The Last Heiress

by Bertrice Small

  “Baen MacColl has returned to Friarsgate,” Lord Cambridge began.

  “The Scot who was here last winter? Why has he come back?” Rosamund wanted to know. She sipped thirstily at her wine while her other hand worried the dark green fabric of her skirts. “What does he want?”

  “His father, the master of Grayhaven, sent to ask if he might return and learn how to set up a small industry, as we have done. Edmund saw no harm in saying he might come. A small attraction sprang up last winter between him and Elizabeth. It still exists. The man cannot inherit from his father, for he has two legitimate brothers. Elizabeth would accept him as a husband if she could but convince him. Baen’s loyalty to his own father is deep, however.”

  “A Scot would be master of Friarsgate?” Rosamund said slowly.

  “I doubt Baen has any loyalties except to his family,” Lord Cambridge said quietly. “He is not a political creature.”

  “Scots always become nationalistic when faced with an English war,” Rosamund said. “Logan and I have been fortunate, but should war break out between our two countries in our lifetime, I do not know what we should do, Tom.”

  “You would barricade yourselves in Claven’s Carn, and wait till it was over and done with, dear girl. Besides, the English always make for Edinburgh in a war, and that is on the opposite side of the country from both Friarsgate and Claven’s Carn,” he reminded her. “We have always been relatively safe here.”

  “But what do we know of this Baen MacColl, Tom? Really know?” Rosamund wondered aloud.

  “We know he is a good man,” Thomas Bolton said. “Stay with us for a few days and observe him yourself.”

  “Does he want to marry my daughter?” Rosamund asked her cousin.

  “My dear girl, the subject hasn’t even come up,” Lord Cambridge said. “Nor should it until Elizabeth decides the time is right,” he cautioned.

  “Are you telling me that this Scot has evinced no interest in marrying my daughter?” Rosamund demanded to know.

  “He is not a presumptuous man, dear girl. He thinks himself not worthy of her,” Lord Cambridge responded, attempting to mollify her outrage.

  “But she intends to convince him otherwise,” Rosamund said.

  “I fear she does, dear cousin,” he answered her.

  “I am sorry she did not find a good English husband at court,” Rosamund began. “But I question why this particular man?”

  “Because, Mama,” Elizabeth Meredith said, entering her own hall, “ever since the Earl of Glenkirk I have always had a weakness for Scots.” She hurried to her mother and embraced her warmly. “Welcome home, Mama.”

  Rosamund hugged her youngest daughter; then she set her back so she might look into her face. “You are in love with him?”

  “I suppose I am,” Elizabeth said, “but I am not really certain what love is, though perhaps I am learning.”

  “Has he taken advantage of you?” Rosamund wanted to know.

  Elizabeth laughed aloud. “Nay, Mama, but I have certainly taken advantage of him, though he resists me and prates about honor, and how he is unworthy.”

  Rosamund sighed. “I shall take your advice, cousin, and remain for a few days to observe this reluctant Scot,” she said.

  “Please, Mama, say nothing to him. I do not wish him frightened off,” Elizabeth said softly. “I really do like him.”

  And Rosamund found that she liked Baen MacColl too as she came to know him over the next few days. He was a bit rough, but in an odd way he reminded her of Owein Meredith, Elizabeth’s father. He was thoughtful. He had a great care and respect for the land. He treated the lady of Friarsgate with consideration, just as Owein had done. But he was a Scot. And not just a Scot. A Highland Scot! Why did he have to be a Scot? It was obvious to her mother’s eye that Elizabeth did care for this man. The night before her return to Claven’s Carn she confided her concerns to her cousin.

  “I don’t know what to do, Tom. For the first time in my life I honestly do not know what to do. Help me.”

  Thomas Bolton sat quietly in his chair stroking the half-grown Domino, who was lounging in his lap purring loudly. “You set the example, dear one. You wed a Scot,” he said. “Elizabeth isn’t like most girls her age. She feels a great sense of responsibility to her position. She would not be happy sitting by the fire weaving and mothering her bairns, Rosamund. She has become Friarsgate, and she needs a man who will not be afraid of that, or try to take it away from her, attempting to make her into something she isn’t. Do I wish he were English, or a borderer? Does it really matter, cousin? She is falling in love with him, and she has never loved any man. And he has fallen in love with her. Last winter, I suspect. But he, too, carries a strong sense of responsibility for who and what he is. What will happen? I do not know. But I am of a mind to let fate and nature take their course, Rosamund. And that would be my council to you.”

  “But how will Elizabeth resolve his concerns? And how will she gain his promise to remain neutral in the face of a conflict between their two countries?” Rosamund asked her cousin. “We cannot have Friarsgate caught between warring parties.”

  “Let them find their own way, dear girl. They will do it together, because their love for each other will surely overcome all else. Elizabeth will convince her reluctant Scot to take his place by her side. Of that I am certain. And his father should not object to having his bastard wed with an heiress, even if it means he will lose him.”

  Rosamund giggled. “Logan is going to be furious,” she said. “He will be disappointed that Elizabeth did not choose one of his friends’ sons if she is to wed a Scot.”

  “He will survive the disappointment, dear girl,” Lord Cambridge said dryly. “Ah, I remember him when he sought to make you his wife. He was brazen. Dashing. Dangerous! But now, content with you and his lads, he has become a rather ordinary and dull fellow, I fear. That seems to happen to most men once they are wed. Why did you bring John with you? He has spent all his time with Father Mata, and we have scarce seen him at all.”

  “Mata is taking him to Prior Richard in a few days,” Rosamund said.

  “Logan has relented? Dear girl, why did you not say so sooner?”

  “Logan has not relented. He has just come to realize that John’s fate lies away from Claven’s Carn, but he still has hopes that after his novitiate, before he takes his final vows, John will change his mind,” Rosamund explained.

  “But he won’t,” Lord Cambridge said, “and so your eldest son becomes his father’s heir, eh? John will make his own destiny even as Elizabeth will make hers.”

  “Even as I made mine,” Rosamund said softly. “Thank you, Tom.”

  Chapter 10

  Before she departed the following morning, Rosamund sought out Baen MacColl and spoke with him. He towered over her, and she could suddenly see some of the attraction that Elizabeth felt. He was very masculine. “Do you hear news of Glenkirk?” she asked him quietly. “How is the earl?”

  “Well, but older, they say, than God himself,” Baen replied. “I have not seen him out riding recently. They say he leaves most of the business of Glenkirk to his son, Lord Adam. The earl has not been well in many years now, lady. His memory is faulty, it is said, but he is still well thought of by all. My father is friends with Lord Adam. Did you know the earl, lady?”

  “Once,” Rosamund said. “Long ago. I am pleased to learn the earl remains in good health. Should you see Lord Adam when you return home, please tell him that Rosamund Bolton sends all at Glenkirk her kind regards.” She smiled up at him. “I think you a good man, Baen MacColl. I am glad you have returned to Friarsgate. I hope you will gain all you desire while you are here.”

  “Thank you, lady,” he said. Her smile was dazzling, and her words kind. “Mistress Elizabeth has been very kind and helpful.”

  “My daughter, I think,” said Rosamund, unable to resist, “has a weakness for Scots, Baen MacColl. Since I am wed to one myself, I can hardly object.” There! She had given her tac
it approval of him. He did not understand the true meaning behind her words, of course. It was up to Elizabeth now, but Rosamund had come to realize over the last few days of her visit that she would not object to Baen MacColl as a son-in-law. “Farewell, sir,” she concluded the conversation, and she gave his arm a friendly pat.

  Thomas Bolton had heard all, and now he came forth as if just entering the hall. “Are you ready to leave, dearest cousin?” he asked her. “Allow me to escort you to your horse. I sent ahead yesterday to your good lord to let him know you were returning home. You will be escorted to the border by Friarsgate men, and met by your own Claven’s Carn folk. I have not a doubt dear Logan will ride with them. Do not fret about Johnnie. We shall see him safely to St. Cuthbert’s, my precious girl.” He took her arm and drew her from the hall.

  “You heard, you sly fox!” She chuckled.

  “I did. Not all, but enough to know you will not forbid a match between the bastard of Grayhaven and the heiress of Friarsgate,” he told her. But he had heard all, and the knowledge that a small flame still burned secretly in her heart for Patrick Leslie had almost brought him to tears. But then, did one ever forget such a great love?

  They found Elizabeth awaiting them outside of the house. “I will ride a ways with you, Mama,” she said, and mounted her own horse.

  Lord Cambridge bade his cousin a most effusive good-bye. “Who knows when we shall meet again,” he told her dramatically.

  Rosamund laughed down at him from her saddle. “Dear Tom,” she said, “I have not a doubt it will be sooner than later. When will you return to Otterly?”

  “Will arrived last evening. My wing is but half-finished. That wicked daughter of yours had convinced the builder to put in another door between my private quarters and the rest of the house. Will remained while it was removed and bricked up. Banon has been severely admonished, and the builder as well. It would appear I shall not be able to return home until sometime in October, if the snows hold off, of course,” he explained. “I shall send a most stern missive to Banon regarding this matter, you may be assured.” He took Rosamund’s hand in his and kissed it. “Travel in safety, dearest girl, and tell your good lord that I send him my most affectionate regards.”

  The two women and their escort rode away from the house. The day was cloudy, muggy, and hinted of rain.

  “I like your Scot,” Rosamund told her daughter as they traveled along. “If you can bring him to the altar, I will not object, Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you, Mama. What will you tell Logan?” she asked her parent.

  “Nothing for the present,” Rosamund said. “Surely you do not wish to be inundated with Scots suitors of what your stepfather will consider more suitable births while you are attempting to bring Baen around? No. I shall tell Logan that there was no one at court who was suitable, but that Tom is considering several other families he had not previously considered. If Logan asks me who they are I shall simply say I did not inquire, as I trust my cousin implicitly, since he succeeded in matching your two older sisters so very well.” Rosamund chuckled. “Your stepfather will not dare to press the issue further, for he trusts me completely, bless him.”

  “Poor Logan.” Elizabeth grinned. “Does he realize how shamelessly you manipulate him, Mama?”

  “Of course not!” She laughed. Then she grew sober once more. “These Scots are prideful, Elizabeth. Remember that as you maneuver your own game. I like Baen. He would make you a good husband, and he will not usurp your authority, as your father did not attempt to steal mine. But his loyalty to the father who took him in is great. In the end, you may have to appeal to the master of Grayhaven if you wish his son as your husband. If that happens you must ask Logan to intercede for you, for only a Scotsman will understand another Scotsman, my daughter.”

  “If he does not love me enough to remain with me,” Elizabeth said softly, “then I do not want him. I am not some prize to be bestowed.”

  “Elizabeth! That is exactly what you are, and must appear to be. If the master of Grayhaven is to give up his oldest son it must be because the life you can offer Baen is better than what he can offer him. You have the advantage. Do not throw it away because of your own pride, I beg you!” Rosamund said low.

  “He must love me enough to stay by my side, Mama,” Elizabeth said firmly. “The decision must be his, and no one else’s.”

  Rosamund said no more. Arguing with her daughter would accomplish nothing but to make Elizabeth’s determination firmer. To her surprise Elizabeth remained with her until they reached the unmarked place where England flowed into Scotland. Sure enough, there was Logan Hepburn waiting with half a dozen clansmen to escort his wife home.

  The laird of Claven’s Carn dismounted and came forward to greet them. He took his wife’s hand and kissed it. Their eyes met, and the passion that still existed between them was palpable, yet they spoke not a word. Logan turned to his stepdaughter. “Did you bring back a husband, lass?” he asked her bluntly. The vibrant blue eyes looked at her with interest.

  “Nay, none of those court dandies are suited to the life Friarsgate has to offer, Logan,” Elizabeth answered him, “but Mama will tell you all the news. If we ride hard I will be able to complete at least half a day’s work when I get home. Good-bye, Mama. Thank you for coming. I love you!” Elizabeth blew them kisses, and then with a smile she turned her horse back for home.

  “Good-bye, my darling,” she heard her mother call after her.

  She was relieved to have escaped further cross-examination by her stepfather. Logan was Rosamund’s problem. That other Scotsman was hers. Her mother was right: Baen was prideful. But he wanted her. Elizabeth might be unskilled in the ways of men and women, but she knew when a man wanted a woman. And she intended on torturing her big Scot until he could no longer resist her blandishments. He was already hers, though he knew it not. Smiling, she hurried her horse home, her Friarsgate men following.

  Her fields were green with grain, she noted, pleased. The hay was almost all cut, and drying before being stored for the winter. Her beasts were fat. They would begin shearing next week. Many sheared earlier, but Friarsgate sheared their sheep just after Midsummer’s Day. There was time through the remainder of the summer and autumn to grow back the fleece the sheep would need for the winter months. And the wool they harvested from the later shearing could be spun into longer and stronger threads. It was part of the secret of their particularly fine wool. Their flocks were great this year. They had lost no beasts to disease or to any predators.

  Strangely the hall seemed a little emptier that evening without Rosamund. She had for so long been the heart and soul of Friarsgate. As they sat talking after the meal Edmund remarked that he was not feeling well, and then suddenly fell from his chair to the floor. Maybel shrieked her dismay, but Baen jumped forward to pick up the unconscious man.

  “This way,” Elizabeth said quickly, leading him up the stairs to the chamber Maybel and her husband shared. She flung open the door.

  Baen was quickly behind her, and laid Edmund gently upon the bed. Maybel pushed the younger man aside and began loosening her husband’s shirt, clucking and fussing as she did.

  Edmund opened his eyes. “Lea . . . leave . . . me be,” he muttered.

  Baen gently moved Maybel away from her husband and, leaning over, spoke into Edmund’s ear. “Where does it hurt?” he asked him.

  “Head,” Edmund ground out. “I c-c-can’t seem to m-move.”

  Baen nodded. “You must rest, Edmund, and let Maybel take care of you. You will feel better tomorrow. You have been working very hard.”

  “Aye,” Edmund said, and his eyes closed again.

  “What has happened to him?” Maybel begged Baen. “He has always been so strong. What is the matter with him?”

  “I do not know what they call it,” Baen said, “but I have seen this before in old men, Maybel. With God’s blessing he will regain the use of his limbs, although he will never be as strong again as he was. With some the
power of speech is lost too. He is fortunate there. Keep him warm, and give him watered wine if he is thirsty. Sleep is the best healer that there is.”

  “I will prepare a carafe of wine,” Elizabeth said. “I will put a sleeping draft in it so poor Edmund can rest. Stay by his side. I will hurry back.”

  “As if I would leave him!” Maybel huffed with a bit of her old spirit.

  The two younger people left the bedchamber to hurry downstairs.

  “Poor Edmund,” Elizabeth said. She called a servant and sent the man to her apothecary cabinet with instructions on what to bring back. “What could have caused this? He is not a man to be ill.”

  “I cannot tell you what caused it, but I heard once that it is an eruption within the head. It can cause death if it is severe. I do not think it is that severe with Edmund, but it is unlikely he will regain his full strength again,” Baen told her.

  Elizabeth nodded. “I will need your help then,” she said. “You came to learn our ways with the sheep and the wool. Now you will have to take Edmund’s place for me until he is well again, but I will teach you myself what you need to know, Baen.”

  “I will do whatever I can to help you, of course,” the Scot answered her, “but I cannot step into Edmund’s shoes. It would be presumptuous of me. What would your Friarsgate folk think of such overweening conduct from me? They would resent me, and rightly so, Elizabeth.”

  “If you are right he will be well soon enough,” Elizabeth said. “Besides, if you have my authority they will accept it. Please! Until Edmund is well again. I have no one else, Baen. Edmund has never had anyone to assist him, nor have we ever considered a time when he could not do his duty.” She looked up into his handsome face, her eyes filled with worry and concern. “Please!”

  He nodded. “Very well,” he told her. “But only until Edmund is well again.”

  “Thank you!” she cried and, flinging her arms about his neck, kissed him.