Virginia Henley (3 page)

The seductress vanished. Jenny’s eager young face shone with hero worship. “Thank you, Patrick!”

As Hepburn stood up and stretched his shoulders he saw the head steward, who was in charge of his household, approach with a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. Patrick nodded his head in the direction of the library. He cursed good-naturedly and knew he’d have a couple of hours of Crichton business to attend to, approving everything from supplies for the brewery to a tally of his tenants’ rents, which his bailiff had collected. It was a constant battle between income and output, and he hoped he would never have to mortgage Crichton again to pay his men. The dogs followed at his heels and flung themselves down before the library fire. Like the castle’s human inhabitants, they knew that all was right with their world now that the master was home.

Next morning, by break of dawn, David Hepburn had assembled the young reivers who had lifted the longhorns so successfully only a sennight ago. As Patrick joined them for the trek north, he noted with amusement that they showed little remorse. Still, it was enough that they were being forced to swallow their pride—no small feat for Borderers.

The five-mile journey presented few problems but produced some ripe curses from the men as they herded the longhorns across Tyne Water. Winton Castle lay on the far side of the river, atop a rise in the fertile land. Pastures filled with cattle ranged as far as the eye could see, all owned by Geordie Seton, the irascible Earl of Winton. Seton land stretched all the way to the sea, and Patrick silently admitted that he coveted every acre.

The earl spied them from half a mile away and came at full gallop. Now almost sixty, he had once been a handsome man with a head of thick, jet-black hair, which had now grown sparse and gray. His once fair skin was florid and wind-chapped. “God’s wounds, Hepburn, I never thought to see those beasties again. I intended to send men out searchin’ as soon as the calvin’ was done, but cowherds are no match fer bloody, thievin’ raiders! Where did ye find ’em?” he demanded angrily.

“I spotted them yesterday on my way back from Border patrol. The cattle are distinctive—I knew immediately they were yours, Lord Winton,” Patrick replied truthfully.

The wiry Seton would not let it go that easily. “I thought we were safe this far from the Border. I suspect it wasn’t the bloody English. I believe these reivers were Scots!”

Patrick saw David Hepburn stiffen and he felt the alarm his men were experiencing. “You are right, your lordship. They were Scots,” he confirmed, relishing the discomfort his words provoked.

“I knew I was right! It was the bloody Armstrongs, wasn’t it?”

His ruddy face turned a shade of purple. “I demand that ye arrest them! I intend to lay charges at the next Border Wardens’ Court. I’ll go to the king if I must. I want justice!”

“I dispensed immediate justice. I hanged Sim Armstrong.”

“By Christ, ye ha’ my admiration and my thanks fer returnin’ the herd.” His eyes narrowed in thought. “I’ve always bin against payin’ protection money, thinkin’ it a form of blackmail, d’ye ken? But now I believe the time is ripe to loosen the purse strings. Bring yer horse to the stable and come up to the castle, Patrick. We’ll draw up an agreement.”

With a straight face Patrick asked, “Do you mind if the lads look around? They’ve a keen interest in your cattle.”

When the two men dismounted, the disparity in their height was marked. The earl was short of stature, and as Patrick followed him from the stable he tried not to stare at his bowed legs.
Holy God, his mother must have rocked him on a barrel!

When they reached the library, the earl sent a servant scurrying for whisky, and Patrick was thankful he had a hard head for liquor. They agreed on a price for a year’s protection for the vast herd, which numbered more than two thousand. “How and when did you start breeding the Seton longhorns, my lord?”

“It was twenty-odd years ago. Lord John Spencer, an English noble with a large estate in Hertfordshire, came to look at my Highland cattle. He had some French Charolais that were good milk producers but didn’t thrive, and he was lookin’ to breed them with my sturdy beef cattle. Fortunately, they lent themselves well to crossbreedin’, and these unique longhorns were the result. The experiment turned out so well we both decided to breed them.”

As Winton wrote out the agreement he became loquacious. “There was a price to pay. My daughter, Isobel, deserted me to become Lady Spencer. She’s not visited Seton once in over two decades.”

“She must have found Hertfordshire to her liking.”

“Wheesht, not Isobel! She cajoled him into buyin’ her a house in Richmond and used his sister’s connection as lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth to get herself an appointment. She left John to his cattle breedin’ and deserted him for Court. When he died two years back I don’t think she grieved much. He was just a steppin’-stone to Isobel.” Geordie tossed off his second whisky. “My one great regret in life is havin’ no son, no male heir to inherit all this. My younger sisters have sons, but I was damned with only a daughter. God’s passion, but lasses can be a curse to a mon!”

“Females will always take the bit between their teeth unless they are controlled with a firm hand.” Patrick signed the agreement and pocketed half the fee. The other half would be paid if the Seton longhorns went unmolested for a year. Satisfied with the morning’s business, he bade the earl good-bye and left him to his whisky and his regrets.

As Patrick entered the stable to get his horse, a cat crossed his path, and suddenly the dark interior became illuminated by a dazzling light. The vision that appeared before him was a female in full, naked glory. She was standing before a mirror, which presented him with an unimpeded view of both her back and her front at the same time. She was small, with a tiny waist and delicate limbs, yet the swell of her lush breasts told him she was a woman full grown. He gazed at her alabaster skin with the admiration of a man who truly appreciated female flesh. When he finally raised his eyes, he saw that she was not completely naked, after all. She wore a frilly white neck ruff that emphasized the exquisite beauty of her face and contrasted with the profusion of black, shining curls that were piled high on her head.

Patrick stared in fascination, missing no finest detail. Her heavy lashes formed dark shadows on her cheekbones. When she raised them to examine herself in the mirror, he saw that her eyes were the color of amber with glittering gold inclusions in their depths. For one brief moment her eyes looked directly into his and left a physical impact. Not only did his heart miss a beat, but his unruly cock began to throb as it hardened and lengthened.

His hot gaze slowly lowered, licking over her delicious curves like a candle flame, and came to rest on her round bottom. He suddenly blinked in disbelief. At the top of her left bum cheek sat the image of a saucy black cat. “A tattoo, begod!”

Chapter Two

W
hen Catherine looked over her shoulder to view the reflection of her back in the mirror, she gasped. “God in Heaven! What on earth possessed you to do such a reckless, shocking thing? You must have been mad! The whim of a moment has indelibly marked you for a lifetime!” As the lasting consequences of her action sank in, she stopped speaking in the third person. “Marked
me
for a lifetime.”

She rubbed her fingertips over the tattoo, but the pert little cat sat immovable. “I shall be able to keep it hidden from Mother, but what about Maggie?” Her despair deepened. “She has eyes like a hawk. I’ve never been able to keep a secret from her for more than a day.” Maggie was the serving woman her mother had brought from Seton when she left Scotland to marry Lord Spencer. The Scotswoman had been Baby Catherine’s nurse, mothering her far more than Isobel had ever been inclined to do. Maggie was a formidable force to be dealt with. Because Cat loved and respected her, she also feared her disapproval.

“What’s this of secrets?” Maggie entered the bedchamber carrying a garment she’d just finished stitching.

Catherine snatched up her petticoat and backed up to the mirror. “Maggie, I thought you’d be at dinner!”

“Well, ye thought wrong. I wanted to finish yer costume for the masque. Seeing ye’re undressed, ye might as well try it on.”

“No, no. I’ll try it later.”

Maggie eyed her curiously. “What’s this of secrets?”

“I have no secrets from you,” Catherine denied.

“Well, ye’re right there. I know ye and yer bold-faced friend, Arbella Stuart, went into London yesterday.”

“Oh, Maggie, how did you know?” Cat whispered.

“This wretched old palace has only one advantage—its proximity to London. I know the city draws ye like a lodestone.”

“We went to see a play,” Cat confessed. “It was wonderful!”

“I warrant ye didn’t attend unescorted, either.”

“Well ... no. Henry Somerset and Will Seymour offered us their protection. There; now I’ve confessed everything.”

“No’ quite everything, Mistress Impulsive. What the hell is that black thing on yer arse?”

She spun around and realized Maggie had seen her naked back in the mirror. “Oh, Maggie, it’s a tattoo! What am I to do? I’ve ruined my body and spoiled any chance I had of a noble husband.”

Not if I know aught of men. It will make ye more desirable.
“Come now, my wee lass, there’s no point in weeping, wailing and gnashing yer teeth. What’s done can’t be undone. It hasn’t ruined ye for marriage. Ye’re beautiful and ye’re an heiress. The highest in the land will seek ye for their bride. Come, slip on this costume ye designed and we’ll see how it fits.”

Obediently Cat raised her arms, and Maggie lifted the silvery costume of Cynthia the Moon Goddess over her head. “Ye don’t really wish to marry a foppish courtier, do ye, love?”

“Of course I wish to marry a courtier. I would never see him otherwise. I don’t want a marriage like Mother had. They lived apart because Father had no interest in Queen Elizabeth’s Court, which was, and still is, Mother’s whole existence.”

Isobel Spencer had become Mistress of the Queen’s Wardrobe and had instilled such a love of fashion in her daughter it had inspired Catherine to try her hand at designing dresses, gowns and costumes. It did not take long for Her Majesty to notice her lovely creations and demand that she design exclusively for the queen’s person, with the exception of her own wardrobe, of course.

“But I don’t want it to become
your
whole existence. This isn’t the real world; it’s make-believe. Ye should be learning how to become an efficient chatelaine and run a great household, not pretending to be a moon goddess.”

“Maggie, the Tudor Court is the hub of the kingdom’s affairs. The queen is a magnet who attracts the greatest men of our time to her service. Ministers of state, senior officials of her household and peers of the realm gather about Elizabeth, making the Court the center of political, social and cultural affairs. Everybody who is anybody comes to Court for part of the year.”

“Part of the year is fine, but ye should spend more time at yer home in Hertfordshire, living a normal life.”

“But I’ve lived at Court since I was a child. I love the beautiful fashions, the dancing, the entertainments, moving from palace to palace. Court will give me the opportunity to make a great marriage. If I were stuck on a farm in the country I’d never get to meet the most eligible gentlemen in England.”

“Oh, aye, we’re tripping over elegant young courtiers, but the queen is a selfish old woman. She’s madly jealous of other females’ youth and beauty and keeps ye all out of reach with her false reverence for spotless maidenhood. She demands that men pay homage to only her. The courtiers are
her
gentlemen. Elizabeth believes she owns them, heart and soul.”

Catherine laughed with delight. “But that is what makes it all so much fun. The challenge of making one of the queen’s devoted gentlemen fall in love and completely lose his heart and soul to me is utterly irresistible.”

Patrick, flanked by his faithful captain, covered the eight miles from Crichton to Edinburgh in less than an hour. Darkness covered the ancient city, but Hepburn, familiar with every wynd and alley, easily found his way to the stables of Holyrood Palace. A coin slipped to a groom who was an Elliot clansman assured the pair that their horses would be royally housed. They made their way to the kitchens at the rear of the palace and gained easy entrance. Lord Stewart’s face was as well known to the guards as his easy generosity, while Jock was a favorite among the kitchen wenches, who were eager to supply food and other favors to a man who wore the Hepburns’ famous horse-head crest on his doublet.

The pair parted company as Patrick took a staircase leading to the upper reaches that housed the many suites of the courtiers. The flickering torches offered scant light, but he could have found his way blindfolded to the wing that held the private bedchambers of the queen’s ladies. He scratched on a paneled door and felt a stab of pleasure at how quickly it was opened.

“Patrick! I expected you last night.” The tall blonde pulled him into the room, giving him no chance to escape, and quickly shut the door. Margretha, who had been only fifteen when she accompanied Queen Anne from Oslo, still had a fascinating Danish lilt in her voice after more than a decade at the Scottish Court.

“Gretha, you know only unavoidable business would keep me from you.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her deeply.

As she lifted her arms about his neck, her loose robe fell open, and when he pressed her against his powerful body she sighed with undisguised pleasure. “It’s been so long, Patrick.”

Amused that she had been awaiting him almost nude, he teased, “Have you been undressed since last night in anticipation?”

Her hand slid over his huge bulge. “Cocksure devil. I attended the queen all day.”

“I brought you a present, but you’ll have to find it.”