The Intended (37 page)

Hurry, damn you both
, she cursed
silently, her body screaming for satisfaction.
Finish your
business, for I am next. And I don’t care to wait for
anyone
!

Her body arched at the moment of her release,
and Malcolm felt her tighten like a sheath around him. As she cried
out in ecstasy, the last vestige of his control exploded in a
fireball of passion. There was no holding back—there was only the
need to pour his seed into her.

“Jaime!” he called aloud, rolling her onto
the bed beneath him. As they clung to each other, a few fierce
strokes were all that were needed to leave them both panting and
spent.

Malcolm's mind cleared in a few moments, and
though he still had not recovered enough to roll to his side, he
realized that through the haze of their climax, he had heard a
noise from over by the door. Raising himself and gazing down into
her smiling face, he realized that if there had been something,
Jaime had not heard it.

Malcolm peered across the room at the dark
oak door. Had a door opened and closed somewhere nearby? he
thought. Carefully, he lifted himself off of Jaime, covering her
with the bedclothes and reaching for the flickering
candlestick.

He listened as he crossed the chamber toward
the door. There was nothing but silence. The Highlander put his ear
against the wood, but still heard nothing. Pulling it open a crack,
he peered into the dim light of the corridor. Surprised at seeing
no one standing guard at the customary spot, he pulled the door
open further and stepped out of the room. No one in either
direction. Not a soul. Malcolm scratched his chin and went back
into his bedchamber, shutting the heavy door behind him.

“Was someone there?” Jaime asked quietly,
sitting up in bed, the covers tucked demurely around her.

“Nay...well, perhaps some passing wench,”
Malcolm answered, picking up a pitcher of wine from the table
before starting back toward the bed. “For my ever vigilant guard
has managed to disappear. She must have been quite a lass to entice
him from his post.”

Jaime threw off the covers and jumped from
the bed. “If he is no longer there—then perhaps I should leave
now...by way of the door.”

Malcolm filled his lungs deeply as he gazed
at the perfection of her naked body. She smiled and picked up her
dress. With a sigh, he peered down at the jug in his hand and then
glanced over his shoulder at the door.

“Aye, Jaime. We’ll just have to keep this
thing for another time. I do very much prefer to have you get back
to your room safely...and not go climbing down that wall
again.”

Jaime walked slowly toward him—her eyes
sparkling. As she neared him, Malcolm felt his composure beginning
to slip. He couldn’t ignore her womanly curves, her long legs, the
black hair tumbling over her high, firm breasts.

“What were you planning to do with this
drink?” she asked, dropping her dress to the floor as she came to a
stop before him and placing her hands against his chest.

“Well, lass,” he began hoarsely. “Since I
only have one cup, which you must use, being the guest, I was
thinking of laying you down here and pouring
my
portion of
this wine all over you. I believe I could drink the whole pitcher
full that way.”

“But, Malcolm, we both know wine acts like
poison in your body.”

“Ah, but having the pleasure of sipping from
your curves, lass, I welcome the pain.”

Even in the dim light, he saw her blush. But
then she reached out and took the pitcher from his hand, replacing
it with another pitcher from the side table.

“Water?” she asked, touching him on the
arm.

“Aye, Jaime. Why?”

“I find myself dying of thirst, my love. And
I think your idea for drinking is one that needs to be tried
out.”

“And the guard?” he replied with a smile.

She cocked her head prettily. “Let’s hope the
wench is his own true love.”

“And keeps him busy till dawn!”

She smiled and tugged at his arm. “Somehow, I
think she will. Aye, Malcolm, I’m certain of it.”

Jaime tried to roll over and let her mind
drift back to sleep, but the rough callused hand to her temple kept
her in place. She tried to open her eyes and look into Master
Graves’s face, but her eyelids, heavy with drowsiness, would not
move at her silent command. They were people about the room, she
could hear their voices discussing her condition. But the man—the
physician’s voice—was the one that carried a note of alarm.

“...there have been many who’ve died of
spleen...”

“But how could it come so sudden? She had no
symptoms of any ailment last evening!”

Jaime recognized the ring of disbelief in
France’s voice, so she prayed for a convincing answer from the
physician.

“I’ve seen many cases of it in my years,
m’lady, and it often comes on suddenly. An ailment ‘taken in a
thought,’ as the tutors say in Cambridge.”

Jaime felt a wetness against her temple—the
stretching of a cloth over her forehead. This must be the potion
the physician had talked about, she thought. The one that would
make her sleep.

“The term really refers to severe depression,
Lady Frances,” Master Graves continued. “What the Galenists still
call an imbalance of the humors. Any kind of anxiety or concern
could bring on the ailment. But what we must be careful to avoid is
a brain fever.”

“Oh, Master Graves.” Jaime noted the alarm in
Frances’s voice now.

“Now, m’lady, if you wish to know what causes
the attack, we need to think back. Was it possible that she has
received some distressing news? Was she upset by anything in the
past week or so?”

All was going well, Jaime thought through a
growing haze. The physician had quite cleverly turned the questions
back on Frances. Jaime tried to gather all her wits about her so
that she could hear what was being said. She waited for Frances’s
explanations. But the countess seemed unwilling to reveal what she
knew to the Welshman.

“Lady Frances,” Mary’s pretty voice cut
through the short lived silence hanging about the room. “What of
her leaving for court tomorrow? His Grace is expecting her to
arrive this week. Poor Lord Edward—we can’t keep him waiting!”

“That is the least of our concerns right now,
Mary,” Frances answered. “Master Graves talks of young women losing
their life to this wretched sickness all the time. As far as I am
concerned, Lord Edward can wait.”

“But still...”

“Mary, I think you need to find something
else to do.” The countess’s voice betrayed an edge to her temper.
“You surely haven’t forgotten that my husband happens to be Lord
Edward’s brother. Surrey will make all necessary explanations to
Lord Edward. Jaime, on the other hand, needs to be cared for, and
it is our job, my job, to help her through this.
Her
well-being is the primary concern now. Do you understand?”

Even with her eyes closed and her mind
drifting, Jaime could hear Mary grumbling audibly as she left the
chamber angrily.

After a slight pause—or was it an hour?—the
countess spoke again, but her tone was now entirely different.

“What can we do for the poor dear, Master
Graves? How can we help her through this?”

The poultice on her temple was warming her
skin. As a sensation of pins and needles spread from her forehead,
a light-headedness was beginning to make her head spin. But still
Jaime’s heart warmed to Frances’s genuine concern.

“You have to let her rest, m’lady. The sleep
shouldn’t do her harm. Did I mention that she also has been
fighting a touch of the green disease for a while?”

“Aye, you did say so.”

“Ah. Well, I fear that has weakened her.”

The physician lifted the linen cloth off her
forehead and spread a bit more of the wet potion against her skin.
Jaime had a sudden sensation of falling—slowly, like a leaf or a
feather. But she also had a growing sense of fear...that an abyss
spread out beneath her, and she could find no handhold to stop her
slow, irrevocable descent.

“If we were to try and force her into some
semblance of consciousness right now, ‘twould be the end of her.
Brain fever would set in, and that would kill her for sure,
m’lady.”

“Will she recover?” Frances asked, the alarm
in her voice reaching a new pitch.

“Aye, she might very well. With no
disturbances and plenty of rest, her body might just decide to cast
off this unholy misery. She might just wake up from this...”

Jaime tried to strain to hear more—but the
voices now became muffled.

Surrey...a message...potion...Malcolm...

In the depths of her mind, Jaime opened her
eyes in search of him—but the blanketing darkness and her
continuous fall were all that she comprehended.

Malcolm ignored Catherine’s whispered
question, turning in Surrey’s direction and focusing on the earl’s
discussion with Lady Frances. They were talking about Jaime and the
messenger who had been sent earlier with the news for the duke.
When they had broached the subject of Jaime’s condition, Malcolm
had acted his part well, showing great surprise and sadness. He
simply could not allow these good people to suspect that it was all
a ruse.

Catherine’s hand on his knee jerked Malcolm’s
head about.

“Oh, as I asked before—there must be
something you can think of that would be responsible for this
horrible illness that has taken our cousin!”

Malcolm casually brushed her hand off his
knee and looked questioningly into her face. “What makes you think
I would know anything more than you, mistress?”

“Well!” Catherine cooed tracing patterns with
her fingers on the linen cloth of the table. “You two
are
from the same land, and I hear you were raised practically in the
same household. I just thought you would...well, in Scotland, don’t
the men a women share any of the same interests? Perhaps some of
the same passions?”

“I do not know what you are...” he began
irritably. “People are the same, mistress. It doesn’t matter
whether you come from England, India, or the New World—we’re all
the same. But still I cannot see what this has to do with Jaime’s
illness!”

Catherine paused and licked her lips,
studying his face from beneath long, golden lashes. But the woman’s
full lips and creamy complexion did nothing to attract him. In
fact, Malcolm found himself repelled rather than aroused at her
candid appraisal and open invitation. He turned his attention back
to Surrey, but Catherine’s hand quickly took hold of his arm.
Reluctantly, he looked back at her.

“It is difficult,” she said, leaning forward
and speaking in a low voice. “So difficult to speak plainly in this
crowded hall! Perhaps, if we were to...”

“Nay, mistress,” Malcolm responded, all too
sharply, moving his arm so her fingers dropped from their resting
place on his elbow. “We must remember who you are.”

“Aye.” She sighed. “So we must.” She shrugged
her shoulders, her mouth turning downward in a pout. Her fingers
fluttered as she moved them to the low, square neckline of her
dress. Pretending to smooth the material over them, she glanced
with a knowing smile into his face.

Malcolm, angry with himself for being lured
into looking at the tops of the voluptuous breasts spilling out of
the tight bodice, tore his eyes away.

“I thought as much,” she teased in a low
voice. “Your chamber, perhaps? Or would you prefer to come to
mine?”

“Neither, mistress.”

She again placed a hand on his knee. “Well,
what if we meet in Jaime’s bedchamber. She will be unconscious. We
could be alone there.”

This time Malcolm roughly pushed her hand off
of his knee. He looked straight at her, searching for a way to make
the woman understand. But she continued without a pause.

“I do like to be on top,” she whispered,
totally ignoring his rejection. “And from what I’ve...” She stopped
and gave him a half smile. “Well, that
is
acceptable to you,
is it not?”

Malcolm pushed his chair back abruptly and,
with a short excuse to Surrey and his wife, strode angrily from the
hall.

Catherine glanced casually in the direction
of the unconscious Jaime as she made her way toward the table
beside the bed. Feeling the pair of eyes staring at her
uncomfortably from the chamber door, she turned shortly to the
serving girl. “What are you waiting for? Go and do as you were
told.”

The nervous girl clasped her hands tightly in
front of her. “But, m’lady, I was told by Master Graves not to
leave her bedside for any reason until Cad...Mistress Jaime’s
servant returns.”

“You are not deserting her, you silly
creature! I am here with her. And you,” Catherine snapped, “are
going to my room for my russet cloak—the one with gold flowers
embroidered on the borders. You don’t think I’d go anywhere until
you return, do you?”

The girl shook her head. “Nay, m’lady. ‘Tis
just that...”

“Be off with you, and no more talk! You could
be there and back already, you brazen thing! Away!”

Catherine watched the young woman disappear
quickly through the door. Then, glancing again at the motionless
Jaime, she moved closer to the table, studying the various pitchers
and bowls. The foolish servant—happy to answer her questions when
Catherine had first arrived in the room—had volunteered everything
she needed to know about the bowls and the folded vellum packets of
medication that lay scattered on the table. This was much better
than she had hoped, Catherine thought, smiling as she picked up one
of the powdered mixtures.

Turning to Jaime, Catherine leaned over the
bed and looked into the young woman’s face. Jaime looked quite
unwell. Master Graves, Catherine thought with a wry smile, would be
quite useful in the future, for he certainly had demonstrated his
resourcefulness here. The wench would not be soon going to
Edward.