The Intended (12 page)

“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.

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.

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 never 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?”