The Bride of Black Douglas

Chapter 17

As a child, Robert was taught the Copernican theory and shown how the world revolved around the sun. As a man, he learned it revolved around money.

Everyone needed money, only a few possessed it, and no one ever had enough. In between lay varying degrees of desperation. Money was the most important thing in the world, the center of the universe. Men were valued for their money, and they married for it. Life was judged, built up and torn down for money. It was the source of a man’s hope, his joy, his peace and his aspirations. He lived for it, and he died for it.

Money was the answer to all things. It was a goal everyone wanted to attain—and the primary cause of evil. No matter who you were, what you did, or how hard you tried, in the end, all that truly mattered was money. You could not change that, and you could never escape it.

Money was everything.

And it was something the Douglases did not have.

Robert thought about that as he sat behind his desk. He had been paying the servants, until he handed out the last boddle and plack in his leather pouch. He leaned back in his chair and sighed wearily. It could be worse, he supposed. At least every servant had been paid—not what he was due, but enough to keep the wolves away from the door.

Head back, eyes closed, he kneaded the tenseness that gathered in tight knots along his neck and shoulders. It always got to him, having to pay the servants when there was naught to pay them with, and he wondered if it would always be like this—always destitute, forever desperate, perpetually with too many mouths to feed.

He thought of Meleri and the money that would soon be his, providing her dowry was as large as she said. Dear God, it has to be large, he thought. Without it, there is no hope. Hope was all he had now. Hope and his stoicism, he thought. He realized at that point, that it had all come back to money. There was no escape.

The sturdy oak chair was tilted back on two legs, affording Robert a better view of the world outside. He considered his circumstances as he gazed through the tall, arched window opposite him.

A few minutes later, when Meleri wandered into his line of vision, he found himself distracted momentarily by the sight of her, her flaming hair loose, her manner playful and childlike, as she was being chased by Corrie and Dram. Each time he saw her, it became more difficult to remember the reason he’d brought her here, the purpose she was to serve. Desire for her kept getting in the way.

He watched her take something out of the pocket of her dark gray dress and give it to the dogs, who swallowed it eagerly. His attention went back to the dress. Where did she find it? he wondered. He recalled Gram telling him of the dresses lying unworn in her trunk, and how she had given them to Agnes. “They can be altered for something passable for Meleri to wear, until she can have her things sent from Northumberland.”

The leather-bound ledger in front of him beckoned, and he pulled it closer. He winced at the long rows of expenditures that glowered up at him in defiance, as if they somehow knew that on the opposite page, beneath the word income, there was only one very short column.

Near the ledger stood a silver inkwell, engraved with the crest of King James. The king had given it to the first Earl of Douglas. He picked up the writing pen and plunged it into the reservoir, then began to tally the last row of figures. When he finished, he made the usual notations. In time, the faint smell of ink and the rhythmic scratch of the quill moving over foolscap began to work its magic. He began to relax, soothed by the calmative of movement.

“Robbie, are you in here?” Iain called out.

Robert put the quill down and closed the lid to the well. “Aye. I was just finishing my calculations.”

Iain came into the room, followed by a sturdy fellow, obviously a farmer, judging from his dreadnought overalls.

“This is Charlie Armstrong,” Iain said. “He lost his farm and is looking for work. I told him we had plenty of work, with the lambing and all. I thought perhaps you might be able to put him on.”

“We’ve plenty of work, Iain, and no coin,” Robert replied.

“I’ve told him that. He’s willing to work for a place to stay and food for his wife and bairn.”

Robert hated times such as this. It was not easy to turn away a hardworking man who was down on his luck and hungry. But Robert could do nothing. He would have to turn him away. He would say he was sorry, there was nothing he could do to help, that when it came to food, they were scraping the barrel and getting by on what they were able to raise in the garden. He noticed the man’s work-roughened hands that held a hat covered with wax cloth. In his eyes, he saw hunger and desperation. “How old is your bairn?” Robert asked.

“Twa years.”

Two years was too young to go hungry. “Do you know anything about sheep?”

“Aye, ye have lang sheep, or short sheep?”

“Both, and a few black-faces.”

“My father often tauld me about the time o’ the black-faces.”

“Do you think you can care for all of them?”

“Aye, troth I ken ye maun hae turnips for the lang sheep, and ’tis muckle hard wark to get them, baith wi’ the pleugh and the howe.”

Robert smiled in agreement and nodded his head slowly. “Aye, it’s much hard work, even with the plow and hoe, just as you said.”

Hugh came into the room. “Plow? That sounds remarkably like work. I don’t know if I want to come in or not.”

Robert picked up a mutchkin of whisky and poured a splash into three glasses. He glanced at Hugh, then poured a fourth. “And how would you be knowing anything about work?”

Hugh grinned. “I know enough to stay away from it.”

“Aye, you’ve managed to do that well enough.” He offered a glass to Charlie, who hesitated.

“Hout, Charlie,” Iain said, falling back to use the speech Charlie used, “take ye that dram the landlord’s offering ye, and never fash your head about it.”

“Wussing your health, sirs,” Charlie said, lifting his glass to them. He took a drink.

Hugh took the glass Robert offered. “Long sheep and short sheep! In spite of all my father tried to show me, I could never see any difference in the point of longitude, between one sheep and another.”

Robert, Iain and Charlie laughed, then Charlie said, “It’s the woo’, man…it’s the wool, and not the beasts themselves that makes them be called long or short.”

“I remember my father always said, short sheep had short rents,” Iain said.

“Aye, I ken that is very true,” Charlie said.

Robert told Charlie to come to work the next morning. “Since Hugh is so interested in plows, he will meet you at the stables in the morning at six and take you to where the sheep are pastured.”

“Troth! I am thankful, I’ll never deny it,” Charlie said. “Bless you, your lordship. You have brought good to us in a time o’ trouble.”

After everyone had gone, Robert went to the open window and stared out. He did not see Meleri, but he could hear her shouts to the dogs and the sound of Dram’s hoarse bark. It had rained during the night, but now the sun shone down on the swells of gently sloping grounds lying snugly cloaked in a mantle of green, beneath a clear blue sky. The heath was in deep bloom, and the bees were on the wing, filling the air with murmurs of their industry. The world looked back at him in serene contentment. Everything was as it should be, orderly and in place. At least that was true on the outside.

Inside, within the thick walls of Beloyn Castle, things were different. Nothing was as it should be. All was indecision and turmoil. He knew what he wanted. He just had difficulty accomplishing it. Nothing had been right with him since that English sorceress ran over him with her horse. God help him, he did not know what to do about her.

He left his study and went to find Gram. He had known for some time they needed to talk and now the time was right. He would have to tread carefully. He could not let her know the real reason he wanted to wed Meleri, for he knew not even Gram would look kindly upon his using her as a way to lay Sorcha’s ghost to rest. Once they were married, it would no longer matter. He did not care if she found out then. He would tell her himself, if need be. He would tell them all, Meleri included, but for now, he would keep his own council and keep the secret unto himself.

He found Gram in the library, one of the few rooms in the castle that retained its classical decoration and fine plasterwork. But not even this room had escaped the tragedy that befell the Douglas clan. The marble busts by Roubiliac were all gone, as were the Van Dyck paintings. Only one family portrait remained in this room, a painting of the wife of a long-ago ancestor. He stopped and stared at the portrait, contemplating the woman’s solemn and composed face. He could see nothing of hardship in her face—the wars, the famine, and stillborn children.

He could not help wondering if his own portrait would deal as kindly with him.

Lady Douglas was leafing through a book, and he took in the sight of her with a fondness that stretched back as far as he could remember. He knew she heard him enter, but she did not look up. She was a lover of books, and he had her to thank for his devotion to them as well. He remembered how fond she was of telling the story of how many of the Douglases’ books were rescued by a young girl named Margaret, back lang syne, when the castle was in its youth and under siege. Perhaps that was why the library was a favorite room of hers, or maybe it was because the books were old and rare, the majority of them being a fine collection of Middle English texts.

He would never forget the severe tongue-lashing he had received not so long ago, when he’d had “the audacity” to suggest selling what was not his to sell. “These books are a Douglas legacy,” she’d said, “and irreplaceable.”

In his mind’s eye, selling rare books that would fetch a princely sum was a sound and logical thing to do. Gram did not see it as either sound or logical, for as she put it, “A man who would sell family treasures ought to lose a treasure or two of his own, if you get what I mean.”

He got it, and he never mentioned selling the books again.

“I knew I would find you here, soothed by The Townley Plays or The Tretis of the Twa Mariit Women and the Wedo.”

She held a slim volume up for him to see. “Wrong on both accounts. This is The Siege of Jerusalem.”

“I remember when I was a lad I would come in here at night, after everyone had gone to bed. My young boy’s mind was taken with a book written by the Chinese general Sun Tzu, in the sixth century B.C. called The Art of War. I do not remember much of what I read, I only remember his wisdom was remarkable. Do you know the one I mean?”

“’If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.’”

He smiled. “Aye, that is the one.” His fondness for her glowed as a lamp lit from within. “I have always admired your remarkable memory. Tell me, what did you think of Lady Weatherby?”

“I look forward to knowing her better. It will be like reading a book. You find yourself anxious to discover what is on the next page—and praying you live long enough to reach the end.”

“I knew you would be quick to make your assessments and tabulate the results. I look forward to the time when you have learned something about her.”

“I can tell you a great deal already. She is clever, resolute and a survivor. She will yield when she must. She will bend with the wind. But she will never break. Although I would never have chosen an English lass, I must admit I am glad to see my successor is strong, bendable, canny and capable.”

He noticed there was no sadness in her voice, only resignation, as if she had been expecting the day when a new Lady Douglas would come along. “No one can take your place.”

“She will not have to. She will bring her own knowledge, her own ways and the youthful fire to move mountains. That is as it should be.”

“Don’t concern yourself with it now, Gram. If I go through with this marriage, there will be plenty of time for concern then.”

“If you go through with it? What kind of talk is that? You brought her here, and you are not certain if you are going to marry her? Her father is a baron.”

“I know what you are going to say. As she is a baron’s daughter, I cannot take liberties with her reputation.”

“Aye, that is precisely what I was going to say. You must marry her and stop this nonsense,” she said, her voice as strong and powerful as a young lass’s. “What are you waiting for?”

“Am I waiting?”

She narrowed her eyes and stared at him with hard suspect. “Now is not the time for jest. Have you bedded her?”

“No.”

“Then, take her to wife and do not waste any more time. Wait too long and she may change her mind—you would be in a fine fix, then, wouldn’t you, my laddie? I know about the king’s letter to you.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time. Who told you? Was it Hugh or Iain?”

“A good spy never reveals his sources.”

He picked up a thin volume of sonnets and flipped through the pages. “I don’t think she will change her mind. Our circumstances are mutually advantageous. She cannot go home any more than I can send her back. Our marriage will benefit her as much as it will me.”

He saw she was about to question him further, so he continued on, explaining in more depth what he meant. He brought her up to date on Meleri’s circumstances at home, about her father, the long-standing betrothal, of Meleri’s action to end it. He did not identify her former betrothed as the Marquess of Waverly, or tell her that he was the one responsible for Sorcha’s death. He had never told Gram the identity of Sorcha’s murderer. He wanted to keep it that way.

“Poor lass,” said Gram when he finished. “How could I fault her? We all want to be happy, but few of us will risk everything to have it. It took a great deal of courage to do what she did. Courage and fortitude—they are things I admire. She may have the face of an angel, but she has the heart of a gladiator. With a little help and encouragement, she will do you proud.”

“I knew you would take her under your tutelage, England be damned.”

“Surprisingly, I find I do not hold that against her. She cannot help the fact that she was born English, but there will be those who will not be so understanding or approving. How she is accepted will depend largely on her attitude. If she flaunts her English ways and snubs ours, it will not go well with her.”

“It may not go well with her when she discovers she has landed in the midst of a family of dour Scots with peculiar ways, odd speech and strange food.”

“With our help, she will withstand even that onslaught.” Lady Douglas stopped to consider him with those blue, penetrating eyes that made him turn his head and look off. “Concerning this matter of marriage, you must not dally. The longer you wait, the more opportunity for something to go wrong. What if she should change her mind? The king will only be appeased if the marriage takes place within the allotted time. I would think you would feel a need to press ahead.”

“I do.”

“Well, I am relieved to hear that. I will rest easier when you are married and the king is no longer treading on our coattails. We have less than two weeks, and there is the matter of her clothes…and a wedding dress.” Lady Douglas put her hand to her head. “Pomp and circumstance! I feel as if I have opened a trunk of bats and they are flying out faster than I can count. There is so much to do. The minister…the church…the guest list…Blast that king and his meddling ways! Three weeks indeed! I doubt he could get his wig powdered in three weeks, and yet he expects you to be wedded and bedded.”

His brows shot up in surprise. “Why Gram, did I hear you say the word bedded—for a second time?”

“You did, and I pray you can practice restraint in that regard, until after the wedding. It is one thing to snitch her out from under the nose of her betrothed and quite another to take her virginity without the sanction of marriage. Don’t be giving the king of England any more reason to hate us.”

“I can behave myself when I have to. You have no worry in that regard. As for the wedding, the important thing is to keep it small and be frugal. I have yet to settle the matter of dowry.”

“Have you written to her father…her family?”

“Aye, I’ve posted a letter to her sister’s husband. According to Meleri, he assumed responsibility for managing the family holdings some time ago. This was due to her father’s decline. His memory is failing, and his behavior is often quite eccentric.”

“Aye, I have seen such afflictions. They only worsen with age. I assume you mentioned her dowry in the letter.”

“Aye, I mentioned we could make arrangements regarding her dowry, and that I felt it would be best to have my barrister contact him. I also told him how to contact us, in case there was any change in her father’s condition, with a reminder that it was imperative that no one else know of it, for Meleri’s safety. I also expressed my regret that they would not be able to attend the wedding, but Meleri felt it best for her father not to travel—not to mention the need to keep our whereabouts a secret until we are wed.”

“You have contacted your solicitor, then?”

“Aye, I dispatched a letter to John Sinclair the day we arrived.”

“You haven’t forgotten a thing.”

“Aye, and I trust you won’t forget what I said about the wedding plans. Frugal and small.”

“My middle names are Prudence and Restraint. I hold that a small wedding is wisest, not only for us, but for her as well. She needs time to adapt, to make her place here, to feel a part of who we are, what we are and what we are about. A large wedding on short notice would not be wise. It is too early to put her on public display. And then, there is the matter of that lethargic ancestor of ours.”

“What has he got to do with anything? It’s my wedding.”

“Ghosts appear when you least expect them.”

“Then, where has he been?” Robert asked. “I haven’t expected him for years.”

“My point is, we will have to tell her about him at some point.”

“Why? None of us have ever seen him.”

“That does not mean he does not exist.”

“She will think us light-minded.”

“She probably thinks that already. Still, I wouldn’t put it past him to show himself the day of your marriage.”

“That’s easy to prevent.”

“Robbie Douglas, are ye daft? How can you prevent a ghost from coming to a wedding…or anything else if he should so choose?”

He laughed. “Don’t invite him.”

She punched him lightly on the arm. “’Tis a joyful thing to hear you laugh again.”

He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Don’t fash yourself over all this, Gram. I am not concerned, and I don’t want you to worry yourself into a stupor over this ghostly relative…if there is one.” He could tell by the rapturous expression on her face that she was only half listening. There was nothing that entranced Gram like the mere mention of that absent apparition.

“You are saying that to get me riled,” she said. “Although, I must say that for a ghost, he is remarkably inactive. Leave it to this family to inherit a sluggish ghost who doesn’t know the first thing about ghosting.”

“If that’s all that’s keeping him from coming to our rescue, why don’t you volunteer to teach him?”

“You know what I mean. He should be doing something. Ghosts are not slothful.”

Robert laughed again. “Ours is.”

Meleri ran down the path after Corrie and Dram, until they burst into a small meadow dotted with daffodils. To catch her breath, she slowed her pace and began to wander aimlessly through the grass, where the daffodils bobbed and fluttered in gusts of wind, as if they were looking for a place to hide. She gathered an armful and carried them to a stone fence that had fallen into ruin.

Scattered stones lay about—some of them partially covered with enough soil for violets to give root. She stepped over these and chose a grassy mound that lay flat against a part of the fence that still stood. She sat down and leaned her back against the uneven stones, hugging the daffodils to her. She watched Corrie and Dram loping in a zigzag fashion across the meadow, laughing when they began snapping at bees and biting at the heads of flowers.

She saw the way the daffodils turned their faces toward the sun, and following their lead, she leaned her head back and felt the result, warm upon her face.

Even with her eyes closed, she knew when a shadow moved over her face and thought at first the sun had gone behind a cloud. She opened her eyes and saw Robert standing there, tall as a pine, eclipsing the sun. About them, the gusts of wind died down, and everything was suddenly still as an odd sort of quietness settled over the meadow. Not even the dogs could be heard barking. Even the trees seemed to stand guard, silent as sentinels.

She tilted her head back, to better see his face, and squinted against the shaft of sun that escaped around him and warmed her.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

She glanced down at the daffodils in her arms. “I gathered these for your grandmother. I saw her looking at them through the window this morning.”

“She will like that. I remember her saying a house could never have enough flowers. Yellow is her favorite color.”

“Were you looking for me, or did you just happen upon us?”

He looked around as if trying to decide who us was. She looked around as well, and saw no sign of the dogs. “Corrie and Dram were here only a moment ago.”

“They are large dogs and can cover quite a distance in their roamings. It is their habit to slip off by themselves whenever the opportunity arises.”

She put her face into the yellow blossoms. “They don’t have much of a scent—just a faint trace of something…tarish.”

“Tarish?”

“As in smelling like tar.”

“Hmm. Is that a word?”

She wrinkled her nose and said, “It is now.”

Nearby, Corrie and Dram shot out of the brush, circled the meadow, snapped at a few flowers and disappeared again. “I always wanted a big dog.”

“Why didn’t you have one? I would think your father would have given you anything you wanted.”

“He was a very loving man, but he did not believe in spoiling. I suppose he must have thought that since he had so many dogs I did not need one of my own. You see, my father raised his own hunting hounds, but I was not allowed to play with them. It was not as black as I am painting it. He did buy me quite the loveliest dapple-gray pony. To this day, I have not seen her equal.”

He sat down next to her. “I would have a word with you about the wedding.”

She hugged the flowers closer against her. She did not know why she felt so nervous. “Yes, I was thinking you would be bringing that up before long.”

“Have you any thoughts on the matter?”

She considered for a moment, searching her feelings, her sentiments. There had been a time, of course, when she visualized an enormous wedding, but now practicality was more the order of the day. “Something small, I would think.”

“My sentiments also.”

“I have one request, milord. I know you are pressed to meet the king’s deadline, but I should like to wait as long as possible, if we may.”

“For what purpose?”

She felt suddenly shy and uncomfortable. “I…I do not know you well. It is my hope that we might have more time to become acquainted with each other if we did not marry straightaway.”

“And we cannot become acquainted after we marry?”

She could feel the splotches of color dappling her face from embarrassment. “Once we have married, there are certain…that is, you will be expected to…” She was dying inside. How could she possibly mention something as intimate as consummating a marriage to him?

He leaned forward and kissed her with surprising gentleness. She sat motionless as he took the daffodils from her and placed them on the ground. With his hands against her cheeks, he kissed her again, holding her face up to his.

She felt the rippling awareness of something inside her responding, wanting to kiss him as he was kissing her, but she was new at this, and shy. As if understanding the way she felt, he held her close, giving her time to adjust to the feel and nearness of him, of the scent she was coming to know as his alone. She had never felt so alive, so aware of the magnetic pull of a man’s body. She relaxed against him and followed his lead, until she felt as if he touched all her secret places. She shuddered in response and pushed him away. “I think that should be all the lessons for today,” she said, breathlessly trying to control her breathing.

“Is that what it was? A lesson?”

“Not for you, certainly, but for someone unschooled in such matters.” She paused, debating with herself. Honesty or coyness? she asked herself. Which shall it be? “You must understand what you are dealing with here, milord. When it comes to matters of the heart, I am a novice. I have nothing to guide me save my own romantic notions, which I fear are terribly out of date, inadequate and ill-formed, when compared to the reality. I have not had a Season in London, and because of my early betrothal, I never had a beau.” She stopped speaking. This was not coming out the way she wanted. She doubled her fists in frustration. “Oh, blast it all! I am trying to tell you…”

He drew her back to lean against him and put his arms around her. She felt the weight of his chin as it rested on the top of her head. “It is nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about,” he said, and she could feel the vibration of his words. “Time is critical for both of us, however I will grant you as much time as possible. I have contacted the minister, but I have not set a date. Perhaps we can do that in a few more days.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “after all, what can happen to change things in such a short time?”

His only response was to turn her, so that she lay in his arms, gathered close against him. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she sighed deeply. There was security here. She liked that. She also liked the strength in his arms, the heat and the hardness of his body, so close to hers.

A long-held moan vibrated from low in her throat when his mouth closed over hers. His kiss was hard and seeking, almost brutally erotic, his lips moving over hers, again and again. He kissed her cheeks, her throat, her ear, tugging on the lobe. Her heart pounded painfully and the blood pulsed into her starved lungs.

She tucked her face into the folds of his soft linen shirt, feeling the weight of him against her. His mouth moved over the pulse in her throat, and he whispered, “Don’t be frightened, lass.”

She could not help smiling. Among his many talents, she discovered a gift for the absurd.

Hot, confused and trembling with anticipation, she wanted him to…she had no name for it, and no knowledge, either, but the desire was there. The need for him burned brightly and she yearned for him to take her where she had not been before. All rational thought evaporated under the heat of his kiss and the fiery burn of words whispered against her bare throat—words that told her what he wanted to do to her, what he would do, because he knew she wanted it. And she did.

She felt intoxicated, as if her blood had turned to brandy, flowing hot and burning, touching every part of her, searing, then smoldering, and finally leaving her weak and languorous, the heat having burned away any thought of stopping him. It was not until his hand covered her breast that she realized her dress was open. She was powerless, lost in the stamp of desire branded across his face, the passion-filled eyes, the longing that became heavier with each breath.

His hand left her breast. His mouth quickly took its place, while he pushed her gown down farther, lower, across the flat plane of her stomach, lower, until it found safe harbor and came to a melting stop. She moaned and moved against him, lost in a world that she did not know existed, where every consciousness fell away into oblivion and she was surrounded by a stark silence.

Nothing existed but him. She felt the magic of his hands and wondered how he knew what to do so well—and just how to do it. It did not matter that others had shown him, or had lain beneath him as she did now, burning with need, opening beneath the quest of his mouth, his hands. Untold numbers had taught him this, but it was she who gathered the fruit.

He might not be hers now, but he would be.

Soon, he would know she was his, that she had belonged to him since before she was born, not by forfeit, or seizure, or even a gift, but because it was meant to be. She wondered how she could have felt so shy with him a moment ago, and so brazenly open to him now. It was what they both wanted. She could not deny that, any more than she could caution herself with the reminder to stop him now, while she still could. In a moment, she told herself, and then realized all too late that the moment had come and gone.

He knew where to touch her, how to touch her in a way that called forth her wildness, her untamed spirit that so perfectly matched his. She yielded to him, knowing he wanted her as much as she wanted him, when she heard his groan and felt the power in his fingers threaded through her long hair.

When he took what she gave him, she knew instinctively that it was good and perfect. She would never even consider he had taken advantage of her inexperience, or that he seduced her. She knew what she was about as surely as she had known what he wanted—what she wanted, and had wanted since she first encountered him. At last, the unknown mystery was solved. He had shown her the way of it, and she was glad. She would never have enough of him—even a lifetime was too short.

She lay beneath him, as spent as he, her hands moving absently in his sweat-dampened hair. His scent floated over her, a fresh, wind-whipped smell of the out-of-doors, of grasses and flowers, of wild things and the harshness of spring—the very essence of life. She yearned to tell him of her feelings, of the newborn love that she nurtured deep inside. She was afraid the time was not yet right to speak to him of love, and she knew she would have to hold the secret unto herself for a little longer, tucked away in the center of her heart.

She needed to know he belonged to her and no other, but she could not claim him any more than wax can hold feathers fast too near the sun. He did not have her openness, her desire to share all she felt inside. He hid what was within him in the darkest shadows, forming a dungeon unto himself, fearful to trust, too stubborn to love, doubtful of loyalty, too cautious to reveal himself and walk in the brightness of the sun.

She looked up at him, his proud, dark head hovering like a bird of prey over her. He regarded her silently, searching her face. She wanted to tell him he would not find the answers to his questions there. She saw his expression change, and disappointment swept over her. He was detached, separate from her now, impenetrable and resistant, for he had closed himself and sealed his heart against her. It was too late to tell him anything, for the mask had slipped back into place.

“Forgive me,” he said at last. “That is not what I meant to happen. I knew better. I should not have allowed it to go so far.”

She pulled her dress up to cover herself and said nothing. She lay in mute silence and watched him dress, not moving to dress herself until he offered to walk her back. She sent him on, to walk back alone. They had gone full circle, and now that passion was spent, they were back where they had started—the Scottish thistle and the English rose—and a million miles apart in everything, except in the memory of close proximity where two entwined bodies had lain.

With a heavy heart, she realized he was her knight in shining armor, but she would never be his lady-fair.