The Intended Read online

  The Intended

  by

  May McGoldrick

  ISBN 0-451-40806-3

  Copyright © 2009 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: May McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.

  First Published by Topaz, an imprint of Dutton Signet,

  a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc. March 1998

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  For Larry and Gail

  Chapter 1

  The Isle of Skye, Scotland

  April 1539

  As brilliant as they were, the jewels of the wedding gown could not match the sparkle of the bride’s eyes.

  Servants bustled about the room amid unpacked trunks, but Jaime Macpherson remained—silent and still—beside her bed, unable to lift her gaze from the magnificent white gown. Unable to shake from her mind the glorious dream. She had waited a lifetime for him and now the waiting was at an end. Finally, she was back where she belonged. Finally, they were to wed.

  The tap on the open door and then the barely subdued voice of her maid, Caddy, brought Jaime back to the tasks at hand—and to the chaos that surrounded her.

  “You’ll miss your wedding if we don’t hurry, m’lady,” the elder woman said breathlessly, her red face proof of the speed exerted in bringing her mistress the news.

  “Can it be today?” Jaime tried to contain her excitement. “We’ve only just arrived. How did Malcolm know that we would get here in time? How...”

  Caddy waved a hand in agitation to get her young mistress’s attention. “There is no time, m’lady. Lord Malcolm has already gone off to the Priory...Everyone has!”

  Jaime felt her stomach jump in excitement as she watched Caddy take charge of the room. The time had come. Malcolm had been true to his promise and was taking her as a wife. She reached down, took the gown into her arms, and whirled excitedly about the room, but then she came to a sudden stop. “How am I to get there? With everyone there...”

  “You are the bride. They saw our ship coming,” the older woman scolded as she started ordering the other servants about. “The steward told me the wedding is set for vespers. There will be an escort of Lord Malcolm’s men leaving Dunvegan in a short time, so we must make haste. Their job is to take you to your intended. We must hurry, m’lady.”

  “Aye, we must,” Jaime whispered excitedly.

  Malcolm MacLeod, the laird of the clan MacLeod and lord of the Isle of Skye and the Hebrides, glanced in the direction of the newly opened door. Stepping away from the group of men gathered in the large hall, he motioned his messenger to approach.

  “Her ship has docked, m’lord!” the young man announced.

  “Did you meet with Mistress Jaime?” Malcolm asked, impatience evident in his tone. “Did you give her the news?”

  The man shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Aye, m’lord. I mean, nay, m’lord...not face to face. But I did see your steward, David, speaking with Mistress Jaime’s woman. He was telling her, m’lord...and...and...”

  Malcolm's gaze took in the messenger’s embarrassed face and averted eyes. This was too much to put on the young man, he had to admit. He should have gone back himself, but with all that still needed to be resolved here—there just hadn’t been enough time.

  “Very well. I’ll see to it...” Malcolm stopped as the MacDonald clan chief’s approach drew his attention back to the matters at hand.

  “I am so excited, Caddy,” she said. “I feel giddy.”

  “Well, I’m certainly happy to hear that, mistress,” the maid replied tartly. “But if you swoon before we get you into this dress...”

  At the sound of someone crying out, they both turned in time to see pearls scattering everywhere on the rush-covered floor. The serving girl was looking on in horror as the white beads bounced and rolled into every shadowy corner and crevice. The young lass’s gaze snapped up to Jaime’s face as she folded to her knees and burst into tears. “I am so sorry, mistress. The string...”

  Jaime came to her feet at once and moved across the chamber to the woman sobbing on the floor. “The string was too old, lass. I could have done that myself.”

  “But...m’lady...”

  “Think no more of it,” Jaime whispered reassuringly. “Let’s gather up these beads together, why don’t we?”

  The young servant looked up gratefully with the tears still on her cheeks.

  “Then you can help weave these flowers into my hair. I think they will be much more becoming with my dress than those pearls, don’t you?”

  From the confines of the small cemetery where Malcolm had only moments ago knelt at his mother’s grave, the warrior chief emerged and faced the joyous tidings of the gathered throng. The sounds of bagpipes filled the air, and the villagers and the gathered clansfolk, dressed in their finest clothes, crowded in the Priory yard.

  The young laird looked around proudly at the happiness that surrounded him. This was surely as it was meant to be, he thought, walking toward the chapel.

  A hush fell over the crowd, and the pipers ceased their tunes as the bride and the escorting warriors entered the gates of the Priory. Everyone stared approvingly as the young woman was helped from her magnificent bay horse by an armed knight before the steps of the chapel.

  Then, as they started for the open doors, she staggered at the top step. The crowd surged around her.

  “Mistress, are you well?” the knight asked, concern evident in his voice.

  “Aye,” the bride whispered. “It is just the excitement. Take me in.”

  Blades of golden light from the small slits of windows cut brightly through swirling clouds of incense. At the altar of the Priory chapel, in the sight of a congregation filled with islanders and family, the bride and groom exchanged expectant glances, and listened to the ancient priest who stood at the altar with his back to them.

  They made a magnificent pair. She, young and beautiful, her pale skin glowing—the light gleaming off the golden threads that were woven with the white flowers into her dark hair. In her hands, gilded branches of rosemary—symbols of love and fidelity—were intertwined with prayer beads, while her white gown shimmered in the golden shafts of light.

  And he, too, radiated the magnificence of the moment. A ribbon of gold bound his long brown hair at the nape of his neck, and the ornate broach that designated his position as chief of the powerful MacLeod clan held in place the tartan that crossed the flawless white of his silk shirt. As he turned slightly to look at his bride, the dark plaid of his kilts moved over high, soft boots. Seeing her blush slightly at his glance, Malcolm smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile and turned back to the priest.

  Behind them, the gathered throng stirred restlessly in the little chapel, waiting in anticipation for the exchange of vows. The people of Skye were well represented, with members of both MacLeod and MacDonald clans, all decked out in their most colorful finery, constituting most of the assembled crowd. But the Macpherson clan also stood out prominently amo
ng the group in the chapel. Alec Macpherson, former laird of these lands, stood beside Malcolm and looked on with a fatherly affection at the young man he and his wife Fiona had raised as their own.

  The priest’s voice rose and fell in the measured cadences of the mixed Latin and Gaelic. From behind the grate of iron bands to the right of the altar, the sound of women’s voices—the nuns of the Priory—could be heard responding to the prayers.

  The priest raised up his hands in offering, and then turned and preceded his acolytes down from the altar. It was time, and the young laird turned to face his bride. Her black eyes shone with excitement. They were misty, reflecting her joy in their imminent union. Malcolm took her hands in his.

  The priest paused for a moment, and the congregation seemed to hold its breath. The chapel’s silence was profound, so silent in fact that Malcolm’s eye was drawn upward at the crackling hiss of a candle on the far wall. The incense curled upward in a lazy spiral, and the young laird’s mind raced at the thought of the step he was taking. An important step, and one he knew was long overdue. Nay, he thought. For every purpose, there is a season. He looked back into the beautiful face of his bride.

  The candle on the far wall flickered again, and Malcolm became aware of a sound at the entrance to the chapel. Turning his head, he could see the great oak door had swung partially open, but he could not see who was entering—only that the folk by the door were backing away with looks that changed rapidly from mere surprise to shock.

  And then he saw a young woman step uncertainly into the chapel, her wedding gown glittering in the light of the thousand lit candles. Like everyone else, the young laird stood, immobile, stunned by the sight of the beautiful woman whose face now grew bloodless, nearly matching the whiteness of her elegant garment.

  She couldn’t stop her body from quaking. Clasping her hands tightly at her waist, Jaime rested her weary frame against the door. Her legs now seemed to function of their own accord, for she couldn’t manage to make them either hold her weight or propel her back out the door. Every eye in the hall had turned, and she felt them burning into her. Painfully, she swallowed her tears, fighting back the anguish that threatened to burst her heart into a million pieces. Once again her eyes followed the open path from where she stood to the altar, where he stood hand in hand with another.

  “I hate you, Malcolm MacLeod,” she whispered. “To the day I die, I will.”

  Finding her legs at last, Jaime yanked at the door and lurched out of the chapel.

  Chapter 2

  The Palace at Kenninghall, Norfolk, England

  June 1540

  The sound of shouting and the clattering of horses’ hooves on the stone paving of the yard drew Jaime’s attention from the young children’s faces to the window. Remnants of the passing shower still clung to the diamond-shaped panes, and the late afternoon sun sparkled in the multitude of droplets like so many little gems. Jaime listened for a moment to the tumultuous welcome that the duke of Norfolk’s household was giving the returning warriors. Through the boisterous racket, the young woman heard the voice of Thomas Howard, the old duke himself, booming out a welcome to his second son. She smiled, and turned her attention back to the waiting faces of her pupils. Tonight’s feast would give her plenty of opportunity to convey her best wishes to Lord Edward Howard on his latest triumph.

  Straightening the music sheet before her and picking up her lute, Jaime nodded to the assortment of girls and boys, and watched the young singers as they turned their eyes to the book of madrigals that they were sharing. Jaime raised her eyebrows at the three older boys in the back who were casting longing looks at the windows. She couldn’t really blame them for their restlessness, with the excitement outside. But they were almost finished here. She turned to the four girls standing beside her with their instruments. They watched her, their eyes round and attentive.

  “Make this last one perfect, now,” she said. Looking back at the singers, she smiled at a little redheaded sprite in the front of the group. “Little Kate, this time I’d like you to try to raise your pitch just a wee bit higher. Could you do that for me?”

  The tiny girl bobbed her carrot-topped head and tugged shyly at a faded ribbon that she wore at the waist of her dress. Her singsong voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. “I will try, mistress.”

  Jaime gazed at the little girl’s pink cheeks as the child glanced nervously to her right and left. Kate was at the moment the youngest of the nine children belonging to Evan, the duke’s falconer, and she was surrounded by two girls who were each a head and a shoulder taller than she was. But Jaime knew for certain that in that small body lay hidden the pure notes of a child soprano. She’d heard hints of it on a number of occasions already.

  Turning to the rest of the children, Jaime raised a finger, and on the cue they all began their version of “I Will Give You Joy.” The trilled notes of the pipes and the deeper tones of the lutes played in perfect harmony, and Jaime prompted her chorus encouraging them as they sang. The three older girls were magnificent, but Jaime's eyes watched Kate’s trembling lips as she barely mumbled the words. With a raised hand, Jaime silenced the group. Reaching forward, she gently drew the small child to her.

  “I did try, mistress,” Kate said nervously. “This is as loud as I can be.”

  Jaime placed a hand around the little girl’s shoulder and nodded in understanding. After a moment, though, she looked up into the bright green eyes. “Your mama told me how much you liked the pink ribbon I gave you yesterday.”

  Kate nodded her head up and down with glee. “Indeed I do, mistress. I put it next to my bed last night. I am saving it for Midsummer’s Eve.”

  Jaime nodded with understanding before continuing. “I want you to imagine this, Kate. You get home from our lessons here, and your ribbon is missing.” The look of horror on the little girl’s face told Jaime she had captured the child’s full attention. “So you run outside and into the mews, and you see your brother Johnny has tied the ribbon around one of the falcons’ feet. Now, a hunting party is preparing to leave and your brother is taking the falcon with him. Don’t forget, all your brothers and sisters are there, the grooms are milling about, and ‘tis really quite noisy in the mews. He is leaving now, and there is no way you can catch up to him before he goes. Call to him, Kate! Go ahead, call out to him and let him know you want your ribbon back.”

  The little girl’s shriek brought everyone’s hands to their ears. Then, after a moment of complete silence, a burst of childish laughter by the entire group followed the shock of her cry. Jaime's eyes were smiling as she cradled Kate’s giggling face with her hand. “I knew you had it in you.”

  With a gentle pat on the cheek, Jaime nodded Kate back to her place.

  Once more through the piece—with a tremendous difference in the little girl’s contribution—and Jaime decided to dismiss the children for the day. No sooner had she uttered the words, though, before the door of the music room burst open and in flew an energetic figure, her blond hair fluttering behind her.

  Standing to the side and holding the door open for the escaping onslaught of children, Mary Howard smiled as the last ones filed out.

  “That little red-haired imp in the front of the pack almost knocked me down,” she said to Jaime. “She was certainly in a rush!”

  “I believe she has a ribbon to rescue.” Jaime smiled after the departing children and began to sort the loose sheets of music before her. She stood and moved toward a table by the window with Mary on her heels.

  “Leave your music, silly. Can’t you hear the excitement? Lord Edward has returned!”

  Jaime glanced over her shoulder into the bright face of her cousin. With a twinkle in her eye, Jaime carefully stacked the sheets, and laid the bound book of music upon them. “Oh, Mary, must we make a spectacle of ourselves every time an eligible man rides into the courtyard?”

  “Pooh, Jaime! Pooh! You know that Edward is interested only in you. And now he’s home from a grand sea bat
tle with the enemy!”

  Jaime shook her head at her vivacious cousin. Though the duke’s household seemed to be filled with Howard nephews and nieces, as well as with the children of other noble families, Jaime had never ceased to be amazed that from the first day of her arrival from Hever Castle—following the death of Thomas Boleyn, her grandfather—her cousin Mary had attached herself to her with an almost childlike affection. And indeed, though they were both cousins to the duke’s sons, Mary had never shown anything but delight in the fact that Edward Howard had taken such an evident liking to Jaime.

  Mary, quite a prize herself, prided herself on her knowledge of every noble family and every eligible man in England. So after seeing her cousin Edward’s infatuation with Jaime, Mary had been quick to remind Jaime that even as second son, Lord Edward was a Howard and had wonderful prospects as a husband. He was, after all, handsome, wealthy, and the ideal embodiment of knightly behavior. Jaime—Mary argued—had to wed someday, so why not open her heart to someone so worthy, one who sought her heart so resolutely.

  Jaime had not disagreed with her cousin’s position. Marrying Edward would certainly be an excellent match. One that would settle—once and for all—the question of her desire to live outside of Scotland. Jaime knew that Elizabeth and Ambrose Macpherson, her parents, would grant their approval—albeit grudgingly—to the match. After what she had faced at the Priory on the Isle of Skye little more than a year ago, after the embarrassment from which she had felt compelled to run, Jaime knew that her parents would agree to whatever she wished. She knew they understood her desire to begin her life anew, even though it meant a life far from the rugged Highlands of Scotland.