Logan Hepburn wanted to take the young woman before him into his arms and comfort her, but he knew he could not.Not yet. Not now.“I am sorry, my lady. Sir Owein was a good man.”
“Aye,” she responded, “he was.”
There was a silence between them for a long moment, and then he said, “If there is anything you need, my lady, any way in which my clansmen can aid you...” His voice trailed off.
Suddenly Rosamund smiled. “You are kind, Logan Hepburn,” she told him. “To come over the border to make such an offer says much to me about your character. Perhaps in the past I have misjudged you. I owe you an apology.”
“Nay, madame, I am every bit the rogue and rascal you have accused me of being,” he told her with a wicked grin. “I have come not just to tender my sympathies, as I suspect you know. But now is not the time to pursue a suit with you.”
Rosamund blushed becomingly. Then she said, “Nay, it is not. I am leaving for court in a few days’ time, Logan Hepburn. I shall not return for several months.”
He was surprised by her revelation. She had said she was a friend of Margaret Tudor, but Margaret Tudor was Scotland’s queen. Was it Scotland’s court she meant? His heart beat faster. He had entrée into Jamie Stuart’s court through his cousin Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell. “You go to visit your friend, my queen?” he asked.
“Nay,” she replied, “I go to London.”
“I would not have thought you a lass for court,” he told her.
Rosamund smiled again, for she could not help herself. He was older than she. He was certainly bolder. Yet there was something about him that made her want to both kill him and kiss him. She blushed again. Now where had that thought come from? she wondered. “I am not a lass for court, my lord,” she told him, “but the queen has commanded my presence, and so I must go. Edmund tells me that you do not refuse a queen’s command, though I would if I could.”
Now how did this little country girl know England’s queen? But he could certainly not question her on the matter. He had no right, and she was not volunteering to tell him. “When you return from court, Rosamund Bolton, will you tell me so I may come and present myself before you?”
“My lord...,” she began, but then words failed her.
“I have waited since I was a lad of sixteen for you, Rosamund, and I am not known to be a patient man. I will consider your sensibilities, but if you return with a new husband from the English court, I swear to you that I will slay him, for I mean to have you for myself!”
Now she was angry. “Why would I marry you?” she demanded to know. “I am English, and have my home here at Friarsgate. You are a Scot, and live God knows where!Why,my lord, I repeat, would I wed with you? I am not of a mind to wed again anyway.”
“You will wed me, Rosamund, because I love you, even as Sir Hugh and Sir Owein loved you. You take a man’s love for granted, lass, and you should not. Besides, you have an heiress for your manor while I have neither heir nor heiress for Claven’s Carn.”
“So, my lord, you see me as good breeding stock, do you?” she snapped at him. Oh, he was absolutely insufferable!
“If I just wanted to breed up more Hepburns, lass, I should have wed long ago. God knows the lasses have been throwing themselves at my head and climbing into my bed since I was fourteen and attained my great height. But I want only you for my wife.” He towered over her.
She glared up at him, hands on her hips, amber eyes blazing with her fury. “Am I supposed to be impressed by the knowledge that other women find you attractive, my lord?”
“You find me attractive,” he told her, a wicked smiled beginning to take over his face.
“I?”she practically screeched the word. “I find you attractive?My lord, you have lost leave of your senses if you believe that.”
He knew even as he did it that he shouldn’t do it, but he could not help himself. He had to show this impossible lass the truth of the matter. Swiftly reaching out, he yanked her into his arms, his head spinning as the warm scent of white heather assailed his nostrils. He could feel the wondrous softness of her breasts against his hard chest. His mouth descended upon her sweet lips, and he kissed her as he had never before kissed any woman—with great depth of passion and with great tenderness. Then, as he looked down into the small heart-shaped face and the very startled amber eyes, he said, “Aye, Rosamund Bolton, you find me most attractive.”
She pulled from his embrace and slapped him with every ounce of strength that she had. “Get out of my hall, you... you...” She struggled for the word.“You Scots scoundrel!”Her dainty index finger pointed the way, and her color was most high.
He rubbed his cheek, amazed that she could hit so hard, and indeed the blow had hurt. He bowed to her with an elegant flourish. “I will be back, Rosamund, when you return from London. You had best prepare yourself to become my wife, for my wife you shall be!” Then he turned and was gone.
If she had had something to throw at him she would have, Rosamund thought angrily. How dare he presume that she would marry him? She had no intention of ever marrying again. “I have grown weary of burying husbands,” she muttered to herself.
Maybel came into the hall. “I saw a man riding in,” she said. “Who was it?”
“Logan Hepburn,” Rosamund answered her.
“The Hepburn of Claven’s Carn? What did he want?”
“To pay his condolences,” Rosamund said shortly.
“And to plead his case with you, too,” Maybel responded with a chuckle.
“Do not speak on it!” Rosamund snapped. “I am glad now that I am leaving for court.”
