The Intended Page 9

  Mary came quickly forward and reached entreatingly for Jaime's hands. “Jaime, I...I never meant my words to come out so cruel. But...”

  Jaime turned her back on the miserable woman. Her head pounded with pain. Her eyes welled with tears. “There is no more to say, Mary.”

  “Jaime, I...I would never betray your trust. I...simply thought...well, you just get these crazy notions sometimes. You don’t think about your future.” Mary wiped her tears from her own cheeks and laid a hand on her cousin’s shoulder, coaxing Jaime to face her. “I just thought that if I were stronger, then I could make you see some sense. Make you think about what might come out of your...coldness to Edward.”

  “My future with Edward—my manner of treating him now—is my concern, Mary, not yours! I will not allow you or anyone else in this family to force me into his arms.” Jaime rubbed her temples. “Despite what you think, I believe I am a good woman. And one who will not act against either her will or her good judgment.”

  “I know you are a good woman, Jaime,” Mary conceded guiltily, “Please forgive my foolishness just now.”

  There was no point in holding back. Jaime had seen Mary’s bouts of righteousness before and understood them for what they were. They were short-lived, harmless, and soon forgotten. But somehow this time, it had hurt. Jaime pushed away the thought that perhaps she had struck too close to home. But there was no point in holding a grudge. She allowed herself to be turn around, and the two cousins embraced. “I don’t ever want to talk about this again, Mary. Do you understand?”

  Mary took a deep breath and nodded.

  Jaime drew back and looked into her eyes. “Your anger with me was because of the care I have shown to the Scot and not so much for my treatment of Edward. Isn’t that true?”

  Mary nodded.

  “I know that this noble family is all you have experienced. But the appropriateness of compassion is not dictated by the rank of the person in need. ‘Tis true I’ve spent many hours at that surgery, but I will never believe that caring for another human being is a betrayal of Edward. If one of the duke’s falcons were wounded, if one of the dogs in the kennels were ill...”

  “I am so confused by all this, Jaime.” Mary turned and walked to the middle of the room. “In this past year I’ve learned to love you as a sister. Even before Catherine left for court, you were so special to me. But I fear the way you now break every rule...”

  “Which ‘rule’ tells us that we must neglect our Christian duty to care for those in need, Mary? Is this what the good duke asks of his household?”

  “Nay, of course not. ‘Tis just that you have become so defiant of established ways. And the Howard family is a very traditional family.”

  “And, of course, the duke and these traditions are always right!” Jaime said facetiously.

  Mary nodded vigorously. “Aye, His Grace’s ways are always right because he only wants the best for those under his care. And we should be grateful for his generosity.”

  “Oh, Mary!” Jaime responded, spurning the thought of such blind faith.

  Mary’s cheeks flushed with anger. “Look at all the family has done for Catherine. She is no older than we are, and yet, because of the duke, she is now in a position to marry the king himself!”

  Jaime looked away and said nothing. Though she would hold her tongue on that particular point, Catherine’s position was one Jaime hardly considered enviable.

  “And look at me,” Mary continued, drawing Jaime's attention back to herself. “As a member of this household, I have enjoyed an upbringing that few women in England can boast of. I have been educated and cared for, and I have an excellent prospect of finding a match in the highest ranks of society. His Grace has shown me more affection than one might hope to find in any family of the Howards’ stature.”

  Jaime bit back the overwhelming urge to take Mary to task over the areas of her education that were so sadly lacking: languages, rhetoric, history, logic. “Honestly, Mary, your loyalty is commendable. And I, too, am grateful...”

  “As you...” Mary hesitated before continuing. “Well, you indeed should be grateful, Jaime. After all, His Grace invited you here and has treated you as one of his own family, knowing...well, we both know that you were not a true cousin. Everyone knows that your grandmother was a mistress of Thomas Boleyn’s. You are not a descendant of his only wife, His Grace’s sister. You have to appreciate what His Grace has done for you. We all call you cousin, though you haven’t a drop of Howard blood in you.”

  “Mary, you cannot understand...”

  Mary continued on. “And, in spite of your French and Scottish blood...”

  French and Scottish blood. As her cousin proceeded to talk, Jaime's mind dwelled on those words. Though she had always cherished the public knowledge that she was the daughter of Elizabeth Boleyn and Ambrose Macpherson, Jaime knew that in truth they were not her true parents. She still remembered her true mother, Mary Boleyn, Elizabeth’s sister. It had been after her mother’s death that Elizabeth, and later Ambrose, had proclaimed to the world that Jaime was their own daughter. But this was a story she didn’t care to divulge to the Howard family.

  How long, she thought, how long she had lived now under this roof. How easily she’d allowed herself to be blinded to all that went against her beliefs, against her upbringing. The Howards saw her as a rebel, in some ways, but Jaime knew that her rebellion had been just a facade. She had allowed herself to be taken in. She had sought to lose herself in the whirl of Kenninghall’s palace life.

  But in her heart, Jaime could still feel the sharp wind of the Scottish Highlands, and she could not ignore the forces that had shaped her. Because of all that had occurred on these past few days, Jaime knew that she could no longer let these people run her life to earth like some helpless prey. She was grateful; that much was true. But what price must she surrender to repay the duke’s kindness? Jaime could not surrender herself, out of guilt or a false sense of gratitude, to anything or anyone.

  Mary paced the room, continuing her lecture unabated, ignoring Jaime as she moved to a small wooden box beside her bed. Jaime ran her fingers over the beautifully inlaid lid, and then opened the box decisively. Reaching inside the neckline of her gown, she drew out a long chain and gazed at the ornate ring dangling from it.

  Jaime held the great emerald ring for an instant in her palm. She knew from Elizabeth that it was a token that had once belonged to her true father. To her it was a link with her own history. But she knew she needed to decide the course of her life with a clear conscience and with open eyes. No link to a past long forgotten would cloud her mind. She had no desire to find the man who had fathered her so long ago.

  Without a word, Jaime deposited the ring in the box, shutting the lid with a resounding clap.

  Chapter 13

  The light from the chamber’s one window was growing dim, and with the growing darkness, a damp breeze began to make its presence felt. Malcolm, bored and frustrated with the forced inactivity of his convalescence, threw back the blanket covering his chest. He glared defiantly at his keeper, more than half hoping the sight of his bared wounds would bring some curse, some verbal response from his imperturbable keeper’s lips. But the resigned sigh from the old woman only served to evoke a pang of guilt in him. He watched in silence as Caddy wearily placed her sewing aside and stood up, rubbing a stiff or sore lower back with a gnarled and bony hand. Wordlessly, she shuffled to his side and covered his chest again with the blanket.

  Surly and hostile, Malcolm looked away from her, too proud to admit that his anger had nothing to do with her nor with her treatment of him. She had stayed beside him all day—ever since Jaime had deserted him this morning. He would have thought she’d have checked on them at least once during the day. Not that she’d worry about him, of course, but how about this poor old crone? How did Jaime know that he hadn’t strangled the dear old creature during the day? By the Rood, Malcolm could have broken her in two and succeeded in escaping.
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br />   Escape! Well, there was something laughable, he thought bitterly. The extent of his movements today had consisted of a short and exhausting lurch around the bedchamber, his blanket clutched about his shoulders, and the old woman eyeing him almost encouragingly from the door. That little jaunt had consumed most of his strength, a fact that grieved him dearly. Well, perhaps tomorrow he would be stronger. He was surprised they hadn’t put him in chains already. It wouldn’t be long—that he knew. He needed to find a way out.

  Malcolm looked in the direction of the window again with a heave of his chest. Another day like this and the boredom would surely kill him. This Caddy woman had not so much as uttered a word all day. He knew she could talk, though—he’d heard her conversing with her mistress this morning. But since Jaime had left, no matter what Malcolm asked, the woman had simply stared at him blankly before turning back to her sewing. So much for getting information out of her.

  He ran a hand over the rough texture of his unshaven face and rubbed his eyes. He pulled slightly at the linen bandage that encircled his head. He must look like the devil himself, Malcolm thought. If only he could close his eyes and sleep, he would dream all these people to hell. But even that simple desire seemed to be beyond his reach.

  The sound of the door swinging quietly open brought a pleased smile to Malcolm’s haggard face. It was the she-devil herself coming in. But at least it was company.

  Jaime had hoped he might be sleeping. But now, staring at the roguish gleam in his eyes, at a face alert and—for some reason—amused, she knew she’d wasted a wish.

  “It took you long enough to show yourself, though I suppose that’s all understandable.”

  Jaime ignored him and turned to Caddy. Spending a few moments talking to the older woman, she continued to ignore Malcolm’s comments as she tried to listen to Caddy’s obviously valid complaints.

  She complained of him talking ceaselessly.

  He complained of her being no more than a mute.

  She grumbled of him being far too bold for a man in his condition.

  He muttered under his breath and called her a broken-down nag.

  Mustering all her patience, Jaime shot Malcolm a withering look and ushered Caddy to the door, asking the woman to bring the man the dinner she’d had the kitchen prepare. But Caddy turned at the doorway and absolutely refused to set foot in his room again—for today, anyway—and warned that she’d only come back as far as his door and leave the dish there.

  In a way, Jaime was quite proud of her serving woman’s behavior. She knew Caddy still held a grudge against the man for the debacle of a year ago. Caddy was nothing if not loyal. But Jaime was also grateful that Malcolm did not know anything about her servant’s familiarity with their past, for if—out of sheer perverseness—he had dared to open the topic, Jaime might had renewed bloodshed to deal with as a result.

  Caddy left the room with a huffy toss of the head and a reminder that she was done with him for the day.

  That was perfectly acceptable to Jaime. Looking around at him, she decided he certainly appeared improved enough that no attendant would be warranted during the night. In fact, she herself was impatient to settle him in and escape this chamber. The sleepless nights and the stress of her quarrel with Mary had taken its toll on her today. She couldn’t wait to get back to her room and crawl into bed.

  But no sooner had Caddy left the room when Malcolm began his verbal assault.

  “So, and where might a young lady such as yourself have spent such a day as this?” His voice dripped with irony. “Counting the gold, no doubt, that you and your lover are going to split selling me back to my people...or were you simply continuing to play the whore?” His sarcastic smile broadened upon seeing Jaime's eyes dart to his face. But she was quick to regain her composure, even as he continued. “I have to tell you, lying here all day with nothing to do is not as useless as it seems. Aye, indeed. I’ve heard the talk, in spite of this deaf-mute you’ve put in here to torment me. And I’ve heard what they say. Is it truly required that you should make a public spectacle of yourself, pleasing him in the garden before a crowd of servants?”

  Jaime knew there was no point in arguing with him. He was baiting her, and she was not about to participate in his game. So, biting her tongue and trying to ignore his taunts, she busied herself preparing to change the dressings on his head. That had been one area Caddy had not attempted. She’d probably been afraid to get too close to his sharp tongue. Frankly, Jaime couldn’t blame her.

  “Aye, and look at you. You shame yourself.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “Look at the clothes you wear. English. Where’s your modesty, woman?”

  She glanced down at her attire. She was wearing a summer dress of yellow linen, with a square neckline that barely exposed the flesh on top of her breasts. This was probably one of the more modest fashions worn by any woman in the household.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.”

  “Nay, not for an English whore.”

  Jaime glared at him from where she stood.

  “Well, if that’s what you’ve become, there’s little to be done about it.”

  She shook her head and tucked everything she needed under her arms, vowing to herself that she’d not be reduced to his level. That was what he was after. A reaction. An unpleasant reaction.

  Malcolm continued as if her silence were a confirmation of what he’d said. “Aye, ‘tis a pitiable condition, but there you are. What’s done is done. Well then, what are we going to do tonight, wench? You might as well sleep here as on that chair.”

  Jaime moved her supplies next to his bed and placed them all on the nearby chair, all the while avoiding his eyes. She could feel her face burning, but she held her temper and concentrated on her pile of dressings. She was now angry enough that she knew even one look in his direction, and she would burst like a bubble.

  Malcolm pulled the blanket aside—exposing a thigh and hip—and patted a spot next to him on the bed. “Aye, dearest. You can sleep here. But I have to warn you that even in this weakened condition, I can still outmatch any English lover, never mind that yellow-livered pustule of a man you’ve taken up with.”

  “That will do, Malcolm,” she replied curtly, unfolding the strips of linen on the edge of his bed.

  “You think so, lass?” He brushed his knuckles roughly against the back of her hand, and Jaime withdrew it as if she’d been stung. “We haven’t even started yet!”

  This time her control snapped. “Stop it, Malcolm!” she nearly shouted.

  “I won’t,” he growled, grabbing her fiercely by the wrist. “I am no fool. You came to this room of your own free will. And not for any reason of nursing me to health, was it? Your lust drives you to me. You want to compare me to that carrion of a lover, now don’t you?”

  Jaime stared in silence.

  “I know he is away, dearest. So, now that you are not bound by any need to appear decent, you come here to relieve your lust and sharpen your skills—in bed. In my bed!” His hand tugged harshly at her wrist, making her lose her balance and lean heavily on the bed. “Well, here we are, my sweet. I am more than willing. Let’s begin. Now, lass, while the evening is young!”

  She struggled against his grip using her other hand to keep from falling into his lap. A feeling of helplessness—desperation even—swept coldly through her. She turned her gaze and looked into his embittered face.

  “You’ve gone mad, Malcolm.”

  “Then it is you who have driven me to it.”

  “Let go of my wrist.”

  “I will. When we are finished!”

  “Malcolm, listen to yourself.” Hurt crept into her voice. She could not keep it out. “It is I, Jaime. It is Jaime you are treating like a whore. Jaime, the woman you’ve known all your life.”

  “Don’t waste your breath. You are not that woman.” He laughed, his tone scornful. “But in case you have forgotten, dearest. The woman I knew would neve
r have delivered me to these devils. She would never have betrayed my trust. The Jaime I knew was gentle and kind. She was passionate and giving. She was a woman raised with love. She was loyal...”

  “The woman you knew was a fool!” Jaime straightened her arm to give herself more distance. “Nothing more than a dreaming simpleton. She was a child, blinded with lies. She believed in love and promises. But that child grew up and opened her eyes to the painful truths about what happens to those who blindly keep faith!”

  “Seeing the change in her, I wish she had truly gone blind.”

  “Why?” she shot at him. “So she might lock herself away forever, to mourn her treacherous love?”

  “She was too young to know the meaning of the word.” Malcolm turned his eyes away for a moment, letting go of her wrist. “How could she mourn the loss of something she’d never known?”

  “Never known?” Jaime's voice crackled with rage. She straightened up, but made no attempt to walk away. “But that’s where your mistake lies, knave. She had more affection and love in her, even as a child, than you could possibly know. But she... she was misled by false words and impossible dreams.”

  He began to respond, then paused, a troubled look momentarily crossing his face as he seemed to ponder her charge. “False words by whom, Jaime? We had always been friends. What false words? What have I ever said that you could construe as a promise of any kind?”

  Jaime turned her back on him.

  “You cannot walk away,” he barked. “I am tired of having to fight false accusations. Tired of this cloud that hangs over me. This cloud that smacks of wrongdoing when I don’t know how I could have done wrong.”

  “I have never openly accused you of anything.”

  “It would be much easier if you did,” he answered sharply. “The puzzle would be much simpler to solve if I were at least given the pieces.” He reached out and, this time, more gently took a hold of her wrist, causing her to turn and face him. “Jaime, since I last laid eyes on you, the Macphersons—with the exception of Fiona and Alec—have never treated me the same. Your parents, most of all, seem distant. If I have committed some great injustice, then ‘tis one that I am neither prosecuted for nor pardoned. There is a mist that surrounds me, and though I walk on, there are things that I cannot see. How did I mislead you? Tell me now if...”