“I must inform your mother that you are home again sooner than later, dear girl,” he said. “You know she will be curious.”
“Tell her you have an idea, Uncle, and ask for time to explore it,” Elizabeth replied with a little smile.
“Now who is plotting?” He chortled.
“Do you think he would wed me?” Elizabeth asked her uncle softly.
“He would be a fool not to, dear girl,” Thomas Bolton replied.
“Will you go home to Otterly soon?” she queried him.
“I have sent William to see how far along the builders are. I fear I may be forced to rely upon your hospitality awhile longer, dear girl. Will you mind it?” He smiled at her warmly, his brown eyes full of his love for her.
“Nay,” she answered. “I think I may need your guidance—and your protection when Mama and her Logan come over the border to scold me.”
“Let us have it over sooner than later, my angel girl,” he said to her. “I will write her tomorrow. She will come, I am certain, for I cannot keep her away, but we will reassure her together. Then she will go back to Claven’s Carn, and you will have the rest of the summer and autumn months in which to seduce your Scot.” Lord Cambridge chuckled.
“Uncle! What makes you think I mean to seduce him? I am a proper virgin,” Elizabeth declared indignantly.
“Hah!” he barked a laugh. “You have a mother and two older sisters, all known for their passionate natures. And I know quite well that Banon and her Neville were sharing a bed in the months before their marriage. I turned a blind eye to them, for I realized Banon was binding her Neville with the unbreakable cords of love.”
“I did not know that,” Elizabeth said slowly.
“You were a little girl, and not supposed to know of such things,” he replied. “And your mother was in bed with Logan before they wed.”
“I certainly did not know that!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“You must follow your heart and your instincts where Baen MacColl is concerned, my pet. Neither will disappoint you,” he assured her.
“Uncle, you surprise me,” Elizabeth said.
Thomas Bolton chortled. “It seems to me that your mother and each of your sisters has said something along those lines to me at one time or another. I may have no wife or mistress, dear girl, but I understand love quite well.” He arose from the bench where they were seated. “It is growing damp, and I am too old to remain outdoors of a summer’s night. I am going to bed.”
“I will come too,” she told him. “Tomorrow is not a holiday, though most will be slow to their tasks, I suspect. When do you think Will is coming back?”
“He should be gone no more than a few days,” Lord Cambridge said as they walked towards the house. “I will send a message to your mother tomorrow, but I will word it in such a way that perhaps Logan will remain in his own home when she comes here to Friarsgate.”
“It would be best,” Elizabeth agreed. “If my stepfather ever knew that I was considering a Scots husband he would have all his friends’ sons calling upon me.” She sighed. “He waited all those years for Mama, and yet he does not understand that I want to love and be loved too.”
“It is your mother we must convince, dear girl. She will make her own brazen Scot understand that your heart must lie where it must lie.”
A messenger was dispatched to Claven’s Carn the following morning, and several days later Rosamund Bolton Hepburn returned to Friarsgate in the company of that same messenger. Her husband was not with her, but her stepson, John Hepburn, was. Lord Cambridge hurried to greet his beloved cousin, enfolding her in a warm embrace.
“My dearest girl!” He kissed both her cheeks. “You are as radiant as ever. Welcome home to Friarsgate.” He led her into the hall, where Maybel was waiting to greet the woman she had raised. Lord Cambridge let them hug and sit together to chatter. After a short time, however, Maybel arose slowly.
“I must see to the meal,” she said, and bustled off.
Lord Cambridge now rejoined Rosamund, handing her a goblet of wine and sipping from his.
“I suppose I shall need this,” Rosamund said quietly. “Where is Elizabeth?”
“Out in the meadows making her weekly count of the sheep, as she should be,” he answered. “She’s a good chatelaine, cousin.”
“Without a husband. Without an heir,” Rosamund responded. “Was there no one at court who would have suited? Whom my daughter could have accepted and loved?”
“No one,” Lord Cambridge said. “She had a mild flirtation with a bastard of the late James Stewart who is his brother’s messenger to Henry’s court. The king sends you his regards.”
“Not the queen?” Rosamund wondered.
