The Intended (46 page)

Jaime twisted and kicked like a she-devil
against the grip of the men dragging her over the railing of the
ship. But the sailors used the rope that bound her hands behind her
to control her, and without ceremony threw her facedown on the deck
beside a door leading below.

She grunted, trying to regain her breath, the
scrape of the wood decking against her cheek stinging her skin. As
she rolled to her side her eyes glimpsed the thick-soled boots
coming out of the dark opening of the door.

A rough hand yanked her up by the hair, the
other grabbing her cloak between the shoulders and twisting the
material for a grip. As she felt herself being dragged to her feet,
a burly, foul-smelling man in the boots stood right before her.
Reed, the jailer from Norwich Castle.

The ship lurched as cannons in the ship’s
stern boomed out. Not far away, the
Elizabeth’s
guns
answered, and Jaime felt the man’s grip on her ease as all eyes
jerked upward. The mainmast--demolished by the ripping force of the
first Scottish cannon shots—came crashing down in a thousand
pieces, lines and sails with it.

Seizing the moment, Jaime kicked with all her
strength at the groin of the foul one.

Reed doubled over in pain, gasping for breath
and cursing as he grabbed his crotch with two hands, and Jaime
broke loose, dashing away in the only direction that lay open to
her—through the open door.

“Leave ‘er to me.” The sound of the jailer’s
rasping shout chilled Jaime to the bone as she stepped into the
gloom of her nightmare.

The cannonball skipped along the water and
glanced off the
Elizabeth’s
hull in an explosion of
splintering wood and a jolt that nearly knocked Malcolm to the
sand-covered deck.

The enemy vessel’s two stern guns continued
to fire away at them, but the Scottish bow gunners were clearly
doing the greater damage. The rigging of the larger ship was in
tatters—the mainmast cut in two and the galleon’s lines and sails a
tangled web of rope and rag. Relentlessly, the
Elizabeth
continued to close with the galleon, and the two ships were so near
now that Malcolm could see his foes’ faces clearly.

Rage burned within him. If even a hair on her
head had been disturbed, he swore...

They were so close now that the Scottish
sailors stood ready with their grappling lines. There would be no
chance for a cannonball to skip by now, but the opposing stern
gunners had no time to fire another round as Alexander brought his
ship alongside the enemy vessel with a scraping, shuddering
crash.

Hell’s gates opened as the shouts of warriors
combined with the clash of steel, and Malcolm leaped across the
divide onto the galleon’s deck.

Jaime moved further back into the murky
shadows of smoke and darkness, twisting her arms around her and
struggling to pull Malcolm’s dirk from the inside pocket of the
cloak. Finally, pinning the weapon between her hip and the
bulkhead, she managed to pull the dagger from its hiding place. The
confused shouts of men outside, the sudden, jarring blasts of
cannon fire, and the lurching movements of the ship all served to
steel her nerve—her survival depended on this, she knew. With
fierce, awkward jerks, she cut away at the rope binding her
hands.

“The bitch ‘as nowheres to go! Get on wi’
ye.”

Reed’s rough voice by the door filled her
with cold dread. With one more desperate yank, the ropes gave way,
and Jaime pulled her hands free. Rubbing her wrists in pain, she
looked wildly about her in the dark, the smoke stinging her eyes,
the dirk held ready in her fist. A stack of barrels lashed to the
bulkhead offered her the only place to hide, but it would not be
enough.

There was no place for her to go but down the
steep steps. Perhaps, once below, she could find a portal to slip
out of. But with the brutal jailer coming in, any movement toward
the steps was sure to get his attention. Her only hope was for Reed
to walk past her and go below. Perhaps then, she thought with
stubborn hope, she could make a break out the door and across the
deck. With the battle raging, perhaps she could get over the side.
Unbuttoning her cloak, she dropped it beside her in the
passageway.

She saw his shadow block the light. Pressing
her back against the wall, Jaime waited and held her breath. Go
down, she chanted silently. Go down the steps.

But as if the monster could hear her silent
plea, his eyes turned and stared at where she stood in the
darkness. She pressed her back tighter against the wall, but he
started toward her.

“I knew ye wouldn’t go far,” he jeered. “Ye
wouldn’t miss the jolly time we’ll be ‘avin’ at Norwich, now, would
ye? Well, may just be we won’t wait so long!”

“Get away from me,” she said from between
clenched teeth, all the horrors of what Edward had told her about
this man coming alive in her mind.

He was now only two steps away. “Stabbin’ the
master...” He shook his head in disapproval. “And then runnin’
away.”

Even in the dark, she could see his rat’s
eyes traveling the length of her.

“We’ll ‘ave a fine time whippin’ ye into
‘arness.” Reed licked his lips and stepped even closer. “And for
myself...”

She drove the dirk upward under his ribs and
straight toward his shrunken heart.

The burly man stepped back in shock, his
hands wrapped around the hilt of the weapon. He stepped back again,
banging into the bulkhead, his eyes wide open in surprise, and she
could see in his face that he knew his end was near.

The crunching impact of the two ships
colliding pitched both Jaime and Reed to the deck. Leaping to her
feet, Jaime stared at his body twitching in the final agony. She
turned and started for the door, but then stopped at the sound of
shouting right outside.

She didn’t pause. Turning, she dashed down
the steps.

In spite of the sand spread around, the
galleon’s deck was slick with blood. Bodies, lines, and splintered
wood littered the deck, but Malcolm—cold needles of despair
beginning to creep into his soul—continued to slash his way through
the throngs of fierce fighters.

Nowhere above decks, she had to be below, he
decided, driving his sword into the chest of a foe. There, beyond
the riotous combat of a dozen men, a door stood open, and Malcolm
lurched toward it, shoving aside those in his path.

He had to find her.

Blindly, she dashed down the steps. Downward
she flew through wisps of rising smoke, falling more than running.
But downward, ever downward.

She knew they would be coming after her.
There was nowhere for her but down. And all the while the acrid,
burning smell of death warned her of what lay below.

She slipped once, going down, clinging to the
treads until she regained her footing. And then downward she went
again. The sound of voices at the first landing forced her to
continue, the shouts so close in the smoky air. She didn’t know
what would be waiting for her at the bottom, but she knew a hellish
wind was swirling about her here.

At the next landing she stopped. Flattening
her body into the shadows, she listened. There were voices again.
Men cursing in anger. Then she heard the voices coming toward her.
Pushing away from the wall, she moved blindly along the passage
way, glancing over her shoulder as she ran.

As she banged solidly into him, Jaime felt a
viselike hand lock on her wrist, and she turned.

Edward.

As Malcolm ripped his dirk from the jailer’s
dead body, the first of the gunnery crews attacked him. Cutting the
three men down with sword and dagger, the Highlander leaped past
them toward the steps.

“Jaime!” he shouted into the smoking darkness
below.

When Malcolm dropped down to the next deck,
the second group of gunners was waiting for him. They came at him
from three sides at once, the bloodlust in their eyes.

Grasping the wrist of the first
knife-wielding attacker, Malcolm drove the weapon into the throat
of the man behind him, and then—without pausing—the Highlander
threw his attacker into the body of the third. As the two warriors
scurried to their feet, Malcolm ran them both through, pinning them
together against the bulkhead.

“Jaime!” he shouted again.

Hearing nothing but the sounds of battle
above, the Highlander drew his dirk and turned once again to the
steps leading below.

“You look as if you’ve seen the dead rise, my
raven.” Edward’s one hand held tightly to Jaime’s wrist. “But I
suppose you are not accustomed to having someone come back and
haunt you.”

She felt the shiver race through her, and
Jaime clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. But her
eyes, riveted to his face, convinced her that Edward Howard was
alive... and then a different kind of fear took hold of her. A
patch of matted and bloody hair at the side of his head told of her
failed effort to kill him before.

Edward’s hand grabbed Jaime roughly by the
hair, and with unleashed ferocity, he slammed her hard against the
wall. She gasped for breath, sure that her teeth had come loose
with the blow. He pressed his forearm against her chest, leaning
all of his weight on her.

“Aren’t you wondering how I come to be
alive?”

She stared him in the eye, all her hate and
anger welling up within her, waiting to boil over.

“My man Reed was waiting for us that night.
It was he that came looking for me in your room. It was he that
found me unconscious. You see, my raven, if your foul-serving woman
hadn’t scratched me in the back with my own dagger, then the good
jailer could have come and joined in our little party.” Edward’s
eyes bore into hers as he released her hair and groped malevolently
at her. “And where was it that we left off?”

Jaime spit in his face. “Bastard,” she
swore.

He drew back and laughed, wiping the spittle
from his cheek. “You see, I was very disappointed with the way
things worked out. So to remedy the past, I thought of this little
game.”

“Only a madman like you would think of the
killing going on above as a game.”

“Ah, the ever considerate Jaime.” He jammed
his forearm higher, against her throat, pushing her still harder
against the wall. “But why is it, you are never considerate of me?
You see, little raven, you are the reason for my ruin. Because of
you, I am an outlaw to my king and a disgrace to my family.”

“I had nothing to do with your ruin.”

“But you did,” he insisted. “If you had not
lain with the Scot like some whore—if you had come to Nonsuch
Palace and wed me as we planned...”

“You only wanted me for the power I would
give you with the king.”

Edward laughed. “So she knows!”

Jaime felt her whole body swell with anger.
“You bastard. You stupid, half-witted brute. Did you think that you
could fool me forever? Did you think I would go through a marriage
with you by force? How could I, when I am in love with...”

“Your pathetic Highland dolt?” he finished.
“Aye, you heard me! Who else but a dolt would pay Reed’s own spies
to take you to your ship. They were waiting for you. Didn’t you
wonder how you were brought back to me? It was one of them who,
after dropping you off, boarded the vessel secretly. The others
carried back the news to us. All we had to do was catch you. The
dolt. Of course, he’ll be dead after I’m finished with him.”

Malcolm’s voice, calling her name, cut
through the darkness.

“Say all you will,” Jaime responded. “But it
is your ship that is now under attack. And it will be your carcass
floating in the sea.”

“But at least we will be floating together,
you and me,” Jaime saw the flash of his dagger. She drew in a sharp
breath as he brought the blade to her throat.

“Perhaps in the next life, my raven, we will
pick up where we left off.”

At the sound of Malcolm's boots hitting the
decking behind them, Edward whirled and backed away, dragging Jaime
with him as a shield, his dagger still at her throat.

The Highlander’s face was a steely mask of
fury and hate, and he advanced on the pair, his dirk held high.

“Hold, Scot,” Edward hissed.

“Let her go,” Malcolm growled ominously.

The Englishman sneered. “Lay down your
dagger.”

Jaime watched as the thought flickered across
Malcolm's face. And then his face hardened.

“Kill him, Malcolm,” she cried. “He’ll cut my
throat, no matter what you do.”

The warrior stared at her a moment, and then
turned his gaze back to Edward.

“There is no way out, fiend,” Malcolm
growled. “‘Tis just you and me now, and there will be no stabbing
me in the back.”

“Aye, so it is. But if you intend to send me
to hell, Highlander, at least I won’t be going alone.”

With an evil smile, Edward Howard pressed the
blade to Jaime’s throat. But the slashing motion he had planned
withered in an instant as Malcolm’s dirk whistled through the smoky
air, piercing his eye and coming to rest deep in the demon’s
brain.

Jaime and Malcolm clung together in the
darkness at the base of the steps, their hearts pounding as one.
Far above them, the sound of fighting suddenly ceased, and as they
looked at each other, a rousing cheer could be heard.

“Do you think that was a Scottish cheer?”
Jaime asked, gazing into her intended’s eyes.

“Aye, lass. I’ve no doubt of it.”

“Then we’re truly going home?”

“Aye, Jaime,” Malcolm answered as Alexander’s
voice called down from above. “We’re going home.”

The Isle of Skye, Scotland

Blades of golden light from the small slits
of windows cut brightly through swirling clouds of incense. At the
altar of the Priory chapel, in the sight of a congregation filled
with islanders and family, the bride and groom exchanged loving
glances, and listened to the ancient priest who stood at the altar
with his back to them.