The Intended by May McGoldrick

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.
    “‘Tis 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 bloody 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 am 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