“You never misled me, but do not blame me for your misfortunes.” Jaime wrenched her wrist free. She already knew that he spoke the truth. He had never asked her to marry him. In her mind, though, he was still guilty of allowing her to hope. But she wouldn’t reveal that to him.
Taking a deep breath, she reached down to undo the wrapping around his head. She would finish her tasks here quickly and flee this room. Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to concentrate.
“But I do blame you,” he said finally, his voice severe. “All that I suffer finds its origin in you.”
“You give me more credit than I deserve.”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Think what you will,” she replied quietly. “It is a coward’s way, to be sure.”
Malcolm stared straight ahead for a long moment as she unwound the outer linen wrapping.
“It all began at that cursed wedding, didn’t it?” he said grimly. Turning his head, he looked up into her shocked expression. “When you burst into that chapel at Newabbey wearing that dress. It was a wedding dress, wasn’t it? I wanted to think it was just a childish prank. But it wasn’t, was it?”
She peeled off the bloodstained linens, and gazed with unseeing eyes at the wounds beneath his matted hair.
“Was it?” he asked with some impatience.
Needing time to compose herself, she moved to a table across the chamber and carried back a wooden bowl of water.
“WAS IT?” he shouted, glaring at her angrily.
“What is past, is past!” she answered sharply. “You are a married man now, and a baser knave than I thought if you cannot leave off tormenting me so. Why should you go on pondering an incident dead and buried?”
She soaked the dressings and began to wash away the dried blood in his hair, feigning a calmness that they both knew was a lie. His eyes followed the movement of her hand, a frown on his flushed brow telling of his agitation. She couldn’t hold her tongue, but perhaps by pretending to be indifferent, she might more easily ignore his question.
“I never had a chance to compliment you on your choice. She is indeed a beautiful woman.” Jaime’s attention was drawn to the sharp movement of his head as he turned his face from her. She pressed her lips together tightly. How he must miss her, she thought. “I never even asked you her name, but if you don’t care to talk about her...”
Her words trailed off, and the ensuing silence hung heavily in the room. Then his eyes turned upward, and he stared into her face. “Flora,” he said quietly. “Her name was Flora.”
Her name was Flora, she repeated silently, his words echoing in a hollow place deep within her. Her name was Flora. The word reverberated in a soft and velvet tones. It clung to the walls of her heart.
“Was?” she croaked.
He turned his face toward the window.
“She died only a month after we wed.”
He fell silent as an overwhelming sense of guilt, of grief for him, settled in her heart. Suddenly, she wanted to reach out to him and soothe his inner pain. But she held back, knowing that he would toss any gesture back in her face. Then, as she gazed at his grim profile, emotion drained out of his face, and his expression became calm, thoughtful.
Malcolm turned back to her. “She was very young.”
Jaime lowered her eyes and stared at her hands, ashamed now of all the times she’d thought of the two of them in anger.
“Have you no interest in how she died?”
She shook her head.
“Do you not wish to hear every detail?”
“Nay, Malcolm.”
“Or of the pain she suffered?”
She shook her head again, her eyes misting. “Please don’t.”
Malcolm gazed on her, his watchful eyes searching her face as if he was seeing her for the first time.
“I should leave you to your rest,” she said quietly, suddenly uncomfortable. “Your head wounds no longer need to be covered. I’ll have Caddy...”
Before she could finish her sentence, his hand again took hold of her wrist. “Stay.”
The simple word made her heart leap. Even in the fading light, she could see that his eyes held nothing of the anger she’d seen there before. She nodded slowly, and remained where she stood. His eyes turned away, but they were clear as he began a story in the growing gloom. A story to fill the emptiness of the night.
“It is jarring to think that I knew so little of my wife when she was alive, and yet learned so much about her after she died.” He unconsciously let go of her wrist. “Though I knew nothing of it until after our marriage, Flora had been a sickly child since birth. But being the only bairn of Duncan, leader of the MacDonald clan, Flora had always been carefully protected, her sickness kept secret from all who lived on the island. I do not know whose idea it was first, but when she grew old enough to wed, everything seemed to point to a marriage between the two of us, a marriage that would unite the MacDonalds and the MacLeods. Such a union was favored in the councils of both clans. Everything seemed perfect. Both Duncan and I knew it would save the lives of many victims of our senseless clan feuding. The union would improve the lot of all who lived under my rule.”
Jaime sat down quietly on the edge of his bed.
“Flora and I met only once before our wedding, in a meeting arranged and overseen by members of both of the clans’ councils. I should have guessed it then. She was so pale and so very, very thin. Even at the prospect of the upcoming wedding, she sat silent, hardly responsive at all to the excitement. I was prepared to pass it off as shyness, but Duncan—afraid, I suppose, of me backing out of the contract—was quick to say that Flora had the most delicate of nerves.”
“You mean you never talked to her alone until after you wed?”
“Not even after. Alone, that is!” he said with a short laugh. “The MacDonalds always made sure there were a great many present whenever we met. And then on that awful day, halfway through the wedding feast, she took to her sickbed. Not a good omen for a long marriage, I’m afraid, and it threw quite a cloud over the wedding feast. I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it. I believe you were still in Skye. She died in that same bed scarcely a month later. Her father later told me that she had consented to the marriage with the hope of being able to bear a child. She had known that an offspring of ours could bring a lasting peace to the islanders of Skye and Lewis. I suppose she hoped to be remembered for something more than a killing sickness and short life.”
And here she had been, Jaime thought grimly, sitting in France, entertaining the fancy of becoming his wife. How selfish of her to think only of her own happiness. How loyal he’d been in looking after his people and their welfare. He turned his dark gaze upon her. But he’d never told her, Jaime thought, looking back at him. He’d never made her understand his motives for marrying another. But then, why should he? In the long months that had followed, she’d sorted out the events that had led to her misunderstanding. The letters prior to the wedding had all been misinterpreted by her because of her childish hopes. He had never intended to marry her, but in her adolescent infatuation, she had let herself think so. Into every letter she had injected her own desires and intentions, including that last letter from Elizabeth and Ambrose. Everyone had assumed Jaime knew of Malcolm’s upcoming wedding to Flora MacDonald. Their excitement about meeting her on the Isle of Skye had been for no other reason than in seeing her again. Oh, what a fool she’d been. But fool or no, she had suffered a misery that had deadened something inside her.
“I never knew Flora in the way a husband knows his wife. We never had a chance to develop any real affection; we certainly never learned to love each other as a wedded couple should. But I respected her, and I admired her courage. She faced her fate with the fortitude of a warrior.” He stroked his fingers along the line of his jaw, momentarily lost to some thought. “I suppose ‘twas all for the best that the end came as quickly as it did.” His dark eyes fixed on hers. “Now you know it all.”
; “I am sorry, Malcolm.”
He shrugged his shoulders and looked away. After a moment, though, he turned and faced her. “I answered your question, but you’ve ignored mine.”
“Your question?” she repeated vaguely, feigning ignorance.
“Aye, in coming to Skye. That dress.”
“‘Tis not important.” It was Jaime’s turn to shrug her shoulders. She had no desire to answer his question. After hearing all she had about Flora and his marriage, Jaime would die before admitting to him what had been foolish, childish hopes. “But tell me, Malcolm. What happens now?”
“Here? You tell me. I am the prisoner.”
“Nay, I mean at the Skye,” she corrected. “Between the MacLeods and MacDonalds.”
“What else? They are back to their old bickering once again.”
“But why?” Jaime asked sharply. “That is how they honor the woman’s memory?”
Malcolm’s eyebrows cocked with surprise. “Jaime, dearest, they hardly even took note of her passing. The fishermen still fight over the best spots to fish. The crofters still raise holy hell every time a sheep gets filched. Every time some bonnie MacDonald lass gets whistled at by a MacLeod lad, I have to send in warriors to separate them.”
“Isn’t there anything you and Duncan can do? To make them live together peaceably?”
“Aye, we break a few heads when we need to, and we reason with them when they’ll listen.” Malcolm lifted one knee and absently leaned it against Jaime’s back. “Duncan’s a decent enough man. There is no feud between us. But the rest...they are islanders. They’ve distrusted, even hated, one another for a thousand years. It’ll take more than the wishes of a dying woman to heal those wounds. The two clans need to be bound by blood. They are—every one of them—as thick-headed as any Highlander, and the menfolk will steal a sheep and kill one another with as much joy as bedding a woman.” His gaze rested on her mischievously. “But now that you mention it, Duncan and I did talk of a plan. Of one that in time might bear fruit.”
She brightened at once. “Tell me.”
“Well, Duncan MacDonald has taken a bonnie new wife these six months, and when I left for Rotterdam, the old bull was—by all accounts—busily working on producing a new heir.”
Jaime blushed at the image, but then the ramifications of Malcolm’s announcement set in. “And? I suppose he expects you to marry this new offspring?”
A smile tugged at the corner of Malcolm’s mouth. “Well, I thank you, lass. That’s a high compliment from you thinking I’ll be...well, up to it so late in life.”
She flushed crimson. “What I...what I meant was...” Jaime cleared her throat, trying to sound unperturbed. But with his leg resting comfortably against her, it was just too unsettling for her to sit any longer beside him on the bed. She thought it much wiser to stand.
A firm hand descended on her arm, though, forcing her to remain where she was. “Aye? You were saying?”
Jaime stared down into her lap. The veins in his broad, tanned hand looked like strong cords running into thick, powerful fingers. Her face burning, Jaime forced out her words. “Many men...many marry younger women...later in life.”
“Ah! You’re assuming, of course, that Duncan’s record with this wife will turn out better than the rest.”
“The rest?” Startled, she looked up at him. “Have there been many?”
“I believe the man’s buried at least five wives—and the Lord knows how many mistresses the old bull has had.”
She stared at him wide-eyed. Wives? Mistresses? This was certainly far different from the way the Macphersons behave. Her uncle Alec was laird—he’d even ruled the Isles of Skye and Lewis while Malcolm was a young lad—but she was certain he’d always been devoted to one woman, Fiona. Aye, devoted. At least, she was fairly certain.
“Duncan had only one child out of all those women,” Malcolm continued. “So the chances of him having another heir is a wee bit remote. But he is not giving up, by the Rood, no matter how hard he might have to try. And so, lass, who am I to discourage him? Though Duncan’s uglier than an old dog, this new one is quite bonny and young. Who am I to hinder him!”
“Then, if your plan is not to wait and to marry...his next infant heir...”
“Assuming it is a girl...”
“Aye. If you’re not going to wait, then how do you expect to bind the two clans?”
“Well, lass, I’ve been thinking about coming up with an heir of my own,” he said, his face growing sober.
“Oh?”
“Aye. That way, if Duncan and his new wife ever produce a bairn...well, then that’ll be something for our children to work out between them.”
“Of course!” she replied lightly. “That sounds simple enough.”
“I am glad you think so, Jaime.” His fingers locked like a vise on her arm, and there was a gleam in his eye. “Then you’re ready to have my bairn?”
Chapter 14
“A midsummer wedding, perhaps?” the duke of Norfolk suggested, eyeing Robert Radcliffe, earl of Essex and new Lord Great Chamberlain, across the table.
“That’s too soon,” Essex responded, looking noncommittally at a parchment in his hand. “Though we expect to receive word any day now regarding the negotiations with the queen’s family, it is unreasonable to expect the king to officially annul his marriage to Anne of Cleves until the end of July.”
“A fall wedding, then,” the duke growled irritably.
“Nay, Norfolk. Much too late for King’s liking.”
Catherine Howard picked up her cup of wine and glared petulantly at the two men huddled at one end of the table. Her uncle and the Lord Chamberlain were two of the dullest old men alive—she was convinced of it. Staring at the Lord Chamberlain’s bald head, she decided he would probably collapse into a pile of dust if someone were to shake him. She looked at the servants and clerks standing in two small groups by the door and wondered which one of them would be man enough to do it. With a quiet sigh, she glanced back at the two noblemen discussing her wedding—every detail of the blasted thing.
Catherine was bored. She couldn’t recall ever being quite so bored. She had been standing in this room for over half an hour listening to their drivel. Why, she thought angrily, couldn’t they just finish this? And why did she need to be here, anyway?
Sighing audibly this time, she turned her back on the two men, and her gaze came to rest on Edward, sitting at the far end of the long table. Her eyes boldly devoured all of him. His handsome face wore an expression of boredom, as well, and his eyes flashed only momentarily in her direction. She could tell he was forcing himself to look past her; even his look of ennui had vanished. But she knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes off her for long.
Making Edward crazy with desire had always been a favorite sport for Catherine, and one in which she was quite adept. Throwing a casual glance over her shoulder at the two older men, Catherine sauntered slowly down the room, holding the cool cup against her cheek with one hand and letting her other hand trail over the backs of the carved wood chairs. Her eyes focused on Edward’s face—on his gray eyes, his full lips. Gazing at that mouth, she could even now feel his lips and tongue tugging at her nipples. Oh, how he had made her cry out in ecstasy, his long, thick shaft nestled deep within her.
Feeling fresh desire stir deep in her belly, Catherine continued to make her way toward him. Edward had pushed his chair back from the table, and he sat with his legs spread before him, one hand resting on the polished wood surface. By his hand on the table sat a pitcher of wine. Catherine’s chest heaved slightly as she considered what would happen if the two of them were alone right now. She would move directly in front of him and raise her skirts. As always, he would be far too impatient to let her undress. She would climb onto his lap, straddling him. It would be a simple business to free his manhood of its codpiece. She could feel the heat of his breath on her skin as his strong hands pulled down her dress. His teeth and tongue, rough on her nipple. His ar
ousal, pulsing and hard, probing at her moist folds and driving deep between her legs. Catherine paused, shuddering involuntarily with the exhilaration of the vision.
Letting out a long breath, she moved even closer. The two gruff voices droned on behind her. Catherine thrilled at the sight of Edward’s eyes, now focused on her every step, rising only to linger over at her swaying hips, rising again and halting on her breasts as she laid the cup against her skin there. She felt the wetness between her legs and the tightness in her middle that cried out for the man’s touch.
Catherine stopped beside him and, with a casual wave, dismissed an approaching servant, picking up the pitcher of wine herself. Her skirts brushed seductively against the knee of one of his high boots.
“Did you have an enjoyable morning, cousin?” she asked sweetly, filling her cup to the top.
“Most...entertaining!” he growled softly.
“The hunt went well?”
“The game here is...so abundant!” His eyes lingered meaningfully on her breasts before glancing away toward the servants. They were too far away to hear anything.
“Ah, but so little time for the truly pleasurable pursuits!”
“Aye, cousin.” His gaze turned slowly and bore into her eyes. “And it would appear the time for those pleasures is growing even shorter.”
“You could take me right here, if that would be more to your liking.” Catherine’s eyes roamed the room. Her leg rubbed suggestively at his knee.
A wry smile crossed Edward’s face. “I think that might just upset the negotiations going on at the other end.”
“But it would certainly add some excitement.”
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