But he wanted to bethegreatest and having Elizabeth Douglas by his side would help him achieve that… wouldn’t it? Of course it would. She was his perfect complement and would be an asset to him at court. Izzie, on the other hand, didn’t even seem to like court that much; she would probably just make him laugh all the time by whispering wry observations in his ear while he was trying to be serious. Elizabeth was rich, landed, connected—all things Izzie was as well, he couldn’t help thinking—andthe most beautiful woman at court. At least that’s what people said—and what he’d thought. But that was before he’d noticed Izzie’s delicate, timeless, more modest beauty, which was much more…
Ah hell. He had to stop this. He wasn’t going to fall in love with anyone. It was a distraction he didn’t need. Just because he couldn’t forget how she’d looked at him yesterday—all hurt and imploring—and how it had felt as if a boulder was on his chest, didn’t mean he should do something rash. He’d given his word, damn it. And for the past six years since he’d returned to the Scottish fold, that had meant something. He wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize what he’d achieved because he was a little confused, and some irritating lass who thought she could see things he couldn’t had him all twisted up in knots.
He sure as hell wasn’t looking for a way to get out of it. That wasn’t why he was here. He’d entered the abbey rectory and now stood in the private chamber used by the abbot (and the king while he was in the city) waiting—pacing, what the hell was the difference?—while one of the monks fetched Douglas. He’d only sought him out because of what Izzie had hinted at. Aye, it was for Elizabeth’s sake that he was here. She wanted this marriage just as much as he did, didn’t she? She’d seemed amenable enough when they’d discussed the matter. Perhaps a bit subdued, but he thought that she was just being modest and reserved. He’d never heard her name linked with another man’s and she certainly hadn’t singled out any men for her attention that he’d noticed.
He’d seen her looking at MacGowan a few times, but he knew that wasn’t anything. MacGowan was a childhood friend from her village, but the blacksmith’s son was hardly suitable as a prospective suitor.
He turned at the sound of the door opening as his friend and rival strode into the room.
Douglas gave him the black scowl that had helped earn him his epithet and came to a stop, squaring off in front of him as if preparing for a fight. It was an odd tact to take—even for the always-confrontational Douglas—and made Randolph’s eyes narrow. Was Douglas anticipating some last-minute objections?
“What’s this about, Randy? I thought today was the big day. Isn’t it my sister you should be asking to see?”
Randolph ignored the diminutive, which he had Hawk to thank for (he was irritating, too), and answered. “I will, but I wanted to speak to you first.”
“I thought we discussed everything yesterday. We’ve agreed on the tocher, and if you are trying to get more land out of me—”
“It’s not that.”
His friend’s face darkened. Randolph thought he muttered a curse. “Is it Elizabeth? Has she said something?”
Douglas was a little too anxious. Randolph’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “About what?”
“Nothing,” Douglas said hastily. Either Randolph’s ignorance as to what he might be talking about, or his own realization that he’d given away too much seemed to relax him. Angry and confrontational gave way to gregarious and smiling. “I thought you’d spoken to her and made your intentions clear.”
“Aye, but I just wanted to make sure that the lass is not being pressured.” They both knew by whom. “I want to make sure that this is what she wants.”
“Of course it is.”
“She has told you as much?”
“I spoke with her on the very subject last night.”
“So there isn’t a reason to think she would be… uh, unhappy?” He’d been about to say miserable.
It was Douglas’s turn to narrow his eyes suspiciously. “What’s this about, Randolph? Where is this coming from? You aren’t having second thoughts and trying to get out of it, are you? The contracts have already been drawn up. You gave me your word.”
Randolph stiffened. “I know, and I’m not.”
“Good,” Douglas said with a hard slap on his back. “Then hadn’t you better send for my sister?”
That’s exactly what he should do. He’d given his word. But for one moment, Randolph felt paralyzed with something akin to panic.
The stay of the executioner’s axe would not be coming from Elizabeth. Izzie could tell from her cousin’s distress when she’d returned from her “errand” last night that she would not be the one to put a stop to the betrothal. Indeed, after a talk with her brother, Elizabeth seemed to be resolved to going forward with it. Joanna was obviously furious with her husband for interfering and tried to broach the subject a few times with Elizabeth—“You do not need to rush…”—but her cousin made it clear she did not wish to talk about it. It was all but decided.
From the way Elizabeth jumped every time the door to Joanna’s solar opened and closed, Izzie guessed the “but” would be imminent. Thus, it was a surprise when the knock came that the call was for Izzie and not Elizabeth. Walter wished to see her to discuss something “important.”
If her heart was pounding a little fast as she hurried across the yard to the abbot’s house—which had largely been taken over by the king—she told herself not to be foolish. Walter might wish to see her for any number of reasons. It probably didn’t have anything to do with Randolph. But the tiniest part of her wondered if it could. Had she somehow gotten through to him?
She paused when she reached the entry. Walter’s squire hadn’t said where he’d be waiting. She took a few steps toward the small outer vestibule, which she knew was being used as a receiving chamber for the king, not wanting to disturb anyone. The room was empty, but a few moments later, the door leading to the king’s chamber opened and her tall, gangly cousin strode out.
A little younger than herself, the Sixth High Steward of Scotland still looked more youth than man. Freckled, with brown hair tinged with a great deal of red, Walter had the ruddy good looks that would grow more pronounced with age. His seemingly perpetual good cheer and broad smile brought a twinkle to his blue eyes that never ceased to make her smile in return.
“That was fast, cousin. I’m sorry not to be here when you arrived. I hope you were not waiting long?”
Embarrassed by her obvious eagerness, Izzie tried not to flush—unsuccessfully. “Your squire said I should come right away.”
“Aye,” Walter said with another smile. “I have some good news.”
