And him? Catherine’s eyes narrowed on his powerful body. She’d use him. Whenever she liked. She’d demand that he please her—again and again. And she would enjoy that. Punish him if he failed her. She would punish him, anyway. She could already feel his long, thick shaft inside her. How much better he would be, after all, than Edward.
Hurry, damn you both, she cursed silently, her body screaming for satisfaction. Finish your business, for I am next. And I don’t care to wait for anyone!
Her body arched at the moment of her release, and Malcolm felt her tighten like a sheath around him. As she cried out in ecstasy, the last vestige of his control exploded in a fireball of passion. There was no holding back—there was only the need to pour his seed into her.
“Jaime!” he called aloud, rolling her onto the bed beneath him. As they clung to each other, a few fierce strokes were all that were needed to leave them both panting and spent.
Malcolm's mind cleared in a few moments, and though he still had not recovered enough to roll to his side, he realized that through the haze of their climax, he had heard a noise from over by the door. Raising himself and gazing down into her smiling face, he realized that if there had been something, Jaime had not heard it.
Malcolm peered across the room at the dark oak door. Had a door opened and closed somewhere nearby? he thought. Carefully, he lifted himself off of Jaime, covering her with the bedclothes and reaching for the flickering candlestick.
He listened as he crossed the chamber toward the door. There was nothing but silence. The Highlander put his ear against the wood, but still heard nothing. Pulling it open a crack, he peered into the dim light of the corridor. Surprised at seeing no one standing guard at the customary spot, he pulled the door open further and stepped out of the room. No one in either direction. Not a soul. Malcolm scratched his chin and went back into his bedchamber, shutting the heavy door behind him.
“Was someone there?” Jaime asked quietly, sitting up in bed, the covers tucked demurely around her.
“Nay...well, perhaps some passing wench,” Malcolm answered, picking up a pitcher of wine from the table before starting back toward the bed. “For my ever vigilant guard has managed to disappear. She must have been quite a lass to entice him from his post.”
Jaime threw off the covers and jumped from the bed. “If he is no longer there—then perhaps I should leave now...by way of the door.”
Malcolm filled his lungs deeply as he gazed at the perfection of her naked body. She smiled and picked up her dress. With a sigh, he peered down at the jug in his hand and then glanced over his shoulder at the door.
“Aye, Jaime. We’ll just have to keep this thing for another time. I do very much prefer to have you get back to your room safely...and not go climbing down that wall again.”
Jaime walked slowly toward him—her eyes sparkling. As she neared him, Malcolm felt his composure beginning to slip. He couldn’t ignore her womanly curves, her long legs, the black hair tumbling over her high, firm breasts.
“What were you planning to do with this drink?” she asked, dropping her dress to the floor as she came to a stop before him and placing her hands against his chest.
“Well, lass,” he began hoarsely. “Since I only have one cup, which you must use, being the guest, I was thinking of laying you down here and pouring my portion of this wine all over you. I believe I could drink the whole pitcher full that way.”
“But, Malcolm, we both know wine acts like poison in your body.”
“Ah, but having the pleasure of sipping from your curves, lass, I welcome the pain.”
Even in the dim light, he saw her blush. But then she reached out and took the pitcher from his hand, replacing it with another pitcher from the side table.
“Water?” she asked, touching him on the arm.
“Aye, Jaime. Why?”
“I find myself dying of thirst, my love. And I think your idea for drinking is one that needs to be tried out.”
“And the guard?” he replied with a smile.
She cocked her head prettily. “Let’s hope the wench is his own true love.”
“And keeps him busy till dawn!”
She smiled and tugged at his arm. “Somehow, I think she will. Aye, Malcolm, I’m certain of it.”
Chapter 36
Jaime tried to roll over and let her mind drift back to sleep, but the rough callused hand to her temple kept her in place. She tried to open her eyes and look into Master Graves’s face, but her eyelids, heavy with drowsiness, would not move at her silent command. They were people about the room, she could hear their voices discussing her condition. But the man—the physician’s voice—was the one that carried a note of alarm.
“...there have been many who’ve died of spleen...”
“But how could it come so sudden? She had no symptoms of any ailment last evening!”
Jaime recognized the ring of disbelief in France’s voice, so she prayed for a convincing answer from the physician.
“I’ve seen many cases of it in my years, m’lady, and it often comes on suddenly. An ailment ‘taken in a thought,’ as the tutors say in Cambridge.”
Jaime felt a wetness against her temple—the stretching of a cloth over her forehead. This must be the potion the physician had talked about, she thought. The one that would make her sleep.
“The term really refers to severe depression, Lady Frances,” Master Graves continued. “What the Galenists still call an imbalance of the humors. Any kind of anxiety or concern could bring on the ailment. But what we must be careful to avoid is a brain fever.”
“Oh, Master Graves.” Jaime noted the alarm in Frances’s voice now.
“Now, m’lady, if you wish to know what causes the attack, we need to think back. Was it possible that she has received some distressing news? Was she upset by anything in the past week or so?”
All was going well, Jaime thought through a growing haze. The physician had quite cleverly turned the questions back on Frances. Jaime tried to gather all her wits about her so that she could hear what was being said. She waited for Frances’s explanations. But the countess seemed unwilling to reveal what she knew to the Welshman.
“Lady Frances,” Mary’s pretty voice cut through the short lived silence hanging about the room. “What of her leaving for court tomorrow? His Grace is expecting her to arrive this week. Poor Lord Edward—we can’t keep him waiting!”
“That is the least of our concerns right now, Mary,” Frances answered. “Master Graves talks of young women losing their life to this wretched sickness all the time. As far as I am concerned, Lord Edward can wait.”
“But still...”
“Mary, I think you need to find something else to do.” The countess’s voice betrayed an edge to her temper. “You surely haven’t forgotten that my husband happens to be Lord Edward’s brother. Surrey will make all necessary explanations to Lord Edward. Jaime, on the other hand, needs to be cared for, and it is our job, my job, to help her through this. Her well-being is the primary concern now. Do you understand?”
Even with her eyes closed and her mind drifting, Jaime could hear Mary grumbling audibly as she left the chamber angrily.
After a slight pause—or was it an hour?—the countess spoke again, but her tone was now entirely different.
“What can we do for the poor dear, Master Graves? How can we help her through this?”
The poultice on her temple was warming her skin. As a sensation of pins and needles spread from her forehead, a light-headedness was beginning to make her head spin. But still Jaime’s heart warmed to Frances’s genuine concern.
“You have to let her rest, m’lady. The sleep shouldn’t do her harm. Did I mention that she also has been fighting a touch of the green disease for a while?”
“Aye, you did say so.”
“Ah. Well, I fear that has weakened her.”
The physician lifted the linen cloth off her forehead and spread a bit more of the wet potion against her skin. Jaime
had a sudden sensation of falling—slowly, like a leaf or a feather. But she also had a growing sense of fear...that an abyss spread out beneath her, and she could find no handhold to stop her slow, irrevocable descent.
“If we were to try and force her into some semblance of consciousness right now, ‘twould be the end of her. Brain fever would set in, and that would kill her for sure, m’lady.”
“Will she recover?” Frances asked, the alarm in her voice reaching a new pitch.
“Aye, she might very well. With no disturbances and plenty of rest, her body might just decide to cast off this unholy misery. She might just wake up from this...”
Jaime tried to strain to hear more—but the voices now became muffled.
Surrey...a message...potion...Malcolm...
In the depths of her mind, Jaime opened her eyes in search of him—but the blanketing darkness and her continuous fall were all that she comprehended.
Malcolm ignored Catherine’s whispered question, turning in Surrey’s direction and focusing on the earl’s discussion with Lady Frances. They were talking about Jaime and the messenger who had been sent earlier with the news for the duke. When they had broached the subject of Jaime’s condition, Malcolm had acted his part well, showing great surprise and sadness. He simply could not allow these good people to suspect that it was all a ruse.
Catherine’s hand on his knee jerked Malcolm’s head about.
“Oh, as I asked before—there must be something you can think of that would be responsible for this horrible illness that has taken our cousin!”
Malcolm casually brushed her hand off his knee and looked questioningly into her face. “What makes you think I would know anything more than you, mistress?”
“Well!” Catherine cooed tracing patterns with her fingers on the linen cloth of the table. “You two are from the same land, and I hear you were raised practically in the same household. I just thought you would...well, in Scotland, don’t the men a women share any of the same interests? Perhaps some of the same passions?”
“I do not know what you are...” he began irritably. “People are the same, mistress. It doesn’t matter whether you come from England, India, or the New World—we’re all the same. But still I cannot see what this has to do with Jaime’s illness!”
Catherine paused and licked her lips, studying his face from beneath long, golden lashes. But the woman’s full lips and creamy complexion did nothing to attract him. In fact, Malcolm found himself repelled rather than aroused at her candid appraisal and open invitation. He turned his attention back to Surrey, but Catherine’s hand quickly took hold of his arm. Reluctantly, he looked back at her.
“It is difficult,” she said, leaning forward and speaking in a low voice. “So difficult to speak plainly in this crowded hall! Perhaps, if we were to...”
“Nay, mistress,” Malcolm responded, all too sharply, moving his arm so her fingers dropped from their resting place on his elbow. “We must remember who you are.”
“Aye.” She sighed. “So we must.” She shrugged her shoulders, her mouth turning downward in a pout. Her fingers fluttered as she moved them to the low, square neckline of her dress. Pretending to smooth the material over them, she glanced with a knowing smile into his face.
Malcolm, angry with himself for being lured into looking at the tops of the voluptuous breasts spilling out of the tight bodice, tore his eyes away.
“I thought as much,” she teased in a low voice. “Your chamber, perhaps? Or would you prefer to come to mine?”
“Neither, mistress.”
She again placed a hand on his knee. “Well, what if we meet in Jaime’s bedchamber. She will be unconscious. We could be alone there.”
This time Malcolm roughly pushed her hand off of his knee. He looked straight at her, searching for a way to make the woman understand. But she continued without a pause.
“I do like to be on top,” she whispered, totally ignoring his rejection. “And from what I’ve...” She stopped and gave him a half smile. “Well, that is acceptable to you, is it not?”
Malcolm pushed his chair back abruptly and, with a short excuse to Surrey and his wife, strode angrily from the hall.
Catherine glanced casually in the direction of the unconscious Jaime as she made her way toward the table beside the bed. Feeling the pair of eyes staring at her uncomfortably from the chamber door, she turned shortly to the serving girl. “What are you waiting for? Go and do as you were told.”
The nervous girl clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “But, m’lady, I was told by Master Graves not to leave her bedside for any reason until Cad...Mistress Jaime’s servant returns.”
“You are not deserting her, you silly creature! I am here with her. And you,” Catherine snapped, “are going to my room for my russet cloak—the one with gold flowers embroidered on the borders. You don’t think I’d go anywhere until you return, do you?”
The girl shook her head. “Nay, m’lady. ‘Tis just that...”
“Be off with you, and no more talk! You could be there and back already, you brazen thing! Away!”
Catherine watched the young woman disappear quickly through the door. Then, glancing again at the motionless Jaime, she moved closer to the table, studying the various pitchers and bowls. The foolish servant—happy to answer her questions when Catherine had first arrived in the room—had volunteered everything she needed to know about the bowls and the folded vellum packets of medication that lay scattered on the table. This was much better than she had hoped, Catherine thought, smiling as she picked up one of the powdered mixtures.
Turning to Jaime, Catherine leaned over the bed and looked into the young woman’s face. Jaime looked quite unwell. Master Graves, Catherine thought with a wry smile, would be quite useful in the future, for he certainly had demonstrated his resourcefulness here. The wench would not be soon going to Edward.
A linen poultice lay across a bowl on a small stool beside the bed. Sniffing at the cloth and then at the packet of medicine in her hand, Catherine decided that they were the same. She looked hard at Jaime. She knew that the medicines Graves administered could be poison. She recalled the unkind gossip that had circulated when the duchess of Buckingham, being treated for a headache, had lost the use of both legs after taking too much of the medicine a court physician had given her.
Catherine had little time before the servant would return. Dampening the linen poultice in the bowl again, she poured the powdered mixture over the cloth.
What a wench! she thought, laying the poultice across Jaime’s forehead. This might be better than whipping. But the Scottish witch was good, getting Edward so crazed that he would actually seek her hand in marriage. Catherine was not about to forgive her. Aye, seeing her sleeping with the handsome Highlander had been too much for the future queen to bear. Jaime would pay dearly for trying to steal Catherine’s men from her!
Jaime whispered something in her sleep and moved her arms restlessly, pushing back the covers. These had to be potions to make her sleep, Catherine was certain of it. Glancing back at the table, she looked at the pitcher with the cup beside it. Whatever Master Graves had in mind for Jaime was not strong enough, as far as Catherine was concerned. She would give her more—a great deal more. Reaching for the cup half filled with water, Catherine poured in more of the powdery contents from the packet.
Jaime moaned. It was a long, plaintive moan, and Catherine looked back at her. Turning, she sat on the bed beside the sleeping woman, and, lifting her head, placed the cup to her lips. Jaime seemed to struggle at first, but then relinquished the fight and sipped the drink.
Catherine watched the pale face of the woman lying in her arms convulse slightly before slipping into total oblivion.
“Slut,” she whispered.
Pulling away, she stood up and placed the drink beside the pitcher. This would be much easier than she’d thought. If this didn’t do the trick, Catherine decided, she would simply come back tomorrow...everyday, in fact...and su
pplement the dear physician’s ministrations with her own.
She would enjoy these visits immensely. She would, indeed.
Chapter 37
The sound of the horses’ hooves clattering on the stone paving combined with the barking of the dogs and the shouts of handlers, muffling the two men’s voices. But Malcolm and the physician paused in their conversation as several servants hustled past carrying crossbows, longbows, and lances. The Highlander’s eyes were drawn to the great north entrance of the palace from which Surrey would emerge momentarily. Four young maids holding baskets of food stood by, chatting amiably away with a pair of burly guards.
Malcolm discreetly tucked the folded message inside his belted tunic as he patted the flank of the excited hunter he’d been given to ride.
“You do not care to ride with us, Master Graves?” he asked loudly as a page passed leading a fine black steed toward the entryway.
“Bah!” the physician returned. “I’ve more important things to...”
The man stopped short as the smiling earl of Surrey strode out into the yard and, yanking his gloves on, headed directly for the black hunter.
Master Graves watched the earl thoughtfully. “If only he cared for these people with the same passion that he cares for his hunting and his books!”
Malcolm followed the man’s gaze. “When the time comes, he will. He knows that he has a great deal to learn, but his father, the duke, is still quite healthy. And his brother Edward, though ignorant of anyone’s needs but his own, commands the father’s favor. Nay, Master Graves, ‘tis not a matter of passion. Surrey sees it as a matter of patience.”
The physician gave the Highlander a thoughtful look but said nothing, turning his attention in the direction of the English nobleman.
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