“I do not seek marriage with the Earl of Glenkirk, Logan. He is no more capable of deserting Glenkirk than I am of deserting Friarsgate. But so you understand, he would have me if I would have him. But I will not. What I will have is my small bit of happiness before I must return to my duty as the lady of Friarsgate. I have found that happiness with the Earl of Glenkirk. Your duty as the lord of Claven’s Carn is to marry. I have heirs. I have done what I should. You have not.”
“My brothers have legitimate bairns,” Logan said stubbornly.
“But you are the direct line of descent at Claven’s Carn,” she reasoned with him. “It is your sons who should inherit. Do not be so damned difficult, Logan. You are behaving like a child who is hungry and given a bowl of porridge but wants meat instead. Eat your porridge, Logan. Eat it, and be happy.”
“I cannot be happy without you,” he insisted.
“Then you shall never be happy,” she told him. “Besides, it is not up to me to make you happy. Each of us must seek and find our own happiness. I have found mine. Go and find yours, Logan Hepburn. Now I shall bid you farewell.” She turned to leave.
“He cannot love you as I would,” Logan said bitterly.
Rosamund turned back, and her face was lit by a happiness he could not even conceive. “You have no idea how he loves me, but it pleaseth me right well,” she said.
“One day you shall have the good fortune to make the comparison, Rosamund, and then I shall be interested to hear what you say,” he told her.
She swallowed back the sharp retort that came to her lips and laughed instead. “Will you always be so overly proud, Logan?” she wondered aloud.
“A young man loves a woman differently than an old man. Your husband was old and your lover is old. I think you may fear a young man,” he said softly.
“I fear no man, Logan Hepburn, especially you,” she replied. Then she swept him a deep curtsy and left the room.
“Did you slay him, cousin?” Tom asked her humorously as she came forth into the Earl of Bothwell’s dayroom again. He was warm with the earl’s good whiskey.
“He is quite unharmed but for his pride,” Rosamund replied with a smile.
“And is he convinced you will not marry him?” Bothwell queried her.
“He is an enigma to me, my lord. I can make myself no plainer than I did, yet I think he still harbors the hope I will wed with him. My advice to you is to find him a very pretty and complaisant lass and marry him to her as quickly as you can. If he is allowed to persist in this futile pursuit of me, his brothers’ sons will inherit Claven’s Carn one day. But that is a matter for the Hepburns to decide. I thank you, my lord, for intervening in this concern between your cousin and me.” She curtsied to him. “I bid you good day. Coming, Tom?” She departed Bothwell’s apartments.
Lord Cambridge scrambled to his feet. “My thanks for the whiskey, my lord,” he said, and he followed after Rosamund.
When they had gone, Logan came forth from the little privy chamber where he and Rosamund had been speaking. He took the chair lately vacated by Thomas Bolton.
“Well,” the Earl of Bothwell said, “are you now satisfied that the lady of Friarsgate is a lost cause?”
“She says they will not marry,” Logan told his cousin. “There is yet hope for me when she has tired of this love affair and he goes back to his Highlands.”
“Have you no pride, cousin?” the earl said.
“I love her, but the fault here is mine, Patrick. I never convinced her of it. I assumed that she must know my devotion all these years bespoke my love for her, but I never convinced her of it, and women, it seems, must hear those words convincingly to believe them. How could I have been such a fool?”
“Did she say she loved you, Logan?” his cousin queried pointedly.
“Nay, but when she is quit of this passion she has for the Earl of Glenkirk she will return to Friarsgate. I will court her properly this time, Patrick, and she will love me. I know it!”
“There is no time, cousin,” the earl said. “You are past thirty now, and you must sire a legitimate heir. I have found a bride for you, and you will marry her before you leave Stirling. She is a distant cousin on your mother’s side. Her name is Jean Logan. She’s just sixteen. She is an only daughter, and her mother has birthed her father five sons, as well. It’s a good match for you. The lass has a generous gold dowry and a respectable trunkful of linens, silver, and other bridal gewgaws. The king has given his approval.”
“You went to the king without my permission?” Logan was outraged. “You had no right, Patrick! I’ll not have this lass! Nay! A thousand times nay!”
“I have every right, cousin, as clan chief, and as such I will sign the betrothal papers today. You have no excuses not to marry. Rosamund Bolton will not have you, and there is no other engaging your heart, Logan. You must marry for the sake of Claven’s Carn. Jeannie Logan is a good lass. Pretty, too. She will make you an admirable wife. She will make a good mother for your sons.”
Logan slumped forward, his head in his hands. “I will not lose her,” he said brokenly.
“You have already lost her to Glenkirk, cousin. Wed with little Jeannie Logan, and take your bride home. By this time next year you should have a son if you do your duty by your wife, and you will, I know,” the Earl of Bothwell told the younger man.
“But I cannot love this girl,” Logan protested.
“You will learn to love her, and if you don’t, you will not be so different from most men. We wed to sire bairns. Try to get along with the lass, treat her kindly, and all will be well,” the Earl of Bothwell advised the laird of Claven’s Carn.
