heed her.”

“I have no other choice,” Logan said. “Fear not, Patrick. I will not make this little lass unhappy. If I take her for my wife I will treat her with kindness and respect. It is not her fault that I am a fool and the lady of Friarsgate does not love me.”

“Good, good,” the earl said, relieved. He had painted Robert Logan a rosy picture of his only daughter’s life as mistress of Claven’s Carn. He didn’t want it any other way. The lass was a perfect choice for his cousin.

When evening came, the Earl of Bothwell, his cousin in his company, went to the Great Hall to join the rest of the court. The minstrel’s gallery was full, and music wafted throughout the chamber, which overflowed with revelers. Servingmen and wenches dashed back and forth with trays, bowls of food, and pitchers of wine and ale. The hall was decorated with holly and pine. Beeswax candles and tapers burned everywhere. The fireplaces, full with huge logs, burned bright. They found their way to a table and sat down, and the earl was greeted by many, and introduced his companion. Goblets of wine were set down before them. There were silver plates quickly filled with food and bread.

“There, at the table next to us,” the earl said softly to Logan.

The laird turned, and he felt his breath catch in his throat as he beheld Rosamund Bolton and her lover. They were totally absorbed in each other, and he had never seen her so beautiful as she was at that moment. Her face glowed with the open love she had for the man by her side. His expression as he gazed back at her was utterly adoring. “God’s blood!” Logan said under his breath. Then he turned back to his cousin. “Set the match with Jean Logan,” he said.

The Earl of Bothwell nodded quietly. “Now, laddie, look to the end of this table. Do you see the lass in the blue gown? That is Jean Logan. What do you think?”

Logan turned and looked quickly, for he did not wish to appear as if he were staring. The lassie had a sweet face and a quick smile when the young man by her side spoke to her. “She has an admirer,” he noted, “but, then, she is fair. She would. Tell me, Patrick, that her young heart is not involved with another. I would not take her away from someone who loved her.”

“She has been schooled for the convent since age eight. She is newly come to court under the queen’s protection. There is no one that I know of, cousin,” the earl said.

“Do you know her, Patrick?”

“I do. Her father and I are friends of long standing,” came the answer.

“Does the lass know of your plans, cousin?” the laird asked the earl.

“She has an inkling,” Bothwell responded. “She was told there was a possible match for her, and she was to come to court to meet the gentleman.”

“What if Rosamund Bolton had not fallen in love with another and had agreed to be my wife?” Logan queried.

“Then I should have found bonnie Jean another suitable husband,” the earl replied. “But I do not have to, do I, Logan?”

“Nay, you do not. She is pretty, she is young, and being convent bred undoubtedly amenable. If I cannot have Rosamund, this lass will do as well as any,” Logan said, resigned.

“ ’Tis not such a bad fate, cousin,” the earl noted.

“Come then, and introduce us, my lord,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said. “The sooner, the better, if you want me wedded and bedded on Twelfth Night. We should give the lass a little time to know the man she is to be shackled to for the rest of her life.” He arose from the table, the earl with him.

Together the two men walked to the end of the long board, and Patrick Hepburn stopped within the young girl’s gaze. She looked up, stood quickly, and curtsied to him.

“My lord Bothwell,” she said breathlessly, her curious gaze going to the earl’s companion. Her cheeks were pink, and her heart was beating rapidly.

“What, my bonnie Jean, it was Uncle Patrick the last time we met,” Bothwell said jovially. He tipped her small face up and gave her a quick kiss upon her lips. “You are being treated well in the queen’s household?”

“Oh, yes, Uncle Patrick!” she replied.

“Well, lassie, you’ll not be there much longer, for you are to be married. But, then, your father told you it might be so, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” came the soft answer. Her blush deepened.

“Then, allow me to present my cousin, whose mother, God assoil her good soul, was a member of your own clan. This is Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn, Jean. You will be married to him on Twelfth Night here at Stirling.”

“Mistress Jean,” Logan said, bowing over the girl’s little hand as he took it up and kissed it. The small hand trembled in his, and he immediately felt protective of her.

She blushed again, but she looked directly at him. “My lord.”

He smiled at her, thinking the blush charming. Poor little lass, she had no choice in the matter and knew not what she was getting into at all. And then in a flash he understood what Rosamund had been forced to endure. “We have little time in which to get to know each other, Mistress Jean,” he said to her.