The Intended

by

ISBN 0-451-40806-3

Copyright © 2009 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: May
McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.

First Published by Topaz, an imprint of
Dutton Signet,

a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc. March
1998

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For Larry and Gail

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.
Unable to 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 proof of
the speed exerted 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? How...”

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

Jaime felt her stomach jump in 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 a 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? With everyone there...”

“You are the bride. 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 will 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. 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 am 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 clansfolk, 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, I will.”

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

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 will try, mistress.”