He couldn’t resist. He enjoyed it better when she fought him openly. “Are you attempting to ply me with good wine and then seduce me, madame?” He cocked a black eyebrow questioningly at her.
“Have you always had such a fine opinion of yourself, Logan?” she demanded with a show of her old spirit. The beast! Could he read her mind?
“Always, my darling,” he told her with a brash grin. He saw her fingers tighten about the stem of her goblet. “You are contemplating hurling the contents of your vessel at me, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” she admitted through clenched teeth. “Oh, yes!”
“I have a better idea, and it will save my doublet and not waste your good wine,” he told her with a grin. Then, setting his own goblet aside, he stood up. “Get up, Rosamund, and I will help you calm your temper,” Logan said. “But let us put your wine aside first,” and he took the goblet from her hand and set it upon a table. He drew her to a standing position. “From now on,” he said, “when you wish to do violence to me, you will instead kiss me.”
“What?” Surely she had not heard him aright, but then he was folding her arms behind her as he pulled her into his arms. His head was descending to meet hers. His lips were pressing themselves to her lips. With the touch of his flesh on hers, Rosamund’s knees gave way, but he was holding her so firmly that she did not fall. Her eyes had closed of their own volition, and her head began to spin.
Then he raised his mouth from hers and said, “Kissing is much nicer, Rosamund, than quarreling. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”
“I have never quarreled with anyone the way I do with you,” she said as her head cleared. “You are the most annoying man.”
“You are no longer angry at me,” he teased her.
“Nay,” she said. “I do not think I am.”
“You see?” he said as he released her from his embrace.
“Will I have to fight with you in order for you to kiss me?” Rosamund asked him provocatively.
“For now, aye,” he told her. “You are not an easy woman, and I must bring you to reason if we are ever to marry, my darling.”
“Bring me to reason?” Her outrage was more than evident. Her little balled fist hit him a blow on his arm. “Not an easy woman? Who the hell are you to criticize me, Logan Hepburn? Do you think you are some paragon of perfection? Even Jeannie, God assoil her sweet soul, knew better than that!”
He wanted to laugh, but he did not. Instead, he yanked her back into his arms and kissed her until she was breathless and half-swooning. “I will master you, you impossible wench, if I must spend the rest of my life doing it,” he said to her. Then he kissed her again and again and again until she was whimpering with pleasure. Finally he set her back on her feet, holding her arm lightly as she swayed for a moment. “There,” he said. “You should be calm again. Now, show me where I am to sleep this night, Rosamund Bolton.”
She shook her head to clear it, saying nothing. He was irritating! He was impossible! He was overbearing! But God’s wounds! His kisses were divine. She was surprised to discover that she could move her legs now, and so she led him upstairs to the guest chamber. Opening the door, she stepped back to allow him through. “Good night, my lord,” she said softly. More softly than she had intended, but at least she could speak, Rosamund thought.
He stepped past her, and then turning, said low, “Not tonight, Rosamund, but another night, we will share this bed together.”
“I have not said I should marry you, Logan,” she replied quickly.
“I have not said I should ask you, Rosamund,” he told her. “I have simply said that one night soon we will share this bed, you and I. Good night, madame.”
Astounded, she stepped away from the door as he reached to close it. Her heart was beating madly. She began to consider what it might be like in his arms, and then she thought of the last time she had lain in a man’s arms. “Patrick,” she whispered, but even as she said his name she knew that the Earl of Glenkirk would never deny her the happiness with another man that he could no longer give her. And with that thought came the realization that the premonition they had both experienced when they had first met had finally come to pass. She would never see Patrick Leslie again in this life. And with that knowledge Rosamund knew she was suddenly free to love once more. She would always love Patrick. She knew that. He would live hidden in that secret place in her heart known only to her. But her life had to go on, and she knew now that she could not live without love.
Logan stood, his back to the closed door, breathing slowly. Deeply. Her mouth had been far sweeter than he had remembered. The sensation of her full breasts against his chest had made his senses reel and his manhood ache with his need. The boldness of the words he had just spoken to her burned in his throat. Instinct had warned him it was too soon, but how he had wanted her in his bed this night. Tom’s advice had been good, but he could not play this game with her forever. He had not the patience for it, he knew. He loved her too much. Logan wanted Rosamund as his wife. And his wife she was going to be sooner than later. He slept badly. As did Rosamund.
Her dreams were wild, jumbled impressions that left her tossing and restless and more awake than asleep. She awoke bleary-eyed and irritable, but she was ready to begin preparing the trap they had devised the previous evening to rid Friarsgate of her cousin Henry Bolton once and for all. For all of her life she had been troubled, first by her father’s youngest brother and now by his son. Her uncle’s bones rested in the family burial ground. But Rosamund knew she would not feel safe until her cousin lay beside his father.
To her surprise, she found Logan gone when she came down into the hall. He had, a servant informed her, departed at first light with just a few of his clansmen. Then her uncle Edmund entered the hall.
“You are awake at last, niece!” he said jovially. “Logan has left me instructions for our part in this charade. We must begin today, for the sooner this is over and done with, the better for Friarsgate. I do not relish a winter defending ourselves from not just four-legged wolves, but two-legged ones, as well.”
“He might have said good-bye,” Rosamund said, annoyed.
“I thought you might have said farewell to each other last night,” Edmund murmured innocently.
She threw him an evil look. “I showed him to his chamber and went to my own,” she said. “I assumed he would be here when I returned to the hall and would speak with me himself instead of giving instructions to you, uncle.” She felt her anger beginning to rise, and then the oddest thing happened. She remembered her anger of the previous evening and how he had calmed her. She could almost feel his lips on hers now, and as she did, the anger began to drain away. “He was wise to leave early,” she said suddenly, surprising Edmund. “We must be scrupulous in our execution of this plan, or we will fail miserably. What would the laird have us do, uncle?”
“We must prepare the false gold and transport it in secret to the abbey near Lochmaben. And we must do it without your cousin’s men observing us. To that end, the laird’s men are scouring the few caves in our hillsides where an intruder might secrete himself to spy on us. Others of the Hepburns are posted upon our heights. But we must work quickly, Rosamund, for we do not want to arouse Henry the younger’s suspicions.”
“Have the bricks brought into the house through the kitchen garden door,” she said. “Not all at once, but a few at a time over the day. We cannot be certain we are not being watched, and I would not have anyone’s curiosity aroused by a constant stream of men and women going in and out of the house. At twilight and in the darkness of the evening the rest of the bricks may be carried inside.”
“Where do you want them?” he asked.
“In the hall,” Rosamund said. “We will wrap them here.”
The morning meal was brought and eaten. People came and went throughout the day while Rosamund, Philippa, Maybel, and several of the servingwomen carefully wrapped each brick in a natural-colored felt fabric and then tied th
e wrappings with wool twine so the contents remained well concealed. The pile of wrapped bricks never grew any larger, for as each brick was covered with felt and tied, it was removed from the hall. Finally all the bricks were wrapped and gone from the hall. They had been taken over the long day and early evening to a barn, where they were loaded in a covered wooden wagon that would be transported first over the border to Claven’s Carn and from there to the deserted abbey where the wagon’s cover would then be removed. A tarpaulin would replace it, being tied down for effect. But the transport would remain in Rosamund’s barn until the laird returned and gave the word it was to be moved.
And he did return several days later. “Twenty of my men are now populating the abbey,” he said. “We will transport our gold over the border tomorrow and from there to Lochmaben. When I return again we will be ready to inform Lord Dacre and Henry the younger of the gold they may steal.” He laughed. “You have done your part well, Rosamund. The bricks make quite a convincing shipment of gold.”
“Aye, we worked hard to be certain there is not the faintest sign of what is really between those wrappings,” she told him.
“In two days Tom will seek out Lord Dacre, and Edmund, Henry the younger. I know where both are now located. Leaving at the same time, they should reach their quarry at approximately the same time. The trick will be to return to us at the same time with the news that they have both taken the bait.”
Two days later Edmund, six men-at-arms with him, rode to where his nephew hid himself between his border forays. Henry the younger was surprised to see his uncle, but he greeted him cordially enough. Edmund did not dismount his horse.
“This is not a social call, nephew,” he said bluntly.
Henry felt at somewhat of a disadvantage standing by his uncle’s mount. “Get down, Edmund Bolton, so we may speak eye to eye,” he said. “Come in and have some wine. I have an excellent keg I relieved a traveling merchant of recently.” And he chuckled as if it were all a jest.
But Edmund remained atop his mount. “Nay. There is something I have come to say, Henry,” he told his nephew. “I want you to cease harassing Friarsgate. I want you to put all thoughts of marrying Philippa Meredith from your head. A match is being arranged for her with the second son of an earl. It is what the family wants. However, in return for your cooperation, we are willing to direct you to a rather large cache of gold, yours for the taking, nephew. Easy pickings, unless, of course, you are afraid of a band of Scottish monks,” he said scornfully. “You have no real love for Friarsgate. Would you not be content instead with gold?”
“Perhaps,” Henry said softly. “Tell me more, uncle.”
“Your word first that you will cease seeking to kidnap little Philippa. She is yet a child, Henry, and would be more troublesome than useful to you. And you could not keep her from her mother for long. Rosamund is a strong-willed woman, as your father learned.”
“Rosamund should have been my wife,” Henry the younger said. “It could be my son who inherited Friarsgate, and not another girl, uncle.”
Edmund’s laughter was brittle. “What are you now, nephew? Seventeen? Rosamund is twenty-five, and she would kill you before she would marry you. You do not want Friarsgate, lad. That was your father’s dream, and where did it get him but a narrow plot in the family’s burial ground? His lust for what was not his drove your mother away. It turned her from a vapid but decent girl into . . . well, lad, you know what Mavis became. And you? You are hunted and will be one day caught and hung.” He paused for a long moment. “Unless you decide to change your fate, Henry. Give me your word that you will leave the Boltons of Friarsgate alone, and I will make you rich, so rich you may leave here and begin your life anew. You were not meant to be a bandit in the borders, nephew. Do you really want your mother to come upon you one day, hanging at the side of the road? Would you break her heart that way? With the gold I offer you, you can rescue her from her shame and let her live out her life peaceably.”
For a brief moment Henry the younger’s face softened. Then his eyes narrowed, and he said, “Tell me!”
“Your promise first,” Edmund replied.
“You would accept my word?” Henry the younger sounded surprised, but he was also flattered. No one had ever agreed to accept his word before. “You have my hand on it, uncle. If you will tell me where this gold is, and if I can obtain it, I will leave Friarsgate and its inhabitants in peace. I will go south, as Thomas Bolton’s antecedent did. Perhaps I will have the same good fortune as he did.” That is not to say I will not return one day, Henry the younger thought silently. But Friarsgate was not for him, and he knew it. Besides, he hated the stink of sheep.
Edmund took his nephew’s hand and shook it. “The gold is at an abbey in the borders near Lochmaben. I learned of its existence from a Hepburn clansman. The laird’s cousin, the now-deceased Earl of Bothwell, had stored it there for King James before the war. Now it is needed to support the little king, and the queen regent has sent for it to be brought to Stirling. There is but one place where it may be safely taken, nephew. The vehicle bearing the gold will travel from the abbey down to the Edinburgh road. It is a distance of but a few miles. Midway between the abbey and that junction in the road is the ideal place to snatch it. The wagon will be driven by two monks. It is hoped such an equipage will not attract any attention,” Edmund said.
“You have remarkably good information, uncle,” Henry the younger said suspiciously.
“Of course I do,” Edmund agreed. “We hired out Hepburn clansmen to watch over Friarsgate. We pay them, and house and feed them. We are borderers no matter which allegiance we espouse when our kings go to war, nephew. The Scots have become comfortable with us, and they talk a great deal, for they are lonely for their families. They are also proud of their family connections, and the Earl of Bothwell, Patrick Hepburn, was responsible for hiding this gold at Lochmaben. I am sure that if Lord Dacre learns of this transport of gold he will want it, too. But that is unlikely, nephew. So there it is for the taking, if you are not afraid.”
“I am not afraid!” Henry the younger said quickly. “Do you know when this gold will be moved, uncle?”
“They say in three days’ time, nephew, but if I were you, I should go to Lochmaben as soon as possible and wait in hiding so you do not miss its departure.” Edmund turned his horse’s head as he prepared to leave his nephew’s encampment.
“Uncle,” Henry the younger called after him.
Edmund twisted in his saddle. “Yes, nephew?” he asked.
“If you have lied to me, I will come back and kill you,” Henry the younger said.
Edmund laughed harshly. “You are surely your father’s son,” he said, and then he rode off with his escort of clansmen to return to Friarsgate, where he found Tom just returned from his visit to Lord Dacre.
The two men entered the hall of the house, where Rosamund awaited them anxiously. “Well?” she said.
“Your cousin said as I was departing his camp that he would kill me if I lied to him,” Edmund chuckled. “He has taken the bait, niece.”
Rosamund turned to her cousin. “Tom?”
Lord Cambridge nodded. “At first Dacre was not certain that I knew what I was talking about. ‘Dear boy,’ I told him, ‘I have not ridden across half of England for my own amusement. The information I have practically comes from the source.’ Then I went on to tell him he had really been quite naughty continuing his raids in the borders. I happen to know, I said, for haven’t I just returned from court, that the king has told you it must stop! You are endangering all of us who live here. My cousin, Lady Rosamund Bolton, Queen Katherine’s dear, dear friend from their shared childhoods at court, has a large estate, Friarsgate, nearby. Then I lowered my voice and became quite chummy with Dacre. ‘Her daughter has just been chosen to be a maid of honor in two years’ time. If you do not stop, dear boy, you endanger Friarsgate, for the Scots will surely retaliate and come marauding. Now,’ I continued, ‘one of the men who guards
Friarsgate has a sister married to a Scot over the border. And he has told her that a large shipment of gold that has been hidden at Lochmaben in an abbey is to be transported across the country to the queen regent for the support of her son, the little king. Now, if you seized that shipment of gold, our king would be very pleased. His sister, the Queen of Scotland, is being most difficult with him right now. If our dear King Henry had her gold, then she would have to be more amenable, wouldn’t she? Of course, if you are fearful of that band of renegades that have been about of late, well, I might understand, dear boy, but would King Henry?’ ”
They laughed, and Rosamund said, “You really are quite wicked, Tom. He listened to you, then?”
“I told him exactly where and when, dear girl, and suggested he would not be amiss leaving sooner than later. Like Edmund, I left behind a man to observe, who will return to us when both of our unsuspecting victims reach Lochmaben, when the battle is over and done with. Lord Dacre and his men are really quite well armed.”
“Henry the younger will fight harder,” Edmund said.
“Perhaps, but he will be overcome,” Tom told them.
“Then we have but to wait for news,” Rosamund responded.
“Where is your brazen Scot, dear girl?” Tom asked her.
“He is not mine, Tom!” Rosamund exclaimed.
“Of course he is,” Lord Cambridge replied with a grin. “Now, where is he?”
“He has gone to Lochmaben,” Rosamund said. “I will not believe that Henry the younger is dead unless I see his body and bury it.”
“God’s wounds, dear girl!” Tom exclaimed. “I am quite relieved not to be your enemy.”
“I do not do it out of vindictiveness, Tom, but I must be certain that Philippa is safe,” Rosamund told him. “And he is my cousin. Our blood. He should be interred here. Like his father, it is all he will ever have of Friarsgate.”
So they waited, and ten days later Logan came riding over the border and down the hill to Friarsgate with his men. Among their number was a riderless horse that carried a body. The body had already begun to stink, but in anticipation that he would not fail her, Rosamund had seen the grave already dug and the shroud ready. The body was put into its burial cloth. Rosamund looked upon Henry the younger’s face. In death he was a pleasant-looking young man who did not seem in the least dangerous. She nodded silently, and then she sewed the top of the shroud closed herself before they buried her young cousin.
Until You Page 48
