The Intended

by May McGoldrick

  “I’m sorry,” Jaime said, casting about the room for something to offer him. “I have neither wine...nor anything else to offer you.”

  The civility in her tone, Malcolm was quite certain, would tear his heart out. He wished she would be more angry—curse him and revile him. He would have felt better about treatment such as that.

  “I need nothing more, lass, than what is in this room already. I only came down that wall with the hope of seeing you.”

  Jaime stiffened slightly as she moved toward the fireplace, but Malcolm could see no other response to his words. Wordlessly, she crouched before the fire and began to add pieces of wood to the warming blaze.

  Malcolm admired the flickering glow of the rising flames on her pale profile. Standing only a couple of steps away, he fought the urge to reach down and pull her into his arms. To hold her until she granted the forgiveness he sought. In the light of the fire, Jaime appeared so beautiful, and yet so distant.

  She held her hand out to feel the heat. Her eyes were focused on the crackling wood.

  “I don’t know what you want, but I am finished with what I was doing here.” Jaime gestured vaguely toward the pile of instruments by the door as she straightened up. “So I should be leaving, as you should as well, before you’re caught here. Of course, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Just unbar the door, if you please, before you take your leave.” Jaime found herself talking aimlessly, so she stopped and eyed the door.

  Malcolm’s hand on her elbow stopped her from moving away.

  “Don’t go, lass,” he said gently. Her gaze was locked on his fingers where they rested on the sleeve of her dress. “I didn’t risk breaking my neck, Jaime, to visit an empty music room.”

  The quick flash of her eyes, the sudden blush on her cheeks, reminded the Highlander that Jaime just might think he’d stolen away for another moment like the one they’d shared two nights earlier. He shook his head to the unasked question.

  “Do you think, Jaime, that we might just stay here and talk?” Malcolm suggested, trying to ease her obvious concern. “It seems that we’ve not had a chance to spend even a moment together without...without something getting in the way.”

  Jaime hesitated—silent and unsure. There were so many things that she wished to say—a moment such as this was exactly what she had hoped for when she had scaled the walls to his room. But now...something in his soft words confused her. She wanted to trust this offer of peace. She wanted desperately to be near him.

  “Stay, lass.”

  She saw the way his hand dropped from her arm, reluctantly, slowly. She knew he had the power to force her, the ability to charm her. She knew he could do whatever he wished with her. But instead, he was allowing her to decide.

  His soft voice struck at the heart of her concerns. “About what happened between us that other night...”

  “Don’t!” Her gaze snapped up to his face. She couldn’t do this. Her face burned with embarrassment at the mere mention of her foolishness. “I’ll stay, but only so long as...”

  Her words trailed off, but his slow and solemn nod told her that he understood—he would not broach that subject. At least, not now.

  She watched him glance about the room and then stride over to two heavy carved chairs sitting against one wall. She watched his powerful shoulders, the confident steps as he carried the chairs back to her with ease. He’d climbed down the palace wall in the pouring rain as if it required no more effort than walking in a garden. And his face showed no fear. She wondered at his lack of concern over the possibility of being discovered in this room. But then, perhaps she herself needed to be reminded that in climbing up to his chamber, she had acted as foolishly herself. In spite of herself, she smiled at the thought that perhaps there was something in their childhood so far to the north that had taught them to defy such dangers.

  “I have an idea,” he said with an easy smile. “Shall we pretend we are at Dunvegan Castle, m’lady?”

  She glanced at Malcolm’s handsome face as he held one of the chairs for her to sit in. He certainly had the ability to charm her, she thought as she began to sit.

  “Nay!” she burst out, leaping out of the chair again. “What are we doing? Malcolm, you’ll be put in chains if you’re discovered here!”

  “Don’t even think it, lass!” he scoffed, patting the chair. “Not a soul is up and about but us. Who but two hardy Highlanders would be roaming about on such a night.”

  “I know that Surrey and Lady Frances have retired.”

  “True enough.” Malcolm smiled. “Sit down, Jaime, and let us imagine ourselves at Dunvegan, with the seabirds wheeling about in a dance overhead, and the gray seals barking and courting in the loch. ‘Tis early summer there, too, my dove, and the season for wooing is hard upon the happy beasts. Here we sit in the Great Hall of Dunvegan.”

  “Perhaps it would be safer if we are at Benmore,” she answered, keeping an eye on him and cautiously taking her seat. Dunvegan Castle, ancient fortress of the MacLeod clan, stood on a rock overlooking sparkling blue waters and guarding the western reaches of the Isle of Skye. But Dunvegan was Malcolm’s castle—a place that Jaime would never go unless she were accompanied by her family. A place that now held memories for her of humiliation and sadness. On the other hand, Benmore Castle, sitting high above the River Spey, had been the Macpherson clan’s stronghold for centuries. Jaime had been raised there. It was the place where she had first set eyes on Malcolm MacLeod.

  “Nay, lass. Not Benmore,” the Highlander replied, shaking his head as he sat down, drawing the other chair close. “I am afraid that cannot be so.”

  “And why not, I’d like to know?”

  “The silence,” he whispered, looking about the room. “Have you ever known Benmore Castle to be so silent and still?”

  She cocked her head as a smile stole across her face. What Malcolm said was true. There wasn’t a sound. “Never!” she answered. “Benmore is a far noisier place than Kenninghall.”

  “Have you ever come across a room at Benmore so empty?”

  There always seemed to be—at any time, day or night—a dozen or so children running through the friendly interiors of Benmore Castle. Perhaps this had been the reason why she had originally opened the music room to the younger, lower-born students. She looked about the small chamber. Active or silent, the room was her favorite place of refuge in this palace.

  But Malcolm was right. It was empty. And for the first time, she realized that it wasn’t the charm of the room or its warmth that drew her here, but its solitude. It was a place where she could be alone—it was a workroom, a place of instruction. A place for her to practice her music and dream of happiness.

  “Never,” she whispered, her eyes drawn to his. “Nay, Malcolm. I cannot imagine Benmore like this.”

  “Then ‘tis settled,” he answered. “Close your eyes a moment, and...here we are in Dunvegan Castle.”

  Jaime closed her eyes and conjured a vision of the MacLeod stronghold. In her mind’s eye, she could see clearly the thick stone walls, the towers and chambers added over the centuries. She thought of the last time she had sailed into Loch Dunvegan, but then she stopped, quickly pushing from her mind the recollections of that last visit. That day, as she’d gazed on the great structure looming over the water, she had thought that she was about to become the wife of the laird of the MacLeods. That day, he had wed another, and Jaime forced the thought from her consciousness.

  “In some ways, though,” Malcolm continued after a pause. “I think Dunvegan Castle may be a far more dreadful place than here, even. You’re correct, Jaime. I don’t think...”

  “It isn’t,” she interrupted quietly, seeing the light gray walls rising above her. “The Isle of Skye is wild and beautiful from the crags and peaks of the Cuillens to the breakers off Rubha Hunish. Truly, Malcolm, you must be a barbarian to think it dreadful.”

  “Ah, but it is, lass,” he pressed, affably baiting her. “Dreadful, indeed. Why, don’t
you remember the way the heavy mists can settle in for days, only to break out in the end with a sky so blue it’ll hurt your eyes?

  She could almost feel the gentle brush of the sea breeze against her face. “Aye, I can see your point.

  “I knew you would agree.” He shook his head. “You certainly cannot have forgotten those contemptible knaves who inhabit the isles—with their rude tongues and unmannerly ways?”

  “Aye, the whisper of their heavenly accent comes to me even as you speak,” she answered, looking at him with an air of mild accusation. “And to walk down the paths of Skye only to have every crofter, fisherman, and herding lass smile with pleasure at the sight of you is a disconcerting thing, indeed. Aye, and to think—from the time of the Great Flood, these folk have survived in the face of it all—thrived, even, against the evils of both man and nature. There’s something very wrong in their being so good-natured.”

  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 wo
rld.

  “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.”