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you into the king’s arena, madame,” the earl noted. “Perhaps you should have been satisfied to take just jewelry and titles from Prince Henry.”

      Jasmine chuckled. “There is no man in England who could gift me with jewelry, sir, for the jewelry I possess far surpasses anything you have ever seen. Rowan knew it, which is why he gave me MacGuire’s Ford. And Hal knew it, too. As for titles . . .” she shrugged. “I was born a royal Mughal princess. Only a queen’s crown would impress me, and it could not be.”

      “So, madame, you possess lands, titles, gold, and jewelry in your own right, but still you must wed me. What can I give you that will make you happy, Jasmine?”

      “Why do you care if I am happy or not, James Leslie?” she demanded of him. “The king has ordered us to wed, and wed we must whether I am happy or not happy. You have said you will obey James Stuart because the Leslies of Glenkirk have always been obedient to the royal Stuarts. What difference does it make if I am happy?”

      The muscle in his jaw tightened. Jasmine Lindley could be the most irritating woman when she chose to be. Here he was holding out a rather large olive branch, and she was apparently refusing it. “Madame, I am not some monster who has been foisted upon you,” he began, “nor are you being martyred to any cause by being wed to me. There are several ladies in England who would be but too glad to be my countess. Once even your own stepsister sought that honor.”

      “Do you wed me just because James Stuart orders you to, sir?” Jasmine asked him. “I do not like the idea that we must wed each other because of a royal command. When I was a young girl I accepted such a marriage, but it was my father’s dictate, and not that of a stranger.”

      He swallowed the wine remaining in his cup, wishing that there was more, and sighed. “I cannot change what is, Jasmine,” he said quietly. “When I arrived at Belle Fleurs several weeks ago I was very angry with you. I believe I was close to hating you, and I did, I will admit, seek revenge upon you for embarrassing me so publicly. Being with you, however, has caused my anger to drain away. I admire you. You are a woman of courage and determination. There are some men who might not appreciate such characteristics in a wife, but I do. I am not certain I can offer you love now or ever, nor can you promise me love; but I will respect you, and I can offer you companionship. You will not suffer as my wife, and I will be a good father to your children, I swear it on the souls of my own dead bairns.”

      “Will you force me to wed you before the court?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “I am past vengeance, Jasmine. We can wed here at Belle Fleurs, or at Queen’s Malvern. The choice is yours, I promise you, but please, madame, let it be soon. We cannot afford to incur the king’s displeasure much longer.”

      “Is he angry at you, too?” She was surprised.

      “Aye,” he said with a little grin. “He said when the ram corners the ewe he should nae gie her freedom to choose her own pasture in her own time. Fortunately the Carr mess has kept him occupied, and he has not had too much time for me, but it would please him if we wed soon. He longs to see the little laddie, for he has not seen him since Charles Frederick was a wee bairn, and the boy is his grandson.”

      “Promise me you will not let them take him from me,” Jasmine said. “That, I will admit to you, is my greatest fear. Once the queen told me how they took Hal from her, and she rarely ever saw him, and must beg permission from his governors when she wanted to be with him. I could not bear it if they took Charlie from me!” And her eyes filled with thick tears at the very thought.

      He reached out and brushed the tears from her soft cheek. “They will not take him from us,” he promised her. “Henry Stuart was the heir, and the custom of farming the heir out an old one. ’Tis no longer done, thanks to the queen. Besides, darling Jasmine, your Charlie is but a royal bastard. He can never be heir to the throne. His importance is in his relationship to the king and the queen, not in his future.”

      “But what if they want him?” she persisted.

      “What they want is to see the laddie and know him. I am his guardian because they know I am an honest man and will not use the boy to my advantage or to build my power base. Charlie will remain with his family. I promise you this, madame.”

      “I am afraid,” she said softly.

      He took her gloved hand in his big hand. “You must trust me, Jasmine. ’Tis a great leap of faith for you, I will admit, but I beg you to trust me.” He could feel that her hand was cold beneath the leather. He attempted to warm it between his two hands.

      A wind had sprung up, and the sun had now disappeared behind a hand of clouds. The promise of spring, earlier in the air, had entirely disappeared, and winter, it seemed, was returning.

      “We had best go,” she said, disengaging her hand from his, and standing up. She brushed the crumbs from her breeches and began packing up the basket and cloth.

      “You will consider what we have spoken on this day?” he asked her.

      “We will marry in the spring at Queen’s Malvern,” Jasmine told him with a small smile, “but not upon the first of April, my lord. ’Tis an infamous date for us, and I would begin our relationship on a more cheerful note. Would you not agree? I think perhaps the fifteenth of the month would be suitable. I do not like May. Marry in May, rue the day, ’tis said.”

      “You do not favor June?”

      “Do you really wish us to try the king’s patience that far?” she gently teased, as he helped her to mount her mare. She smiled down at him, her eyes twinkling. “Of course June is a lovely month, my lord.”

      “Did you not wed Westleigh in April?” he asked her, vaulting into his own saddle. Somehow the idea of marrying her in the month in which she had married another husband was irritating. Perhaps it was even the same day, thereby making it easier for her to remember. Even her monogram would remain the same. L for Lindley. L for Leslie.

      “I married Rowan on April thirtieth, my lord,” she replied, her tone just slightly frosty, “but it is obvious that you prefer June. So let it be June fifteenth. It will do just as well, I think.”

      The earl felt a momentary chagrin. He had behaved like a churl, and she had caught him at it and called his bluff. Now he would wait an additional two months, and the explanation given the king must be his. He swore softly beneath his breath, and, to his mortification, Jasmine giggled, or he thought she did. When he looked over at her her face was a smooth mask of bland innocence.

      She led him through the vineyards of Archambault and onto the carriage road from Paris that he had ridden over before. They cantered easily along the path until they came to the almost hidden way leading to Belle Fleurs. Now she spurred her mare into a gallop, and her hair, so neatly in its chignon, blew loose, flowing behind her. He urged his stallion onward, realizing they were to race home, and, as he drew even with the mare, she looked over at him and laughed. Pulling past her he reached the château’s bridge before her and drew his beast up to await her, but she did not stop, and the mare raced by him into the courtyard of the castle.

      Jasmine leapt down. “I won!” she bragged triumphantly.

      “I thought the race ended at the bridge,” he protested, dismounting.

      “Why would you think that?” she demanded.

      “Because it was the logical end of the course,” he replied.

      “Nonsense!” she mocked him, hurrying into the château, handing off her gloves to a servant. “A race ends at the door of the house. I thought everyone knew that.”

      “I didn’t,” he said, an edge to his voice.

      “Why not?” she countered.

      “Because you didn’t tell me, madame!” he shouted.

      “Have some wine,” she offered. “It will calm your nerves, my lord. Gracious, it was only a little race.”

      He took the large goblet of fruity red

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