didn’t matter. Before long, Ian fell asleep and I must have also because, like a dream, the shockingly visual story of Jeanne Maxwell of Traquair unfolded before me.
Twelve
EDINBURGH
June 30, 1509
“There he is, Jeannie. I told you he would come.” Moira Sutherland squeezed her companion’s arm in rapturous excitement. “Don’t look now.” She gasped, staring at the lean, black-haired figure maneuvering his way expertly through the crowded great hall. “Sweet Mary. He’s walking toward us.”
Jeanne Maxwell lifted her chin and removed her arm from her friend’s painful grip. “Don’t play the fool, Moira. ’Tis only John Maxwell. He’s my cousin and I’ve known him since I was born.”
“But he’s so very handsome, and you haven’t seen him for years,” Moira protested.
Jeanne sniffed. “He was always a braggart. I doubt if the English court has improved him.”
From behind them an amused voice interrupted. “Turn around, Cousin, and see for yourself.”
Moira gasped and turned quickly, stammering an awkward greeting. Jeanne took a moment to gather her composure. Slowly, she turned to face her boyhood champion, and her eyes widened in disbelief. So the rumors were true. John Maxwell was a man that would make a woman’s gaze linger. He was taller than she remembered with wider shoulders, and his features had lost their bluntness. Now they were sharply defined as if they’d been sculpted by a craftsman with a finely honed blade.
“Welcome home, John,” she said coolly. “We’ve nothing so grand as Whitehall here in Edinburgh, but I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”
Moira’s face flamed. Jeannie Maxwell, the kindest and most loyal of friends, was behaving like a shrew to the most engaging young man who had ever graced the court of King James IV of Scotland.
John Maxwell grinned. To Moira’s amazement, he didn’t appear in the least offended. “’Tis good to be home, Jeannie,” he said. “I’ve missed your tongue-lashings.”
Jeanne’s eyes moved over him, noting the changes of the past five years. “You’ve cut your hair,” she remarked disapprovingly.
“’Tis the fashion in England.”
“This is Scotland. You would do well to remember that.”
Moira’s misery was complete. She nearly swooned with embarrassment. John was so kind, so courteous, and so amazingly like Jeanne in appearance. Beneath lowered lashes, Moira stared curiously at the two of them. The Maxwell strain was clearly stamped on their faces. The thin, Celtic features, olive skin, and pale gray eyes could not be denied. Neither could the hair framing their faces. It was shining and black as a raven’s wing, unusual for a Scot south of the Highlands. Behind her headpiece, Jeanne’s was long, hanging free to her waist in the manner of unmarried women. John’s was shorn close to his head, an unusual style not yet fashionable at the Scottish court.
Moira’s hands clenched with resolve. It wasn’t right. This handsome young man with the pleasant smile and laughing gray eyes didn’t deserve the stinging thrusts Jeannie leveled at him. Taking a deep breath, Moira threw herself into the middle of the fray. “Tell us about King Henry’s court, m’lord. Is it as frivolous as they say?”
Surprised, John looked down at her, noticing her presence for the first time.
Jeanne stared at her friend. What could have possessed the painfully shy Moira Sutherland to call such attention upon herself?
John recovered first. His smile gentled, and he reached for Moira’s hand. Lifting it to his mouth, he brushed his lips across the back. “I’m terribly sorry for my rudeness, lass. Perhaps Jeanne will introduce us when she remembers her manners.”
“My manners are not the ones in need of attention,” Jeanne snapped, glaring at Moira.
The girl’s lip trembled, and suddenly Jeanne was ashamed of herself. “Never mind, love. John always did bring out the worst in me.” Quickly, she introduced them. “Moira Sutherland, this is my cousin, Lord John Maxwell of Traquair.”
Moira glanced shyly up at his face. “How do you do, sir?”
“Very well, thank you,” John replied. “But I find myself in something of a quandary, Mistress Sutherland.”
“How so, sir?”
“How is it that a termagant like my cousin can be found in the company of such a sweet and gentle lass as yourself?”
Moira’s pansy brown eyes widened, and she blushed adorably. “Jeannie is no such thing, m’lord. I’ve never before seen her behave rudely.”
The light-filled eyes looking down at her flickered thoughtfully. “Is that so?”
“Oh yes,” replied Moira loyally. “She’s the best and kindest of friends. Why—-”
“That will do, Moira,” interrupted Jeanne. “Why don’t you continue your conversation with Lord Maxwell while I seek the punch bowl.”
“I’ve a better idea,” cut in