The Intended Page 6

  The thought flashed through her mind that Edward was changing. He was still—with the exception of his passionate outburst last night—as courteous as ever toward her. But his changing moods—mercurial enough to keep many servants in a state of constant terror—were becoming more evident to Jaime, and the side of him she saw at Norwich Castle frightened her a bit. As much as she despised Malcolm MacLeod for what he had done, she could not risk having Edward snuff out his life on a whim. And when she considered Edward’s passionate feelings for her, she decided that the risk was far too high.

  Mary lifted a hand and waved to Edward. Jaime turned to greet him as well, forcing her lips into a smile as he approached them. His strides were long and impatient, but his face was partly obscured by the lengthening shadows. She tried to keep her hands still in her lap.

  “By the devil, Jaime! I have been looking...”

  “So fierce, Edward,” she admonished him cheerily, springing to her feet as he came up to them. His face was flushed beneath his velvet tam with the plume of peregrine feathers, and he was wearing a finely worked velvet doublet that matched his russet-colored hose. Jaime noted the high riding boots. Edward was clearly dressed for his journey to the king’s court at Nonsuch Palace. “Well, you certainly missed the most glorious afternoon of hunting. Oh, I wish so much that you had been there. The falcons are magnificent and the catch...” As he took hold of her hands, she paused and turned a blushing cheek to him when he bent down to kiss her. “You see our cousin Mary here...”

  “Hunting? I saw you at the house little more than an hour ago, Mary,” Edward said, looking skeptically at the younger woman.

  When her cousin went brilliantly crimson to the very roots of her hair, Jaime cut in immediately. “Mary didn’t go hunting today. But we thought a quiet walk in the gardens would help dispel her headache. And ‘tis working, is it not, my sweet?” Jaime detached herself from Edward and glided to her cousin’s side, squeezing her hand as Mary nodded and smiled weakly. “In fact, we’ve just come up from the mews. ‘Tis such a fine day to be outdoors, and I was certain the sight of His Grace’s beautiful peregrines as well as the fresh air might do her some good.”

  Edward’s face quickly changed as he dismissed the subject from his mind, and Jaime noted the excitement that flashed across his face. He peered into her upturned face for a moment and then pulled his hat from his head, running his fingers through his hair as he began to pace back and forth before them.

  “Mary, leave us,” he ordered, halting abruptly and turning to them.

  Jaime jumped as her cousin sprang up like a startled pheasant. Tugging hard at Mary’s hand, she drew her roughly back onto the bench.

  “Edward, she’s not well enough to go up to the house on her own,” Jaime scolded, looking defiantly into his annoyed expression. He towered over her. “So please stop ordering her around.”

  His face cleared as he visibly struggled to keep Jaime’s rebelliousness from spoiling his intentions.

  “But...well, I have some news that I would like to share with you, alone.”

  “So you have been summoned to the king,” Jaime said, springing to her feet excitedly, to the amazement of both Edward and Mary.

  “You already know?” He asked puzzled, a smile beginning to work across his face.

  “But how could we not know?” she said, clapping her hands. “Everyone knew that, in no time at all, news of your capture would be well received at court.” She touched him affectionately on the arm. “Truly, I am happy for you, Edward. You are so brave—such a hero. This was too long in coming. But then, it had to happen sooner or later that the King would recognize your successes.”

  Edward chuckled, pleased with her response. “You talk as if I am about to be made a member of the king’s Privy Council.”

  “Why not? You deserve all good things, Edward.” She folded her hands before her and looked up into his face cheerfully. “When do you leave?”

  “When His Grace is ready.” Edward glanced uncomfortably at Mary’s inhibiting presence. Then he reached down and took Jaime by the elbow, pulling her away. “I want to talk to you...alone.”

  “We can speak here, Edward.”

  The knight looked around, focusing on an arbor of climbing roses not far away. “Nay, Jaime. There in the arbor!”

  She dug her feet in the dirt and shook her head. “We cannot, Edward,” she whispered back, looking cautiously over her shoulder at Mary. “Why, Mary just told me that your brother’s wife, the Countess Frances, spoke to her specifically—and just this morning—about the impropriety of the two of us.”

  “Who the devil is Frances to meddle in our affairs?” Edward exploded, turning on Mary, who began to stand and then sat again, staring into her lap in embarrassment.

  Jaime raised a hand and placed it against his lips. Raising herself on her toes, she whispered confidentially. “She is only looking after my reputation, dear cousin. You wouldn’t want wagging tongues to blacken my name in your absence now, would you?”

  His strong hands gripped her shoulders hard, and he nearly lifted her off her feet as he pulled her into his embrace. “I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he said, bringing her face close to his.

  “Mary is watching,” she managed to get out before his mouth slanted over hers, crushing her lips with his kiss. She planted her hands against his chest and tried to push herself away. Jaime felt her face burn as his lips devoured hers. She could feel his fingers, like iron, digging into the flesh of her arms. Suddenly, he broke off the kiss, and pressed his lips close to her ear.

  “This will be our final parting, Jaime. I know you want me, and I believe you are as impatient as I. So think all you want, and plan as you will. When I return from the king’s court, we will be sending word to your parents. We will announce our betrothal.”

  Jaime simply stared at him as he drew back to look into her eyes. He eased his grip on her shoulders.

  “Once the agreement is reached with your family,” he vowed, “we can marry the next day or the next year, so far as I am concerned.” His large hands framed her face, his thumb running over her full lower lip.

  “Once the papers are drawn,” he repeated. “You are mine to keep.”

  She lowered her eyes and stared at the stitching of his doublet. He wanted her the same way he wanted a prize at sea. He would win her—take her—the same way he would take a treasure ship from the New World. By force and strength. That was Edward’s way.

  “Be good, Jaime,” he said softly, as his hands dropped to his sides. “Dream of me.”

  She looked up, suddenly caught off guard by the tenderness she saw in his gray eyes and heard in his voice. Her heart pounded at the gentleness in his tone, and her head whirled in confusion. How could he be so different from one moment to the next? The two sides of this man tore at her, and her face reflected her bewilderment as he bowed and, without another word, started back for the house.

  Chapter 8

  Malcolm fell. As if from the sky, he dropped like a stone. He could see the heather below, rushing up at him, each purple flower so clear, so distinct. The onrushing air tore at his face, his hair, peeling back his lips, forcing his eyes open. Fear possessed him, but try as he might, he could not close his eyes. He moved his hands to cover his face, but spread his arms with shock, realizing the skin from his fingers to his elbow was ablaze with crimson flame. Malcolm continued to fall. The heather-covered earth opened to receive him.

  The Highlander jerked into consciousness with a start. The ground beneath him smelled not of heather, but of old, befouled straw. A noise—the sound of a men speaking—could be heard from a distance not far off. The pounding in his ears made the words unintelligible, but the accent was clear. English. Closing in. They were now getting closer to where he lay. Malcolm tried to roll to his side, to rise to his feet. His body would not respond. He set his teeth, willing himself up. Nothing. Move, damn you, he cursed, trying to reach the short sword strapped at his side. His broken body
defied him still. He couldn’t lift his head, his arm—not even the weight of a finger. The voices were now upon him. Malcolm lay still, doomed, helpless, waiting for the final death stroke to fall. Let it come, he thought.

  But the stroke never fell.

  His face was hot—burning—and yet his chest and arms were as cold as the grave. He had no legs, so far as he could tell, but he could feel the droplets of sweat scorching a trail down his temples, across his neck. A tightness in his throat—a dryness that threatened to crack open his gullet—consumed him.

  He tried to remember where he was. A swirl of pictures, sounds, whirled past his eyes with dizzying speed. A ship. A French ship! And a wolfish attack by the English ships. They were outnumbered, outgunned. And then there had been a searing heat plunging through his ribs, piercing the flesh. The point of the blade coming though his chest. The flash of white. The world out of focus giving way to the aching, yellow light and the wriggling red worm that squirmed across his eyes. And then the rush of wind, the blackness, and then nothing. That’s what he remembered.

  A spot cleared far back in Malcolm’s brain. The vision of his master, the venerable Erasmus, in his study. The bustling streets of Freiburg in Breisgau, shut out by the walls of the university, by the crackle of the fire in the small hearth. He had spent many days at the master’s side. Come, Malcolm Scotus, the master used to say, the corners of his shrewd gray eyes crinkling with only the hint of a smile. Let us argue once again the De Devisione Naturae, but this time, my boy, we argue in Greek.

  But Erasmus was dead now. And that had been the reason he’d given to those who asked about his presence aboard that ship. He’d simply said that he was going to Rotterdam to pick up a small legacy the great scholar had left him a few years earlier as a part of his will. He’d never had time to go before now. He still didn’t have time. But a sense of nostalgia, Malcolm had told one fellow traveler, for the peace he had once felt as a student, had drawn him on this trip.

  So in the role of a wayfarer rather than laird and warrior chief, he had boarded the French ship. So little had he suspected an attack. Or suspected finding her so soon. Suddenly, Malcolm’s head cleared of everything but Jaime.

  It hadn’t been a dream. She had been there, at the prison. He remembered clearly the cold stone and the stinking air and the gruesome feel of drifting in and out of consciousness. And then, as refreshing as droplets of rain could be against the burning walls of hell, he’d heard the rustle of skirts of a woman and had looked up to see her face. In truth, he had come on this journey in search of peace—in search of her—and here she was, appearing before his eyes like some angel emerging from the mist. His spirit had soared with joy at seeing her, when now he knew he should have turned his face and welcomed death. The anger once again boiled within him.

  Traitorous, double-crossing Jaime. He clenched his jaws together as that painful realization stabbed at his heart anew.

  There was a yawn and the stirring of straw an arm’s length or so from where he lay as the voices—their tone so soft, so unwarlike—could be heard just outside a door. Beyond the voices, the Highlander could make out the morning sounds of horses and the men who worked with them. A kick to the shoulder from whoever was with him made Malcolm groan involuntarily, though the sound seemed to come from outside of himself.

  “Filthy Scot...” a young man muttered. “If it warn’t fer ye, that Welsh boneleech wouldna...” The door creaked and a rush of fresh air swept in.

  “Ah, Master Graves. Ye finally come down...” The young man grumbled, more than a hint of resentment in his tone. “I’ll be getting to my duties, if ye two masters are done wi...”

  “You’ll wait.”

  Malcolm kept his eyes shut. He hardly breathed as a cool hand felt his brow.

  “Did he do anything during the night? Did he come awake? Did he fret with his wounds?” With a click of his tongue, the man removed his hand from Malcolm’s face and began probing at various points of his aching frame.

  “He’s been a-lying there like a stone, sir. If it warn’t fer once in a while a-groaning as he did...I’d a-thought him done fer.”

  “The man is burning up with fever. During the night, did you give him any of the medicine I left?”

  “Nay, sir....it...it seemed a bit of a waste...”

  “A waste!” Graves exploded. “You, a stable hand, decided...By the Virgin, man! If you had a sick stallion in your care, wouldn’t you do right by the creature?”

  There was a pause, and then the stable man answered, clearly surprised and hostile at the physician’s remarks. “He’s a filthy Scot, Master Graves! He ain’t no horse. I don’t know what fer...”

  “What for?” the older man’s voice shot back at the man. “I’ll tell you what for! So we could build up his strength. So he can cut your throat...or at least cut off your ears...while you sleep. Little use they are to a fool who doesn’t listen or do as he’s told!”

  Malcolm listened to the uncomfortable shifting of straw in the back corner of his cell. Though he wouldn’t open his eyes, he could envision the withering look that the stable hand was now enduring.

  “Are ye done with me now?” the man grumbled at last under his breath. “If ye are, I’ll be on my way.”

  Malcolm moaned as the physician prodded hard at one of the gashes. He felt the man’s hands gentle at once. “Nay, you’ll have to stay and give Davie here and the carter a hand moving the Scot.”

  “Taking him back to Norwich?” Malcolm didn’t miss the note of satisfaction in the young man’s voice.

  “Nay, to my surgery in the manor house.”

  “To the house, Master Grave?” the hostler asked, dumbfounded. “A Scot under His Grace’s own roof?”

  “Aye, man. What of it?” Malcolm kept his eyes closed but relished the sensation of the cool liquid that had been lifted to his cracked lips.

  “But...but...” he sputtered. “How can it be that he...? A filthy Scot? Why, I’ve ne’er even been allowed...”

  “You?” The physician’s words were pointed. “You are a servant who has a tongue far too long and head far too big for his own good.”

  “But sir,” the man groveled, “I...I ne’er thought...”

  “Quit your jabbering, man! Ah, the cart is here.” The physician’s hands withdrew from their examination of Malcolm’s wounds, and the Highlander could hear Graves move toward the door. “Damn...I didn’t want that thing...” The older man’s steps grew fainter as he walked out into the stable yard.

  As he went, the physician continued to mutter under his breath, but his words were obliterated by the whispering of the hostler and the man called Davie.

  “Lord Surrey’s the one who said fine to Mistress Jaime’s asking,” Davie said quietly, “after His Grace and Lord Edward left last night. ‘Tis because of her that we’re a-taking him back to the house.”

  “The Mistress and Lord Surrey? But Mistress Jaime belongs to Lord Edward!” The hostler gave a low chuckle under his breath. “Just yesterday in the garden—I was up helping myself to a few words with Tess, the master gardener’s girl—I seen Lord Edward a-mauling the mistress. Like a baited bear, he was. His hands and mouth was all over her—and I don’t think she was minding it much. I was getting a might randy just a-watching them from afar. Hell, I don’t think she cares a jot for no filthy Scot to be messing with no...”

  “Ye are a fool, Jo,” Davie put in. “This ‘filthy Scot,’ as ye call him, is the property of Lord Edward now—thanks to Mistress Jaime. She was the one as pointed him out to the master. “An’ if he dies, I heard old Graves say, Lord Edward stands to lose a pretty sum of gold. So even if he ain’t worth so much as a dog to us, he has value to the masters. So if ye was a bit sharper, Jo, ye’d best...”

  The sound of the physician returning to the cell silenced the two men. And Malcolm continued to lie still, wondering if in being taken to the house he would have access to “Mistress” Jaime.

  With all his soul, he couldn’t wait
for the opportunity of putting his hands around the wench’s throat.

  Chapter 9

  Peering through the diamond-shaped panes of the upper gallery window, Jaime winced each time she saw Malcolm’s body shift in the approaching cart. She could see the physician upbraiding the carter each time his human cargo jounced, but from the vacant expression on the driver’s face, Master Graves’s words hardly seemed to be penetrating the thick-necked man’s bald head.

  “Go slower,” she said quietly, unaware of the auburn-haired woman coming up behind her. “There’s a hole ahead. Go to the right of the lane. Don’t you see it? Go to the...Oh! By the Virgin, are you trying to kill him?”

  “Aren’t they doing a satisfactory job of it, Jaime?” the countess of Surrey asked, looking out the window as the cart lurched out of view beneath them.

  Jaime blushed crimson, embarrassed at having forgotten the presence of the earl of Surrey’s wife in the gallery. It took her a moment to find her voice. “I believe Master Graves has done all he can for...for the prisoner.”

  “You know the man, I take it?”

  “He...He’s a great laird in the western Highlands. Many know him.”

  “And he’ll fetch a great ransom for Edward, I understand.”

  “Aye...if we can restore his health. He’s been horribly wounded, and he took a severe beating in the castle at Norwich.”

  “So I understand.” Frances’s eyes sparkled mischievously as she took Jaime’s hand. “But how on earth did you manage to convince Lord Surrey to allow the Scot into the manor house?”

  Jaime flushed at the question. She had gone to the earl, knowing of his kindness but with little hope. Nursing Malcolm back to health in the stable cell seemed an impossible task. Master Graves had said as much himself. Malcolm had a fever. And the physician could hardly be expected to watch over him carefully there. And the idea of her going to the stables every day was sure to create a ruckus. So Jaime had to ask. The one question she would never had dared to put to Edward, she felt quite differently posing to the earl of Surrey.