The Intended (24 page)

“Easily,” the duke answered under his breath.
“It is easily done! How do you think we arranged—just a few weeks
ago—to have that bloody Cromwell arrested. We had him dragged out
of a Council meeting. Accused of being a radical heretic and a
traitor under the Act of Attainder, and easily enough
accomplished.” Norfolk snorted mirthlessly. “He has been a stick in
my ass for a long time, but I’m a patient man. If Cromwell hadn’t
brought over that foul bitch, Anne of Cleves, for the king to wed,
we might still be waiting. But as it is, his beheading will be a
pleasure to watch.”

Edward swallowed audibly as the blood drained
from his face. “They could not do that to me, there is no
proof!”

There was no evidence against Cromwell
either, the duke thought silently. None that hadn’t been invented.
But he had become an increasing threat to the powers of the members
of the Privy Council—to Norfolk’s own power. And then fate had
taken a decided hand in matters. After Cromwell had arranged the
unsuccessful marriage of King Henry to Anne of Cleves--a simple
accusation had been more than enough.

“Nay, Edward. You won’t end up like
Cromwell,” Norfolk said, hoping his son would believe him. He
didn’t need Edward displaying anything but the utmost confidence.
“But we’ll have to make sure that there is nothing to be twisted
into proof.”

For a long moment Edward stood and watched
his father’s thoughtful expression. Gradually his color returned
and he threw himself into a chair, his legs sprawled before him.
“So what am I to do now?”

“Do? Nothing. You will simply go about your
business as if nothing was wrong. You have been commanded to remain
at court, so you will remain. I will see that your men say what
needs to be said...and those whom we doubt will be taken care of at
Norwich Castle.” Norfolk turned a knowing look in his son’s
direction. He would cover whatever blunders Edward had made. “Some
of them will disappear. The others will do what they’re told.”

“Aye, Father.”

Norfolk continued to eye Edward. “And in the
meantime, we will rely—to some extent—on the single bright star
lighting our way.”

A long moment passed before Edward’s
expressionless face suddenly lit up with understanding.
“Catherine?”

The duke nodded slowly as he pondered his
son’s answer. “Aye, perhaps we might consider her...a star. But we
must take care. The night sky is littered with stars of Catherine’s
type. And there is no way to catch a falling star.”

“But, Father, her marriage to the king is
certain to bring His Majesty’s favor our way.” Edward leaned
forward in his chair and planted his hands on the desk. “Perhaps I
should speak to her—have her go to the king on my behalf. Perhaps
if she were to defend me...”

“I don’t see much possibility of that,”
Norfolk answered shortly. “She left for Kenninghall this morning
with her growing entourage.”

A look of surprise came over Edward’s face.
“I had no idea she was planning to go back so soon. I thought she
was planning to wait and accompany us.”

“You mean...to have
us
accompany
her
!” The duke gazed at his knotted knuckles tapping lightly
on the table. “I thought so, as well. But she was quite eager to go
and ready herself for the wedding. When she came to me, she’d
already gotten permission—reluctant though he was to give it—from
the king.”

His eyes followed his son as Edward stood and
silently began pacing the room.

“So she left before I had the chance to seek
her help.”

“That would appear to be the case.”

Edward’s face darkened with anger, and he
turned and strode away from his father, pausing to run his hand
over the new globe-shaped map of the world standing at the end of
the room.

The duke of Norfolk leaned forward and picked
up the unfinished letter. The clerk’s quill pen, ink, and blotting
sand still lay on the table before him. After a quick glance at the
writing, he turned and eyed his son. “When I mentioned a star to
light our way, I wasn’t speaking of Catherine!”

Edward stopped—his finger resting on the
globe and blotting out half of Scotland. His father’s words finally
sunk in.

“Jaime!” he said, whirling.

“Aye,” the duke responded, nodding without
looking up. “Jaime!”

As Edward crossed the room toward him, the
old politician reached for his clerk’s pen. “I am sending word for
her to join us here at court.”

“Then it’s time!”

The duke cocked his head as he looked up at
his son. “I believe the king will have a complete change of heart,
my boy, when you tell him the truth.”

The mellifluous tones of her heavenly voice,
combined with the pure notes of the children around her, was surely
the most divine sound Malcolm had ever heard. Their faces glowing
in the light of a thousand candles, the young singers and musicians
sat in a small circle in the center of the Great Hall at
Kenninghall. The occupants of the Hall, only moments ago boisterous
in their merrymaking, now sat in silent awe. The sheer beauty of
the performers, the clear accomplishment of their blessed talents
and their training, but most of all the sweet sounds that now
filled the air held all within hearing rapt and spellbound.

But Malcolm’s attention never shifted from
Jaime as his pained mind followed the tenor of her voice, and his
eyes worshiped every line, every shadow of her face. She had coiled
her hair high on top of her head--and he saw the loose tendrils
seductively teasing the smooth planes of her neck. Her eyes told
him—though perhaps only him—of their deep, shared secret; and her
pale skin bespoke a woman who was no longer what she had been only
a day earlier.

He so desperately hoped she would lift her
eyes and at least acknowledge his existence in the Hall. He craved
so desperately a moment alone with her. She could kill him if she
desired--that would be an end Malcolm would readily accept. As long
as she gave him a chance to say his peace, to seek her pardon, to
allow him to pour out his heart, he would accept death at her hands
in an instant.

As she tucked the small harp against her body
and began to strum gently at the strings, he felt her fingers upon
the strings of his heart.

“...Don’t you think so?” Surrey’s loud
whisper finally penetrated Malcolm’s thoughts. “A most entertaining
performance, wouldn’t you say?”

The Highlander realized that the earl had
been speaking to him, but—unable to tear his attention away from
the vision of loveliness before him—Malcolm simply nodded in
response. The words of Jaime’s song were sad, plaintive, and her
lilting voice went straight to the softest chambers of his soul. He
listened, spellbound, aware of Surrey’s eyes fixed upon him, but
determined not to be distracted from her again.

Too soon for Malcolm and for everyone else in
the room, Jaime finished the song, and began speaking quietly to
the group of children scattered around at her feet. Malcolm watched
in fascination as she extended her hand to a very young redheaded
lass and, raising the child to her feet, brought her up beside the
group of musicians.

“Most satisfying, having the children’s
talents developed with such care.”

Surrey’s words were quickly corrected by his
wife, who sat beside him. “Aye, Jaime’s care, my dear. All the
talent lies with her. She is the one who is bringing these little
ruffians around.”

“Ahh, a nasty job!” Surrey put in
jokingly.

“One might think so,” Frances answered
brightly. “But with Jaime in charge—they are like ducks in the
water.”

“These are definitely the most melodious
ducks that I’ve ever heard, wife.”

Malcolm strained his ears, trying to catch
some scrap of the whispering going on between Jaime and the
redheaded child. But his attempt was for naught with Surrey and
Frances continuing to converse. She was so beautiful in the glow of
the candles and the flames dancing in the great hearth.

“Was she always so inspired? Even as a
child?”

Once again lost in his thoughts, a moment
went by before Malcolm realized a question had been directed at
him. The countess of Surrey was awaiting his answer, and Malcolm
glanced at the faces of both her and the earl.

“She was,” Malcolm answered, quickly turning
his gaze back on Jaime. The little girl before her was pulling
nervously at the pink ribbon in her hair and nodding to her
instructor. The conference ended and the little singer took her
place.

“Did she always have such a talent for
music?” Frances asked.

“For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been
the most gifted of musicians,” Malcolm answered.

“And has she always been so eager to teach?
She really is a marvel.”

“From the time she was little, she has been
most eager to learn. It is completely in keeping for her to find a
way to impart that knowledge to others.” A small smile was tugging
at Jaime’s lips as she turned to acknowledge a word said by one of
the older children. For the briefest of instants, her gaze lifted
and she looked straight into Malcolm’s eyes. His heart soared.

“Was she always so kindhearted?” Frances’s
voice was insistent. “Come, Malcolm, you must share what you know!
She is so kind to everyone. Look how she treats that child.”

“She has never been any other way,” Malcolm
replied, fixed on the memory of that brief glance.

“Has she always been so stunningly
beautiful?”

Malcolm and Frances both turned their heads
sharply, each of them sending withering looks at the earl.

“Has she?” Surrey asked seriously, not
letting up on Malcolm.

“Nay,” the Highlander answered shortly.
“Jaime Macpherson was lanky and thin, and she was always sure to
act far different from the other lasses.”

Surrey nodded. “So she has changed greatly
since you met her last!”

“Aye, that she has,” Malcolm answered, his
voice still retaining the surly, involuntary gruffness brought on
by Surrey’s notice of Jaime’s beauty.

“I’m certainly glad of that!”

“May I inquire why you’re glad, Surrey?”
Frances asked, the slightest hint of suspicion and irritation in
her question.

The earl turned to his wife. “If she hadn’t
changed, my dear, then I would have thought something quite
amiss.”

“Would you be kind enough to explain,
husband?”

“It’s quite simple, really. Besides you, my
dear, our cousin Jaime is easily the most charming and accomplished
young woman to step foot in Kenninghall in years.” Surrey paused
and gestured toward Malcolm. “To think that my friend here would
allow such beauty and talent escape his grasp—considering the open
affection he exhibits now—well, I couldn’t help but think that she
must have been far different as a child. Either that or we must all
be quite blind to her flaws.”

“Jaime Macpherson has no flaws,” Malcolm
stated emphatically, setting his jaw.

“I believe we are all in agreement with that,
Malcolm. And now your response—regarding how she has changed—has
confirmed my own high opinion of her.”

Frances cocked an eyebrow at her husband.
“Surrey, what do you mean, ‘open affection’?”

The earl looked straight at the Highlander.
“I believe, my dear, our guest knows exactly what I mean. Am I
wrong, Malcolm?”

“You are not wrong, Surrey.”

“Well, I’m sorry for you, but it’s too late,
you see.” Surrey turned and glanced over at Jaime. “She is spoken
for. I told you so myself.”

“Jaime has exchanged no vow. There has been
no betrothal, yet.”

“My friend, you’ve had your chance—a lifetime
of chances—but you never claimed her as your own.”

But I have, Malcolm thought silently, his
inner pain blocking any sense of triumph.

“But my brother Edward,” Surrey paused,
looking about the room. “He has recognized her value.”

“In gold perhaps,” Malcolm added with disdain
in his voice.

“Perhaps,” Surrey conceded with a nod. “All
the same, Malcolm, once Edward sets his mind on something that he
desires—or on someone—there is no stopping him. And he wants
Jaime.”

The earl turned and exchanged a look with his
wife before turning his attention on the Highlander once again.
“And he doesn’t mean to toy with her like some puppet, or play with
her like some wench.”

“Surrey!” Frances said, shocked dismay in her
voice.

The earl did not look away from Malcolm.
“Edward quite clearly intends to take Jaime for his wife. He means
to have her.”

Malcolm knew common sense dictated that he
remain silent. That he withhold his rebuttal and not give voice to
his opinion of this match—but they were talking about Jaime, and
there was nothing that would prevail over the feelings that he
harbored for her.

“Nay.” The Highlander waved him off. “You are
speaking as the elder brother, Surrey, and not as a man of the
world—educated by the great Humanist, himself. Nor are you speaking
as the poet we all know you to be. These are not the utterances of
a man dedicated to the search for truth. These are not your words,
Surrey. Play the others for fools—your countess here and I don’t
believe you.”

The earl smiled as his wife turned her head
away, trying to hide her mirth. “Believe what you like, Malcolm
MacLeod. And go to the devil while you’re at it. I am giving you
only the facts.”

“You’re giving us only what your brother
wishes to have believed.”

“I’m telling you what is sure to happen.”

“Only if your brother is clever enough to
match Jaime’s wit. And, of course, assuming he is wise enough to
value her learning. And then there is the question of whether he is
broadminded enough to appreciate her goodness.” Malcolm gazed
steadily into Surrey’s face. “I wonder if you truly believe Edward
is deserving enough to win Jaime’s hand. Though you were writing
about your good and lovely wife, you could as easily have been
writing about Jaime when you wrote,