The Forgotten Queen by D. L. Bogdan Page A

breasts. “Not much I can do about these, I suppose,” I lamented.
    “You’ll fill out as you grow, Your Grace,” Lady Surrey assured me.
    “I wish I’d grow in the next ten minutes,” I pouted.
    “Come now, you’re beautiful,” said Lady Guildford in her tiny voice. “He will adore you.”
    I blinked the hot tears from my eyes, hating the quickness with which they appeared. “Do you think?”
    She nodded, along with Lady Surrey.
    When I was deemed presentable the room began to fill with courtiers both Scottish and English. I stood by the window, shoulders squared, trying to rein in my trembling. The king . . . my husband. He was coming....
    When at last he swept in, I took in the sight of him. Tall and well built, with auburn hair grazing his shoulders in layered waves, his lively eyes a vivid green, his nose aquiline, and the beard that hugged his well-defined jawline framing a sensual mouth, he was the quintessence of regal bearing. He sported his hunting habit of crimson velvet and wore his hawking lure over his shoulder. Upon seeing me he removed his cap. His lips were parted; his eyes were gentle.
    I dipped into a deep curtsy as he approached. He bowed and once we were both righted he took my hands. His were strong, with long, tapering fingers. A hunter’s hands. A king’s hands.
    “But you’re beautiful,” he breathed as he gazed upon me.
    Strange warmth coursed through my veins. My cheeks tingled as I looked at him through my lashes.
    “Expecting something else?” I asked him.
    He laughed. “One never knows.” His voice was handsome despite the thick Scots brogue. Somehow when he spoke the accent was far more charming than grating. “And so, Margaret, my beautiful little bride, do you resent very much my impatience at wanting to see you?”
    “I should,” I told him. “How unkind coming upon me this way!” But I was teasing him and he knew it. His green eyes sparkled with merriment. “You could have found me in my shift!”
    “All the more delightful!” he cried, but I noted as he assessed me, his face clouded over. His eyes softened, as though in pity. My heart raced.
    “Have I displeased you, Your Grace?” I asked in small tones.
    He rested his hands on my shoulders. “No, dear heart, no . . . but you are so very young and so far from home. Are you terribly frightened?”
    My lip quivered. How I longed to throw myself in his arms and cry, Yes, yes, I am frightened! Rock me, hold me, do not let me go till the fear dispels! But I only offered a smile.
    “How can I be frightened, my lord?” I asked him. “You say I am far from home, but I could not be closer. I am in Scotland beside my husband the king. What is there to fear in my true home?”
    He tipped back his head, offering a deep belly-shaking laugh. “Well said, my lady, well said!” He cupped my face between his strong hands. “Scotland is your true home and I shall always endeavor to make it feel that way to you.”
    He leaned forward then and bestowed the gentlest of kisses upon my lips. The courtiers who had been pretending to be absorbed in their own nonsensical chatter grew quiet as the king pulled away, breaking into his boisterous laughter once more as he led me to the assembly.
    As I stood next to him I could not stop looking at him. This was my husband and the King of Scotland.
    Most important, he was the most wonderful man in the world and he was mine!
     
    That night the bells began to toll and I started. “Mother is dead!” I cried, then, shaking myself to my senses, scrambled out of bed to see what the matter was.
    “ ’Tis the stables, Your Grace,” a servant informed me. I looked out the window into the black pitch of night. The sky glowed with an eerie golden hue. “Up in flames.”
    “What of my palfreys?” I asked, my heart racing in panic. “What of the palfreys from my father?”
    “All gone, Your Grace,” she said softly. “I am sorry.”
    “No!” I cried, throwing myself facedown on the