"The chef can cook all night for you, my Lady, if you have a mind. You want that bairn of yourn to be strong."

As it turned out, the chef did yeoman's duty in the kitchen that night, adjusting his staff to Elizabeth's changeable tastes and appet.i.te. And much later, when the candles were burning low and the scent of roses was heavy in the air, when the new bride and groom lay amid the debris of a feast scattered across the bed, Johnnie said in amazement: "How can you eat any more?"

Elizabeth smiled at him across the rumpled sheets and crumbs and half-eaten food. "I'm still hungry. Pa.s.s me another of those creme cakes, will you? You didn't eat much."

He'd eaten with his usual good appet.i.te, demolishing a meat pie and a bottle of claret along with a plateful of tarts. But he only smiled at his lush bride, pink-cheeked and sticky from creme cakes, her long, pale hair in tangled disarray, her contented smile reason alone for living. "I wasn't very hungry," he lied. "Would you like some more kidney pie? I should think it would be healthy for the baby."

And that night a variation on Eden took shape on the Borders of Scotland in a baronial mansion, in a sumptuous bedchamber, in an elaborate bed of state with green brocade curtains that shut out the world. It was sweet, lavish delight, heaven on an earthly realm; it was love found after months of disarray. And if it wasn't paradise under the canopy of elegant Italian brocade, it was divinely within shouting distance.

No one saw the newlywed Lord and Lady Carre for two more days except for the servants who brought in food and carried it away, who saw to bathwater, clean linens, flowers, and fires in the hearth. And even they rarely caught sight of them, for the Laird and his Lady were generally busy behind the billowing green bedcurtains.

But they appeared outside the bedchamber on the morning of the third day for a dress fitting Johnnie had ordered with Madame Lamieur-for Elizabeth's wedding gown. The formal ceremony had finally been scheduled for the following day.

"Oh, dear," Elizabeth said, a short time later, standing in the midst of sewing a.s.sistants as Madame Lamieur tried to bring the closing at her waist together.

"My Lady has put on some weight," the dressmaker grunted, tugging at the fabric that wouldn't meet.

As Elizabeth caught Johnnie's gaze over the modiste's head, she broke into giggles. "Come here, darling," Johnnie interposed, waving her over. "Let's see how impossible Madame Lamieur's task is going to be."

It was immediately apparent as Elizabeth walked over to her husband, her hips swaying seductively, that a reconciliation had taken place since last she'd seen them, Madame Lamieur realized. She watched with fascination as Elizabeth seduced her husband as if no one else were in the room.

Moving between his legs, she stood very close to him as he sat in his chair, bending over to whisper in his ear, sliding her fingertip over his mouth, kissing him before she stood upright again.

And he held her casually, imprisoned between his legs, his hands gliding down her waist, then lower over her hips, his mouth moving in conversation meant only for her ears. With a lazy upward drift of his hands, his fingers slipped inside her gown where it gaped at the waist, and Madame Lamieur almost gasped aloud.

Johnnie and Elizabeth both laughed a moment later over some private comment, and she fell into his lap, with the languid propensity of a courtesan out to entice, rubbing against him like a kitten who wanted petting. Her head lay back on his shoulder; he held her close, wrapped in his arms. "Since Lady Carre will no longer be wearing corsets," he quietly said to his rapt audience while his wife nibbled at his neck, "adjustments will be necessary in all the gowns. I hope it won't be inconvenient to you, Madame Lamieur."

"Of course not, my Lord," the dressmaker replied, wondering how rapidly she could arrange for new fabric, wondering, too, how to talk to the Earl without actually looking at him, because his wife had begun unb.u.t.toning his waistcoat.

"We've decided it's best for the baby," he added, kissing his wife lightly in full view of everyone, an affectionate gesture of great gentleness that would have astonished any of Johnnie's old friends. "You'll have to do your best without a fitting for the wedding tomorrow," he went on, curtailing his wife's public undressing of him with a gentle restraining hand over hers. He smiled at everyone. "Now, if you'll excuse us, my Lady is going to rest."

It was clear to everyone the nature of his Lady's rest, and when Helen went down to the kitchen to fill in Mrs. Reid on the shocking proceedings of the abbreviated dress-fitting, she finished in breathless animation, "They're doin' it right this minute on that fine silk sofa in the morning room. Himself locked the door."

"Well, I'd best get the chef to cheffing then, for my lady will be hungry in a wee bit." Mrs. Reid's pleased smile creased her round face. "I expect my Lady will keep the Laird busy enough so we won't be seeing the likes of Lady Lindsay any time soon. And more's the pleasure in that."

"From the looks of it, I think my Lady will keep him at Goldiehouse permanent like."

"And that's no bad a thing," Mrs. Reid said with satisfaction. "Goldiehouse will be a right fine place to raise their bairns."

CHAPTER 19.

While bliss reigned supreme at Goldiehouse, Harold G.o.dfrey was in London moving to curtail the newfound happiness of the Laird and Lady Ravensby.

"The papers can be drawn up here in London," G.o.dfrey was saying to his employer, the Duke of Queensberry, a thin, dark man of middle age. They were strolling in St. James's Park so their conversation couldn't be overheard by servants or retainers; it was always difficult to know who was loyal.

"Rape will be much easier to prove in court," Queensberry declared, "although we'll pursue the treason charge as well."

"She's with child already," the Earl bitterly muttered. "And even if he marries her, we'll contend it was a forced marriage."

"It's easy enough to buy witnesses," Queensberry murmured.

"Or see to the disappearance of troublesome ones."

"Yes, of course." The Duke smiled. "Now tell me again the extent of Ravensby's property. And what you foresee in terms of necessary doc.u.mentation." Queensberry's affable manner was part art and part nature; he was the complete courtier. And while to outward appearances and in ordinary conversation he was of gentle disposition, nothing stood in the way of his own interests. He was covetous and at the same time lavish with his money, squandering much of it, gossip reported. Johnnie Carre's estates, which would be forfeit when he was convicted of rape, would be a welcome addition to the Duke's possessions.

"If you could get a special warrant from the Queen, we could begin court proceedings. Whether he appears or not is incidental to the verdict."

"But you'd prefer he be brought in." Queensberry knew the enmity that existed between the two men.

"He owes me a second debt now. Or perhaps a third, if I wish repayment for my daughter's first abduction. It would give me pleasure to have him in chains."

"He is a rash young man. Difficult to control. Although certainly, you better than most understand his reckless effrontery." Rumor had it, Harold G.o.dfrey had had a hand in the death of the previous Earl of Graden. When Johnnie Carre, only seventeen, had come home from France to a.s.sume his t.i.tle, he'd ridden immediately into Harbottle, up to the gates of the castle, and challenged Harold G.o.dfrey to defend himself.

A highly skilled swordsman, Harold G.o.dfrey had willingly taken on the young man and almost killed him. But they'd fought for an hour, and in the end sheer physical strength prevailed. Harold G.o.dfrey could never quite effect the coup de grace, although he had the advantage of experience. And when Johnnie Carre held him under his sword point at last, the Earl of Brusisson had vehemently denied any involvement in Johnnie's father's death. High-principled at seventeen, the young Earl of Graden had found it difficult to kill a man loudly professing his innocence. And he'd walked away.

"He's been a scourge in my life," Elizabeth's father said, his voice cold as ice, "as his father was before him. It would give me great pleasure to relieve him of his wealth."

"How many estates does he have?" Queensberry softly inquired. "And his ships ... how many of those?"

"A dozen or so properties scattered through the Lowlands. And fourteen ships ... although he's having two new ones built in Holland."

"You've done your research," the Duke quietly murmured. "I wonder if some of the property might be better left undoc.u.mented." He looked at his companion with a lightly raised brow. "For the moment ..."

"To avoid sharing as much ..."

Queensberry smiled. "Hopefully to avoid sharing at all," he said. "Which brings to mind the current convulsive rage against Scotland. Haversham in the Lords has requested a full attendance of Peers to listen to a statement on the threat of Scotland's Act of Security. We certainly can use those flaring pa.s.sions and retaliatory mood to our advantage. The Laird of Ravensby has connections in France-family and factors at several Low Country and French ports. I should think it would be entirely possible he has intercourse as well with the Court of Saint-Germain. We need letters-one or two with suitable signatures. Can you manage that?"

"It might take some time. After Simon Fraser last year, one knows better than to use amateurs for scribes."

"I could put you in touch with someone on the Continent who might help. In the meantime we could begin with the rape charges. At least there's no doubt he's taken your daughter. As for the Jacobite connection, we'll continue to marshal our arguments at more leisure. He has many friends in the Scottish Parliament; I'm not sure we can indict him as readily for treason."

"Even his friends can't defend him on rape. The man's a wh.o.r.emonger."

"How convenient he developed a tendre for your daughter."

"Nothing so romantical," G.o.dfrey snapped. "The man simply takes his pleasure where he wills."

"What of your daughter then? Will she sign the complaint?"

Harold G.o.dfrey paused for a moment, considering the impediment of his daughter's independent spirit. "I'll see that she does," he firmly said.

In November the Lords and Commons met at Westminster in a angry mood, determined to demand retribution for Scotland's pa.s.sage of the Act of Security. England resented the Act as a threat and an insult, while the equipment of the Scottish militia was accepted as evidence of hostile intention.

And when the Peers finally a.s.sembled on November 20, the anxiety excited by the Act of Security could be gauged from the fact that a crowded audience filled the House of Lords to hear Haversham's speech. His theme was the alarming att.i.tude of the rebellious Scots.

On the seventh of December the Lords went into committee to discuss the measures best fitted to bring Scotland to heel. Retaliation, they decided, would hasten the settlement of the Succession-the overwhelming problem to England's security with the Pretender in France. They agreed to the resolution of Lord Halifax, that all Scotsmen, except those settled in England, Ireland, or the colonies, or those employed in the army and navy, should be declared aliens, until the establishment of a union, or the settlement of the Succession. They empowered the Commissioners of the Admiralty to fit out cruisers to seize all Scottish ships trading with England's enemies; they urged the Queen to take immediate steps to put the Border in a state of defense.

In short, the English Parliament set out to crush Scotland's bid for independence.

And when the news reached north of the border, the temper of the Scots was one of fierce defiance against England's tyranny.

In the meantime, apart from the fulminations at Westminster, unaware of Harold G.o.dfrey's plans, the Grahams of Redesdale were bent on their own scheme to regain Elizabeth's inheritance. They had called in their judges in the days after their return from Hexham and had already begun the legal maneuvering necessary to charge Elizabeth with witchcraft in the death of their father. Witnesses of course had to be schooled in their reports, their pet.i.tion placed on the docket of the local magistrate who would examine the accused, and all the doc.u.ments sent through the required channels for when the case would be heard before a jury. It took time to set the scene, to pay for the players, to see that everyone understood their roles.

The newlyweds spent the days after their wedding dividing their time between Three Kings and Ravensby, busy with their building projects, absorbed in each other, discovering a new depth to their love. Messengers kept Johnnie abreast of the business at Westminster but he'd not expected Parliament to be sympathetic to Scotland's grievances.

One forenoon at the end of October, while walking back to the house, they saw a coach in the drive. Johnnie and Elizabeth had spent the morning with Munro at the site where a new lake was being dredged in order to connect a string of ponds into one large body of water. The fall day was sunny and warm, the autumn leaves brilliant in the parkland.

"Our first company," Elizabeth said. "Do you recognize the coach?"

"I'm not sure," Johnny equivocated, although he knew exactly whose carriage it was. "But I expect our neighbors feel enough time has pa.s.sed since our wedding to begin making calls."

He noted with relief as they met Dankeil Willie in the entrance hall that the Earl of Lothian had accompanied his wife. His fishing rods were propped against the wall.

"They're in the Jupiter Salon, my lord," Willie formally said to Johnnie, "waiting on ye and the Countess."

"Who is?" Elizabeth asked.

She saw Willie's swift darting glance toward his master and waited with curiosity for the answer.

"Culross and Janet Lindsay are here," Johnnie said, his face a bland mask.

"For fishing?" The splendid long rods were impossible to miss, although she couldn't imagine the sultry Janet Lindsay mucking about in the river shallows.

"To meet you, also, I imagine." He spoke in a neutral voice-without inflection-and began moving through the entrance hall toward the south enfilade, Elizabeth's hand in his.

For the briefest moment she considered digging in her heels, the memory of her last encounter with the Countess an unhappy one. Then, with a touch of sarcasm she asked, "How polite do I have to be to your-"

"I wasn't married then."

"But she was," Elizabeth softly pointed out. "How do you and her husband get along?"

"Culross and I are old friends."

"You must be," she replied, "for him to so graciously overlook being cuckolded."

"He didn't marry her for love."

"Nor she him apparently."

"A not uncommon arrangement in the aristocracy, as you well know."

"Will they stay long?"

"I hope not." He sighed, slowing his stride, pulling her to a halt before the Van Dyck portrait of his grandmother. "I'm sorry, darling," he quietly said, his blue eyes troubled. "If I could keep her away I would, but everyone in Roxburgh calls with great frequency, I'm afraid, and that includes the Earl and Countess of Lothian."

Elizabeth smiled, sympathetic to his discomfort, and pleased by his apology. "Don't worry, I won't tear her hair out," she said, "or rake her painted face with my nails. As long as I have you and she doesn't," she added with a lift of her downy brows, "I can be smugly good-tempered."

He grinned, relieved. "Stay by me, though, for protection," he warned her. "I can't guarantee her good temper."

"Are you serious?"

"She's unpredictable," he replied, his expression shuttered.

It annoyed her that he knew the woman so well, knew her with the ultimate intimacy. Elizabeth couldn't help saying with sweet retaliatory spite, "Janet Lindsay's probably less dangerous than Hotchane in temper."

"I wasn't married to her," he repeated.

"Nor was I, by choice. Don't tell me you were coerced into her arms."

He had no answer. That style of coercion had never played a role in his amorous amus.e.m.e.nts. Inhaling in frustration, he released his breath a second later in an extended sigh. "Maybe they'll leave before dinner," he said.

They didn't, of course, as Elizabeth could have told him at the time. She knew the Janet Lindsays of the world would no more retire gracefully from the field than they'd consider appearing in public without their eye kohl and rouge.

The afternoon had been pleasant enough for Elizabeth, for she'd accompanied the men fishing; Janet preferred staying inside where the sun wouldn't touch her delicate complexion. Taking along a picnic basket supplied by Mrs. Reid, the small fishing party had walked down the gently sloping south lawn to the river where Ravensby land marched along the meandering banks of the Tweed for a dozen miles. As the men strolled back and forth along the slowly flowing river casting with their long supple poles, Elizabeth sat on the sh.o.r.e sketching the bucolic landscape.

Even dinner began innocuously enough. Elizabeth was actually considering congratulating herself on handling the awkward situation so well.

The first course had been removed with only two remaining and conversation had been prosaic: country matters of crops and harvests; the state of the economy now that the famine years had been replaced by two years of record harvests; and the issues before Parliament at Westminster.

Lulled into a false sense of security, Elizabeth was struck with numbing force by Janet Lindsay's remark.

"How tedious it must be to be breeding," the dark-haired woman said, gazing at Elizabeth over her wine gla.s.s. "Soon you'll be fat and clumsy. And you must be throwing up constantly at this stage."

Elizabeth set down her fork, thinking how she'd nearly survived the evening without mishap. Then, gathering her offended sensibilities into a conciliatory mask, she forced herself to smile. "Actually I've never felt better ... or healthier."

"I didn't think you were interested in children," Janet said, directing her words to Johnnie. She spoke in an intimate tone that maddened Elizabeth.

Johnnie reached over to Elizabeth and covered her hand with his. "We're both very much looking forward to this child," he said. And then he gazed at Elizabeth with one of the heated looks Madame Lamieur had been describing in Kelso for the past fortnight.

"I've waited a very long time to have a child," Elizabeth added, her glance returning to Janet's peevish face.

"And now this one will be born premature," the Countess of Lothian snidely cooed.

"That's enough, Janet," her husband curtly ordered. "You've had too much wine."

For a moment the Countess seemed to debate how to respond to her husband; her fine dark brows drew together, her red mouth tightened into a hard straight line. But the Earl of Lothian, a distinguished figure despite his years, exuded a forceful command beneath his dignity.

His wife slowly leaned back in her chair and theatrically lifted her gla.s.s to him in mock deference.

She didn't partic.i.p.ate in the conversation after that, although she drank heavily through the remaining courses, and Johnnie antic.i.p.ated further trouble before the evening was over. Janet Lindsay in her cups was a volatile explosion waiting to detonate.