time, John,” explained Flora. “I hardly know Jeannie anymore. ’Tis difficult for us to speak without tension between us. Perhaps she finds Grania’s advice to be more satisfactory than mine.”
He grinned. “Jeanne never appreciated advice, no matter who it came from.”
Flora shook her head. “You don’t understand. There are rumors that Grania deals in witchcraft. She was ordered by the prelate to appear before him once already. The next time she will be brought to trial. Jeanne refuses to stay away from her.”
John lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his thoughtful, gaze. “Jeanne was devoted to you before I left Scotland,” he said gently. “How is it that the two of you have come to such a pass?”
Flora opened her mouth to protest her own innocence when she happened to glance down at the hand that held hers. It was a thin hand, long fingered and finely made, the skin dark against her own. She blushed. How could she tell him of Jeanne’s doubts when they came so near to the truth? Flora knew John Maxwell had never considered her to be anything more than a beloved aunt or older sister. It was Jeanne he loved. It was Jeanne he would wed. During the long, cold nights of winter when he stood his watch or walked the battlements of Dunaverty Castle, where he had been fostered, it was Jeanne’s face he called to mind. Through the five years in England, it was Jeanne who received his letters. Her gray-eyed, black-haired, unconventional daughter had captured his heart when she was scarcely more than a child.
Still, a woman could dream, especially a woman married to a man twice her age. Flora’s dreams were filled with a dark-haired boy with thick straight brows and beautifully chiseled features. A boy with the lean rippling muscles of a warrior. A boy who moved with the grace of a cat and used his voice like a sword, clear and coldly disciplined. A boy who loved her daughter. A boy who would be the father of her grandchildren. A boy who was now a disturbingly handsome man.
Flora bit her lip. She loved John Maxwell, but she loved Jeanne more. If there was to be any happiness in this life for her daughter, it would be with this splendid young man now seated beside her. Whatever it cost, whatever look of horror it brought to his face, he deserved the truth. “Jeanne believes we betrayed her,” she began. “When my son died, she saw you carry me into my bedchamber and believed the worst.”
John’s expression was incredulous. “That can’t be,” he denied flatly.
“’Tis true, John. At fifteen, a woman is no longer a girl. Indeed, I was already a mother. She must have loved you, even then, to believe such a thing and to feed her jealousy for so long.” Flora lowered her eyes. “Our embrace could not be called platonic, even to one so inexperienced as Jeanne.”
“You were hysterical,” he reminded her. “Donald was expected. When I touched you, naturally you assumed I was your husband.”
Flora had assumed nothing of the sort. Wisely, she remained silent.
John stood and paced the room. Suddenly he stopped and ran his hands through his hair. “It makes no sense. I spoke to Jeanne of my intentions before I left for England. She led me to believe my feelings were returned.”
A fierce, stabbing jealousy burned in the pit of Flora’s stomach. It was a long moment before she trusted herself to speak. “There have been rumors about your activities at Henry’s court. Jeanne is very proud, m’lord. You will have to convince her the others meant nothing.”
“Others?” A deep frown settled between John’s brows.
Flora laughed. “Come now, John. Even a saint would not claim to have practiced celibacy for five years.”
His cheeks darkened. “I make no false claims,” he muttered, “but neither am I accustomed to debauchery.”
“Explain that to Jeanne.”
“God’s wounds, madam. No other woman would blame me for satisfying an occasional need.”
“Jeanne is not like other women. If you don’t know that by now, I suggest that you turn tail and run back to Edinburgh. Telling her she should hold you blameless for taking women to your bed will gain you nothing. She would most likely ask how you would feel if she had done the same.”
“The situation is different.”
“How so?”
“Jeanne is a lady.”
“And you are a gentleman.”
John grinned. “I wouldn’t stake my honor on it, madam. Tell me whether I should seek out this strong-minded daughter of yours or