Knight of Passion (18 page)

“I do want to go, but one of us must stay to watch over Owen and the queen,” she said in a reasonable tone that
grated on his nerves. “Left on their own, I fear they will never keep their secret.”

How long could he keep his own secret? How long before she realized she was meant to be his wife?

“Come to bed,” he said and pulled her to her feet. Tenderness was not what she was going to get from him this time. But he
was going to make damned sure she missed him.

Jamie hated the thought of being away from her, even for a few days. Through the narrow window, the sky was growing dark.
Soon, they would have to dress and make their way—separately, of course—to their own chambers to prepare for supper.

’Twas poison in his stomach to leave without having matters settled between them. Christmas guests would start arriving. Soon
the palace would be crawling with half the men of consequence in England.

“How many others have there been?” he asked.

Linnet lifted her head from the pillow to look at him. “Others?”

“Other men,” he said between his teeth. “Other lovers.” “Would it matter?” She sat up. “How many women have you bedded?”

“Come, Linnet, that is hardly the same thing.” Really, where did she get these notions?

“Not to you, of course.” She turned her back to him and wrapped her arms around her knees.

“Tell me there has been no one else in England.” He thought again of all the guests that would soon fill the castle. He could
not bear knowing another man would
look at her and remember the feel of her skin beneath his hands.

Blood pounded at his temples.

“There has been no one,” she snapped.

Praise God for that. He folded his hands behind his head and drew in a deep breath. If she was lying, he did not want to know
the truth.

“The same cannot be said of you,” she said, turning to glare at him over her shoulder. “There was that horrid Eleanor Cobham,
for one.”

“I told you I did not want to bed her. I do not even recall it.”

“Do not lie. You remember it quite well.” In an undertone, she added, “Sore cock, indeed.”

Linnet drew men like flies. They were drawn to her ethereal beauty—and even more to the wildness they sensed beneath it. God,
how he hated to leave her.

He sat up, turned her toward him, and searched her face. “Can I trust you while I am gone?”

From the murderous look she gave him, she did not like the question. But he did not care. He had to know.

“Can I?”

“If you do not trust me, do not bother coming back.”

He took that as a yes. But he wanted more than to know she would not climb into another man’s bed in the few days he would
be gone.

She tossed the bedclothes aside, retrieved her chemise from the bottom of the bed, and leapt to the floor. As she lifted her
arms to drop the chemise over her head, his gaze preceded it down the graceful line of her back, her nicely rounded buttocks,
and her long, long legs.

Lord above, she was beautiful.

She went to the window and stood, arms folded, with her back to him.

He followed her and spun her around so he could look into her eyes. “With Bedford returned, my duties are done here.”

Her shoulders tensed beneath his hands. But if he was waiting for weeping and begging, he might be an old man before he saw
them.

“I will return to Windsor for Christmas Court. But after that, I must leave.”

She lifted his hands off her shoulders. In a cool voice, she said, “That soon?”

Good God, Linnet, give me something.
He was tired of being patient and damned tired of waiting.

“Perhaps I’ll not bother returning from London at all,” he said. “It is time, after all, that I started looking for a wife.”

She turned her back to him again and looked out the window. After a long moment, she said in a tight voice, “You should be
here during Christmas Court to help divert attention from Owen and the queen. They are bound to forget themselves.”

“Is it only for Owen and the queen that you wish me to return?”

With her back to him, she said, “What do you want me to say, Jamie?”

He sure as hell was not going to ask her to say it. If she did not want him, there was no use pushing her. He’d been down
that road before.

He gathered his clothes from the floor and threw them on.

“I am sure you will do just as you please, as you always have,” he said as he jerked his boots on.

Anger vibrated through him as he stomped across the room and snatched his cloak from the back of the door.

“And I shall do as I please as well.” He turned with one hand on the door. “There are plenty of women in London besides Eleanor.”

He let the door slam behind him.

T
he winter afternoon light was nearly gone by the time Jamie and Martin rode through the Great Gateway of Westminster Palace.
After leaving Martin in the outer ward to see to their horses, Jamie headed for the privy palace to find Bedford.

Soldiers in tunics emblazoned with the royal herald of bright blue, gold, and red stood guard outside the Painted Chamber,
which served as the royal audience and bedchamber. After giving them his name and business, Jamie settled on a bench to wait.
A short time later, one of the heavy double doors opened a few inches and words were exchanged between someone inside and
one of the guards.

“Sir James Rayburn,” the guard said in a voice that could be heard at fifty paces. “His Grace the Duke of Bedford will see
you now.”

Jamie nodded to the guard as he passed through the door. Once inside, he stopped and gaped at the room like a peasant from
the country. Now he understood why the Painted Chamber, along with Saint Stephen’s Chapel,
made Westminster rank as one of the most magnificent palaces in all of Europe.

The king’s state bed, a magnificent piece of furniture built for Henry III, dominated the far end of the long, narrow room.
There were paintings above and around the bed, which was situated with its head against the north wall, next to the fireplace.
On the east wall, several feet beyond the bed, two elegant windows overlooked the Thames.

Jamie leaned his head back to take in the wood ceiling decorated with rows of carved moldings called lobed paterae. But then
his gaze was drawn to the five-and-a-half-foot-high mural of the coronation of Edward the Confessor at the head of the bed.

Jamie heard someone clear his throat and turned to find Bedford beside him. Belatedly, he made his bow. “Your Grace.”

“I take it you have not been in the Painted Chamber before,” Bedford said with a warm smile. “I’ve seen it many times, and
yet I am always struck by its beauty.

“I am sure you recognize these,” Bedford said, gesturing around the room.

Jamie’s gaze followed the series of wall paintings depicting Old Testament stories, which were interspersed with inscriptions
and brightly painted heraldry.

“The paintings of Virtues and Vices are my favorites,” Bedford said as he led Jamie to the paintings on the window splays
on the south wall. “I am particularly fond of this one.”

Bedford pointed to the painting of a woman in chain mail and crown, who was sticking a spear into a man
while choking him with a stream of coins from a long leather purse.

“The Virtue of Generosity triumphs over the Vice of Greed?” Jamie asked.

“Very good,” Bedford said with a smile.

A voice came from behind them. “Generosity is a virtue when done with a purpose.”

Jamie turned to see the duke’s uncle, resplendent in his bishop’s robes of dazzling white with elaborate gold embroidery,
entering through a side door.

“Your Grace.” Jamie bowed low to Bishop Beaufort.

“I was just telling my uncle how valuable your reports were,” Bedford said.

Jamie nodded, acknowledging the compliment.

Both men eyed him until he began to feel uncomfortable. “Is there some service I can do for you now, Your Grace?”

Jamie asked the question of the duke, but it was the bishop who answered. “ ’Tis more accurate to say that we can be of service
to each other.”

“You are a good man,” Bedford said, “in the mold of your stepfather, FitzAlan.”

“Thank you,” Jamie said. “There is no higher compliment you could pay me.”

“My nephew does not say it to flatter you,” the bishop said, “but to explain why we are offering you a most desired opportunity.”

Jamie felt a prickle up the back of his neck. Only two things were certain about this “opportunity.” One, it was sure to benefit
the bishop and the Crown. And two, it would be nigh on impossible to refuse. When the two
most powerful men in the realm wished to bestow a favor, a man refused it at his peril.

“Do you know Sir Charles Stafford?” the bishop asked.

When Jamie shook his head, Bedford said, “He paid sentage in lieu of serving, so you would not have met him in France.”

Just because the law permitted a nobleman to pay a tax instead of providing the military service he owed the king directly,
that did not mean he ought to. Unless this Stafford was too elderly or infirm to fight, Jamie knew all he needed to know about
him as a man.

The bishop, however, disagreed.

“What is important to know about Stafford is that he has significant holdings in the north. And,
he has no male heir
.” The bishop’s pinched expression suggested this was a serious failing on Stafford’s part. “This means, of course, that his
daughter will inherit.”

Sweat broke out on Jamie’s palms at the mention of a daughter. Discussion of unwed daughters generally led in only one direction.

“Not only are Stafford’s holdings substantial, but they are near the Scottish border,” the bishop continued.

“You will be pleased to hear,” Bedford put in, “that the Stafford lands are not far from your uncle Stephen’s estates.”

Jamie felt like a tennis ball bounced back and forth between the two men; he wanted out of the game.

“Who holds these lands is a matter of importance to the Crown,” the bishop said. “Naturally, we have taken an interest in
the selection of a husband for Stafford’s daughter.”

With a warm smile, Bedford put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “This seemed a perfect opportunity both to reward you for your
service and to ensure these lands are in the hands of a man we can trust. Stephen and young Henry Percy could use your help
in keeping the peace along the Scottish border.”

Despite the chill of the room, sweat trickled down Jamie’s back. This was a much greater honor than he expected. Turning it
down was going to be difficult. Very difficult, indeed.

“I know you have need of lands,” Bedford said. “Most of FitzAlan’s are entailed and will go to your younger brother.”

Bedford did not need to explain his situation to him. Although William FitzAlan treated Jamie as his son, he was, in fact,
his stepson. As such, he could not inherit the entailed lands.

“Since you advised me you wished to marry and had no lady chosen,” Bedford continued, “I spoke with Stafford on your behalf.”

Damn. He could kick himself for telling Bedford he was looking for a wife. Of course, he had done it precisely to this end.
He had hoped Bedford would facilitate a good match. Since he expected to wed a woman he hardly knew and did not love, why
not a land-rich heiress?

At least that was what he thought before he set his mind on Linnet. Despite his angry departure, he was no less determined
to make her his wife.

“Your Grace, I…,” he began.

“I understand you are anxious to meet the lady,” Bedford said, misunderstanding him completely. “I’ve
arranged for Stafford and his daughter to make the journey to Windsor with you.”

Lord, help me.
He would have to spend an entire day trapped with the girl and her father in a covered barge before he could get this sorted
out.

Where was his mother when he needed her? Lady Catherine FitzAlan would know how to get him out of this with the least damage
to the family’s relationship with the royal family. He suspected Bishop Beaufort had a long, long memory for slights.

While Bedford appeared to take no notice of Jamie’s lack of enthusiasm, his sharp-eyed uncle was more perceptive. “I can assure
you Stafford’s daughter is a devout and virtuous lady, if that is your concern,” Bishop Beaufort said. “In sooth, it was her
wish to join a convent.”

God had heard his prayer! Putting his hand over his heart, Jamie said, “If that is what the good lady wishes…”

“It is not what her father wishes,” the bishop snapped. “I assure you, the girl will marry.”

“There is one matter, however, that must be addressed before the marriage can be arranged.” Lines of worry showed on Bedford’s
face as it settled into a serious expression. “What is this I hear about you challenging Pomeroy to single combat?”

“Is it not enough we have to suffer such foolishness from Humphrey?” the bishop said.

The comparison did Jamie no good at all. Burgundy had been so enraged at Gloucester’s military expedition into Hainaut that
he had issued a personal challenge to Gloucester. Humphrey had accepted the challenge—then left his wife and set sail for
England.

“We were able to persuade the pope to prohibit the two from dueling under threat of excommunication,” the bishop said. “But
we could lose France over this yet. Bedford has been working night and day to repair the damage with Burgundy.”

“My challenge to Pomeroy could cause no such harm,” Jamie said. “I thought it a measured response to a grievous insult, but
I can see I should have just run him through at the time.”

“You forget to whom you are speaking,” the bishop said with a steely look that probably sent small children running. The bishop
turned to Bedford. “I thought you said he was a man of good sense.”

“James,” Bedford said, “you will have to withdraw the challenge.”

“I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but you know I cannot do that. I am no coward.”

“Such stupidity.” The bishop raised his arms as if beseeching heaven. “To win a fight, young man, one must consider all the
consequences.”