if he knew her troubled thoughts, John’s eyes met hers. Across the long, carpeted aisle, she felt him reach out. Smiling tentatively, she moved forward again, her eyes riveted to the lifeline he held out to her. Just as she reached his side, he winked and grinned broadly. A bubble of mirth welled up in her chest. Dear God, she prayed silently, keep me from disgracing myself in the presence of an archbishop.
Her prayer was answered. The Mass seemed incredibly short. In almost no time at all, they exchanged their vows in low, solemn voices. The air inside the chapel was very still. The sun rising into the sky hovered for a moment outside the small, etched windows. At the very moment John slipped his ring on Jeanne’s finger, a shaft of light penetrated the glass and found the diamonds in the pendant at her throat and waist. A collective gasp swept through the congregation as it split into a thousand colors, surrounding the couple in a gleaming arc of netherworld light.
Murmurs circulated through the crowd. “Surely, ’tis a sign,” they whispered. “The union is blessed by God, the Holy Virgin, and all the saints.”
Flora Maxwell closed her eyes as John bent his head and briefly kissed her daughter’s mouth. With a firm shake of her head, she opened them again and looked back at the altar. Jeanne was married and, from the looks of it, happily so. There would be children at Traquair again. Flora imagined herself bending over the cradle of a black-haired baby, a baby the image of John. The bairn would be doubly dear because it would be Jeanne’s child as well. She smiled and disregarded the idea of going away. Jeanne would need her, and the feel of a sweetly scented bairn against her breast after so many years was a temptation too great to withstand. Fate had decreed that she would never marry John Maxwell, but she could still love his child.
The wedding couple sat in the banquet hall on a raised dais. It was almost evening. Serving the food had taken a long time. For hours to come, wine would flow and the merrymaking continue until none the length of Scotland would forget this day. There were dancing girls from France and trained bears restrained by leather leashes. Musicians played and troubadours sang ballads honoring the beauty of the bride, the courage of the groom, and the loyalty of the entire House of Maxwell. There was braised fowl and roasted mutton and enough fiery usquebaugh to keep every man drunk for days to come. Men and women alike, their faces flushed, mouths smeared with grease, and lips stained with wine, dropped to the floor in exhausted stupors. Beside their alcohol-dazed bodies, dogs growled and fought for bones dropped on the rush-strewn floor.
The food was superb. The cooks of Traquair had outdone themselves. By decree, the first of every course was served to the king. Jamie waved his knife and lifted his trencher in approval. As each new dish passed inspection, the crowd roared and the music played on.
Jeanne stared at the uneaten food on her plate. The torches had been lit hours ago, and on the cloth-covered tables, candlewicks drowned in wells of melted wax. A curious numbness invaded her body. Despite her intentions and her curiosity, she was suddenly afraid. Soon the door of the laird’s bedchamber would close and she would be alone with her husband. For the first time in her life, she would share a man’s bed. That the man was dearly loved and had been her friend and childhood companion for every conscious moment of her life mattered not at all. Her hands were icy cold, and the food tasted like ashes in her mouth. Even the music and the dancers seemed very far away. Jeanne closed her eyes, alone in her own private terror.
John lifted the heavy goblet emblazoned with the Maxwell creed, Reviresco, “I deliver,” to his lips. He was truly enjoying himself. The entertainment was marvelous and the food better than anything he had tasted in England. He turned to compliment Jeanne, and his eyes narrowed. Her skin was paler than the ermine-bordered sleeves of her gown, and her eyes were closed. He could see the fluttering of her pulse in the delicate skin at her temple. His lips turned up in a tender smile. Poor lass. She was terrified.
John Maxwell was not an arrogant man, and he had never before bedded a virgin, but