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Tempted by the Border Captain Blythe Gifford Contents
The Dowager Queen’s Castle near the Scottish Borders
Spring, 1529
Five days. Mon Dieu! How was she to have all in readiness for the queen’s visit in only five days? Mary Betoun gazed up at the massive stone house and towers as she rode into the courtyard. The Dowager Queen had not been to this Borders property since Mary had been in her household, but now that the queen had remarried, she had embarked on a tour of all her properties. Mary was glad to see the queen happy again. She was well rid of her second husband—the Border lord who had made her life, and that of her son, the king—so miserable. Savages, all of the men from these hills. Yet, Mary had been given the challenge of bringing comfort and culture to this retreat in the rudest, most treacherous part of the country. Well, at least it would keep her so busy she’d have no time to think of Oliver Sinclair. Where was he now? she wondered, as the page helped her dismount. With that woman? That new bride of his? “Mary? Wee Mary?” She turned toward a vaguely familiar voice. “Jamie? Jamie Davison?” She had to lift her chin in order to meet his eyes. “You’ve grown, you have.” He grinned. “And you’ve grown not at all, Wee Mary.” Yes, that was Jamie Davison. Rankling her just as he had when he’d been Long Jamie—a tall, young squire she met when she was new in the Queen’s service. Everyone called her Wee Mary, but he said it with the lilt of laughter on his tongue. “What are you doing here?” she asked. She had no time for foolish distractions this week. “I’m captain of the castle guard.” No way to avoid him, then. “And I’m here to insure all is ready when the queen and her new husband arrive next week.” “Oh?” Jamie’s tilt of the head and his sideways smile were just as she remembered. “Are you, now?” Incroyable. His words seemed to mock her, just as they had when she’d been a maid of twelve and he had teased her before he stole a kiss. She no longer deserved his teasing. She was a woman grown and had danced with Scotland’s king. “I am a lady-in-waiting to the mother of the king.” “Not waiting on a husband of your own?” She felt her cheeks flame. Cruel reminder that she was pining for a man she could not have. “And have you a wife to wait on you, then?” Suddenly, she hoped the answer was no. Immediately, she scolded herself. She had known Jamie as a young squire, an awkward lout of fourteen, new to court, new to everything. He had made her laugh, then, and when he did, she forgot to worry about pleasing the queen or perfecting the steps of the Pavanne. When he made her laugh, just being Mary was enough. But nine years had passed since then. She knew how to please the queen and dance the Pavanne, and she knew many men infinitely preferable to this rough-edged Borderer. He interested her not in the least. Though he had grown much taller and his brown eyes twinkled. “No wife,” he said. “Do you think it’s time I married?” She turned her back and started toward the low building that must house the kitchen. “I don’t think of you at all, Jamie.” And she hadn’t. Not in years. “But if I did, I would think that you’ve not married because no woman would have you.” He gave quick instructions to the men to care for her horse and belongings then fell into step beside her, impossible to ignore. “Ah, Mary, a cruel taunt for an old friend.” She swept him with her eyes. Strong, good looking, though she would never tell him so. “I spoke in haste. When you want a wife, I’m sure you’ll find one.” Oliver Sinclair certainly had. A smile, edged with sadness, flickered across his face. “Ah, Mary, I hope you are right.” “I’ve no time to waste with you. I must speak to the cook.” She swept into the kitchen and shut the door. And found herself in a dark, windowless storage cellar. Outside, she heard laughter.
