The Intended (22 page)

“I expected you to come up here much sooner.”
His tone was no more than a low, sensual drawl, and Jaime’s heart
caught fire. “Though I hadn’t expected you to come up the palace
wall.”

“I came out the music room window...”

Malcolm went on as if she hadn’t spoken.
“
Much
sooner, considering how short the time you have left
before your entry into the blessed state of matrimony.”

“That is all a mista...”

“Come, let’s stop all this. You didn’t risk
your life for mere conversation,” he interrupted again. “I believe
the last time that we were alone we hadn’t the opportunity to
finish...” He paused, his eyes raking over her body in a way that
took her breath away.

“Malcolm, I...” She took a step toward
him.

“I’ve seen you watching. Every time I turned
during this evening’s meal, I found your eyes upon me. There was
hunger in your eyes, but not for food. I knew you would come to me
tonight...with something more than simple talk on your mind. Am I
wrong, lass?”

“I...” Jaime wished desperately that she
could lie. But she couldn’t. Watching his sensual lips whispering
into Mary’s ear tonight had nearly driven Jaime mad. She ached to
have those lips whispering in
her
ear, pressed to
her
mouth, to
her
skin. She gazed longingly at them now.

“Am I wrong?”

“Nay,” she whispered.

Malcolm stared at her in a self-satisfied
silence, forcing himself to look at her with the cold eye of the
critic, and not with the eye of the fool he’d once been. He shook
off the nagging thought that only a few days earlier, he’d really
thought she loved him.

But she’d been lying. In the surgery she’d
been ready to make love to him, all the while holding back the
truth that she belonged to another. To that vile snake, Edward
Howard! But he had learned the whole story. Though Surrey admitted
that he himself was hardly privy to his brother’s thoughts or
plans, he’d told him it was common knowledge that Jaime had
belonged to Edward for quite some time. Malcolm knew then that he’d
been right from the first in thinking her so foully disgraced. She
had freely given herself to one—to an Englishman—and yet still
lusted after pleasure in the arms of others. Very well, he thought
grimly, in this case, at least, he would satisfy the whims of his
captors.

“Take off your cloak,” he instructed
curtly.

Visibly startled by the request and the sharp
tone of his command, Jaime obeyed, folding it and turning to place
the dark garment on the table. “Malcolm, I do need to explain.” She
gasped, turning her face back to him. “What are you doing?”

Malcolm was standing bare-chested by his
chair, his shirt wadded into a ball in his hand. He was now all but
completely healed, and he felt only the faintest twinges of pain in
his shoulder and side at the abrupt movement. But there was a
festering wound within that seemed to be growing worse every
day.

Aye, he thought angrily. What
was
he
doing? The sight of her beautiful face, gazing at him with that
wide-eyed mixture of surprise and innocence, drove a shaft of
molten steel into his heart. What
was
he doing? That
innocence is nothing more than pretense, he reminded himself
fiercely. Her body, so womanly and strong...her breasts, rising and
falling with every rapid breath...her hands and fingers, thin and
white and outstretched to him imploringly.

But what did
she
want? What was
she
doing?

Malcolm knew what she was doing. Suddenly
furious with himself for thinking that he could somehow shame her
by just taking her in his bed, he cast his shirt to the side and
took her roughly by the arm.

“You are leaving here.”

“Please don’t.” She tried to fight back his
hard grip on her arm.

“Aye, you’re going out. I’ll not have you
here!”

“Hold, Malcolm! Please!”

“Nay,” he seethed through clenched teeth.
“You’ve become a seductress! A witch!”

“‘Tis untrue!”

“Aye, ‘tis true! And I won’t be added to your
list of filthy lovers!” His face was a mask of cold fury.

Jaime’s face went white with shock.

“You can go out this way for a change,” he
said, dragging her toward the door. “And you can explain anyway you
like how you came to enter through the window.”

She tried to drag her feet across the floor,
but his strong hands lifted her, propelling her swiftly toward the
heavy oak door.

“A fine thing. A pleasant surprise for your
arriving husband. The entire serving staff—and the soldiers,
too—talking of you, Jaime Macpherson, Edward Howard’s own intended,
tossed on her ear out of his prisoner’s bedchamber. The rumors that
would go about, of you climbing the walls to spend a night in the
man’s arms.” Every muscle in his body flexed with anger, his raging
eyes spewed flames as they gazed down at her. “But perhaps this is
nothing new. Perhaps your beloved is used to sharing your body with
others. Possibly I am expecting more of a reaction than I
should!”

They reached the door.

“Well, perhaps these guards are accustomed to
seeing you so late.” With unexpected suddenness, Malcolm tore at
the shoulder of her dress, exposing the ivory skin at the tops of
her breasts. “Maybe this is more the way they know you!”

“Malcolm, don’t!” she pleaded, clutching at
his hand as he reached for the latch. “Please don’t shame me before
them!”

No longer able to hold back her tears, she
threw her arms wildly around his neck and chest, and buried her
face against him. “Please, Malcolm! Please don’t.”

Her sobs tore at him. His hand froze on the
latch, and he closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sound of her
pleading voice.

“Malcolm, you are the only man that I have
ever loved. You are the only man I’ve ever cared for. Don’t trample
me under like this. Don’t throw me away!”

His skin was wet with her tears. She raised
her face, still clinging tightly to him, and pressed her lips
against his chest. He felt the desire, strong and lusty, stirring
forcefully in his loins.

“Edward is nothing to me,” she whispered, the
skin of her cheek hot against his flesh. “I’ve never...”

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled
her head back. She looked up and shuddered as she gazed into the
depths of his eyes. He knew what she could see—passion, desire, and
hunger—and he made no attempt to hide any of it.

“Never,” he said, his words no more than a
low rumble, an animal growl in his throat. “
Never
mention
his name while I hold you in my arms.”

Jaime stared at him a moment, and then,
rising to her full height, moved to press her lips against his. But
his movement was quicker, rougher, and his mouth closed over her
lips like a vise, his tongue plunging into the soft recesses,
conquering with a bruising passion. But it was a passion that Jaime
accepted readily, a passion that filled her with a wild and stormy
joy.

Malcolm’s arms wound tightly about her, their
bodies entwined, intimately pressed together to the point that it
seemed to Jaime that the floor had fallen away beneath them, that
they now floated in a place unbound by the laws of nature. A place
where lovers joined, and one knew not where her body ended and his
began. All at once Jaime felt her body begin to quake, to shudder
with that same delicious and terrifying joy.

And then the air, warm and sweet around her,
began to stir and whirl, and she knew that they were moving.
Vaguely, she felt herself being lifted in his arms, and she simply
nestled her head into the crook of his neck, knowing that she was
safe with him. She trusted Malcolm MacLeod, and she loved him, and
she knew that he must love her. Once she could make him see the
truth of what they were to each other, he would cherish their love
as dearly as she did. And if making love to him was what would make
him see, then so be it, she thought happily. She waited for no
other. When or where she should surrender her innocence held no
significance to her, so long as she surrendered it to him.

When he put her down on her feet beside the
bed, she swayed a bit, focusing her eyes on his face as he stepped
away. She shivered and stared at him, uncomprehending. The warmth
and comfort that came with his strong embrace quieted her nerves,
soothed her fears. But now, without his powerful arms about her,
Jaime felt alone and strangely cold.

His eyes swept over her. “Undress!” he
ordered, his voice husky and raw.

Malcolm stood before her. The look in her
eyes cried out for words of love. He could see plainly that she
yearned to reach for him, to make him take her into his arms again.
But instead, he simply clenched his fists and watched as she
reached behind her neck for the laces that held her dress in place.
He could see plainly the trembling hands that struggled to undo the
ties.

Malcolm avoided looking into her tear-rimmed
eyes, but instead focused his gaze on her full lips, on the
softness of her neck, on the soft ivory skin showing through the
rend he’d made in the dress. When she’d unlaced the garment as far
as she could, Jaime began to pulling at the wide sleeves, and
Malcolm’s breath caught in his throat as the torn bodice of the
dress slipped downward. Her breasts, high and round, pressed
against the thin silk of her chemise. He could feel her eyes
riveted to his face, but he forced himself to keep his own gaze
averted, and as she pushed the skirts down and bent down to step
out of them, the sight of her breasts swinging free of her
undergarment jolted him with the power of a lightning bolt. His
breathing stopped, and had still not resumed by the time she
straightened, her hair cascading forward, the ebony locks
concealing and accentuating the exquisite curves of her womanly
form.

“Remove them,” he growled softly,
concentrating on her hands clasped before her. “The rest of your
clothes—remove them.”

When she hesitated, he glanced up at her, and
the flash of her eyes toward the burning wick lamp. She wished to
continue without the light.

“You will hide nothing more from me, lass.”
Malcolm’s angry voice cut through the air like the blade of a dirk.
“And you will look into my eyes when I make love to you. I want you
to remember. I want you to see my eyes as clear as the winter peaks
of the Black Cuillins, and I want you to think of my face...nay, I
want you to
see
it looming above you the next time you’re
bedding that English lover of yours.”

Slowly brushing away a runaway tear with the
back of her hand, Jaime silently reached for the shoulder straps of
her chemise and pulled them down, one at a time. The material
tightened against her breasts and then released them. His throat
went dry and he felt himself hardening at this sight of perfection,
and as she slowly lowered the smooth fabric over the curves of her
hips, Malcolm found he had to consciously force the air into his
lungs. The chemise dropped to the floor, pooling at her feet.

The Highlander’s eyes studied every bit of
her stunningly beautiful body, trying to shut out the thought that
this was Jaime. He looked at her—flawless in her form, her
skin—trying to think of her as if she were some wrought image—a
painting, a statue. Feelings tore through him so completely
contrary to what he wished to feel.

He wanted to feel—nothing.

Malcolm stared at her. She stood erect,
hiding nothing. His eyes possessed her, but that was all. She
wasn’t his. His gaze traveled along the sensuous curves. The light
of the lamp flickered on the soft planes of her belly, created
shadows along her arms, the undersides of her breasts, the inside
of her thigh.

He looked up into her face. Her cheeks and
her eyes glistened with tears.

It had to be this way. He fought the weakness
in his heart that screamed to show her affection. Longing...nay,
lust was all that could bind them now. She had to be treated
this
way, he argued silently. She’d come to him with one
thing in mind, and that was all he would allow himself to give. He
took a step and reached the side of the bed, then threw back the
bedcovers with a violence that made Jaime jump. But as she began to
edge toward the bed, he grabbed her fiercely by the wrist.

“Nay, lass!” he growled. “Not so quick!”

There was surprise in her face as she stared
up at him. Malcolm knew deep in his heart that this would be the
last time he would ever have her. Her beauty represented in his
mind a splendor unmatched this side of paradise. But he now knew
all too well the workings of her fraudulent heart, and he also knew
no other woman would ever hurt him as she had.

She wasn’t his. She belonged to another.

Her touch—Malcolm wanted to feel the touch of
her fingers on his skin. Then he would carry that memory for
whatever time he had left in this life.

And he would force her if he needed
to...because she would never belong to him.

“Come to me.” His command, hoarse even to his
own ear, echoed in the room. “Undress me.”

Jaime hesitated for an instant. Then, slowly,
she reached out her hand. With the speed of lightning, Malcolm
clamped his hand on her wrist and jerked her toward him. Her body
fell against his, her warm breasts pressing against him. She stared
up at him, surprise and expectation mixed in her eyes.
Deliberately, he took one of her small hands and drew it to his
manhood. With an audible intake of breath, she turned her smooth,
damp cheek to his chest, and Malcolm rested his mouth against her
hair, breathing in her sweet scent. Her soft ivory body, close now,
melded in the lamplight with his darker skin, creating havoc with
his senses.

He was losing control, and he knew it. Of
their own accord, his lips brushed against the satin softness of
her hair. Without planning it, without considering it, he found his
mouth moving downward to kiss and suckle the velvet skin of her
earlobe. But when she tilted her head to the side, when she let out
a low moan as he trailed his warm kisses over her flesh, Malcolm’s
brain cleared, telling him her actions were premeditated, the
moment completely planned. He drew back sharply.