The Intended Page 13

  Mary laid a hand on her cousin’s shoulder and tried to soothe her obvious frustration.

  “So I decided. Just before you came in.” Jaime lifted her head and glared in the direction of the bed. “I decided to kill him! And I would have, too, if you hadn’t come in when you did.”

  “Jaime,” Mary gasped. “You just can’t kill the man.”

  “I can. The blackguard doesn’t care to live anyway—why else he would make life so miserable for the very women who are trying to bring him back to health?”

  Malcolm stirred and rolled slightly in the bed, triggering a groan as he put pressure on his wounds. Both women looked with concern in Malcolm’s direction, but the stream of blasphemy and foul sexual reference that followed served to redden Mary’s fair skin from her hair to the neckline of her dress. Jaime seized the moment to get up and walk quickly to the edge of the room where the knife had fallen. Banging the handle emphatically on the bench, she placed the weapon beside her as she resumed her place beside her cousin.

  “He is like a mewling, whining infant, Mary. He never stops. He is never content! Always wanting something.” Jaime ran her hands down her skirts, smoothing them.

  The Highlander lay on his side, his eyes fixed on them, but he did not even raise his head to speak. “You are a ghastly, unnatural whore, woman. Away! Get out of here. And take your fishface of a friend with you. The sound of the two of you is harsh and grating. You vex me to no end. Away, why don’t you?”

  “Fishface?!” Mary repeated indignantly.

  “You see, Mary! You see how he is. If not a mercy, death by this dagger would at least put an end to such wickedness!”

  Never taking her eyes off of him, Mary lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “As despicable as he is, Jaime, you must remember he is still Edward’s prize. He’ll be angry—disappointed—to find out that you’ve killed his prisoner.” Mary turned and faced Jaime. “The Scot is foul tempered, and he certainly has no taste when it comes to a woman’s looks, but to kill him for no more reason than the fact that the man is just disagreeable...”

  “I have seen Norwich Castle, Mary. Edward kills for less reason than that.”

  “Jaime!” Mary scolded in a hushed tones. “What is wrong with you? Edward does what must be done at Norwich Castle. But nonetheless, you do him wrong to speak as you do. He is your betrothed.”

  “He is not my betrothed, Mary!” Jaime whispered back in anger.

  “Not yet, cousin. But you know what is intended.”

  Jaime could see Malcolm straining to hear their exchange. There was still a great deal that she needed to explain to him about Edward. But they would need time alone to do that. And there was no point in continuing this argument with Mary now.

  Following the direction of Jaime’s gaze, Mary placed a hand on her arm. “You have taken too much on yourself. In caring for him. In spending so much time here in this room.”

  “But there has been no other way, coz. With Graves off to Cambridge and every servant in the palace hostile to him for being a Scot, who has there been to care for him?”

  “Jaime,” Mary said, ignoring the question, “since our earlier talk, I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought. This is all for him, isn’t it? To please Edward? You might not want to admit it openly, but I see it now. You are going through a great deal of trouble to make this man well for Edward. To surprise him with his prisoner’s recovery. After all, it was you who gave this man to Edward as a gift, and you know that he is worth a great deal more if he is mended!”

  “Mary, I...” Jaime turned to Mary with a look of denial.

  “Oh, you may shake your head, but your actions speak much louder, you know. Come now and admit it. Am I not speaking the truth?”

  “Very well, Mary! Have it your way, but what is the point of all this.”

  “Because we need to work this through.” Patting her cousin on the hand, Mary looked about the room and then looked back into Jaime’s face. “Let’s see, you do look tired!”

  “Tired?! She looks like hell!” Malcolm contributed from where he lay, now able to hear the two of them. “Take her out of here, Fishface. Make her go.” As if suddenly taken with a sharp pain, he twisted his body and lay back panting.

  “Serves him right!” Mary started to whisper again against Jaime’s ear. “But isn’t there anybody else we could involve in taking care of this...this madman?”

  “Aye, but try to find someone bonny if you would, Mistress Carp, with a goodly sized bosom and at least some wee talent for healing a poor soul.”

  “I’ll send for Reed, the jailer,” Jaime answered. “He should be bonny enough for your tastes. Though his bosom may be a bit too large even for a base, brutish lecher such as yourself.”

  “You are a hard, unfeeling wench! A poor excuse for a woman, to be sure.”

  Jaime glanced into her cousin’s shocked face before quickly looking away. The last thing she wanted was to laugh out loud at Mary’s expression. Staring instead at Malcolm, she continued in a calm voice. “I’ve been using Caddy as much as possible, Mary.”

  “Aye, another beauty. Old Dame Stickleback. Silent as the dead, and the manner of a...”

  “I wouldn’t speak of anyone else’s manners, if I were you,” Jaime snapped before turning back to Mary. “But other than Caddy...well, I just don’t trust anyone else. Who knows what might happen!”

  “Perhaps he should be chained,” Mary whispered. “You don’t think he would hurt himself?”

  Jaime shook her head vehemently. “Nay. That would only make matters worse. He is still quite weak. Though a gag might improve him somewhat.”

  “Cousin, does he truly need an attendant at all times?”

  “From the flapping of his tongue you wouldn’t think so, but...” Jaime fell silent, pondering an answer to that. As bad as he looked, it was difficult to think of Malcolm as weak or ill, at all. She could still feel his body pressed against hers...Jaime shook her head quickly and looked away to hide the blush that she knew was coloring her cheeks. “Nay, Mary. He no longer needs to be attended at all times.”

  “So perhaps he won’t need someone—in the night, I mean,” Mary put in. “With the number of soldiers posted about, I am certain if he raises a fuss, they could handle an emergency.”

  “Aye. That’s so.”

  “And perhaps I could help,” Mary continued. “Perhaps between Caddy and me...”

  “Nay, cousin,” Jaime interrupted quickly. “You’ve already had more than a sample of his abusive, slandering tongue. I cannot do that to you. Heaven only knows what corruptible filth will come out of his mouth.” Jaime almost smiled openly as Mary threw a disgusted glance in Malcolm’s direction. The Highlander did look like a ruffian, to say the least, unshaven and battered as he was. But as she gazed at him, Jaime realized that she’d hardly noticed any of that herself. Even now, conscious of his condition, she thought he looked quite handsome. With an effort, she turned her gaze back to Mary, trying not to lose her train of thought. “Nay, Mary, your help won’t be necessary. This is something I want to do for...Edward.”

  “Then, Jaime, you cannot allow yourself to give way to your feelings...to your anger.”

  Jaime smiled abashedly at the scene Mary had nearly walked in on. “As you say, coz.”

  The two sat silently for a moment, each given to their own thoughts, before Mary spoke again.

  “Jaime, when I came in, you were trying to force him to give you his word about something.”

  Jaime racked her brain. They’d hardly had time to think before Mary had pushed open the door. “I want him to stop fighting with us.”

  Malcolm’s growling voice had the fine, soft feel of crushed stone when he spoke. “You’re a pair of damned corbies, you are, screeching and cawing till my head is about to split. Now, I’m telling you both to clear out of here. I’ll not be needing or wanting either of you, so away...the two of you.” The Highlander’s eyes were just slits in his battered face. “I am tired of your
bitching. Tired of your rough handling of my bruised body. Tired of you! I’m through fighting with you.”

  The two women watched as he closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. Mary turned and looked at Jaime questioningly. “Did he just surrender?” she whispered.

  “I believe he did, at that.”

  “And that was it? You were ready to kill him if he wouldn’t stop fighting?”

  “Aye, for that and to hush his filthy mouth!”

  “But still!”

  Jaime shrugged her shoulders. “I got my way, did I not?”

  Chapter 18

  As long as he had a breath in his body, she would strive to make him suffer.

  Preparing to leave the king’s study, Catherine Howard paused as the door swung open to reveal a dark robed figure beyond. Face to face with the earl of Essex, the new Lord Great Chamberlain, Catherine smiled pleasantly, working hard to hide the anger that had been coming over her in waves for the entire morning. His respectful greeting, couched in the most courteous of terms, reflected his awareness that she would soon be his queen, but his deep bow filled her with a satisfaction that only lessened to a degree the humiliation that Edward had heaped upon her. Catherine answered the man’s courtesy with a friendly nod of the head and curtsy, and then continued past him into the corridor.

  There was too much on her mind and too much to be done.

  Edward was an arrogant, insufferable, damnable pig, she swore under her breath. He was jealous of her. Catherine was certain of it. He had not even a fragment, a shred of the power she held—and he knew it. But he would pay for his behavior toward her. He would pay dearly.

  Moments ago, Catherine had spoken confidentially to the king. She knew how to play her part. Coyly, playing the role of the dutiful and devoted intended, she had planted in Henry’s mind seeds of suspicion regarding Edward that would quickly sprout and bear bitter fruit. Whisper and innuendo about dishonest dealings after successful conquests were a sensitive subject for the king. But, even though a Howard herself, she had seen it as her responsibility to relay to His Majesty the talk she’d heard of her cousin Edward’s...well, lack of forthrightness with regard to the loot taken in the course of his privateering along the coasts of Europe.

  Catherine knew that an open accusation might mean Edward’s beheading. But after his treatment of her last night, she didn’t care. He could take his chances. He had belittled her, shamed her, used her. To think that for so long, he’d been the only man she’d truly fancied. He had been the standard she’d used to compare other men. The arrogant, ruthless pig, she murmured under her breath. Short of raping her, he’d taken everything she’d been willing to give, and then had tossed her away. Used her and discarded her like a rag. Like a worthless rag. Nay, she fumed inwardly, no one would do this to Catherine Howard and get away with it. No one.

  With her blood hot and roaring in her brain, the king’s intended turned a corner and stormed toward her uncle’s chambers. Henry would act eventually, but not quickly enough for her liking. In response to her words, the king had sent for the Lord Great Chamberlain, mentioning to her that, to start with, he would cancel Edward’s next royal commission in favor of some other. While inquiries were being made, he could very well throw him in the Tower, but Henry had come to believe over the years that keeping an ambitious lad like Edward Howard waiting and ignorant rendered nearly as much satisfaction.

  That was what the king had told her, but Catherine knew the truth. Future queen or no, her word alone was not good enough to put Edward Howard’s neck on the block.

  So now Catherine would attack him from a different angle. Taking away his glory, threatening his life, was not enough. Edward could very possibly weather the storm clouds that she had positioned around his head. She knew he was not one who would easily accept defeat. But there were other ways that she could bring about his destruction. See what use his pride would be when she was finished with him.

  Edward Howard would know—without a doubt—how dangerous she could be, once wounded. Indeed, he would learn just how vicious his lecherous act had made her.

  Vengeance! Retaliation! Catherine found herself getting excited at the thought. But to accomplish her plans she would have to return to Kenninghall—alone and at once. The king had—albeit reluctantly—given her permission to go. But since she was being married to His Majesty in little more than a month, it was understandable that she would wish to go and begin her preparations for the wedding.

  But now she had to convince her uncle. She would go to Kenninghall with only her own attendants. She didn’t want to raise his suspicions, but Edward must remain here. For her own purposes, she couldn’t afford to be watched.

  She came to a stop before the duke’s chambers. Running a hand over her skirts, she composed herself and checked her attire.

  There was a great deal to be done. It might, she thought again, give her as much pleasure getting at him through Jaime Macpherson as any other way. It was a vile and lovely thought, going after the Scottish prig. After all, who knew—perhaps Edward Howard had a soft spot in his heart for her, at that. He’d said as much himself last night, if he was to be believed. But just the chance possibility of finding a vulnerable spot in the man would be worth the effort of destroying Jaime. Aye, short of cutting off his balls, this would give Catherine the greatest pleasure.

  Catherine put a serene smile on her face and told the duke of Norfolk’s attendant to announce her.

  The physician studied the sealed letter in his hand before looking up into the young woman’s face. “But, Mistress Jaime, for certain there are better ways of sending this abroad than by my friends!”

  “There is no other way but through you, Master Graves. I have to be certain that they will get it.”

  The man ran a hand over his balding head. “But you must have sent other letters to your kin, and you don’t suspect that they’ve been lost, do you? What makes you think this one might not reach them?”

  Jaime stopped her pacing and looked at the travel-weary man. His clothes still carried the reddish dust of the road between Cambridge and Kenninghall. Running to her chamber at first sight of the physician and his assistant, Jaime had waited impatiently for him to reach the house. Indeed, the healer had no sooner climbed down from his horse than Jaime had approached him for his help. After all she’d learned about the physician from Evan, the falconer, and from others in the palace, she was nearly certain that Master Graves was her only hope. But now, standing alone with him in the music room, she could read the doubtful expression in his face, and she knew she had to explain—as much as she could.

  She began slowly. “Even after being here as long as I have, I am always reminded that I am an outsider. Though I am more than a guest now, and the Howards call me cousin, the fact is they still think of me as half-Scottish. I believe they often keep an eye on me. I have wondered sometimes in the past if my letters are read before they are sent. There are times when I doubt that they trust me at all.”

  “Is there a reason why they shouldn’t trust you, mistress?”

  “Nay!” She flushed red at the question. “I would never do anything to hurt anyone here! There has never been anything...any news in my letters that might cause His Grace, the duke, to question my loyalties to him or to the family. Even now, I don’t believe...” Jaime let out a sigh of frustration. “‘Tis never been a matter of doing something. ‘Tis just that in the past I’ve never worried how all this might be perceived. Not until now!”

  “‘All this’? All what, Mistress Jaime?” he asked, scratching his grizzled chin. “Let me tell you, mistress. His Grace is a cautious man. I’ve seen his fortunes rise and I’ve seen them fall. But he’s kept his head when a great many others in his sphere have lost them. You don’t accomplish that without knowing who stands with you...and who stands against you.”

  “‘Tis a letter, Master Graves. A letter to my kin. A letter that brings no ill wind upon Kenninghall.”

  “Some around here believe th
at any wind from the north is an ill wind.”

  “What of the winds from far to the west, Master Graves?” she asked quietly. “What of the winds from Wales?”

  Graves pondered her words and stared at the letter in his hands. Then, with a quick glance at her, he stood and covered his eyes with one hand as he continued to consider the matter. After a few moments, he turned his attention back to Jaime.

  “Years back, Mistress Jaime, I took an oath. I gave my word to serve His Grace loyally. Though I’m an outsider as much as you—if not more—His Grace thinks of me as a devoted servant, and of that I am proud.” This time it was his turn to let out a long breath, but his tone remained gentle and kindly. “What made you think to ask me this favor? Of all people, why me, Mistress?”

  “Because you are a good man, Master Graves. Because you were the only one who cared and worked hard to keep him alive.” She knew there could be no doubt in his mind about the nature of her letter. “And because I know that, although you claim Welsh blood, you carry no grudge against him just because he is a Scot. You don’t wish him dead just because of the place where he was born.”

  “How do you know I don’t carry a grudge? I ply my meager skills where they are needed. That doesn’t mean...”

  Gently but firmly, Jaime cut in on his words. “And also because I know...because I know that your mother was a Scot.”

  “My mother died long ago,” he argued after a moment. “I fought in the Scottish campaigns in my youth.”

  “And I left my family, having decided never to go back,” Jaime told him.

  Graves’s eyes fixed on hers. “Who told you of my mother?”