Free The Intended by May McGoldrick Page A

voices—their tone so
soft, so unwarlike—could be heard just outside a door. Beyond the
voices, the Highlander could make out the morning sounds of horses
and the men who worked with them. A kick to the shoulder from
whoever was with him made Malcolm groan involuntarily, though the
sound seemed to come from outside of himself.
    “Filthy Scot...” a young man muttered. “If it
warn’t fer ye, that Welsh boneleech wouldna...” The door creaked
and a rush of fresh air swept in.
    “Ah, Master Graves. Ye finally come down...”
The young man grumbled, more than a hint of resentment in his tone.
“I’ll be getting to my duties, if ye two masters are done
wi...”
    “You’ll wait.”
    Malcolm kept his eyes shut. He hardly
breathed as a cool hand felt his brow.
    “Did he do anything during the night? Did he
come awake? Did he fret with his wounds?” With a click of his
tongue, the man removed his hand from Malcolm’s face and began
probing at various points of his aching frame.
    “He’s been a-lying there like a stone, sir.
If it warn’t fer once in a while a-groaning as he did...I’d
a-thought him done fer.”
    “The man is burning up with fever. During the
night, did you give him any of the medicine I left?”
    “Nay, sir....it...it seemed a bit of a
waste...”
    “A waste !” Graves exploded. “You, a
stable hand, decided...By the Virgin, man! If you had a sick
stallion in your care, wouldn’t you do right by the creature?”
    There was a pause, and then the stable man
answered, clearly surprised and hostile at the physician’s remarks.
“He’s a filthy Scot, Master Graves! He ain’t no horse. I don’t know
what fer...”
    “What for?” the older man’s voice shot back
at the man. “I’ll tell you what for! So we could build up his
strength. So he can cut your throat...or at least cut off your
ears...while you sleep. Little use they are to a fool who doesn’t
listen or do as he’s told!”
    Malcolm listened to the uncomfortable
shifting of straw in the back corner of his cell. Though he
wouldn’t open his eyes, he could envision the withering look that
the stable hand was now enduring.
    “Are ye done with me now?” the man grumbled
at last under his breath. “If ye are, I’ll be on my way.”
    Malcolm moaned as the physician prodded hard
at one of the gashes. He felt the man’s hands gentle at once. “Nay,
you’ll have to stay and give Davie here and the carter a hand
moving the Scot.”
    “Taking him back to Norwich?” Malcolm didn’t
miss the note of satisfaction in the young man’s voice.
    “Nay, to my surgery in the manor house.”
    “To the house, Master Grave?” the hostler
asked, dumbfounded. “A Scot under His Grace’s own roof?”
    “Aye, man. What of it?” Malcolm kept his eyes
closed but relished the sensation of the cool liquid that had been
lifted to his cracked lips.
    “But...but...” he sputtered. “How can it be
that he...? A filthy Scot? Why, I’ve ne’er even been
allowed...”
    “You?” The physician’s words were pointed.
“You are a servant who has a tongue far too long and head far too
big for his own good.”
    “But sir,” the man groveled, “I...I ne’er
thought...”
    “Quit your jabbering, man! Ah, the cart is
here.” The physician’s hands withdrew from their examination of
Malcolm’s wounds, and the Highlander could hear Graves move toward
the door. “Damn...I didn’t want that thing...” The older man’s
steps grew fainter as he walked out into the stable yard.
    As he went, the physician continued to mutter
under his breath, but his words were obliterated by the whispering
of the hostler and the man called Davie.
    “Lord Surrey’s the one who said fine to
Mistress Jaime’s asking,” Davie said quietly, “after His Grace and
Lord Edward left last night. ‘Tis because of her that we’re
a-taking him back to the house.”
    “The Mistress and Lord Surrey? But Mistress
Jaime belongs to Lord Edward!” The hostler gave a low