A freshly dug grave in a town half destroyed by fire. She, a small and lonely lass, standing beside it. She didn’t know whom they were burying in it, for her mother had gone to heaven—that was what she’d been told. The warm embrace of her uncle, Philip. The little secret that the two of them shared—that Philip was really good, loving Elizabeth, disguised as a man for years. Working as an artist to provide for them. To protect them.
Jaime remembered the long journey after her mother’s death—the guilt—the unanswered prayers for forgiveness. She had been certain then that it had been her fault that her mother had gone away. She had even wondered whether God had decided to punish her for loving Elizabeth better than her mother.
The large hands and strong arms embracing her there in the damp of the churchyard. The deep voice of a scar-faced man promising to take care of them and never let Elizabeth leave for heaven. She could still see his deep blue eyes—the color of the sea on a sunny day. Eyes shining with goodness and friendship. Ambrose Macpherson. The man she would learn to love as her father.
Jaime was suddenly aware of her body beginning to shiver. Nay, Henry of England had never been her father—Ambrose was. And Elizabeth had always been there. As far back as memory traveled, Elizabeth had been there.
Malcolm's arms encircled her, and Jaime leaned back into the hands that drew her to him. Wordlessly, she turned and hid her face against his chest, finding comfort in the strength and the feeling that emanated from his presence.
He held her tight, his hands gently stroking her back.
“I am sorry, Jaime,” he whispered softly into her ear. “I am sorry that the truth had to come out this way.” She raised her eyes to his face. “What the duke knows is the truth, and ‘tis a secret that has been well guarded. I’ve known the folk you’ve called kin for most of my life—and I want you to believe me when I tell you that they’ve always loved you as their own daughter. And the only reason for them to hold back any of this has been for no other purpose than protecting you from...”
When Malcolm's words faltered, Jaime finished them for him. “...From the wickedness that I now must face. From the dangers I have willingly exposed myself to!”
He pushed a strand of her hair behind an ear as he looked into her eyes. “Are you angry with them? At Elizabeth and Ambrose for what they have done?”
“Nay!” she cried, surprised at his question. “How could I? How could I be angry at those two for loving me, for protecting me, and for caring for me as their own child.” Jaime rested the side of her face against his chest and listened for a moment to his strong heart beating. “They never treated me any differently from my brothers, Michael and Thomas, and I have always loved them for it. Malcolm, I have always known I was not their true child.”
He paused, then took a hold of her chin, raising it so he could look into her eyes. “You knew the truth?”
“That part of it,” she answered. “I always knew my true mother was Mary, and I remember the journey on which she died. But I never knew how she died.”
“Aye,” Malcolm said. “What I said was also the truth.”
Jaime turned her eyes away as they misted, but then she looked back into his face. “And about my father. Though I knew Ambrose was not my true father, I learned to know him through my aunt’s eyes and to love him for his tender care of all of us.”
“But you always called them your parents.”
“Because I wanted them to be. Because they are! And I prayed to God that they would think of me as their own!” Suddenly, Jaime felt her throat close, choking her. With an effort, she swallowed her emotion.
“You know that they do, lass.”
“Aye, but there is more. To this day, ‘tis difficult for me to admit that just days before Mary lost her life, I secretly wished for Elizabeth to be my true mother.” She dashed away a glistening tear. “You see, the bare memories of Mary that I have are always tainted by the images of us in Florence, and of her...rejection of me. But Elizabeth...Elizabeth always showed her love. Whatever my mother failed to be, my aunt was.”
A few more tears rolled down her cheeks. Suddenly embarrassed, she lowered her head. “How foolish of me to say all this. To blame her after all these years—after all that she must have suffered—to die so young, in such a horrible way!”
Malcolm raised her chin and looked into her glistening eyes. “It is only foolish to blame yourself for how you feel!”
“She did change so much before she died,” Jaime whispered. “I think she even tried to make peace with me—as few as the days were that she had left, she did her best to show me that she loved me. I know that’s what I should remember her by and not what went before.”
“We don’t choose what we remember and what we forget, lass. But I believe that, in time, once you’ve learned to forgive, those last days with her may be all you remember her by.”
She nodded in response and once again melted into the warmth of his embrace.
“You never knew about Henry of England, did you?”
Jaime shook her head. “And I don’t care to know anything more about him. To me he is nothing more than a lecherous man who has brought only misery to so many women in his wretched life.”
“But you are his daughter.”
“And that means nothing to me, Malcolm. Mary could have slept with the lowliest of peasants, it makes no difference to me.” Jaime realized that her closed fists were planted firmly on his chest. “With regard to my life, ‘tis not the one who planted the seed that matters, but rather those who raised me. Those are the ones that I cherish.”
Malcolm gathered her tightly to his chest. “I wish Elizabeth and Ambrose could have been here to hear these words. Your mother was heartsick with worry before I left Scotland, fretting over how you would feel when you finally knew the truth.”
Jaime pulled back and looked questioningly into Malcolm’s eyes. “You spoke to my parents about this before you left Scotland?”
“Well, aye, Jaime.” The Highlander cast around for the right words. “Elizabeth thought...well, that if I were to come across you in my travels...”
“You said you were going to Rotterdam, not to England. How could you come across me...?” Jaime stared at the suddenly sheepish expression on his face. “Malcolm! What are you holding back?”
“What makes you think...”
She thumped her fists once solidly on his chest, her eyes blazing. “I’ve had quite enough of playing the half-wit for one day. Don’t treat me like one any longer.”
He gathered her hands into his and brought them to his lips. “Never, Jaime. I shall never again treat you ill nor think you any less than the marvel that you truly are.”
“Don’t try flattering me with your Highland charms, Malcolm MacLeod. Speak the truth. For what reason did my mother take you into their confidence? I know Elizabeth, and she would not have spoken of this to anyone unless there were a good reason for it. So tell me what reason you had for knowing, Malcolm.”
The Highlander placed both hands on her shoulders. “Ambrose and Elizabeth told me everything just before I left Scotland on this trip...well, because...” He paused and looked deep into her eyes. “Because they knew I was to be a son to them.”
“A son?”
“Aye. Well, a son-in-law!” he clarified. “Husband to their daughter! They thought ‘twas important for me to know the truth, and also they felt that it imperative that I tell you everything...before I spirited you out of England.”
Her heart soared at his words, but she shook her head, perplexed by them, as well. “Elizabeth and Ambrose knew of our intended marriage before I knew of it? You asked their permission first—and they accepted—without knowing if I would even have you?”
The Highlander took both her hands in his. “I don’t think such things as logic or propriety apply to us, my love. After all, you yourself announced our marriage to the world without ever consulting me on the subject. You did all of that before the age of five.”
&nb
sp; “Not before, you bold-faced liar...I was five!”
“Very well!” he responded, conceding with a shrug of his shoulders and a crooked smile. “Have it your way. But even so, after what you’ve done, I cannot see any wrong on my part in speaking with them!”
She placed her hands around his neck and glared into his eyes. “Whatever I did, m’lord, I did before your wedding. Things changed after that day. Or have you forgotten that I was hurt, wounded, humiliated!”
“Nay, lass,” Malcolm replied, his face growing serious. “How could I forget such a thing?”
“How indeed?” Jaime looked into his solid, handsome face. How long had she loved this face, the look of tenderness in these dark eyes. A feeling of warmth, of happiness flowed through her. “But, Malcolm, you were not headed for England. As far as you were concerned I was staying in this land for good. As far as anyone could know, I had no intention of ever returning to Scotland!”
“‘Tis true. And I knew that you hated me, as well! I remember very well, my love.”
“Then what, in the Holy Mother’s name, gave you the idea...the idea...”
He placed his hands lightly around her waist. “The idea of seeking your hand in marriage by talking to your parents first? Of traveling to Rotterdam with plans already in place to come and get you? Of having thought so far ahead as to have a ship meet us on the coast of England at the right time?”
She couldn’t find words for the uneasiness that was beginning to settle in. This was madness—he couldn’t possibly have known.
“I had a dream,” he whispered as he nestled her closer to his body.
She stared at him in awe.
“Aye.” He nodded. “You forget that I am the laird of a people who believe in fairies and spirits.”
“And the dream told you what was to come?”
“Only partly, lass. James, the seer, came to me in this dream.”
“Who is this James, Malcolm?” she asked softly.
His hand caressed her back. “An old man, ancient when I was no more than a bairn. To everyone’s thinking, he died long before you ever set foot on the Isle of Skye. When I was a lad, I used to see him sitting by the gate of the old Priory and talking to all who passed. Many islanders said that he had the second sight. Others said, when the old prioress wasn’t in earshot, that he was a spirit—passing through the old man’s ailing frame for the time being. There were even stories of him appearing to the king before Flodden Field and warning him of his coming death. And there were many other tales of James giving warning of what was to come. He always scared me as a lad—until one day when his words actually saved my life.”
“He foretold some danger?” she asked.
“That he did!” Malcolm added. “Danger to me and to Fiona. But being eager, I ignored his warning. And when it all came true, he appeared to Alec Macpherson and sent him to save us.”
Jaime ran a light finger over his knotted brow. “You believe in his magic.”
“I believe in his sight,” Malcolm corrected. “He disappeared after that, and everyone figured he was dead. But I saw him again—the day of the gathering when I became a laird. He was there. Many whispered ‘twas James who had hidden the Fairy Flag for so long, waiting for a just man to become laird of the MacLeods. Others must have seen him, as well, for word of his presence there spread like a moorfire through the Great Hall at Dunvegan. I think it convinced many that I was indeed their rightful leader.”
“His spirit may have helped, Malcolm,” Jaime argued. “But you are the true heir.”
He shook his head. “I was Torquil’s only son, but illegitimate, being born out of wedlock. My father had been laird, that was true. But he was a man who had sold his soul to the devil in his youth and had never cared spit for his people during his treacherous and miserable life!” Malcolm let out a deep breath. “And my mother was a simple crofter’s lass seduced or forced—it does not matter which—by Torquil’s wickedness. They told me she didn’t even live long enough to look into my face after I was born.”
Jaime didn’t try to hold back her emotions as she embraced him tightly in her arms. “Oh, Malcolm! We were both such lost souls. Born of fathers who cared nothing for us, and mothers who died too young.”
The Highlander gazed lovingly into her eyes. “And we were both fortunate enough to be found and cared for by folk who loved us as their own. To think that your path and mine would never have crossed at all if it weren’t for these Macphersons.”
Jaime drew back and smiled tenderly as she ran her fingers over the chiseled edges of his broad face. “You said he came to you in your dream? This James, the seer!”
Malcolm nodded. “Aye. After Flora died, my life became as dark and bare as the dungeons at Dunvegan. Empty, but for the ghosts that were haunting me day and night. And believe me when I tell you, ‘twas not love for her nor even grief that created that terrible...void. It was just that I knew I’d done a great wrong somehow. That by marrying her I had betrayed some trust. That I had perhaps even caused her death—and robbed myself of...” He took her chin between his fingers and raised it, until he could gaze into her eyes. “And you had disappeared, you minx. I could find you nowhere.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to see me just then, I think.”
“But I did,” he answered. “That last look you gave me—while you stood in that stunning white dress, by the chapel door. I couldn’t forget that look. You were haunting me, Jaime, even from far away.”
She blushed under his burning gaze. “You said the seer came to you in your dream!”
“He did,” Malcolm’s fingers caressed her face, tracing the outline of her dark hair. “He told me that ‘twas time I came after you.”
“After me?”
He nodded. “He asked me to go to the far land, England, and bring back my true intended to Skye. The one with good blood, he called you. The woman who still suffered by my past wrongdoing. For she’d done nothing to deserve such unhappiness, he said. Then he said ‘twas time—that my soul would never be truly at ease until ‘twas matched with its fitting mate.”
She melted at his words. “How did you know I was the one of whom he spoke?”
“Because I saw you.” Malcolm’s large hands framed her face. His eyes were as dark as the night sky and yet trusting. “As James spoke—there were no other visions before my eyes than you. Your face was all I could see. Your beautiful body wrapped in that white dress, haunting me, punishing me for being such a great fool.”
“Malcolm,” she whispered his name while brushing a kiss across his lips. “I never intended to bring you pain.”
He held back his desire of crushing her mouth to his. “Leave with me next week—go back with me to Scotland.”
Remembering the horrible news that Frances had brought, Jaime jerked back in his arms in a sudden panic. Her eyes filled quickly with tears. “But they are sending me to court before then. I cannot go to Nonsuch Palace, Malcolm. I cannot. But how can I stop them?”
Malcolm's voice was reassuring. “Your father, Henry of England, cannot know of the truth of your identity. If he did—if he had recently learned of it—there would be an entourage of knights and ladies ready and waiting to escort you back to court. I assume that in summoning you to come in such haste, the duke of Norfolk—or Edward—must have some underhanded plan for gaining power or favor with the king.”
“But how will that bring them anything? Surely, now that he has heir, Prince Edward, the king will care nothing...”
“Nay, lass. I don’t think it is succession that the duke is thinking of.” Malcolm released her and turned toward the window. “There is something else...”
“Whatever it is, Malcolm, I must find a way to convince Surrey not to send me there!” Jaime could hear her voice quivering. “I’ve made a mistake of placing myself under the Howards’ care—and now I am as much a prisoner as you are.”
Malcolm, his face animated and alert as he thought the problem through, turned at her words a
nd again caught her up in his arms.
“Perhaps if I tried to run,” Jaime cried in despair. “Perhaps if I disguised myself and disappeared into the dark of the night.”
“You will do no such thing, Jaime.” Malcolm scolded. “Where would you go in this countryside? Who do you know outside of this palace?”
“But my own mother did it. And Elizabeth...years ago...while my mother was still carrying me.”
Malcolm placed his hands firmly around her waist and glowered at her. “Think no more on that, Jaime. Those were different times, and Elizabeth had help. We, however, have other possibilities that we haven’t pursued.”
“Aye?” she asked, staring up at him. “What possibilities, Malcolm?”
“I told you before about arranging for a ship to meet us. Well, ‘twill be arriving by the full moon at Midsummer’s Eve, at a small fishing village north of Harwich.”
“A ship! So it is real,” she whispered.
“Aye, as real and sure as you and I standing here!”
Jaime’s eyes narrowed as a thought struck her. “But Midsummer’s Eve is more than a week hence! I could be sent off to Nonsuch Palace long before that.”
“You will not,” he promised. “I give you my word...that will not happen.”
Threading his fingers into her hair, Malcolm pulled her forward and kissed her. A moment later, still dazed from the suddenness, from the thoroughness of the kiss, Jaime opened her eyes as he drew away.
“But promise me that you will not do anything foolish, Jaime.”
“Foolish?”
“Aye. You must trust me when I tell you that we have friends.” He placed a finger on her full, soft lips, and then moved as if to back away. “You cannot be running away—or going into hiding—or putting yourself in danger. Promise me?”
“Where are you going?” she asked, instead on making the pact.
“To pursue an idea, lass. If I am successful, we might have our way out of this.”
She held on to his hand. “But when will you know?”
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