The Intended (8 page)

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.

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.

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.”