The Intended (13 page)

“She was too young to know the meaning of the
word.” Malcolm turned his eyes away for a moment, letting go of her
wrist. “How could she mourn the loss of something she’d never
known?”

“Never known?” Jaime's voice crackled with
rage. She straightened up, but made no attempt to walk away. “But
that’s where your mistake lies, knave. She had more affection and
love in her, even as a child, than you could possibly know. But
she... she was misled by false words and impossible dreams.”

He began to respond, then paused, a troubled
look momentarily crossing his face as he seemed to ponder her
charge. “False words by whom, Jaime? We had always been friends.
What false words? What have I ever said that you could construe as
a promise of any kind?”

Jaime turned her back on him.

“You cannot walk away,” he barked. “I am
tired of having to fight false accusations. Tired of this cloud
that hangs over me. This cloud that smacks of wrongdoing when I
don’t know how I could have done wrong.”

“I have never openly accused you of
anything.”

“It would be much easier if you did,” he
answered sharply. “The puzzle would be much simpler to solve if I
were at least given the pieces.” He reached out and, this time,
more gently took a hold of her wrist, causing her to turn and face
him. “Jaime, since I last laid eyes on you, the Macphersons—with
the exception of Fiona and Alec—have never treated me the same.
Your parents, most of all, seem distant. If I have committed some
great injustice, then ‘tis one that I am neither prosecuted for nor
pardoned. There is a mist that surrounds me, and though I walk on,
there are things that I cannot see. How did I mislead you? Tell me
now if...”

“You never misled me, but do not blame me for
your misfortunes.” Jaime wrenched her wrist free. She already knew
that he spoke the truth. He had never asked her to marry him. In
her mind, though, he was still guilty of allowing her to hope. But
she wouldn’t reveal that to him.

Taking a deep breath, she reached down to
undo the wrapping around his head. She would finish her tasks here
quickly and flee this room. Her hands trembled, but she forced
herself to concentrate.

“But I do blame you,” he said finally, his
voice severe. “All that I suffer finds its origin in you.”

“You give me more credit than I deserve.”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Think what you will,” she replied quietly.
“It is a coward’s way, to be sure.”

Malcolm stared straight ahead for a long
moment as she unwound the outer linen wrapping.

“It all began at that cursed wedding, didn’t
it?” he said grimly. Turning his head, he looked up into her
shocked expression. “When you burst into that chapel at Newabbey
wearing that dress. It was a wedding dress, wasn’t it? I wanted to
think it was just a childish prank. But it wasn’t, was it?”

She peeled off the bloodstained linens, and
gazed with unseeing eyes at the wounds beneath his matted hair.

“Was it?” he asked with some impatience.

Needing time to compose herself, she moved to
a table across the chamber and carried back a wooden bowl of
water.

“WAS IT?” he shouted, glaring at her
angrily.

“What is past, is past!” she answered
sharply. “You are a married man now, and a baser knave than I
thought if you cannot leave off tormenting me so. Why should you go
on pondering an incident dead and buried?”

She soaked the dressings and began to wash
away the dried blood in his hair, feigning a calmness that they
both knew was a lie. His eyes followed the movement of her hand, a
frown on his flushed brow telling of his agitation. She couldn’t
hold her tongue, but perhaps by pretending to be indifferent, she
might more easily ignore his question.

“I never had a chance to compliment you on
your choice. She is indeed a beautiful woman.” Jaime’s attention
was drawn to the sharp movement of his head as he turned his face
from her. She pressed her lips together tightly. How he must miss
her, she thought. “I never even asked you her name, but if you
don’t care to talk about her...”

Her words trailed off, and the ensuing
silence hung heavily in the room. Then his eyes turned upward, and
he stared into her face. “Flora,” he said quietly. “Her name was
Flora.”

Her name was Flora, she repeated silently,
his words echoing in a hollow place deep within her. Her name
was
Flora. The word reverberated in a soft and velvet tones.
It clung to the walls of her heart.

“
Was
?” she croaked.

He turned his face toward the window.

“She died only a month after we wed.”

He fell silent as an overwhelming sense of
guilt, of grief for him, settled in her heart. Suddenly, she wanted
to reach out to him and soothe his inner pain. But she held back,
knowing that he would toss any gesture back in her face. Then, as
she gazed at his grim profile, emotion drained out of his face, and
his expression became calm, thoughtful.

Malcolm turned back to her. “She was very
young.”

Jaime lowered her eyes and stared at her
hands, ashamed now of all the times she’d thought of the two of
them in anger.

“Have you no interest in how she died?”

She shook her head.

“Do you not wish to hear every detail?”

“Nay, Malcolm.”

“Or of the pain she suffered?”

She shook her head again, her eyes misting.
“Please don’t.”

Malcolm gazed on her, his watchful eyes
searching her face as if he was seeing her for the first time.

“I should leave you to your rest,” she said
quietly, suddenly uncomfortable. “Your head wounds no longer need
to be covered. I’ll have Caddy...”

Before she could finish her sentence, his
hand again took hold of her wrist. “Stay.”

The simple word made her heart leap. Even in
the fading light, she could see that his eyes held nothing of the
anger she’d seen there before. She nodded slowly, and remained
where she stood. His eyes turned away, but they were clear as he
began a story in the growing gloom. A story to fill the emptiness
of the night.

“It is jarring to think that I knew so little
of my wife when she was alive, and yet learned so much about her
after she died.” He unconsciously let go of her wrist. “Though I
knew nothing of it until after our marriage, Flora had been a
sickly child since birth. But being the only bairn of Duncan,
leader of the MacDonald clan, Flora had always been carefully
protected, her sickness kept secret from all who lived on the
island. I do not know whose idea it was first, but when she grew
old enough to wed, everything seemed to point to a marriage between
the two of us, a marriage that would unite the MacDonalds and the
MacLeods. Such a union was favored in the councils of both clans.
Everything seemed perfect. Both Duncan and I knew it would save the
lives of many victims of our senseless clan feuding. The union
would improve the lot of all who lived under my rule.”

Jaime sat down quietly on the edge of his
bed.

“Flora and I met only once before our
wedding, in a meeting arranged and overseen by members of both of
the clans’ councils. I should have guessed it then. She was so pale
and so very, very thin. Even at the prospect of the upcoming
wedding, she sat silent, hardly responsive at all to the
excitement. I was prepared to pass it off as shyness, but
Duncan—afraid, I suppose, of me backing out of the contract—was
quick to say that Flora had the most delicate of nerves.”

“You mean you never talked to her alone until
after you wed?”

“Not even after. Alone, that is!” he said
with a short laugh. “The MacDonalds always made sure there were a
great many present whenever we met. And then on that awful day,
halfway through the wedding feast, she took to her sickbed. Not a
good omen for a long marriage, I’m afraid, and it threw quite a
cloud over the wedding feast. I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it.
I believe you were still in Skye. She died in that same bed
scarcely a month later. Her father later told me that she had
consented to the marriage with the hope of being able to bear a
child. She had known that an offspring of ours could bring a
lasting peace to the islanders of Skye and Lewis. I suppose she
hoped to be remembered for something more than a killing sickness
and short life.”

And here she had been, Jaime thought grimly,
sitting in France, entertaining the fancy of becoming his wife. How
selfish of her to think only of her own happiness. How loyal he’d
been in looking after his people and their welfare. He turned his
dark gaze upon her. But he’d never told her, Jaime thought, looking
back at him. He’d never made her understand his motives for
marrying another. But then, why should he? In the long months that
had followed, she’d sorted out the events that had led to her
misunderstanding. The letters prior to the wedding had all been
misinterpreted by her because of her childish hopes. He had never
intended to marry her, but in her adolescent infatuation, she had
let herself think so. Into every letter she had injected her own
desires and intentions, including that last letter from Elizabeth
and Ambrose. Everyone had assumed Jaime knew of Malcolm’s upcoming
wedding to Flora MacDonald. Their excitement about meeting her on
the Isle of Skye had been for no other reason than in seeing her
again. Oh, what a fool she’d been. But fool or no, she had suffered
a misery that had deadened something inside her.

“I never knew Flora in the way a husband
knows his wife. We never had a chance to develop any real
affection; we certainly never learned to love each other as a
wedded couple should. But I respected her, and I admired her
courage. She faced her fate with the fortitude of a warrior.” He
stroked his fingers along the line of his jaw, momentarily lost to
some thought. “I suppose ‘twas all for the best that the end came
as quickly as it did.” His dark eyes fixed on hers. “Now you know
it all.”

“I am sorry, Malcolm.”

He shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
After a moment, though, he turned and faced her. “I answered your
question, but you’ve ignored mine.”

“Your question?” she repeated vaguely,
feigning ignorance.

“Aye, in coming to Skye. That dress.”

“‘Tis not important.” It was Jaime’s turn to
shrug her shoulders. She had no desire to answer his question.
After hearing all she had about Flora and his marriage, Jaime would
die before admitting to him what had been foolish, childish hopes.
“But tell me, Malcolm. What happens now?”

“Here? You tell me. I am the prisoner.”

“Nay, I mean at the Skye,” she corrected.
“Between the MacLeods and MacDonalds.”

“What else? They are back to their old
bickering once again.”

“But why?” Jaime asked sharply. “That is how
they honor the woman’s memory?”

Malcolm’s eyebrows cocked with surprise.
“Jaime, dearest, they hardly even took note of her passing. The
fishermen still fight over the best spots to fish. The crofters
still raise holy hell every time a sheep gets filched. Every time
some bonnie MacDonald lass gets whistled at by a MacLeod lad, I
have to send in warriors to separate them.”

“Isn’t there anything you and Duncan can do?
To make them live together peaceably?”

“Aye, we break a few heads when we need to,
and we reason with them when they’ll listen.” Malcolm lifted one
knee and absently leaned it against Jaime’s back. “Duncan’s a
decent enough man. There is no feud between us. But the rest...they
are islanders. They’ve distrusted, even hated, one another for a
thousand years. It’ll take more than the wishes of a dying woman to
heal those wounds. The two clans need to be bound by blood. They
are—every one of them—as thick-headed as any Highlander, and the
menfolk will steal a sheep and kill one another with as much joy as
bedding a woman.” His gaze rested on her mischievously. “But now
that you mention it, Duncan and I
did
talk of a plan. Of one
that in time might bear fruit.”

She brightened at once. “Tell me.”

“Well, Duncan MacDonald has taken a bonnie
new wife these six months, and when I left for Rotterdam, the old
bull was—by all accounts—busily working on producing a new
heir.”

Jaime blushed at the image, but then the
ramifications of Malcolm’s announcement set in. “And? I suppose he
expects you to marry this new offspring?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Malcolm’s
mouth. “Well, I thank you, lass. That’s a high compliment from you
thinking I’ll be...well,
up
to it so late in life.”

She flushed crimson. “What I...what I meant
was...” Jaime cleared her throat, trying to sound unperturbed. But
with his leg resting comfortably against her, it was just too
unsettling for her to sit any longer beside him on the bed. She
thought it much wiser to stand.

A firm hand descended on her arm, though,
forcing her to remain where she was. “Aye? You were saying?”

Jaime stared down into her lap. The veins in
his broad, tanned hand looked like strong cords running into thick,
powerful fingers. Her face burning, Jaime forced out her words.
“Many men...many marry younger women...later in life.”

“Ah! You’re assuming, of course, that
Duncan’s record with this wife will turn out better than the
rest.”

“The rest?” Startled, she looked up at him.
“Have there been many?”

“I believe the man’s buried at least five
wives—and the Lord knows how many mistresses the old bull has
had.”

She stared at him wide-eyed. Wives?
Mistresses? This was certainly far different from the way the
Macphersons behave. Her uncle Alec was laird—he’d even ruled the
Isles of Skye and Lewis while Malcolm was a young lad—but she was
certain he’d always been devoted to one woman, Fiona. Aye, devoted.
At least, she was fairly certain.

“Duncan had only one child out of all those
women,” Malcolm continued. “So the chances of him having another
heir is a wee bit remote. But he is not giving up, by the Rood, no
matter how hard he might have to try. And so, lass, who am I to
discourage him? Though Duncan’s uglier than an old dog, this new
one is quite bonny and young. Who am I to hinder him!”