mortal sin. I will not have that on my conscience.”
Her smile confused him. It was small and sad and held nothing of warmth or amusement. When she spoke, her words chilled his heart. “It is my conscience we are speaking of, m’lord, not yours.”
Something flickered in the depths of her eyes, something dark and forbidden that he didn’t understand. Unwillingly, his sister’s warning flashed through his mind. Jane Hepburn had not approved of Jeanne. Witchcraft ran in the Maxwell line. George had refused to countenance such absurdity. Jeanne was the purest, most devout woman he knew. He saw her at Mass every morning. Still, her eyes were the illusive, netherworld gray of the hill people, and her friendship with the calliach, Grania Douglas, was spoken of at court in hushed whispers.
Pushing his misgivings aside, he took her arm. “There is no need to speak of this now. Come, let us find a place in front before the singing begins.”
Jeanne allowed him to guide her into the crowd clustered at the end of the hall. A hush blanketed the room as the melodic notes of the troubadour echoed against the wood-beamed ceiling and filtered down, filling the appreciative ears of the guests. Closing her eyes, Jeanne allowed the powerful notes of the border lament to seep into her consciousness, filling her mind with the tragic story of unrequited love.
The performer was particularly skilled. When Jeanne opened her eyes, she was not surprised to see more than one woman surreptitiously wiping her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. She looked around for George and saw that he was listening to the woman beside him. It was Jane Hepburn. Jeanne frowned. She did not care for George’s sister.
She backed away, bumping into a figure behind her. She turned with an apology on her lips and blushed. John Maxwell looked down at her. From the expression on his face, she knew his eyes hadn’t missed a single detail of her appearance, including the telltale track of tears winding their way down her cheeks. Before she could move away, he reached out and wiped them away with a gentle finger. “’Tis only a ballad, lass,” he murmured. “The bards will sing a happier tale of Lady Jeanne Maxwell of Traquair.”
“Traquair is your home now,” she reminded him. “You are the new laird since Father died.”
The gray eyes gleamed like liquid silver in the torchlight. “Traquair needs a mistress,” he said softly.
“Then you must seek a wife.”
He smiled, and the lean planes of his face gentled into the boyishness she remembered. “I already have, Jeannie. All I need is her approval.”
Shock drained the color from her cheeks. Was the man daft? Did he really think to convince Jamie that he was a more suitable mate for Donald Maxwell’s daughter than George Gordon? Another thought occurred to her. Perhaps he meant something else entirely. Perhaps he’d found someone else. The room was suddenly cold. Her stomach burned. John and another woman. Only once before, in her twenty years, had she felt so miserable and alone.
Thirteen
John ignored the guards flanking the ornately carved door and knocked loudly.
“Enter,” a booming voice called out.
He turned the handle and stepped inside. The king was seated in a wide-backed chair by the fire, a jeweled goblet in his hand. “Welcome, John,” he said and gestured toward a stool directly opposite his chair. “I’ve been waiting nearly an hour, lad.” He waved his arm to encompass the small paneled room. “As you can see, we are alone. Now tell me of my dear brother-in-law’s plans.”
“I apologize for the delay, Your Grace,” replied John. He seated himself on the stool and stretched out his long legs. “I’m afraid my news isn’t good.”
Jamie nodded. “I thought not. Tell me everything you know.”
“His Holiness seeks to twist Louis of France in a powerful noose,” said John. “Henry encourages this hatred of his enemy by sending Rome huge sums of gold. There will be a time when you must choose, Your Grace.”
“Bah!” The king threw the remains of his wine, goblet and all, into the blazing fire. “I’ll not take arms against Louis. He is my ally. We’ve a treaty between us.”
“Even if it means war with England?”
“Julius is a sorry excuse for a clergyman,” Jamie muttered. “The last thing Christendom needs is a warrior pope. He should concern himself with the Vatican. If he wants to lead an army, why not send a crusade to the Holy Land? God’s blood! There isn’t a man in Scotland who