month, my lord.”
“Did you not wed Westleigh in April?” he asked her, vaulting into his own saddle. Somehow the idea of marrying her in the month in which she had married another husband was irritating. Perhaps it was even the same day, thereby making it easier for her to remember. Even her monogram would remain the same. L for Lindley. L for Leslie.
“I married Rowan on April thirtieth, my lord,” she replied, her tone just slightly frosty, “but it is obvious that you prefer June. So let it be June fifteenth. It will do just as well, I think.”
The earl felt a momentary chagrin. He had behaved like a churl, and she had caught him at it and called his bluff. Now he would wait an additional two months, and the explanation given the king must be his. He swore softly beneath his breath, and, to his mortification, Jasmine giggled, or he thought she did. When he looked over at her her face was a smooth mask of bland innocence.
She led him through the vineyards of Archambault and onto the carriage road from Paris that he had ridden over before. They cantered easily along the path until they came to the almost hidden way leading to Belle Fleurs. Now she spurred her mare into a gallop, and her hair, so neatly in its chignon, blew loose, flowing behind her. He urged his stallion onward, realizing they were to race home, and, as he drew even with the mare, she looked over at him and laughed. Pulling past her he reached the château’s bridge before her and drew his beast up to await her, but she did not stop, and the mare raced by him into the courtyard of the castle.
Jasmine leapt down. “I won!” she bragged triumphantly.
“I thought the race ended at the bridge,” he protested, dismounting.
“Why would you think that?” she demanded.
“Because it was the logical end of the course,” he replied.
“Nonsense!” she mocked him, hurrying into the château, handing off her gloves to a servant. “A race ends at the door of the house. I thought everyone knew that.”
“I didn’t,” he said, an edge to his voice.
“Why not?” she countered.
“Because you didn’t tell me, madame!” he shouted.
“Have some wine,” she offered. “It will calm your nerves, my lord. Gracious, it was only a little race.”
He took the large goblet of fruity red wine and gulped half of it down. “Not telling me the rules is the same as cheating,” he growled at her, his dark green eyes narrowing. “If you are to be the countess of Glenkirk, you must be honorable in all things.”
“You are really a dreadful loser, my lord,” Jasmine said. “It was a silent challenge, and to believe the race ended before it ended was just plain silly. You will have to be quicker than that if we are to have a satisfactory relationship, my lord.”
“Are you always like this?” he groused.
“Like what?”
“Impossible! Totally, utterly impossible!” he roared.
“There is no need to shout, my lord,” she told him. “I do not think it is particularly good for you. There is a little vein right there”—her finger reached out, and touched the side of his head—“that is throbbing fiercely. I must teach you a little trick one of my aunts taught me when I was a child that will help you to calm yourself. You sit perfectly still and clear your mind of all thoughts, then just breath deeply in and blow the breath out. It is excellent for calming one’s nerves. I used it myself on occasion.”
He could feel the vein she touched beating a tattoo on the side of his head. There were but two ways to stop it and calm himself. He would either have to strangle her where she stood—and the thought at this very moment was deliciously tempting—or he would have to kiss her. He chose the latter.
Sweeping her into his arms his mouth found hers in a hard kiss. He crushed her against him, feeling her bosom, certainly fuller than it had been several years back before she had borne her children, push against him. He expected her to struggle, to give some expression of outrage. Instead Jasmine’s lips softened against him, and she seemed to melt into his embrace, returning his harshness with a tender, sweet softness. He had meant to conquer her, but instead found himself the vanquished. He was astounded as he released his fierce hold on her, not just a little chagrined.
She stood straight, looking up at him, although if the truth had been known Jasmine’s legs were as weak as a jelly. “ ’Twas either kiss or kill, was it not, my lord?” she taunted him wickedly.
He nodded, and, unable to think of any clever retort, said, “There was a time when you called me Jemmie, madame, and not always my lord. Do you think we can regain that place again?”
“You will never tame me, nor I you, Jemmie,” she replied in answer. “ ’Twill be a terrible match, I fear.” But Jasmine was smiling.
“Aye,” he agreed, “it will, but there is no help for it. I am the king’s loyal man and must obey. Still, a man might have a worse wife than you will be, darling Jasmine. As you are so fond of reminding me, you are rich, beautiful, royal, and clever,” he gently teased.
“I have always been a good wife,” she responded primly. “You will learn if you do not thwart me, I shall be loyal and bring no shame to your name, Jemmie Leslie.”
“In other words, if I give you your own way, we will have no difficulties,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“Exactly!” Jasmine answered him brightly. “How fortunate I am to be marrying so perceptive a man.”
Chapter 5
The weather turned again, and the early-spring rains came. James Leslie and Jasmine Lindley kept mostly to the château, where they played cards and chess, and talked. Although they had been acquainted with each other, neither really knew the other. Skye had been correct in leaving them alone. When the children had been gone some ten days, the earl suggested that on the next day there was no rain they ride over the Archambault to visit Jasmine’s relations and see how the youngsters were getting on with their cousins.
Jasmine flushed at the suggestion.
“What is the matter?” he asked her.
She laughed weakly. “I had almost forgotten about my children,” Jasmine admitted, embarrassed. “It has been so lovely here with you, Jemmie, that I have come close to forgetting my responsibilities.”
“You are the best of mothers,” he reassured her. “No one would fault you for enjoying your time away from the children. When we return home to England we shall spend as little time at court as is possible that we may spend most of our time with our family.”
“Will we live in Scotland?” she asked him. “My mother transplanted well there, but has always insisted upon her English summers as she is wont to call them. Is Glenkirk beautiful, Jemmie?”
“Very beautiful,” he said, “but we will only live there part of the year, Jasmine. Perhaps the autumn and winter months. Autumn is the best time in Scotland. The summers we will spend at Queen’s Malvern, and Henry must go to Cadby then. In the spring we shall go to court so that James is not offended. I have overseen his empire’s foreign trade for several years
