The Last Heiress by Bertrice Small

ignorance where men are concerned. It is a very dangerous gap in her education.
    Baen watched them go, and silently chided himself again for speaking to Elizabeth as he very well knew he should not have. And she was too innocent in the ways of men to understand it. But she had been wondrously fair in that pink gown. She was like a perfect rose. An English rose. And he was a Scot, and entirely unsuitable in so many ways for a girl like Elizabeth Meredith. He had seen a look in her mother’s eye that told him she suspected his regard for her daughter, and did not approve. Of course she would not approve. The bastard of the master of Grayhaven was not a proper match for the heiress of Friarsgate. And for the first time in his life, Baen MacColl was ashamed of his birth. And he silently despaired, for he knew he was falling in love with Elizabeth, and it could come to nothing. Nothing at all. He walked back to join the other men.
    “Which of the breeds will you purchase?” the laird of Claven’s Carn asked the younger man.
    “The Shropshires and the cheviots,” Baen replied.
    “You didn’t like the merinos? Their wool is the finest if you are seeking to improve your father’s flocks,” Logan Hepburn said.
    “I have not seen the merinos,” Baen answered him. “Until this moment I have never even heard of such a breed.”
    “That is because the merinos are not for sale,” Lord Cambridge quickly said. “The first of the flock were imported from Spain several years ago at the behest of the queen. She and my cousin are old friends. It is a small flock, and we have none to spare.” He smiled pleasantly at Baen. “I suspect dear Elizabeth did not bother to show them to you because she could not sell them.”
    “Of course,” Baen answered him. “If the sheep are few, but valuable  to her, it would be imprudent to sell any. Perhaps in the future when the flock is larger, and she can spare some.”
    “Of course,” Thomas Bolton replied, smiling.
    “I did not realize I was speaking out of turn,” Logan Hepburn said.
    “Not at all, dear boy,” Lord Cambridge assured him.
    There was an awkward silence, and then Alexander Hepburn said,
    “When are we going home, Da? Tomorrow, I hope.”
    “Aye, tomorrow will do, lad.” He turned again to Tom Bolton.
    “Johnnie is watching over the holding. He cannot do a great deal of damage in the short time we have been here. I am hoping I can get that foolishness over the church out of his head, if he will understand his responsibilities for once.”
    “You have five sons, dear boy. If John seeks God, why do you attempt to stop him? I suspect Jeannie would have approved. She was a gentle girl herself,” Thomas Bolton recalled. “Cousin Richard would gladly take him into St. Cuthbert’s.”
    “God’s foot, Tom, he’s my firstborn!” Logan exploded.
    “And entirely unsuitable to be the next laird of Claven’s Carn,”
    Lord Cambridge shot back. “Alexander is a far better choice, and you know it. You are just being difficult, dear boy. Having an eldest son who seeks to be a priest is not a slight to your vaunted manhood. What say you, Mata?”
    Father Mata, Logan Hepburn’s bastard brother, had been sitting quietly listening to the others. Now he looked at his half brother and said,
    “Let Johnnie go, Logan. If he seeks the priesthood, let him have it.”
    “I don’t want people to say that I pushed my firstborn aside for Rosamund’s sons,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said quietly.
    “Those who know us will rejoice in your generosity towards Johnnie. Those who do not will say what they will say,” the priest responded. “You endanger your own immortal soul by keeping from the priesthood a son who seeks it.”
    “Will you speak with Prior Richard?” Logan Hepburn finally said.
    Father Mata nodded. “As soon as Elizabeth had departed for London, I will go to the abbey and intercede for my nephew. Tell him when you return to Claven’s Carn, Logan, and heal