Two Novels: The Intended and Flame

Chapter 10

10

It was easy to pretend to be asleep.

After the painful and exhausting trip up from the stable yards, the tough part was staying awake. Though Malcolm had gotten more information than he’d ever thought imaginable, just lying still and pretending unconsciousness, he now found himself constantly dozing and fought off sleep with every ounce of strength he had.

He now knew, at least, that he was in East Anglia, at Kenninghall—the residence of Thomas Howard, duke of Norfolk. And though he was being kept prisoner, he’d been moved out of the foul stable cell at the command of Henry Howard, the earl of Surrey. Biting the inside of his swollen cheek to ward off a wave of weariness, Malcolm thought back on Harry Surrey, the young man he’d found studying with his own master, Erasmus, a few years back. Malcolm remembered him clearly, a sharp-eyed and open-minded lad. Friendly even, the Highlander recalled, in spite of being the offspring of the pig who had betrayed a parlayed truce and attacked the Scottish king at Flodden Field.

Malcolm knew though, that he was the prisoner of Edward, Henry’s younger brother, the duke of Norfolk’s second son. And he knew, as well, which side of the family Edward took after; stabbing the Highlander in the back, Edward was a coward who had not even had the courage to face him. As a result, the man’s face was none too clear in Malcolm’s memory. He’d been far too angry with Jaime in the castle at Norwich to even notice the man at her side. But Malcolm understood it now—this Edward was the man to whom Jaime had betrayed him.

He could hear the rustle of skirts by his bed. At least, he thought the sound was near. The rustling soon gave way to a soft buzzing that the Highlander quickly realized was whispering. The words were indistinct—smatterings of sentences were all he could make out. It sounded like directions of some sort. Aye, that was it—the physician was giving directions. A soft voice responded, a soft voice with only the faintest lilt of Scottish tongue.

Damn her, he thought. He had conjured her like a specter in his mind, only to have her leap from his imagination into physical shape. He tried to clench his swollen fingers into a fist—testing his strength as he imagined an assault upon her.

Jaime couldn’t tear her gaze away from his pallid face. The physician continued on with his instructions, and she listened. Malcolm’s fever was dangerously high, but the physician believed their patient still had a good chance of pulling through. She committed to memory everything Master Graves told her. The older man hadn’t the luxury of being able to remain beside Malcolm. He’d been called to Cambridge for a few days, and he’d have to take his good-for-nothing assistant with him. And as far as getting any help from the others in the household—well, Graves was less than happy with the attention Malcolm had received the night before in the stables.

So the physician left Malcolm in her care, and in spite of what anyone thought of the appropriateness of her presence in the surgery, Jaime would remain where she was needed.

Once the physician had left her alone, Jaime moved quickly, bringing a bowl of cool water to Malcolm’s bedside. His skin had taken on a gray, clammy look to it and, in spite of his shivering, beads of sweat were standing out on his face before disappearing into the brown locks of hair. She looked at his parched, cracked lips. Reaching down, she tried to lift his head with one hand, but his muscles were rigid, and she knew she could not do it alone. Looking about for another way, she spotted a number of folded cloths on a small stool by the door. Balancing the bowl carefully beside him on the bed, she turned to move across the room.

The crash of the bowl to the floor behind her spun her around in alarm. Malcolm lay as he had before, his arm in the same position at his side. She bent down to pick up the wooden bowl, all the while scolding herself harshly for her ineptness. This time she fetched the folded cloths before filling the bowl again with fresh water from a jar on the far side of the room. Moving back to the bedside, Jaime placed the bowl carefully on the other side of her injured patient. She leaned over Malcolm, trying to push the linens under his battered head. If she could only raise him a bit, then she might be able to pour the liquid in small portions down his throat without choking him to death.

This time she saw it. His injured hand jerked and struck the bowl, sending it flying off the bed. As the bowl went crashing to the floor, Jaime’s eyes traveled quickly from Malcolm’s fingers, bloated and useless on the edge of the bed, back to his face. He appeared, beneath his bruised exterior, to be unconscious. She moved her hand and placed it on his brow. He was burning up with fever. If she could only get him to drink something, she could then use the damp cloths to sponge off his body, cooling him in the process.

Straightening up from the side of the bed, she moved around and fetched the bowl again. Wordlessly, she crossed the room to fill the bowl with fresh water, reminding herself that it was completely natural for Malcolm to have fits when he was burning with fever.

This time she tried to be smarter. Jaime dragged a three-legged chair to the bedside and went back for the pitcher, the bowl, and a spoon, placing them all on the seat. Turning back to her patient, she swore under her breath; his head had slipped off the makeshift pillow. She reached with both hands and tried to elevate him again—but his head seemed to be growing heavier by the moment. Finally, having worked herself into a glow, Jaime succeeded in raising his head, and sat by his side on the bed.

With one hand holding his head steady, Jaime reached for the bowl and the spoon and placed them both on her lap. Taking a spoonful of water, she brought it carefully—and vainly—to his lips. Her patient wouldn’t budge. She could not coax, cajole, or force his sealed lips open.

“Open up, Malcolm,” she encouraged in a sweet voice, stroking his cheek gently. “Open your mouth, my battered, overgrown marmoset.”

Giving up with the spoon, Jaime dipped her fingers into the bowl and traced his parched lips with her moistened fingers. But a sharp sense of the intimacy in this act swept through her, making her withdraw her hand at once. Suddenly uncomfortable with their closeness, Jaime sat bolt upright. The light woolen blanket had slipped down in her efforts to raise him, exposing his raw, bruised body to the waist. Cursing herself for her foolishness, she had to force herself not to think about his nakedness—not to remember the dreams she had once harbored of being his.

Jaime tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The past was gone, and she tried to put aside the hurt and the lost dreams. He belonged to another woman now—their marriage would not be undone. He would never be hers.

She opened her eyes, letting her gaze sweep over his body again. The most important thing of all, she reminded herself, was that he needed her care if he was to survive. Setting her mind and her will and her strength to winning that battle, she turned her attention again to making him drink from the bowl.