Until You by Bertrice Small

is snug, and it will be yours to rule.”
    “Have you ever been wed before, my lord?” she asked.
    “Never, Mistress Jean,” he answered her.
    “Why not?” she wondered.
    “It is a long story,” he said.
    “I like stories,” she responded quietly.
    He laughed. “I see that I shall be unable to hide anything from you, Mistress Jean. Very well. I have for many years sought the hand of an English neighbor. Her guardian would not consider a match, and after he had seen her wed to two husbands—for she was a child when those marriages were celebrated—I thought to have my chance with her. But the English king matched her with one of his own knights. It was a good marriage. There were children, and then her husband was killed in an accident. I sought her hand, but she would not have me. Since I am past thirty, my family appealed to Lord Bothwell to make a match for me, as we are kin. And so he has.”
    “I think her a foolish lady, my lord,” Jeannie said softly, having stopped so she might look up at him when she said it. “I shall not be unhappy to be your wife at all.”
    He smiled down at the young girl. It might have been far worse, he thought, and while he would always regret Rosamund, he was going to be a good husband to this sweet lassie. “Then I will certainly be content as well, Mistress Jean, and I think myself fortunate in having found you.” He bent down and kissed her lips softly. “To seal our bargain, lassie,” he told her.
    She blushed again. “I have never been kissed before by a lover,” she told him naively.
    “And now mine are the only lips your sweet ones shall know, Jean Logan,” he said to her. “I shall take you back now, and we will tell Lord Bothwell that we are content with this bargain.” He took her hand again, and they reentered the crush of guests in the hall. He sought out Bothwell telling him, “We are agreed, Mistress Jean and I, cousin. You may affix Twelfth Night as our wedding day.”
    “Excellent!” the Earl of Bothwell declared. “Let us go and speak with the king now.” And he led them to where James Stewart sat observing his court.
    “Well, my lord, and what have you come to say, for you are looking most arch this night?” the king remarked.
    “I do not believe, highness, that you have met my cousin, Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn,” the earl began, “and this is his betrothed wife, Mistress Jean Logan, who is a relation on his mother’s side. They seek your highness’ permission to be wed here at Stirling on Twelfth Night Day.”
    James Stewart’s dark eyebrows quirked. Was this not the man who desired the lovely lady of Friarsgate for a wife? He considered asking, but realized that if this was the man of whom he had heard, the sweet-faced lass by his side might not have known of her future husband’s lust for Rosamund Bolton. It mattered not. The Englishwoman was enamored of the Earl of Glenkirk, and this border lord was to wed another. “They have our permission,” the king said, “and the marriage may be celebrated in my chapel. The queen and I will serve as witness to this union.” Then he smiled at them, delighting in Jean Logan’s blue eyes, which grew round with her excitement. “Come here, lassie,” he said, “and give your king a kiss, now.” He held out his hand to her.
    “Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, rosy with her blushes. “Oh, sir!” And catching up the outstretched hand, she kissed it fervently. Then, releasing the hand, she curtsied deeply. “Thank you, my lord, for this great honor.”
    “And you, Logan Hepburn? Are you satisfied with this matter?” the king probed. His look was sharp and very direct.
    “I am advised by my cousin, the earl, and the rest of my small clan branch that it is past time for me to wed, my lord. Mistress Jean should make me a fine wife,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said politically.
    The king smiled cynically. “May God and his Holy Mother bless you both, then, and give you many