Rosamund held out her hand to be kissed, and her gaze met those of the two gentlemen. Lord Grey took her hand, saluted it, and murmured, “Lady Bolton.” But when Rosamund’s amber eyes met those of the Earl of Glenkirk, she was overcome with shock. The green eyes locked on to hers, and he was not a stranger! She had known him forever, and yet she had never before this day seen the man. She struggled to maintain control over herself while the most disturbing images bloomed in her head, and when his lips touched the back of her hand Rosamund felt as if she had been scorched by a bolt of lightning.

“Madame,” he said, his big hand yet holding hers. His voice was deep.

“My lord,” she managed to say. She felt as if they were a single entity. Her voice was soft.

It was patently obvious to their two companions that something extraordinary had just happened. And though neither Lord Grey nor Elsbeth Hume understood, they moved away discreetly, leaving Rosamund and the Earl of Glenkirk alone.

Patrick tucked the small hand still in his possession into the crook of his arm, saying as he did so, “Let us stroll, madame, and we will tell each other of ourselves.”

“There is naught to tell,” Rosamund began. She felt better now that they were speaking than she had in the odd silence that had enwrapped them previously.

“You are English,” he said, “but not from the south, for I understand you too well.”

She smiled now. “My home is in Cumbria, my lord.”

“And how did a lass from Cumbria come to be Margaret Tudor’s friend? A good enough friend to be invited to King James’ court?” he asked. He shortened his steps to match hers, for he was very tall, and she, while not as small as the queen, was petite.

“When my second husband died, he put me into the care of King Henry. Not he now upon England’s throne, but his father,” Rosamund explained. “I was just thirteen.”

“At thirteen you had outlived two husbands, madame? Are you so dangerous, then?” he asked, and she heard the humor in his voice.