30
Anger tore through her like the jagged ice of the winter flood.
“Nay,” Jaime whispered icily.
“Your mother, Mary Boleyn, was the true niece of His Grace, the duke of Norfolk. She was also, for a short time, mistress to King Henry. Your mother stole away to a foreign land, and you were born in secrecy. Later after your mother’s death, you were raised by your aunt, Elizabeth Boleyn, and her husband Ambrose Macpherson, to the world’s eyes as their own. Tell her this is true, Malcolm.”
“I admit to naught,” the Highlander replied, his face a steely mask. “The story I’ve heard is that Mary’s son died in childbirth.”
Jaime’s mind raced as Frances stared at Malcolm. As Jaime looked at her intended, she knew that what Frances said was, of course, true—about being Mary’s daughter—and that Ma
