The Intended Page 2

  Jaime took a deep breath and gazed vacantly at the portrait above the fireplace. Holbein had painted it just that winter. Edward and his older brother Henry mounted on great hunters before the palace, their dogs and servants around them. Very well, it was settled. That was how it must be, she thought. Edward wanted her. That was obvious to Jaime and everyone else. She knew he was just waiting for some sign from her—something that would tell him that she was ready to accept all he was ready to give. But that was the difficult part, she thought with a sigh. He wanted her to open her heart and take him in. This she hadn’t been quite able to do...yet.

  Jaime looked at the orderly pile of music sheets on her desk. Music. She realized, looking at the neat inked lines on the top sheet that she would have been perfectly happy busying herself with music for the rest of her life. She had no need for love. She felt no desire for passion in her life. She longed for no husband.

  Jaime wished Edward were not so persistent.

  Mary’s voice broke into her thoughts. “The messenger said the ship had been laden with treasure, coz.” She took hold of Jaime’s elbow and turned her around, surveying her dress. “What treasure do you think he has plucked from the French this time to bring his sweet Jaime?”

  “Stop it, Mary! You really do talk so foolishly, sometimes.”

  “But it is true. On his last excursion out onto the German Sea, when he came upon that Spanish galleon, you were given the most prized gem of all he brought back. That medallion with the giant ruby...”

  “I didn’t ask for it. Mary. I don’t even like it. I have no need for treasures nor for precious gifts. You know I haven’t worn it even once.”

  Mary let out a deep sigh. “Oh, to have such choices. Ah, well. Perhaps his gift will be more suited to your taste, this time.” The young woman paused. “Now that I think of it, I am certain you’ll accept and cherish this one. After all, the ship Lord Edward has taken was French and, knowing you and your inclination to their styles, you’ll probably treasure whatever it is he gives you.”

  Jaime shook her head indifferently. “Nay, my love, no matter how charming the token might be, I will accept nothing stolen off a French ship. You know that it is impossible for me to think of them as the enemy.”

  “Play Lady Disdain to Lord Edward’s attentions if you like, Jaime Macpherson,” Mary said, frowning and shaking her head in disapproval. “But you’d best refrain from such talk of the French. It’s bad enough that you’re half Scottish, but talk like that is treasonous, I’m quite sure. The French are our enemy, now, and that you must accept.”

  Jaime knew that it would be fruitless to argue with her cousin. Mary—as dear as she was—had been raised in the duke of Norfolk’s household from childhood and would never understand anything beyond the walls of her narrow world. And Jaime—at least for now—was only a guest, and it was hardly appropriate that she should raise havoc in the household simply because her view of the world was a bit broader.

  “Very well, my patriotic cousin.” Jaime said resignedly, sensing Mary’s anxiety. “I promise I will limit myself to less dangerous topics. And therefore, armed with my promise, you may feel comfortable leading me on to our cousin Edward, the conquering hero—as I know you must.”

  An hour later, Mary was still pulling her cousin along. Dressed in their finest gowns of summer silk, trimmed in velvet and gold, the two young women made their way into the Great Hall of the palace, and into the crowd already gathered for the celebratory feast.

  Aside from the king’s palace at Hampton Court, there was no other palace in England that could rival Kenninghall, the home of the duke of Norfolk, in size or in magnificence. Designed in the shape of a great H with its open wings extending to the north and south, the palace was, by its very design, a tribute to the Howard family that called it home and used it as the center of their vast holdings in East Anglia. The night that Jaime had arrived from Hever Castle in Kent, she had entered this very hall only to find two dwarves from a traveling show mounted on ponies and charging toward each other from either end of the huge room in a mock joust. Tonight, however, the festivities focused on Edward and his successful return, and garlands of flowers—strung gracefully from one long window to the next—decked the walls of the hall.

  Disengaging herself from her cousin, Jaime moved to one side and stood in the shadow of a huge tent-like marionette stage that had been erected for the evening’s festivities. There, half hidden from the boisterous throng, Jaime’s eyes traveled over the room. It was difficult not to be impressed by the magnificence of the place, even after almost a year. In an exaggerated way, its opulence reminded her of the houses that her parents kept in various cities across the continent.

  Her parents...she thought of them with a swelling heart. She could still see them in her mind’s eye, Elizabeth’s sad tears and Ambrose’s fierce embrace when she had told them of her desire to escape Scotland. But as difficult as it had been for them to let their only daughter go, as painful as her departure had been from those she loved, all had agreed that it was the best thing for her to do, under the circumstances.

  Jaime stared vacantly at the crowded hall, her mind traveling back in time to the events that had led her to the small chapel at the Priory on the Isle of Skye.

  Nay, she thought, her face darkening. Why must she—for the thousandth time—recall in anguish how she fell in love with Malcolm MacLeod the first moment she had ever laid eyes on him that summer at Benmore Castle, so long ago.

  She still remembered it as if it were only yesterday. There had been so many new things she had faced that summer. First, her brother Michael had been born soon after their arrival at the Macpherson’s ancestral stronghold on the north bank of river Spey. Suddenly she had been surrounded with family—cousins, grandparents, people she had never known. And then she had met Malcolm. Jaime had been only a child of four and he a man of sixteen. She had not been able to call him cousin, since he had been the ward of her uncle Alec Macpherson and not a true relation by blood. But she had all the same taken to his kindness—to his courage—to the compassion he showed to all he loved. And she so desperately had worked hard to be included in that love.

  It had all started there, Jaime thought with embarrassment. A silly, childish love. And the pursuit that had begun then had ended with the bitter taste of reality fourteen years later when he had taken another woman as his wife.

  Jaime wrapped her arms around her middle to soothe the still lurking misery she felt at her memories. To think how foolish she’d been, how idealistic and innocent—until that day. She had grown up knowing him, seeing him, cherishing the moments that she could be beside him. For her, during all those years, he had been the Sun and she the Moon, crossing the sky in pursuit of her love. She shivered at the thought.

  She had thought he loved her. All the while that he was off at St. Andrew’s and with Erasmus, being educated. All the while that he was fighting on the borders, and in with the French. All the while that he was working so hard to bring peace to his own people in the Western Isles. She had thought he’d been waiting for her during the three years that she was sent to France. Before she’d left, he’d always been loving—he never balked at spending time with her. But now she understood clearly that he had never treated her with any passion. Nay, she had been only, at best, a friend—that wee lass who always tagged along after him.

  Jaime brought her hands to her face to try and soothe her burning cheeks. She still remembered how desperately she had wished for him to kiss her before she’d left on that ship for France. She’d been fifteen—a woman, she had thought—but he clearly had not thought so. He only placed a gentle kiss on her brow and wished her well.

  Three years in France and she had grown, she had changed, she had become educated. But, all the while that she had been reciting her poems, she had only seen Malcolm in them. When she had played her music, she had felt only Malcolm in her heart. She had mastered her studies, and she had done it all only with the thought of return
ing to Skye as his woman. As his wife.

  And during those years they had written each other many letters. She was certain that their relationship had changed, matured—that he was growing fonder of her with each missive. It hadn’t been her imagination, that she knew. His words had been caring; he’d written her long accounts of his life. He had led her to believe that he’d cared. He had.

  But then, it all had happened so quickly. She had been ready to leave for Scotland when the letters arrived. The one from her parents telling her that Malcolm had decided to wed. And the one from Malcolm telling her of the continual feuding on his land, of his decision to wed, of his desire to bring about stability in his lands by producing an heir.

  Even now, Jaime burned with the wish that the ground would open and swallow her whole for the mistake she had made.

  The news had been enough to set her off blindly. She had asked no questions but had set out to plan her own wedding. Her wedding!

  Feeling the tears starting to sting her eyes, Jaime looked about the room, unable to endure any more thoughts of that dreadful day.

  But her parents had been wonderful throughout the ordeal. After the spectacle she’d made of herself, Elizabeth and Ambrose had excused themselves, taking Jaime back to Stirling as quickly as they could. And there she had remained in seclusion—until word from her ailing grandfather had come to her. She knew she needed to get away. As long as she stayed in Scotland, she would be forced to see him, forced to face his bride. She simply could not live there any longer, miserable, watching another bask in the glow of happiness that she’d always thought was intended for her. She needed to leave Scotland and never come back.

  And she had left Scotland, arriving in time to see her grandfather die, in time to see Hever Castle reclaimed by the king’s officers. And when her great uncle, the duke of Norfolk had sent for her, she had gone with a grateful heart. Now she had no need for...

  Stop, stop, stop, she commanded silently. Shaking off the darkness of her thoughts, Jaime forced herself to turn her full attention back to the people who now filled her life. From where she stood she could see Mary talking excitedly with Lady Frances, the beautiful wife of the absent earl of Surrey. The young woman caught Jaime’s look and smiled across the room. Odd, Jaime thought, still no sign of Edward.

  “If I were to tell you that I’ve brought you ropes of pearls longer than the garlands that deck these walls, would you be impressed?”

  Hiding her smile, Jaime shook her head. He was standing closely behind her. She could feel his tunic brush against the back of her dress.

  “If I were to tell you that I’ve brought you sapphires as large and as black as your eyes, would you be impressed then?”

  Edward’s soft breath now tickled her ear. For an instant she felt his lips brush against her neck. She took a quick step forward and turned to face him. He stood before her—fresh and bold and smiling.

  “You are a bold, naughty creature, Edward Howard,” she scolded, bringing a laugh to his lips.

  “I am a lonely, forsaken, and rejected suitor, Jaime Macpherson.” He reached out and took hold of both of her hands. His eyes roamed meaningfully over the low neckline of her dress, over the curves of her high round breasts, and she blushed under his shameless inspection. “But you are a fine sight for a returning warrior.”

  “I would assume, Lord Edward,” she said, recovering her wit, “that after spending so many days at sea, even the sight of a mangy cur would be a pleasurable sight.”

  “Ah...your modesty.” He let go of her hands and slid his hands slowly up the bare skin of her arms beneath the long loose sleeves. She drew back and, smiling, he grasped her hands again. “So many nights I dreamed of this—of coming back and seeing your shining face—of feeling the silkiness of your skin beneath my lips...”

  “Clearly I erred just now, Lord Edward,” she broke in, trying unsuccessfully to pull her hands from his grasp. “I believe you are the cur!”

  “Aye,” he responded, bringing her hands to his lips. “But I am no common cur. I am a noble dog, a hound trained for the hunt, for battle.” Edward looked into her eyes. “Won’t you even pet this loyal and stouthearted beast who pants here at your heel?”

  “You are a foolish puppy, Edward.”

  “So true, my sweet.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But one whose blood smokes in his veins for the chase...for you.”

  Jaime tore her gaze away from him and looked about the hall in hope of some relief. Crowds of people were still pouring in, but everyone seemed occupied with other matters. To her dismay, the tent served to shield them, and Edward seized the advantage of her looking away to grab her by the waist and pull her inside the canvas of the tent. Her eyes snapped back to him, her hands trying to keep his powerful body from crushing her to him.

  “Edward, don’t,” she whispered. “There are so many here.”

  “Then come with me to my chamber.”

  She blushed crimson. “We’ve never before—”

  “It’s time, Jaime,” he said hoarsely. One hand moved higher, his fingers following the curve of her waist. She felt his hand lift the weight of her breast, the friction from his thumb raising the nipple through the silk of her dress. “I am tired of waiting—tired of these virginal games. I want you for my own, and you know it. I’ve courted you enough, and I am not one to wait until our marriage night to take what is mine.”

  “Edward,” she snapped, digging her fingers angrily into his wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip. “This is no way to talk to me. I am your cousin, not some harbor wench for you to drag off to your bed whenever you come to port.”

  The young man stared into her bloodless face. A regal coldness had hardened her features. He released her, and she took a step back, putting some distance between them and taking hold of the canvas wall.

  “What has happened to you?” she asked shortly. “You have never behaved this way before!” The faint blush on his tanned and chiseled face did not go unnoticed by her.

  “I am a man, Jaime. A knight. A warrior.” He drew himself up to his full height. “I am no monk.”

  “And this is how a knight of your king treats a woman?”

  She watched as a smile broke across his lips. He reached for her, but this time she was prepared and quickly slapped away his darting hand. He laughed in response.

  “You are an innocent, Jaime Macpherson. But trust me—that is soon to change.” He took a step toward her, and as she turned to escape, he caught her wrist and drew her fiercely to him. His voice was ragged whisper. “I always get what I want. During this trip I took the time to think—and I’ve decided that I’ve left things in your hands too long.”

  “Don’t, Edward,” she whispered as he used one arm to mold her body to his. She didn’t care for the glazed look that was darkening his gray eyes.

  “Aye, I’ve decided that it’s time to teach you a few things about pleasure.” Jaime felt her spine involuntarily stiffen and her blood run cold as Edward’s mouth descended to capture hers.

  “Please,” she gasped, turning her face abruptly, avoiding his lips. His teeth took hold of her earlobe and moved greedily to her neck. She felt herself sickening as one hand moved up to squeeze her breast through her dress. She tried to push away at him, but he was too strong. Frantically, she looked around for help—she even considered crying out.

  “Please stop, Edward. Please,” she begged softly. “Not now—not here.”

  She knew only a moment passed, but it seemed like eternity before he straightened up. Then, with a look of longing, he eased his grip on her body. She felt an overwhelming need to pull away, to run, but he wouldn’t let her go entirely. Holding on to her hand, he hooked it into his elbow and pushed open the canvas wall for her to pass.

  “You will sit beside me at dinner, my reluctant little raven. Then perhaps we can pick up where we left off. Tonight, after all these meddling interlopers have gone their way.”

  But Jaime just looked away, avoiding his gaz
e.

  The dinner, sumptuous as it was, held little joy for her. Seated quietly beside the guest of honor, Jaime listened to the conversations going on around her, partaking only when necessary.

  Few were interested in the progress of her music students. The family and the retainers of the duke of Norfolk had considered her thinking far too radical at first, and Jaime was certain that more than a few still thought her that way. Being well-trained in music herself, she had taken great pleasure in setting up music classes for the children when, upon arriving, she’d found the music master had recently and—for mysterious reasons—abruptly departed.

  Jaime's problem from the start had been that she had chosen to accept her pupils not on the merit of their lineage but their desire to learn music. So when it was discovered that she’d had a washerwoman’s son sitting beside a nobleman’s daughter, a small furor had erupted—only to subside when the duke himself surprisingly declared that he could see no harm in the innocent mingling of voices in song.

  Now nearly a year had passed, and Jaime felt that she was at least winning the battle. While it was true that not everyone was attending the lessons that could have, it was also true that many were. The dishonor of sitting beside someone the world esteemed as less worthy for an hour a day was a concept totally lost on a young child, but unfortunately many parents continued to be horrified at the prospect. Nonetheless, the lessons had survived, and the young musicians were improving.

  Later on, as trays of cakes and other sweets were being cleared, Jaime found herself at the center of the discussion between Edward and the duke. She had tried to ignore the young knight’s flirtatious behavior during most of the meal, but now the conversation seemed to have taken on a more serious note.

  “Aye, Your Grace,” the young warrior was saying. “Tomorrow I will steal this maiden away to the castle in Norwich.”