Two Novels: The Intended and Flame

Chapter 11

11

The dewy scent of roses wafted into the chamber on the morning breeze.

In the first lightning grayness of dawn, Malcolm’s eyes focused on the blanketed figure huddled on a chair beside his bed. One pale, white arm extended from the woolen cocoon, and her upturned palm rested lightly against his knee. Wincing as he shifted his leg, Malcolm watched through slitted eyes as Jaime stirred, without waking, and drew her hand back into the folds of her wrap.

Though he quickly pushed the thought from his mind, he realized that she had grown into a woman of tremendous beauty. He had always known she would. Her black hair, loose and in a state of disarray, lay in soft waves upon her shoulders. Her high forehead, the sculpted nose, the pronounced cheekbones and the full, sensuous lips all worked together to create, even in repose, the picture of a Madonna. They were the same features of the vibrant, young lass he’d known years before, but they now had a womanliness that was impossible to ignore. He hadn’t seen her like this—at least not since she had grown. With the exception of her strange appearance at his wedding—an appearance that had only lasted moments—he hadn’t set eyes on her since she’d been quite young. He still remembered the day when she was to leave for France. She had come to him, managing somehow to find him alone and asking him shyly to kiss her farewell. He recalled how he had leaned down and had placed an affectionate kiss on her brow. But the look of disappointment on her face had been so clear, the hurt so obvious, that he had told her the next time they met, she’d be of a marriageable age. Remembering now how that little announcement had done very little to pacify the lass, Malcolm’s eyes drifted uncontrollably to Jaime’s lips. She had grown, indeed.

I must be daft, he thought to himself, flexing his left shoulder. During the night, he must have rolled onto his right side, and he gazed intently on her as she shifted. She had undoubtedly spent the night in that position, the Highlander decided. He felt no fever, and his mind was clear for the first time in days. The light blanket that covered his n***d body hardly moved as he slowly moved his foot from beneath it. The fresh air felt good on his skin. She must have been quite worried to stay the night in that chair. Another thought struck him. Or lonely perhaps, he corrected. He’d heard the talk—her lover was going to be away for a while. Perhaps she just couldn’t sleep without the weight of the repugnant English body upon her.

The sound of a c**k crowing far off elicited a low moan from her, and she stirred slightly. Malcolm sent her flying backward—chair, blanket, and all—with a quick thrust of his foot.

The sensation of falling that one feels when dreaming is rarely accompanied by the real meeting of flesh and a floor’s paving stones, but Jaime’s head struck the floor with a thud and a flurry of blankets and clothes.

It took her a moment to clear the material from her face. Sprawled out on the floor, she flinched with pain as she looked up at the ceiling and lifted herself onto her elbows. It was morning, she realized with a start. And this was the second night she had fallen asleep in this chamber. Cursing under her breath, she rubbed the tender spot on the back of her head. Jaime threw the blanket to one side and raised herself to a sitting position. Looking crossly at the chair, she decided she must have leaned too far back in her sleep and toppled it by accident. Jaime struggled to her feet and thought of Mary and the tongue-lashing her cousin was sure to be giving her when she got back to their bedchamber. Mary had been quite angry with her yesterday morning—but now, two nights in the row. Jaime sighed and rolled her eyes, her conversation with Mary running through her head as she set the chair upright.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just a bang in the back of my head.” She probed the spot with her fingers. “It’s tender to the touch. But it should go away in no time.”

“Too bad,” Malcolm announced.

As if jarred from sleep, Jaime's head snapped around and her eyes rounded as they fixed on Malcolm. “You’re awake,” she whispered.

“Aye. I’m sorry to say that I am.” He rolled onto his back and put a hand up to his aching head, but then dropped it at once, realizing that the two of them were holding their heads in mirror images of each other.

She pulled herself to her feet and moved quickly to his side. His eyes were clear and he looked far better than he had the night before. Even the swelling in his face appeared to be subsiding. But still, the paleness of his skin—where it wasn’t ghastly shades of purple and yellowish green from the beatings and the sea battle—and the dark lines beneath his eyes all bespoke his pain. She tried to place a hand on his brow, but he pushed it away roughly, before she could check his fever.

“Get away from me, wench, before I wrap my fingers around your throat.”

“Try, if you can,” Jaime challenged, pushing his hand away and planting her palm firmly on his brow. “Aye, no fever. But quite weak.”

Drawing the blanket down, she looked carefully at his wounds, gave a satisfied nod, then covered his chest again. He hadn’t bled from the chest wound in almost a full day, and only a small gash by his hip was oozing at all. Moving away from him, she started to fetch what she needed to clean the wound once more.

“Where are all your beloved English masters?” Malcolm asked, letting his eyes appraise her retreating figure. Then, as she turned, his gaze roamed the room. “Don’t tell me that these dolts are stupid enough to leave me here without a guard?”

Jaime came back to the side of the bed and placed her supplies next to him. “You’ve been too weak to so much as lift a finger,” she answered. “You don’t think they fear your escaping?”

The sight of all her implements flying to the floor brought Jaime's eyes darting back to his.

“You insufferable, ill-tempered, Highland pig.” she bent down and started to gather the remnants. “And to think that last night...”

Malcolm lifted the blanket off his body and tried to lower his legs over the other side of the bed. But even the struggle of pushing himself up, weak as the effort was, the Highlander found to be too much. And as his strength drained out of him, a thousand pains cut sharply through his shoulder and chest. A wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him, and his head threatened to burst as he teetered for an instant on the flashing yellow edge of unconsciousness.

“Nay, you bullheaded fool,” Jaime cried, jumping to her feet and drawing him back down. “You’ve caused me too much trouble as it is. I don’t need your carcass sprawled on the floor, now do I?”

“I don’t need any help,” Malcolm growled as he let her lower him back down on the sheets. “Least of all, yours.”

Jaime’s one arm encircled his shoulders, his face lay against her cheek, his lips almost touching the soft wool of her dress. The smell of lavender touched his senses. The softness of her skin brushed against his battered temple. Abruptly, Malcolm jerked his head away and turned his face from her.

“Behave yourself, Malcolm,” she said sternly, ignoring his ill-humor as she lay his head back on the bed. “There is no purpose served in you getting out of this bed before your wounds are healed. You’re far too weak and a long way from being ready.”

“Don’t talk to me as if I’m your bairn, you foul backstabbing wench,” he snapped, his eyes flashing as he wrapped his fingers as tightly as he could around her wrist. “Do you think I don’t understand this game? You want me to live for your dirty, English lover. You and I both know that my corpse won’t bring him much of a prize.”

“Think that as you will, you savage boor,” she retorted, easily wrenching her hand free. If he wanted to think her a wench, so be it. “But you will get better while you’re under my care—no matter what you think my motives might be.”

“Your motives require no deep thinking to figure, lass. They are as clear as the path to hell.”

“Only in your disgusting mind,” Jaime snapped. “Only a blind man—nay, only you—would spurn what I’ve done for you. I should have let you rot in that prison. I should have closed my eyes and turned away...and pictured you dead. Aye. Dead. As I’ve pictured you every day since I saw you last.”

Malcolm raised his head to answer, but she shoved him back down roughly, making him gasp in pain and clutch at the wound in his chest. She averted her eyes from his face as she held him down, trying to keep out the memory of Malcolm’s wedding day, trying to hold back the flood of hurt he’d caused her. His sharp words had drawn blood from wounds that she’d hoped were healed, wounds she now knew had barely scabbed over.

Damn this man, she thought. She was here to help bring him back to health, not to allow him to wreck her and leave her in misery. Taking in a deep breath, Jaime checked her temper and turned her attention back to his wounds.

“Now look at what you’ve done, you stubborn ape,” Jaime whispered, watching a thin, broken line of blood begin to soak through the dressing on his chest. He opened his mouth to respond, she clasped a hand gently over it. “I’ll gag you if I must, Malcolm MacLeod. And, believe me, silence would be by far preferable to any more of your discontented carping.”

She raised her hand ever so slowly from his lips and looked into his dark and sullen eyes. Quite to her surprise the Highlander remained silent, his eyes taking in her every move as she backed away from the bed. Vaguely unsettled by his stare, Jaime averted her eyes.

“I have to change these dressings,” she said quickly.

“Where is the physician?” Malcolm asked shortly. “The Welshman who sewed me up?”

“He left for Cambridge three days ago,” Jaime answered as she started to spread the clean dressings beside him. “Master Graves takes the uncommon view that a wound loosely bandaged heals faster.”

Malcolm grunted at the idea, and tried to turn slightly away from her.

“I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t fight me with this.”

“Doesn’t the man have an apprentice?” he responded, allowing her to untie the strip that circled his chest.

Jaime brightened a bit. Malcolm seemed to have submitted to her unspoken request for truce. “He has a man Davie, but he had to accompany Graves.”

“Three days he’s been gone?” Malcolm’s head sank back wearily. “Have I slept away three full days?”

“Slept? Ha! Unconscious, you were,” Jaime answered, pulling the bloodied linen away from his skin. Keeping her eyes on her job, she tried to ignore the weight of his stare on her. “And as helpless with fever as a bairn.”

“Have you been here all the while?”

The slight note of gentleness in his voice made Jaime raise her head and look into his eyes. As if caught, he quickly turned his face away with a darkening frown. A silence filled the space between them, but Jaime knew it would be short-lived. She could almost see his mind churning in a search for words to insult her.

“Do you think I haven’t better things to be doing?” she lied, breaking the peace. “I’ve only looked in once or twice.”

“Then why do I recall no one else tending me? Why were you sleeping in that chair just now?”

Jaime colored, muttering weakly, “I already said you’ve been out of your head with fever.” She could feel Malcolm’s gaze upon her for a long moment.

“It’s surprising, lass, how poor a liar you are.”

“I think your fever must be coming on again.”

“But why are you so desperate,” he said, ignoring her words, “to present me, whole, to your lover upon his return? Why go so far to keep me alive? It seems to me, you’re too damned eager to please him.”

She continued with her task, dabbing gently at his wound. In spite of the beads of blood seeping through, Malcolm seemed to be healing well. Far too well.

“There are other ways of pleasing him, you know, ways much more appealing to a man who has been away from a woman.” Malcolm’s fingers moved and softly caressed her exposed forearm. The immediate shiver that traveled up the skin of her arm didn’t go unnoticed by him. “But I suppose by now you must be an expert.”

Her hand jabbed hard into his wound, harder than she’d intended. Seeing Malcolm grimace with pain, Jaime backed away slightly.

“Wench!” he swore as the wave subsided.

Jaime only gave him a sweet smile and returned to the dressings. Like a summer storm gathering power, his dark mood charged the air in the room, and Jaime waited for the next onslaught. But, meanwhile, she worked with quick hands and hoped her maid Caddy would arrive soon. That was the way it had been the day before. Upon awakening, Mary had sent Caddy after her truant cousin. And Jaime, in turn, had sweet-talked the slight, middle-aged woman into staying with Malcolm until she herself could again return to the surgery.

Jaime thought back over the past few days. The first night after Graves had left for Cambridge, she had been determined to stay away from the surgery. But that had turned out to be mere foolishness, since she’d spent most of the night going back and forth between her bedchamber and Malcolm’s sickbed. She was certain she’d brought more attention to herself than if she’d simply stayed beside him. But she hadn’t intended to remain here either of the two previous nights.

“If you’ll promise to just lie on your back, I won’t retie that strip for now,” she said, finishing up the dressing on his chest.

Malcolm grunted and she eyed the b****y wrap just above his hip. She feared that the wound might be festering, and she glanced up at his face. Seeing the wry look he wore, a blush crept into her cheeks. It would be quite uncomfortable changing that dressing while his watchful eyes smirked at her every move. She jumped when he spoke.

“I’m certain there is nothing beneath these covers that you haven’t seen before, is there?”

“Of course not!” she answered tartly, blushing even more fiercely than before.

A gentle knock at the door brought her quickly to her feet. Giving a soft command to enter, Jaime watched as her maid quietly pushed the door open and limped into the room. Caddy looked hesitantly at the conscious prisoner and then at her mistress. Handing the unused dressings over to the maid, Jaime turned back to Malcolm. He had a look of surprise on his face. “I’ll leave you in Caddy’s care, for now. But I expect you to treat her with respect. Do you hear?”

A smile of amusement wrinkled the corners of Malcolm’s eyes. “Are you telling me that these foolhardy English dogs think me so weak that they will entrust me to this wee woman? On her own?”

“Trusting?” She scoffed in a hushed voice. “Hardly. There are more than enough men outside guarding these doors. And I’m quite certain that any one of them would be more than pleased to finish the job their master started aboard that French ship.”

Jaime pulled the sheet up to Malcolm’s chin, tucking him as if he were a bairn. “Stay right here for the wee time it’ll take to regain your strength. You’ll have ample time to show us your foolhardiness once you’ve healed.”