Virginia Henley Read Free

learn my lines for the masque we are soon to perform for Her Majesty. I have no talent for playacting.” She swept dark lashes to her cheeks, conveying humility. “We are fortunate to have someone who cares so much about our welfare. I humbly apologize for causing you worry, my lady.”
    “You are wearing cloaks and masks and appear to be returning from somewhere,” the dragon persisted.
    Catherine raised her lashes. “We are returning from the chapel. The acoustics in the gallery are perfect for delivering lines, in spite of the bone-chilling cold.”
    Lady Throckmorton pressed her lips together. “You’ll be late to the Privy Chamber for dinner. Can you not hear the summoning trumpets? If your thoughtlessness makes me tardy, I shall have a word with your mother.”
    As the dragon flew off, Arbella took Catherine’s hand. “Thank you for drawing her attention from me to yourself.”
    “It was nothing. I have my mother to protect me, and I don’t want you to be sent from Court. I’d have no partner in crime!”
    In Scotland, by the time Lord Stewart neared Crichton, the only moss-troopers who still accompanied him were Hepburns. For the last few miles Patrick had felt a growing unease. His calloused hand rubbed the prickle at the back of his neck.
    Jock Elliot noticed the gesture. “Danger, my lord?”
    “Nay, but there’s something amiss. We’ll secure these horses in the upper pasture by Fala Water, then I’ll handle the trouble.”
    They herded the horses past the castle’s orchards to the fields beyond. A cry went up and the Hepburns who inhabited and served Crichton hastily gathered in the Great Hall to welcome home their laird. When the horses were pastured, the saddle-weary men rode into the sprawling stables and turned their mounts over to young grooms. Then, grim-faced, Patrick strode beneath the stone arch carved with Hepburn roses. His spurs struck sparks on the flagstones as he entered the Great Hall.
    His cousin David, who captained Crichton’s garrison, stepped forward with a broad grin on his face. “Welcome—”
    “Oh, I saw the welcome you had waiting for me in the upper pasture.” He surveyed the young faces brimming with self-satisfaction and watched their smirks flee as he crashed his powerful fist on the oak table. “Splendor of God! You haven’t the brains to pour piss from your boots! How long have the Earl of Winton’s cattle been grazing on Crichton pasture?”
    David’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “What makes ye think they’re Winton’s?”
    “Christ, I don’t think, I know ! His beasts are unique. They are prize longhorns, bred special. Now, instead of taking my pleasure in Edinburgh tomorrow, I have the distinct honor of returning that herd up to Seton and lying through my teeth to the Earl of Winton.” He paused. “You may accompany me, David.”
    All at Crichton knew Patrick’s hot temper flashed like lightning, followed by a deafening roll of thunder, then cooled and dissipated as quickly as it arrived. The men remained wary for a time, treading softly; not so the women. The younger females worshipped him; the older ones adored him. He was never harsh with the fair sex; rather, he was protective, generous and appreciative of all they did for him. In return they made sure his kitchens were spotless, his meals bountiful and served on time, his bed linen immaculate and his shirts sewn with loving hands. His moss-troopers’ wives flirted openly with him, while their daughters practiced their cajolery. All the Hepburn and Stewart women, whether nubile or ancient, vied with one another for his attention and approval.
    Patrick loved them dearly and was wise enough to treat them all like sisters, particularly when they behaved provocatively. After the evening meal, as he sat with his long legs stretched to the fire, his favorite deerhounds sprawled at his feet, a young second cousin snatched a jug of ale from a servant and hurried to his side to refill his tankard. As