The Intended (31 page)

“It is so, my sweet,” Frances went on. “And
there are a thousand preparations that need to be attended to. We
must think of the...”

Malcolm’s voice interrupted her. “Hold, Lady
Frances. She is no Ward of Henry’s court, nor is she the dependent
of the duke of Norfolk,” Malcolm put in coldly. “She is a guest in
this house. And what right does His Grace have to summon her
against her will.”

“But he does! As her true uncle...” Frances
paused and looked at Malcolm’s stern expression for a moment before
continuing. “Surrey is certain that you know what I must say,
though we are unsure of whether Jaime is aware...well, that is why
we had you sent for. She must know the truth.”

“What truth?” Jaime cried, looking anxiously
from Frances’s face to Malcolm’s. She called softly, “Malcolm!”

Frances continued to address the Highlander.
“His Grace...in his letter...”

“Please, Frances!” Jaime demanded. “What
truth? What is in the letter?”

The countess turned. “Come,” she said
quietly, come and join us.” Frances pleaded, stretching a hand
toward Jaime. “I know that, between the two of us...” She glanced
over at Malcolm. “Perhaps we can all understand...”

“I’ll have no part of this, Lady Frances,”
the Highlander said darkly. “No part.”

Jaime’s knees were wobbling as she stared at
the two of them, and yet she still somehow managed to take the few,
short steps to a chair. She had to sit, since somehow she knew that
whatever it was she was about to hear, her life would never be the
same.

Frances took a deep breath as she again
glanced over at Malcolm. “Knowing how short Surrey can sometimes
be, I insisted that he allow me to do this, myself. But now I find
myself searching desperately for the right words.”

“Why don’t you just get on with it,” Malcolm
practically barked as he planted his hands on the table. “Speak
plainly, Lady Frances, what you must, and then let her be.”

Frances turned to Jaime. “Perhaps...perhaps
this information should have come from those you know to be your
parents.”

“There was no reason for any of this to be
revealed,” Malcolm interrupted again, banging his fist on the table
before straightening to his full height. “Where is Surrey? No good
will come out of this, I tell you. Tell me what vile purpose lies
behind all this? Who chooses this path, Lady Frances? Where will it
all lead?”

Frances sank into the closest chair. “In
truth, Malcolm, I cannot say what lies at the end of this.”

“Please! The two of you!” Jaime pleaded. “You
are discussing me as if I am not even here. And yet ‘tis clear that
this information—this truth—may be of the utmost importance to me
and my kin. Of all people, Malcolm, you of my native land...”

Frances’s head snapped around as she stared
at Jaime. The look in her face still spoke of her discomfort. But
Jaime could see the resolve in her eyes.

“Your native land is England, Jaime,” she
corrected. “For you are the king’s daughter.”

Anger tore through her like the jagged ice of
the winter flood.

“Nay!” Jaime whispered icily.

“Your mother, Mary Boleyn, was the true niece
of His Grace, the duke of Norfolk. She was also, for a short time,
mistress to King Henry. Your mother stole away to a foreign land,
and you were born in secrecy. Later after your mother’s death, you
were raised by your aunt, Elizabeth Boleyn, and her husband Ambrose
Macpherson, to the world’s eyes as their own. Tell her this is
true, Malcolm.”

“I admit to naught,” the Highlander replied,
his face a steely mask. “The story I have heard is that Mary’s
son
died in childbirth.”

Jaime’s mind raced as Frances stared at
Malcolm. As Jaime looked at her intended, she knew that what
Frances said was, of course, true—about being Mary’s daughter—and
that Malcolm was simply trying to protect her.

“Tell me what you know, Frances,” she said
quietly, turning to the woman.

“I can tell you very little more. I simply
cannot understand why Elizabeth Boleyn chose to hide you...”

Jaime watched as Malcolm’s anger suddenly
boiled to the surface.

“And this is the truth?” Malcolm cut in,
looking accusingly at Frances. “Even if we allow that there is the
slightest chance that what you have heard is correct, have you
considered that perhaps this is not the whole truth? You talk as if
Elizabeth Macpherson committed a crime in trying to keep Jaime away
and safe from the English butchers. Have you considered what you
would do yourself if your sisters were killed one by one at their
hands?”

Frances flushed as she searched for an
answer. “Killed? But Queen Anne...well, she was guilty
of...well...Anne...”

“Aye, what of Anne?” Malcolm argued. “You see
no butchery in that? What guilt lies in bearing a stillborn child?
And this after giving birth to a healthy daughter! How is it that
the guilt must lie with her when your king had already turned his
lecherous eyes on Jane Seymour? Witchcraft? Nay...lust is what lies
at the bottom of this!”

“Nay...” Frances gasped, lifting a hand to
her mouth. “You cannot say such things.”

“You think not?” Malcolm waved aside her
words. “And Anne’s sister? Why don’t you ask how Mary was killed by
the blade of an English knight—before Elizabeth’s very eyes?”

“Malcolm,” Jaime pleaded, raising a hand to
him as she came to her feet. Taking a step toward him, she looked
steadily into the fury ablaze in his eyes. “We have much to talk
about. And you know that Lady Frances means me no harm.”

The Highlander paused a moment as his anger
subsided. He ran a hand down his face and then turned once again to
the sitting woman. “Aye, as you say. But, countess, your husband
and I learned from the same teacher that there is perhaps only a
hair that separates Truth and Falsehood. Over the past weeks, I’ve
come to know you are a woman of wisdom and fairness...as is your
husband, as well. So I only ask you to consider more carefully
before you so freely place blame. Whether Jaime is the daughter of
Elizabeth and Ambrose Macpherson or the daughter of Suleiyman
himself, I can tell you everything they’ve done for her has been
done out of love for the lass.”

“I believe you, Malcolm,” Frances said
quietly.

“Then I must apologize to you, m’lady, for
speaking so strongly. I just cannot stand back and listen while
folk I care about are dishonored.”

Frances stared down in her lap for a moment
before nodding in response, then came to her feet. “Jaime, I
believe you and Malcolm have matters to discuss. I meant no
dishonor to anyone you hold dear. As to your heritage...” A sad
smile crept across the countess’s face. “True or false, His Grace
believes it. And so, it seems, does Edward.”

Jaime looked into the gray eyes of the
countess as the woman reached out and touched her affectionately on
the arm. The gaze was steady and true.

“And now I’ll leave you two.” Frances turned
toward the door but, remembering something, stopped. “Oh, I’ve
asked Surrey to give you an extra day to prepare, so you and your
escort won’t be leaving until the day after tomorrow.”

“M’lady!” Malcolm’s sharp call brought
Frances to the halt by the door. She turned and peered in his
direction. His voice took on a much gentler tone. “What you say of
Jaime’s birth...where did you and others hear of this?”

Jaime knew that Frances didn’t have to answer
Malcolm’s question. So she was surprised when the other woman
decided to do so.

“I was unaware that you were truly kin of the
Howards—until today,” Frances replied, turning to Jaime. “But from
what my husband told me—his father the duke has been aware of it
since-” she paused and stared uncomfortably at the floor.

“Since when, Frances?” Jaime asked.

The countess’s face could not hide her
distress at what she was about to say. “Your aunt, Anne Boleyn,
revealed what I’ve told you to the duke of Norfolk on the eve of
her beheading. I believe she did so with the hope of having her
uncle somehow use it with the king...to spare her life.”

“But His Grace never did as she hoped, did
he?” Jaime asked.

Frances shook her head. “I don’t know. Though
His Grace served as the king’s representative in her trial, he lost
a great deal in the fall of Anne Boleyn. Whether the duke ever went
to Henry, I cannot say. But ‘tis possible that her information was
simply...”

The countess shrugged and looked resignedly
at Jaime. No words were needed. They all knew that if Henry had
learned of this, Jaime would have been summoned to court long
ago.

“Anne lost her head on the block,” Frances
continued. “That’s all I know!”

Without another word, Frances left the
chamber and the door closed behind her. Jaime stared in the
direction of the departing woman. Suddenly, she found herself
surrounded by images and voices from long ago.

A barge rocked gently in the river current.
Outside a tiny window, the green fields of France drifted lazily
by. A ebony-haired woman, opening her arms with an effort,
welcoming Jaime inside of the dark cabin. Her poor, sick mother,
hardly ever out of the narrow bunk.

Jaime remembered Mary, her mother, very
clearly. She remembered the affection that she had bestowed on her
only child in those last painful days. Jaime had been that
child.

Now, standing beside Malcolm, she wrapped her
arms around herself to block the coldness that was penetrating her
bones.

A freshly dug grave in a town half destroyed
by fire. She, a small and lonely lass, standing beside it. She
didn’t know whom they were burying in it, for her mother had gone
to heaven—that was what she’d been told. The warm embrace of her
uncle, Philip. The little secret that the two of them shared—that
Philip was really good, loving Elizabeth, disguised as a man for
years. Working as an artist to provide for them. To protect
them.

Jaime remembered the long journey after her
mother’s death—the guilt—the unanswered prayers for forgiveness.
She had been certain then that it had been her fault that her
mother had gone away. She had even wondered whether God had decided
to punish her for loving Elizabeth better than her mother.

The large hands and strong arms embracing her
there in the damp of the churchyard. The deep voice of a scar-faced
man promising to take care of them and never let Elizabeth leave
for heaven. She could still see his deep blue eyes—the color of the
sea on a sunny day. Eyes shining with goodness and friendship.
Ambrose Macpherson. The man she would learn to love as her
father.

Jaime was suddenly aware of her body
beginning to shiver. Nay, Henry of England had never been her
father—Ambrose was. And Elizabeth had always been there. As far
back as memory traveled, Elizabeth had been there.

Malcolm's arms encircled her, and Jaime
leaned back into the hands that drew her to him. Wordlessly, she
turned and hid her face against his chest, finding comfort in the
strength and the feeling that emanated from his presence.

He held her tight, his hands gently stroking
her back.

“I am sorry, Jaime,” he whispered softly into
her ear. “I am sorry that the truth had to come out this way.” She
raised her eyes to his face. “What the duke knows
is
the
truth, and ‘tis a secret that has been well guarded. I’ve known the
folk you’ve called kin for most of my life—and I want you to
believe me when I tell you that they’ve always loved you as their
own daughter. And the only reason for them to hold back any of this
has been for no other purpose than protecting you from...”

When Malcolm's words faltered, Jaime finished
them for him. “...From the wickedness that I now must face. From
the dangers I have willingly exposed myself to!”

He pushed a strand of her hair behind an ear
as he looked into her eyes. “Are you angry with them? At Elizabeth
and Ambrose for what they have done?”

“Nay!” she cried, surprised at his question.
“How could I? How could I be angry at those two for loving me, for
protecting me, and for caring for me as their own child.” Jaime
rested the side of her face against his chest and listened for a
moment to his strong heart beating. “They never treated me any
differently from my brothers, Michael and Thomas, and I have always
loved them for it. Malcolm, I have always known I was not their
true child.”

He paused, then took a hold of her chin,
raising it so he could look into her eyes. “You knew the
truth?”

“That part of it,” she answered. “I always
knew my true mother was Mary, and I remember the journey on which
she died. But I never knew how she died.”

“Aye,” Malcolm said. “What I said was also
the truth.”

Jaime turned her eyes away as they misted,
but then she looked back into his face. “And about my father.
Though I knew Ambrose was not my true father, I learned to know him
through my aunt’s eyes and to love him for his tender care of all
of us.”

“But you always called them your
parents.”

“Because I wanted them to be. Because they
are! And I prayed to God that they would think of me as their own!”
Suddenly, Jaime felt her throat close, choking her. With an effort,
she swallowed her emotion.

“You know that they do, lass.”

“Aye, but there is more. To this day, ‘tis
difficult for me to admit that just days before Mary lost her life,
I secretly wished for Elizabeth to be my true mother.” She dashed
away a glistening tear. “You see, the bare memories of Mary that I
have are always tainted by the images of us in Florence, and of
her...rejection of me. But Elizabeth...Elizabeth always showed her
love. Whatever my mother failed to be, my aunt
was
.”

A few more tears rolled down her cheeks.
Suddenly embarrassed, she lowered her head. “How foolish of me to
say all this. To blame her after all these years—after all that she
must have suffered—to die so young, in such a horrible way!”