“It took no effort at all, Frances,” Jaime said softly, speaking truthfully. “Your husband knows the man. When I told him the prisoner’s name, his face lit up immediately. It seems that Malcolm MacLeod visited his old teacher Erasmus at a time when Lord Surrey was under the old scholar’s tutelage.”
Frances shook her head with a smile. “Leave it to Surrey to have a bond of friendship tying him to one whom Edward considers a foe.”
Jaime looked up and studied the soft features of the countess’s face. The affection for her husband glowed like embers in her eyes. Frances caught Jaime’s gaze and returned a smile.
“Surrey tells me that we will soon be sisters,” Frances said casually, glancing out the window. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and slipped her arm through Jaime’s, leading her away and down the hall. “I suppose you already know that it is hard for Edward to restrain himself once he’s set his mind on what he wants.”
Jaime played with the folds of her skirt as the two women made their way down the hall. “I have seen more variations of Edward’s moods these past few days than I have seen in the past year.” She paused not knowing how much she could reveal about her recent discomfort. With Mary, it was difficult to discuss Edward’s ardent advances, since she was an innocent—like Jaime herself. Mary had only a romantic vision of life around her. When Edward had forcibly kissed Jaime in the garden only yesterday—right before her very eyes—Mary had thought it a romantic gesture, one she’d become dreamy-eyed about when they’d gotten back to the bedchamber they shared. She hadn’t even paused to think of Jaime’s reaction to the moment.
But here, with Frances, Jaime weighed the risk of unburdening herself. The countess, though only four years her senior, was an experienced woman in matters of the heart. She was a woman happily married to an adoring husband. And she understood the difference between lust and love. There were times that Jaime sorely missed her own family. Right now, she especially wished she had her mother here to talk to.
“Is something bothering you, Jaime?” Frances probed. “Because if Edward’s moodiness gives you pause at all, then you should talk about it—before all this marriage talk goes much further.”
“There is so much that is being assumed by Edward and by the family.” Jaime caught the other woman’s concerned gaze and quickly placed a hand on hers. “Please don’t take my words incorrectly, Frances. There is very little in this world that I would cherish more than becoming a sister to you. This family has done so much for me this past year. And my affection for Edward...well, I respect him and have been honored by the attention he has bestowed on me since my grandfather died.” She searched for the words to explain Edward’s latest behavior—and her response to it. “But lately—and especially since this latest conquest—I find myself...well, fearing him. I am discovering things about him that I hadn’t seen before. But if only there were some way...You see, I never know...”
“And you wish Edward were a bit more predictable,” Frances put quietly.
“Aye!” Jaime looked down, suddenly ashamed and unsure of herself. “Frances, I am so uncertain of this match! The world seems to know my future, but, to be honest, neither I nor my family have given any consent to such a union. Again, I know I should be honored by Edward’s attentions, but he is...he is so...”
Jaime stopped, suddenly concerned that the discomfort she felt from discussing this topic would far exceed the benefit she might gain from it. This was Edward’s family, the Howard household, after all, and she still merely a guest. And an ungrateful guest, at that. She glanced up at her friend’s pretty, composed face as Frances began to speak.
“When I was sixteen, my father and Surrey’s father sat down together and arranged our marriage.” Frances held Jaime’s hand as they walked, but her eyes took on a faraway look. “Surrey had seen me at court, and of course, I had seen him, as well. He was—as he is today—dashing and courtly, handsome and yet...there was something more. I suppose it was the poet in him that won my heart.”
“And you got to know him well at court?”
“Nay!” Frances smiled. “I was too shy! A mere slip of a girl. We hardly exchanged a word. But he approached his father anyway, and the families were delighted with the match.”
“As you certainly must have been.”
“I? My dear, I was terrified. You see, what you perceive in Edward, I, too, could see in Surrey. I thought him moody and...well, rough. I feared what marriage to a man like that would bring.” She looked into Jaime’s eyes. “But unlike you, I had no choice in the matter. No consent to bestow or to withhold. I simply obeyed my parents’ wishes. I don’t know if I would have married him if I had been given the choice.”
“But you have such a wonderful marriage, Frances.”
“Aye, Jaime. But that’s the point, isn’t it? We women never truly know our future in marriage until our fates are sealed.”
Jaime considered the depth of her friend’s words as they descended the circular stone steps to the palace’s ground level. Was Frances telling her that she should close her eyes and assume that Edward would become the wonderful husband that Surrey became? Or was she just simply telling her the futility of such worries? Either way, Jaime would have to accept Edward for what he was...and pray for good fortune. Sometimes Jaime felt she was a bit too practical for such religion.
“Well, we are here,” Frances said, raising her finely arched brows and inclining her head in the direction of the corridor that led to Master Graves’s surgery. “I believe this is where you were headed, my dear friend, before I took to boring you with my silly tales.”
“I? Headed to the surgery?”
Knowing from Frances’s look that it was foolish to try to deceive her, Jaime turned and looked down the hall. There were so many prying eyes and wagging tongues in the palace. She hesitated, trying to decide on the wisdom of going openly to Malcolm—and the safety of caring for him there. With Edward gone for at least a fortnight, she knew that he offered no immediate threat to Malcolm’s life. But what about the others? she wondered. Undoubtedly, there would be gossip. She tried to consider what would come of her actions once Edward returned to Kenninghall.
“Go, Jaime,” Frances whispered encouragingly. “There has been no arrangement made for you to marry him, yet. Do what your heart and your head tell you is the right thing. And if any problems arise from your care, tell Edward that I insisted on you caring for his prize.”
With a quick nod to her friend, Jaime scurried away down the corridor, her thoughts now only on Malcolm and on the rough handling he had endured on his journey here. She wondered if he still burned with fever.
Chapter 10
It was easy to pretend to be asleep.
After the painful and exhausting trip up from the stable yards, the tough part was staying awake. Though Malcolm had gotten more information than he’d ever thought imaginable, just lying still and pretending unconsciousness, he now found himself constantly dozing and fought off sleep with every ounce of strength he had.
He now knew, at least, that he was in East Anglia, at Kenninghall—the residence of Thomas Howard, duke of Norfolk. And though he was being kept prisoner, he’d been moved out of the foul stable cell at the command of Henry Howard, the earl of Surrey. Biting the inside of his swollen cheek to ward off a wave of weariness, Malcolm thought back on Harry Surrey, the young man he’d found studying with his own master, Erasmus, a few years back. Malcolm remembered him clearly, a sharp-eyed and open-minded lad. Friendly even, the Highlander recalled, in spite of being the offspring of the pig who had betrayed a parlayed truce and attacked the Scottish king at Flodden Field.
Malcolm knew though, that he was the prisoner of Edward, Henry’s younger brother, the duke of Norfolk’s second son. And he knew, as well, which side of the family Edward took after; stabbing the Highlander in the back, Edward was a coward who had not even had the courage to face him. As a result, the man’s face was none too clear in Malcolm’s memory. He’d been fa
r too angry with Jaime in the castle at Norwich to even notice the man at her side. But Malcolm understood it now—this Edward was the man to whom Jaime had betrayed him.
He could hear the rustle of skirts by his bed. At least, he thought the sound was near. The rustling soon gave way to a soft buzzing that the Highlander quickly realized was whispering. The words were indistinct—smatterings of sentences were all he could make out. It sounded like directions of some sort. Aye, that was it—the physician was giving directions. A soft voice responded, a soft voice with only the faintest lilt of Scottish tongue.
Damn her, he thought. He had conjured her like a specter in his mind, only to have her leap from his imagination into physical shape. He tried to clench his swollen fingers into a fist—testing his strength as he imagined an assault upon her.
Jaime couldn’t tear her gaze away from his pallid face. The physician continued on with his instructions, and she listened. Malcolm’s fever was dangerously high, but the physician believed their patient still had a good chance of pulling through. She committed to memory everything Master Graves told her. The older man hadn’t the luxury of being able to remain beside Malcolm. He’d been called to Cambridge for a few days, and he’d have to take his good-for-nothing assistant with him. And as far as getting any help from the others in the household—well, Graves was less than happy with the attention Malcolm had received the night before in the stables.
So the physician left Malcolm in her care, and in spite of what anyone thought of the appropriateness of her presence in the surgery, Jaime would remain where she was needed.
Once the physician had left her alone, Jaime moved quickly, bringing a bowl of cool water to Malcolm’s bedside. His skin had taken on a gray, clammy look to it and, in spite of his shivering, beads of sweat were standing out on his face before disappearing into the brown locks of hair. She looked at his parched, cracked lips. Reaching down, she tried to lift his head with one hand, but his muscles were rigid, and she knew she could not do it alone. Looking about for another way, she spotted a number of folded cloths on a small stool by the door. Balancing the bowl carefully beside him on the bed, she turned to move across the room.
The crash of the bowl to the floor behind her spun her around in alarm. Malcolm lay as he had before, his arm in the same position at his side. She bent down to pick up the wooden bowl, all the while scolding herself harshly for her ineptness. This time she fetched the folded cloths before filling the bowl again with fresh water from a jar on the far side of the room. Moving back to the bedside, Jaime placed the bowl carefully on the other side of her injured patient. She leaned over Malcolm, trying to push the linens under his battered head. If she could only raise him a bit, then she might be able to pour the liquid in small portions down his throat without choking him to death.
This time she saw it. His injured hand jerked and struck the bowl, sending it flying off the bed. As the bowl went crashing to the floor, Jaime’s eyes traveled quickly from Malcolm’s fingers, bloated and useless on the edge of the bed, back to his face. He appeared, beneath his bruised exterior, to be unconscious. She moved her hand and placed it on his brow. He was burning up with fever. If she could only get him to drink something, she could then use the damp cloths to sponge off his body, cooling him in the process.
Straightening up from the side of the bed, she moved around and fetched the bowl again. Wordlessly, she crossed the room to fill the bowl with fresh water, reminding herself that it was completely natural for Malcolm to have fits when he was burning with fever.
This time she tried to be smarter. Jaime dragged a three-legged chair to the bedside and went back for the pitcher, the bowl, and a spoon, placing them all on the seat. Turning back to her patient, she swore under her breath; his head had slipped off the makeshift pillow. She reached with both hands and tried to elevate him again—but his head seemed to be growing heavier by the moment. Finally, having worked herself into a glow, Jaime succeeded in raising his head, and sat by his side on the bed.
With one hand holding his head steady, Jaime reached for the bowl and the spoon and placed them both on her lap. Taking a spoonful of water, she brought it carefully—and vainly—to his lips. Her patient wouldn’t budge. She could not coax, cajole, or force his sealed lips open.
“Open up, Malcolm,” she encouraged in a sweet voice, stroking his cheek gently. “Open your mouth, my battered, overgrown marmoset.”
Giving up with the spoon, Jaime dipped her fingers into the bowl and traced his parched lips with her moistened fingers. But a sharp sense of the intimacy in this act swept through her, making her withdraw her hand at once. Suddenly uncomfortable with their closeness, Jaime sat bolt upright. The light woolen blanket had slipped down in her efforts to raise him, exposing his raw, bruised body to the waist. Cursing herself for her foolishness, she had to force herself not to think about his nakedness—not to remember the dreams she had once harbored of being his.
Jaime tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The past was gone, and she tried to put aside the hurt and the lost dreams. He belonged to another woman now—their marriage would not be undone. He would never be hers.
She opened her eyes, letting her gaze sweep over his body again. The most important thing of all, she reminded herself, was that he needed her care if he was to survive. Setting her mind and her will and her strength to winning that battle, she turned her attention again to making him drink from the bowl.
Chapter 11
The dewy scent of roses wafted into the chamber on the morning breeze.
In the first lightning grayness of dawn, Malcolm’s eyes focused on the blanketed figure huddled on a chair beside his bed. One pale, white arm extended from the woolen cocoon, and her upturned palm rested lightly against his knee. Wincing as he shifted his leg, Malcolm watched through slitted eyes as Jaime stirred, without waking, and drew her hand back into the folds of her wrap.
Though he quickly pushed the thought from his mind, he realized that she had grown into a woman of tremendous beauty. He had always known she would. Her black hair, loose and in a state of disarray, lay in soft waves upon her shoulders. Her high forehead, the sculpted nose, the pronounced cheekbones and the full, sensuous lips all worked together to create, even in repose, the picture of a Madonna. They were the same features of the vibrant, young lass he’d known years before, but they now had a womanliness that was impossible to ignore. He hadn’t seen her like this—at least not since she had grown. With the exception of her strange appearance at his wedding—an appearance that had only lasted moments—he hadn’t set eyes on her since she’d been quite young. He still remembered the day when she was to leave for France. She had come to him, managing somehow to find him alone and asking him shyly to kiss her farewell. He recalled how he had leaned down and had placed an affectionate kiss on her brow. But the look of disappointment on her face had been so clear, the hurt so obvious, that he had told her the next time they met, she’d be of a marriageable age. Remembering now how that little announcement had done very little to pacify the lass, Malcolm’s eyes drifted uncontrollably to Jaime’s lips. She had grown, indeed.
I must be daft, he thought to himself, flexing his left shoulder. Some time during the night, he must have rolled onto his right side, and he gazed intently on her as she shifted. She had undoubtedly spent the night in that position, the Highlander decided. He felt no fever, and his mind was clear for the first time in days. The light blanket that covered his naked body hardly moved as he slowly moved his foot from beneath it. The fresh air felt good on his skin. She must have been quite worried to stay the night in that chair. Another thought struck him. Or lonely perhaps, he corrected. He’d heard the talk—her lover was going to be away for awhile. Perhaps she just couldn’t sleep without the weight of the repugnant English body upon her.
The sound of a cock crowing far off elicited a low moan from her, and she stirred slightly. Malcolm sent her flying backward—chair, blanket, and all—with a quick thrust of his foot.
The sensation of falling that one feels when dreaming is rarely accompanied by the real meeting of flesh and a floor’s paving stones, but Jaime’s head struck the floor with a thud and a flurry of blankets and clothes.
It took her a moment to clear the material from her face. Sprawled out on the floor, she flinched with pain as she looked up at the ceiling and lifted herself onto her elbows. It was morning, she realized with a start. And this was the second night she had fallen asleep in this chamber. Cursing under her breath, she rubbed the tender spot on the back of her head. Jaime threw the blanket to one side and raised herself to a sitting position. Looking crossly at the chair, she decided she must have leaned too far back in her sleep and toppled it by accident. Jaime struggled to her feet and thought of Mary and the tongue-lashing her cousin was sure to be giving her when she got back to their bedchamber. Mary had been quite angry with her yesterday morning—but now, two nights in the row! Jaime sighed and rolled her eyes, her conversation with Mary running through her head as she set the chair upright.
“Are you hurt?”
“Just a bang in the back of my head.” She probed the spot with her fingers. “‘Tis tender to the touch. But it should go away in no time.”
“Too bad!” Malcolm announced.
As if jarred from sleep, Jaime's head snapped around and her eyes rounded as they fixed on Malcolm. “You are awake,” she whispered.
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