“I should not like you to spank me often,” she told him. “Your hand is hard, I fear. My poor bottom is still tingling.”
“Lovers sometimes play games, Rosamund. But it is not necessary to play them all the time,” he explained.
“Mayhap one day you will spank me again,” she said with a sly smile.
“One day when the occasion calls for it,” he agreed.
“I promise to be very good for now, my lord,” she said sweetly.
“I am glad for it,” he replied, grinning, “although I will admit you have the most fetchingly rounded little bottom, my darling.”
“It compares well with other bottoms you have spanked?” she asked innocently.
“Rosamund!” And then he laughed. “Extremely well,” he admitted.
“I wish we never had to go home,” she suddenly burst out.
Patrick took her into his arms. “But we do. Not for a while, but eventually, my darling. I know you want to be at Friarsgate again, and I promise I will take you there myself and remain with you for as long as I can. Now, be happy, my love, for we are together now, and no matter what happens we shall always love each other, Rosamund. Always!”
Chapter 9
Annie and Dermid were married on a warm and sunny March day. It was a tale, they both agreed, that they would one day tell their children, of how they were wed by a bishop in a great stone cathedral with stained-glass windows before the Lady’s altar. It was an auspicious occasion for such a humble pair. And afterwards the Earl of Glenkirk and Rosamund escorted them to a small inn, where they shared wine with the newly wed couple. And when the toast had been made and the sweet vintage drunk, the earl told them that he had asked the innkeeper for his finest room. Dermid and Annie would remain the night. The innkeeper was paid for the room and for a good supper to be served in a private salon. Then Patrick and Rosamund left their two servants to enjoy their first day of married life together—alone.
When they returned to the villa, Lord MacDuff was waiting for them. “I have a message from his majesty, just arrived within the hour,” he said. “You are instructed to leave San Lorenzo on the first of April, but you are to travel overland again to Paris, where you will have an audience with King Louis and reassure him in the strongest terms that Scotland will not break the auld alliance.” He handed Patrick a sealed packet. “For you,” he told the earl.
“Thank you,” Patrick said, opening the message.
“So, your servants are successfully wed,” MacDuff said to Rosamund.
“By the bishop himself,” she replied with a smile. “And not a moment too soon, I suspect. They are both very young and filled with the juices of their youth.”
“You are a very kind mistress,” MacDuff said. “Many a woman would have beaten her servant for such behavior and sent her away.”
“Annie and Dermid are both good servants, my lord,” Rosamund responded. “They simply needed to be guided into the proper path.”
“Will you go back to court?” the ambassador asked her candidly.
“I promised the queen I would,” Rosamund said. “I do not break my word once given, my lord. While I miss Friarsgate and my daughters, I owe Margaret Tudor that small allegiance. She was a good friend to me when I was at her father’s court as a young girl. She was responsible for my happy marriage. She is so desperate to give her husband a healthy son, and while I expect the child will be born by the time we return, I would congratulate her and encourage her in her motherhood. The king’slang eeysaw that she would indeed have a healthy son, but until that wee laddie rests safely in his mother’s arms, and she is certain of his health, she will fret. Queens have few friends, my lord, but I am Queen Margaret’s true friend.”
Ian MacDuff nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “Friendship is a rare commodity for those who rule, lassie. I admire your ethics as well as your good sense. They are not qualities a man usually admires in a woman.” He grinned at her. “I also admire your beauty, however, and knowing you these past few weeks, I think I am now envious of my old friend Patrick Leslie.”
“My lord, are you flirting with me?” Rosamund gently teased him.
“It has been a long time, lassie, but I believe I am,” he admitted.
“Well, cease, you old dog,” the earl said, slipping an arm about Rosamund’s waist. “The lady is mine, and I will cede her to no one.”
“What does the king say to you, or should you not share it?” Ian MacDuff asked.
“ ’Tis little more than what you have told me,” Patrick replied. “He wants me to tell King Louis of my attempts here in San Lorenzo. Is the messenger still here? I would send a communiqué with him. He is one of our people?”
“Aye, he’s a Scot. He purports to be a factotum for an Edinburgh guild of merchants, but of course he is not. ’Tis just a pose he affects to divert attention from his travels. He’s come here before,” Ian MacDuff said. “He’ll remain the night, as he usually does. Then we’ll send him back mounted on a fresh horse.”
The earl nodded. “Send him to my apartment and I will give him his instructions.”
Patrick wrote to James Stewart in detail of what had transpired between him, Venice, and the Holy Roman Empire. He had previously sent pigeons with the simple words, Venice, nay. Max, nay. Now he filled in the details of his conversations with Paolo Loredano, the doge’s representative, and Baroness Von Kreutzenkampe, who was Emperor Maximilian’s emissary. The earl’s memory was a flawless one, and always had been. He recalled his conversations with both the artist and the baroness. The king would see it all as if he had been there himself. The earl apologized for his inability to change what was happening, but at least, he wrote the king, he had put a strong suspicion of Henry Tudor in both Venice and the Holy Roman Empire’s consciousness. They would now be suspicious of England, and act accordingly.
“You are to go directly to the king, wherever he may be when you arrive in Scotland,” Patrick instructed the messenger. “And you are to deliver this message only into his hands. No secretary or page. The king’s hands. Do you understand?”
