Thirteen
John ignored the guards flanking the ornately carved door and knocked loudly.
“Enter,” a booming voice called out.
He turned the handle and stepped inside. The king was seated in a wide-backed chair by the fire, a jeweled goblet in his hand. “Welcome, John,” he said and gestured toward a stool directly opposite his chair. “I’ve been waiting nearly an hour, lad.” He waved his arm to encompass the small paneled room. “As you can see, we are alone. Now tell me of my dear brother-in-law’s plans.”
“I apologize for the delay, Your Grace,” replied John. He seated himself on the stool and stretched out his long legs. “I’m afraid my news isn’t good.”
Jamie nodded. “I thought not. Tell me everything you know.”
“His Holiness seeks to twist Louis of France in a powerful noose,” said John. “Henry encourages this hatred of his enemy by sending Rome huge sums of gold. There will be a time when you must choose, Your Grace.”
“Bah!” The king threw the remains of his wine, goblet and all, into the blazing fire. “I’ll not take arms against Louis. He is my ally. We’ve a treaty between us.”
“Even if it means war with England?”
“Julius is a sorry excuse for a clergyman,” Jamie muttered. “The last thing Christendom needs is a warrior pope. He should concern himself with the Vatican. If he wants to lead an army, why not send a crusade to the Holy Land? God’s blood! There isn’t a man in Scotland who wouldn’t vie for the privilege of taking up such a cause.”
John could think of nothing less appealing, but he knew better than to disagree with Jamie when he started on the subject of a holy crusade. “Julius II is a selfish man, Your Grace,” he said instead. “There will be a Holy League, but it will not be against the infidels. It will be directed against our ancient ally, the most Christian king of France.”
Jamie drummed his fingers on a small side table. “Louis will not stand for such nonsense,” he said. “He will appeal for a general council against the pope.”
A taut white line appeared around John’s lips. “It would be most unwise for Louis to set himself against the pope.”
The king gave him a sharp look from beneath his heavy eyebrows. “I do not believe you are at all concerned for Louis, my friend.”
John grinned. “You are always astute, Your Grace.”
Jamie leaned forward. “You have been five years at the English court. Where will you stand, John Maxwell, if Scotland allies herself with France?”
An angry wind moaned against the parapets and stirred the tapestries lining the paneled walls. In the fireplace, a log cracked and split, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearth. No one looking at the handsome, chiseled features of the laird of Traquair would have guessed at the enormity of the decision weighting his mind. There was the power and might of the English king allied with Ferdinand of Aragon, the emperor Maximilian, and all of Christendom against a weakened Louis VII and the tragically loyal, recklessly brave Jamie IV of Scotland.
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, throwing the king’s features into bold relief. John was shocked. For the first time, the fleshy, handsome face of the man who had wrested a kingdom from his father at the age of fifteen reflected uncertainty. In that instant, John made his decision. With everything to lose and nothing to gain, he knelt at the feet of Scotland’s king and bowed his head in deference.
“I am a Scot, my liege,” he said. “Command me as you will.”
With a deep, rumbling sigh, Jamie offered his hand. John kissed the royal ring with its raised pelican crest, symbolizing the Stewart dynasty.
“Stand, m’lord.” The king’s voice was gruff with emotion. “I’m not foolish enough to believe your words come easily. For that I thank you.”
Tall and lean in the leaping light of the fire, John looked down at his king and nodded. Jamie was charming and fickle, not unlike the others of his line who had ruled this kingdom to the north of England. He was also inspirational, rash, daring, and willful, the kind of leader men took into their hearts, worshipped, fought with, and willingly died for. John was no different. Against his better judgment, his sword was forever pledged to the House of Stewart.
***
“Where are you going at this hour? ’Tis after four.” Flora Maxwell’s smooth brow wrinkled in dismay as she stared at the back of her daughter’s head.
Jeanne was almost out the door. Her hands clenched on the folds of her skirt, but she did not turn to face her mother. “I go with Sim to carry peat to Grania’s cottage,” she said. “The nights are cold for an old woman.”
“Send Sim alone,” begged Flora. “The moors are no place for a woman and a lad not yet grown.”
Jeanne turned impatiently, her lovely face set as if carved in marble. “We’ve been through this before. I will not be ruled by you, Mother. Not in this. Not in anything.”
Flora’s face paled, but she stood, determined to have it out between them. “Why do you hate me so? You are my only daughter, my only living child. What have I done to earn your contempt?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jeanne’s smile did not reach her eyes. “You are imagining what isn’t there.”
“Am I?” Flora’s eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath and said out loud the words she’d carried in her heart for such an endless length of days and nights. “Is it I alone who imagines what isn’t there, Jeannie?”
Jeanne lifted her chin and studied her mother’s face, carefully noting the trembling Cupid’s bow mouth and the pink blush on her unlined cheeks. Flora Maxwell looked much younger than her thirty-five years. John was twenty-seven. It would be a match made in heaven. Bile rose in Jeanne’s throat. “Don’t play games, Mother,” she lashed out. “Say what you mean.”
Flora traced the embroidered edge of a high-backed chair with slender fingers. “John Maxwell has returned from England,” she began.
Jeanne remained silent.
“Before he left, he asked for your hand in marriage. I told him the match had my approval if you agreed. You were very young and five years is a long time.” Flora lowered her lashes over brimming tears and bit her lip. “There was a time when I believed you were not indifferent to his attentions.”
Jeanne could contain herself no longer. “That was before you made your preference quite clear.”
Bewildered, Flora stared at her daughter. “I beg your pardon?”
“I saw you.” Jeanne’s eyes were the dark, stormy gray of the North Sea. “My brother’s body was still warm when John carried you into the bedchamber you shared with Father. Did you believe I was too young to know what went on inside that room, Mother?” She spit out the last word in a scathing blast of contempt.
White with shock, Flora listened to the blasphemous words. “No,” she whispered. “No, you don’t understand. It wasn’t that way at all.” She held out her hand imploringly. “John was your father’s friend, nothing more. John wanted you, Jeannie. He loved you from the beginning when you were children together. I’ve always known that. How could you think either of us would betray your father in such a way?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why?” The single word was a cry of agony.
“He didn’t come home when Father died,” said Jeanne. “He waited until you were free.”
“Donald died two years ago,” Flora reminded her. “Why would he wait so long to claim me?”
“Any sooner would seem improper to the church and the king.”
Flora’s lip curled. “Since when has Jamie Stewart been concerned with propriety?”
Jeanne frowned. If what her mother said was true, she had much to think about. The wounds she’d nursed for five years wouldn’t heal with a single explanation. Besides, even if John and her mother had not been lovers, his reputation at the English court was enough to make him an unsuitable choice for a husband. “It grows late and Sim waits below with the horses,” she said shortly, turning the door handle. “I shall stay the night with Grania.”
“There are those who believe she is a witch, Jeannie,” Flora warned. “Be ruled by me in this. Do not go to her this night.”
“Do you believe such an absurdity?” Jeanne asked, her expression contemptuous.
Flora shook her head. “Of course not. But it matters not what I believe. There are those with far greater influence than I who swear she deals in magic.”
“I need to think,” Jeanne explained. “Grania’s cottage is good for thinking.”
“And Traquair isn’t?” her mother challenged.
Jeanne stopped, and when she spoke, her voice was very low. “You forget, Mother. This is no longer our home. It belongs to John. We are allowed to remain only because of the affection he bears our family. It would be unwise to become too fond of Traquair House.” With a whisper of velvet skirts against the stone floor, she was gone.
***
Three hours later, a servant ushered John Maxwell into a small, dimly lit sitting room at the back of the house. There, he found the mistress of Traquair lying on a leather settle, one arm thrown across her face in a gesture of despair. Leaning against the door jamb, he crossed his arms. “Is this any way to greet the head of your family, m’lady?” he teased.
Flora dropped her arm and sat up immediately. “John,” she cried and started to rise. He stopped her by striding across the room to sweep her up into a choking embrace. They stood close together for a timeless moment, the dark head bent protectively over the light one. Finally, laughing breathlessly, Flora pulled away. “Stand back and let me look at you,” she ordered.
He moved away allowing her sight-starved eyes to look their fill. “Oh, John.” Her eyes filled. “You’ve grown into a shockingly handsome man.”
His eyes, so like Jeanne’s, twinkled down at her. “I’m glad you approve. I hope your daughter’s taste is the same. Where is the lass?”
Flora wrung her hands and sat down on the settle. “She left three hours ago to pay Grania Douglas a visit.”
John’s eyes widened. “Sweet Jesu,” he marveled. “Is Grania still alive? She was ancient when we were children.”
“I’m afraid so,” replied Flora. “Jeanne visits her often. I’m afraid the woman may be dangerous.”
John sat down beside her and took her hand. “Grania is a harmless old calliach, Flora. How could she possibly harm Jeanne?”
“You’ve been away a long time, John,” explained Flora. “I hardly know Jeannie anymore. ’Tis difficult for us to speak without tension between us. Perhaps she finds Grania’s advice to be more satisfactory than mine.”
He grinned. “Jeanne never appreciated advice, no matter who it came from.”
Flora shook her head. “You don’t understand. There are rumors that Grania deals in witchcraft. She was ordered by the prelate to appear before him once already. The next time she will be brought to trial. Jeanne refuses to stay away from her.”
John lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his thoughtful, gaze. “Jeanne was devoted to you before I left Scotland,” he said gently. “How is it that the two of you have come to such a pass?”
Flora opened her mouth to protest her own innocence when she happened to glance down at the hand that held hers. It was a thin hand, long fingered and finely made, the skin dark against her own. She blushed. How could she tell him of Jeanne’s doubts when they came so near to the truth? Flora knew John Maxwell had never considered her to be anything more than a beloved aunt or older sister. It was Jeanne he loved. It was Jeanne he would wed. During the long, cold nights of winter when he stood his watch or walked the battlements of Dunaverty Castle, where he had been fostered, it was Jeanne’s face he called to mind. Through the five years in England, it was Jeanne who received his letters. Her gray-eyed, black-haired, unconventional daughter had captured his heart when she was scarcely more than a child.
Still, a woman could dream, especially a woman married to a man twice her age. Flora’s dreams were filled with a dark-haired boy with thick straight brows and beautifully chiseled features. A boy with the lean rippling muscles of a warrior. A boy who moved with the grace of a cat and used his voice like a sword, clear and coldly disciplined. A boy who loved her daughter. A boy who would be the father of her grandchildren. A boy who was now a disturbingly handsome man.
Flora bit her lip. She loved John Maxwell, but she loved Jeanne more. If there was to be any happiness in this life for her daughter, it would be with this splendid young man now seated beside her. Whatever it cost, whatever look of horror it brought to his face, he deserved the truth. “Jeanne believes we betrayed her,” she began. “When my son died, she saw you carry me into my bedchamber and believed the worst.”
John’s expression was incredulous. “That can’t be,” he denied flatly.
“’Tis true, John. At fifteen, a woman is no longer a girl. Indeed, I was already a mother. She must have loved you, even then, to believe such a thing and to feed her jealousy for so long.” Flora lowered her eyes. “Our embrace could not be called platonic, even to one so inexperienced as Jeanne.”
“You were hysterical,” he reminded her. “Donald was expected. When I touched you, naturally you assumed I was your husband.”
Flora had assumed nothing of the sort. Wisely, she remained silent.
John stood and paced the room. Suddenly he stopped and ran his hands through his hair. “It makes no sense. I spoke to Jeanne of my intentions before I left for England. She led me to believe my feelings were returned.”
A fierce, stabbing jealousy burned in the pit of Flora’s stomach. It was a long moment before she trusted herself to speak. “There have been rumors about your activities at Henry’s court. Jeanne is very proud, m’lord. You will have to convince her the others meant nothing.”
“Others?” A deep frown settled between John’s brows.
Flora laughed. “Come now, John. Even a saint would not claim to have practiced celibacy for five years.”
His cheeks darkened. “I make no false claims,” he muttered, “but neither am I accustomed to debauchery.”
“Explain that to Jeanne.”
“God’s wounds, madam. No other woman would blame me for satisfying an occasional need.”
“Jeanne is not like other women. If you don’t know that by now, I suggest that you turn tail and run back to Edinburgh. Telling her she should hold you blameless for taking women to your bed will gain you nothing. She would most likely ask how you would feel if she had done the same.”
“The situation is different.”
“How so?”
“Jeanne is a lady.”
“And you are a gentleman.”
John grinned. “I wouldn’t stake my honor on it, madam. Tell me whether I should seek out this strong-minded daughter of yours or wait until she returns.”
Again, Flora hesitated.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It would be unwise for Jeanne to learn you stayed the night at Traquair House, m’lord. Seek out Grania Douglas and bring my daughter home.”
***
John slipped the reins of his horse over the stunted branch of a black oak and walked to the door of Grania’s hut. Nestled in the bosom of twin hills, it was pitifully small, even smaller than he remembered. He paused at the door, remembering the enthusiasm of Grania’s welcome when he and Jeanne were children. The pathetic croft had been a haven of blessed warmth to the two of them, an orphaned boy and a wild, leggy girl, grass-stained and smeared with peat from the bogs.
The old woman had offered nothing more than companionship, oatcakes, and new milk thick with cream and frothy warm to satisfy their ravenous appetites. Somehow it had been enough just to sit across the scarred table and watch her button-black eyes as she regaled them with ancient tales of Scotland’s glories. John was seven years Jeanne’s senior, much too old to be anything more than pleasantly entertained by Grania Douglas’s stories. But Jeanne had listened and believed, her eyes gleaming like liquid silver, absorbing the woman’s words with rapt attention. John closed his eyes, recalling the glow of that childlike elfin face, pointed and high boned with the promise of beauty not yet realized.
He thought of Jeanne Maxwell as he had last seen her in Edinburgh and frowned. He had waited an ungodly length of time for her to grow up. Now that she had, he didn’t know if he preferred the ice princess of Jamie’s court or his childhood shadow with her bare feet and a mouth stained with Grania’s blackberry jam.
The windows of the croft were mere slits, thick with smoke and the smell of peat. Taking a deep breath, he pounded at the door. Immediately it swung open, revealing a dark, shrunken figure silhouetted against the fire-lit room.
“Granny,” he said gently, “’tis I. John Maxwell.”
The old woman reached out to touch his face. Slowly, her fingers traced his nose, his lips, the bones of his cheeks, his chin. “There be no denying ye are a Maxwell,” she said, stepping back to wave him into the room. “Jeannie, lass. We’ve a visitor.”
Across the room, wrapped in a woolen plaid, Jeanne rested on a mattress of freshly cut rushes. Her black hair was loose, flowing thick and long without a whisper of curl across her bare shoulder, pooling in a fall of ebony silk on the floor. She lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, and stared at him for a long time. Finally, she swept the hair from her forehead and sat up. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
The lie came easily to his lips. “To see Granny, of course.”
“You didn’t care to see her before this. Why now?”
“I was in England.”
“You never wrote.”
“Can she read?”
Grania laughed. “He’s got ye there, lass. Even before I lost my sight, I couldna’ read.”
With a shock, John realized the old woman was blind.
Jeanne flushed and turned to stare into the flames of the small hearth. What was the matter with her? Only John provoked her to such rudeness.
“Will you ha’ some usquebaugh, lad?” Grania asked. “’Tis a cold night.”
John nodded, reaching for the cup. “I thank you,” he said, draining the fiery liquid in one gulp. He gasped, and his eyes burned. Five years had passed since he’d sampled Scots whiskey, and Grania’s batch was strong.
Jeanne watched in amusement from beneath lowered eyelashes. John’s courteous reply to Grania’s offer of refreshment had softened her outrage. Now she was merely annoyed that he’d followed her. The time she spent with the hill woman was hers alone. Here, no one frowned disapprovingly when her hands fell idle. No one inspected her food, carefully removing every crumb of the sugary sweets she craved. No one bothered about her hair or her clothes or the fact that she was twenty and not yet wed. Here, she was only Jeanne Maxwell, the inquisitive lass from Traquair House. Her presence was enough. She turned back to look at the fire, not realizing that John had crossed the room and stretched out beside her.
“Grania sleeps,” he whispered, nodding toward the table where the old woman sat, her head pillowed in her arms.
“I’ll put her to bed,” Jeanne said and started to rise.
John’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Don’t get up. I’ll see to her.” He stood and walked to the table. Carefully slipping one arm behind Grania’s knees, he cradled her against his chest and lifted her to the crib pushed against the opposite wall. Gently, he tucked a blanket around her frail body. Jeanne watched as he stared down at the old woman’s wrinkled face.
“Has she changed so much?” she asked softly.
John shook his head and turned to look at Jeanne. “Probably not. She was always old, although I don’t remember her being so small.”
From her place by the fire, Jeanne smiled, and his breathing altered. Like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to her. Crossing the room, he stretched out once again by her side.
“Thank you for being so good to her,” Jeanne said. “She was pleased to see you.”
“I didn’t come for her,” John replied.
“I know.” Her voice was so low, he could barely make out the words.
Her face was very close to his own. He turned to look at her. She was beautiful. The clean, chiseled planes of her features, the sweep of black lashes, the sensual mouth. “You are so lovely,” he murmured and, without thinking, bent his head to her mouth. Incredibly, her lips parted, and her arms slid around his neck. A fierce joy blazed up within him. She was soft and welcoming, and it seemed as if he had waited his entire life for this.
Much later, with her head pillowed against his chest, he said, “I’d not expected that.”
“Liar.” Jeanne’s voice was soft and amused. “I knew what you wanted from the moment you entered the room.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he corrected her. “My intentions were to woo you slowly. We’ve been apart for a long time.”
Her fingers made small, circular motions against the wool of his tunic. “What are your intentions now, John?”
“The same as they’ve always been. I came home to wed you, lass.”
There was no mistaking the satisfaction in her voice. “Was there no one at the English court suitable enough to be the countess of Traquair?”
He smiled into her hair. She’d finally come out with it. He considered telling her the truth immediately and decided against it. She deserved a moment of worry for believing the worst of him.
“Aye,” he replied promptly. “There were many who were suitable.”
She pulled out of his arms and turned to face him, her gray eyes bright with anger. “Why didn’t you wed one of them?”
“No one would have me,” he lied.
Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Quickly, she recovered. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” she countered. “It isn’t your handsome face or your charm that I find so irresistible.”
“What is it then?”
She stood, pulling the plaid with her, and ground her fists into the curve of her waist. “Nothing,” she said. “There is nothing about you that appeals to me.”
Slowly, he sat up and squinted into the flames. “I love you, Jeanne Maxwell,” he said quietly. “I’ve always loved you. Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you. I wondered why you didn’t write or if the spells you had as a child came more often now that you were grown. Most of all, I feared you had wed and that no one had bothered to tell me.”
With her heart in her throat, Jeanne watched the austere beauty of his profile highlighted by the flickering firelight.
“There has never been anyone else for me,” he continued, “not at the English court and not here, in Scotland. I know nothing of what you’ve heard, but this I can swear before everything that is holy. My heart is yours, lass. No other woman will ever claim it.” He rose to his feet and stood looking down at her. “Now, Jeanne Maxwell, I ask you once again. Will you marry me?”
She closed her eyes and waited. Moments passed. Why in the name of heaven didn’t he touch her? She opened her eyes to find a bleakness she hadn’t expected in his eyes.
“Is it so difficult an answer?” he asked gently. “Yes or no. Tell me, Jeanne.”
“Yes,” she whispered at last. “I’ll marry you.”
He frowned. The words were everything he’d hoped to hear, but something was wrong. Stepping closer, he took her hand. “What is it, my heart? Tell me why you are still not sure.”
She had to say it or for the rest of her life remain silent and wonder. Taking a deep breath, she uttered the words she had carried in her heart for five long years. “Were you ever in love with my mother?”
He smiled, and her knees weakened. Reaching out, he pulled her against him, his thin, muscular hand firm on her back. “I shall always love your mother, Jeannie,” he murmured close to her ear, “but not nearly as much as I loved your father. He raised me as if I were his own son. I could never have betrayed him, not even if I hadn’t fallen desperately in love with his daughter.”
The tears welled up under her eyelids and slid down her cheeks. “I love you so much and I missed you terribly,” she confessed.
“Does that mean you find me appealing after all?” he teased.
She laughed shakily. “You know exactly how appealing you are, John Maxwell. Has no one ever told you that modesty is a virtue?”
“I had an unusual childhood,” he replied. “I trust my wife will teach me the art of becoming a country laird.”
Her eyes held a wicked glint. “Shall I begin now?” He looked at the pile of rushes on the floor and then at the sleeping woman on the bed. Shaking his head regretfully, he said, “Not now, lass. But after we’re married, I promise to be a most dutiful pupil.”
Pulling him down on the rushes beside her, Jeanne wrapped the plaid around the two of them and buried her face against his chest. Who would have thought the night would end like this? She smiled. Grania always brought her luck.