Friarsgate Inheritance: Until You Part 24

"Aye," he agreed slowly, "and then perhaps you would agree to marry me, Rosamund, and we shall never be parted again."

"Let us see how your son likes me first, darling," she advised. "I will drive no wedge between you two. Return to me in the springtime, Patrick, and if we are both of the same mind then, I shall come back with you to Glenkirk next winter with my girls."

"And we can be wed then," he told her.

She nodded. "But we must say naught to any right now, my lord. It will be our secret. There can be no marriage between us unless your son approves. Let Adam know me before you speak with him. Please."

"Very well, my darling. It shall be as you desire, for I cannot refuse you anything, it would seem."

In early September a carter arrived requesting payment for the great crate that he had transported from the port of Newcastle-on-Tyne to Friarsgate. Going into her strong-box, Rosamund counted out the coins, but she said, "Open the crate for me first that I may make certain your cargo is not damaged. Be careful!" she warned as the carter and his helper began to pull the crate apart.

Shortly, the painting as done by Maestro Loredano was revealed. The two carters lifted it from its packaging and held it up for all to see. There were great oohs from those gathered in the hall.

" 'Tis beautiful, la.s.s," Edmund said. "I have never seen the like before."

"It would have traveled easier had he just sent the canvas," Rosamund noted dryly, "but I suspect that the maestro would trust no one but himself to see to the framing." Her eyes met the earl's. "I wonder what happened to the other painting."

Patrick laughed. "I suspect we shall never know, Madonna." Then he explained to Edmund and Maybel about the two paintings.

"He don't sound very respectable to me, this painter fellow," Maybel said.

"He was not respectable as we would have it," the earl answered her, "but you will agree that the fellow is talented. His rendition of Rosamund is masterful."

"Aye," Edmund agreed. "He has her so lifelike that I would expect her to step from the painting, my lord."

The harvest was now gathered in, and Friarsgate began to prepare for the winter to come. The anniversary of Sir Owein Meredith's death was celebrated in the little estate church. It was now three years since he had fallen from a tree in the orchard and broken his neck. The days were growing noticeably shorter, and the nights were now cold. Both Rosamund and Patrick were avoiding the inevitable.

"I can remain no longer or I shall have to spend the winter here," he told her one evening as they lay abed.

"Do not leave me," she begged him. "I am so fearful that if we break the spell that has surrounded us these past months I shall never see you again."

"Then come with me," he said, and he caressed her beautiful auburn hair.

She shook her head. "You know I cannot, Patrick. I am amazed at all I have done in this past year and the places I have been in that time, thanks to you. Promise me that you will return in the spring when the snows have left your Highlands. Oh, I wish you could at least remain until your birthday!"

"December is too late a time for me to travel. It is already October, and I should have gone two weeks ago," he said. "Rosamund, I am leaving tomorrow."

She cried out as if he had struck her, but then, turning a brave face to him, she said, "Then you must love me tonight, Patrick, as if you will not love me ever again!" She pulled his head to hers, and their lips met in a fierce kiss, each of them drawing from the other. She ran her tongue over his mouth, tasting him hungrily. His hands cupped her bottom, drawing her closer. "I love you!" she sobbed.

"And I love you as I have never loved another, Rosamund Bolton!" he declared. He caressed her, meaning it to be tender, but instead his touch aroused her pa.s.sions. His mouth closed over a nipple, and he drew upon it even as he fondled the round soft flesh of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His fingers played between her thighs, and then she surprised him by turning herself about so she might take his manhood between her hands and suckle upon it. Her facile little tongue ran up and down the length of him. It encircled the ruby k.n.o.b, and he moaned with pleasure as he experienced a delight he had not imagined her capable of giving. But before she unmanned him, he forced her away and onto her back once more. He mounted her and pushed into her welcoming heat, taking her face between his two big hands as he did, watching the subtle play of pa.s.sion upon her lovely face as he thrust slowly back and forth until she was half-sobbing with her own pleasure. He bent his body now and gave her a long, slow kiss. "How is it that you make me young again, my sweet border lover? In what time and what place have we been before? I have never understood, Rosamund, but I do not care any longer, as long as I have your love for now and always!" His movements on her became more demanding.

The taste of him had been the most stimulating aphrodisiac she had ever known. She had not wanted to release him from between her lips, but she had also been developing a terrible need for him between her thighs, which he had quickly filled. Rosamund reveled in the feel of his manhood, thick and hard inside her. He taunted and teased her with his prowess as he moved back and forth, back and forth. For a long moment she believed that nothing would give her release, and then the delicious tingling began, and she was dizzy with the pleasure Patrick offered. "I love you!" she cried, and his lips met hers as her body began to experience spasms of pa.s.sionate fulfillment as he released his love juices within her.

Rosamund wept afterwards. "I cannot bear it that we will be parted these next months," she sobbed.

He said nothing, for there was nothing left for him to say. Instead, he held her within the shelter of his arms and stroked her auburn head tenderly. Eventually, Rosamund fell asleep, but Patrick remained awake for some time. Was this the last time they would be together? Nay, he did not feel that at all. He would return in the springtime, and they would love again. His instincts had proven correct so far. He had no reason to doubt them now, and he would not. Still, he regretted that he must go. The winter would seem very long without his Rosamund.

In the morning he bid them all farewell. Bessie, who had become the earl's special pet, cried to see him go. Dermid would accompany his master, but he would return in time for the birth of his first child in December. Edmund and Maybel were genuinely sorry to see Patrick depart. Rosamund put on a brave face, but Annie howled and cried until Maybel threatened to smack her.

"He'll be back, you foolish la.s.s," she told the girl. "Were you not wed by a bishop in a cathedral? And is it not his child you carry?"

"Be brave, la.s.s," Dermid said. "I have to go home and tell my ma, now, don't I?"

The two men mounted their horses, and Rosamund, standing by the earl's stirrup, looked up with a tearstained face and whispered, "Remember I love you, Patrick."

He leaned down, lifted her up enough to kiss her lips, and replied, "And remember that I love you, Rosamund Bolton." Then he set her down again.

The others dispersed, returning to their duties, but Rosamund remained, watching until nothing of Patrick Leslie, Earl of Glenkirk, was visible but a faint cloud of golden dust. Returning to her bedchamber, she flung herself on the bed they had shared and wept wildly. The scent of him was yet on the pillows. I cannot bear it, she thought desperately. I cannot live without him for six months. Oh, G.o.d! Why did I not have Mata marry us now? Why did I not at least go with him? But she knew the answers to her questions even as she silently voiced them. The earl's son must approve a match between his long-widowed father and the lady of Friarsgate. Nor could she leave her girls again. Since their father's tragic death she had spent too much time away from them. Rosamund wished her cousin Tom were here now to comfort her. Then she sighed, and rising from her bed, she washed the tears from her face. She had duties to complete, and if she did not return to the hall soon, her daughters would be frightened. Taking a deep breath, the lady of Friarsgate walked from her bedchamber and down the staircase to where they all awaited her anxiously.

Chapter 11.

Apeddler, making his way back into England, stopped at Friarsgate in late October. He had spent the previous night at Claven's Carn. The lady of the house, he informed those a.s.sembled in Rosamund's hall, had a fine new son born earlier in the month. The lord was very pleased and was eager to show his heir to all who entered Claven's Carn.

"He got her with child quick enough," Rosamund said dryly. "She must have conceived on her wedding night, or shortly thereafter."

"It might have been your laddie," Maybel murmured softly.

Rosamund shot her a hard look. "I had no desire to wed with the lord of Claven's Carn, and well you know it. Patrick and I will marry next year if his son does not disapprove. It is what I want. It is what he wants."

"And if his son should not be content to see his father remarried, what then?" Maybel demanded, ever protective of Rosamund.

"Then we will continue on as we have," came the answer. "Adam Leslie may want to meet me before he gives his father a blessing on this match. If he does, I should certainly understand."

Maybel sighed. "Another old husband! I do not know why you would prefer Lord Leslie to Logan Hepburn."

Rosamund laughed. "I cannot explain it to you, dearest. I simply did not love Logan, but from the moment our eyes met, I knew Patrick Leslie was my destiny."

"A bitter destiny, I'm thinking," Maybel muttered.

"But it is mine to choose," Rosamund replied quietly. "No longer will I be told what I must do and whom I must wed. Those days are over."

"I never thought to hear you speak like this," Maybel responded. "That you would throw away your responsibilities astounds me."

"I am not eschewing my obligations, Maybel. I will always fulfill my duties where Friarsgate and my family are concerned. But why must I be unhappy by doing so?"

Maybel sighed. "I do want you happy, but I don't understand why you could not be happy with the lord of Claven's Carn."

"Well, I couldn't," Rosamund said, her patience wearing thin. "And he is wed now to a good la.s.s who has given him the desired son and heir."

Maybel opened her mouth to speak again, but her husband leaned from his chair and put a warning hand on her shoulder. With a sigh of frustration, Maybel grew silent at last.

"Will Uncle Patrick return to us soon?" Philippa asked her mother.

Rosamund shook her head. "We shall not see him until next spring," she said.

"I want him to come home!" Bessie wailed, large tears rolling down her rosy little cheeks.

"So do I, baby," Rosamund replied, "but we must winter alone before we see the Earl of Glenkirk again."

"I want Uncle Tom back," Banon spoke up. "When will he return, mama?"

"Now, your uncle Thomas may well be back in time for the feast of Christ's Ma.s.s," Rosamund told her daughters with a smile. "I am certain he will bring you all lovely presents. He will soon be our neighbor, and won't that be fun?"

The three little girls all agreed it would indeed be grand to have Uncle Thomas as their neighbor.

"What will happen to your uncle Henry when Uncle Tom comes to live in his house?" Philippa queried her mother.

"It will no longer be Henry Bolton's house," Rosamund answered her daughter, surprised that she even knew of the man. She had not seen him in several years, and while Philippa might have seen him once, she would have been very young. How had she remembered this relation? "Who has spoken to you of my uncle Henry?" she asked.

"I have," Edmund replied. "She is the heiress to Friarsgate, and it is important that she know her family's history, niece. It is better that it comes from me. I am more objective in the matter."

"And I do not understand why," Rosamund answered him. "Henry Bolton was never kind to you."

"But even given that I was born on the wrong side of the blanket," Edmund responded, "Henry could not take away the plain fact that I was the eldest and that our father loved me every bit as much as he loved Richard, Guy, and Henry. Because he was the youngest of us, he always felt it necessary to try harder. That trait developed into a foolish superiority as he grew older and comprehended that Richard and I were not legitimate while he and Guy were. Yet our father showed no preference among us. It has been quite frustrating for him, Rosamund. He has lived his entire life being haughty and arrogant because he was legitimate, and what has it gained him? His dismissive and overbearing att.i.tude did not bring him happiness or love. It brought him two legitimate sons, one who died young and the other who is a thief. It brought him a second wife who wh.o.r.ed with any and all, sp.a.w.ning a pa.s.sel of bairns your uncle dared not deny for fear of being made a fool. And yet everyone knew. It gained him naught but your scorn. And now he is brought low. Only the kindness of Thomas Bolton will allow him to live out his days in comfort."

"He doesn't deserve it," Rosamund said bitterly.

"Nay, he does not," Edmund agreed. "Yet your cousin Tom will keep his word. He is a truly good Christian, Rosamund, whatever else he may be. And you have found your own happiness at last, so be generous of heart, niece, and forgive Henry Bolton. I have, and Richard did long ago."

Rosamund was thoughtful for a long moment, and then she said, "If Tom returns for Christ's Ma.s.s and the feast days following it, perhaps I shall invite my uncle Henry to be with us."

"More you the fool," Maybel said low.

"He is a toothless dog, wife," Edmund answered her.

"Even a toothless dog may be dangerous if he is rabid," she snapped sharply.

"If it would make you uncomfortable then I shall not ask him," Rosamund said soothingly to her old nursemaid.

"Nay," Maybel replied. "I'll not be responsible for preventing you from making your peace with the old devil, if you will make it. He'll be dead soon enough."

In early December a letter came to Friarsgate from Glenkirk, brought by one of the Leslie clansmen. He was given shelter for the night and a hot meal. Dermid returned with him just in time for his son's birth. Rosamund sat down to read what her lover had written. She would give the messenger a letter to return to Glenkirk. Patrick wrote that his trip home had been uneventful. His son had taken fine care of Glenkirk in his absence. He had already spoken to Adam in confidence regarding their marriage. His daughter-in-law, Anne, was not told.

Adam was agreeable to this match between his father, particularly understanding that there would be no offspring due to his father's condition. He would, however, come with his father to Edinburgh in the spring to meet Rosamund. The earl wrote to Rosamund that because the winter was setting in, he did not know if he might communicate with her again. They would meet at an inn in Edinburgh called the Unicorn and Crown on the first day of April. They would visit the king at court and ask his permission to be wed in his own chapel by the young archbishop of St. Andrew's, Alexander Stewart. They would then return to Friarsgate while Adam Leslie rode north with the news of his father's marriage. In the autumn, Patrick and Rosamund would travel to Glenkirk for the winter months. The earl spoke of his love for her and of how he missed Rosamund. His nights, he wrote, were long, cold, and dreary without her, his days gray and gloomy. He missed the sound of her voice, her laughter. He wished nothing more than to have her within his arms once again. "I will never love anyone as I love you, sweetheart," he concluded.

Rosamund read the missive, smiling with her happiness. She turned to the clansman who had brought it. "Have you been in the castle's Great Hall, lad?"

"Aye, m'lady," he replied.

"And has the painting of the earl been delivered and hung?"

"It came in the summer when the earl be away. Lady Anne were very surprised to see it. It was nae hung until the master returned. It be a fine painting. So lifelike, m'lady. All who see it say so."

Rosamund nodded. "The painting of me in this hall was painted by the same artist," she said.

"Aye," the clansman said. "I can see 'tis similar."

"I will be sending you home with a message for the earl," Rosamund told him.

"Thank ye, m'lady," the messenger said, and he went off with a servant to be given a sleeping s.p.a.ce.

"I must be in Edinburgh on April first," Rosamund said.

"Oh, mama, must you go away again?" Philippa protested.

"Would you like to come with me?" her mother inquired.

"Me?" Philippa squealed excitedly. "Go with you to Edinburgh? Oh, mama! Aye, I should very much like to go with you. I have never been anywhere in all of my life."

"I did not go to King Henry's court until I was thirteen," her mother replied.

"Will I meet King James, mama? And Queen Margaret? Will we go to the Scots court?" Philippa demanded.

"Yes," her mother said, smiling. "We may even celebrate your ninth birthday there. Would you like that, Philippa?"

Philippa's face shone with her approval.

"You spoil her," Maybel said. "You must not spoil her."

"Children should be spoiled. Lord knows you did your best to spoil me, though you forget it now," Rosamund teased the older woman gently.

"I tried only to make up for Henry Bolton when you were a wee thing," Maybel defended herself. "I had no opportunity to spoil you once you were in Hugh Cabot's charge, for he enjoyed spoiling you himself, G.o.d a.s.soil his good soul!"

"Aye, G.o.d bless both Hugh Cabot and Owein Meredith," Rosamund responded.

The Leslie clansman departed the following morning with a letter to his master from the lady of Friarsgate. Her correspondence to him was much as his to her had been. She had written of her loneliness without him, a loneliness such as she had never known in all her life until now. She had written of her daughters and of her estate, of their preparations for winter and how they were waiting eagerly for Tom's return. She told him that Claven's Carn had an heir at last. And she closed by sending him her undying love and telling him how eager she was for their reunion on the first of April, that she would bring Philippa to Edinburgh so both his only son and her eldest daughter could witness their marriage vows. She put a drop of her white heather scent upon the parchment, smiling as she did so.

On the twenty-first of December, St. Thomas' Day, Tom appeared back at Friarsgate, bringing with him her uncle Henry. The children swarmed about this favorite relation hardly noticing their great-uncle. Rosamund, however, was shocked. Henry Bolton had indeed changed for the worse. He was gaunt, and his face wore a death's-head.

"You are welcome at Friarsgate, uncle," Rosamund greeted him.

His almost colorless eyes fastened upon her. "Am I?" he asked with just a touch of his old spirit. He leaned heavily upon a carved cane. "Lord Cambridge would insist I come, niece. He has purchased Otterly from me."

"Tom was right to bring you, uncle," Rosamund replied. "I am told you are alone now, and these festive December days should not be spent alone, without family. I was waiting only for Tom to send to Otterly for you."

Henry smiled cynically, the facial expression almost a grimace. He nodded. "I thank you for your welcome, niece."

"Come, uncle, and sit by the fire," Rosamund said. "Lucy, fetch Master Bolton a goblet of spiced hot cider." She led him to his place, seating him in a high-back chair with a tapestry cus.h.i.+on. "Your ride was cold, and the dampness threatens snow, I fear." She took the goblet her serving girl brought and put it in his gnarled hand.

"I thank you," he said, and he sipped gratefully at the hot cider. Slightly revived, his glance swept the hall. "Your daughters are healthy," he noted.

"They are," she agreed.