The Intended (28 page)

He glowered at her, then smiled before
leaning down and kissing her chastely on the lips. “But, lass,” he
growled. “Are we not sitting in Dunvegan Castle?”

“I do wish we were,” she whispered. Putting a
hand on his shoulder, she pushed herself off his lap and began to
shake out her skirts.

He stood up as well and, casting a critical
eye over her rumpled condition, gave out a low chuckle. “I trust
you’re not planning on going directly to your cousin Catherine’s
chambers.”

“Am I a mess?” She looked up at him with
smiling eyes. “At least, I don’t look like I’ve been climbing the
palace walls in the pouring rain!”

“Nay, Jaime, you don’t.” Malcolm reached out
and caressed the smooth, creamy skin of her cheeks, then touched
her hair, running his fingers through the satin softness of the
ebony waves, so beautiful in their disarray. Lightly skimming the
tips of his fingers down her neck, he touched the spots where his
mouth had aroused such pleasure. “The only problem for me is that,
in seeing your tousled condition, she might draw the conclusion
that we’ve...”

As his words trailed off, her cheeks took on
a deeper shade of red—a crimson that reminded him once again of his
transgressions against her—and reprimanded him.

But she gazed into his face, and her eyes
held no reproof. “You are a rogue, Malcolm MacLeod,” she said,
planting her hands on his chest and turning him toward the window.
The Highlander allowed her to push him across the chamber, but
planted his feet a few steps from the way he’d come in. He turned
to her and took her hands in his.

“Am I forgiven, then?” he asked, his voice
low and gentle.

There was no reason for him to explain what
he meant, and there was no reason for her to ask. They both knew
what he was referring to.

Jaime nodded in response. “I blame you for
nothing, Malcolm.”

As he opened his mouth to pursue the matter,
she pressed her fingers firmly against his lips. “No more,” she
whispered, raising herself on her toes and replacing her hand with
her lips.

She felt his arms encircle her, and then she
found his mouth possessing hers—and her body yielding to his.

Inside Jaime, molten flames erupted,
consuming her, torching all reason, engulfing all thought. She
found herself instinctively arching against him as his hands
clutched at her back.

Jaime angled her head, allowing him to delve
deeply into the recesses of her mouth, her body responding to his
growing need. Raw desire was running through her veins, a growing,
raging force that was building with unchecked momentum. She wanted
him.

With that realization, Jaime awoke to the
consciousness of an entirely new woman, and her senses flooded her
spirit with a fierce hunger that matched Malcolm MacLeod’s—and it
was a hunger that would not be denied.

She pulled away. His face was only a breath
away, the glazed mark of desire in his eyes. Catherine was waiting,
and Jaime could not risk Malcolm being caught here. She took a deep
breath, shook her head, and turned him once again toward the
window.

His voice was hoarse as he looked back at
her. “Perhaps you’d prefer that I come back?” he asked, a smile
tugging at his lips as he pushed at the window frame.

“I will certainly go mad if you don’t.”

“Then in the interest of your sanity, perhaps
I should stay right here until you get back.”

She smiled, her heart pounding with
excitement of this prospect, but common sense prevailed, and, after
a slight pause, she shook her head.

“Nay, Malcolm. Not tonight. ‘Tis far too
late, and I don’t know what my cousin wants me for.” His look of
enticement made her want to explain more--not so much for his
sake--but rather to convince herself. “I don’t know how long I will
be detained there. And besides, I...well, there is the risk of you
being found out of your bedchamber. Think what would happen if they
found you missing?”

“Coward!” he whispered, leaning over and
stealing a last, quick kiss.

“Villain!”

He laughed and swung his legs out onto the
stone terrace. The hard rain had stopped, and the air was clearing.
Looking up, he could see patches of sky and stars had broken
through the thick banks of clouds, and an ivory moon now flirted
with the dark puffs scudding past. His sharp eyes scanned the
fields that led away from this gilded prison...to freedom...to
Scotland.

“Jaime?” he called at the last instant.

She peered out at him from the window, her
form silhouetted by the light of the candles in the music room
beyond.

He had intended to tell her of the message
he’d received, the letter dropped inside his door, but now that
seemed so unimportant to all that had transpired.

“They might see you, Malcolm,” she warned
softly. “Please go!”

“Aye, lass,” he said, yielding to her wish.
With a nod, he found his way along the shadows of the wall to the
thick vines leading to his bedchamber.

Each stroke of the brush through her hair
only served to feed her fury. Sitting before a looking glass and
watching the dark strands of her hair come alive beneath the hands
of her serving women, Catherine cursed the wretched Jaime.

“Didn’t you tell her to come at once?”

The young servant’s nervous hands, in the act
of turning down the bedclothes, came to an abrupt stop. “Aye,
m’lady.”

“Didn’t you tell her that I am retiring for
the night, and that it is of the utmost importance for me to see
her right away?”

“I did, m’lady. I swear!”

“Then why is she not here?” Catherine
complained, tugging irritably at the rings on her fingers and
throwing them onto the table before her. “Is she
trying
to
rile my temper?”

There was no answer by any of her four
serving women who focused busily on seeing to their mistress’s
needs. In fact, other than the young servant girl who had taken the
message to Jaime, the others were clearly pretending not to hear
any of what it was being said. And that was exactly the way
Catherine preferred her servants. Tongue-tied!

Looking back at the glass, Catherine reached
behind her neck and removed the ornate, jeweled necklace that Henry
had given her before she’d departed from Nonsuch Palace. Carelessly
regarding it, she tossed the gift onto the table beside the rings.
She sat forward as the women continued to stroke her golden brown
hair. For the first time in a week, she was feeling free of the
stifling prospect of her upcoming marriage. Her eyes wandered
lovingly over the face that gazed back at her. She admired the
creamy complexion; the long, slender neck; the flawless skin
exposed above her silk night shift. Letting her gaze continue to
drift downward, she silently amused herself with thoughts of how
easy it was to draw men to her—a tilt of the head was all it
generally took, or at most a glimpse of those alluring curves and
shadows between her breasts. Catherine sighed and, as she watched
her full, orblike breasts rise and fall, she could feel a growing
tightness at the juncture of her legs.

Leaning her head languorously to the side and
letting the strokes of brush follow the movement of her head,
Catherine imagined Edward in the room. She felt herself grow moist
at the thought of having him in here now, of his face buried in the
valley between her breasts, his mouth suckling her and drawing out
the essence of her pleasure. She imagined herself atop him, guiding
him into her, taking him deep and feeling herself close around him
like a sheath. Catherine ran a hand caressingly down the front of
her shift and took between her fingers the hard, erect nipple
protruding through thin cloth.

“Bastard,” she swore suddenly under her
breath, conscious once again of the memory of his greedy lack of
regard for her.

“Harder. Brush harder,” she practically
shouted at the women stroking her hair. Then, slapping their hands
away from her, Catherine pulled a silk shawl about her shoulders
and twisted in her chair, turning her full wrath on her cowering
messenger. “I don’t care if you have to drag her by the hair, you
bring that foul wench back to me at once!”

The young serving woman couldn’t move her
feet quickly enough as she dashed for the door.

As she wandered, wick lamp in hand, through
the long corridors of Kenninghall, en route to Catherine’s
chambers, Jaime was soon lost in a contented dream over this latest
visit from Malcolm. Hardly even aware of her surroundings, Jaime
was practically trampled by the girl hurrying out Catherine’s door.
The look of relief on the young woman’s face as she raised her
sputtering candle spoke volumes to Jaime.

“Oh, Mistress Jaime,” the young woman cried.
“Thankee. Thankee so very much!”

Glancing from the serving girl’s face, to the
closed chamber door, and back again, Jaime gave a low chuckle.
“That bad, is it?”

The servant just nodded, gnawing nervously at
one of her fingers.

“Well then, perhaps I should wait and not
bother Her Majesty tonight...or rather Her Soon-to-Be Majesty!”
Jaime’s words were made in jest, but they only served to bring a
terrified expression to the younger woman’s face. “You don’t think
I should wait until tomorrow, when she might be in a better
mood?”

“Nay, m’lady!” the girl replied quickly,
shaking her head emphatically. “She’ll have me skinned alive if I
don’t return with your ladyship, at once.”

“Skinned?” Jaime repeated. “I cannot believe
that dear Catherine does such things. And to an innocent young
woman such as yourself!”

“Aye!” The serving girl bobbed her head, her
voice barely a whisper. “Though I have only just joined Her
Maj...Her Ladyship’s staff, I believe that the others, well, I
think they must have had something horrible done to them. They
never speak, mistress. You’d think she’s had their tongues cut
out!”

Jaime held back her smile as she nodded
toward the door. “Well, my friend, let’s not tarry here in that
case. Lead on. I don’t think I could forgive myself if I were the
cause of you losing either your skin...or your tongue!”

“Don’t you find this larger bedchamber less
cozy than our old one, Catherine?” Jaime stood in the doorway and
looked around her. This room was far different from the one she had
shared with Catherine and Mary, the one Jaime still shared with
Mary. But Catherine, now destined for the throne of England, had to
be accommodated in a style suitable to her station. This was, by
far, the finest of the guest chambers in the palace. But for all
her teasing, Jaime envied nothing about her cousin’s situation.

Jaime took in the splendor of the royal
suite, dutifully impressed by the carved oak panels and
mantelpiece, the sumptuous red velvet of the drapes, and the fine
quality of the down-cushioned furniture. Though she had been
brought in through the “lady’s bedchamber,” she was quite certain
that the sitting room, and the bedchambers beyond would be equally
well appointed. She glanced at the huge, canopied bed that filled
one side of the room, with its cloth of gold curtains and the
insignia of King Henry in evidence on the embroidered bedcovering
folded on the chest at the foot of the bed. The material sparkled
in the light of a score of candles, and there appeared to be at
least a dozen fine dresses lying about. She had the feeling that
she had walked in on someone preparing for a feast. But then it
occurred to her, Catherine
was
preparing for a feast. Her
own triumphant wedding feast.

“I’m so happy you, at last, could find time
for me.” Catherine’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but Jaime ignored
it, turning to find her sitting before a table with two servants,
armed with the finest boar-bristled brushes, hovering over her.

“I did try to procrastinate, but there was
nothing left to do in my room,” Jaime responded brightly, turning
again to marvel at the finery lying about. It was no surprise to
her, now, how Mary could have grown so quickly enamored of all
this. “So I decided I would come by and see whether you...needed
anything.”

“How very thoughtful of you to come,”
Catherine returned, waving off her servants, “considering I had to
send for you twice.”

Moving confidently about the room, Jaime
glanced over her shoulder. “So why did you want to see me,
Catherine?”

“Always the impatient creature! But can’t you
think of any pleasantries that you wish to convey to me before we
begin? Are they
that
unschooled in Scotland?”

Jaime turned her gaze on Catherine, who now
began to look at herself in the looking glass. The serving women
moved silently about the room, busying themselves with imaginary
tasks. Not one lifted her eyes. In fact, it occurred to her that
not one had acknowledged her arrival in the room. And not one had
spoken a word. Suddenly, she thought with amusement that perhaps
the serving girl, who had judiciously remained outside in the hall,
had actually been telling the truth! Jaime fought down an urge to
laugh.

“Oh! How could I forget?” she burst out, her
voice ringing with mirth. “Congratulations on your upcoming
wedding. A more suitable match, I could not imagine!”

Catherine stared at her in the mirror, and
Jaime looked innocently back at her. For a moment the king’s
intended struggled visibly to restrain her temper and then, with a
sharp motion, waved the rest of her serving women out of the room.
One by one they curtsied to their mistress and then filed out,
again without so much as a second glance at Jaime. And once the
door had been closed shut behind the last departing soul, Jaime
watched Catherine come to her feet.

There was an appraising, predatory look in
Catherine’s face. She was a hunter, and she moved like a cat across
the chamber. Instinct told Jaime to back away from her cousin, to
raise some barrier against the expected blow, but she stood her
ground. She had known Catherine long enough—and she had no fear of
her.