The Intended Read Online Free PDF Page B

the
man was dead. She placed her hand on the man’s cold, stiff fingers
and said a silent prayer for his soul. Then she stood up and tried
to step back.
    But she couldn’t. The hem of her skirt was
caught, and she couldn’t move anywhere. She looked down in shock,
thinking wildly that the dead MacGregor had come back to life, but
instead she saw another large and bloody hand holding her gown. In
spite of the flash of panic, she couldn’t call out for help. These
men had suffered enough. She would not bring more misery into their
wretched lives. She would handle this.
    Following the outstretched arm, she turned
slowly to the side and saw the man who lay propped up on a bundle
of rags in the straw. The man’s face was turned, his tangled hair
bloody and matted, and blood soaked his traveling cloak, as well.
Her eyes immediately took in the fine boots that covered the man’s
long legs to his knees. He had to be another one of the French
nobles captured by Edward. She looked furtively about her, making
sure she was bringing no attention to herself, nor to this dying
prisoner. Edward still occupied himself with the Spaniard, and his
officers stood a few paces away, involved in an increasingly
animated argument. One of the officers, though, returned Jaime’s
glance. She just gave him an indifferent nod and pretended that she
was preoccupied with the study of the hall’s structure. The man’s
attention returned to his friends. Jaime tugged at her skirt again,
but the man’s grip on her skirt’s hem was strong.
    The flat of a sword blade slapping on flesh
and a cry of pain jolted Jaime as she caught a glimpse of one of
Edward's officers using it on a prisoner’s hand that had reached
out to touch his boots. Turning away, she squatted at once and took
a hold of her skirt, trying to wrench it free from the man’s hand.
He wouldn’t release her. With both of her hands now at work, she
touched his hand—but with the speed of lightning, the prisoner’s
fingers clamped onto her wrist.
    She summoned all her courage and swallowed
her urge to scream. Panic raced through her as the prisoner raised
his face, pulling her closer to him. Beneath the tangle of hair,
she saw his jaw move.
    “Jaime!” the man whispered.
    Her blood froze at the sound. She didn’t have
to see his face to recognize the man. She had heard his voice call
out to her a thousand times in her dreams. Malcolm.
    As he weakly shook back the mass of hair, a
tumult of thoughts and emotions surged through her. How could it be
that he—of all people—should be here?
    “Jaime,” he whispered her name again. “I
thought it a dream, but ‘tis you!”
    In an instant, shock gave way to confusion
and hate as an icy shiver ran down her back. Here he was, the man
whom she had loved—the man who had rejected her so callously. She
gazed on him, bloody and pale. She heard a cry and glanced quickly
in the direction of the antechamber.
    “Draw no attention to us,” Malcolm ordered,
bringing her attention back to him.
    “You’re wounded,” she whispered, trying to
keep her voice flat and calm. “I’ll have someone look at your
injuries.” She took a sharp breath as the pressure of his hand
nearly snapped the bones of her wrist.
    “Nay,” he commanded. The pressure eased on
her wrist. “Say nothing. You don’t know me.”
    “You could die.”
    “Then let me die,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I’ll gladly take death before giving these blackguards any
knowledge of who I am.”
    As surely as she was kneeling there, she felt
the tearing in her chest as she looked on him. A flood of molten
liquid poured into her heart, and a pain engulfed her, smothering
her attempt to speak.
    “Jaime, I won’t let them ransom me. I won’t
let them steal my honor. Go, lass. Just walk away and forget you
saw me. But...later...let my kin know what happened to me. If you
ever cared for me, do this. ‘Tis little I am asking of you.”
    Jaime pulled her hand slowly out of his