She stepped back quickly. He had a wife. One he adored, though she was so gravely ill.
“Come,” he said again, this time impatiently, then gave her no choice, picking her up easily and setting her atop the tall stallion before jumping up behind her. There was no help for it; his arms came around her as he managed the reins. She swallowed deeply, wondering how this person who could be so blunt and rude seemed to arouse something in her that she had never felt before.
It was absurd. And wrong.
Keeping her seat was not difficult. His horse was an immense ebony stallion, but completely under his control. The animal’s gait was smooth, even and swift. Gwenyth leaned back in an uncomfortable combination of misery and arousal, more aware of a human touch than she had ever been in her life.
At last they returned to the copse where James and Mary awaited them. The queen cried out, upset, rushing over to Gwenyth and pulling her close the minute Rowan set her on the ground, hugging her fiercely, then withdrawing to search out her eyes and look for any injury upon her person.
“Are you hurt? My poor dear, it was my fault.” She accepted the blame while casting an angry eye toward her brother. “What happened? You found the boar. No, obviously, the boar found you. Oh, dear God, to think of what might have happened…”
“The creature is dead at last. We’ll send someone for it, Your Grace,” Rowan said.
Mary cast him an appreciative glance, then looked back at Gwenyth. “You are all right?”
“My dignity is sadly shaken, but in all else, I am fine,” Gwenyth assured her, then drew a deep breath. “Laird Rowan arrived with miraculous timing. He—” Why, she wondered, did she hate so to say it? “He saved my life.”
“Then we are beyond grateful to Laird Rowan,” Mary said gravely.
He nodded in easy acknowledgment of her words. “Your Grace, I am pleased to serve in any way that I can.”
James said gruffly, “Let’s return to the palace. Lady Gwenyth needs care and rest.”
“Your horse?” Mary asked Gwenyth.
“I dare say the mare has returned to the stables. I’m certain she knows the way,” Rowan said. “Styx is broad and strong,” he added, indicating his horse. “Lady Gwenyth and I will reach the stables as easily as we rode here.”
To protest in the circumstances would be futile and she would merely look the fool, so Gwenyth acquiesced with no more than a murmur.
Later, when they returned, and stablehands and servants ran about shouting and hurrying to assist in whatever ways they could, she heard Laird James speaking softly with Rowan. “If they are to prowl the forests seeking diversion, then they must learn to ride.”
Gwenyth longed to turn and confront the man, but then, to her surprise, found she did not need to do so.
“James, I believe the lady rides as well as any woman, perhaps as well as any man. No one can stay atop a falling horse. If the horse is flat upon the ground, so shall the rider be.”
Startled by Rowan’s defense of her, Gwenyth was not prepared when one of the large, bulky guards came to take her arm and escort her within.
“I can stand on my own, please,” she insisted. “I am not hurt, merely wearing much of the forest floor.”
She was not released on her own say-so. The guard looked to Mary, who nodded, and only then was she allowed to stand on her own.
She fled to her apartments, anxious to escape being the object of so much concern.
ROWAN WATCHED GWENYTH GO, surprised by the tugging she could so easily exert upon his heart. He didn’t know if it was the look in her eyes, the passion in her voice, or even the ferocity of her manner combined with the innocence that lay beneath.
“Laird Rowan,” Mary said.
“My queen?”
“I did wish to speak with you away from the palace, but the opportunity did not present itself. And so, if you will attend me in chambers…?”
“Whatever your desire.”
He realized that she and James must have spoken while he was rescuing Gwenyth, for the other man now clearly knew exactly what Mary intended to say to him. Indeed, James was the one to lead the way to the small reception chamber near the queen’s apartments.
An exceptional French wine was brought for their pleasure. Rowan preferred good Scottish ale or whiskey, but he graciously complimented the queen on her choice. She did not sit in the regal high-backed chair she would be expected to take when receiving foreign ambassadors but rather chose one of the fine brocade upholstered chairs grouped before the fire.
James didn’t sit. He stood by the mantel as Mary indicated that Rowan should join her, which he did, his curiosity growing by the second.
“I have it on good authority that you are on friendly terms with my cousin,” Mary said.
He sat back, caught unprepared. “Queen Elizabeth?” He should not have been surprised, he chided himself. Mary had very able ministers who had served her for years.
“Yes.”
“My wife’s mother is distantly related to Queen Elizabeth’s mother,” he said.
“Relationships are a good thing, are they not?” she inquired. “We are taught to honor our fathers and our mothers, which makes it strange that, in matters of politics and crowns, so much evil may be done to those we should love. But that is not of import now. We are engaged in quite a complicated game, Elizabeth and I. I have never met my cousin. I know her only through her letters and the reports of others. Serious matters occupy us now. I have not ratified a treaty between our countries. And that is because she has not ratified her will.”
This was something that he already knew. “I suppose,” he replied carefully, “that Elizabeth still considers herself to be young and is not eager to contemplate what will happen upon her death.”
Mary shook her head. “She must agree that I am the natural heir to her crown.”
Rowan held silent. He was certain that Mary was aware of why Elizabeth was hesitant. England was staunchly Protestant now. If she were to recognize a Catholic heir to the crown, it could create a tremendous schism in her country. He knew the Protestant powers in England were not looking to the Catholic Queen of Scotland. Though the line of sucession would most probably recognize her claim, there were other grandchildren of Henry VIII, among them Catherine, the sister of poor Lady Jane Grey, known as the Nine Days Queen. The Protestant faction had set Jane upon the throne following the death of Henry VIII’s one son, Edward. The forces behind another Mary, this one the daughter of Catherine of Aragon, a Catholic, had easily routed Jane’s defenders, and in the end Jane had lost her head upon the scaffold. She had died not because her family had urged her toward the throne, but because she had refused to change her religion at Mary’s demand. It had been Mary’s legitimate right of succession to the throne that had won her so many followers, and it had been her order that so many Protestant leaders be executed that had earned her the title “Bloody Mary.” At her death, when Elizabeth had ascended the throne
