“King James has my father’s formal consent to make a match for me, but there is one condition: I have the right to say nay should it not please me, my lord,” Cicely told him. “Perhaps if I find no one in Scotland who pleases me I shall return to England.” Now, why had she said that? Cicely wondered. There was no going back for her, but, the words spoken, she could not take them back without making herself the fool.
“Then we shall have to fall in love, my English rose,” he told her, giving her hand a little squeeze. “But perhaps there is someone else.”
“Oh, no! There is no one else!” Cicely burst out, and then she blushed furiously at her blunder.
“You do realize that I am endeavoring to court you,” Andrew Gordon said dryly.
“Aye,” Cicely replied nonchalantly, quickly regaining her equilibrium. Oh, she had been flirted with and teased in the past by various young men. But never courted openly. Still, there was no reason for the laird of Fairlea to know that. “Your attempt, my lord, is a bit feeble,” she tormented him. Picking several daisies, she began to weave them into a wreath for her hair.
He laughed aloud at her words, and then, taking her small, heart-shaped face between his two big hands, he kissed her a deep, slow kiss upon her strawberry-stained lips. He found the surprise in her blue-green eyes very satisfactory as he broke off the embrace. “Is that perhaps a bit better, my lady Cicely?”
Her heart was thundering in her chest. The firm lips on her lips had been thrilling. Once a boy at court had stolen a kiss from her, but it had been chill and swift. Nothing at all like Andrew Gordon’s warm mouth on hers. “Aye, ’tis better, my lord,” she agreed pleasantly. “And if you seriously mean to court me then perhaps you will address me by my name, Andrew Gordon.”
“Cicely,”he crooned to her. “Cicely of the beautiful auburn curls and blue-green eyes. Cicely of the sweet lips that taste like strawberries.” And he kissed her again.
Her head spun. Her heart raced. This certainly had to be the most fascinating thing that had ever happened to her. She couldn’t wait to tell Jo! Yet she must not fall like a ripe apple into the laird of Fairlea’s big, eager hands. She pulled gently away from him. “You are far too bold, my lord,” she scolded him. “I would think one kiss was enough for this day. You are greedy, I fear.”
“A thousand kisses would not be enough!” he declared, smiling at her, his hand to his heart. “May I hope you will welcome my attentions, Cicely?”
“First I must speak with the queen,” she told him, suddenly prim. He must not think she could be bought so easily for two sweet kisses. And as inexperienced as she was, Cicely knew those two kisses had indeed been delicious. “She is my mistress, and whatever actions I take must have her approval, Andrew.”
“Of course,” he agreed. He rather liked the fact that she was careful of her reputation. Scotswomen had the tendency to be bolder than most other women. “Should I ask my kinsman Huntley to speak with the king?”
“Nay! ’Tis far too soon, my lord. If you would court me, Andrew Gordon, then you must do it correctly,” Cicely told him. “If you would have the prize you will have to win it. There are never any guarantees in life, are there?”
He was just slightly offended by her words. “Are you fickle then, Cicely, that you cannot make up your mind in this matter?” the laird of Fairlea asked her.
“Nay, I am not fickle, my lord. But perhaps upon better acquaintance we shall learn we do not suit each other. Marriage, as we both know, is for eternity,” Cicely reminded Andrew Gordon. “Your handsome face, your tempting lips, and other skills not yet known to me may not be enough. We must be friends as well as lovers, even as the king and the queen are. I will settle for no less, Andrew Gordon.”
She surprised him, but he was determined to win her over. She was beautiful. She was well-spoken, and to his surprise he could talk with her. And his cousin, Huntley, had informed him that Lady Cicely Bowen had a considerable fortune. She was a perfect match for him, Andrew Gordon decided. She was fair to the eye, wealthy with powerful friends, and his clan approved of the English girl. He could certainly do no better, the laird of Fairlea considered. He was going to win her over, and if truth be told, his heart was already a little engaged by Lady Cicely Bowen.
Chapter 4
Afew days before the coronation of James I, the king visited his parliament. It was there that the earls and other lords learned for certain that he was not his father’s son. Rather he was like his great-great-grandfather, Robert the Bruce. James was fascinated by the workings of his government, and meant for it to run efficiently and honestly. The earls were not pleased to hear him declare in a strong voice, “If any man presumes to make war against another, he shall suffer the full penalties of the law. I will have a firm and fair peace in this land.” But as they listened in respectful silence to this king they were realizing he could not be managed or dislodged. A new era was dawning in Scotland.
On the fourteenth day of May, James Stewart, the first of his name, and Joan Beaufort, his wife, were crowned king and queen of Scotland in the abbey of Scone. James stood tall and assured. He was an attractive young man with dark red hair and amber eyes. His face was long, as was his nose. There was an air of dignity about him. The queen, dainty and sweet-faced, stood next to her husband, her dark blond hair and blue eyes a delicate contrast next to her tall husband. Afterwards, in their ermine-trimmed royal purple velvet robes, they had ridden through the city of Perth to the lusty cheers of the people. Above them the sun shone down, and everyone was hopeful of good things.
And behind them their train of attendants and lords followed.Cicely sat sidesaddle upon her horse, although she rarely rode that way. Still, on this day her behavior must reflect well upon her mistress. Next to her the laird of Fairlea rode. He was rarely far from her side now, and it had begun to be noted among those in regular attendance at court. And amid the procession a troop of border lords rode. There were Bruces to whom the king was related. There were Armstrongs, Hepburns, Scotts, and Douglases.
“He seems a good man,” Ian Douglas, the laird of Glengorm, said to his younger brother, Fergus. “He was gracious when I pledged my fealty along the road.”
“We’ll see,” Fergus answered.
“What have you heard?” Ian asked his sibling.
“The people are pleased, but ’tis said the northerners are not. He’s already shown he’s not old feeble Robert, or Albany, who could be easily bought and was quick to buy allies with his nephew’s possessions,” Fergus said.
“It’s different in the borders,” Ian answered. “We’re not always defying the crown like the MacDonalds, the Gordons, and others to the north.”
“We Douglases have had our quarrels with these kings,” Fergus noted.
“I’ll keep the peace as long as I’m respected by this king,” Ian Douglas declared.
“How long do we have to stay here?” Fergus asked. “This town is too close for me. I need the open space of our lands. And besides, ’tis spring and time to go raiding.”
“Our queen is kin to England’s king. She’s here to make peace between our lands,” Ian replied. “Unless we are attacked we’ll nae attack others, little brother.”
“When can we go home?” Fergus inquired again.
