out immediately, clasping Flora’s hand to bring her into the circle of his warmth, but Jeanne hesitated. When her mother would have gathered her into an embrace, she pulled away, searching Flora’s face for signs that the match did not meet with her approval. She found none.
John frowned. He had not missed his betrothed’s withdrawal. She carried more resentment toward her mother than he thought. He only hoped it would not extend to him.
“I suppose Jamie’s approval is a mere formality,” Flora continued, brushing aside her daughter’s rejection.
“Jamie owes me a favor,” John replied with a grin. “I made sure of his approval before I left Edinburgh.”
Jeanne’s eyes widened. “How is that possible? George Gordon said Jamie had not yet made a decision on a match between us.”
“George is presumptuous.” John coolly dismissed his rival. “He should know that the king dislikes committing himself unless ’tis to his own advantage.”
Jeanne smiled mischievously. Forgetting her audience, she slipped her arms around John’s neck. “What hold do you have over our liege, m’lord, that he so willing granted your heart’s desire?” She spoke very near his ear, punctuating each word with a tiny breath of air.
His eyes narrowed, and the skin across his cheekbones, already dark from the sun, reddened. Sliding his arms around her waist, he spoke gruffly. “Perhaps ’tis because Jamie understands what it is for a man to lose his heart’s desire.”
Flora looked away, overcome with need and ashamed of her jealousy. The mood was no longer teasing. Jeanne was too young to remember the love affair between Maggie Drummond and the boy-king Jamie Stewart, but Flora knew that Masses were still purchased for Maggie’s soul and, on winter nights, just before dusk, the king could be seen kneeling at her grave.
“I’ll leave you alone,” she interrupted, moving toward the door. For Jeanne’s sake, she would pretend only pleasure, but it was too much to watch the man she burned for make love to her daughter before her very eyes. At the door, curiosity overcame her. She turned back one last time. Intent only on each other, neither one noticed her departure. With a sad smile, Flora left the room.
***
A bright summer sky and warm winds heavy with the scent of heather heralded Jeanne’s wedding day. She woke early, with the first streaks of dawn, but made no motion to rise. The ceremony would begin at ten. It was good to lie back on her pillows and do nothing. For the first time in six weeks, she had a moment to herself. John had insisted on marrying as soon as possible, and the preparations had taken every waking hour.
Jeanne grudgingly admitted that her mother had been wonderful. Perhaps she had misjudged her after all. Could a woman in love with a man marrying another enter into his wedding preparations with such enthusiasm? Could she debate the benefits of serving ale or spiced wine for the banquet? Would she sigh over the ermine-bordered wedding dress or giggle like a girl when she saw the nearly transparent gown designed specifically for the wedding night. Jeanne flushed. She owed her mother an apology. But not today. Nothing would spoil today.
A knock sounded on the door. She sat up, propping herself on her elbow. Her hair, black and shining, spilled over the mattress and onto the floor. “Enter,” she called out.
Four servants carrying a wooden tub entered the room and placed it near the fire. Four more carrying buckets of hot water followed. Jeanne watched as they poured the steaming liquid into the tub and scattered rose petals across the surface.
Kicking aside the bedclothes, she stood, pulled off her nightshift, and stepped into the heated bath. She would have liked to lie back and let the warmth seep into her bones, but her hair needed washing. Brushing it dry would take most of the morning.
Leaning forward, Jeanne felt a rush of warm liquid through her hair. Water dripped over her forehead and into her eyes and ears. When she had only caught her breath, another pitcher was poured and then another until her entire head and fall of hair was soaked completely through. She breathed in the familiar scent of roses and felt the slick, perfumed soap on her forehead, around her ears, and at the back of her neck. A soft moan escaped her lips as the competent, familiar fingers of the maid rubbed her scalp.
More water was poured and still more until every strand of hair, pulled between two fingers, vibrated