The Thistle and the Rose by Jean Plaidy Page A

although there was nothing ornate about them, for he had come straight from the hunt, without ceremony, perhaps to let her know that this was an informal visit.
    He is beautiful, she thought; and she believed that she loved him, so happy was she to be in Scotland and already his wife.
    He was flushed from the chase and perhaps he shared in her excitement, for after all, was he not meeting his wife for the first time even as she was meeting her husband? His eyes were hazel, his hair dark auburn, and she now believed all those who had told her that he was the handsomest King in the world.
    He was smiling—and it was the kindest and most tender of smiles—as he came toward here. She made a low curtsy and he raised her with both his hands, and drawing her to him, kissed her.
    She could not take her eyes from him. He appealed to her senses in a way which was entirely new to her; it did not occur to her that there was scarcely a woman who came into contact with him who did not share her feeling in greater or less degree. She was inexperienced and had received so much adulation that she believed he shared every emotion she herself felt. She did not stop to ask herself whether a man past thirty—and such a man—might have had many adventures in love.
    James, whose years of kingship had taught him that it was always wise outwardly to observe convention, turned from hisbride to greet her attendants. He took all the ladies by the hand and kissed them and then accepted the greetings of the men with the utmost courtesy.
    And all the time he was thinking: She is but a child. Poor little girl! So eager. So determined to do her duty. Little Margaret Tudor! Oh, why could it not have been that other Margaret?
My
Margaret!
    Having greeted the company, it was now fitting for him to give his attention to his bride, and he returned to her, took her hand and drew her apart. Seeing his desire to talk with her, the rest of the company kept their distance, and James, smiling down at her, said: “But you are beautiful…more beautiful than I dared hope.”
    “And all they said of you is true.”
    “What did they say of me?”
    “That you were the handsomest King in the world.”
    He laughed. “I should have been afraid, had I known, that after such a glowing description I might disappoint you.”
    “You do not disappoint me.”
    Her eyes were glowing, her lips slightly parted. James—connoisseur of women—knew the signs. She would be no prude. It would be no hardship to do his duty. He was glad to discover in her a sensuality which might match his own.
    “I trust,” he said, “that you will be happy in Scotland.”
    “I know I shall…now that I have met my lord.”
    “Do you always make up your mind on such a short acquaintance?”
    “Always.”
    “Is that wise?”
    “I can only trust my inclinations, which rarely betray me,” she answered.
    He took her hand and kissed it.
    By sweet Saint Ninian! he thought. We must join the others, lest we come to the lovemaking before we have time to get abed.
    He compared her with that other Margaret. This one would never be serene. He was uneasily reminded of Janet Kennedy, for he sensed a certain wild passion in this young girl—although it was not yet full awakened—which might equal Janet's. That made him think of his Margaret, sitting down to her last breakfast withher sisters. Was it possible that Janet had had a hand in that? If he really believed that, he would never see her again. But this was not the time to think of that—nor was any time, for it was past and done with. But he did feel a little uneasy to be reminded of Janet by this little Tudor girl whom he had been obliged to marry for the sake of his country's peace.
    “Come,” he said, “we must not neglect our friends. And I'll swear there is food and wine waiting for us.”
    She sat beside him at the table, which was laden with good food and wine, and all the time she was conscious of him beside her.
    “I must return to