to be."
She
sent him a glance brimming with bitterness. "And should I thank you for
that?"
His
lips twitched. She could tell he was fighting a smile. "Well, you might,
lass, unless it's not your preference. If I've been guilty of a sin of
omission, I'll most promptly and happily remedy it."
Jonet
lay back on the pillow and rolled away from him. She knew precious little of
men, but she could tell Alexander was teasing. She wasn't afraid, just
embarrassed and resentful. "Go away, please. Just leave me alone."
In
a movement she should have predicted, he sat down on the bed. "I think
not. It's time we talked. As I recall from this morning, you'd a burning desire
for my name."
That
caught her attention. She turned back expectantly.
"I'm
Alexander, Baron Hepburn of Durnam."
She
drew her breath in sharply. The name Hepburn of Durnam was known the length of
Scotland as a traitor's name, a name rife with scorn.
"I
see you've heard of me," Alexander said dryly.
She
stared at him, wide-eyed. She had heard the story, as all in Scotland must
have. Gavin Hepburn of Durnam had been accused of treason, of giving
information to the English before the battle of Flodden. Unfortunately the man
had died before he could be brought to trial, and some had whispered poison,
others suicide. The family had fled to England where they lived for
years—continuing their services for the hated English if gossip was to be
believed. But two years past, in his self-imposed role of chancellor, Archibald
Douglas, Earl of Angus, had unexpectedly and unexplainedly returned their
lands.
Jonet's
mind was working furiously now. This man must be the son of that traitor and
the new Hepburn of Durnam. She strained to recall what she'd heard. Robert
seldom spoke of unpleasantness before her, but she recalled one
conversation—her uncle remarking Hepburn sat in Henry of England's pocket. And
dear God, he'd gotten back Durnam! He had to be working for Angus.
"There,
aren't you glad you had a few good hours of rest before learning that?"
Alexander murmured. "I can see you're close to swooning from the possible
contagion."
The
easy humor in his face was gone. His eyes were incredibly bitter. Jonet felt a
sudden and unexpected sympathy. Those years had been hard.
"I
don't swoon," she said evenly. "At least if I do it's pain that causes
it, not fear of sitting next to a man of questionable reputation. That or
drugged wine," she amended.
"Questionable
reputation. How carefully you put that. Did Mure teach you such niceties?"
She
forced herself to focus on a tiny snag in the coverlet. "I don't know what
you mean."
"Oh,
I think you do."
"No.
I told you I was a maidservant. I've heard of Lord Mure certainly, everyone
has. But I'm not—"
"Quiet!"
Alexander snapped. "For the love of God, save your lies for someone a
little less experienced. You've not yet learned the way of them..." He
used the word deliberately, "Jonet."
She
stared at him in a panic, her sympathy gone, if indeed it ever had been.
Alexander Hepburn was a man without honor, without common decency even. And he
would give her up to Murdoch Douglas. She'd no doubt of that. "Have you
known then, all along?"
"No.
If you'll remember, I had guests this morning while you were taking your nap.
One of them is an admirer of yours and most anxious to get you back."
Jonet
felt her stomach twist sickeningly. Somehow she knew what was coming.
"Our
lord warden is turning the countryside upside down, not only for Mure, but for
you as well. Heavens, lass, he couldn't be hotter if he'd seen those long,
exquisite legs of yours." His eyebrows rose sardonically. "Or has
he?"
Jonet
felt ill, physically ill. The man's clever words rained down on her like blows.
She hadn't the wit to match him, but she still had pride. And despite her
predicament, she wouldn't yield her honor—two things Robert had taught her were
more important than life.
She
raised her eyes to his. "Not all of us live in the gutter, my lord.
She
sent him a glance brimming with bitterness. "And should I thank you for
that?"
His
lips twitched. She could tell he was fighting a smile. "Well, you might,
lass, unless it's not your preference. If I've been guilty of a sin of
omission, I'll most promptly and happily remedy it."
Jonet
lay back on the pillow and rolled away from him. She knew precious little of
men, but she could tell Alexander was teasing. She wasn't afraid, just
embarrassed and resentful. "Go away, please. Just leave me alone."
In
a movement she should have predicted, he sat down on the bed. "I think
not. It's time we talked. As I recall from this morning, you'd a burning desire
for my name."
That
caught her attention. She turned back expectantly.
"I'm
Alexander, Baron Hepburn of Durnam."
She
drew her breath in sharply. The name Hepburn of Durnam was known the length of
Scotland as a traitor's name, a name rife with scorn.
"I
see you've heard of me," Alexander said dryly.
She
stared at him, wide-eyed. She had heard the story, as all in Scotland must
have. Gavin Hepburn of Durnam had been accused of treason, of giving
information to the English before the battle of Flodden. Unfortunately the man
had died before he could be brought to trial, and some had whispered poison,
others suicide. The family had fled to England where they lived for
years—continuing their services for the hated English if gossip was to be
believed. But two years past, in his self-imposed role of chancellor, Archibald
Douglas, Earl of Angus, had unexpectedly and unexplainedly returned their
lands.
Jonet's
mind was working furiously now. This man must be the son of that traitor and
the new Hepburn of Durnam. She strained to recall what she'd heard. Robert
seldom spoke of unpleasantness before her, but she recalled one
conversation—her uncle remarking Hepburn sat in Henry of England's pocket. And
dear God, he'd gotten back Durnam! He had to be working for Angus.
"There,
aren't you glad you had a few good hours of rest before learning that?"
Alexander murmured. "I can see you're close to swooning from the possible
contagion."
The
easy humor in his face was gone. His eyes were incredibly bitter. Jonet felt a
sudden and unexpected sympathy. Those years had been hard.
"I
don't swoon," she said evenly. "At least if I do it's pain that causes
it, not fear of sitting next to a man of questionable reputation. That or
drugged wine," she amended.
"Questionable
reputation. How carefully you put that. Did Mure teach you such niceties?"
She
forced herself to focus on a tiny snag in the coverlet. "I don't know what
you mean."
"Oh,
I think you do."
"No.
I told you I was a maidservant. I've heard of Lord Mure certainly, everyone
has. But I'm not—"
"Quiet!"
Alexander snapped. "For the love of God, save your lies for someone a
little less experienced. You've not yet learned the way of them..." He
used the word deliberately, "Jonet."
She
stared at him in a panic, her sympathy gone, if indeed it ever had been.
Alexander Hepburn was a man without honor, without common decency even. And he
would give her up to Murdoch Douglas. She'd no doubt of that. "Have you
known then, all along?"
"No.
If you'll remember, I had guests this morning while you were taking your nap.
One of them is an admirer of yours and most anxious to get you back."
Jonet
felt her stomach twist sickeningly. Somehow she knew what was coming.
"Our
lord warden is turning the countryside upside down, not only for Mure, but for
you as well. Heavens, lass, he couldn't be hotter if he'd seen those long,
exquisite legs of yours." His eyebrows rose sardonically. "Or has
he?"
Jonet
felt ill, physically ill. The man's clever words rained down on her like blows.
She hadn't the wit to match him, but she still had pride. And despite her
predicament, she wouldn't yield her honor—two things Robert had taught her were
more important than life.
She
raised her eyes to his. "Not all of us live in the gutter, my lord.
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