something Jemma realized she longed for.
“I’ve got soap cooking in the yard. Give it a turn and check the fires and make sure those children are staying well away from the embers.”
“Aye.” Jemma turned and moved quickly toward the yard. Huge cast-iron kettles were sending steam into the morning sky. She could smell the lye as it was being heated with the vegetable fat. Wheelbarrows of black, sooty ash stood near large screens formed from fabric. The ash was shoveled into the screens and water poured through it to bring the lye out.
Picking up a long-handled paddle, Jemma began turning the thickening mixture away from the sides of the cauldrons where it was cooking faster. They would keep it boiling until the entire pot was soft and gel-like. Wooden boxes sat nearby to be filled once Maitland decided the soap was ready. It would be left to dry before being cut into pieces. The steam made her head itch, and the scent tickled her nose. Her shoulders began to ache, but she smiled.
She had finally stopped running.
How was it possible to not see what she was doing? Her father had been her best friend. She sighed. Grief was a powerful thing. Riding along the edge of her family property was very foolish in such uncertain times. Maybe she had been seeking a way to join her father without realizing that was her goal.
He wouldn’t want that; she didn’t truly long for it, either.
It was a truth that her father would be very unhappy to hear of her unwise behavior. Riding the border land between England and Scotland was never a good choice, but now that Henry Tudor, the eighth king to be named Henry, was so close to his death, relations between Scotland and England were worse than ever. Scotland didn’t even have a king anymore, but a tiny baby queen named Mary who’d been crowned at nine months of age. Henry the Eighth had negotiated a betrothal of the baby girl for his son Edward, but there were many in England who wanted Mary Queen of Scots raised in England so that she would be Protestant instead of Catholic like her mother.
A war of rough wooing had commenced, and the border was not safe. Her own brother was one of the men sent to the border to hold the land for England. The future king Edward would need all his subjects to help him maintain his hold on his country while he was still a youth. All the crowned heads of Europe were watching to see if England would crumble when the mighty Henry the Eighth died.
Her brother Curan kept peace with his Scottish neighbors by more than just the army under his command. He and Laird Barras combined their wits for the sake of business ventures that were bringing good profits to both men. Happy, well-fed people had little to rebel against.
But that didn’t mean she was interested in the Scot courting her.
It was a whisper that was born somewhere in the darkest part of her mind. Some manner of longing to see just what the Scot did when no one else was near enough to see them. Her lips tingled as she imagined what it might be like to have his against them. Would his kiss be forceful or gentle? She shivered in spite of the heat bubbling in the cauldrons.
Wedding her was just another way for Laird Barras to get what he wanted from her brother, but that didn’t keep her from thinking about the way he looked at her. She wouldn’t be the first woman married off to her brother’s business partners, but that didn’t mean the match would be a cold one, the looks the man sent her were very warm indeed.
That question brought another sigh to her lips. It was a truth that she didn’t know what she wanted. She was twenty-four years old, and the time for saying nay to any offer for her hand was past. Where had the time gone? She had simply stopped thinking about anything save for her father when he began showing signs of illness. How long had it lasted? Jemma struggled to think about how many years her sire had battled that invading weakness of his limbs. She had tried everything to restore him to health, reading every available book that offered insight into the condition. But in the end, her sire had lost even the ability to speak, blinking his eyes being the only way to communicate with her.
How long?
It had been years, seasons blurring in her memory, and during that time she had never taken time to think about marrying. Curan had been off earning his title with the king, leaving only her to comfort their dying father and care for him. She refused to leave it to servants; he was her father. The man who had chased her through spring fields when she was a girl and laughed when he caught her. The proud man who had allowed his daughter to crown his head with flowers and worn them with a level chin past his knights. Tears stung her eyes as memories, rich with love and tenderness, rose up from her mind to remind her why she had thrust the entire world away in favor of being at her father’s side. She did not regret her choice.
If there had been offers for her, they had gone unread. She scoffed beneath her breath; there must have been some offers. There was nothing wrong with her. In fact she was devoted to her family, and that would never be questioned since she had tended her father with so much love. An odd feeling crept over her. It was almost a sensation of desperation. She didn’t want to think that no family had offered for her.
Well, except for Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras.
She bit her lower lip because she wasn’t being very kind in her thoughts toward the man. He was Scots, but that was something he could not change any more than she might alter the fact that she was English. There was more than one match across the much disputed border. Besides, if Edward did wed Mary, then England and Scotland would be one nation. Thinking such a thing brought a sense of peace to her, too, even if she doubted that being united beneath one monarch would have the power to remove all the differences between English and Scot. A small smile curved her lips; she could not picture her brother donning a kilt,, and the plaid Barras wore added something untamed to him. Deep down, her insides twisted once again as she considered the way the man moved.
However, many a royal match had been broken before the wedding ever took place. There was pressure from the French to see the little Queen of Scots married to their prince. Such a union was what fueled the war of rough wooing that saw the English trying to kidnap the baby queen and take her into England where she would grow up happily anticipating her wedding date with Edward.
The games of the royals set the tone for uncertainty among their subjects. Jemma cast a look toward the green hills of Scotland. What sort of man was he—Gordon Dwyre? She should agree to meet him—quick glances were one thing, but she knew nothing else because she had never allowed the man to converse with her. Meeting him was
