The Intended (5 page)

“Trusted you...fool that I...you’ve made us
all...” His breath was short; a spasm of pain contorted his face.
“You...whore...dirty, English whore...” He threw himself at her
again. But Reed’s club knew no restraint this time, and the blow
landed with a sickening thud behind the ear. Malcolm crumpled like
a dry leaf before a flame.

Jaime’s gasp was smothered by Edward's roar
as he shoved his jailer to the side. “You idiot. What good is he
dead?”

Jaime’s whole body shook as she knelt before
the bloody body huddled at her feet. She placed her fingers on the
gashes to his head, where more blood was seeping through his skull.
She tried to stop the bleeding, with her hands at first. That
failing, she raised the hem of her skirt and tore a piece from her
underskirt, pressing the white linen against the two places. She
didn’t dare look up. The tears in her eyes—the grief that was
tearing at her—were something she couldn’t hide.

“Is he dead?”

Jaime felt Edward's hand on her shoulder.
Without looking up, she moved her hand to Malcolm’s throat, where
she could feel a pulse, weak and irregular.

“Not yet,” she answered under her breath.
“But he is bleeding, and ‘tis only a matter of time before you lose
him. Unless...unless we bring him a physician.”

Jaime turned her head as Edward's boots left
her side. He drew one of his officers away and spoke under his
breath with him. Though she couldn’t hear their whispers, the
officer nodded and strode off in the direction that they’d entered.
Tearing another section from her skirts, she replaced the
blood-soaked linen at his head with a new one
.
She pulled him slightly, rolling him onto his side,
and drew the cloak away from his chest and back. There was a huge,
jagged gash on his back and a smaller one in his chest right above
his heart. A sword had run him through from the back. Jaime gasped,
a knot of fear rising sharply in her throat. It was a miracle that
he had survived the blow. How the blade had ever missed his heart,
his lung...

Edward's boots appeared again at her
side.

“He’s bleeding from his chest, as well,” she
said.

“We are taking him back with us,” he
announced. “I’d wager a crown he wouldn’t survive the night in the
hands of Reed, here.”

Jaime stood up at once. There was no time to
be lost. They had to take him now. As she turned to Edward, the
Englishman’s hand reached out and roughly took hold of her upper
arm. She looked up into his gray eyes.

“I am proud of you, my little raven,” he
announced. “You have done me a service this day...a great
service.”

Turning his back on the two men in the room,
the lean, well-dressed courtier glanced out the diamond-paned
window, only to catch sight of the raven-haired Jaime Macpherson
hurrying through the garden in the direction of the stables. How
odd, he thought, watching as the young woman’s eyes darted
nervously over her shoulder every few steps. So unlike her, he
thought.

“The devil take me, Surrey, but you’re weak
and you’re bookish. And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you
hadn’t a drop of Howard blood in you!”

Henry Howard, the earl of Surrey, tore his
gaze away from the window and stared at his brother with a bored
expression. “Swear what you like, Edward. Though I think, little
brother, you should stop swallowing these French ships whole when
you capture them. The wind in their sails is affecting your head
quite adversely, I’m afraid.”

Surrey was a slightly built man, not as tall
or muscular as his younger brother, but he carried a quiet
confidence in his face, a hint of carelessness in his attitude,
that told of a man quite at ease with himself.

Edward glared back. “Once again, Harry,
rather than congratulating me for my latest victory, you insist on
being critical of my successes.”

The duke of Norfolk fought back a grin as the
fierce exchange of words began again. He watched Edward’s warlike
posture, and took in Surrey’s careless response—the leisurely grace
in taking his time to walk back across the middle of the room and
then to lean comfortably against the carved oak panel that
surrounded the fireplace in the study.

Norfolk paused, considering the tremendous
difference between his two sons. Harry, though proven in bravery
and courtly behavior, had not found the soldier’s life particularly
appealing. Instead, his eldest son had found a curious delight in
poetry, of all things. It was bad enough when he began translating
Virgil’s
Aeneid
for his friends, the duke thought, but this
Petrarch fellow and his love poems were truly beyond the limits of
decency.

Edward, on the other hand, reminded the duke
so much of himself. Proud, ambitious, short tempered—Edward was a
man of action. Like the duke himself, who as a young man had led
the attack in the wondrous rout of the Scots at Flodden Field,
Edward was now straining at the bit to prove himself, to take his
ships and invade France itself. All his younger son needed was a
bit of patience—the ability to consider all of the alternatives—and
Edward would become a fine leader, Norfolk thought. A very fine
leader.

The argument between the two men went on and
Norfolk realized he’d perhaps let it continue too long. He’d
watched his sons fight this way since they were lads—Surrey holding
the edge until their arguing escalated into violence. But he didn’t
want them drawing swords on each other right now.

“Harry. Edward. That’s quite enough.”
Norfolk’s face was stern and he rapped his gnarled knuckles
peevishly on the table beside his chair. “We need to hear all of
what happened at court, not this foolishness about whether Edward
has sunk one too many ships at sea.”

Both men turned their attentions back to
their father at once.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Surrey replied,
smiling and bowing with a flamboyant show of courtesy. His face
changed a bit, then, darkening with seriousness. “But to get to the
point, Father, the king’s displeasure with me has become more
consistent, of late. You know that I have been too vocal in my
objection to his attentions toward Catherine.”

“What
difference
does it make if he
should take a fancy to Catherine?” Edward interjected irritably.
“Everyone knows the king’s marriage to that ugly toad, Anne of
Cleves, is about to be annulled, and then...”

“The difference, Edward,” Surrey said
quietly, turning to his brother, “is that since our cousin, Anne
Boleyn, met her rather untimely end, the family’s fortunes have
suffered tremendously. If our cousin Catherine...if
any
female in the Howard family were to cause the king any further
disappointment, it would probably mean the end of Father’s
influence at court. And that might just mean no more ships for you
to play sailor in.”

“Play...?” Edward said angrily, taking a step
across the room.

“Stay where you are, Edward,” Norfolk
commanded, pausing for a moment as his younger son struggled to
regain control of his temper, finally throwing himself into one of
the carved, upholstered chairs.

Pretty Catherine Howard certainly did present
problems, it was true. Norfolk considered his niece for a moment.
For more than two months now, the king’s interest in her had
continued to grow. She was certainly a lusty wench, Norfolk
thought, smiling to himself. So full of life and yet so ambitious,
she was. No wonder she caught the king’s eye. But just before she’d
gone off to court last fall, Norfolk had needed to step in himself
and put an end to her antics with the damned music master. Aye, he
thought, she could be a real problem if she didn’t settle down.

Norfolk rapped his knuckles softly on the
wood. But Catherine’s a bright girl, the duke argued silently, and
she
would
settle down. Of that he was certain. And marrying
a king such as Henry Tudor...well, she knew what had happened to
her haughty cousin, Anne. Aye, she would fall into line quickly
enough. Just the honor of Henry taking her as a wife rather than as
a mere mistress...

“Harry.” Norfolk turned to face his older
son. “Catherine will make as suitable a match for the king as any
woman in England.”

“Aye, Father. I hope you are correct.” Surrey
crossed his arms over his chest and stroked the sharp line of his
jaw. “But she is so much younger than he—in body and in spirit. And
her youth and vigor will certainly prey on his mind...well, in no
time.”

“And I suppose,” Edward said with sarcasm,
“you were fool enough to tell him.”

Surrey faced his brother with a wry smile.
“Aye. And his face went as black as the day Thomas More defied
him.”

“You know,” Norfolk said darkly, “that you
play with fire when you trifle with the king’s pleasures.”

“Aye, Father. But I thought...” Surrey cast a
glance about the room. “We all know how wild Catherine can be. She
won’t even last as long as Anne. Just think, as virtuous as we all
knew Anne Boleyn to be, once she displeased him, nothing could stop
Henry from sending her to the block. Even you, Father...”

“That’s enough, Harry.”

Surrey paused, staring for a moment at the
old man before continuing. “Well, it matters little what is past, I
suppose. But the short of it is that once the king’s color returned
to his face, he sent me on my way.”

“Well, lad,” the duke said wryly, “you didn’t
have such a long ride home, now, did you?”

“Nay, Father. Nor will your ride be long,
either.”

“Eh?” the duke asked, shooting his son a
questioning look. “What’s that?”

“The king sends word that he wants both you
and
my illustrious younger brother to attend him
immediately.”

“Why didn’t you...By His Wounds, I just left
him a month ago!”

Norfolk considered for a moment. His
relationship with King Henry had as many ups and downs as a well
bucket. This summons was surely to finalize the marital
arrangements concerning Catherine. And perhaps the king simply
wanted to reward Edward for his excellent service, but it was
always difficult to know whether Henry Tudor intended to reward or
punish. One thing he’d learned over the years, though, the quickest
way to bring Henry’s wrath down on one’s own head was to keep His
Majesty waiting.

The duke looked from one son to the other.
Edward’s handsome face was now shining with satisfaction at the
news that the king had called for him.

“Well, Edward,” Norfolk said with a heave of
his chest. “Before you burst with pride, don’t you need to do
something about that Scot your men have trundled down from
Norwich?”

Edward’s face clouded for a moment. “Aye,
Father,” he responded, moving toward the window and gazing out in
the direction of the stables. “Perhaps I should take him to the
king, as a token...”

“Never!” Norfolk cautioned. “You have already
given Henry a new French warship to add to his fleet. This man and
the prize he’ll bring us is yours to keep.”

“What have you got, Edward? The Black
Douglas?” Surrey asked, moving next to his brother and peering out
over his shoulder.

“Nay, Surrey. But I’ve caught the laird of
the MacLeod clan, and I have him in one of the stable cells.”

“The laird of the MacLeods?” Surrey paused.
“Well, if you’d like, Edward, I should have time to torture him for
you while you are with the king at Nonsuch Palace.”

The duke broke in with a short laugh.
“Seriously, Surrey, your brother has made a fine capture. But the
man is wounded, that’s why he is here.”

“So, he might not live?”

“It depends,” Norfolk answered, “on our
treatment.”

“Well, I believe that we’ve enough experience
killing Scots in this family that one more should be no challenge.”
Surrey smiled, but his humor was lost on the old warrior.

“The Howard family has gained the position it
holds because of that experience,” Norfolk interrupted gruffly. His
glare softened a bit, then, and he glanced at his younger son.
“Surrey will be able to look after things here, Edward. Your Scot
will be in good hands.”

Surrey gazed for a moment at his father, then
shrugged and turned to his brother. “Certainly, little brother.
We’ll nurse your prisoner back to health.”

Edward smiled.

“Aye, Surrey. Do that for me, won’t you?”

“That we will,” Surrey said quietly as his
brother moved away from the window. “But the cost may be high,
brother.”

The earl turned his gaze in the direction of
the stable yards.

“Very high,” he whispered.

Malcolm’s head jerked to the side as the
smell of rotting meat invaded his senses. The world inside his head
began to spin, and his stomach heaved as the fibers of his brain
twisted under the pressure. There were noises—the sounds of wind
and drums, pounding—jumbled in his head. He tried to open his eyes,
but even that tiny movement brought on more pain, rushing through
him with a sensation of bones straining, cracking, exploding
inside. Indeed, Malcolm could feel his bones melting within a
gelatinous casing of battered flesh.

A momentary fear...nay, terror...pushed into
the fogged consciousness of his brain. The Highlander suddenly
found himself afraid to breathe. He feared, for a moment, even the
rise and fall of his chest. Surely in filling his lungs—if he
could
fill his lungs—his chest would burst, pierced by the
thousand daggers that even now must be protruding from his
perforated carcass. And then there was his burning throat—parched,
tight. So dry that he thought it could never again open to the cool
elixir of life.

Malcolm MacLeod prepared to give up his
spirit.

“My dear, this is no place for a lady of His
Grace’s household. Why don’t you go and call for one of the serving
maids to come and give me a hand with the lad.”