The Intended E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Macpherson Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 573

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

USA Today Bestselling Author A MACPHERSON CLAN NOVEL   A novel rich with love, intrigue, and ruthless ambition in the court of Henry VIII—the story of two Highlanders in a strange and hostile land… Jaime Macpherson learned the meaning of betrayal on the Isle of Skye when her beloved Malcolm MacLeod wed another woman to save his inheritance. Her dreams of happiness crushed, she sought refuge in the elegant palace of the Duke of Norfolk. There Jaime would find Malcolm again, a prisoner in the castle dungeon. In the icy darkness, she learns how to love again. But with England and Scotland at war, her bold scheme to free Malcolm would imperil her own life...though her passion swept her onto a battlefield of blood and tears where only a brave and true heart could save her...    "Love triumphs in this richly romantic tale." - Nora Roberts      "No one captures the magic and romance of the British Isles like May McGoldrick!" - Susan Holloway Scott 

Leseprobe

THE INTENDED

MAY MCGOLDRICK

BOOK DUO CREATIVE

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

The Intended © 2015 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

First Published by Topaz, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc. March 1998.

Cover Art by Dar Albert. www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

For Larry and Gail

1

The Isle of Skye, Scotland

April 1539

As brilliant as they were, the jewels of the wedding gown could not match the sparkle of the bride’s eyes.

Servants bustled about the room amid unpacked trunks, but Jaime Macpherson remained, silent and still, beside her bed, unable to lift her gaze from the magnificent white gown or shake from her mind the glorious dream. She had waited a lifetime for him and now the waiting was at an end. Finally, she was back where she belonged. Finally, they were to wed.

The tap on the open door and then the barely subdued voice of her maid Caddy brought Jaime back to the tasks at hand, and to the chaos that surrounded her.

“You’ll miss your wedding if we don’t hurry, m’lady,” the elder woman said breathlessly, her red face evidence of the exertion in bringing her mistress the news.

“Can it be today?” Jaime tried to contain her excitement. “We’ve only just arrived. How did Malcolm know that we would get here in time?”

Caddy waved a hand in agitation to get her young mistress’s attention. “There’s no time, m’lady. Lord Malcolm has already gone off to the Priory. Everyone has!”

Jaime’s stomach fluttered with excitement as she watched Caddy take charge of the room. The time had come. Malcolm had been true to his promise and was taking her as his wife. She reached down, took the gown into her arms, and whirled excitedly about the room. But then she came to a sudden stop.

“How am I to get there?”

“You’re the bride, for heaven’s sake. They saw our ship coming,” the older woman scolded as she started ordering the other servants about. “The steward told me the wedding is set for vespers. There’ll be an escort of Lord Malcolm’s men leaving Dunvegan in a short time, so we must make haste. Their job is to take you to your intended. But we must hurry, m’lady.”

“Aye, we must,” Jaime whispered excitedly.

* * *

Malcolm MacLeod, the laird of the clan MacLeod and lord of the Isle of Skye and the Hebrides, glanced in the direction of the newly opened door. Stepping away from the group of men gathered in the large hall, he motioned his messenger to approach.

“Her ship has docked, m’lord,” the young man announced.

“Did you meet with Mistress Jaime?” Malcolm asked, impatience evident in his tone. “Did you give her the news?”

The man shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Aye, m’lord. I mean, nay, m’lord. Not face to face. But I did see your steward David speaking with Mistress Jaime’s woman. He was telling her, m’lord...and...and...”

Malcolm’s gaze took in the messenger’s embarrassed face and averted eyes. This was too much to put on the young man, he had to admit. He should have gone back himself, but with all that still needed to be resolved here, there just hadn’t been enough time.

“Very well. I’ll see to it.” Malcolm stopped as the MacDonald clan chief’s approach drew his attention back to the matters at hand.

* * *

“I’m so excited, Caddy,” she said. “I feel giddy.”

“Well, I’m certainly happy to hear that, mistress,” the maid replied tartly. “But if you swoon before we get you into this dress...”

At the sound of someone crying out, they both turned in time to see pearls scattering everywhere on the rush-covered floor. The serving girl was looking on in horror as the white beads bounced and rolled into every shadowy corner and crevice. The young lass’s gaze snapped up to Jaime’s face as she folded to her knees and burst into tears. “I am so sorry, mistress. The string...”

Jaime came to her feet at once and moved across the chamber to the woman sobbing on the floor. “The string was too old, lass. I could have done that myself.”

“But...m’lady.”

“Think no more of it,” Jaime whispered reassuringly. “Let’s gather up these beads together, why don’t we?”

The young servant looked up gratefully with the tears still on her cheeks.

“Then you can help weave these flowers into my hair. I think they will be much more becoming with my dress than those pearls, don’t you?”

* * *

From the confines of the small cemetery where Malcolm had only moments ago knelt at his mother’s grave, the warrior chief emerged and faced the joyous tidings of the gathered throng. The sounds of bagpipes filled the air, and the villagers and the gathered clan folk, dressed in their finest clothes, crowded in the Priory yard.

The young laird looked around proudly at the happiness that surrounded him. This was surely as it was meant to be, he thought, walking toward the chapel.

* * *

A hush fell over the crowd, and the pipers ceased their tunes as the bride and the escorting warriors entered the gates of the Priory. Everyone stared approvingly as the young woman was helped from her magnificent bay horse by an armed knight before the steps of the chapel.

Then, as they started for the open doors, she staggered at the top step. The crowd surged around her.

“Mistress, are you well?” the knight asked, concern evident in his voice.

“Aye,” the bride whispered. “It is just the excitement. Take me in.”

* * *

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 expectant glances, and listened to the ancient priest who stood at the altar with his back to them.

They made a magnificent pair. She, young and beautiful, her pale skin glowing—the light gleaming off the golden threads that were woven with the white flowers into her dark hair. In her hands, gilded branches of rosemary—symbols of love and fidelity—were intertwined with prayer beads, while her white gown shimmered in the golden shafts of light.

And he, too, radiated the magnificence of the moment. A ribbon of gold bound his long brown hair at the nape of his neck, and the ornate broach that designated his position as chief of the powerful MacLeod clan held in place the tartan that crossed the flawless white of his silk shirt. As he turned slightly to look at his bride, the dark plaid of his kilts moved over high, soft boots. Seeing her blush slightly at his glance, Malcolm smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile and turned back to the priest.

Behind them, the gathered throng stirred restlessly in the little chapel, waiting in anticipation for the exchange of vows. The people of Skye were well represented, with members of both MacLeod and MacDonald clans, all decked out in their most colorful finery, constituting most of the assembled crowd. But the Macpherson clan also stood out prominently among the group in the chapel. Alec Macpherson, former laird of these lands, stood beside Malcolm and looked on with a fatherly affection at the young man he and his wife Fiona had raised as their own.

The priest’s voice rose and fell in the measured cadences of the mixed Latin and Gaelic. From behind the grate of iron bands to the right of the altar, the sound of women’s voices—the nuns of the Priory—could be heard responding to the prayers.

The priest raised up his hands in offering, and then turned and preceded his acolytes down from the altar. It was time, and the young laird turned to face his bride. Her black eyes shone with excitement. They were misty, reflecting her joy in their imminent union. Malcolm took her hands in his.

The priest paused for a moment, and the congregation seemed to hold its breath. The chapel’s silence was profound, so silent in fact that Malcolm’s eye was drawn upward at the crackling hiss of a candle on the far wall. The incense curled upward in a lazy spiral, and the young laird’s mind raced at the thought of the step he was taking. An important step, and one he knew was long overdue. Nay, he thought. For every purpose, there is a season. He looked back into the beautiful face of his bride.

The candle on the far wall flickered again, and Malcolm became aware of a sound at the entrance to the chapel. Turning his head, he could see the great oak door had swung partially open, but he could not see who was entering—only that the folk by the door were backing away with looks that changed rapidly from mere surprise to shock.

And then he saw a young woman step uncertainly into the chapel, her wedding gown glittering in the light of the thousand lit candles. Like everyone else, the young laird stood, immobile, stunned by the sight of the beautiful woman whose face now grew bloodless, nearly matching the whiteness of her elegant garment.

* * *

She couldn’t stop her body from quaking. Clasping her hands tightly at her waist, Jaime rested her weary frame against the door. Her legs now seemed to function of their own accord, for she couldn’t manage to make them either hold her weight or propel her back out the door. Every eye in the hall had turned, and she felt them burning into her. Painfully, she swallowed her tears, fighting back the anguish that threatened to burst her heart into a million pieces. Once again her eyes followed the open path from where she stood to the altar, where he stood hand in hand with another.

“I hate you, Malcolm MacLeod,” she whispered. “To the day I die.”

Finding her legs at last, Jaime yanked at the door and lurched out of the chapel.

2

The Palace at Kenninghall, Norfolk, England

June 1540

The sound of shouting and the clattering of horses’ hooves on the stone paving of the yard drew Jaime’s attention from the young children’s faces to the window. Remnants of the passing shower still clung to the diamond-shaped panes, and the late afternoon sun sparkled in the multitude of droplets like so many little gems. Jaime listened for a moment to the tumultuous welcome that the duke of Norfolk’s household was giving the returning warriors. Through the boisterous racket, the young woman heard the voice of Thomas Howard, the old duke himself, booming out a welcome to his second son. She smiled, and turned her attention back to the waiting faces of her pupils. Tonight’s feast would give her plenty of opportunity to convey her best wishes to Lord Edward Howard on his latest triumph.

Straightening the music sheet before her and picking up her lute, Jaime nodded to the assortment of girls and boys, and watched the young singers as they turned their eyes to the book of madrigals that they were sharing. Jaime raised her eyebrows at the three older boys in the back who were casting longing looks at the windows. She couldn’t really blame them for their restlessness, with the excitement outside. But they were almost finished here. She turned to the four girls standing beside her with their instruments. They watched her, their eyes round and attentive.

“Make this last one perfect, now,” she said. Looking back at the singers, she smiled at a little redheaded sprite in the front of the group. “Little Kate, this time I’d like you to try to raise your pitch just a wee bit higher. Could you do that for me?”

The tiny girl bobbed her carrot-topped head and tugged shyly at a faded ribbon that she wore at the waist of her dress. Her singsong voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. “I’ll try, mistress.”

Jaime gazed at the little girl’s pink cheeks as the child glanced nervously to her right and left. Kate was at the moment the youngest of the nine children belonging to Evan, the duke’s falconer, and she was surrounded by two girls who were each a head and a shoulder taller than she was. But Jaime knew for certain that in that small body lay hidden the pure notes of a child soprano. She’d heard hints of it on a number of occasions already.

Turning to the rest of the children, Jaime raised a finger, and on the cue they all began their version of “I Will Give You Joy.” The trilled notes of the pipes and the deeper tones of the lutes played in perfect harmony, and Jaime prompted her chorus encouraging them as they sang. The three older girls were magnificent, but Jaime's eyes watched Kate’s trembling lips as she barely mumbled the words. With a raised hand, Jaime silenced the group. Reaching forward, she gently drew the small child to her.

“I did try, mistress,” Kate said nervously. “This is as loud as I can be.”

Jaime placed a hand around the little girl’s shoulder and nodded in understanding. After a moment, though, she looked up into the bright green eyes. “Your mama told me how much you liked the pink ribbon I gave you yesterday.”

Kate nodded her head up and down with glee. “Indeed I do, mistress. I put it next to my bed last night. I’m saving it for Midsummer’s Eve.”

Jaime nodded with understanding before continuing. “I want you to imagine this, Kate. You get home from our lessons here, and your ribbon is missing.” The look of horror on the little girl’s face told Jaime she had captured the child’s full attention. “So you run outside and into the mews, and you see your brother Johnny has tied the ribbon around one of the falcons’ feet. Now, a hunting party is preparing to leave and your brother is taking the falcon with him. Don’t forget, all your brothers and sisters are there, the grooms are milling about, and it’s really quite noisy in the mews. He is leaving now, and there’s no way you can catch up to him before he goes. Call to him, Kate. Go ahead, call out to him and let him know you want your ribbon back.”

The little girl’s shriek brought everyone’s hands to their ears. Then, after a moment of complete silence, a burst of childish laughter by the entire group followed the shock of her cry. Jaime's eyes were smiling as she cradled Kate’s giggling face with her hand. “I knew you had it in you.”

With a gentle pat on the cheek, Jaime nodded Kate back to her place.

Once more through the piece—with a tremendous difference in the little girl’s contribution—and Jaime decided to dismiss the children for the day. No sooner had she uttered the words, though, before the door of the music room burst open and in flew an energetic figure, her blond hair fluttering behind her.

Standing to the side and holding the door open for the escaping onslaught of children, Mary Howard smiled as the last ones filed out.

“That little red-haired imp in the front of the pack almost knocked me down,” she said to Jaime. “She was certainly in a rush.”

“I believe she has a ribbon to rescue.” Jaime smiled after the departing children and began to sort the loose sheets of music before her. She stood and moved toward a table by the window with Mary on her heels.

“Leave your music, silly. Can’t you hear the excitement? Lord Edward has returned.”

Jaime glanced over her shoulder into the bright face of her cousin. With a twinkle in her eye, Jaime carefully stacked the sheets, and laid the bound book of music upon them. “Oh, Mary, must we make a spectacle of ourselves every time an eligible man rides into the courtyard?”

“Pooh, Jaime! Pooh! You know that Edward is interested only in you. And now he’s home from a grand sea battle with the enemy.”

Jaime shook her head at her vivacious cousin. Though the duke’s household seemed to be filled with Howard nephews and nieces, as well as with the children of other noble families, Jaime had never ceased to be amazed that from the first day of her arrival from Hever Castle—following the death of Thomas Boleyn, her grandfather—her cousin Mary had attached herself to her with an almost childlike affection. And indeed, though they were both cousins to the duke’s sons, Mary had never shown anything but delight in the fact that Edward Howard had taken such an evident liking to Jaime.

Mary, quite a prize herself, prided herself on her knowledge of every noble family and every eligible man in England. So after seeing her cousin Edward’s infatuation with Jaime, Mary had been quick to remind Jaime that even as second son, Lord Edward was a Howard and had wonderful prospects as a husband. He was, after all, handsome, wealthy, and the ideal embodiment of knightly behavior. Jaime—Mary argued—had to wed someday, so why not open her heart to someone so worthy, one who sought her heart so resolutely.

Jaime had not disagreed with her cousin’s position. Marrying Edward would certainly be an excellent match. One that would settle—once and for all—the question of her desire to live outside of Scotland. Jaime knew that Elizabeth and Ambrose Macpherson, her parents, would grant their approval—albeit grudgingly—to the match. After what she had faced at the Priory on the Isle of Skye little more than a year ago, after the embarrassment from which she had felt compelled to run, Jaime knew that her parents would agree to whatever she wished. She knew they understood her desire to begin her life anew, even though it meant a life far from the rugged Highlands of Scotland.

Jaime took a deep breath and gazed vacantly at the portrait above the fireplace. Holbein had painted it just that winter. Edward and his older brother Henry mounted on great hunters before the palace, their dogs and servants around them. Very well, it was settled. That was how it must be, she thought. Edward wanted her. That was obvious to Jaime and everyone else. She knew he was just waiting for some sign from her—something that would tell him that she was ready to accept all he was ready to give. But that was the difficult part, she thought with a sigh. He wanted her to open her heart and take him in. This she hadn’t been quite able to do...yet.

Jaime looked at the orderly pile of music sheets on her desk. Music. She realized, looking at the neat inked lines on the top sheet that she would have been perfectly happy busying herself with music for the rest of her life. She had no need for love. She felt no desire for passion in her life. She longed for no husband.

Jaime wished Edward were not so persistent.

Mary’s voice broke into her thoughts. “The messenger said the ship had been laden with treasure, coz.” She took hold of Jaime’s elbow and turned her around, surveying her dress. “What treasure do you think he has plucked from the French this time to bring his sweet Jaime?”

“Stop it, Mary. You really do talk so foolishly, sometimes.”

“But it is true. On his last excursion out onto the German Sea, when he came upon that Spanish galleon, you were given the most prized gem of all he brought back. That medallion with the giant ruby...”

“I didn’t ask for it. Mary. I don’t even like it. I have no need for treasures nor for precious gifts. You know I haven’t worn it even once.”

Mary let out a deep sigh. “Oh, to have such choices. Ah, well. Perhaps his gift will be more suited to your taste, this time.” The young woman paused. “Now that I think of it, I’m certain you’ll accept and cherish this one. After all, the ship Lord Edward has taken was French and, knowing you and your inclination to their styles, you’ll probably treasure whatever it is he gives you.”

Jaime shook her head indifferently. “Nay, my love, no matter how charming the token might be, I’ll accept nothing stolen off a French ship. You know that it is impossible for me to think of them as the enemy.”

“Play Lady Disdain to Lord Edward’s attentions if you like, Jaime Macpherson,” Mary said, frowning and shaking her head in disapproval. “But you’d best refrain from such talk of the French. It’s bad enough that you’re half Scottish, but talk like that is treasonous, I’m quite sure. The French are our enemy, now, and that you must accept.”

Jaime knew that it would be fruitless to argue with her cousin. Mary—as dear as she was—had been raised in the duke of Norfolk’s household from childhood and would never understand anything beyond the walls of her narrow world. And Jaime—at least for now—was only a guest, and it was hardly appropriate that she should raise havoc in the household simply because her view of the world was a bit broader.

“Very well, my patriotic cousin.” Jaime said resignedly, sensing Mary’s anxiety. “I promise I’ll limit myself to less dangerous topics. And therefore, armed with my promise, you may feel comfortable leading me on to our cousin Edward, the conquering hero—as I know you must.”

* * *

An hour later, Mary was still pulling her cousin along. Dressed in their finest gowns of summer silk, trimmed in velvet and gold, the two young women made their way into the Great Hall of the palace, and into the crowd already gathered for the celebratory feast.

Aside from the king’s palace at Hampton Court, there was no other palace in England that could rival Kenninghall, the home of the duke of Norfolk, in size or in magnificence. Designed in the shape of a great H with its open wings extending to the north and south, the palace was, by its very design, a tribute to the Howard family that called it home and used it as the center of their vast holdings in East Anglia. The night that Jaime had arrived from Hever Castle in Kent, she had entered this very hall only to find two dwarves from a traveling show mounted on ponies and charging toward each other from either end of the huge room in a mock joust. Tonight, however, the festivities focused on Edward and his successful return, and garlands of flowers—strung gracefully from one long window to the next—decked the walls of the hall.

Disengaging herself from her cousin, Jaime moved to one side and stood in the shadow of a huge tent-like marionette stage that had been erected for the evening’s festivities. There, half hidden from the boisterous throng, Jaime’s eyes traveled over the room. It was difficult not to be impressed by the magnificence of the place, even after almost a year. In an exaggerated way, its opulence reminded her of the houses that her parents kept in various cities across the continent.

Her parents...she thought of them with a swelling heart. She could still see them in her mind’s eye, Elizabeth’s sad tears and Ambrose’s fierce embrace when she had told them of her desire to escape Scotland. But as difficult as it had been for them to let their only daughter go, as painful as her departure had been from those she loved, all had agreed that it was the best thing for her to do, under the circumstances.

Jaime stared vacantly at the crowded hall, her mind traveling back in time to the events that had led her to the small chapel at the Priory on the Isle of Skye.

Nay, she thought, her face darkening. Why must she—for the thousandth time—recall in anguish how she fell in love with Malcolm MacLeod the first moment she had ever laid eyes on him that summer at Benmore Castle, so long ago.

She still remembered it as if it were only yesterday. There had been so many new things she had faced that summer. First, her brother Michael had been born soon after their arrival at the Macpherson’s ancestral stronghold on the north bank of river Spey. Suddenly she had been surrounded with family—cousins, grandparents, people she had never known. And then she had met Malcolm. Jaime had been only a child of four and he a man of sixteen. She had not been able to call him cousin, since he had been the ward of her uncle Alec Macpherson and not a true relation by blood. But she had all the same taken to his kindness—to his courage—to the compassion he showed to all he loved. And she so desperately had worked hard to be included in that love.

It had all started there, Jaime thought with embarrassment. A silly, childish love. And the pursuit that had begun then had ended with the bitter taste of reality fourteen years later when he had taken another woman as his wife.

Jaime wrapped her arms around her middle to soothe the still lurking misery she felt at her memories. To think how foolish she’d been, how idealistic and innocent—until that day. She had grown up knowing him, seeing him, cherishing the moments that she could be beside him. For her, during all those years, he had been the Sun and she the Moon, crossing the sky in pursuit of her love. She shivered at the thought.

She had thought he loved her. All the while that he was off at St. Andrew’s and with Erasmus, being educated. All the while that he was fighting on the borders, and in with the French. All the while that he was working so hard to bring peace to his own people in the Western Isles. She had thought he’d been waiting for her during the three years that she was sent to France. Before she’d left, he’d always been loving—he never balked at spending time with her. But now she understood clearly that he had never treated her with any passion. Nay, she had been only, at best, a friend—that wee lass who always tagged along after him.

Jaime brought her hands to her face to try and soothe her burning cheeks. She still remembered how desperately she had wished for him to kiss her before she’d left on that ship for France. She’d been fifteen—a woman, she had thought—but he clearly had not thought so. He only placed a gentle kiss on her brow and wished her well.

Three years in France and she had grown, she had changed, she had become educated. But, all the while that she had been reciting her poems, she had only seen Malcolm in them. When she had played her music, she had felt only Malcolm in her heart. She had mastered her studies, and she had done it all only with the thought of returning to Skye as his woman. As his wife.

And during those years they had written each other many letters. She was certain that their relationship had changed, matured—that he was growing fonder of her with each missive. It hadn’t been her imagination, that she knew. His words had been caring; he’d written her long accounts of his life. He had led her to believe that he’d cared. He had.

But then, it all had happened so quickly. She had been ready to leave for Scotland when the letters arrived. The one from her parents telling her that Malcolm had decided to wed. And the one from Malcolm telling her of the continual feuding on his land, of his decision to wed, of his desire to bring about stability in his lands by producing an heir.

Even now, Jaime burned with the wish that the ground would open and swallow her whole for the mistake she had made.

The news had been enough to set her off blindly. She had asked no questions but had set out to plan her own wedding. Her wedding!

Feeling the tears starting to sting her eyes, Jaime looked about the room, unable to endure any more thoughts of that dreadful day.

But her parents had been wonderful throughout the ordeal. After the spectacle she’d made of herself, Elizabeth and Ambrose had excused themselves, taking Jaime back to Stirling as quickly as they could. And there she had remained in seclusion—until word from her ailing grandfather had come to her. She knew she needed to get away. As long as she stayed in Scotland, she would be forced to see him, forced to face his bride. She simply could not live there any longer, miserable, watching another bask in the glow of happiness that she’d always thought was intended for her. She needed to leave Scotland and never come back.

And she had left Scotland, arriving in time to see her grandfather die, in time to see Hever Castle reclaimed by the king’s officers. And when her great uncle, the duke of Norfolk had sent for her, she had gone with a grateful heart. Now she had no need for...

Stop, stop, stop, she commanded silently. Shaking off the darkness of her thoughts, Jaime forced herself to turn her full attention back to the people who now filled her life. From where she stood she could see Mary talking excitedly with Lady Frances, the beautiful wife of the absent earl of Surrey. The young woman caught Jaime’s look and smiled across the room. Odd, Jaime thought, still no sign of Edward.

“If I were to tell you that I’ve brought you ropes of pearls longer than the garlands that deck these walls, would you be impressed?”

Hiding her smile, Jaime shook her head. He was standing closely behind her. She could feel his tunic brush against the back of her dress.

“If I were to tell you that I’ve brought you sapphires as large and as black as your eyes, would you be impressed then?”

Edward’s soft breath now tickled her ear. For an instant she felt his lips brush against her neck. She took a quick step forward and turned to face him. He stood before her—fresh and bold and smiling.

“You are a bold, naughty creature, Edward Howard,” she scolded, bringing a laugh to his lips.

“I’m a lonely, forsaken, and rejected suitor, Jaime Macpherson.” He reached out and took hold of both of her hands. His eyes roamed meaningfully over the low neckline of her dress, over the curves of her high round breasts, and she blushed under his shameless inspection. “But you’re a fine sight for a returning warrior.”

“I would assume, Lord Edward,” she said, recovering her wit, “that after spending so many days at sea, even the sight of a mangy cur would be a pleasurable sight.”

“Ahh...your modesty.” He let go of her hands and slid his hands slowly up the bare skin of her arms beneath the long loose sleeves. She drew back and, smiling, he grasped her hands again. “So many nights I dreamed of this. Of coming back and seeing your shining face. Of feeling the silkiness of your skin beneath my lips.”

“Clearly I erred just now, Lord Edward,” she broke in, trying unsuccessfully to pull her hands from his grasp. “I believe you are the cur.”

“Aye,” he responded, bringing her hands to his lips. “But I’m no common cur. I’m a noble dog, a hound trained for the hunt, for battle.” Edward looked into her eyes. “Won’t you even pet this loyal and stouthearted beast who pants here at your heel?”

“You are a foolish puppy, Edward.”

“So true, my sweet.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But one whose blood smokes in his veins for the chase...for you.”

Jaime tore her gaze away from him and looked about the hall in hope of some relief. Crowds of people were still pouring in, but everyone seemed occupied with other matters. To her dismay, the tent served to shield them, and Edward seized the advantage of her looking away to grab her by the waist and pull her inside the canvas of the tent. Her eyes snapped back to him, her hands trying to keep his powerful body from crushing her to him.

“Edward, don’t,” she whispered. “There are so many here.”

“Then come with me to my chamber.”

She blushed crimson. “We’ve never before—”

“It’s time, Jaime,” he said hoarsely. One hand moved higher, his fingers following the curve of her waist. She felt his hand lift the weight of her breast, the friction from his thumb raising the nipple through the silk of her dress. “I’m tired of waiting, tired of these virginal games. I want you for my own, and you know it. I’ve courted you enough, and I’m not one to wait until our marriage night to take what is mine.”

“Edward,” she snapped, digging her fingers angrily into his wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip. “This is no way to talk to me. I’m your cousin, not some harbor wench for you to drag off to your bed whenever you come to port.”

The young man stared into her bloodless face. A regal coldness had hardened her features. He released her, and she took a step back, putting some distance between them and taking hold of the canvas wall.

“What’s happened to you?” she asked shortly. “You’ve never behaved this way before.” The faint blush on his tanned and chiseled face did not go unnoticed by her.

“I’m a man, Jaime. A knight. A warrior.” He drew himself up to his full height. “I am no monk.”

“And this is how a knight of your king treats a woman?”

She watched as a smile broke across his lips. He reached for her, but this time she was prepared and quickly slapped away his darting hand. He laughed in response.

“You are an innocent, Jaime Macpherson. But trust me—that is soon to change.” He took a step toward her, and as she turned to escape, he caught her wrist and drew her fiercely to him. His voice was ragged whisper. “I always get what I want. During this trip I took the time to think—and I’ve decided that I’ve left things in your hands too long.”

“Don’t, Edward,” she whispered as he used one arm to mold her body to his. She didn’t care for the glazed look that was darkening his gray eyes.

“Aye, I’ve decided that it’s time to teach you a few things about pleasure.” Jaime felt her spine involuntarily stiffen and her blood run cold as Edward’s mouth descended to capture hers.

“Please,” she gasped, turning her face abruptly, avoiding his lips. His teeth took hold of her earlobe and moved greedily to her neck. She felt herself sickening as one hand moved up to squeeze her breast through her dress. She tried to push away at him, but he was too strong. Frantically, she looked around for help—she even considered crying out.

“Please stop, Edward. Please,” she begged softly. “Not now—not here.”

She knew only a moment passed, but it seemed like eternity before he straightened up. Then, with a look of longing, he eased his grip on her body. She felt an overwhelming need to pull away, to run, but he wouldn’t let her go entirely. Holding on to her hand, he hooked it into his elbow and pushed open the canvas wall for her to pass.

“You will sit beside me at dinner, my reluctant little raven. Then perhaps we can pick up where we left off. Tonight, after all these meddling interlopers have gone their way.”

But Jaime just looked away, avoiding his gaze.

* * *

The dinner, sumptuous as it was, held little joy for her. Seated quietly beside the guest of honor, Jaime listened to the conversations going on around her, partaking only when necessary.

Few were interested in the progress of her music students. The family and the retainers of the duke of Norfolk had considered her thinking far too radical at first, and Jaime was certain that more than a few still thought her that way. Being well-trained in music herself, she had taken great pleasure in setting up music classes for the children when, upon arriving, she’d found the music master had recently and—for mysterious reasons—abruptly departed.

Jaime's problem from the start had been that she had chosen to accept her pupils not on the merit of their lineage but their desire to learn music. So when it was discovered that she’d had a washerwoman’s son sitting beside a nobleman’s daughter, a small furor had erupted—only to subside when the duke himself surprisingly declared that he could see no harm in the innocent mingling of voices in song.

Now nearly a year had passed, and Jaime felt that she was at least winning the battle. While it was true that not everyone was attending the lessons that could have, it was also true that many were. The dishonor of sitting beside someone the world esteemed as less worthy for an hour a day was a concept totally lost on a young child, but unfortunately many parents continued to be horrified at the prospect. Nonetheless, the lessons had survived, and the young musicians were improving.

Later on, as trays of cakes and other sweets were being cleared, Jaime found herself at the center of the discussion between Edward and the duke. She had tried to ignore the young knight’s flirtatious behavior during most of the meal, but now the conversation seemed to have taken on a more serious note.

“Aye, Your Grace,” the young warrior was saying. “Tomorrow I’ll steal this maiden away to the castle in Norwich.”

“Not an altogether pleasant place for a young woman, Edward.”

Jaime’s eyes looked questioningly into Edward's face. She had heard grim tales of the Norwich Castle. Less than half a day’s ride from the palace, it was—by all accounts—a place of death and horrors too terrible to behold. And it was the place where Edward kept all of his captives taken in battle.

“Will you go there with me, Mistress Jaime?” he asked casually.

She didn’t know how to refuse his request. But after what had occurred earlier—with so many present in the hall—she could hardly feel safe alone with him. Nay, not even for the briefest of moments. “The lessons...I have the children’s lessons...”

“The devil take me,” Edward interjected, “but I’m quite certain those brats can survive a day without you.”

“Edward, this is certainly no way to impress a young and gentle woman.” The duke could easily see Jaime’s hesitation. “There is nothing about a handful of prisoners you’ve captured at sea that would be in the least bit pleasing. On the other hand, the size of some of the gems you captured might interest her a bit more...”

“Father.” Edward's determined voice quieted the older man’s speech. “Mistress Jaime has never had the opportunity to see the Norwich, the center of our family’s power and wealth, and I believe it is important to see if the English half of the blood that flows in my lovely cousin’s veins warms to the sight of one of England’s greatest cities. As indeed it should.”

The two men just stared at each other, a silent message passing between them. Then, as if understanding his son’s meaning, Norfolk nodded in agreement.

“As indeed it should, my boy.”

“Well, m’lady?” Edward asked again, directing his attention back to her. His gray eyes flashed his challenge. “Will you accompany me and my officers to Norwich on the morrow? We can leave at daybreak and shall return no later than sunset.”

Every eye at the head table was upon her. She understood the test she was to go through. The ship he’d just captured was French and there were, from what the duke said, prisoners that had been taken to Norwich Castle. And now Edward wanted to sound the depths of her loyalty. Mary had told her that it was treason to think of the French as friend rather than a foe, and now Jaime was about to be tested. But what option did she have? She had, long ago, set her mind that she would live in England, and now she had to prove her intentions. She must make her break with the past. Make her future with Edward a reality. Edward's methods were rough, but he left her little choice. He wants to be sure of me, she thought, and that is his right.

“I’ll go,” she answered Edward at last. “I’ll go to Norwich with you.”

3

The Norwich road, a wide and well-traveled thoroughfare, provided an easy ride from the duke’s palace at Kenninghall, and Jaime reined in her sprightly, dappled mare at the crest of the rolling hill that led down toward the city walls. As the others rode on, she shaded her eyes against the late-morning sun and surveyed the bustling city of cloth makers and merchants, the beautiful spires of the cathedral, and the sinister, gray form of Norwich Castle—an ominous presence on its hill—sullenly guarding everything below. Though the fortress belonged to the duke of Norfolk, it had been used for nothing other than a prison for longer than anyone remembered. Involuntarily, Jaime shuddered at the grimness of the sight.

Edward pulled up and started to trot his hunter back toward the crest of the hill, but as he approached, Jaime spurred her little mare past him, leaving him in a cloud of dust as he wheeled and chased her back to the rest of the party. She simply couldn’t bring herself to be alone with him—not now, not after what had happened in the Hall. Last night, immediately following the dinner and while the festivities were still in high glee, she had escaped to her bedchamber and barred her door, admitting only Mary when she returned from the Great Hall. As her cousin put on her shift, Jaime had been tempted to talk to her about the events that had transpired, but a sense of complicity—of guilt, almost—kept her from discussing the matter.

And this morning, Jaime had done her best not to allow him a moment alone with her. She knew the questions he would ask—questions to which she had no answers. Jaime knew inside that she was partly responsible for Edward’s attentions. And somehow, perhaps through her actions or her words, he had come to assume she was ready for a more intimate encounter. He was wrong, but she didn’t know how to tell him without destroying all that might lie in store for them.

The castle was no less forbidding up close, and as they passed through the thick walls and the huge gates, Jaime suddenly found herself faced with an appalling number of men, women, and children who seemed to be living in the courtyard. A dozen soldiers roughly cleared the way for them, and Edward led the group up the wooden steps of the keep.

Jaime held back. It was the faces. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the thin, drawn faces of the children who gawked at her fine dress. Their sad, round eyes bore through the small openings between the row of soldiers—their starved expressions piercing her heart. She wrenched her attention away as she heard Edward retracing his steps, his eyes locked on her. She thought she glimpsed a spark of annoyance in his gray eyes before he glanced at those in the yard.

“Who are those unfortunates?” she whispered as he took her arm.

“Mostly the king’s enemies,” he said quietly. “Though some of them are county criminals.”

Leading them up the winding torch lit stone stairwell, Edward came to a stop at the next landing. Ducking under the low round arch of the doorway, he stepped into a very large room—into what had at one time been the Great Hall of the castle.

Jaime looked at the hundred or so men huddled in groups or lying in the filthy straw that covered the wood floor. The stench of the place struck her, sickening her, but she clenched her teeth and moved into the hall.

“Perhaps this was a mistake to bring you here,” he said mockingly. “To expose such a delicate flower to the unpleasantness of the real world.”

Jaime shot him a hard look and stepped past him. Through the sharp odor of men and their waste, the smell of burned porridge reached her senses. At one end of the hall, a loud and greasy-looking man was ladling mush out of an iron cauldron onto thick crusts of what Jaime was sure must be week-old bread. And as she watched, a boy nearby poured water out of a huge skin bag into a stone horse trough. A steady line of filthy, ragged men made their way past, every now and then one of them casting a furtive glance their way. She turned to Edward.

“Why do you keep all these prisoners?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“Well, we serve the king.” He peered through the murky light. “Some of these men may have trespassed against my father in some way, but most are foreigners, and interrogating them takes time.”

“And once you’ve questioned them, you keep them here...forever?”

“Nay. That would hardly be worth our while now, would it?” Edward’s face was grim, his eyes the color of flint. “Few survive their sessions with Reed, the jailer. He is a brutal but necessary man. Using those in his employ, he has become my eyes and ears all along the coast. He knows all, and what he doesn’t know...he extracts.”

Jaime cast her eyes about her, but all she could see was the sordid suffering that surrounded them. “This is a foul place, Edward,” she whispered raggedly.

“Aye, Jaime. There is a foul side to the most glorious business. And war is no exception.” He took her by the arm. “But it is important for one to see the refuse to fully appreciate the splendor.”

“Show me what you brought me here to see,” she whispered under her breath.

With a nod, Edward looked into the center of the hall. Following his eyes, Jaime saw a group of five or six men half sitting and lying down. They had to be the ones, Jaime thought. His prisoners. Her challenge.

“M’lord?” A burly, round-faced man carrying a stout club approached them, and Edward turned irritably toward him.

“What is it, Reed?” he snapped.

“Well, m’lord, this ‘ere Spaniard in yon corner may be done fer. I thought—since ye happened by this morning, ye’d like to talk to ‘im. All of the sudden, seeing his end ‘afore ‘im, ‘e appears to ‘ave a bushel full to pass on. Some of it ye might just find to yer liking, m’lord.”

“Very well.” Edward turned to Jaime and glanced over his shoulder at the officers who had ridden in with them. Taking her by the hand, he said, “Wait for me right here. This should only take a moment.”

Jaime watched him follow the jailer into a dark corner and down a few steps where they pushed aside a ragged piece of cloth that did little to conceal the murky, torch-lit antechamber beyond. As they passed into the small room, she could see a man hunched against a wall. Dark patches spotted the wall above the man. She wondered if it was the Spaniard’s blood. If not his, she thought, then whose? Looking back at the group Edward had indicated before, she paused. Two of them, standing in conversation over another, were wearing clothes of the French nobility. She threw a glance at Edward, and then at his officers.

This was, indeed, why he had brought her here. Aye, he meant to test her loyalty, but perhaps he also wanted to see if she might be able to identify these men, perhaps to give him a sense of their true worth? The thought of him bringing her into such a sordid business repulsed her all the more. But, she argued inwardly, how else could he be assured that her years of study in France or the Scottish blood that he thought ran in her veins would not divide her loyalties?

The crack of a whip tore through the air, followed by the shrill scream of a man. Her hands instinctively rose to her mouth to stop her own shocked cry. She turned toward the antechamber. Edward was bent over the cringing heap that she knew to be the Spaniard. She shut her eyes tightly as Edward stepped back, giving Reed room to strike again at the dying man. She backed away in an unconscious attempt to put more distance between herself and the horrifying sight.

Jaime stumbled slightly as she tripped over the outstretched foot of a prisoner sitting nearby. The man’s vacant eyes looked up at her, but they didn’t seem to comprehend what he was seeing. And then he began to cough—it was a painful, consumptive fit—and Jaime found herself edging away in the direction of the French prisoners.

More cries emanated from the corner room and again the crack of the whip—again and again the lash fell. She looked about—the officers, the coughing man at her feet—she could see Edward speaking to someone just inside the antechamber. But no one seemed to hear the man’s cries. Everyone but Jaime herself seemed deaf to the sounds of the torture. The coughing man vomited a sizable amount of blood. She took another step back while trying to swallow the bile in her throat. These men were dying before her eyes.

As she continued to move off, she heard a few words of French and realized she was almost on top of the new prisoners. Northerner...late... With an anxious look at Edward, still in the corner room, she slowly approached them, but they backed away in silence as she neared them.

There was a man lying in the straw before her. With a start Jaime bent over him—he was an elderly man wearing the red and gray tartan of the MacGregor’s. A Scot, she thought. Edward had never mentioned that he had taken Scots in his victory. A bloody cloth covered the man’s eyes, and his face and beard were caked with dried blood. Before she even knelt, she knew that the man was dead. She placed her hand on the man’s cold, stiff fingers and said a silent prayer for his soul. Then she stood up and tried to step back.

But she couldn’t. The hem of her skirt was caught, and she couldn’t move anywhere. She looked down in shock, thinking wildly that the dead MacGregor had come back to life, but instead she saw another large and bloody hand holding her gown. In spite of the flash of panic, she couldn’t call out for help. These men had suffered enough. She would not bring more misery into their wretched lives. She would handle this.

Following the outstretched arm, she turned slowly to the side and saw the man who lay propped up on a bundle of rags in the straw. The man’s face was turned, his tangled hair bloody and matted, and blood soaked his traveling cloak, as well. Her eyes immediately took in the fine boots that covered the man’s long legs to his knees. He had to be another one of the French nobles captured by Edward. She looked furtively about her, making sure she was bringing no attention to herself, nor to this dying prisoner. Edward still occupied himself with the Spaniard, and his officers stood a few paces away, involved in an increasingly animated argument. One of the officers, though, returned Jaime’s glance. She just gave him an indifferent nod and pretended that she was preoccupied with the study of the hall’s structure. The man’s attention returned to his friends. Jaime tugged at her skirt again, but the man’s grip on her skirt’s hem was strong.

The flat of a sword blade slapping on flesh and a cry of pain jolted Jaime as she caught a glimpse of one of Edward's officers using it on a prisoner’s hand that had reached out to touch his boots. Turning away, she squatted at once and took a hold of her skirt, trying to wrench it free from the man’s hand. He wouldn’t release her. With both of her hands now at work, she touched his hand—but with the speed of lightning, the prisoner’s fingers clamped onto her wrist.

She summoned all her courage and swallowed her urge to scream. Panic raced through her as the prisoner raised his face, pulling her closer to him. Beneath the tangle of hair, she saw his jaw move.

“Jaime,” the man whispered.

Her blood froze at the sound. She didn’t have to see his face to recognize the man. She had heard his voice call out to her a thousand times in her dreams. Malcolm.

As he weakly shook back the mass of hair, a tumult of thoughts and emotions surged through her. How could it be that he—of all people—should be here?

“Jaime,” he whispered her name again. “I thought it a dream, but it is you?”

In an instant, shock gave way to confusion and hate as an icy shiver ran down her back. Here he was, the man whom she had loved—the man who had rejected her so callously. She gazed on him, bloody and pale. She heard a cry and glanced quickly in the direction of the antechamber.

“Draw no attention to us,” Malcolm ordered, bringing her attention back to him.

“You’re wounded,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice flat and calm. “I’ll have someone look at your injuries.” She took a sharp breath as the pressure of his hand nearly snapped the bones of her wrist.

“Nay,” he commanded. The pressure eased on her wrist. “Say nothing. You don’t know me.”

“You could die.”

“Then let me die,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll gladly take death before giving these blackguards any knowledge of who I am.”

As surely as she was kneeling there, she felt the tearing in her chest as she looked on him. A flood of molten liquid poured into her heart, and a pain engulfed her, smothering her attempt to speak.

“Jaime, I won’t let them ransom me. I won’t let them steal my honor. Go, lass. Just walk away and forget you saw me. But...later...let my kin know what happened to me. If you ever cared for me, do this. It is a wee thing I’m asking of you.”

Jaime pulled her hand slowly out of his grip, and he let her go. She stared into his dark eyes. They were pleading with her, so unlike the eyes of the Malcolm she remembered. She stood up slowly and took a step back. Edward's voice stopped her, swinging her around.

“I see you’ve found the bagatelle I’ve brought home.”

“Your treasures, you mean?” she asked, matter-of-factly.

Edward's eyebrows shot up in interest. Jaime pointed at Malcolm, her eyes defiantly matching the wounded Highlander’s glare as Edward’s arm encircled her waist.

“That one. The one dressed in French attire. He is Malcolm MacLeod, the chief of the powerful MacLeod clan. Aside from the Earl of Argyll, he has the greatest fortune in the Western Isles.”

Jaime turned her gaze back to Edward's face. His eyes sparkled, even in the murky light of the prison.

“That one man—alive—” she continued, “will bring you a king’s ransom.”

4

“Betrayer!” Malcolm gasped with a vehemence that came from his soul. “Vile, treacherous whore!”

Havoc broke loose around her as the Highlander forced himself to his feet with surprising quickness and lunged at her. Jaime stood her ground, prepared to take his fury full on.

“Damn you to hell!” Malcolm screamed hoarsely, his fingers reaching for her throat as Reed’s club connected squarely with the side of his head. The Highlander dropped to his knees, and as the burly jailer lifted his weapon to strike the falling prisoner again, Edward stepped forward, sending Malcolm sprawling with a vicious kick.

Jaime looked on—her silent screams ripping at her insides—but her exterior showed nothing but cold indifference.

“You...deceiver...foul, demon witch.” He tried to raise himself up to his knees. Jaime saw Reed’s hand go up, ready to crush Malcolm’s skull with the weighted club.

“Hold, Reed. I want him alive.” The jailer shot a surprised look at Edward, but without a word lowered his weapon.

Malcolm raised himself to one knee. Jaime could see the toll that the action took. He moved as if his body were made of lead. His head wobbled slightly, fresh blood soaking into the dark crimson stains of his torn shirt. Jaime clenched her hands at her sides; Malcolm’s eyes cleared somewhat and fixed with fury upon her face. She could not tear her eyes away from his gaze.

“Trusted you...fool that I...you’ve made us all...” His breath was short; a spasm of pain contorted his face. “You...whore...dirty, English whore...” He threw himself at her again. But Reed’s club knew no restraint this time, and the blow landed with a sickening thud behind the ear. Malcolm crumpled like a dry leaf before a flame.

Jaime’s gasp was smothered by Edward's roar as he shoved his jailer to the side. “You idiot. What good is he dead?”

Jaime’s whole body shook as she knelt before the bloody body huddled at her feet. She placed her fingers on the gashes to his head, where more blood was seeping through his skull. She tried to stop the bleeding, with her hands at first. That failing, she raised the hem of her skirt and tore a piece from her underskirt, pressing the white linen against the two places. She didn’t dare look up. The tears in her eyes—the grief that was tearing at her—were something she couldn’t hide.

“Is he dead?”

Jaime felt Edward's hand on her shoulder. Without looking up, she moved her hand to Malcolm’s throat, where she could feel a pulse, weak and irregular.

“Not yet,” she answered under her breath. “But he is bleeding, and it’s only a matter of time before you lose him. Unless...unless we bring him a physician.”