he was confident of his ability to arouse his young wife’s deeply passionate nature. After all, she loved him. He was sure of that. And although his experience would never rival either Jamie Stewart’s or Henry Tudor’s, the women who had shared his bed seemed anxious to return, sometimes embarrassingly so.
Jeanne’s hand rested on the table. He placed his own over it. Startled by the contact, she opened her eyes and looked at him. What she saw in his expression caused her to tremble. Wetting her lips, she whispered, “How long?”
“An hour.”
She nodded, and together they stood. A hush fell over the banquet hall. He slid his arm around her waist, and a great cheer rose from the crowd.
“Our bridegroom grows impatient,” Jamie called out from the dance floor.
John acknowledged his words with a grin. “Go now,” he whispered to Jeanne. “Perhaps I can hold them off for a while.”
She knew exactly what he meant. Gathering her train, she stepped down from the dais and tried to slip unobtrusively out the door. But the crowd would have none of it.
“Run,” cried Flora into her ear. “They will not be denied their sport.”
Jeanne ran down the hall to the stairs with her mother and Moira Sutherland close behind. The crowd followed. Jeanne reached the first landing without mishap. Down the hall she fled, flushed and breathless, pushing open the door to the room she would share with John. Moira threw herself down on the bed while Flora slammed and bolted the latch behind them. Howls of laughter and ribald jokes penetrated the thick wood. For several moments the women waited while their drunken pursuers serenaded them. Finally, they heard the sound they waited for: boots descending the stairs. Then all was silent.
“They’re gone,” Flora announced, moving away from the door. “Hurry. We’ve no time to lose.” She looked at the nightgown lying on the bed and then at Jeanne’s face. Quickly, she moved forward, reaching for her hands. “There, there, darling,” she said. “Everything will be all right.” She turned to the younger woman. “Fetch my daughter a draught of wine, Moira. Her hands are cold.”
Moira moved to do her bidding. “Whiskey would be better,” she said, handing Flora the goblet. “You aren’t frightened, are you, Jeannie? Sweet Mary, I’d give much to be in your shoes tonight.”
“Hush.” Flora silenced her. “You know nothing of it.” She pulled her daughter into her arms. “John loves you,” she whispered. “He will be gentle. By this time tomorrow, you will have found a pleasure greater than any you’ve imagined. ’Tis what we are made for, Jeannie, to love a man and bear his children. What else is there for a woman?”
The wine brought the color back to Jeanne’s cheeks. She stood and smiled tremulously at her mother. “Help me out of this, please,” she said, lifting her arms.
Flora drew Jeanne’s gown and undershift over her dark head and hung it in the clothespress. Then she held out her arms. “Hand me the nightdress, Moira.”
With an envious glance and a final stroke of the luxurious fabric, the girl complied. The garment had been fashioned in France and made of black silk with three tiny ties, one at the breast, another at the waist, and, the last, several inches above the knee. Flora slipped it over her daughter’s head. Moira took one look at Jeanne’s slender, elegant body so daringly revealed in the exquisite garment and gasped.
Jeanne glanced at herself in the mirror and blushed. “It is rather indecent, isn’t it?”
“Never mind,” said her mother wryly. “There will be little left of it in the morning.” She poured water into the basin and motioned for Jeanne to bathe her face and hands. Moira was busy slipping the warming pan between the sheets. Everything was ready, the scented candles, the bed made ready with turned-back covers and plump pillows, the wine on a small side table. Suddenly, her eyes swam with tears. It was exactly right. With one helpless, apologetic glance at her daughter, Flora left the room.
Moira smiled in sympathetic understanding. “Your mother is very fond of you. ’Tis difficult for a mother to lose her only child.”
“I go nowhere,” replied Jeanne shortly. “John and I will continue to live at Traquair. My mother will live with us.”
“Then why—?”
Jeanne shrugged. “Perhaps she is tired. The last weeks have been difficult for her.”
Moira nodded. “She’s worked hard on the wedding.”
Jeanne did not contradict her.
A heavy knock and muffled laughter sounded at the door. “Open the door,