The Intended

by May McGoldrick

  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.

  Chapter 27

  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!”

  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 mor
e--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 anythi
ng.”

  “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.

  Catherine’s voice was low and insinuating. “I hear you yourself are to be congratulated. I heard news of your own upcoming wedding.”

  As Jaime just stared at her cousin, every last vestige of the joy that had filled her soul while she’d been with Malcolm, drained out of her. What was she to do? How could she argue and set the record straight with these Howards? How could she speak her peace to this woman, when she still had not had a chance to talk to Edward, himself?