“Henry the younger will fight harder,” Edmund said.
“Perhaps, but he will be overcome,” Tom told them.
“Then we have but to wait for news,” Rosamund responded.
“Where is your brazen Scot, dear girl?” Tom asked her.
“He is not mine, Tom!” Rosamund exclaimed.
“Of course he is,” Lord Cambridge replied with a grin. “Now, where is he?”
“He has gone to Lochmaben,” Rosamund said. “I will not believe that Henry the younger is dead unless I see his body and bury it.”
“God’s wounds, dear girl!” Tom exclaimed. “I am quite relieved not to be your enemy.”
“I do not do it out of vindictiveness, Tom, but I must be certain that Philippa is safe,” Rosamund told him. “And he is my cousin. Our blood. He should be interred here. Like his father, it is all he will ever have of Friarsgate.”
So they waited, and ten days later Logan came riding over the border and down the hill to Friarsgate with his men. Among their number was a riderless horse that carried a body. The body had already begun to stink, but in anticipation that he would not fail her, Rosamund had seen the grave already dug and the shroud ready. The body was put into its burial cloth. Rosamund looked upon Henry the younger’s face. In death he was a pleasant-looking young man who did not seem in the least dangerous. She nodded silently, and then she sewed the top of the shroud closed herself before they buried her young cousin.
“It is over at last,” she said as they all sat together in the hall that evening. “For my whole life I have battled Henry the elder and Henry the younger. Thank God it is finished.” She looked at the three men with her. “Thank you.” she said simply.
“Was it as you planned it?” Maybel demanded, wanting to know all the details.
“Exactly,” Logan said. “I have never in my life known any plan to be so flawless in its execution. Both parties of men arrived unknown to the other. They secreted themselves on opposite sides of the path. They were silent and determined. Your cousin struck first. At his attack the drivers leaped from the wagon and fled into the woods. And then Lord Dacre swooped down on Henry the younger and his men. He thought them Scots, and he was savage in battle. There were no survivors among your cousin’s men.
“Dacre then undid the covering on the wagon and pulled forth one of the bricks. He felt its weight and grinned, delighted. He unwrapped the brick, and seeing what was inside, he swore an oath. Then he began, with all his men, unwrapping the bricks until there wasn’t a one left. He spoke some of the most colorful language that I have ever heard,” Logan said, smiling.
“What happened then?” Maybel asked, leaning forward in her chair.
“He and his men galloped down the path to the abbey. They found it deserted, of course. They came back up the path, and dismounting, examined the wagon most carefully. I was near enough to hear the English milord. He decided that the monks had run away to hide in the woods knowing the wagon was empty of gold, but that the gold must assuredly have been there at one time because of the renegades who attempted to steal it before he attempted to steal it. He came to the conclusion that somewhere between there and Stirling there was a wagonload of gold, and he would attempt to find it before it became too dangerous for him and his men. He had his men unhitch the horses and then rode off with his troop.”
“So you lost two horses. I am sorry,” Rosamund said. “I will replace them.”
“There is no need,” Logan said. “We stole them back that night.”
They all laughed, and then the servants began bringing in the meal. It has been agreed that the laird would spend the night at Friarsgate.
“And you will return my daughters tomorrow?” Rosamund said.
“If you want Banon and Bessie back,” he told her wickedly, “you must come to Claven’s Carn and fetch them, Rosamund Bolton.” The blue-blue eyes were dancing.
Rosamund felt her temper rising. But when she glared down the high board at him, he pursed his lips in a kiss to her. For a moment her head spun at the memory of the last time he had cooled her tantrum. She was, to her family’s surprise, silent, and she could see he knew exactly what she was thinking and was restraining his laughter. I will not let him make me angry, she decided, and then she lifted her goblet to him in a taunting gesture and drank deeply. She heard his chuckle as she set the goblet back down on the high board.
Edmund and Tom played a game of chess before the fire afterwards. Maybel dozed, her feet turned towards the warmth of the hearth. Several dogs sprawled about them, and a single cat lay dozing in Philippa’s lap.
“Am I really safe now, mama?” Philippa asked. “And Friarsgate, too?”
“We are all safe now, poppet,” Rosamund told her daughter. “One day you will inherit Friarsgate, and your descendants after you. With me, the Boltons die. There will be none afterwards to harm you or yours.” She put an arm about her child, and Philippa dropped her head for a moment upon her mother’s shoulder as she had done when she was younger, seeking security and solace.
“I do not think I could ever be as brave as you have been, mama,” Philippa said.
“I wanted you and your sisters to have a happier time in your childhoods than I did,” Rosamund told her daughter. “But you have had your share of sadness, too, my child. I know how hard it was for you to lose your father.”
“But if you married again, mama, we could have another father,” Philippa said.
“We will see,” Rosamund murmured, not noticing her cousin Tom wince.
“When will my sisters come home, mama?” Philippa asked.
“Soon,” Rosamund said. “Now find your bed, my daughter.”
Curtsying to her elders, Philippa left the hall. And soon Maybel and Edmund were gone. And Tom, after pouring himself a goblet of wine, swiftly sought his own chamber.
Rosamund arose from her place on the settle where she had sat with Philippa. “Come, my lord. I am certain you remember the way, but I shall lead you.” She glided from the hall, the laird of Claven’s Carn’s footsteps behind her. Reaching the guest chamber, she opened the door for him, gasping as he drew her inside and shut the door behind them firmly. “My lord!”
He stopped her mouth with a hard kiss. “Tonight, madame,” he told her, “we will begin to get to know each other as we should have years ago but that you kept marrying other men. We are getting too old for these games, Rosamund, my darling.” His arms tightened about her.
“I have not said I would marry you,” she whispered breathlessly.
He took an index finger and ran it from the top of her head down her nose and over her lips and chin in a tender gesture. “I have not asked you to marry me, Rosamund,” he told her softly. “I have just said it is past time we got to know each other, my darling.”
“You want to make love to me,” she answered him.
“Aye, I do,” he told her.
“Logan… oh, Logan, I do not know if I can ever love you as you love me,” Rosamund despaired.
“So you finally see that I love you,” he replied. “ ’Tis a start, my darling.” He kissed her face gently, moving his lips from her forehead to her eyelids to her nose and finally to her sweet mouth. Then the blue-blue eyes met her amber ones. His big hand caressed her cheek. “You will never love me as you loved Patrick Leslie, Rosamund, but you will love me. I promise you.”
Tears slipped down her face, and he kissed them away. Then, turning her about, he began to unlace the bodice of her plain brown velvet gown. His lips found the soft nape of her neck and pressed a kiss upon it. Rosamund sighed, wondering as she did why she had this sudden feeling of relief. He removed the bodice, laying it aside on a nearby chair. He undid the tapes of her skirts and lifted her from the puddle of material that slipped to the floor.
“You seem to be quite expert at this, Logan Hepburn,” Rosamund told him, beginning to regain her equilibrium. She was facing him now, and her fingers were undoing his doublet unimpeded.