Thistle and Roses Collection: A Bundle of Scottish, Irish and English Historical Romance

by Eliza Knight

  Despite every reservation tugging at her limbs and conscience, she turned a dazzling smile on Lord Bedford and relished the curve of his brow as he smiled back. He wasn’t a simpleton. He knew she was going to play with him, just as she had in the study. She found herself even more captivated by him. And it wasn’t because the men her father had used to try to distract her discussed the importing and exporting of fine wine.

  As long as it tasted good, Max didn’t care where her wine came from.

  “Lord Bedford,” she said, momentarily breaking societal rules that dictated she not be the first to address him.

  Her father gave her a slight nudge with his elbow that she ignored.

  “My lady.” Bedford gripped her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips, where he brushed them softly. “I trust you are finding court to be entertaining.”

  Heat rushed to Max’s cheeks. Had he seen her boredom as soon as he’d left the queen’s chambers?

  “Quite.”

  “My lords,” Bedford said, turning his attention on the three other gentlemen. “If you wouldn’t mind, there is something that I need to discuss with the baron.”

  Max felt her father stiffen beside her. The earl had not even asked her father if he could speak with him, rather used his position in the court to dictate that he would be doing so.

  The three gentlemen murmured and walked away at the earl’s dismissal.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Bedford?” her father asked, tension lacing his words.

  Bedford glanced at Max, a smile curving his lips, and her stomach dropped to her toes. What in heavens could he be doing? Not—

  “I have a proposition for you,” the burgling lord said to her father. “I think you’ll be rather pleased with it.”

  Max was going to vomit. The thieving rake was going to ask for her hand in marriage! The notion gave her both a thrill and made her want to run for cover.

  “A proposition?” Baron Dalston’s irritation was immediately replaced with attentiveness.

  “Indeed. Come, let us discuss it well away from prying ears. From your daughter’s coloring, it seems she might benefit from a turn about the queen’s gardens.”

  The baron spared his daughter a glance, and judging from the way she felt, Max was certain her face must have lost all color. She swayed on her feet, dizzy and nauseated. This could not be happening. Her father had granted her a one-week reprieve and now that was going to be cut to nothing. She’d hoped to at least live for the next seven days rather than go from one prison to another.

  Bedford was suddenly at her other side, gripping her hand and slipping it through his arm as if he would comfort her. But the man was the cause of her distress. For certes, he was handsome, well-formed and well-titled, but he was dishonest, and the last time they met, he’d left on a threat.

  He guided her out of the Presence Chamber, possession in his touch. Why did that send her blood into an excited thrum? Because she was a silly chit. A naïve girl, just as her father had professed she was.

  “I’m perfectly fine right here,” Max said, a tight smile barely curling her lips as she dug in her heels to keep from moving any farther.

  “Nonsense, the earl is quite right. You do not look well. Let us get you some fresh air.” Her father leaned closer. “We can go home. Perhaps court life is not for you.”

  She whipped her head in her father’s direction. “No!” Heat came rushing back to her cheeks at having raised her voice. She swallowed hard and attempted to regain her composure. “Apologies, Father. ’Tis not that at all. Simply that my shoes are paining me. Let us walk out to the garden and I can find a bench to rest upon.”

  Her father grunted and Bedford tapped her hand as he led the way outside.

  “I must say I was surprised to see the both of you here today,” Bedford said. “What brings you to court, Baron?”

  “A number of things. We’d hoped to speak with the queen. My daughter has yet to be presented before Her Majesty.”

  “Ah, yes, that is the reason I wished to speak with you.”

  There was a cunning edge to Bedford’s voice that set Max on edge. What was the thief up to?

  Max waited for her father to say something as they were ushered through the corridors and finally out into the palace gardens. Their shoes crunched on gravel and still her father said nothing.

  Did he believe that Bedford would ask for her hand as well, or did this go deeper? As deep as the threats and hint of revelation Bedford had said through his scowl at Thornton House?

  The flowerbeds along the wall in the distance and through the center beds were beginning to bloom, vibrant colors popping from stems. The fountains were already flowing, too, the steady trickle usually calming, but not today. She found no comfort at all in the outdoors. Her nerves were on edge, and no amount of soothing sounds or pretty smells would calm her.

  Bedford led her toward a carved, marble bench. “My lady, will you sit?”

  She wanted to, but she was afraid if she sat down, she’d not be able to get up again. Despite all of her toes nearly being numb now, she shook her head. The metal of her corset would only end up digging into her body anyway and she was dangerously close to fainting.

  “I thank you for your consideration, Lord Bedford, but the fresh air seems to have done the trick,” she lied, forcing a smile onto her face.

  Her father scowled at Bedford and then flicked his gaze toward her. “Should you like to take a turn about the garden then while we speak?”

  No, Max did not want to do that, but she couldn’t argue with her father in front of anyone, let alone a virtual stranger, so she opened her mouth to acquiesce when Bedford spoke.

  “Baron Dalston, if you would allow me this, I think your daughter should hear it as well.”

  Father bristled. From his rigid stance and the slight tinge of red coming to his face, it was obvious her father wanted very much to tell Bedford to go to the devil. The tension between the two men was palpable and uncomfortable. Max shifted on her feet, wishing she could indeed take a turn about the garden, then perhaps find the nearest stables, wrench off her gown and commandeer a horse for her escape.

  “Of course,” her father finally said.

  Bedford barely paid the man any attention, turning his gaze back toward Max. “What say you about serving the queen as a maid of honor?”

  Max studied Bedford’s eyes, his face. His excitement was palpable, shining in his dark eyes and curving gently on his lips. His color was good and his stance not rigid but fluid. There was no doubt she was drawn to him, wanted to feel the same enthusiasm for life as he did.

  Was this part of his marriage proposal? Did Lady Bedford serve the queen? Oh, good heavens! Max would be a countess! She didn’t know how to be a countess. She’d have to wear gowns such as this one every day and she’d not be able to spend hours in her solar, painting and reading. This was a bad idea. She did not want to marry Lord Bedford. But her father would never refuse. And he’d never forgive her if she did.

  Drawing in a quiet breath, she let it out as she licked her lips. “I would be honored if Her Majesty ever chose me.” But I pray she does not, as I pray you do not.

  Bedford nodded, a sly smile taking shape on his countenance. He was definitely up to something. If only she were a man, she’d be able to ferret out his interest with questions, but being a lady, she had to keep her mouth shut.

  “Good, good,” he murmured, eyes locking on hers, and for a moment, she felt a spark of something pass between them. It went beyond his own personal interests. Beyond his games. But it was broken all too soon as he turned to meet her father’s blatant stare. “Her Majesty asked me to speak with you in regards to your daughter, Lady Maxwell. She would like her to join her ladies-in-waiting, reporting to Mistress Hyde this very afternoon in regards to her sleeping quarters.”

  Max took a step back at the same time her father took a step forward. This was exactly what her father had hoped for and, she thought, what she’d hoped for�
��a momentary reprieve from having to choose a husband. But didn’t it come with something else, something more binding—as in Lord Bedford’s proposal?

  “She would be honored to accept this position,” her father said. “I am humbled that Her Majesty has seen fit to choose my daughter.”

  But Max had many more questions and she wasn’t willing to just accept. “I am indeed honored,” she said, looking pointedly at her father. She fisted her gown to hide from Bedford how her nerves made her fingers tremble. “But I am also curious. Would you mind indulging me, Lord Bedford, in a few questions?”

  The baron gripped her arm and gave a little tug. “Ack, daughter, do not bother the man with your silly questions. He’s come with a message from the queen. A grand message, at that. Isn’t this everything you’ve ever wanted?”

  No. No, it wasn’t everything she’d ever wanted. She’d only wanted it today when she thought she might be able to stall a marriage, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still have questions. Max inclined her head delicately in submission. When her gaze caught on Lord Bedford’s, she saw the interest sparking in his eyes. He wanted to know her questions, but he’d already cut in with her father once since they’d been in the garden and a gentleman wouldn’t do so again.

  Max bit the inside of her cheek. Why did this man bring her the offer from the queen? What did he have to gain from it?

  A mere woman she might be, but Max was not an imbecile. She could smell a plot cooking. And, oddly, there had not been a proposal either. Or did he still wait to say so?

  “There is another topic I’d like to discuss with you, Baron, and this, Lady Maxwell, I beg your pardon, must be said in private.”

  The nerve of him! Was this when they’d arrange for her to be married to the leech?

  “Good day,” she said through tight lips.

  There was one thing she was certain of—Lord Bedford could not be trusted. And if she were honest, neither could her heart.

  Chapter Seven

  Max was not betrothed. But she was now an official maid of honor in the queen’s court.

  Just before her father had bid her farewell the night before, he’d put her out of her misery by indulging her that bit of information. The man had not even asked for her hand. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or not.

  Of course, her father had no way of knowing that Lord Bedford and she had discussed marriage in his study. For that, she was glad. Her father would likely consider using a whip on her if he had been privy to that bit of nonsense.

  All the same, this morning when Mistress Hyde had roused the ladies for chapel, Max had prayed extra hard for forgiveness. Forgiveness for her behavior. Forgiveness for imagining what it would be like for Lord Bedford to kiss her. Forgiveness for the curses she sent his way when he didn’t ask for her hand after he had hinted he would. Forgiveness for being vain enough to think he might want to be married to her. The list was endless, and if she’d had the nerve to confess, she would have had a lengthy penance. As it was, she had to add this sin—her fear of confession—to her list as well.

  So far, the queen had been kind to her, even asked Max to read a passage from her prayer book and praised her for her gentle voice. The day had gone by much quicker than she’d expected, and just after luncheon, all of the ladies, the queen included, had gone to rest before preparing for the banquet.

  Inside the queen’s Privy Chamber, the noise level was quickly giving Max a headache. The ladies fawned over each other and squealed as ribbons and bits of silk and lace floated on the air. From an outside perspective—for she’d not truly become one of them yet—it was magical, ethereal and… well… silly.

  These ladies loved serving the queen—not the actual serving of her, but the idea of it and the admiration at court that being an attendant of the queen brought them as well as all the glamor that came with it. Max supposed she should have been excited, but the idea of being tucked into the corset and having her gown pinned to her again left her belly with a decidedly sour feeling. And while she enjoyed being able to spend time with the queen and her ladies, the rules were rather stifling.

  “Smile, Lady Maxwell,” laughed Mary Talbot. “’Twill not break your face.”

  Max smiled faintly, not feeling the joy such a gesture should normally bring. Mary seemed nice, if not a bit pushy. Max shared a room with Mary and her sister, Elizabeth, and so she had to make the best of it.

  “Are you nervous?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Not especially,” Max answered, though the true answer was a resounding yes.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Mary shrugged, then checked that the move hadn’t messed up her curls. “All you have to do is dance and flirt and bring Her Majesty a sweet treat now and then.”

  “I can do that,” Max said, her smile turning genuine. Perhaps instead of being annoyed that she had to wear the voluminous gown, she should try for excited. Do as these two sisters did and simply enjoy herself.

  “But remember that you must always maintain propriety. Her Majesty cannot abide a tart.”

  “I shall endeavor not to be a tart,” Max said with a little laugh.

  The sisters smiled, but then Mary turned serious. “I know we jest about it, Lady Maxwell, but in all seriousness, do be careful. You’ve heard of what she does to those who go too far, have you not?”

  Max flicked her gaze toward the queen’s bedchamber doors and shook her head. How many were listening in on their conversation?

  “Well, let us just say that the least she’ll do is banish you from court—the worst is sending you to your maker.”

  Max shuddered. Suddenly, dancing and flirting did not seem so much fun.

  But then Mary and Elizabeth joined hands and twirled in a circle as if they’d not just been talking about being put to death. “It’s been months since we’ve had a banquet!”

  Sebastien fumed in a darkened corner of the great hall as they all awaited the queen and her ladies to join them for the banquet. The cunning Baron Dalston had agreed that he wanted to be a part of the queen’s explorers, but had denied Sebastien what was rightfully his, stating that the relics had been gifted to his daughter as part of her dowry, and he’d not go back on his word in regards to them.

  Damn the man!

  He’d not even had the bollocks to admit that he’d stolen the ring from Sebastien’s father and the sword no doubt, too. The bastard!

  Now that the baron knew Sebastien wanted the relics back, he couldn’t very well go and steal them. If they went missing, he’d be the first person Dalston suspected.

  How clever Sebastien had thought himself when he’d been able to convince the queen of his new plan. And now he was stuck, without the relics and his mother growing madder by the day. Just that morning he’d found her in nothing but her nightshift, standing outside on her balcony and leaning precariously over the edge, whispering to herself about soon being with her dead husband.

  If he’d not gone to see her when he had, she’d have plunged to her death. He had to get the relics. The sooner the better.

  And if he had to marry the chit to do it, then by all means, he’d marry her.

  Already his lawyers were drawing up papers and scheming for a way to approach the queen about a special license instead of having to wait until the banns were cried for three consecutive Sundays. As it was, when the betrothal contract was signed, Sebastien planned to have Lady Maxwell’s dowry given to him then.

  He’d not planned to marry. Didn’t want to marry, in fact, for quite some time, but there was no other choice. Not that he had options anyhow. He had to get those relics before his mother caused her own death.

  Lady Maxwell Thornton. A right hellion. Though she’d been able to tightly control herself the day before in the gardens. He doubted she’d be so controlled around him if her father was not within her company. Nay, he knew for certain she wouldn’t. He’d had a dose of her tongue in her father’s study and the woman had not held back then.

  As he mused
on his current state, the guards made their announcement of the queen and her ladies. The women filed into the great hall in myriad colors, jewels and finery. Lady Maxwell was toward the back of the ladies, standing between Mary and Elizabeth Talbot.

  Sebastien clenched his jaw. His future wife.

  Admittedly, she was beautiful. Mesmerizing. At least he enjoyed looking at her.

  The queen moved to her throne and then waved her hand toward the musicians in the gallery above who began a tune. As the ladies lined up to dance, Sebastien forced his feet to move. He would be the first to dance with Lady Maxwell and no other.

  She caught his gaze as he approached and the dread he saw there did not help him in his cause to gain her favor. Not that he needed it. He was certain her father, greedy bastard that he was, would agree to the marriage, if nothing else because the baron would get to say his daughter was a countess.

  Had she spoken to her father? Was she aware of how exceedingly selfish the man was? Bah! She wouldn’t think so. Didn’t all daughters do as their fathers said and admire them for it?

  As he approached, she assessed him through her lashes. Coy. She’d learned that trick easy enough.

  “My lady.” Sebastien took her hand and kissed it, breathing in the scent of spring flowers that lingered on her skin.

  She curtsied low, giving him a very clear view of the plush breasts held captive by her gown. His gut tightened. A burst of desire coursed its way through his body, bringing him fully to life. He stood tall, forcing himself to calm. He wanted to withdraw from the room and her presence immediately, but somehow managed to remain.

  “Lord Bedford, ’tis a pleasure to see you again.” Her melodic voice stroked over his limbs.

  He had to look away from her. Had to straighten his back. Take a deep breath. “I believe the pleasure is all mine.” He spoke using the same cordial lines he used on every courtier.

  “Are you certain?” she quipped.

  Lord, but she was astute. He turned his gaze back on her. “Of course, have you cause to think otherwise?”