“Me?”Rosamund was genuinely surprised.
“My father, God assoil him, tried to make a match between us when you were but a youngling, but your uncle instead married you to his cat’s paw so he might keep your estate in his hands. Several months ago I learned that your husband had died but that you had been taken south. I have had men posted on the hills about Friarsgate awaiting your return,” the Hepburn explained. “Now I have come to court you, lady, and I intend to wed you whether your uncle will or nay.” He looked directly at her when he spoke.
Rosamund’s cheeks grew warm, but she held her ground and stared straight back at him. “I am betrothed,” she said quietly, “and at the king’s command, not my uncle’s. The cat’s paw had claws and was not the toothless lion my uncle believed.”
The Hepburn laughed. “You have spirit, lass,” he said. “I like it. And is your betrothed the English coward who sits his horse at the bottom of the hill with your steward?”
“Owein sits his horse at the hill’s bottom because he is not the lady of Friarsgate, and I am,” she replied. “I speak for myself and my people. No one else does.” This Scot was arrogant, but she would not be cowed by either his size or his manner.
The Hepburn laughed again. “One of Henry Tudor’s Welshmen, is he? When is the wedding, lass?”
“Lammastide,” she answered.
He nodded. “Aye, ’tis well done, for they will have a day for the holiday no matter.” Then the blue eyes narrowed. “I could steal you away right now, Rosamund Bolton. Bride stealing is considered an honorable pastime in the borders.” He moved his mount up next to hers, so close that she could scent him, and her nostrils twitched.
But she did not flinch, saying instead, “And would you take me to King James’ court to show me off, my lord?” Her dark lashes brushed against her cheeks in a most flirtatious manner.
“Aye, I would,” he replied, reaching out to finger one of her auburn braids.
“Then my friend,the Queen of the Scots,would be quite curious to learn why I was not with the man she personally chose to be my husband,” Rosamund told him with a wicked grin.
The Hepburn’s jaw dropped in surprise. “You know Jamie Stuart’s new queen?” he said, astounded.
“I have been her companion for the last ten months,” Rosamund told him in dulcet tones. “My betrothed and I traveled as far as Newcastle in her wedding train, my lord. Aye, I know Meg Tudor very well.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn said.
“Aye, sir, I have no doubt that you will,” Rosamund replied with a small grin. “Now, tell me, why on earth did your father offer for me? You’re a Scot and his heir. I am English, as are my lands.”
“We’re borderers, my lady,” he said, “no matter which side. I saw you when you were just a wee lass. It was at a cattle fair, and you had come with Edmund Bolton.”
“I must have been six then,” Rosamund recalled. “It was on the Scots’ side of the border in Drumfrie, was it not? Aye, I was six that summer. How old were you, sir?”
“Sixteen, and my given name is Logan,” he answered her.
“Sixteen, and you had no wife?” she queried him, curious.
“My father was still alive. I chose not to wed until I was the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn,” he told her.
“And by not marrying, Logan Hepburn, you have been able to bestow your affections generouslyandon both sides of the border, I have not a doubt,” she replied tartly.
“Jealous?” he teased her. “You need not be, lass, for I have been saving my heart only for you.”
She blushed again. “I am, sir, to all intents and purposes, a married woman,” Rosamund snapped.
“The Welshman looks old, yet young enough to bed you,” Logan Hepburn said boldly. “’Twill be more a marriage than the other two you have had, Rosamund Bolton. I envy the man. And does your greedy uncle approve?”
“His approval is not necessary,” she answered.
“And has he been invited to the wedding?” he taunted her.
“Aye, he has!” she said.
“And will you invite me?” The blue-blue eyes danced wickedly.
“No, I will not!”Her foot stamped against her stirrup, and the mare danced nervously.
“I may come nonetheless,” he said seriously.
