“What if Rosamund Bolton had not fallen in love with another and had agreed to be my wife?” Logan queried.
“Then I should have found bonnie Jean another suitable husband,” the earl replied. “But I do not have to, do I, Logan?”
“Nay, you do not. She is pretty, she is young, and being convent bred undoubtedly amenable. If I cannot have Rosamund, this lass will do as well as any,” Logan said, resigned.
“ ’Tis not such a bad fate, cousin,” the earl noted.
“Come then, and introduce us, my lord,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said. “The sooner, the better, if you want me wedded and bedded on Twelfth Night. We should give the lass a little time to know the man she is to be shackled to for the rest of her life.” He arose from the table, the earl with him.
Together the two men walked to the end of the long board, and Patrick Hepburn stopped within the young girl’s gaze. She looked up, stood quickly, and curtsied to him.
“My lord Bothwell,” she said breathlessly, her curious gaze going to the earl’s companion. Her cheeks were pink, and her heart was beating rapidly.
“What, my bonnie Jean, it was Uncle Patrick the last time we met,” Bothwell said jovially. He tipped her small face up and gave her a quick kiss upon her lips. “You are being treated well in the queen’s household?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Patrick!” she replied.
“Well, lassie, you’ll not be there much longer, for you are to be married. But, then, your father told you it might be so, didn’t he?”
“Aye,” came the soft answer. Her blush deepened.
“Then, allow me to present my cousin, whose mother, God assoil her good soul, was a member of your own clan. This is Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn, Jean. You will be married to him on Twelfth Night here at Stirling.”
“Mistress Jean,” Logan said, bowing over the girl’s little hand as he took it up and kissed it. The small hand trembled in his, and he immediately felt protective of her.
She blushed again, but she looked directly at him. “My lord.”
He smiled at her, thinking the blush charming. Poor little lass, she had no choice in the matter and knew not what she was getting into at all. And then in a flash he understood what Rosamund had been forced to endure. “We have little time in which to get to know each other, Mistress Jean,” he said to her.
“We will have a lifetime together, my lord,” she answered, surprising him. “Besides, many girls never meet their bridegrooms until they are standing at the altar.”
“Which,” he remarked, “can often be a shock.”
She giggled. “On both sides, my lord,” she replied quickly.
In that moment he decided he was going to like her. He could only hope that she would like him.
“I shall leave you two to become acquainted,” the Earl of Bothwell said to the pair, and he moved quickly off.
There was a long, awkward silence, and then the laird of Claven’s Carn took Jeannie’s hand and said, “Let us stroll away from the revelers and talk, mistress.”
“I should like that,” Jean Logan responded, moving by his side. She was very petite, and he towered over her.
“I would tell you, Mistress Jean, that I require honesty above all things, and so I must ask you if you are content to make this marriage with me.”
“I am, my lord,” she said. Her voice was soft, but it did not quiver.
“And your heart is not engaged by any other?” he asked her. “For if it is, I would not force you into a match.”
“My heart will be yours, my lord, and no other’s,” Jean Logan said honestly.
He nodded. “I have two brothers,” he began. “Claven’s Carn is in the borders. We are not rich, but we are comfortable. The house is snug, and it will be yours to rule.”
“Have you ever been wed before, my lord?” she asked.
“Never, Mistress Jean,” he answered her.
“Why not?” she wondered.
“It is a long story,” he said.
“I like stories,” she responded quietly.
He laughed. “I see that I shall be unable to hide anything from you, Mistress Jean. Very well. I have for many years sought the hand of an English neighbor. Her guardian would not consider a match, and after he had seen her wed to two husbands-for she was a child when those marriages were celebrated-I thought to have my chance with her. But the English king matched her with one of his own knights. It was a good marriage. There were children, and then her husband was killed in an accident. I sought her hand, but she would not have me. Since I am past thirty, my family appealed to Lord Bothwell to make a match for me, as we are kin. And so he has.”
“I think her a foolish lady, my lord,” Jeannie said softly, having stopped so she might look up at him when she said it. “I shall not be unhappy to be your wife at all.”
He smiled down at the young girl. It might have been far worse, he thought, and while he would always regret Rosamund, he was going to be a good husband to this sweet lassie. “Then I will certainly be content as well, Mistress Jean, and I think myself fortunate in having found you.” He bent down and kissed her lips softly. “To seal our bargain, lassie,” he told her.
She blushed again. “I have never been kissed before by a lover,” she told him naively.
“And now mine are the only lips your sweet ones shall know, Jean Logan,” he said to her. “I shall take you back now, and we will tell Lord Bothwell that we are content with this bargain.” He took her hand again, and they reentered the crush of guests in the hall. He sought out Bothwell telling him, “We are agreed, Mistress Jean and I, cousin. You may affix Twelfth Night as our wedding day.”
“Excellent!” the Earl of Bothwell declared. “Let us go and speak with the king now.” And he led them to where James Stewart sat observing his court.
“Well, my lord, and what have you come to say, for you are looking most arch this night?” the king remarked.
“I do not believe, highness, that you have met my cousin, Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn,” the earl began, “and this is his betrothed wife, Mistress Jean Logan, who is a relation on his mother’s side. They seek your highness’ permission to be wed here at Stirling on Twelfth Night Day.”
James Stewart’s dark eyebrows quirked. Was this not the man who desired the lovely lady of Friarsgate for a wife? He considered asking, but realized that if this was the man of whom he had heard, the sweet-faced lass by his side might not have known of her future husband’s lust for Rosamund Bolton. It mattered not. The Englishwoman was enamored of the Earl of Glenkirk, and this border lord was to wed another. “They have our permission,” the king said, “and the marriage may be celebrated in my chapel. The queen and I will serve as witness to this union.” Then he smiled at them, delighting in Jean Logan’s blue eyes, which grew round with her excitement. “Come here, lassie,” he said, “and give your king a kiss, now.” He held out his hand to her.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, rosy with her blushes. “Oh, sir!” And catching up the outstretched hand, she kissed it fervently. Then, releasing the hand, she curtsied deeply. “Thank you, my lord, for this great honor.”
“And you, Logan Hepburn? Are you satisfied with this matter?” the king probed. His look was sharp and very direct.
“I am advised by my cousin, the earl, and the rest of my small clan branch that it is past time for me to wed, my lord. Mistress Jean should make me a fine wife,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said politically.
The king smiled cynically. “May God and his Holy Mother bless you both, then, and give you many bairns,” he said. The impulsive laird had obviously seen the truth of Rosamund’s infatuation with Lord Leslie and given in to his family’s pleas. Well, the little lass was pretty and obviously well bred. She would probably suit Logan Hepburn far better than the lovely Englishwoman, although right now he undoubtedly did not realize it.