king to be named Henry, was so close to his death, relations between Scotland and England were worse than ever. Scotland didn’t even have a king anymore, but a tiny baby queen named Mary who’d been crowned at nine months of age. Henry the Eighth had negotiated a betrothal of the baby girl for his son Edward, but there were many in England who wanted Mary Queen of Scots raised in England so that she would be Protestant instead of Catholic like her mother.
A war of rough wooing had commenced, and the border was not safe. Her own brother was one of the men sent to the border to hold the land for England. The future king Edward would need all his subjects to help him maintain his hold on his country while he was still a youth. All the crowned heads of Europe were watching to see if England would crumble when the mighty Henry the Eighth died.
Her brother Curan kept peace with his Scottish neighbors by more than just the army under his command. He and Laird Barras combined their wits for the sake of business ventures that were bringing good profits to both men. Happy, well-fed people had little to rebel against.
But that didn’t mean she was interested in the Scot courting her.
Yes, you are . . .
It was a whisper that was born somewhere in the darkest part of her mind. Some manner of longing to see just what the Scot did when no one else was near enough to see them. Her lips tingled as she imagined what it might be like to have his against them. Would his kiss be forceful or gentle? She shivered in spite of the heat bubbling in the cauldrons.
Wedding her was just another way for Laird Barras to get what he wanted from her brother, but that didn’t keep her from thinking about the way he looked at her. She wouldn’t be the first woman married off to her brother’s business partners, but that didn’t mean the match would be a cold one, the looks the man sent her were very warm indeed.
Is it what I desire?
That question brought another sigh to her lips. It was a truth that she didn’t know what she wanted. She was twenty-four years old, and the time for saying nay to any offer for her hand was past. Where had the time gone? She had simply stopped thinking about anything save for her father when he began showing signs of illness. How long had it lasted? Jemma struggled to think about how many years her sire had battled that invading weakness of his limbs. She had tried everything to restore him to health, reading every available book that offered insight into the condition. But in the end, her sire had lost even the ability to speak, blinking his eyes being the only way to communicate with her.
How long?
It had been years, seasons blurring in her memory, and during that time she had never taken time to think about marrying. Curan had been off earning his title with the king, leaving only her to comfort their dying father and care for him. She refused to leave it to servants; he was her father. The man who had chased her through spring fields when she was a girl and laughed when he caught her. The proud man who had allowed his daughter to crown his head with flowers and worn them with a level chin past his knights. Tears stung her eyes as memories, rich with love and tenderness, rose up from her mind to remind her why she had thrust the entire world away in favor of being at her father’s side. She did not regret her choice.
If there had been offers for her, they had gone unread. She scoffed beneath her breath; there must have been some offers. There was nothing wrong with her. In fact she was devoted to her family, and that would never be questioned since she had tended her father with so much love. An odd feeling crept over her. It was almost a sensation of desperation. She didn’t want to think that no family had offered for her.
Well, except for Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras.
She bit her lower lip because she wasn’t being very kind in her thoughts toward the man. He was Scots, but that was something he could not change any more than she might alter the fact that she was English. There was more than one match across the much disputed border. Besides, if Edward did wed Mary, then England and Scotland would be one nation. Thinking such a thing brought a sense of peace to her, too, even if she doubted that being united beneath one monarch would have the power to remove all the differences between English and Scot. A small smile curved her lips; she could not picture her brother donning a kilt,, and the plaid Barras wore added something untamed to him. Deep down, her insides twisted once again as she considered the way the man moved.
However, many a royal match had been broken before the wedding ever took place. There was pressure from the French to see the little Queen of Scots married to their prince. Such a union was what fueled the war of rough wooing that saw the English trying to kidnap the baby queen and take her into England where she would grow up happily anticipating her wedding date with Edward.
The games of the royals set the tone for uncertainty among their subjects. Jemma cast a look toward the green hills of Scotland. What sort of man was he—Gordon Dwyre? She should agree to meet him—quick glances were one thing, but she knew nothing else because she had never allowed the man to converse with her. Meeting him was the logical choice, the well-mannered one, and marriage was after all a matter for logical thinking not contemplation of hot glances.
But that was what her mind dwelled on.
She would tell Curan at supper that she had thought the matter through and decided to be introduced to the Scot. Many noble daughters never had the opportunity to even speak their opinions of their intended grooms; her brother was being kind.
So why did she feel so torn?
He was spending far too much time waiting on her.
Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras, reined his stallion in and scanned the edge of his land. His retainers were fanned out behind him. They knew their places well, blending in with the land formations to make it look as though he was alone.
Today, there was no taper of dust rising up into the afternoon air. He moved his gaze off the hills and felt disappointment sour his disposition.
That was annoying. He’d never formally met the woman, at least not beyond watching her race across the land that was so close he might almost call it his own, or ducking into the hallways beyond the great hall where he had met her brother. His lips curved up with the memories. The woman rode with a wild abandon that drew his attention when there was much he should be investing his time in that did nae involve riding out onto the ridge to watch her. When she discovered him sitting at her father’s table, her eyes turned dark, snaring his attention in a far different manner. It was almost if the woman was daring him to come after her.
That was something he had a great deal of difficulty ignoring. Much like coming out to see her riding in the early morning.
There was something fascinating about the way she leaned low over the neck of her horse and let the animal surge forward with every bit of its strength.
It also drew a frown from him. He’d admit that freely enough. The woman didn’t seem to have any fear of breaking her neck. But that idea only took him back to being enchanted with her and why she took to the hills so often. It was almost as if she was running away from something. There were times he swore he could feel her pain on the wind.
“Well, lads, it looks like we’re going to be left wanting today.”
Maybe that was for the better. He had a clan to look after and several smaller lairds who surrounded his land to maintain friendships with. Sitting on his stallion and watching for his English neighbor’s sister wasn’t going to accomplish any good. However much he might be fascinated by her, he needed a wife who would be his partner, not a girl who did nothing with her time but ride. That was a hard fact, and he was accustomed to facing such; he wouldn’t have lasted two months
