The Captive Heart (23 page)

“I need no wife as long as I have Fiona,” Malcolm Scott responded stubbornly. Nay. He needed no wife. Why would he need a wife? He had an heiress for Dunglais, but Alix was testing his reserve of late. She had become a passionate lover under his tutelage. He had thought that that would be enough, but suddenly the queen’s teasing banter was making him wonder what his life would be like without Alix. He had lived without her before, hadn’t he? And then he realized with a sharp sudden clarity that he didn’t want to live without her now.

Was he in love? Aye, he was in love! Yet what he felt now was nothing like what he had felt for Robena. It had been time to take a wife. Robena was beautiful and exciting. Her dower was generous. Her family a good one. Malcolm Scott had approved the match his uncle wanted to make, and married the Ramsay lass. He hadn’t been quite certain on their wedding night she was a virgin, but she had seemed at first to be loyal. But he realized now he had never loved her. And when she had betrayed him it was his pride, his honor, that had been hurt. She had gone from his life as easily as she had come into it, and he hadn’t cared.

But it was different with Alix. He didn’t want her to go away. He didn’t want her to marry another one day. She was his! He loved her! And if he loved her then she deserved better from him than to be his mistress. She should be the wife he had been so certain he did not need. Fiona loved her too.

“My lord.” Queen Marie broke into his thoughts.

“Madame?” He was immediately alert.

“May I present Eufemia Grant, my captain’s wife, to you? Eufemia, this is Malcolm Scott, the Laird of Dunglais.”

“Madame.” The laird bowed over the elegant white hand that was offered.

“Eufemia is a member of the Stewart family, my lord. My late husband saw to her marriage several years ago,” Queen Marie explained.

Eufemia Grant was a tall woman with an arrogant carriage. She had rich auburn hair and large breasts that almost spilled from her dark blue gown. “My lord,” she greeted him in a husky voice, her bright blue eyes assessing him as a feline would a particularly plump mouse. The tip of her tongue snaked quickly across her lips. “You have traveled far?”

“From Dunglais in the borders,” he answered her.

“I know it not,” she replied. As the queen moved away to greet another gentleman who had just entered the hall, Eufemia Grant moved closer to the laird.

“There is no reason you would know Dunglais, madame.” Jesu! Her scent was overpowering, and he had to refrain from pulling away when she slipped her arm into his.

“Is Dunglais beautiful?” she murmured so quietly he had to bend his head to hear her, and in doing so was treated to a fine display of her bosom, which he realized was exactly what she had intended.

“It’s a simple border holding. Pretty to some, but not all,” he answered her.

Across the hall Alix saw the laird bending low over the beautiful woman. Her heart contracted in her chest as if someone were squeezing it. Who was the woman? And why was she clinging to the laird in such a proprietary manner? Alix felt something akin to anger welling up in her. She wanted to go over and scratch the woman’s eyes out. But she remained where she was until Fiona, noting the woman with her father, pulled away from Alix and headed straight for the couple.

“Da!” she said, hurrying up to him.

Eufemia Grant looked down at the little girl disdainfully.

“Qui êtes vous?”
Fiona said, looking up boldly at the woman.

“What is she saying?” Eufemia Grant wanted to know.

“Vous êtes laide,”
Fiona continued.
“Je ne vous aime pas.”

“Fiona!” Alix hurried up. “I am so sorry, my lord.”

The laird’s mouth was twitching with amusement.

“Are you her servant?” Eufemia Grant demanded to know. “Take the brat away! I do not like children, especially those who chatter in a rude tongue. Having to dodge the queen’s brood all the time is more than enough for me.”

“I am hardly a servant, madame,” Alix answered icily. “I am Mistress Alix Givet, goddaughter to Queen Margaret of England.”

“Take your child away, then, Mistress Givet,” Eufemia Grant said. “She is annoying us.”

“She does not annoy me,” the laird said, and reaching down, he lifted Fiona up into his arms. “She is my daughter, madame.”

“I don’t like her, Da,” Fiona whispered to her father. “I will be very angry if you want to marry her.”

“Mistress Grant has a husband, Fiona,” her father reassured her.

“Then why is she clinging to you and showing you her tits?” Fiona demanded.

“Fiona, Mistress Grant’s gown is the height of fashion and I am quite jealous,” Alix said in an effort to smooth things over. She saw the laird was close to laughter, and so was she. Poor Eufemia Grant looked so outraged, for Fiona’s whispers were quite plainly understood.

“Your daughter’s manners lack gentility and delicacy, my lord,” Eufemia Grant said and, turning, she stalked away.

Malcolm Scott chuckled, unable to restrain his amusement. Alix was caught up in a frenzy of giggles. Neither could help themselves. Fiona looked between them, and deciding that they were not angry at her, grinned.

“Praise God and his Blessed Mother that the woman didn’t speak French,” the laird said. “Fiona told Mistress Grant she was ugly.”

“She is,” Fiona said. “And she smelled beneath all that perfume she had bathed herself in, Da. She obviously does not wash regularly like Alix and like me. I did not like her. Why was she hanging on Da that way?”

“She is part of Queen Marie’s household,” Alix told the girl. “I think she was just attempting to make your father feel welcome.”

“Precisely!” the laird agreed.

“I did not like her,” Fiona repeated.

It was at that moment the queen returned, escorted by a handsome gentleman. “My lord, have you met Adam Hepburn? Adam, this is the Laird of Dunglais, Malcolm Scott.”

Adam Hepburn was a tall, big-boned man with rich auburn hair and light eyes that seemed to waver between green and blue. He held out his hand to the laird, shook it, then smiled at Alix and Fiona. “And who are these two fair ladies?” he asked.

“My daughter, Fiona,” the laird said, “and Mistress Alix Givet, who is her companion.”

“Mistress Givet is my kinswoman of Anjou’s goddaughter,” Queen Marie said.

“And how did an English queen’s godchild end up in Scotland?” the Hepburn lord asked, curious.

“I will tell you the story later, my lord,” Queen Marie murmured.

“Have you seen the battlements yet?” Adam Hepburn asked Malcolm Scott.

“Nay,” the laird answered.

“Tomorrow,” the queen said quietly. “The laird’s visit should be considered social, my lord. I do not wish to draw the attention of others to its real purpose.”

“Forgive me, madame,” Adam Hepburn quickly replied. “I am as anxious as you to hear his opinion. I forget that even here at Ravenscraig we are not entirely safe from prying eyes and sharp ears.”

The queen smiled a tender smile at the Hepburn. “Always be here to watch over me, my lord,” she said quietly.

Malcolm Scott caught Alix’s eye. He saw the faintly surprised look upon her face. “Tell me,” he said, turning the subject, “is the captain of your guard aware of his wife’s nature, madame? Forgive me, but I am not used to being approached so boldly.”

Adam Hepburn laughed heartily. “I believe Eufemia Grant has feline blood in her veins. She seems to stalk naturally. So far she hasn’t caused a scandal, and so far her husband hasn’t killed her.”

The laird joined in his laughter. “He probably will have to eventually,” he remarked. “She quite put my little daughter out.”

“Eufemia doesn’t like women of any age,” Adam Hepburn said.

“My lords,” the queen gently admonished them. “David Grant is most loyal.”

A group of children suddenly entered the hall and came to where the queen stood. The eldest of them was a handsome young boy between nine and ten with an olive complexion, dark hair, and fine dark eyes. It was obvious who he was.

“Jamie!” the queen said, and she curtsied, as did Alix and Fiona. The two gentlemen bowed to the young king.

“Michel said we had guests, Mama,” the boy said.

The queen presented the laird, Alix, and Fiona to him.

“Would you like to come and play with me?” the king asked Fiona. “I like chess. Do you like chess, my lady Fiona?”

“I have never played,” Fiona said, cast down. Then she brightened. “But I am learning French, Your Highness.”

“But I shall teach you!” the king told her. “And you will practice your French with me. My mother spoke French in her homeland. I speak very good French.”

“I should like that, Your Highness,” Fiona told him.

“Come along, then,” the king said. “You don’t want to play with my brothers. They are much too rough for a fine young lady as yourself.”

“Jamie plays with lasses,” Alexander, the eight-year-old Duke of Albany said with a sneer, and his two brothers, David, the Earl of Moray, and John, the Earl of Mar, snickered and punched each other.

“My lords, the king seeks to make a guest welcome,” Adam Hepburn said. “You might learn from him.”

“I know what you are and what you do,” the young Duke of Albany said with a leer. “There are no secrets, my lord.”

“Alexander!” the queen admonished her second-born son. “Apologize to Lord Hepburn at once.”

“Your pardon,” the boy said with a sneer, and then he led his two younger brothers off across the hall.

“He is jealous,” Adam Hepburn said softly. “He thinks he should be king.”

“My lords and my ladies,” Michel, the queen’s steward, called, “the meal is served.”

“You will sit at the high board with us,” the queen told the laird.

Alix moved discreetly away, but the queen called to her.

“Nay, Mistress Givet. You will sit with us. I know it is two years since you have seen my kinswoman of Anjou, but you must tell me what you know nonetheless.”

The meal was served quickly and efficiently. Alix was surprised at the simplicity of it. There were prawns that had been broiled in sweet butter and wine with a sauce of mustard and dill. There was a fish she could not identify, which the queen proudly told them was caught fresh that morning. It too was broiled, filleted, and served upon a bed of crisp cress with pieces of lemon. Alix hadn’t seen a lemon in several years, although they were always available at the English court’s kitchens. Fat capons roasted golden and sauced with oranges and raisins came next along with ham and venison. There was a potage of vegetables, peas, carrots, leeks, and beets in a cream sauce tasting of rosemary. The bread was fresh. There was butter and several cheeses. How long had it been since she had seen a Brie? Alix asked herself. At Dunglais there was hard yellow cheese. It was tasty but it wasn’t Brie. She indulged herself shamelessly until she caught Adam Hepburn grinning at her. Alix blushed, and he chuckled.

“The fare in the borders, I know, is hardly grand,” he said.

“Fenella does well enough for us,” Alix replied, “but growing up in my godmother’s court I grew to love the different cheeses that were available to us.”

“It must seem strange living such a rustic life after the life you have lived,” Adam Hepburn said. “Yet you seem happy, Mistress Alix.”

“The last few years were so chaotic,” Alix told him. “The king’s bouts of madness grew worse. The Yorkist faction jockeyed for precedence over the king’s men. Battles were fought back and forth, and we were never certain that we were safe. The queen was particularly frantic for Prince Edward’s safety.” She sighed. “And then my mother died. She was one of the queen’s ladies and had been with her since they were both girls in Anjou. She had always been so hearty, but suddenly she was tired all the time. My father knew that even if he could take us back to a quieter life in Anjou she would die sooner than later. All those years of looking after her mistress had taken their toll upon her health. She died just before we were finally forced to flee north.”

“I am sorry,” Adam Hepburn said. “It is always the women and children who suffer in these wars we men create. Your father is gone now too, and you have become orphaned. You had a husband, I am told, and he too is dead.”

“Gracious!” Alix exclaimed. “When you put it all together, and I am the only one left standing . . .” She looked momentarily distressed.

“You are a survivor,” he told her. “There is nothing wrong with being a survivor, Mistress Givet. Better to survive than not. Have you become your laird’s mistress?”

“My lord!”
Alix’s fair skin grew quite pink with her blushes.

Adam Hepburn laughed. “You are a survivor,” he repeated.

“I am not that kind of woman,” Alix began, but the Hepburn lord shook his head.

“Nay, you are not. I can see that. You love him, but being a wise woman you have said nothing. He loves you, you know. His eyes follow you everywhere.”

“Oh no, my lord!” Alix said. “He was cruelly betrayed by his wife. He will not love or trust again any woman.”

Adam Hepburn laughed softly again. “What a charming innocent you are, Alix Givet. Your laird loves you, and eventually he will admit to it. Will that make you happy,
ma petite
?”

“
Mais oui
, my lord,” Alix whispered.

The meal over, the queen’s musicians began to play from a little gallery at one end of the hall. The music was sprightly, and Alix found her foot tapping to it.

“Madame, shall we dance?” Adam Hepburn asked the queen.

Marie of Gueldres smiled and clapped her hands. “What a lovely idea!” she agreed, and arose from her place at the high board. She led them to the floor, and clasping hands, they made a circle. David Grant and his wife joined them. Together they circled first one way and then another to the music. Then the circle broke briefly as they paired and danced as couples. At first the queen danced with Adam Hepburn while the Grants made a couple, and Malcolm Scott took Alix in hand. The gentlemen bowed. The ladies curtsied. The women were twirled several times and then lifted up to shouts from the men-at-arms seated at the several tables in the hall.