The Last Heiress by Bertrice Small Page B

chamber she used for estate business, Elizabeth read the missive sent her by Colin Hay, the master of Grayhaven. He had, he wrote, two nice-size flocks of black-faced Highlands, but while the wool sheared from his sheep was good, it was ordinary, and hardly worth the bother of shipping to the Netherlands. His friend, Adam Leslie, had said Friarsgate raised several kinds of sheep, and the wool sheared was excellent. The master of Grayhaven wanted to improve his flocks. Would the lady of Friarsgate be interested in selling him some of her sheep?
    Elizabeth sat back in her chair and considered his request. Her Shropshires, Hampshires, and cheviots all produced an excellent and high grade of wool. But there were two secrets to the Friarsgate blue wool: the secret of how its color was obtained, and the fact that the wool came from merino sheep. Her mother had learned of this breed from Queen Katherine, and with the queen’s aid had imported several ewes and a young ram. The flock had grown over the years, and now a quarter of the Friarsgate sheep were merinos. Their fleece was heavy and snow white. They were self-lubricating, so that their inner wool was incredibly soft.
    There are enough lambs being born now, Elizabeth thought, that I could sell some of my sheep off and be none the poorer for it. Shropshires, Hampshires, or cheviots, but not the merinos. There are few estates in England with sheep like mine. I cannot be certain the Scots won’t eat them anyway, and use their lungs to make that disgusting dish they call haggis. So they shall not have my merinos.
    She laid the parchment aside. It would be weeks before any sheep  could be taken north. Certainly not until they were well into spring.
    And she would want her own shepherds and dogs to escort them.
    There was nothing for it but that Baen MacColl would have to remain at Friarsgate until he could return with his sheep. She would discuss it with him this evening in the hall. Damnation! She did not want to go to court. How was Friarsgate to manage without her? Edmund was over seventy now, and she had chosen no one to follow him. Not that he would allowed it anyway. But when she came home they were going to have to discuss it.
    It snowed for almost three days. And then the sun came out, and Baen MacColl insisted on helping the men shovel paths from the house to the barns and the sheepfolds. He could not, it seemed, remain idle, and he was certainly not afraid of hard work. He had listened to Elizabeth’s suggestion that he remain at Friarsgate until he could return north with the sheep she would sell him.
    “Your father can send the price of the sheep back with my shepherds,” she told him, and he agreed.
    “You’re not afraid we’ll steal the sheep and slay your men?” he teased her.
    “The Leslies have sent you to me,” Elizabeth said seriously. “I trust them. Besides, my stepfather is the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. If you attempted to cheat me Logan would gather his clansmen up and go north to seek you out, sir.”
    He chuckled, the corners of his gray eyes crinkling. “I suspect you would ride with them, Mistress Elizabeth,” he said.
    “Aye.” She nodded. “I would. Friarsgate is my responsibility, sir.”
    “Do you think you might call me Baen?” he asked her.
    “I could,” she agreed. “ ’Tis an odd name. Doesn’t bane meet woe or ruin?”
    “ Baen means fair in the Scots tongue,” he told her. “ MacColl is son of Colin.”
    “Was your mother in love with your father?” Elizabeth asked him, curious.
    “They met but once,” he replied.
    “Once?” Elizabeth blushed, shocked by his revelation. If they had  met but once, then his mother had lain with the master of Grayhaven without even knowing him. It was difficult enough for her to contemplate a man in her bed.
    “Once,” he repeated, the gray eyes twinkling. “I never knew who my father was until my mother was on her deathbed. She told me then, and said I was to go to him as soon