and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. “I insist that you name him.”
“I beg your pardon?” Jamie’s teeth were set, and his face was white with rage.
“Lord Gordon,” interrupted the queen. “I don’t believe you’ve asked me to dance this entire night. You must tell me what you think of the improvements my husband has made to the great hall.” Chatting brightly, she maneuvered Gordon across the enormous room into the circle of dancers taking their places.
“Insolent puppy,” growled James. Draining his goblet, he motioned for a servant to take it away. “Have you nothing to say, Maxwell?” he demanded. “The man seeks to wed the wench who holds your heart. If it were I, he would be cut in two on this very floor.”
John grinned. “I am not king of Scotland, Your Grace, and Jeanne is not so obedient as your Margaret. Were I to make such a public declaration, she would spite me by taking the Holy Orders.”
“I can forbid the marriage,” suggested James.
John shook his head. “Not yet. I would rather her hand be freely given. An unwilling wife makes a poor bed partner.”
Jamie laughed. “From what I’ve heard, lad, you should know.”
“I wish you had not heard such a great deal, Your Grace,” John said wryly. “Not everything is always as it seems.”
“No matter, lad,” Jamie clapped him on the back. “Come to me tomorrow and we’ll speak of London. I’ll keep young Gordon at bay until the Lady Jeanne is of a kinder frame of mind.”
John’s eyes warmed with laughter. “My thanks, Jamie,” he drawled softly. “Perhaps someday I can return the favor.”
“You will, lad. Never fear. You will.”
***
Lord Home stepped forward to claim the queen’s hand for the next set, and George Gordon relinquished it gratefully. He could not be comfortable with Jamie’s shrewish wife. Searching the room, his eyes settled on the woman he could be comfortable with.
Just looking at Jeanne Maxwell revived him. He could forget he was here, in the filthy city of Edinburgh with its twisted wynds and overflowing gutters reeking of offal. The clear, calm beauty of Jeanne’s face was like a rain-scented wind blowing across the ramparts of Strathbogie.
She leaned against a piling beneath the ferocious boar’s head, the remains of a trophy that Jamie had killed and carried single-handedly back to Edinburgh. The blood-encrusted head and curved teeth contrasted hideously with the pale loveliness of Jeanne’s ermine-trimmed figure. Her gown was white. The pristine color suited her. The deep square neck and long full sleeves set off the slenderness of her arms and throat. A kirtle of twisted pearls gathered the flowing skirt around her slim, boyish hips. The only color about her was the rich darkness of her hair and the pale pink of her cheeks and lips.
His hands clenched. He wanted this woman more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He wanted her serenity, her quick understanding, her unusual Celtic beauty. The touch of her long, cool fingers, the sweep of her lashes, the untapped mystery behind her diamond gray eyes, set a fever in his veins that neither time nor distance could assuage. Jeanne Maxwell belonged to him. God help the man who stood in his way.
He crossed the room to her side.
Jeanne smiled. George was very handsome. In the light of the flickering torches his hair gleamed like burnished gold. “You look serious, m’lord.”
George grimaced and shook his head. “’Tis the queen. In her eyes, Jamie can do no wrong.”
Jeanne’s eyes widened. “’Tis most unwise to tell the queen you find fault with her husband. Despite their differences, she adores him.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I tire of this delay, Jeannie. Why won’t he consent to our marriage?”
Jeanne bit her lip. “Has he refused?”
“Almost.” His laugh was bitter. “There is another suitor for your hand.”
“Jamie cannot force me.”
“If the marriage furthers his cause with the pope, you will have little choice.”
“I shall seek sanctuary with the Sisters of Llewellyn Mar.”
George took her hands in his own and smiled down at her. “I am truly touched,” he said gently. “But that is a sacrifice I cannot accept.”
“Why not?”
“You have no calling, Jeannie.”
“How do you know?”
His eyes moved from her face to linger deliberately on the swell of her breasts above the white gown. “Your body was made for a man’s enjoyment,” he said bluntly.
She flushed and pulled away. “You insult me.”
“Nay, lass. But to become a bride of Christ without a true calling is a