The Intended (27 page)

His eyes bore into hers, and Jaime could see
his emotions lying so close to the surface.

“And that blackened pile of rock—Dunvegan,
with its unholy dungeons.”

She matched his gaze. “Aye, Dunvegan. The
castle on the rock.”

“A block of cold stone and wood,” he
whispered, “whipped by the sea’s howling winds for as long as man
has stood on Skye.”

“Aye,” she whispered in return. “A castle
ringing with the echoes of God’s own music and days gone by.”

“Echoes,” he said softly. “Aye, in empty
halls and empty chambers, and an illtempered laird to haunt the
place.”

She smiled. “Feasting, good company, the
lavish hospitality of a generous master who has brought nothing but
honor to those halls.”

“Och, ‘tis a place without art—chambers
without light.”

She shook her head. “I can see it now—the
Great Hall ablaze with the open hearth. The new drawing room and
its broad, glazed windows.”

“But sadly, no art.”

“NO ART?” Jaime’s whisper had the force of a
shout, which in return made him laugh. From the way he leaned back
in his chair—the way the lines of his face creased with amusement,
it was obvious that he intended to rile her. And she was happy to
respond in kind. “You are truly a barbarian, Malcolm MacLeod, if
you fail to recognize the work of Philip Anjou, the greatest
painter in Europe, as artwork of pure genius!”

“Very well, I will grant you that the works
of Philip Anjou, or should we say Elizabeth Macpherson, your good
mother, are indeed masterpieces without parallel. There is nothing
in that castle that I value more.”

She looked at him askance. “Nothing, m’lord?
You wouldn’t be exaggerating a wee bit just to find favor?” As she
spoke, Jaime smoothed her skirts briskly with her hands, touching
one of his knees unintentionally.

Malcolm gazed at her, clenching his fists in
an effort to keep from reaching out and drawing her onto his lap.
The fire that had been stirring in his loins now threatened to rage
out of control. His gaze took in her shining, teasing eyes. The
playful, seductive glances fanned the flames of his desire. He
wanted her.

“Perhaps, if you gave it some thought,” she
added with a half smile. “Perhaps, if you stopped criticizing one
of the most beautiful places in the Western Isles...in all
Scotland, then perhaps you would recall other things, as well, to
treasure in your home.”

He frowned, his brow furrowed deeply as if he
pretended to think. But he was not thinking of Dunvegan, or Skye,
or Scotland. His thoughts dwelled solely on Jaime’s beautiful face,
on the curve of her cheek, on the waves of ebony hair cascading
over slender, perfect shoulders. Malcolm turned abruptly in his
chair, tearing his gaze from her. He needed to think of something
else, but his need for her was ablaze in his brain, as well. He’d
used this conversation as a way to bring her out of her shell. To
give her the freedom to feel at ease with him...again.

“The beautiful landmarks...beautiful
landmarks,” he repeated, as calmly as he could. “But there are no
views.”

“The majestic view of the twin peaks of
Healaval, MacLeod Tables, from the windows looking west,” she
corrected.

“Aye,” he replied, by sheer force of will
denying himself the pleasure of staring at her full, womanly
breasts. “But within my castle walls, an empty enclosure. A barren
courtyard.” He was reaching deep.

“And have you forgotten the new water garden.
Or at least, ‘twas new when I saw it last.” Jaime smiled brightly
now, and her eyes looked off into the distance, seeing a scene of
falling water appear before her. “And the path leading to it with
the castle and Loch Dunvegan spread behind.”

Malcolm’s gaze followed the graceful line of
her buttock and leg. Entranced by her loveliness, he could no
longer tear his eyes away from her. The beauty, the excitement in
her description of Dunvegan faded into the distance, replaced by a
more vivid beauty, a more pressing excitement. He looked again into
her face.

Her cheek flushed under the intensity of his
open stare, but she did not look away. And as Malcolm continued to
watch her, a shiver ran visibly through her frame. Finally, she
tore her gaze away and stared into her lap, but too late. He had
seen the reflection of his own desire.

Malcolm let a long breath escape, as the
moment passed. The thought pushed into his brain that he couldn’t
rush her through this. He’d come down here hoping their talk would
be a journey of learning and of remembrance. And that it had
been—until this moment. But now he must cool his blood, he reminded
himself.

“No tradition!” he blurted out. Her eyes
snapped up to his with the renewed challenge. “I know what is wrong
with Dunvegan Castle—with either the MacDonalds
or
the
MacLeods. Those islanders have no sense of tradition.”

“And what of pipers of the MacDonald clan.
And the Fairy Flag of the MacLeods,” she suggested softly, rubbing
her palm over her thigh. “And Rory Mor’s Horn.”

“Rory Mor’s Horn?” He ran a hand over his
jaw. He thought back over to the night he became laird of the
MacLeods. It seemed so long ago. Malcolm squinted his eyes and
stared at her challengingly. “You, lass, were far too young to
recall anything of the last time the Horn was put to use.”

She shook her head with a smile. “I was not
too young!” Tilting her head to the side, she began to laugh at his
obvious discomfort. “And I still remember.”

“You were little more than a bairn, you
villainous wench.”

“My memories go back much, much further than
that, I assure you,” she drawled. “And besides, how could I forget
such an exciting day. The crowded Great Hall at Dunvegan Castle.
The ceremonial pouring out of the pitcher and half of claret into
the Horn...”

“Nay, lass. Say no more!” Malcolm leaned
forward, his elbows on his knees—his face buried dramatically in
his hands. Through partially spread fingers, the Highlander peeked
out at her.

“And you, such a handsome, strapping man,
about to become laird of your people. I recall the hush of the
crowd as you brought the ancient vessel to your lips. Tradition
demanded a strong draught. You must drink it down, all at once. No
setting the Horn aside until the wine was gone...and no falling
down! Aye, this is tradition!” Jaime paused a moment, pursing her
lips as if trying hard to remember the details. Malcolm cringed,
awaiting her next words. “Ah, that’s it. Now I remember. I can see
it all clearly. I recall Aunt Fiona stepping over to the old
priest. He had brought out an ancient box. She open the lid, and
carefully pulled out the Fairy Flag and wrapping it around you.
Aye, the flag that had been hidden away for so many years. Oh,
Malcolm, how could I forget the cheers and the wild celebration
that followed?”

He stared at her with a sudden look of
relief. “That’s what you remember?”

Malcolm sat back and placed his large hands
on the carved arms of his chair. The lightning bolt feeling that
had raced through him when Fiona had draped the Flag over his
shoulders was a feeling Malcolm had never experienced at any time
before or since. It was not so much a feeling of power, but a
feeling of strength. Of magic. It was then that he had, for the
first time, felt the touch of...of that other world.

“And I remember you getting ill.” Jaime
nodded, smiling mischievously. “Not long afterward, either.”

The Highlander growled at her menacingly, but
inwardly he smiled on the memory. At sixteen, it had been so
important to Malcolm that no one know of his ‘unmanly’ aversion to
wine and spirits. And he had, for days prior to the gathering,
tried to shrug off the knowledge that even a mouthful of wine could
bring on, in a very short time, a terrible tightening of the
throat, an inability to breathe. And though he had hidden his
secret, had downed the draught for the purpose of ceremony, he had
also known full well the terrible sickness that would follow. But
that was long ago, and the memory now held not a vestige of
embarrassment for him.

“Why did you follow me out of the Great
Hall?” His face formed a fierce scowl, but Jaime was not fooled.
She could see the amused sparkle in his eyes. “I should have known
that I couldn’t escape you even then.”

Though, indeed, Jaime thought, he had tried.
Malcolm had escaped the Great Hall soon after quaffing the wine.
Out the stout doors, across the crowded courtyard, through the low
water gate and along the edge of a moonlit Loch Dunvegan to a place
of solitude. There, in the shelter of a boulder, the young laird
had crumpled to his knees, expelling what was to him poison until
the waves of dreadful retching finally subsided.

And Jaime had followed, looking on,
respecting his need to be alone, but watching over him all the
same.

“I was worried about you, though I didn’t
know what wine could do to you.”

“Aye, my dark and shameful secret. But after
all these years, you are the only one who knows of it, lass.” He
reached over and roughly pulled her chair next to his, all the
while maintaining his angry scowl. “But don’t you know the
magnitude of the danger you put yourself in that night? Of being
the only witness to a laird’s disgrace? Of admitting to it now?
Don’t you know what a desperate man such as I would do to preserve
his honor? Och, such grave danger, Jaime Macpherson.”

She shook her head, struggling to hold back
her laughter. He yanked at her chair again, so that she now faced
him directly.

“I hoped you wouldn’t hurt me,” she replied.
“But I suppose I was safe enough, since—after emptying your
belly—you were hardly able to sit up, Malcolm MacLeod.”

The Highlander cringed, and then sat forward
in his chair and took her hands in his.

“That was then,” he growled, his hands
sliding slowly up her arms. “But now, my dove, we must remedy that
situation. For you do indeed still remember that night. You are
still in a position of destroying my...” He paused, frowning as he
tried to think of the right word.

“Your reputation?” she asked in a low and
husky voice, shuddering as his hands caressed her shoulders.

“Aye, that’s as good a reason as any.”
Malcolm wrapped his hands gently around her slender neck.

Her lips parted slightly. Suddenly this had
become a moment of passion. The look in his eyes no longer spoke of
amusement at a memory long past. His dark eyes sent a message of
desire—while the set of his tightly clenched jaw spoke of
self-restraint.

“Any last wish, m’lady?” His voice was raw
with emotion. Malcolm's hands now cradled her face, and his thumb
softly caressed her lip. “Speak, lass. Speak as if this were the
last moment of life left to you. Say your peace, Jaime, and reveal
your innermost wishes, before...before you pay for that horrible
crime you committed as a wee lass.”

Jaime came to her feet in a single bound, and
Malcolm's hands dropped away from her face. Placing her palms on
his shoulders, she pushed him back in his chair. His eyes searched
hers, but she gave him little time to ponder the future.

Her mouth took possession of his, and Jaime
Macpherson kissed him with all the passion she held within.

At the soft tap on the door, Jaime leapt from
Malcolm’s lap, nearly stumbling and falling to the floor. But his
hand lingering on her hips sustained her in the moment of
panic.

“Who is it?” she called shakily.

“I bring a message from Lady Catherine,
mistress.” The woman’s voice was a mere whisper.

Jaime looked warily at Malcolm. Though she
tried to fight off his hands, he successfully gathered her into his
lap. She gave a small cough, trying to gather her wits and find her
voice. “What is it my cousin wants?”

“She requests your presence in her chambers,
mistress.”

“So late?”

“Aye, m’lady. She wishes to see you before
she retires for the night.”

“Very well. Tell her I’ll be along.”

As the sound of the servant’s slippered feet
moved away from the door, Jaime turned her gaze back to Malcolm and
said a prayer of thanks for having barred the music room door.

“Let Catherine go to hell,” Malcolm whispered
against Jaime’s lips as he gathered her more tightly in his lap.
His mouth closed on hers quickly, before she could voice her next
concern. A moment passed, or an eternity—she didn’t know which—as
they both breathlessly savored the kiss. Finally, Jaime tore
herself away.

“I do have to go,” she whispered against his
ear. Jaime cherished the way his arms held her so tightly to his
chest—the way his hands roamed across the smooth linen of her
dress—making her skin burn at his touch even through the layers of
clothing she wore.

“She will surely send back someone else,”
Jaime continued, leaning into his touch as his fingers moved up
from her waist and spread caressingly over her breast. “Knowing
Catherine, I’m certain she’ll be impatient, and...” The words dried
up in her throat as Malcolm pulled at the low neckline of her
dress, exposing one breast. Her body arched as his mouth latched
onto the erect nipple. “Oh, Malcolm,” she gasped, bolts of
lightning shooting from her chest into the very core of her
belly.

Jaime stiffened in his arms as the sound of
another set of footsteps could be heard approaching in the hallway.
Malcolm reluctantly pulled his mouth away from her breast and drew
her dress up into place. The footsteps continued on past her
door.

“What is it about these damned English?”
Malcolm complained, pushing a loose strand of hair off her brow and
tucking it gently behind her ear. “Suddenly, they don’t have
anything else to do except bother us! Don’t they know we want to be
left alone?”

She laughed softly and leaned her head
against his shoulder. “I hope not!”