“Seven, sire. My half brother, John Southwood, died before his second birthday in the same epidemic of white throat that took his father, the Earl of Lynmouth.”
“How many sons did yer mother bear?” the king asked.
“Five, sire.”
“Ye’ll be a good breeder, I’ve nae a doubt, Lady Gordon,” the king approved.
“Aye.” Alex smiled. “I’ll see to it with great pleasure, Jamie.”
Velvet also smiled across the king at her husband, but when James’s attention was attracted by someone else, she mouthed the wordbeastat the Earl of BrocCairn. Alex grinned back. He was anxious to leaveHolyroodand get back to Bothwell’s town house where he might take his wife to bed. She drove him wild with lust, a condition he had never before experienced. He could feel his blood begin to rise at the sight of men like Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk; George Gordon, the Earl of Huntley, who was a kinsman of his; and the handsome Lord Home as they gazed upon his wife with undisguised admiration. He wanted to take her toDun Brocwhere she would be safe from such hot eyes.
She sensed his jealousy and mischievously set out to enrage him even further. When the meal was over, the tables were cleared from the room, and in the little minstrel’s gallery above the musicians began to play for dancing. The king led Velvet to the floor first and danced a slow and stately pavane with her. This first decorous dance, however, was followed by a galliard, the waltzlike lavolta, and a coranto jig. The Earl of BrocCairn could not get near his bride, for she was clearly the most popular woman in the room. Her cheeks were flushed a soft rose from her exertion, her green eyes sparkled merrily, and her neat chignon had come loose in the middle of the lavolta. Now her auburn hair tumbled in a devilishly attractive fashion about her shoulders as she laughed happily up at Lord Home. Francis’s warning hand on Alex’s arm only just prevented him from challenging Lord Home, for Sandy Home was boldly leaning over the lovely Lady Gordon and ogling her exposed bosom.
“Easy, man! Ye’ll make a fool of yerself,” Bothwell cautioned. “Sandy means no harm. The lass seeks to provoke ye, or don’t ye see it?”
“I know she does it deliberately, Francis, but I canna help it! I love the wench, and, worse, she knows it.”
“She’s still young, Alex, and like any thoroughbred she is headstrong. Be gentle wi’ her. Women like a man who is gentle.”
“How can I be gentle when I want to strangle her?” Alex asked.
Bothwell laughed. “I’ve never met a woman who could drive me that far,” he said.
“I dinna know whether to hope ye will, so ye’ll know my agony, or hope ye never do, so ye won’t know such pain, Francis.”
For a moment a sad look passed over the Earl of Bothwell’s handsome face. He had a wretchedly unhappy marriage, and he and his wife did not live together. It had been a match of powerful families, not one of love. He sighed. “I have already met a woman who makes me feel hungry wi’ love, Alex,” he said, “but she is a decent woman and does not suspect the depth of my feelings. She must not, for she is happy in her own marriage.”
The Earl of BrocCairn stared, surprised by his cousin’s words. Then Bothwell shook himself as a wet dog might, and Alex realized that the Border lord was embarrassed to have confided in anyone something so personal. To ease Francis’s chagrin he changed the subject. “What do I do to reclaim my wayward lass without causing a scene?”
Bothwell’s good humor restored, he grinned and said, “Let me aid ye, Alex.” Then, stepping out onto the floor, he intercepted George Gordon, the powerful Earl of Huntley, who was dancing with Velvet.
“Gi’e over, Geordie,” he said good-naturedly. “Alex wants to take his lass home to bed now, and who can blame him, eh?” He grinned engagingly.
George Gordon chuckled. “Aye, I see yer point, Francis.” He let his eyes run boldly and approvingly over Velvet. “We Gordons are a hot-blooded bunch.” Kissing Velvet on the cheek, he said graciously, “Good night, fair cousin. Ye’re a lovely addition to the family!” Then he handed her over to Lord Bothwell, who led her off toward her husband.
“But I don’t want to go,” she protested softly.
“Aye,” Bothwell drawled, and his blue eyes danced with mischief. “Ye’d much rather stay here and drive poor Alex wild wi’ jealousy. Ah, ye’re a wicked lass, Velvet, but ye’re still an innocent. A little more whiskey, another hour or two, and half the men in the hall would brave Alex for a taste of yer pretty lips. Do ye really want to cause a brawl, lass?”
Velvet shook her head. “Nay,” she admitted.
“Then smile prettily at the poor, besotted man ye’ve wed, and he’ll be yer slave, I promise,” Bothwell teased her.
She made a little moue with her mouth. “He’s worse than a mule,” she muttered.
“And ye’re no better!” he said quickly.
“Francis! ’Tis not so!” She pouted prettily, and he chuckled.
“Aye, Velvet, it is. Both ye and Alex are determined to have yer own way. Ye’re selfish. One of ye has to grow up if the other is going to.”
She sighed. “I know you’re right, but, dammit, Francis, why must it always be the woman who gives in?”
“Because possibly women are a gentler and more patient sex.”
Velvet laughed. “I’m not sure that I’m either, Francis. All I know is that when Alex grows stubborn and pompous with me, I want to smack him! He simply infuriates me with his old-fashioned ideas. He refuses to even consider change.”
“Gi’e him time, Velvet. He expected a sweet, young thing who was anxiously awaiting his arrival; a lass who would come meekly back to Scotland glad that he wed wi’ her, who would eagerly bear his bairns without complaint.”
